Melody Smith's Schooldays

Melody Smith's Schooldays

by Eve Adorer

Chapter 16 – Belle of the Ball

The three weeks of the Easter vacation being over, the school, and of course I, returned to our normal daily routines.

I was still somewhat bruised and scratched from my time serving as a doggy-bitch at the headmistress' home. But I was young and healthy and fit, and soon recovered my pristine loveliness.

I was, as ever, the centre of the heated desires of the other girls at the school, as it was my duty to be. I was the locus of the focus of their fantasies. That was my role: the role of the School Slag.

I continued my daily fitness runs, my swimming and aerobics. I had asked, in the interest of maintaining my body beautiful, to be allowed to participate in team games, but the head-girl forbid me on the grounds that it might lead to wickedness in the showers. She could not be everywhere to keep an eye on me, she said, as if I must automatically be the one to blame for any misbehaviour. I was very upset until she added, perhaps not meaning to tell me, that it was not me she did not trust.

Ballroom dancing is not boring! I may make myself sound older than even my present still youthful years by saying that. St Catherine's Academy's role was to send soundly roundly accomplished young women into the world. Lessons therefore included etiquette, elocution, and attainments. To learn to dance, "proper dances properly", as Miss Pringle, "the Prickly Doc", our headmistress put it, was one group activity I was allowed to partake of. And, believe me, there was no shortage of girls wanting to have the chance to hold me in their arms, as we would dance.

I was only taught the female dance steps, whilst most girls had a turn at both male and female steps as we had more than a shortage of men at the school: none at all!!

I found it wonderful exercise. I was not particularly good at it at first. I had to find a partner I could trust not to use her having her arms around me, as an opportunity to have a furtive feel of my favours.

The partner I loved to dance with was Josephine. Lovely Jo, one of the prefects now of course, was so kind and considerate, and treated me like a lady. She could keep her hands to herself. She was not constantly trying to feel my bummy as we embraced for a waltz; unlike some girls I could mention!

I was still in love with Jo. I always hoped it would be she who commanded that I warm her bed after the school day was done. It was her misfortune, our misfortune, for her to only have a chance of a turn to explore me and toss me all the sleepless night in her bed, when I was striped red by my monthly bleed. We neither of us enjoyed it. She could not get me to cum. I felt so sorry for her and for me that I could not please her; but she kissed me and forgave me, she was so lovely was Jo.

The term from after Easter to the beginning of the summer hols was an intensive one for study. St Catherine's Academy for Girls had a proud record for university admission achievement. Ninety-nine-percent of St Cath's girls went on to university. Most went to Scottish universities: the best of these being better in many respects than their more famous English counterparts, even if rarely credited in recognition of that fact.

I was academically bright. I was diplomacy itself too. For a time, the head-girl and I would forget my Slag status as I assisted her with the finer points of pure mathematics as we all studied of an evening in the prefecture, where I was domiciled. She was a two-years older girl and therefore in a later age-stream than I, but my mind was ahead of this eighteen-year-old about to take her 'Highers': that was how bright I was.

The term from after Easter to the beginning of the summer hols was an intensive one for study and I concentrated on my work, wanting to make mummy and daddy proud of their daughter.

Of course I had not forgotten my doggy-bitch bondage and the fire that had filled my young body when Benji, my gorgeous Alsatian had momentarily ridden me and poked my naughty. The extreme high Benji had taken me too; even in the brief seconds he had penetrated my mystery, were a recurring wet-dream, and I had had to fight the fight of fights not to finger my nude shaven heaven, thinking about the joy and frustration, and the joy from frustration, I had experienced and endured from being so tentatively and briefly-swiftly cocked by my lovely pet doggy.

You may think I thought Miss Pringle, cruel to have treated me as she had in her home. That was never in fact so. What Miss Pringle, Amelia, had done was to teach me a psychological lesson. I had learned a lesson about my body my sexualness and my mindset. It had been a lesson in life. It was a lesson I gained from and have never ever forgotten as a consequence.

People say that our minds blank-out horrible experiences so that they cease to distress us, because the full detail of the events is wiped from our memory bank as a safeguard against recurring nightmares.

There was no wiping clean of my mind on that event. I had been shagged by my pet doggy. That may seem dirty to the world at large, but to me in memory, then as now, it was a beautiful experience. My naughty had needed its visitor. Even my frustration that my naughty's uninvited guest had hardly got beyond my threshold, before letting my sliding-doors slip shut, had been a lesson in my drives, my desires, my desirability, and my need to ration and discipline, as well as being disciplined by my sexiness.

We worked very hard in that term. The older girls had to face their university admission qualifying examinations at the end of it. We younger girls had past papers to face in rehearsal for when our turn would come to tackle our Highers for real.

"All work and no twirl makes Jill a dull girl", announced a poster near the school assembly hall one morning in June. I hardly paid it attention. Talk of the end-of-academic-year ball it was advertising, had been in the air for ages. Hard-working schoolgirls need something to distract their minds, and talk of the ball and how someone's mummy had bought a girl such a lovely dress for the occasion, peppered the moments when we looked up from our computer screens or our books to communicate with one another.

It didn't hurt my feelings that I had not had an invitation to the ball. Well, yes it did. It hurt me to be left out. It hurt terribly.

There was a fire safety limit on the numbers allowed in the hall. At least that was what we were told. I could believe it. St Catherine's was older than the hills. It had more pupils now than the nuns it had been originally built to house had totalled: indeed something approaching twice the number. Lovely historic buildings such as those comprising St Cath's could not be ruined by haphazard alterations: it was just not allowed. So, the school had to make best use of what it had.

Doubling the pupils attending the school had been an economic necessity. It had been prompted by excellence. St Catherine's Academy for Girls could have been doubled or quadrupled again in size, and still have had to turn away more applicants than the number of new pupils it could take-in in each new academic year.

