Mrs Grainger's Gift 10

By Ritchie Moore

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This work is intended for ADULTS ONLY. It may contain depictions of sexual activity involving minors. If you are not of a legal age in your locality to view such material or if such material does not appeal to you, do not read further, and do not save this story.
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Mrs Grainger’s Gift Part 10

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Monday 1st June

Difficulties of bandages; an adventure in the wood; Rachael again; a domestic scene

The next morning he was wakened by Christina, who smiled teasingly at him as she said “Mrs G thinks those horrid bandages should stay on for a while yet. So you won’t be able to dress properly, will you? No. So up you get and I’ll put you in your smock. You still have it, don’t you?”

He stared up at her and made only token protest as she drew back the covers to let him up. His hands felt fine, but he couldn’t object to this, so sat up and let Christina put him into the smock. “Now off to wash! Come.” She took him to the bathroom, and gave his face a quick sponge, then shook her head as she dismissed any brushing of teeth. Next she looked at him roguishly. “Now a pee, I think.”

He gave a muted squeal as she raised the smock and held his penis over the toilet bowl. He let the urine out, looking at her and seeing her intent on what was happening. “My,” she said, “it’s a funny feeling – I mean feeling the pee course through your cock like that! Finished? Right. Dab it dry. There. To breakfast.”

At the breakfast table they commiserated with his injury and fed him like a baby, which amused them greatly. “We’ll be doing this at lunch too, you realise,”said Abigail. “The bandages should come off in the evening I think. For now, well, you can’t do anything, can you? So off you go and have a nice long walk around the garden. Sit in the sun, such as it is. Perhaps you can take in a class at the academy. But no, you’ve got to open doors and things. Hm, no, that won’t work. Explore the estate a bit. There’s bits you haven’t seen, I’m sure, even round these parts. Go and visit the boys in the bothie. You’ll think of something.”

Christine opened the doors for him and he wandered around the garden for a little, then widened his area and came to the bunkhouse, where he struck up conversation with some boys and men who were sitting outside smoking and arguing about politics. They offered him a cigarette but he couldn’t handle it and so refused. He explained something (but not all) of how he’d injured his hands, and they were sympathetic. “Wait though,” said a grizzled labourer, “how will you manage a piss?”

The others laughed, and Matthew flushed and forbore to confide how the girls had held his penis. “No,” said a boy his own age, “you can just lift that smock thing and let rip. You’re not wearing any pants, are you? You should manage that, even with bandages. But I bet you may have a problem if you need a shite! What about wiping your arse?” This made them laugh louder, and Matthew frowned and had a dreadful picture in his mind. They waved him goodbye with grins, and he went on turning over that picture till he felt hot all over. It was a sunny day, though, and he enjoyed the feel of the sunshine on his bare arms and legs. I wonder, he thought, what it will be like in France, in Provence? The sun should be hotter then, won’t it? Oh, and maybe we can sunbathe. Oh, maybe Catherine and I can sunbathe with nothing on. That’d be nice. God, just looking at her, her bare arms and legs and breasts and bum and her … delta, isn’t it, her delta shaven bare, with the groove of her … her dear cunt….

He realised with a start that this line of thinking had produced an erection, and hoped he wouldn’t meet anyone on the path he was taking through the wood. Here the sun was intermittent, and he was cooler in the shade, and his penis began to lose its tumescence. He stopped to listen to a bird singing away in the treetops, wishing he could identify it, or even the tree. He was a townie, sure enough, and he would bet that the labourers and outside workers back on the estate would laugh at his ignorance of nature. Just as Mrs G, he was sure, laughed at his ignorance of French and sophisticated books – laughed cruelly, mind you. Catherine wouldn’t laugh, though she was incomparably better at French and music and everything. Oh, she was wonderful! Clever and gifted, and – God, beautiful as well! With a wry smile he realised his erection had returned.

As he was entering a little clearing he glimpsed a figure in front of him and stopped, catching his breath to see bare thighs and a girl hiking up her dress and squatting slightly. God, he thought, she’s taking a shit! I have to—. She saw him and his smock out of the corner of her eye and called “Hey, come and help! Can you lift up my dress here, so’s I can shite easy?”

She evidently assumed he was one of the servant girls, and he dithered a bit then went closer. He was about to speak when she repeated “Come on!” and he gulped and held out his hand to lift the dress and hold her round the bare waist.while she dropped a turd. He licked his lips and started to say sorry, but she suddenly noticed the poke-out of his smock, and gasped, flipping up the material to reveal his erection, which she gaped at then grasped with a wondering hand. He flinched and she tightened her hold as she finally looked into his eyes with a great grin on her young face. How old was she? Fourteen maybe? Holding his prick as she took a shit?

They held the ridiculous tableau for a minute, then she let him go and exclaimed with a laugh that he’d helped her finish her shit in fine style, and reached for some docken leaves to clean herself. He meanwhile was aroused mightily by her nakedness and the sight of her shitting, and was excited to near ejaculation. They looked at each other and had to laugh at the situation, being equal in their embarrassment. Then she covered her excrement with leaves and was on the point of going off when he found his voice and asked her who she was.

“I’m Polly White. I live in a cottage on the far side of Ettles wood here. I was gathering berries and got caught short. Thanks for your help. I thought you was a girl from the manor,” she said. “What’s your name?”

“I’m Matthew Raven, I live at Summerton Manor over there—”

“Oh. I heard about that. That’s why you’ve got that smock on.”

