Schooling Sylvia

Schooling Sylvia
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ISBN:  9781907753442
Author:  Roxane Beaufort
Word Count:  80,392
Format:  eBook

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Devil's ParadiseDevil's Paradise
Fate's VictimFate's Victim
Stranger in VeniceStranger in Venice
Strictly DisciplineStrictly Discipline

Sylvia closed her eyes, horribly humiliated, yet unable to restrain the thrill that warmed her labial lips as they were parted and examined, fondled and teased. 'Please leave me alone,' she begged. 'You have no need to do this. I am a virgin. I swear it.'

Miss Sylvia Parnell, a beautiful heiress, leaves Bath and the Academy for Young Gentlewomen for Regency London. There she resides under the guardianship of her aunt, Lady Rowena.

Sylvia's innocence and wilfulness presents an irresistible challenge to the worldly Rowena. Correction and punishment are routine in this unconventional household, until Sylvia flees, stumbling naively from one frightening adventure and sexual encounter to another...

The coach careered over the rutted road, every jolt vibrating painfully through the slender body of the young woman seated by the window. She clenched her hands in her lap, head lowered, face shadowed by her bonnet.
   Flushing hotly, she was all too aware of the gentleman opposite, a good looking man in a high collared tail coat, exceedingly form fitting breeches and shining black Hessian boots. Her blush deepened as the pain in her buttocks increased, pressed into the upholstery beneath her. It was padded, but even so, nothing could ease those crimson welts.
   What would he think of her, that quiet man who appeared to be absorbed in his book, if he had any idea of the event that had taken place that morning? The heat within her mounted as she visualised him witnessing her humiliation.
   It seemed she was back in that long, comfortably furnished room where pupils, servants and staff had gathered for breakfast. The meal was over, and as she went to leave, mind preoccupied with the journey ahead, her way was blocked by the headmistress, Mrs Dawson.
   'And where do you think you're going, Sylvia Parnell?' she enquired in her quiet, smooth voice, always perfectly controlled.
   'To collect my coat and hand luggage, ma'am,' Sylvia replied, head held at a haughty angle, confident she had nothing to fear now. She was about to embark on the new life that awaited her once she had left The Academy For Young Gentlewomen where she had undergone education for five years.
   'Your part of the dormitory is in a disgraceful muddle. Do you imagine you can walk out of here and have someone else clean up after you? Lady High and Mighty, too superior to soil you hands, I suppose,' Mrs Dawson continued, her tone light, yet with a threatening undertone.
   Her black taffeta skirt rustled as she came closer, staring down at Sylvia with cold eyes. Her face was stern, greying hair confined beneath a snowy white mob-cap that matched the apron fastened below the chatelaine hanging on slender chains from her belt. This was the symbol of her authority, carrying a money purse, scissors and keys to every room.
   'That's not true,' Sylvia protested, despite the terror that was making her shake. 'I've packed my trunk and cleared out the tallboy. I'll strip the bed before I go.'
   'Are you arguing with me?' Mrs Dawson asked, her thin brows drawn down, the two hectic spots of colour appearing on her cheeks betraying her inner turmoil.
   'No, ma'am. Simply telling the truth.'
   'The truth, is it? I think not, girl. You wouldn't know the truth if it upped and bit you,' Mrs Dawson declared and grabbed her by the arm, jerking her around. Then she gave her a hard slap across the face with her open palm.
   Sylvia yelped, her cheek stinging, her fear replaced by raging indignation. Instead of cringing, she shook Mrs Dawson off and stepped back. The watching pupils gasped. No one dared defy the headmistress.
   Mrs Dawson turned pale, her breasts rising and falling beneath her cream lace fichu, then, 'Take off your dress,' she ordered, still using that quiet tone. 'If you refuse, Eliza shall do it for you.'
   Eliza was Mrs Dawson's maid, a raw-boned, ugly creature who resented anyone with a claim to beauty, forever subjecting Sylvia to her spite. She stood by her mistress's side, her small eyes gleaming as they roved over the girl's body, her tongue creeping out from the cave of her mouth to lick her lips in greedy anticipation.
   Aware of all eyes on her, Sylvia reluctantly unbuttoned her high-waisted muslin dress. It dropped down, clinging to her rounded hips till she stepped out of it and kicked it aside. Now she wore nothing but her lace-trimmed chemise and thin lawn petticoat.
   It was chilly and her nipples bunched, red as cherries pressing against the flimsy fabric, embarrassing her by their pert ripeness.
   She crossed her hands over those full breasts to conceal them, but Mrs Dawson would not tolerate this, commanding, 'Put your arms down. Stand straight. Back stiff. That's right. I'll not have my girls slumping.'
   Her eyes narrowed as she examined Sylvia, pacing slowly round her, looking her up and down from toe to crown.
   Clara Dawson was no dowdy schoolmarm, a well-preserved person who appreciated good living and indulged her appetites to the full. Her occupation provided her with ample means. The girls were mostly orphans, but not poor ones. Indeed, most came from the nobility, handed over to the care of godparents or relatives who could not really be bothered with them.
   Mrs Dawson freed them from responsibility for a substantial fee and, in return, assured the girls' guardians that they need not trouble their heads about their wards, need not even see them until they reached eighteen.
   The girls were taught to read and write, embroider, paint watercolours, learn a smattering of French, play the pianoforte and sing prettily. More important still, they were instructed on how to comport themselves so they could net a wealthy suitor when the time came to put them on the marriage market.