However, St Catherine's chose: "by intellect and not by income", so the number of girls in the school, some five-hundred, was at just over break-even point in respect of the balance between costs and the fees the school charged: fees kept as low as possible, to allow girls from poorer backgrounds a chance of attending, if they could pass the entrance interview.

There were also some bursaries. Wealthy ex-pupils donated monies to fund teaching posts, or the admission of a worthy girl from a poor family for example.

One of the benefits of a St Catherine's Academy education, was that, even if one did not in the end do too well academically, to be able to tell a prospective employer that one had been there, was an instant rung or more up the ladder to the higher reaches of an employer's organisation. Those girls, the vast majority, who went on to high attainment in academia, were highly sought after, thus highly remunerated, and thus well placed, in their later years, to fund bursaries in honour of their alma mater and, truth told, for the benefit of their personal taxation.

There were buildings enough for dormitories and classrooms at St Catherine's. The hall used for the ball was also big enough for the whole school to assemble each morning to start the day; but that is obviously not the same as a dance where there would be a need to move around.

Even though it would only be the teaching staff and the older girls: those aged sixteen or over, who would be allowed to go to the dance, there were too many of even we older girls for the size of the hall if used for entertainment. The local fire chief was adamant on the issue, and she would know best.

Even so, the deepest hurt for me was the discovery that already planned absence of a number of the girls qualified to go to the ball meant the numbers that particular year were already in fact below the safety limit.

Quite a number of girls were returning to their distant homelands immediately after the examinations. This kept the number of girls for the dance down below the maximum allowed: and yet I was still Cinderella and there was talk of giving the below-sixteens admission to make up the maximum number.

I wondered if I had just been forgotten. I was the School Slag: it seemed unwise for me to ask outright. I was too wise not to know that I had no rights in the prefecture. I was there fulfilling my duty to be decorative and available for sexual favours.

I had been taken to bed by all the prefects and the head girl that term but, although I gave them a taste of heaven through their making love to me, none of them had seen fit to ensure I had one of the treasured gold-lettered invitation cards. It hurt: it really hurt.

……………

It was the head girl's notion that I would look great in jeans. It was off the scale for the usual wear for the School Slag, but Miss Pringle gave her permission, and so it was that my lovely bummy was filling fully fulsomely tight light-blue jeans as I wiggled about the school one hot summer's day in a pair of seven-inch-heeled mules. My midriff was bare, and I had a white silk blouse tied-off with a knot in its hem above my navel. I, of course, wore no bra or panties, as they were completely forbidden me.

Miss Pringle had insisted, very forcefully, on one stipulation. I could only be allowed to wear jeans if they had neither buttons nor a zipper, so that my completely depilated naughty could still be accessed readily.

Scissors soon took care of that, right and proper concern, so that it was the head girl herself who sent me out of the prefecture with the loudest longest wolf whistle, as she witnessed my pretty bummy swaying enticingly before her at the beginning of my first day at school in my all but tourniquet-tight jeans, and that was on the morning after she had spent the whole night stroking my naked body in her bed: that was how sexy she thought me in my blue jeans.

She was evidently not alone in finding me enticing in my spicy pants. I lost count of the number of times I had to say "thank you" as I was whistled and "wowed" with full volume appreciation of my girlness by the other girls in the school that day.

It was to be the day of the ball: the night of the ball would end the day. Girls queued up to talk to me at the break in lessons that morning, and my sadness grew as they would ask me if they could book a dance with me at the school ball that evening, and I had to apologise that I had to say no.

It was quite the unhappiest day of my St Cath's years and it was very hard to keep a smile on my face as I wiggled my sexy body in my high-heeled mules and tight bottom-hugging jeans back to the dorm that evening.

I wiggled by with my lovely head lowered in thought. I wiggled by a group of girls tending the front of school decorative garden flowerbeds, my lovely head lowered in thought.

It was Nulinda's pretty voice that called "Hi" to me, as I bummy-wiggled by in my seven-inch-heeled mules.

"Hi sexy!" Nulinda called as second time, her first "hi" having been rather rudely unheeded by me in my distraction.

I looked up with, extremely rarely for me, a little flash of anger born from my hurt at knowing I would have to be alone all night in the prefects' dorm, whilst all the other girls of my age would be enjoying themselves and relaxing at the dance.

Then it hit me and caused me to gasp in sexily-pretty open mouthed gorgeous moist lipped shock.

Then it hit me: Nulinda and her three companions turned their watering hose on me, and sprayed my top-front and then pointed and giggled as I stood with my white silk blouse made all but transparent by their soaking of me, my nipples ruby-hard from the cold of the douche, and the water from the hose running in rivulets over the supremely soft, smooth, naturally-oiled skin of my feminine-configuration-confirming bare midriff, turning the top of my jeans darker blue as it was soaked-up by them.

"Oh! You're horrible, horrible………!!" I began to call out, the ending-sound of my statement turning distortedly indecipherable with my onrushing tears.

I began to cry in my tensed-up mixture of sadness at being the school ball Cinderella, and this abuse of me by the younger girls led by the mischievous Nulinda.

Of course I knew in my heart-of-hearts that these girls only wanted to see my beautiful breasts; but all they had to do was ask a prefect, and they could see my bosom totally bare at any time they might wish, and even get to caress and rub my titties and my nipples, no matter how I might feel about it, just as much as they might desire

"Sorry!" Nulinda called in all sweetness, "Sorry Melody!" she called, as I began to run as fast as I could in my restricting mules, my now exposed titties wobble-bobbling, and then flowing rhythmically side-to-side and bouncing extremely excitingly, as I gathered rhythm in my run, as I trotted away as quickly as I could, my gorgeous face contorted and rivered with tears.

I knew, when I thought about it later, I of course knew it had just been a sexy joke. These young girls wanted to enjoy the look of shock on my adorable face when the water hit me, and of course, the thought of being able to view my divine breasts and perfect nipples as my wet white top clung to my superlative young body was hardly the lowest item on their naughtiness agenda.