He looked at her and bit his lip, then showed her his bandages and stammered “Polly, listen, I’ve got a murderous hard-on. Can I ask you to help me with it?” He blushed as he spoke and looked at the ground. She laughed and showed delight as she came to him and raised his smock again to again seize his member, this time to stroke it and bring it to throbbing excitement. She looked him in the eye as she drew him off, and they smiled at each other in something like a naughty collusion, then he closed his eyes as he reached orgasm and thrust his body to her and groaned in pleasure.

“What happened to your hands, that you can’t toss yourself off, then?”

He explained his disability, and told her about the teasing of the girls, and what the man in the bothie had said.

She laughed. “Well, it’ll be turn about for you, some girl will have to hold your smock up from your arse to let the shite go!” He ruefully agreed, and couldn’t see how he could escape that. “But it’s a bit of a thrill, let me tell you, to have a boy help you shite. You’ll have a girl, lucky thing—”

“Lucky thing!” he exclaimed, “but—”

“Yes, of course,” she said, “she’ll get a thrill of her own, she’ll put her arm round your waist like you did mine, and maybe put a hand to your belly to help – oh, she’ll have fun. And so will you! Anyway, thanks for helping me.”

“Thank you for helping me. With my hard-on.”

“Oh,” she laughed, “you’re very welcome. I must go. Goodbye. Great to have met you!”

Off she went, and he thought about returning to the house, where he knew he’d ultimately take a shit, helped by a girl. He thought he was looking forward to it.

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He sat in the garden and dozed for quite a while, till awoken by Rachael, the gardener’s daughter, who sat down beside him and said “Hello! Did you hurt your hands?”

He blinked and looked at her somewhat blearily and stammered “W-what? Oh, it’s you! My hands? Y-yes, I got burned. They’re all right now, though, I think….”

He remembered how he had felt her up, and flushed. Then he remembered how she’d seen him masturbating, and the flush deepened. Rachael looked at him affably and said “I hurt my foot today, I stepped on a sharp stone. See!” She put her bare foot on the seat between them to show him, and he gulped as her dress rode up her thigh. God! She had no knickers, again, and he got a very good view of her vulva, the lips opened slightly due to her position. He couldn’t help himself from getting just a bit thicker down there, and squirmed uncomfortably while she pushed her foot towards him and the dress rode up higher. She had no shame of course, since he’d already seen her and admired her, so he accepted the situation and held her foot gently (feeling no discomfort in his hands) to look at it. A rather nasty-looking scar was on the sole, and he was immediately sympathetic. “But it’s all right now,” she said cheerfully. “Daddy put something on it and it doesn’t hurt.”

“That’s fine then,” he said, still staring at her pubis. Then he winced and frowned. God, he … had an itch! How? Where’d that come from? Had he picked up a flea or something, in the wood maybe? There was no doubt about it, though, he was itching at his balls, and the more he dwelt on it the more irritating it became. All of a sudden he dropped her foot, and reached involuntarily at his crotch. She looked at him with wide eyes. “What’s the matter?” she asked, with a frown of sympathy. He gasped. “It’s just … a … an itch. Just a … ooh, no….”

She looked at his crotch and edged nearer to him. “Let me do it,” she said breathlessly. “Let me scratch it for you.” He stared at her stupidly, then squirmed as he felt the itch begin to rage just at his testicles. He put his hand to his crotch, and she followed, lifting his smock and shyly fingering his groin. “Is it here?” she asked, as he shivered in shame and opened his mouth to stammer. “Ah, yes, ah, oh God, yes, it’s there….’

She inched closer and began to scratch his perineum, then his testicles, and he sighed with relief, at the same time moving his pelvis, and wondering how the hell he managed to come to this. A twelve-year-old girl was scratching his balls, and he was encouraging her. She had a wide smile on her young face as she brought him relief, and he looked at her in amazement. Then he began to tremble as he realised he was getting aroused. His penis was thickening, and becoming longer, and the girl paused to look at the phenomenon with big eyes. Then she looked up at him and deliberately put her small hands to his awakening penis. He held her gaze as he settled back on the seat and allowed her to stroke him to full erection.

“Oh,” she said contentedly, “this is nice! I wanted to do this. Your cock feels warm and nice, it does. And your balls, isn’t that what you call them? They’re … good to feel.” He looked at her in a kind of daze, and thrust his pelvis closer to her, wondering what he could say to her. What does one say to a young girl stroking one’s balls?

Then he realised he was getting close to ejaculation, and stammered “L-listen, Rachael, I’m going to … spend, you know what that is? It’s coming, I’m coming, soon –”

“Oh,” she said eagerly, “I know, I’ll do it for you. Just wait.” Her hands worked up and down his fiery penis, and he felt himself approaching the limit. “Now, Rachael! I’m coming! I’m—”

He leaned back to let his penis throw the semen into the air, delighting young Rachael, who looked at the exhibition with a pleased grin on her twelve-year-old face. When he was done she looked up into his eyes to tell him how glad she was that she was able to help him with it. He laughed shakily and said “Oh, Rachael, the pleasure was all mine, believe me! And my itch is gone. But let me tell you, if you’re around next time I’ll let you scratch it. You do a good job!” She laughed in glee and ran off, while he took a deep breath and tried to regain some equanimity. What the hell else can happen to me? he wondered.

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At lunchtime the amusing game of feeding Matthew was played, Abigail opining that his hands would maybe be all right by teatime, and maybe not, and that he should be prepared for more babying till nightfall. At which point he’d exchange his smock for his nightshirt, and all would be well. A short time later however he felt the signs of impending defecation, and tried to emit a silent fart. It turned out to be a faint squeak as the gas left his rectum, and the girls, who had been leaving the tearoom, looked at him with rude grins. He coloured and made his way out past them, wondering how he was going to manage. Then he made up his mind and pursued Catherine along the passageway.

