I was, of course, extremely curious as to what they could be talking about.I asked to have Josephine and Marion pointed out to me. Jo was a truly lovely looking eighteen-year-old young woman, a brunette with an hourglass figure.What happened to an innocent virgin sixteen-year-old new to the ways of what in England are called public schools because, of course, they offer only private fee paying education.
The prefects, all seventeen to eighteen-year-olds in their last school years, made no attempt to hide the conversation they were concluding.
"Marion has the legs, you cannot deny she has the legs, but Jo, oh now then, Jo! The heads of all other pupils in the room had dropped but I looked her straight in the eyes.
Synopsis: Interviewed in "Confessions Confidential" on TV last year, the stunningly lovely Melody Smith made veiled reference to events that happened to her when, as a teenager, she transferred to the girls only St Catherines Academy in Scotland to finish her schooling. Melody Smith's Schooldays by Eve Adorer Chapter 1 - My New School If we are only beautiful when we are young, when I was young I was, believe me I was, extremely beautiful. But what you want to hear about, what everybody wants to hear about since my famous, or should that now be infamous, television interview, is the full-uncensored truth of what happened in my final school days.
My face is everywhere and pictures of my face and body, clothed and not, challenge all young women to a competition with me they have absolutely no chance of winning.
"Melody Smith" I responded boldly and confidently, "And I'm not a tart!
" This set off a good deal of chatter among the prefects, which the head-girl listened to whilst blatantly ogling me.
Beyond their reach till their out-of-the-blue windfall from a lottery ticket given them as a gift by me, of all people: the first I had ever bought. Although I had but two years left to the school leaving age of eighteen, it was agreed even by me, that I should seek the best education money could buy a girl, and go to St Catherine's Academy for Girls.
St Cath's", as all who went to or worked there called it had, as well as a reputation for academic excellence, a history to match its distance from my home and its number of pupils. St Catherine's was, more or less, five hundred miles from my home, it was way up in the wilds of Scotland, it was, or at least claimed to be, established five hundred years since its foundation by nuns, and there were normally five hundred girls attending to learn there.
Arriving to live-in there on the afternoon of the day before the first of the new term, I was surprised at how friendly and welcoming the girls who had been there already for some time were to me, as a newcomer, as we all stood around in the assembly hall waiting to be formally sorted into our year-groups classes and dormitories.
But I could not help hearing conversation around me in which the word "slag" (meaning, I supposed, a whore - a hooker) kept recurring.
She smiled at me and her pretty face lit up like all heaven. Then, suddenly she stopped talking and a general silence fell over the throng. With misplaced arrogance, I told myself I was frightened of nobody.