I would and can recall the delight in their eyes as my wetted silk top outlined my always bare bosoms, complete with their pink-sided and darker-pink-tipped Fuji-conical stiffened nipples, shot to rigid shock-rock-hard attentive attention by the chill of the splashing water in an instant, the infolding milk-ducts on their deliciously succulent tips, tight closed against the ingress of potentially diluting cold moisture.

I also knew, though I was not able to admit it to myself at the time, that the girls had wanted me to share in the sexy moment. They had intended my wet-top exposure be as exciting for me, once the shock had worn off, as they knew it would be for them. They had envisaged my lovely laughter as I realised I had been had, and could do nothing about my sudden naughty naked exposure; not my tears. I also also knew that they, Nulinda not least, were genuinely sorry to have upset me so, when their well-planned prank went so wrong.

I was still crying when I got back to the dorm I shared with the prefects. Even though the warm sun had dried my top, it could not dry my pain at being left out from the end of school year celebrations. And, try as I might, my misery showed on my contorted appealingly sweet young face as I wiggled into the prefecture and made quickly quietly, head down, for my room.

…………….

So why was it that the whole prefecture next heard my squeal?

It was the very night of the summer ball and all I had to look forward to was my Cinderella role alone in the prefecture, with all the other girls being at the dance. All the prefects bar Josephine were still in the prefecture just now, as I went into the little side room allocated to the School Slag, my room. And a split second later they were smiling and laughing with joy for me as they heard my involuntary squeal of ecstatic delight.

And why would I not squeal when Josephine, my adored Jo, met me inside the doorway of my little side room, holding across her arms the most beautiful evening dress: the beautiful evening dress I was to wear at the ball?

I squeaked and put a pretty hand over my delicious lips and gentle bit on my forefinger so as not to let out another girly squeal of uninhibited joy as Jo showed me my dress and confirmed that, absolutely yes, it was for me, and that absolutely yes, I was to go to the ball.

I hardly listened to gorgeous Jo as I stripped for a shower dancing up and down with joy and running over to her, and against all the rules the School Slag should abide by, kissing her all over her face as I stood naked my titties waving and wobbling excitedly excitingly to match my uninhibited joy, as I danced up and down on the balls of my feet, flexing my stupendously shapely legs, and thus bumping and bouncing my incredible titties innocently erotically; Cinderella no more.

As I showered and washed my hair, my blonde hair that tumbled to the back of my knees as I stood in the shower naked, Jo berated me gently for my being such a clot as not to realise that the School Slag never got an invitation to the summer ball, because it was compulsory for the School Slag to be there.

I felt such an idiot!

Jo called in to my shower that I must hurry so she could help me with my hair, but I wanted to linger and savour my overwhelming ecstasy at being included: at my not being the Cinderella I had so stupidly assumed I was going to be anymore after all.

I wanted as much as I needed the regard of my fellow girls. I was a communicative animal. I was a girl who loved to talk and gossip and giggle with her friends. As School Slag, most of these freedoms had been denied me. My squeaks of delight at discovering that I was in fact included in, from what I had hitherto thought I was included out, must have sprung from my pent-up desire to be accepted and wanted.

I had been more than a little naughty in making such noise, and I was very fortunate indeed not to be given a spanking.

But, for this night at least, there was a more relaxed atmosphere in the prefecture. All the older girls having completed their examination papers, and the girls my age having faced their mocks, the letting loose of pent-up tensions was being forgiven: even for me: very luckily for me. It was also the case that the head-girl was away from the dorm, which always made life there more relaxed.

It was just as well that Jo could be trusted not to betray me, as I chatted and giggled to her constantly and unstoppably. As she blow-dried and combed and brushed my hair whilst I sat before my dressing table wearing only a bath-towel wrapped around me, I garrulously gabbled to an extent well beyond the limits properly allowable to the School Slag.

I was excited beyond measure, like a girl going to her first ever ball, because I was a girl going to her first ever ball.

It took an age for Josephine and I to get me ready for the evening and yet the end result looked so simple.

My hair was just allowed to tumble in its full-length down to the backs of my knees, where its fresh-washed golden-gold shimmer terminated in natural fresh-washed up-curling ends. Yet it was drawn back from the sides of my stunning face enough to reveal that on the lobes of my ears I wore earrings: gold earrings with a clasp on my pretty earlobes, from which dangled a half-inch tapering gold helix, point of coil at my ear, widest part hanging down, holding a dangling and swinging pure black pearl, one pearl, one real black pearl, at each ear.

To keep my heavenly blonde hair in place, around the top of my head, across my forehead, I wore a black silk band, at the centre of which, dangling down from its bottom edge on another tapering gold helix, was a single black pearl, that tickled me between my eyebrows as it nestled so intriguingly decoratively on my innocent's face.

Around my lovely swan long neck, I bore a black silk choker, tied off behind, lost in my hair, but with another single black pearl dangling down on a twist of gold, swinging to-and-fro between my collar bones as I breathed in my girly girlish excitement, and my heavy bosom heaved.

On my feet I wore eight-inch-heeled black tiptoeing stilettos with a divine broad strap buckling them to my shapely slim ankles.

On my arms, the full length of my arms from fingertips to armpits, I wore black silk gloves.

I, of course, wore no brassiere, but for this event I had been given panties. They were mere wisps, existing more in faith than in reality. An infinitesimally slim string of black silk went around my hips at the top three-quarter height of my bare bummy, supporting another single almost invisible and even more almost non-existent string that was pulled up spicily tightly between the cheeks of my bummy and the lips of my nude naughty.

The string of these panties that came down to mark the division between my rear hillocks, clearly sundered the wonder of my girly-lips, and from within my totally nude shaven girly-lips, dangling down from the string of my panties from the top of my pussy purse, on the end of a little tapering gold helix, with its apex within me, was another sexily decorative black pearl.

