Read Online Catherine's Letters by Jean-Philippe Aubourg - Free Book Online
Authors: Jean-Philippe Aubourg
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sex with a woman, and there’s so much I can teach you. And I bet by Wednesday you’re so fed up with work your sex drive needs to be let off the leash for a night. I know mine does.’
‘So what are you suggesting?’
‘We meet every week, here or at my place, even if it is a bit poky. I’ll show you something new, or if there’s something you want to try we give it a shot.’
‘Are you suggesting an affair?’ Despite the illicit overtones, Adrienne found the idea exciting.
‘Sort of. Or you can think of it as a sexual aerobics class. I’m a brilliant instructor!’ They both laughed at the imagery. ‘So I’ll call you,’ said Maria, putting down her plate and reaching for her bomber jacket as she got up. ‘Sorry, but I really do have to go. I’ll call on Tuesday. I’ll have thought of something new to show you by then.’
‘I can’t wait,’ said Adrienne, rising with her. They embraced and kissed, gently but at length, before Maria turned and headed out with one more goodbye thrown over her shoulder.
As the front door closed, Adrienne picked up the plates and carried them to the kitchen. The washing-up could wait till tomorrow. Going back to her bedroom, she opened the writing case and flicked the secret catch. Taking out the next letter, she sank back on the unmade bed and began to read.
Chapter Five
My dearest Connie,
My relationship with Miss Prior having become so strange, I have taken it upon myself to write again, so that I might make sense of these events. I trust you, cousin, to keep my secrets. Do we not, after all, have plenty more between us, some most scandalous?
Today’s events are just such a case in point. My morning lesson with Miss Prior followed its usual pattern. My Greek and Latin were put to the sternest test. I tried my hardest, not feeling disposed toward the bite of the cane today. Miss Prior, however, must have felt disposed toward administering punishment, since her questions were of the hardest quality, such as one might expect to be asked of a Cambridge student or seminary novice. It was, she told me, the best – indeed, the only – way to measure my improvement.
If so, she must have been sorely disappointed in me. By the end of our lesson I had made six grammatical errors and I trembled, my bottom flinching beneath me in anticipation of the rod. Miss Prior told me to stand and step out in front of my desk. I did so, my head bowed and my hands clenched as I awaited the order to turn and bend over my desk. So I was not prepared for what followed.
Opening her own desk, Miss Prior took out a parcel, the one which she had placed such importance on collecting from the village post office some days ago. It was still in its brown paper wrapping, the address label tied to one end. Taking up her pen knife, Miss Prior cut the string. Clearly she knew exactly what the parcel contained.
I watched with fascination and fear as she unwrapped it. It contained a small black object, cylindrical in shape. As she lifted it clear of the paper it seemed to double in size and I realised what I was looking at, as the leather thongs fell away from the handle. Miss Prior now held in her hands a small whip.
She ran the tails, about a dozen in all, through her fingers, while clutching the handle lovingly in her right hand. ‘Do you like it, Catherine?’ She looked at me, but it was not a question which required an answer. ‘It is called a martinet,’ she went on, ‘and the traditional implement of correction in French households. Before I came here, I held a post with a prominent family in Paris. They had two headstrong daughters. At least, they were headstrong before I became their governess. When I returned to England they were the most demure, well behaved girls you could imagine.’ I shuddered at the thought. I could well imagine the methods Miss Prior employed upon them. ‘The head of the household was well pleased with my work and rewarded me handsomely. He also told me if I
‘So what are you suggesting?’
‘We meet every week, here or at my place, even if it is a bit poky. I’ll show you something new, or if there’s something you want to try we give it a shot.’
‘Are you suggesting an affair?’ Despite the illicit overtones, Adrienne found the idea exciting.
‘Sort of. Or you can think of it as a sexual aerobics class. I’m a brilliant instructor!’ They both laughed at the imagery. ‘So I’ll call you,’ said Maria, putting down her plate and reaching for her bomber jacket as she got up. ‘Sorry, but I really do have to go. I’ll call on Tuesday. I’ll have thought of something new to show you by then.’
‘I can’t wait,’ said Adrienne, rising with her. They embraced and kissed, gently but at length, before Maria turned and headed out with one more goodbye thrown over her shoulder.
As the front door closed, Adrienne picked up the plates and carried them to the kitchen. The washing-up could wait till tomorrow. Going back to her bedroom, she opened the writing case and flicked the secret catch. Taking out the next letter, she sank back on the unmade bed and began to read.
Chapter Five
My dearest Connie,
My relationship with Miss Prior having become so strange, I have taken it upon myself to write again, so that I might make sense of these events. I trust you, cousin, to keep my secrets. Do we not, after all, have plenty more between us, some most scandalous?
Today’s events are just such a case in point. My morning lesson with Miss Prior followed its usual pattern. My Greek and Latin were put to the sternest test. I tried my hardest, not feeling disposed toward the bite of the cane today. Miss Prior, however, must have felt disposed toward administering punishment, since her questions were of the hardest quality, such as one might expect to be asked of a Cambridge student or seminary novice. It was, she told me, the best – indeed, the only – way to measure my improvement.
If so, she must have been sorely disappointed in me. By the end of our lesson I had made six grammatical errors and I trembled, my bottom flinching beneath me in anticipation of the rod. Miss Prior told me to stand and step out in front of my desk. I did so, my head bowed and my hands clenched as I awaited the order to turn and bend over my desk. So I was not prepared for what followed.
Opening her own desk, Miss Prior took out a parcel, the one which she had placed such importance on collecting from the village post office some days ago. It was still in its brown paper wrapping, the address label tied to one end. Taking up her pen knife, Miss Prior cut the string. Clearly she knew exactly what the parcel contained.
I watched with fascination and fear as she unwrapped it. It contained a small black object, cylindrical in shape. As she lifted it clear of the paper it seemed to double in size and I realised what I was looking at, as the leather thongs fell away from the handle. Miss Prior now held in her hands a small whip.
She ran the tails, about a dozen in all, through her fingers, while clutching the handle lovingly in her right hand. ‘Do you like it, Catherine?’ She looked at me, but it was not a question which required an answer. ‘It is called a martinet,’ she went on, ‘and the traditional implement of correction in French households. Before I came here, I held a post with a prominent family in Paris. They had two headstrong daughters. At least, they were headstrong before I became their governess. When I returned to England they were the most demure, well behaved girls you could imagine.’ I shuddered at the thought. I could well imagine the methods Miss Prior employed upon them. ‘The head of the household was well pleased with my work and rewarded me handsomely. He also told me if I
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