“Listen Catherine,” he mumbled, “I – I want to ask you something….”

She stopped and looked at him.

“It’s … oh God, it’s embarrassing … but I have to … take a shit—”

She looked at him in what seemed shock, then smiled, and said “All right. I know what you mean. I was wondering myself. But thank you for asking me.”

His blush deepened as she led him upstairs to the bathroom and stood by him as he paused at the lavatory bowl. “Shall I raise your smock?” she asked simply. He nodded, not trusting himself to speak, and she quickly drew his garment up to his waist. He turned and sat down on the seat, looking up into her sympathetic eyes, and closed his own as he farted, this time loudly, and he found himself wondering about the almost domestic intimacy of the moment. Then the shit started, and he opened his eyes again to find her own on his, with an expression that was hard to identify. Reassurance? Encouragement? Sisterly affection? Clinical objectivity? There was something of all that, and also maybe an overriding pleasure at that very intimacy, that cemented their relationship and finalised their commitment.

Then he was finished, and again he stumbled over asking her to help. “P-please, Catherine, will you …”

“It’s all right, Matthew, I will. I’ll clean your arse for you. As I’m sure you’d clean mine. As you did clean mine that first night. You were gentle and … courteous about it, and I can do no less. Stand up, turn round, stick your bum out.”

As she wiped his bottom she tried to analyse her feelings: a strange mixture of sensuality and matter-of-factness, and she smiled as she applied the paper to his dear arsehole. God, she thought, how we’ve changed in this past while! Each of us was shy and innocent, unsure about the other sex, virgin and reticent. All that modesty – and now look at us!

She turned him round and looked in his face, which had a smile of its own. “Yes,” he said, “I like it, and I did get a bit of a thrill. And you?”

She blushed and nodded. “Matthew, it’s almost as if we’ve been married for years, on the one hand, and on the other, as if we just met and wanted to … play with each other. Anyway, I’m glad you asked me to do this, and not one of the other girls.”

He watched her as she washed her hands, and his smile grew wider. “Of course it had to be you,” he said, “and it’ll be you the next time. The next time I’m incapacitated, I mean. Or whatever.”

She laughed and kissed him, and went off.

The bandages came off at teatime, to his relief and the girls’ disappointment. He was also pleased because he could once more handle the books, and he returned to his task with satisfaction, as well as a good degree of lechery.

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Later that evening he suffered another bath from two giggling girls – Georgina from the kitchen, who was all thumbs and rough through her ineptitude (“Well, I haven’t done this before, you know!”), and Helena, a student he’d seen before in the English class, who thankfully did know what she was doing (though he wondered where she’d learned it), and carefully instructed the other girl in the ins and outs of his body, which somehow managed to be even more embarrassing than usual, even before they induced another erection and ejaculation. They put him to bed in his nightshirt with grins and left him to shudder and think about crying. He hadn’t been at the place for a month, yet, and all these things were happening to him! And how long more was he going to have to endure the looks and the touching?

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Tuesday 2^nd June

Anthropology, cookery, relief in the woods

The anthropology lesson he attended was given by Miss Esther Briggs, a plump brunette in her early thirties, Matthew guessed, from Kent. She was at pains to impress on him and the rest of the class of twelve-year-olds that there was a vast difference between a Kentish man and a man of Kent. “I myself,” she said, “am from the east of the county. The dividing line is supposed to be the River Medway, but it’s actually a bit further east that the division is. Anyway, I’m what they call a Maid of Kent. Where the name comes from is disputed. But it’s one of those old names that the anthropologist finds interesting, as do the scholars of what they call Folklore, who are fascinated by old beliefs and customs, and try to work out their origins.”

She looked round at the class. “The men and maids of Kent have been called ‘Kentish Long-Tails’, and this is another interesting snippet of folk belief from the Middle Ages. It seems that when Thomas á Becket was in Strood, the locals , who sided with the king, Henry II, in the dispute Becket had with him, insulted him by cutting off his horse’s tail. He got furious and cursed them, saying that they’d all be born with tails. But the tradition is older, actually, and goes back to St Augustine, who arrived from Rome to evangelise the West Country in the sixth century. At Cerne Abbas in Dorset they rejected him and demeaned him by sewing fish tails to his coat, so he cursed them in similar fashion. The belief that all Englishmen had tails grew out of this, though of course it was just another insult to taunt perfidious Albion with. Cerne Abbas, by the way, is famous for a representation of a man cut into the chalk hill – the turf is removed, that is, to show the white chalk, and the figure is quite large, showing a man wielding a club. The most interesting thing about it, however, is that he is naked, and the representation of his erect phallus is very clear.”

The class was very interested in this, and one girl asked for a picture, which Miss Briggs was able to supply. It was passed round the class to quite a few giggles, and Matthew was amazed at the teacher’s candour. She went on to tell them that its age was unknown, but that she thought it was prehistoric, that is, it was created thousands of years before, perhaps even before the Celts arrived in the island. This led her to a rather interesting lecture on the basics of anthropology, beginning with another hillside figure, the Long Man of Wilmington in Sussex, which didn’t happen to have a phallus, and the famous White Horse at Uffington, referred to affectionately by Thomas Hardy, which was certainly as old as the Bronze Age. Miss Briggs was keen to tell the class about the White Horse of Kent, on the county flag, which had been adopted in 1605: “gules, a horse rampant argent”, which the Jutes Hengist and Horsa had brought with them when they arrived in 449. Once more Matthew was impressed by the breadth of knowledge of Miss Birkett’s staff, and the enthusiasm which they seemed to bring to their lectures.

