The Housemistress (5 page)

Kaitlyn Simmons.

Team Captain.

Most Valuable Player.

“Do you play?” Carriveau wonders, looking fondly at the picture, hugging an armful of lavender scented linens to her chest. “I get the impression you might be rather athletic.”

Rylie’s stomach performs a little somersault. That impression was obviously gleaned from caressing her firm ass and muscular thighs, thus confirming her suspicion that the tactile exploration of her body had bugger all to do with the wrinkles in her uniform.

“Lacrosse is my main sport, but I’m no MVP,” she answers modestly, electricity shooting through her as Carriveau’s shoulder brushes against hers. “How many girls are there here?”

“Our capacity is thirty, but as of this moment, we have twenty-seven: fifteen in the Upper Sixth and twelve in the Lower Sixth, with one Head Girl in each dormitory.” Carriveau swings open the door into the Lower Sixth dorm.

The long, wide room has been partitioned off into fifteen equal cubicles, the dividing walls only four and a half feet high. This gives the girls privacy while sleeping, but allows Carriveau to look in on them easily.

Each cubicle is rectangular, precisely long enough for a single bed to fit snugly against one wall—completely boxed in on three sides—and wide enough to accommodate a bedside table that has one lockable drawer in which to keep any valuables and private items, a small dresser, and a twenty-four inch clothing rail on the back wall for hanging uniforms. Besides those few things, there’s little else: a waste paper basket, a lamp, and a small mirror on the wall above the table.

“It’s not much.” Carriveau reads Rylie’s expression of discontent perfectly, showing her to the third cubicle on the right. “But you can decorate it however you’d like. You’ll find some Blu-Tack in the bedside drawer. No pins,
s’il vous plaît
.”

Rylie glances at some of the others, finding the walls cluttered with everything from shirtless male models to glitter hearts and unicorns. A smaller percentage of the girls have opted for tasteful magazine cutouts of their favorite actors and musicians, while fewer still have completely nude female pin-ups tacked to the walls beside their beds, bare nipples and vaginas covered by stickers.

One particularly brave girl has even created her own personal masturbation material. She’s filled an entire wall of her cubicle with numerous hand-drawn pictures of a Carriveau-esque female: dark hair, green eyes, long legs. Many of them show her with an exaggerated, cartoonish bust, offering maximum cleavage, breasts threatening to burst out from the confines of tight clothing.

“That’s Adel Edwards’ cubicle.” Carriveau catches Rylie gawping at the artwork and steers her back toward her own space. “She can be somewhat extreme.”

Adel Edwards? Rylie lets the name percolate for a moment. Edwards, Edwards, Edwards … the girl Carriveau was talking to the in the lobby? The girl in last year’s Lower Sixth house photograph? Shouldn’t she be in the Upper Sixth by now? Unless …

“She’s repeating Year Twelve?” It’s the only conclusion Rylie can draw. “That explains why I’m not quite the oldest girl in your dorm.”

Carriveau tilts her head, one eyebrow raised, silently questioning.

“I recognized her in last year’s Lower Sixth house picture,” Rylie explains. “She’s the girl I saw you with earlier, isn’t she? I heard you use her name.” She glances back at the boobie pictures. “Don’t you mind that she’s objectifying you?”

“It’s a fantasy. It’s perfectly normal.” Carriveau shrugs it off as insignificant. “Have you never had a crush on a teacher before?”

Rylie’s blush says it all.

Her cheeks are burning with a fury more intense than the Great Fire of London, though not for the crushes she’s had in the past, but for the one she’s developing right now.

Averting her eyes, she steps inside her cubicle, finding a duvet folded neatly on the floor, a pillow atop it, and her suitcase on the bed. Missus Bursnell must’ve had someone bring it here from her office. While she explores, Carriveau stands patiently at the cubicle entryway, still nursing the linens.