My only other underwear was a black lace suspender belt, supporting shear black silk stockings running the whole supreme length of my extremely superb legs, bar a top surround of naked shiny soft-skinned supremely smoothly soft girlmuscular thigh.

And then there was my dress. And finally there was my dress. It was black. It was black of course. It was bound to be black to match everything else I wore. It had the repeated pattern of a rose, stem, leaves, and huge opened flower, in black worked into it. It had slim straps on my lovely shoulders and a swooping dipping neckline that curved at front such as just to reveal my cleavage, dropping further at the back so as to reveal my shoulder blades and much of my bare back, it gently hugged my waist before its skirt-end ran down to my ankles, and it was semi-transparent.

My dress, my lovely evening dress was so transparent that all of my wonderful young schoolgirl body could be seen through it, from the crisp perky pointy pink nipples of my thirty-seven-inch D-cup heavy pendulous breasts, to my bald shaven naughty, and all the supporting cast. My lovely legs and desirable derriere, my slimmest of slim waist, and a black pearl decoratively held resting in my naked navel, were on display, openly, visibly, on display.

I turned to Jo flashing the full length of a supreme stockinged leg from the vent, the one vent that ran up the left side of my translucent dress, all the way up till it very sweetly revealed a hint of cheeky bare bummy.

Jo squealed joyously as I stood in front of the full-length mirror in my wardrobe.

"Do I look alright?" I shyly slyly asked Jo, knowing that in fact I looked way beyond delicious, but longing for reassurance, as even the prettiest girl longs, even though they are told so often how gloriously close to perfection they are.

"If only I could kiss you!" Jo answered with tears almost coming to her eyes as she sipped the wine of my gorgeousness.

I looked at the shiny crimson lipstick with which the pretty lips of my mouth glistened-out from the pale ghostness of the rest of my perfect schoolgirl features.

"Do I look alright Jo?" I asked with tears of fear that I had let the world down starting in my eyes.

"Darling angel, no girl has ever, or will ever, look lovelier than you unless it is you!" Jo smiled as she raised and kissed the gloved fingers of my right hand.

I started to cry at Jo's kindness and she gently ordered me to stop, saying I would look like a dragon if my eyes went red from my tears.

I giggled as I fought my tears back. I pulled myself together and nearly let fresh tears trickle once more as I looked at my beauty and saw the evident love for me in Jo's stunning dark-brown orbs, her eyes, the epicentre of Jo's astonishing girlness.

Would I get to dance with Jo? Oh what heaven it would be to be held in Jo's arms!

"Will you dance with me?" I asked Jo with my lovely blue eyes flashing bright green as my love-juice threatened the tiny string gusset of the panties I wore: panties so scanty they risked skeptics challenging their existence: panties so skimpy that almost only in the belief of the faithful did they exist at all.

"Of course I will", said Jo to reassure and arrest my evident nervousness, "Believe me my sweet angel!"

…………..

The ball had already long-since begun as Jo, my chaperone for the evening, and I arrived. I was already gone nine in the evening, my hair had taken so long to prepare. But the evening was still young: midnight and beyond still to come.

An all-girl orchestra in white evening gowns was on the stage where the end-of-term school plays were acted out, and girl pupils were in each others arms gliding the floor in lovely dresses of every colour chosen as enhancement of or in compliment to their hair or their eyes, or to show a lovely leg, or whatever else would most allow them to disport their feminine charms most effectively.

A familiar slow tune was rending the warm outside air as my eight-inch-heels click-clacked on the old stones of the pathway to the hall, where a waltz began as I approached the open door, with lovely Jo, delicious and delightful in dark blue, in escort just behind me.

I had not considered the effect, the impact, my entry would make. I was not so immodest as to assume that all heads would turn and the dancers almost fall over each other as I hung my head in shy blush. I did not fore-realise that I would be the bombshell that burst like a supernova onto the floor.

It was not for me to instruct that they carry on dancing, and so I blushed and blushed at the whistles and stares knowing not how to hide my heavenly face, and knowing in my heart of hearts, indeed in my slit of slits now honeying at my arousal, just how much I was enjoying being completely devastating, as my sexy decorative dangling black pearls swung hypnotically on the ends of their little gold tapering helix hangers at my forehead, my ears, my neck, and my nude naughty.

Then I met the challenge of my daring myself to look up, and raised my head still blushing almost so red that my shiny-lipstick matched my high boned high heat hot cheeks. My eyes swung wildly side to side trying not to look at them looking at me, wanting them not to look at me, wanting them to look at me, not wanting to see them looking at me, wanting to see them looking at me, not wanting them to see that I could see they were looking at me, loving them looking at me, shied by them looking at me, proud that they were looking at me, hoping I was pleasing, pleased to be pleasing, honoured to be so admired, so adored, so wanted by these girls.

I gasped as my naughty honeyed in the glow of the admiration of my fellow girls for my stunning body so divinely visible beneath my gown, my nipples pulsing as my purse grew wetter.

Again I blushed and lowered my head knowing that my gasp would have given away my secret, and that my nipples had betrayed me by portraying in deed, indeed unmistakably conveying, my aroused state, my girl state as my musk marinated my panty's tiny-tiny-tease- string-gusset.

I so wanted to turn around and go back to my room, but lovely Jo led me more fully into the room by a gentle guiding hand on my slender gloved left wrist.

Then suddenly, even as the orchestra recovered itself and got back to its musical duties, all the girls at the dance were surrounding me and begging me to let them be the first to lead me onto the floor.

I became like a startled doe, almost overwhelmed by their attention, and turned my frightened eyes to Jo, imploring with my look that she save me from this bedlam.

But Jo could not keep hold of me, and I was being almost carried by an overeager tide of girls grasping my arms to try and take me onto the floor to dance with them and them alone.