In the next hour he attended a Cookery class, which was enjoyable, and he ate some of his own soup, but afterwards didn’t feel like lunch somehow, In fact, he shortly felt the rumblings of an upset bowel, and concluded that he was not fated to be a chef. It was a bit urgent that he sought relief, but didn’t fancy using one of the open toilets, and hurried into the woods, where he quickly took down his trousers and squatted. No-one could see him here, he thought, and turned his mind to other things. Catherine, for instance. He recalled seeing her on the lavatory seat, and then on the little chamber pot, and as he felt his own turds leave his body he whispered “Oh Catherine! Catherine, you having a shit, I wanted to kiss you right there and then, and Christ, wiping your beautiful bum! Feeling your tender skin there, and holding your body, your bare body, and knowing you could feel my cock, my erection! Christ….” The juxtaposition of his thoughts and his shiting brought on a stiffness in his penis, and he kept it while he finished and cast about for something to clean himself with. He didn’t want to hobble with his trousers round his ankles, so he eased them off and walked some feet away, spying a little kiosk nearby, which might have some help. He had seen another on his own side of the wall with some magazines scattered about, and maybe this one was similarly equipped. In it he found an old newspaper with war headlines and quickly tore its pages to wipe himself, muttering still the magic name and so preserving his pleasurable erection.

Then he heard a girl’s voice, and looked about in dismay. His trousers were yards away, and the voice was near. “Say, Sybil, we might find some here, don’t you think?”

“I don’t know, Beth,” said another voice. “Maybe it isn’t the season. Oh!” The speaker, a girl with flaming red hair, about fourteen years old, was staring at the boy in the kiosk. The wooden sides came up to his waist, so she couldn’t see his undress, but he edged closer to the wood to make sure.

“What is it?” the other girl said, and then saw the boy. “Why,” she said with a giggle, “it’s Matthew! It’s the boy I was telling you about, he was playing croquet a couple of days ago, absolutely naked! I saw him out the window.” Her companion looked at him with round eyes.

“What are you doing there?” said the first, with a frown. He didn’t know what to say, and a horrid memory of his library experience came to him. He flushed and was conscious of his erection, but didn’t dare make any movement to give the game away. Beth said with a smile, “We’re looking for mushrooms. We heard that there’s a kind that make you drunk, so we wondered if there were any around here. Do you know?”

He looked at her in wonder. “I’ve heard about that,” he said cautiously, “but I don’t know what they are, the kind, or the shape or whatever. You’d better be careful, if it’s a toadstool you might be poisoned.”

The others looked disappointed. Sybil pursed her lips and said “Oh well, it was just an idea. I wondered whether it would make me drunk like gin does.”

Matthew stared. “You drink gin?”

“Of course,” she said, “when I can get it, naturally. I like the way it makes me feel woozy.”

“Yes,” said Beth, “it’s jolly good, and we’ve had it several times.”

“But how old are you?”

“We’re both fourteen,” said Beth. “We managed to get hold of some of old Bryden’s stuff a while ago.”

His jaw dropped. “You stole some gin? But—“

“Yes,” said Sybil, “and I don’t mind telling you, we got our punishment.”

She scowled, and Beth looked at him philosophically. “Mrs G makes sure that anything illegal is strictly punished,” she said. “And any little thing like being cheeky is jumped on. Let me tell you, Matthew, we live in fear of the switch most of the time. It’s all right,” she said resentfully, “if you’re a swot like Dulcie the head girl, or the teacher can’t be bothered to tire herself out thrashing you, but most of the time you’ve got to look out. It’s no use complaining—”

“Who would we complain to?” asked her friend.

By this time Matthew’s hard-on had wilted somewhat, but he still didn’t move, and was wondering how he could get out of this situation, when Beth, who was still searching the ground, came across his excrement. “Ooh!” she screamed in disgust, “it’s a pile of shite! Who’s been ….” She wheeled on Matthew and a look of distaste screwed up her face. “It’s yours, isn’t it? You were having a shite, and hid in there!” Matthew couldn’t answer, and made vague noises of contrition, but of course the two came into the kiosk to confront him. They yelled when they saw his bare legs, and exclaimed when they noticed the soiled newspaper. “It’s true! You were cleaning your arse, weren’t you?” All he could do was smile weakly at them, and they looked at each other and grinned suddenly.

Beth gazed at him and said “Well now, I suppose you want your trousers back? I see them over there. I bet Mrs G would not be too pleased if you lost them, hey?”

He stared at her in dismay. Surely they weren’t going to make him go back half naked? “Please,” he begged, “I’m sorry for … making a mess, I really am. Do you want me to clean it up, put it away somewhere, bury it?”

“No,”said Sybil with a laugh, “we just want you to show us your cock.”

He stared at her in shock. “Please, you can’t be serious, I— ”

They laughed. “No,” said Beth, “she’s right. I’ve seen it from a distance, Sybil’s never seen it. We want to see it up close. Everyone’s talking about it, d’you know that? All the girls, they want to see it, play with it. Mrs G has said that the girls who get high marks can give you a bath! We’ll never make it, we’re not clever enough—”

“—And they’d not let us anyway, we’re not persona gratas. Is that grammatical? Anyway, if you take your hands away we’ll be able to see for ourselves. Come on. Or … we’ll take your trousers and you can face the wrath of Mrs Grainger, an awful thing to behold!”

