A historical series with lesbian and kink themes. Delphine – a young French aristocrat attends an English boarding school run by a malicious headmistress. My co-writer is EveRay – Read her previous chapter (13) here or start at episode 1 and use the tag Delphine to following the series so far:
There had been little time for thought when I crept back to Miss Ranson’s office to search her desk for incriminating evidence. On impulse I’d sent Belinda away, her biddable nature was both a blessing and a curse.
“Walk to the boot room, I will catch up – we’ll do the laps together.”
“Bin no! You might make things worse.” Tears trembled in Belinda’s eyes, threatening to spill down her cherubic cheeks.
I swore softly. “Go – allow me – I will make things better.”
When I pressed my ear against the headmistress’ door, I heard nothing, so, twisting the handle I ducked quickly into the room. As I suspected, Miss Ransom had moved to the adjoining room. It had a view of the oval path which surrounded the lacrosse pitch. I guessed she’d always planned to to spy on us as we ran – leaving the field glasses in plain sight on the desk had been her first mistake.
No, I corrected myself as I used a letter opener to force the flimsy lock on the top drawer, Miss Ranson’s first mistake had been to cross Delphine De Lotbiniere. Her second mistake had been to keep this manilla folder somewhere so insecure. There was no time to flick through it’s pages; but the name Catherine Spencer-Harrington leaped out at me. I stuffed its awkward cardboard shape in the waistband of my games kilt, then pulled my aertex blouse over the top.
I needed to hurry if I was not to raise suspicion, but one other item in the drawer caught my attention. On impulse I grabbed it. I tiptoed out of the study and sped down the corridor. I hid the contraband inside my long riding boots for now, then hurtled out of the door, hot on the heels of my anguished friend.
“Bin, what took you so long?” Belinda wailed as we ran. “Oh I wish she’d never found out about our love.”
Grabbing Belinda’s wrist I jerked her close and we crushed lips. Miss Ranson’s tirade might have made her quake, but it had dampened my panties and my arousal was spiking.
“That bitch!” I growled when I let her up for air. “Nobody humiliates a Lotbiniere.” Simmering fury fuelled my energy and my lust.
As our feet pounded on the asphalt path used by the first and second lacrosse teams when they trained each morning, I panted out threats, trying to concoct a plan to get even with our masochistic headmistress. Until I studied the papers I couldn’t be sure what information I had stolen, but was sure they contained something that I could use for leverage.
“There must be a connection with the place that dried up spinster went the day we travelled to London.”
“What will you do Bin?” Belinda was a nervous wreck from Miss Ranson’s tirade. To be called a liar and have everything she had previously been told revoked had left my girl skittery like an unbroken horse.
“Don’t worry ma Petite, she is all hot air,” I reassured her.
At that moment a breeze caught our skirts, fluttering their hems to expose the soft thatch of each of our muffs. Belinda’s as golden as her hair.
“You are beautiful – I desire you”, I made Belinda blush. My back was turned to the school, displaying my peachy backside and long legs. My pussy was not for the rif raff doing prep to view, but I sensed it awakening.
“She is watching us, run! Keep moving.”
Much as my quim throbbed, this was no moment to explore each other’s bodies. Knowing Miss Ranson spied from her study, however, made lust pound through my veins. I was giddy with desire – I wanted to take or be taken roughly. Belinda would be alarmed by the darkness within me, yet it was something I was learning to embrace.
“If she writes to Mother and Father …” Belinda was stumbling alongside, a bookworm not an athlete.
“Shh – It is I who shall write to MY Papa.”
With this, I grabbed the younger girl’s hand. Urging her to continue. Despite leaden legs we completed our circuit of the grassy pitch. When we returned to Miss Ranson’s study our punishment continued. We were made to perform press ups.
Maintaining the plank posture was not so hard for a horsewoman like me, but Belinda struggled, her chin hit the hard parquet floor more than once. When Miss Ranson took up a position behind us I was not surprised. What startled me was the realisation that my pussy became slick from being studied so closely. Miss Ranson’s constant torments had apparently released this within me.