There was chaos and confusion and the orchestra had stopped playing once more, fearing a riot and wanting anyway to look at the stunning young girl they had been told was the School Slag: me.

Then suddenly I was let go of, and stood confused and bewildered my head spinning and reeling and feeling I might faint, so frightening and distressing had the pawing at me by some fifty girls been just now.

Then suddenly I was let go of, and was momentarily too dazed and upset to realise why…

…"Why" was Miss Pringle.

"Sorry Miss" I curtseyed having almost forgotten to do so.

"You have no need of being sorry Melody", Miss Pringle announced in a voice intentionally so moderated as to ensure all the girls at the dance would be crystal clear on her disgust at their behaviour.

"I have never in all my career witnessed such unladylike behaviour as I just have from your fellow pupils Melody. If I had heard it reported to me rather than witnessing it with my own eyes, I would have refused to believe it to be true." Miss Pringle scolded the assembled hall, in a voice conveying more sorrow than anger and thereby conveying Miss Pringle's suppressed annoyance more than had she been shouting.

"At the very least, the school will be mindful of the impression it gives our honoured guests from the ****** Orchestra. Even then, I would not expect, and will never again accept such animal brawling. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes Miss", was muttered by fifty young heads lowered in shame.

"Thank you" Miss Pringle sarcastically acknowledged.

"We are here to enjoy the end-of-school-year ball" Miss Pringle continued. "I am not going, as I considered I might: I am not going to call proceedings to a close, but I am going to remove the cause of the trouble".

All eyes, mine not least were on Miss Pringle, and we all thought as one, that Miss Pringle meant me: that I was "the cause of the trouble".

I was resigned to my lovely evening having ended before it had begun.

I fully expected to be instructed, or someone else told to take me, back to my dorm. I had even begun to turn my head to hide my tears and ready myself to be so ordered. But I remembered my manners, fought back my misery, and waited with the other fifty girls for Miss Pringle to make her pronouncement.

What came next astonished me and all at the ball, and overjoyed me with surprise.

"Melody: will you do me the honour of my having the first dance with you?" Miss Pringle enquired with all ladylike propriety when asking a young girl.

I blushed girlilly once more.

"I would be very honoured Miss Pringle", I answered as I curtseyed to the headmistress once again.

The orchestra struck up a waltz and the other girls dared a happy cheer as Miss Pringle, in one of her dowdiest opaque all-black neck-to-floor spinster-miss dresses, took me gently in her arms and swept me around the floor.

My breath was sucked from me by the skill of Amelia Pringle's dancing, which was such as to hide completely my own comparatively complete inadequacy.

It felt so natural as Miss Pringle took the lead and I the girl's role, and we floated around the floor of the hall.

Over time, the other girls saw that their chance with me was gone, and they had as well settle for something far less than even second best. I was, self evidently, going to be booked solidly solely by the one girl, Miss Amelia Pringle, our headmistress, for the whole evening.

"You are heaven on heaven's legs my angel" Miss Pringle whispered in my ear as the whole floor was a sway of dancers.

And I was in love with being loved by this older woman. What was she: thirty? When you are sweet sixteen as I was then, thirty is a century away in time.

I thought Miss Pringle a million years old then. I was enjoying our dance though, because she made me look so feminine and so elegant, but I was beginning to look over her shoulder for Josephine, and hoping against hope that lovely Jo would be next to sweep me off my feet.

"Your beauty is as transparent as your lovely dress my angel" Miss Pringle whispered.

I was so shocked at my headmistress insistently complimenting me this way.

"Miss?" I responded, almost tripping us both over.

"You have the most kissable mouth Melody?" Miss Pringle breathed in what seemed to me, at least later when I was old enough to realise it, a state of passionate heat.

I was, she, Amelia Pringle, fully well knew, in no position to answer her as I might a fellow girl, even were I not the School Slag.

I began to wonder, in my own sweet naïf way, I began to wonder if Miss Pringle was, perhaps, a secret drinker. I began to assume that Miss Pringle was a little bit drunk and I was becoming very frightened.

"I want to stroke you Melody" Miss Pringle averred in a loud whisper in my unbelieving ear as the dance came to an end.

And as the dance came to an end, to daring rising pantomime boos of disappointment from my fellow girls, Miss Pringle had gentle hold of my gloved left hand, and was leading me out of the ball hall to her private dormitory.

And soon outside in the cooling evening humid air, I was wiggle-walking along, Miss Pringle gently holding my gloved left hand, my steps clicking and clacking as my metal-tipped eight-inch-heels shot the occasional spark in the darkening dusk from the cobbles of the causeway: I was wiggle-walking along querulously quaking quietly with fear.

……………

Strangely, my fear subsided as I walked around Miss Pringle's dormitory: as I walked around the headmistress' dormitory: as I walked around Miss Pringle's dormitory stark naked.

I had felt a little more relaxed as I removed each item of my clothing. Miss Pringle seemed unable to take her eyes off me. Somehow, as I stripped in the powerful spotlights of her eyes, and the quiet light of her room, her green eyes focused upon and running ever up and down my body and over my face, I, without at that time being able to put a label upon it, I felt, I experienced, I achieved, a transference of power.

Contrary to the seemingly obvious likelihood, as I stripped naked at Amelia Pringle's gently expressed request, I felt that I, and it was a fact that I, or at least at the time it seemed to be true that I, became less, rather than more vulnerable.

Amelia, may I dare to call my headmistress "Amelia"? Amelia, showed me around her dormitory seemingly for no other reason than that thereby she would be able to watch my lovely body move, and enjoy the grace of my arms, the power of my thighs, the rotundity of my bottom, the youthful virgin firmness of my breasts, the provocative supremacy of my impertinently pointing nipples, the completely evident virgin tightness of my naughty, the sweet prettiness of my flawless sixteen-year-old's face, the glory of my endless hair.