He bit his lip and raised his hands to clasp his shoulders. The two girls came close and knelt to peer at the hem of his shirt. “Golly,” said Beth, “that cloth is very fine, nearly transparent! And through it …”

“One can see a beautiful sight. A boy’s cock, sticking out—”

“Jesus! Look at that!” said Beth, as the organ suddenly sprang back to life. Matthew shuddered and squirmed, but bore their remarks stoically, till Beth reached out and removed the slight veil of the shirt from his now erect penis.

Sybil then in turn took the shy organ in her warm hand and felt it quiver at her touch. “Feel it, Beth! It’s … like nothing I’ve ever … Look, you feel his bag here and I’ll stroke him.”

Matthew moaned and said “Please, please, Sybil, Beth, don’t --” His pleas were ignored by the eager girls, and together they brought him to near orgasm.

“Now!” said Beth, “let’s both draw him off!” They continued to stroke his erection, he gasping and blushing and mouthing inarticulate cries, till he yelled a “God!” as he came, and the girls looked at the arc of spunk with shining eyes.

“Thank you, Matthew! Now we haven’t been left out. Your prick is great, your balls, your come—”

“The whole thing,” said Sybil, “is great, a great sight! Thanks for showing us. Now you can have your trousers back.” They went off laughing to each other, while Matthew retrieved his trousers and made himself decent. It wasn’t a cheering thought, that he and his genitals were being discussed all over the school. A girls’ school talking about his cock, for God’s sake! Sighing, he hastily covered up his excrement with leaves and twigs, and made his way back to the house. He lay on his bed and closed his eyes, willing himself to sleep.

He woke in time for tea, and was pleased to see Catherine, who was a bit weary with beating carpets. She smiled at him though and joined in the conversation about the motion pictures they’d seen, especially comedies – Charlie Chaplin, Buster Keaton, Fatty Arbuckle – but the last was still an outcast. “What happened?” asked Georgina. Abigail hastened to enlighten her.

“He gave a party in Hollywood,” she said, “at which a young actress died, or fell ill anyway, and died a bit later. Mr Roscoe was accused of raping her—”

“Ooh! And did he?”

“No,” said Abigail. “She died of natural causes, nothing to do with him. But the poor man was hounded by the yellow press, Hearst and company, and he was tried for manslaughter.”

“I think his motion picture personality didn’t do him any good,” said Norah. “He played some saucy roles, you know. And then folk were jealous of his success, he earned an awful lot of money.”

“Yes, but Buster Keaton hasn’t had such trouble, or Charlie Chaplin, for goodness sake. Why him?”

“As far as I’m concerned,” said Amelia tartly, “he was an ugly fat son of a bitch, and he made me uncomfortable. It’s no wonder he was got at.”

“But the point is, Amelia,” said Abigail, “he was found innocent. Two hung juries, and an acquittal – after which the foreman of the jury made a public apology to him for what he’d been put through. The films he’s made – I expect he won’t make many others – are really good. I think he is or was a brilliant comic actor. It’s a great pity.”

“I think it’s a bad thing, though,” said Jessica, “that we should make fun of someone who’s fat. We do it with that other one, Oliver Hardy, isn’t it? And what about Ben Turpin?”

“Oh God,” said Jennie, “I see what you mean. His crossed eyes are meant to be funny, but it’s really unkind to poke fun at disabilities like that. Cripples and such. I know people do it, but they shouldn’t. So I don’t laugh at Ben Turpin, in fact Amelia’s right, he makes me uncomfortable. Now Charlie Chaplin’s different, though he sometimes acts very … affectedly, maybe. You know what I mean?”

Liza broke in to tell them that Ben Turpin had insured his eyes at Lloyd’s for a million dollars. “In case they ever get uncrossed,” she said, laughing. “He thinks they’re an asset, you see! So don’t feel sorry for him. He’s pleased, so should you be.”

“I can’t be bothered with Mack Sennett and his crazy antics,” said Mabel. “Give me adventure, like Douglas Fairbanks. Did you see ‘The Thief of Baghdad’? I saw it in Heighsham last year. It was good, and the costumes and everything were first-class. They had some amazing special things, like a magic carpet and a flying horse.”

Georgina’s eyes grew big. “A flying horse! Just like the Arabian Nights!”

“Well,” said Jessica, “it would be taken from there, I imagine. But I see what you’re saying, Mabel. And Douglas Fairbanks is so good and athletic….” Her eyes went dreamy, and the others laughed to see her admiration and (probably) longing.

Later that evening the orphans visited Mr Bryden, who was happy to talk about the moving pictures he’d seen and liked, and commented that he hadn’t thought much of these new-fangled things at first.

“I suppose I can say I’m amazed at what they’ve done. Remember, ordinary photographs, tintypes and so on, only came out a little before I was born, though Daguerre had been developing his process for years.. And then as a young man I heard about these experiments to make them move. How ridiculous! But then by God they managed it. Now they’re trying to get them coloured, I mean commercially profitable. I’ve seen one or two, have you? One called ‘Scenes of the Riviera’, quite attractive, and I knew what it was like of course. But they’re very expensive to make. And expensive to run. Think of it, you have to have special projectors fitted in the cinema and so on. Even just tinting the film, as they did with ‘The Birth of a Nation’, is time-consuming and costly, Still, science marches on, and I wouldn’t be surprised if fifty years hence all the motion pictures are in colour. You’ll be around then, Catherine, and I bet you you’ll look back and wonder why you put up with dreary black and white. Have some more tea.”