Eventually, “Could you take these?” The patient Housemistress holds them out. “I can’t reach the bed.”

Rylie looks down, finding the toes of Carriveau’s stilettos connecting with a strip of yellow electrical tape that marks the cubicle boundary.

“Are you a vampire? Do I have to invite you in?”

“Impossible, I’m afraid.” Carriveau shakes her head. “Your cubicle is the one place on school premises that belongs entirely to you. Within it, you have complete privacy, and I’m not permitted to enter—even at your invitation.”

“That’s no fun.” Rylie takes the sheets and sets them on the bed.

“Of course,” Carriveau adds a quick caveat to the rule, “if I suspect that you’re breaking school regulations and hiding contraband, I have the right to conduct a search of your cubicle in the presence of another staff member.”

“Contraband?” Rylie heaves her suitcase up onto the dresser, moving it out of the way so that she can make her bed unimpeded. “What kind of contraband?”

Carriveau shrugs. “Drugs, alcohol, cigarettes, weapons, fireworks, pornography.”

“Porn?” Rylie pulls a face. “Are you pulling my leg?” She shakes out the fitted sheet and lays it over the mattress. “What harm could some nudie pics do?”

“Missus Bursnell doesn’t approve.”

Rylie rolls her eyes, expecting no less from the withered, one-eyed hag. “All the problems in the world, and she’s worried about teenage girls having orgasms.”

“
Exactement
.” Carriveau leans on the cubicle wall, sighing. “It’s thoroughly ridiculous.” She pauses, giving some thought to what she says next. “Perhaps the old woman’s bitter because she’s not having any of her own.”

Rylie’s jaw drops, not quite able to believe that Carriveau would say something like that about the Headmistress—and so candidly, too! It’s both shocking and refreshing, and the frank turn this conversation is taking triggers her to blurt out:

“I have a dildo in my suitcase.”

If Carriveau is shocked by the unprompted confession, she hides it exceedingly well.

“Really?” she asks casually, her tone neutral.

“Uh-huh.” Rylie unzips her suitcase. “Do you want to confiscate it?”

“
Non
,” Carriveau answers without giving the matter any thought, thus affirming her stance in opposition of Larkhill’s moral war on sexuality. “I daresay you’ll need it. If you’ve read the student handbook, you’ll know that engaging in sexual relations with anyone on campus—including your peers—is strictly prohibited.”

“Why?” Rylie steps away from the suitcase, her stomach fluttering. “Because we’re all girls?”

Carriveau chooses her words with great care, answering slowly. “The Headmistress deems such activity … inappropriate.”

Rylie mulls that over. Is it sex Missus Bursnell doesn’t approve of? Or lesbianism? She turns her focus back to the bed. Not knowing precisely where to begin, she pulls the fitted sheet over the near bottom corner, then over the near top, then realizes she has to take off her shoes and clamber onto the bed to complete the task.

In doing so, crawling clumsily over the sheet, smoothing it as she goes, she feels her skirt ride up in the back. Wondering if Carriveau might be inclined to sneak a peek at her thighs while she’s in this position, she contorts herself to look at the mirror, hoping to get a glimpse of Carriveau’s reflection—and she’s not disappointed.

Carriveau, still leaning on the cubicle wall, her chin resting on the heel of her palm, propped up on her elbow, isn’t even trying to be discreet. While her facial expression is tightly controlled—neither revealing arousal nor apathy—her eyes are most definitely engaged, taking mental snapshots of the view.

Taunting her audience deliberately, Rylie spreads her legs a little, making it appear as though she’s doing so to help anchor the sheet with her knees. Bending forward, she lowers the front of her body and slips the sheet over the farthest corner of the mattress.

She can’t see into the mirror anymore, but she’s certain she must be holding Carriveau’s interest. Staying in this position for as long as possible, on her knees and elbows, bent completely over the bed, her ass barely covered, she delights in how naughty this feels.

Ping!