As any pretty girl might, I began to enjoy bathing in Amelia's, Miss Pringle's, admiration, and purposely controlled my actions so that she would see the natural me, rather than any me behaving so as to be provocative: the natural me as only a female god could possibly have made me.

"May I offer you coffee?" Miss Pringle enquired.

"Yes please!" I answered unthinkingly.

"Yes please Miss Pringle", I corrected myself, curtseying in all my divine naked glory in recompense for my gaff.

We moved, Miss Pringle moved and I followed, into Miss Pringles tiny kitchen. My bare feet grew slowly colder on the stone tiled floor of Miss Pringle's kitchenette as I stood obediently, my head lowered in the gaze of her unabashed continued staring eye-ravishing of me. It was little compensation for that coldness at my lowest extremes when I was able to hug a mug of instant coffee in both my petit hands.

But Miss Pringle's attention to the beauty of my body and my every move even extended to her fascination when, absent-mindedly, I had lifted my cold left foot from the floor to wiggle my toes, and then run the sole of that foot down the inner side of my right calf, to draw warmth into my foot from that calf and from the gentle friction on my soft smooth flesh.

I had done this; I had made this move completely unthinkingly. My feet, at least my soles and heels, felt like snow from standing on the stone tiles. I had done this with my left foot almost in reflex and without really realising I was doing it, and how rude it was to my host.

It was only when I realised that Miss Pringle, who had busied herself such that her back had been turned for a while, was now watching me once more, and what she was watching me doing, that I recognised consciously what I had been doing, and apologised to her, blushing deep crimson as I did so.

"There is absolutely no need to say sorry, sweet girl", Miss Pringle smiled gently and sincerely, "I don't want you getting cold. Go and sit by my fireplace and get your pretty feet on the warm carpet".

I wiggled obediently to sit where Miss Pringle bade me, turning only to gently smile an enquiry if she was going to join me.

Reading my serene blue eyes, Miss Pringle answered, "I'll be with you in just a moment".

I sat my gorgeous bare bummy on the edge of a chair I judged to be not the one Miss Pringle usually occupied herself. I assumed that her regular chair was the one facing me: the one with the pile of book-marked-books alongside it.

As I sat, I cupped my mug of coffee in pretty hands, taking an occasional sip and beginning to dream a little. Of course it went through my mind that all this, this, my walking around naked for Miss Pringle's pleasure, was just a preliminary to bed. But I knew by now that I could satisfy in bed. I had been had by all ten of the prefects that term. I was in heaven in their arms as they stroked me to pleasure me.

Miss Pringle was very old to my sixteen-year-old eyes, but that did not make me nervous or repulse me. I knew I was made to pleasure my fellow women. I had no qualms about Miss Pringle having me. I knew that I was so supremely sensitive and so girl, that I would absolutely certainly cum as she caressed me.

My body swooned in total surrender at the touch of another girl. I reacted instantly to a caress. I would come time over time totally uninhibitedly abandonedly girlilly. I was made for love in its most physical manifestation. I was made to pleasure and to please. I knew now how to use my fingers my toes my mouth and my pointed tongue. I was no whore: I was just sex: I was just a girl knowing how to be supremely divinely unrestrainedly uninhibitedly pleasurably surrendered or, on command, delightfully wickedly naughty in bed.

I tried so hard not to show shock or surprise as Miss Pringle came in from her kitchen.

I tried so hard not to show shock or surprise as Miss Pringle came in bearing a bowl and with a white towel over one arm.

I still sat cupping my coffee mug as Miss Pringle bending, put the bowl on the floor next to my toes. And I innocently gasped as she, kneeling now, lifted my foot; my left foot at my slender ankle, and put it gently in the bowl of warm soapy water, before lifting my right foot and doing the same.

Still on her knees, Miss Pringle then proceeded to wash my feet with a soft flannel mitten on one of her hands. It was divine! It was immeasurable pleasurable as Miss Pringle caressed and pressed and kneaded the feet she had determined needed kneading and warming and washing and worshipping.

It was over in less than five minutes. But in that near five minutes I had spilt my cunny-cream on Miss Pringle's chair as she had washed by feet and lifted them each in turn, and dried them, each in turn, with her warm soft towel, and kissed them, as I gasped open-mouthed in sexy surrender to her attentiveness, her gentleness, her caresses, and her kisses.

Miss Pringle took the bowl away and left me sexily bedazzled with my now warmed feet on a warm fresh dry towel. I was still cradling my coffee mug, sexily stupefied, as she returned and bent over me as I sat, and sought my ever-willing lovely shiny crimson-painted lips, and we kissed.

Miss Pringle took my mug from my uncontrollably trembling hands and put it on a table to one side, and then raised me gently by those same pretty hands, took me in her arms, and kissed me full on my sixteen-year-old schoolgirl's mouth, her arms wrapped around my wraith-slim waist, her right hand holding firmly onto my naked right conspicuously curvaceous firm bummy mountainette.

I had not reacted to her first kiss: the kiss she had given me as I still sat, so taken by surprise had I been. But now the full realisation that it was my headmistress who was holding me, her innocent sixteen-year-old schoolgirl pupil in her arms, and kissing me, sexually kissing me full on my gorgeous mouth, struck home and I tried to resist.

But my resistance was almost a minus on the scale of milliseconds as my body took me over, and my compulsions overtook my body, and I was aflame with girl passion and responded to Miss Pringle's mouth with all my dreamy molten willingness and even more powerfully overpowering eagerness.

Miss Pringle's tongue flicked in and out and then filled my mouth and her mouth's moisture was wetting and whetting my willing mouth lips to almost the same degree as by now another more intimate moisture was giving divine shine to the entrance to my nude-shaven naughty's lips.