I kept my mouth tightly shut and fixed my eyes straight ahead while our headmistress berated us. I barely listened. I was happy to be identified as depraved by this dried up prune, but when my gaze rested on the canes propped against the wall, my backside tingled and warmed in response to memories of the beating I took for spoiling the scones.
On nights after that incident, in my narrow bed, I’d pressed and massaged the bruises I’d earned from that caning. The resultant sensations, combined with rhythmic stroking and thrusting from my eager fingers had brought me to more than one earth shattering climax. I began to ponder on my strange new needs but snapped out of the daydream when we were dismissed from the study.
Later that day Miss Ranson issued instructions that the prefects and housemistresses should scour the dormitories for contraband. Her story was that unidentified items considered forbidden were the target of the search. She undertook the search of my dorm, Barrington, personally. I knew Miss Ranson’s biggest risk was that anyone else discovering the folder I’d snatched could look at its contents. Despite instructing all girls to throw open their drawers and cupboards, that beds should be stripped and mattresses turned on their side, nothing was found. Almost gnashing her teeth, she stormed out, her quarry still at large.
I congratulated myself on my temporary hiding place, but made plans to move the folder as soon as I could. On my next visit to the stables, I took it there. I sat on a hay bail to study its contents, away from prying eyes.
Catherine Spencer-Harrington had compiled a dossier, two foolscap sheets with names and addresses listed, sometimes also companies where perhaps they had stock or held official positions. I assumed these people were afraid to have their virtuous status smeared with an association with the now infamous Spencer-Harrington.
There was information on the team of staff Catherine employed to pander to the preferences of her influential clients, beside whose names there was a column of annotations. I could only speculate what the various initials meant. Another page recorded the eye-watering fee they paid her for the privilege of having their individual fetishes indulged.
I felt only mild shock. As I had told Miss Ranson, my father was a man of the world, I was raised in a country which celebrates all erotic expression of humanity. My mother could be termed a gold digger, never above using her feminine charms to get her clutches on a man to provide her with houses, jewels and furs. I wasn’t immune to her life lessons.
I fell upon Miss Ranson’s single page avidly. It seems she regularly recommended ‘potential girls’ from the sixth form of St Faith’s, probably with low academic or marriage expectations. What puzzled me was what Catherine had ‘over’ my headmistress. Surely Miss Ranson’s involvement was a crazy risk for her own reputation and that of the school. I experienced a chill – Miss Spencer-Harrington had regarded me with a look of avarice that day she’d instigated my caning. It seems I had more than one grudge to settle with my plans for revenge.
When I returned, the school building was hushed. All the pupils were either occupied with music practice or preparation for the next day’s lessons. I quickly changed back to my uniform, and took some letter paper and envelopes from my bureau.
I had been corresponding with Jeremy Conningsby-Firth since the party we’d attended last Christmas. His attentions were flattering, and it was proving easy to string him along with assertions that I missed him and thought of him at night. Now I needed his help. I hoped the names on the list would be significant to him, perhaps he could even decode what the initials beside them represented. When I asked Belinda could I add a letter when she next wrote to her brother, she was delighted.
I also wrote to my Papa; a generic letter remarking how dull lessons were, that my dressage with Sargent was improving and a plea for more money. I asked when he would visit England next before sealing it inside an envelope, which I left on the tray in the hall for posting. I dawdled in the corridor nearby, apparently fascinated by the glass cabinet of trophies the school awarded for prowess at netball, lacrosse and tennis.
From the corner of my eye I saw Lucinda Forbes-Lester approach to examine the contents of the tray. Covertly she removed one envelope, then moved to knock at Miss Ranson’s study door. I smirked at what a poor spy that girl would make. My smirk became a genuine smile when I saw Belinda and Arianrod coming down the tiled hall. These girls were prolific letter writers and each deposited two envelopes in the brass tray. I joined them to walk arm in arm to the dining hall for our evening repast.
To be continued on Eve’s Blog.
This story is linked to #WickedWednesday where the prompt is Impulsive, #4Thoughts or Fiction where the prompt is Bad Habits as detailed in the file and #SnakeDenAtoZ because revenge is Delphine’s Fresh Start