They parted at the top of the stairs, and Matthew went to his room in a pleasant mood, but lost it after a while and couldn’t console himself by browsing in an old travel book about Marco Polo. He grew increasingly agitated, thinking of what awaited him, and tried to calm himself. By the time two students came for him he was ready and sitting naked, telling himself he had to get used to this, like a habit. But oh God, how many more would there be?

-----------------------------------------------------

Wednesday 3^rd June

Class – Greek

“I’m not going to attempt to summarise Greek culture and civilisation in an hour,” said Miss Huxton, “but there’s little point in talking about those fascinating Greek verbs! So we’ll maybe skim through one or two things, and later we can take them up in more detail. Matthew, you’ll have to visit me in my cottage and we’ll talk. Anyway! Where can we start? With some famous names. Plato, the philosopher, disciple of Socrates, whom the oracle at Delphi said was the wisest of men.” She wrote the names on the blackboard in Greek. “Plato designed a ‘Republic’ which would not have been a very nice place, frankly, to live in. For one thing, he banished poets, for they told feigned stories, which are indeed set up as examples to be followed. But then we look at his other writings and wonder whether he told the truth all the time. Like jesting Pilate, he asked ‘What is Truth?’ ‘How can we be sure of what we know, what is reality anyway?’ Deep questions; but in the dialogues Timaeus and Critias we get the marvellous story of Atlantis, the great beautiful city full of wonders that was destroyed in a night and swallowed up by the sea. So is this itself not a fable, a feigned story? Well, if it’s really true, and a lot of folk think it is, like Ignatius Donnelly, he was within his rights. Whatever the facts, he has given the world a fascinating legend.

“Anyway, he’d probably be woefully put out by the development of the novel later on. You may think that novels are a modern invention, but the Romans had them – there’s a great one, though fragmentary, called the Satyricon, from Nero’s time, and another called The Golden Ass, from the second century, which thankfully is complete. It’s about the adventures of a man turned into an ass by magic, and it contains the wonderful tale of Cupid and Psyche. The Romans got the idea, like much else, from the Greeks, though the best Greek story is later, second century again, a delightful story of two orphans on the isle of Lesbos,” she paused and looked sideways at Eithne, “who become shepherds and fall in love.” Matthew was interested, since that was exactly the situation with him and Catherine. “They’re called Daphnis and Chloe,” she went on, “and it’s an example of the ‘pastoral romance’, of which there are quite a few.”

She paused to write the name on the blackboard.

“But maybe the pride of Greek literature is the drama, with Euripides and Sophocles telling the legends of the early history – Oedipus, for instance. In Greek,” and she looked at the girls, “he’s Oidipos, of course, which means ‘Swell-foot’.” She wrote the name in Greek on the blackboard. “Matthew, you may know that Greek names are routinely rendered in the Latin form, and it’s a convention in Classical Studies, in English anyway. So there’s Oedipus, who saves Thebes from the depredations of the Sphinx, by answering her riddle.”

Jeanette raised her hand. “That’s the one about what it was that walked on all fours in the morning, two at mid-day, and three in the evening?”

“Yes indeed, Jeanette, good,” said the teacher. “And what’s the answer, you others?” Some of the ten or so girls looked puzzled, but most were smug in their knowledge, and Miss Huxton looked at Matthew.

“I know,” he said, “I’m not sure where I saw it but it turns out to be man, because he crawls as a baby, walks on two feet at maturity, and in the evening of his life he uses a stick. It’s a great riddle.”

She flashed him a smile and agreed. “Then he’s made king, because the old king has been killed by some ruffian on the road. He marries Jocasta, the king’s widow, to consolidate his power, and rules the city state well for a bit, but a plague hits them and it turns out that it’s the fault of Oedipus, who has killed the king, who was actually his father, and unwittingly married his own mother. This is the story that Sigmund Freud, the Austrian psychiatrist, has based his Oedipal theory on, which supposes that men are secretly attracted to their mothers. It’s a sort of unconscious incest.”

“But what about women, miss?” asked Eithne, striving to appear objective in her attitude.

“Ah well, Eithne,” smiled Elizabeth, “I’m afraid Freud gives the same name, ‘Oedipus Complex’, to a similar attraction of girls to fathers. His disciple, or rival, I should say, Carl Jung, wants to call it the ‘Electra Complex’ – he coined that about a dozen years ago – after another play by Sophocles, based on another ancient myth, that of Electra, who conspired with her brother Orestes to murder their mother, Clytemnestra, and step-father, Aegisthus, because they as adulterous lovers had killed Clytemnestra’s husband king Agamemnon, the great hero of the Trojan War. And that leads us of course to Homer.”

Matthew was fascinated by all this, and made up his mind to visit the teacher and maybe borrow some books. After the lesson he didn’t have time to talk to her, for she hurried off somewhere, but he gave Eithne a friendly smile, at which she blushed and smiled back. He was pleased he’d made their acquaintance, though it had been embarrassing for them, and he’d have to find ways of getting together.

After lunch he was summoned to the drawing room where Lydia lay at length on a chaise longue like some First Empire lady and eyed him languidly.“How are you getting on with the library? It’ll be a long job, won’t it?”

“Yes, madam,” he said, “but I’m getting into the way of it. And I haven’t found a great many that aren’t listed. Some of the books look to be really valuable. Have you ever had them insured, or even valued?”

She looked at him in astonishment. “Why, no. Not in the time I’ve been here. That’s the sort of thing that only Bryden would know. He’s been here for fifty years.You should ask him. You have visited him in his hidey-hole, haven’t you?”