   They were smartly dressed, chaperoned at all times, and given plain though nourishing food. Mrs Dawson and her staff were strict and the pupils caned for the slightest misdemeanour. Not that their relatives ever knew this. On their infrequent visits, Mrs Dawson was the very soul of respectability and the girls too scared to complain.
   It did not occur to them to question this harsh treatment. They accepted that they would be whipped and publicly humiliated. Mrs Dawson's indoctrination had been thorough and they fully believed that wilfulness and lack of submission were undesirable qualities in a female and that their future husbands would expect obedience at all times, using the birch if necessary.
   But there was one who rebelled against this, and that was Sylvia. Proud, fiery tempered and hotheaded, she had always presented a challenge which the headmistress had enjoyed meeting. As Sylvia had ripened into womanhood, so her beauty had increased. Mrs Dawson lusted after lovely women, needed to subjugate them, became heated at the sight of their naked helplessness - found satisfaction in so doing.
   Now she propelled Sylvia to the refectory table and pushed her, face down, across it. Eliza leaped forward and seized her wrists, binding them with thick hempen ropes. Then she spread her arms up and over the shiny oak surface, fastening them securely, and rucking Sylvia's petticoat to the waist and beyond.
   Sylvia shivered though her face burned with shame. She could feel the cold air playing over her naked thighs and caressing the rosy hillocks of her buttocks. Further rope was fastened round her ankles and her legs splayed and tethered, displaying the deep amber cleft between, and the plumpness of her pouting pudenda crowned by curly fair floss.
   She was aware of dampness there, and a curious, pleasurable spasm in her loins. She trembled, remembering nights in the dormitory when similar feelings had flooded her inner core at the touch of soft fingers exploring her. Clever little fingers that opened her, dabbled in the honeydew seeping from her vulva and wooed that tiny nub of tissue that crowned her slit, playing with it till she exploded in exquisite pleasure.
   She wanted it now, wriggling against the cold, hard wood, trying to bring pressure to bear on her clitoris and, in that moment, Mrs Dawson brought the cane down with a whistling crack.
   Sylvia yelped and jerked against her bonds, scalding pain shooting through her bared backside, leaving an awful, throbbing sensation. The cane rose and lashed her again - once - twice - thrice. Mrs Dawson, a past master at flogging, handled the rod expertly. No blow fell on the same place twice. She laid on the strokes with cruel accuracy, leaving a half-inch gap between each, the former one already swelling and purpling, the agony of it reaching its crest as the next cut deep.
   Tears ran from Sylvia's eyes and fell to the tabletop. She bit her lower lip till it bled to restrain her moans, twisting and threshing to no avail. All this did was chafe her wrists and ankles, bright red weals appearing, matching the long, livid marks on her bottom - crimson roses blossoming where the cane had seared those fleshy mounds.
   Mrs Dawson left that reddened area and concentrated on the backs of Sylvia's thighs, slashing her from bottom crease to knee. Then, an equally skilled practitioner in the paradox of pain/pleasure, she ran her hands over the stinging flesh. Her fingers were cool, bringing instant relief, and Sylvia hoped against all hope that her ordeal was over.
   Mrs Dawson removed her touch. There was a split second pause and then the cane attacked Sylvia's rump, falling everywhere without cessation, till not an iota of skin remained un-flayed, all a glowing, throbbing scarlet.
   Sylvia could not restrain a sob. Her bladder was uncomfortably full, adding to her distress, but there was no way she intended to void its contents, refusing to add to her embarrassment by this lack of control over her water. She had seen girls do this under the harsh kiss of Mrs Dawson's lash, drenching the table and floor beneath with a stream of urine. Everyone had witnessed it - staring, even laughing.
   Sylvia gritted her teeth and hung on, though every time the rod sliced into her buttocks the pressure on her bladder was almost unendurable. She could feel sticky liquid trickling between her pussy-lips to stain the oak, shamed to know this came from her secret entrance, her pubis scorching hot, echoing the heat radiating from the stripes that seared her derriere.
   Her belly ached, her bladder yearned for release, her clitoris throbbed from the pressure and Mrs Dawson leaned over to whisper in her ear, 'You're ripe and ready. I wish I could be the fortunate man who will penetrate your sweet, juicy, tight little cunt with his hard cock.'
   Sylvia started, unable to believe what she was hearing. The words were unfamiliar and coarse, yet she guessed their meaning. Could this be Mrs Dawson speaking, that correct lady who led a sedate crocodile of pupils to church every Sunday, who entertained the vicar to luncheon and had the town worthies to tea?
   All thought was wiped away by the next onslaught of that thin, whippy cane.
   Sylvia shut her eyes and clenched her teeth, refusing to cry out or wet herself, refusing to let go of her modesty and subject herself to this ultimate humiliation. It was nigh impossible, the torment of her tingling clit, the urging of her bladder very nearly causing disaster as she lay there with spread legs and haunches raised, receiving six more savage blows.
   Unable to make her scream for mercy, Mrs Dawson grew tired of the game and threw the cane aside, gesturing impatiently to Eliza. She stood watching, hands on her hips, as the maid released Sylvia.
   Smothering her groans, she eased herself from the table, gathered up her garments and, hardly able to walk straight with the need to pass water, managed to reach the privy. There, settling gingerly on the mahogany seat, she gasped in relief as the urine gushed from her...