Time was standing still as Miss Pringle's mouth twisted around to taste every angle of my own sweet moist supremely extremely responsive livid crimson-lipped oratorical orifice. And I was not going to be the first to end this passionate embrace, I would be drowned or smothered and die before I would break away. Even as Miss Pringle seemed to be pulling back, my mouth followed hers to let her know that I was willing, I was hers, I was surrendered and defeated, and captured and open, and enslaved and enraptured, and to be had to be held, keeping only unto her, from this daze forth, for her for, and for her for, whirled without end, girl-girl only and therefore amen.

I was snatching and gasping at breath with my supremely moist livid lovely limpid lips as we broke apart. And Miss Pringle eased my down-to-the back-of-my-knees length golden blonde hair off my left shoulder and kissed my neck in worship of my overwhelming loveliness. And I nearly fainted with the rapture of it. Had I nerve endings in the sweet swan sweep of my naked neck's nape that even exceeded in their sensitivity to sensuality those, yes even those, in my sacred slot? Miss Pringle merely brushed her lips on my bare neck and I gasped and squeaked drooling-mouthed with astonishing astonished astonishment at her touch: at the touch of her eclectic electric lips on the nape of my nude naked neck.

I longed for her to kiss my neck once more and tilted my head, eyes rapturously closed, with tears of desire in their corners, eyes rolled-up raised-up to heaven behind my burning lids, to invite her, and she kissed and then began to bite my neck, and I gasped again a pure-girly-gasp of heavenly joy with the sudden shock of the pain and the pleasure of her love bite, and I moaned and squeaked my heavensentness as she kissed the bite and the licks and the sucks she had just devoured my honeysoft skin with.

And a wave of pain shot down my spine as she bit me, as Miss Pringle bruised my swan neck's nape with a love bite, a delectable wave of pain followed my orgasmic spinal curvature and through my perineum to service my salivating slit, slavering slatternly, sullenly sulking, sweating secretions of sweet surrender, neglected and jealous of my mouth and my neck: a cunt keening for kisses, and clawing and pawing, pouring powerful pulchritudinous perfume, pouting in its perfidious petulance.

And I wanted to be had and to be had now. And Miss Pringle took me in her arms. My scarlet red, harlot-red, lips, still shining from the moisture, her mouth moisture, the moisture from her kiss, my lips, my scarlet lips, sheened from her kiss, Miss Pringle took me and let me gently down so that I sat edged on a tall stool. She sat my lovely bummy on the edge of a tall stool, and once more began to look at me, she backed from me, her eyes feasting on every very micro-millimetre of my feet my legs and my thighs, as I sat with my long legs tiptoed on the ground, in a joy of sweet surrender to love and lust, with tears of girl-serenity trickling down my soft cheeks, and my eyes lost in another world, the world of girl love, the love for girl, the girl for girl world, the love of girl whirled, the love of girl for girl, the world that is not of this world; not even of heaven, but of the seventh heaven of the seventh heaven of the seventh heaven's seventh heaven.

My naughty was afire with desire and I sweetly held my slender loving arms, my gold-glistening-downed-forearms, and my pretty hands, imploring Miss Pringle to take me once more, and explore me, and have of me what she would, or more than she would, or more that more if she would: whatever she desired of me was hers and hers and hers.

My slit slid on the stool snailing a trail as it dribbled higher and higher deathly dire desire, swooning me with its sopping soused seducing. Saucy and searing, it was seeking sacrifice to sexual savagery, sucking of its succulence, slapping of its spunkiness, surrender to sex: Sapphic or Sabine or Sapphic and Sabine sex.

And my suckbuds, my perky pointy pink nipples atop my virgin lollipops, my schoolgirl breasts, were peaking and pulsing and peeking impertinently painfully plainly planely at Miss Pringle, all ready for her to suck or bite, to knead to squeeze to lick: two to lick, two to nibble, two to nurture, two to pinch, two to flick, two to ravish, two to bite, two to roll in fingers my desire pointed pertness, or to take in to her mouth to suck me, to suck on my nipples and take me to higher heaven: breasts, two breasts, two beautiful, two too beautiful breasts, and two nipples, two beautiful, two too beautiful nipples, my girl confirming frontal protuberances exuberantly female and exceptionally girl, and wanting to be had and held and caressed and felt and ravished and pleasured, and to please and to pleasure my lover my lovers, and my love from my heart, my breasts next my heart from whence my love was pouring down my begging outstretched arms to my dainty fingertips, begging and pleading alms in the arms of Miss Pringle.

And out of my slit slid my sweet musk and inside my slit danced my swollen clit. My clit squeezed from its little red hiding hood. My clitoris compelled to swell by the overwhelming power of my arousal, swollen so hard and so fulsomely that it had escaped its hood and shone pink and pulsing, powerfully painfully pert, hurting with hardness, in the brutality of its wanton wanting of rampant ravishment and rapine.

And Miss Pringle was moving behind me, and her arm was around my divine body, her right arm was embracing my body, and reaching for my quim, my quim aswim with moist musk, and I sigh-screamed to let her know whilst-ever she was going where she wanted, she was going where I needed, and there would be no resistance to her from my slavering slot whose guardian gates shone so sublimely, slippery with shining welcome. And no please yes, she was loving me, and no please yes, she was pressing on the top of my mound and her kneading was answering my needing, her echo-sounding pressure was reverberating through to my hugely engorged clit so that I screamed with surrender to the sender of the sensation to my pulsating sensated unscabbarded dangling dagger.

And she was masturbating my naughty, she was heavening my sensationally sensitive slot. And so very suddenly her right-hand middle finger was in the slipperiness of my supreme slit, and within the limits of the angle Miss Pringle had to me, nodding my dangling clit. She was flip-flopping my clit, steeped in the copious cognac my cunt was creaming, she was flip-flopping my clit. And I was screaming with shock-pleasure at my mystery's doors being sundered and my treasures deep plundered by a full-fathomed-five wriggling finger, out of my control as it flicked inside my super-sensitive high-tension-nerve-ended soft pinkness, enslaving my lust to the command of its curiosity, so that I was rigid attention to its every sensational explorative twitch and twist: a fixatingly transporting girl having her fascination fulsomely explored fingered and felt by her fellow-girl, and thus herself transported.