He wondered in his paranoia if she had been at the keyhole again, but answered “Yes, madam, once or twice. I’ll ask him. But if you did, price them I mean, you’d have some note of it somewhere. Or maybe your solicitor knows—”

“Very likely. I can always ask him. Mr Barry and his father before him have been our solicitors for at least a hundred years. The family, I may tell you, has a long and respected history.” He said nothing, but privately wondered at her mendacity. She had to be aware of the background of the family she’d married into. “Yes,” she continued, “I’ll remember to ask him. Now that you’ve reminded me, I must do something about the disposition of the estate in the event of a sudden demise!” She smiled, “But not for too long, I trust! Come, Matthew,” she added, “tell me: what would you like to be willed from that collection? Some of Zichy’s etchings, perhaps? We have the whole series. I’m sure you’ve looked at them several times, haven’t you? Very erotic, aren’t they? You could enjoy yourself greatly looking at them, and playing with yourself, couldn’t you?”

He blushed and stammered, “M-madam, I, I don’t—”

“Yes you do,” she said with the certainty of a witness. He shivered, and realised that she did indeed have some means of surveillance over her staff. He looked at her guiltily.

“Don’t be so abject, boy, everyone does, at some time in their life, and especially at your age. There’s that good etching by Zichy showing a young fellow at the lavatory, and the title is ‘Gaspillage’ – ‘Waste’! Of course the seed should go to its proper target, as poor Onan found. But adolescents find they can pleasure themselves that way, and keep it up for a long time, I’d say. You of course are being masturbated every night at your bath. You should be pleased about that. Well, what book will you accept?”

“But madam,” he said, “that’s only after you….”

“Die? Yes,” she said gaily, “but then I can give it you now, or when you leave us. Oh yes,” she said, seeing his expression, “you will be leaving us, in the long run. You’re only on loan from Maude Crossley, you know. For as long as I like, I admit, but you will be leaving ultimately. And when you do, you can take a farewell gift with you. Something nice and erotic?”

He shook his head. “Thank you, madam,” he said evenly, “but I’d be better with something else. I admit to you that I’m being … stimulated by those books and pictures, but I’d rather have one of your old travel books, or that wonderful hand-coloured atlas I saw….”

“Right-oh!” she exclaimed. “And for now, carry on with the catalogue. We don’t have much further to go before the holidays, but make the most of it. Off with you.” She dismissed him and took up her pen again. Just a few more things to tidy up, then off to Paris and Raoul. She felt a tingle in her vulva at the thought. Yes, being naked with his lean brown nakedness beside her. She was really looking forward to it, and scratched herself absent-mindedly. Then with an impatient sound she rose and locked the door, then stood in front of the full-length mirror on her wall and, looking with a satisfied smile at herself, undressed slowly, admiring her body and imagining Raoul’s hands going over her. They’d probably use that scented oil he found in Algiers, she thought. Yes, and rub it in all over, and especially just there….

Harriet was a bigboned girl of nineteen with an impish smile that she turned on Matthew as she sized him up. “There he is, Diana,” she said, “in his glory, as they say! Waiting for us, aren’t you, Matthew? And we’re waiting for you. All right, into the bath with you.”

Between them they lifted him into the bath and set about covering his body with soap in a very businesslike way. They were very efficient, and soon had him terribly clean, and he breathed a sigh of relief to think they were finished. But no, of course they had to complete the delightful task by doing his privates again, this time going at him until he surrendered to his reflexes and came in a mighty rush. He was helped into his nightshirt, and Diana, also nineteen and a bit inexperienced, smoothed down the material over his body with grateful hands, saying thankyou for the chance to bath him. She looked at his red face and smiled. “Yes,” she said, “it’s a great privilege, to bath a naked boy like you. You’ve a lovely body. Yes you do, I know you think you’re ordinary, but you’re not. You’re good-looking, not fat, not thin, and well-enough endowed down there.” She put her hand to his crotch, and he wriggled. “Yes, you have a nice cock, just right. Doesn’t he, Harriet?”

The other girl grinned. “Oh yes,” she said, “not too small, like Peter has.” Matthew gasped. “And not too big either, like Gordon the postman.” She looked at the boy with humour. “Matthew, you should never worry about your cock. We all think it’s just right. So get to bed, and thank you!”

So Peter had a small penis, and the postie had one that was too big? But he had one that was just right? All very well for his amour propre, but what did Catherine think? Ah, yes, what did Catherine think of his cock?

===============================================================

Thursday 4th June

Photography

Abigail announced to the gathering at breakfast that a photographer would be coming to take snaps of all the staff. He would have a full day, taking group photographs as well as individual portraits, which those who wanted copies could buy for themselves or their families. Matthew was pleased about that. He’d get three, he thought, for his father, for Martha, and himself. He didn’t think about how he’d pay for them.

Mr Grandison turned out to be a thin man of about fifty, with a straggly beard and a narrow moustache. His eyes were big and bulbous and he tended to stare (or seem to stare) at things and people as if measuring them up for a work of art. He seemed to have an enormous amount of equipment, and took some time in unloading his large car. There was some debate as to where the pictures would be taken, and it was ultimately decided to do a lot of it in the open air, in the garden, it being another nice day. The staff were quickly disposed of and sent about their duties, all save Abigail, who cornered Matthew and Catherine and showed them to Grandison, saying “Mrs Grainger would like special portraits of these two. Can you manage it?”

“Whatever Mrs G wants, she gets,” said the other promptly. “But d’you think we can do that at the end? I’ve got the girls’ classes to do next.”

“Oh, no, that’s quite all right,” said Abigail with a wave of her hand. “We’re talking about sometime after lunch, then? Can I bring them over there about two or so?”