The fitted sheet slips off the bottom corner.

“Damn it,” she grumbles, turning around to force it back.

When she does that, the top corner makes a bid for freedom, the sheet only getting more tangled beneath her as she attempts to straighten everything back out.

Carriveau covers her mouth with her hand, trying to suppress a laugh. What began as a moderately erotic spectacle is quickly turning into a farce.

Rylie fixes both bottom corners again and yanks the top up to the other end of the mattress, not realizing that one of the bottom corners is already starting to slip. While she makes a valiant effort to get one of the upper corners in place, Carriveau lunges forward to catch the bottom corner, snagging it before it can pop free.

Feeling movement behind her, Rylie spins to attack the bottom corner again, only to come face to face with Carriveau, almost smacking heads.

“
Putain
!” Carriveau exclaims, startled by Rylie’s agility, recoiling slightly to avoid being accidentally head-butted.

She’s bent forward, one foot outside the yellow boundary line and one foot within. She has one hand on the fitted sheet, the other clutching the footboard for balance, and from her vantage point lower down on the bed, almost splayed out on the sheet, Rylie can see straight down her blouse—a much closer look than she’d gotten earlier.

She lets her eyes drop … then raises them back up, cocking her head. “Wait, did you just call me a whore?”

“
Non
!
Certainement pas
!” Carriveau lets go of the sheet and makes a swift retreat from the bed.

“Aww, shit.” Rylie pouts, the sheet hitting her in the face.

“Have you never made a bed before?” Carriveau straightens her blouse, trying to forge the illusion that everything going on here is perfectly innocent and above board.

“No.” Rylie frowns apologetically, her limbs all caught up in the sheet. “We have a maid at home.”

She rolls over onto her side, kicking to get loose. In the process, she leans over the edge of the bed, glancing down at Carriveau’s feet—both of which are now way beyond the thin yellow line.

“Uh-oh.” She points at them. “Where do I have to go to report you for that?”

She’s joking, of course, but despite the lighthearted intent, Carriveau scowls, reaches for Rylie’s hand, and pulls her up.

“Off the bed!” she orders in a hushed voice. “Now!” She ushers her out of the cubicle.

“What are you doing?”

“What your mother should’ve done a long time ago.” She snatches the fitted sheet and gets it on the bed in the first try, hooking the farthest corners over the mattress first. “Pay attention now.”

With genuine interest, Rylie watches her turn the duvet cover completely inside out, put her hands inside to grab the top corners, then grab the corresponding top corners of the duvet, shaking the cover down over it.

“
Voilà
!” She buttons up the end and spreads it out on the bed. “
Fini
!” She switches places with Rylie, giving her a gentle shove into the cubicle as she crosses back over the yellow line. “Now, housekeeping comes in to change bed sheets weekly, and the bins daily. No food is allowed in your cubicle. You’re responsible for your own laundry, unless you need something dry cleaned, then you tag it, bag it, and leave it for the matron to pick up—she comes by every Wednesday. Mail is held at a central mailroom; it’s your responsibility to report there and collect it at least once a week.

“You’re expected to brush your teeth twice a day, shower daily, and keep your hair clean. I’m sure Missus Bursnell’s already gone over the rest.” Carriveau starts backing away, rushing through her mental checklist. “Bedtime is ten o’clock on school nights, and eleven o’clock on Fridays and Saturdays. Lights out after fifteen minutes.” She checks her watch to confirm the current time. “Now unpack and get ready for bed. I’ll return to say goodnight.”

With that, she leaves.

CHAPTER FOUR

Teeth brushed, belongings put away, nail polish scrubbed off, Rylie sits on the edge of her bed in a pair of thin cotton pajamas, watching a tiny spider crawl across the floor of her cubicle. While all around her the other girls in her dormitory giggle and joke and get themselves ready for bed, she tries earnestly to recall every bit of dialogue exchanged between herself and Carriveau.