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Rating:  
Schooling Sylvia
Saturday, 20 February 2016  | 

I enjoyed this book very much thank you,


Rating:  
A Must Purchase from Chimera Books
Monday, 11 January 2010  | 

One common theme in English literature is the story of a woman forced into marriage to a man she does not love. This idea is immediately useable in a D/s context; as the woman can be married to an evil man who wishes her bodily harm. 'Teena Thyme' by Jennifer Jane Pope uses this plot in Victorian times, and 'Schooling Sylvia' in the earlier Regency period in English history.

Sylvia Parnell is in boarding school, living a fairly decent existence (plain food and the usual English School beatings) until she is nearly 21 years old. Summoned by her aunt, Lady Rowena, to London (readers should pay attention to the accurate descriptions of primitive sanitation in this novel) Sylvia is appalled to discover that she had been promised in marriage to Lord Theo Aubrey - libertine, gambler, and possible devil worshipper. Fleeing the proposed marriage, she enters the world of the poor lower classes - and is taken advantage of by her captors. Reunited with Lord Aubrey, she enters marriage and turns the table on her husband by becoming a braven sexual hussy - uncontrollable even by him.

This is a good story from Chimera Books that I enjoyed reading. Well written, plotted, and complete with a believable ending. A must purchase, IMHO.


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