And Miss Pringle worked me with her right hand middle finger, battering my clitoris to-and-fro as if it were a hanging punch-ball being thrashed by the gloved fists of a boxer in training. Flick flip, flick flip, flick flip, my dangling hugely swollen joyfully hurting clitoris was batted and battered to-and-fro and fro-and-to, to my rising gasping orgasmic transportation. Flick flip, flick flip, flick flip my clit throbbed as it was thrashed and threshed in rhythmic pendulum as tried to use my enormously strong thighs to stop what I did not want stopped. Flick flip, flick flip, flick flip. Oh god make it stop!! Oh god make it stop!! Oh god make it stop!!! But don't god, oh god, don't stop it, don't stop it, don't stop it!!! Flick flip, flick flip, flick flip, and "Oh god no!!" I cried as I almost came. Flick flip, flick flip, flick flip. "Oh god ner, ner, ner, ner, ner, na, na, na, no, no, oh no, oh, oh, oh, oh NO, NO, NOOOAGH……NO!!!!!" I panted and screamed as I almost came again.

And I cried and begged Miss Pringle to let me hold her, and she would none of it, until she changed hands. Suddenly that slippery finger was out of my slot and I was gasping from want of its return as Miss Pringle rewarded me with the new and the same sensation from her left hand middle finger pressing and squeezing my hugely distended extended and expanded clitoris, and boxing it with a flickering flicking thumb that primed my pump and made my seeping naughty pour profusely as I cried out with every flick and flip of my nether epiglottis with Miss Pringle's perfection-from-practice at taking a girl out of this universe.

And Miss Pringle's right hand was on my lovely face and I was smelling my fresh copious compelling musk on her right hand, and as naturally as a child suckling to its mother's mammary, I took the drying naughty-cream coated middle finger of Miss Pringle's right hand into my eager mouth and ran my pointed tongue along its extent to lick the me that was on it into the me that had secreted it, and I sucked like a babe on Miss Pringle's finger with my livid-red passionate schoolgirl's lips, until it was wholly holy clean.

And my honey was copious on her finger as she bade me lick and I sucked her finger until it shone, cleaned of my musk with the moisture of my mouth as I tasted as she bade and made me. And now, still with her left-hand middle finger plunged into my maiden's furrow and playing my clitoris gently then harshly, and forcing me to emit gagged gasps of repeated pleasure-shock as she flicked my clit back-and-forth-and side-to-side, I turned my head to be sure that I was servilely ready for any kiss she wished to adorn my lovely mouth with, my eyes opened wide with shocked deflowered innocence and with huge black irises and a look that told the truth of the degree to which I was absent from the real world in the surreal world of the supreme pleasure of being physically and mentally taken.

And I felt her hand, I felt Miss Pringle's right hand caress my bare bummy, and I felt her finger fresh from my mouth, slide, and it was poking my tight-closed sphincter, and I gasped and squeaked to tell her that her choice of the way to have the joy of me was the choice of choices, the perfect choice of all the choices, the choicest choice that could be made for the having of my heaving willing wilful wanton wanting body. And I sighed so sexily as her still moist finger, her still moist finger, the finger moistened with my sucking kiss, found my bummy slot and slid into my bummy's hole until it was as far into my lovely bummy as it would go, as she held me.

Miss Pringle held me tightly by my wraith waist, and her eager face was nuzzling aside my copious hair and needing to find the naked nape of my swan neck. And I prayed as she preyed on my bummyhole, fingering inside my bummy hole deep deep inside my bummyhole, as I gasped and gagged and cried and moaned and groaned and squealed and squeaked and croaked with pleasure, crying that her lips would find me. And she was kissing my neck as she fingered my bummy, she fingered my bummy as she kissed my nude neck at its nape, and I cried out with adoration of my body's reaction to the sensational pleasure of sensation itself as my bummyhole was being plundered by Miss Pringle's finger as she rode her finger in and out, and in and out of my bummyhole, and her lips were on my neck and she was kissing me on my nape and my nerves were running the pleasure of her kiss from the top of my head to the tips of my toes to the tips of my tits to the tip of my clit and to the core of my fully-fingered slot.

And then she bit me, gently at first but growing gradually more painfully she bit me, a love bite a lust bite on my swanlike neck, Miss Pringle bit me, and bit me very hard and as my eyes shot open with the pleasure and the pain, and my mouth shot open with the pleasure and the pain, and I gasped and gurgled and all but giggled madly maddened, insane with the pleasure and the pain, and I cried out helplessly with the pleasure and the pain, and Miss Pringle rose from her bite and her kiss, and she ripped her finger, her middle right hand finger out of my bummy, and pushed it coated with my naughty smelly bummy dirt into my mouth, she pushed her finger coated and tipped with my bummy dirt into my gasp-gaped opened innocent's mouth, between my crimson lips and onto my lovely pointy-ended pink tongue: she pushed her finger coated and tipped with my bummy dirt into my innocent sixteen-year-old schoolgirl's mouth. And despite or because of the stench of it, and despite or because of the degradation of it, and despite and because of the horror of it, I eagerly closed my perfect virgin schoolgirl's mouth and wrapped my pointed-pink-tongue willingly and excitedly around her invading finger, and suck-kissed her finger in sacrifice of my love to her love, and I came; and I came; and I came, as I sucked and licked my fresh bummy dirt from her finger, I came and came and came as I sacrificially sucked and licked my very own fresh soft bummy dirt from Miss Pringle's loving middle finger, until her finger was obediently pristinely cleaned of my fresh chocolat by my eager kissing tongue and lips as I came, an exceptionally exquisite naked sixteen-year-old schoolgirl, ravished raped and betrayed in her headmistress' adoring arms.