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School of Discipline Story 3
Victorian BDSM Erotica
This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2017 Anna Austin
Written by Anna Austin
~~ All characters in this book are 18 or over. ~~
It was only my first night at Saint Severine's School for Turbulent Girls, and I was already planning my escape.
Frankly, I was still furious that my mother and father had sent me here in the first place. The whole thing was a jolly rotten trick, that was for certain. They said that I was unruly and unladylike, and that I need firm discipline. They said that if I didn't change my ways, I would never find a husband and that I would end up a old maid. They told me that the way I had behaved towards the young gentlemen who had come to court me had been uncalled for, disgusting and a disgrace to my family. The cheek of it!
Very well, I admit that when that fat little toad Lord Smorley had come round to call I had emptied a chamber-pot onto his head from the upstairs window. But the odious little cretin deserved it. On the first occasion he had come calling he had taken me for a walk in the garden, and 'accidentally on purpose' brushed his hand against my bottom. That had earned him a firm slap across the face, but then the worm had the gall to come calling again. Well, he got what he deserved, and it was damned funny besides, seeing how red with fury he turned with piss dripping through his hair and onto his neatly tailored suit. I didn't regret a thing.
Then there had been the Honorable Arthur Wedgewood. Good God, he was probably the most stupid man I had ever met in my life. Perfectly handsome of course, and with impeccable manners. But not a single thought of any interest had ever bothered his tiny mind. Trying to engage him in conversation was like talking to a block of wood. Only less interesting.
Anyway, he had got off lightly. I had simply told him to his face that I could never marry a man who was a first-class cretin. This was grossly offensive, according to my parents. Hypocrites! When I was a child hadn't they always told me that honesty was a virtue?
But it was the incident with Captain Ramsey Doyle that was the straw that broke the camel's back and prompted my exile. He was persistent, I'll give him that. Seven times he came calling to press his suit. And seven times he bored me with endless stories of his 'exploits' when he was posted with the Royal Dragoons in India. Not that he'd seen any fighting. All the action took place on the polo field.
I had tried to tell him that I had no interest in horses, or polo, or what hilarious comment Major Such-and-Such had made to Colonel Whatever over a gin and tonic after the match. But he was the sort of man with whom it was impossible to get a word in edgeways. So, on the occasion of his eight visit, just as he was describing yet another bloody polo match, I had picked up the heavy wrought-iron poker from the fireplace, and smacked him over the head with it.
Well, what a fuss! You'd have thought that'd I'd murdered the man! Alright, there was quite a lot of blood, and he was unconscious for quite a long time. But he woke up eventually, and there was no lasting damage.
As I told my father, far worse injuries are sustained in polo matches.
I had thought this rather witty. But my dear papa had not. The next day, he had called me into his study, and told me my fate.