“That should be fine,” he said. “The light will last well into tea-time, I’m sure. Right, miss. See you over there.”

They looked at Abigail uneasily, and Matthew found courage to ask what she wanted. “Oh, nothing particular,” she said, “I just know that Mrs G will want something special from you two, and I’m thinking of how Grandison can use you. I’ve seen some of his work before, and it’s really quite imaginative. Anyway, off you two go. Catherine, get to the kitchen. Mrs
Ponsonby can always use another hand. You,” addressing Matthew rudely, “have got time for an hour in school – today it’s going to be music, so go to Room 25 over the way. I think they’re practising some ghastly stuff from Strauss, or so my cousin Annabel tells me. How you can fit in God only knows. You can play the triangle or something. Go.” She turned abruptly and left them staring after her.

Catherine and Matthew met at the door of the school at two, and Abigail joined them a few minutes later. “Right!” she said briskly, “are you ready for your portraits? Mr Grandison is just finishing with the girls. Let’s look at you. I think when he comes he’ll want to brush your hair and primp you up a little. Ah! Here he is.”

The photographer ambled up and greeted them. “Come inside to the hall,” he said, “where I’ve set up some chairs and props.” They followed him in to the entrance hall and were soon placed on seats to be photographed formally, then sitting side by side on a couch, in an “informal” pose, then standing up, their arms round each other’s shoulders, an “intimate” pose. By this time a small crowd had collected to witness the artist at work, and when he led the trio outside the others followed them. They were soon joined by a half-dozen boys working in the garden. As they stood in the sunny garden he smiled at them, saying “Ah, these two are a really fine pair! No wonder Mrs Grainger wants their pictures! Let’s have more of the same as we’ve done – formal, intimate, yes!” He quickly took another dozen photographs, then, on a prompting from Abigail, said (to their horror) “Now! Some nude pictures! You first, girl.”

Catherine blushed and tried to demur, but a look from Abigail made her start to unbutton her blouse, looking down at the ground. Matthew clenched his teeth and his fists, but with another glare from Abigail he subsided. “I’ve admired your pictures, Mr Grandison,” said Abigail, “and I especially like your nude studies. They’re tasteful and sexy at the same time.”

“Thanks, Miss,” he replied, “it’s nice to hear that. There’s no reason why a nude picture shouldn’t be exciting. Mind you, there’s a difference with that and something that just caters to the lowest, a dirty picture, excuse the term. I try to be in the tradition of the fine portrayers of the nude form, like the Italians for instance…. Oh, she’s ready.”

The girl was standing totally nude, trying to hide herself from the sizeable crowd. Grandison took her in hand and posed her in a variety of attitudes, explaining to Abigail what he was doing: “This approximates the Canova Venus … this is the Venus de Milo, with arms of course, you’ve got to imagine what she’s doing with them … this resembles the Jean-Léon Gérôme picture, ‘Phryne revealed before the Areopagus’, you know the story? They were so overwhelmed by her nude beauty that they acquitted her! … This is the Aphrodite Callipygos, in Naples, or Venus of the Beautiful Buttocks. She’s looking back over her shoulder at her exposed behind. Call it ‘Girl with the Pretty Bum’ if you like!” He laughed, and Abigail laughed with him.

“Yes,” she said, “her bum is nice. But so is the boy’s.”

“Yes!” said Grandison. “Matthew, it’s your turn.” Under the gaze of a fair crowd he stripped off his clothes to stand naked and ashamed and be manipulated into another series of poses, while Grandison continued his running commentary. “Apollo Castelporziano Massimo … this is the Richelieu Apollo, in the Louvre … Canova’s Perseus slaying Medusa … Michelangelo’s David … and this is the Belvedere Apollo.” Matthew shivered and remembered the drawing lesson, and hoped that at least this time he wouldn’t get an erection. His penis was consciously awake, however.

Then the photographer, looking at them both, exclaimed “Oh, how sweet they are together. Let’s have the pair of them kissing – à la Rodin’s great masterpiece, do you know it?” Abigail said no, but she was terribly interested, while the nude pair looked at each other in alarm. Grandison had them in position in no time, and took several pictures from several points of view, exclaiming in delight at the results. Inevitably, the nearness of Catherine’s nakedness and the murmurs from the audience surrounding them brought on a stiffness to Matthew’s penis, and the realisation of his arousal brought about a full erection. The crowd gasped, and Grandison cried “Oh, excellent! A great shot!”

Catherine looked at Matthew and his hard-on in dismay, and the blush that had been on her cheeks deepened. “Oh yes!” Grandison exclaimed. “This is perfect! We’re going to outdo von Gloeden with his fusty old classical photos! Here, boy, let me pose you afresh. Let’s try another Rodin piece, ‘Eternal Springtime’!” He rapidly put Matthew into some very revealing positions, and Catherine too, just as if they were about to consummate love (“Eros and Psyche!”), and even leaning in towards one another, he reaching for her breasts, she reaching down for his testicles. The crowd was applauding all the while – the schoolgirls admiring him, and the gardener boys all eyes for nude Catherine. She knew her vulva was wet, and could see moisture on the tip of Matthew’s erection. Grandison wanted a climax, and knew Mrs Grainger would appreciate his efforts, so after a consultation with Abigail he put the pair face to face, kissing, and pressing their bodies together. The effect was predictable – they were both aroused, and the intimate contact brought on simultaneous reactions – they shuddered and moaned and parted to show the fascinated onlookers their roused organs – Catherine gasping and mouthing “Oh God, oh God! Aagh, aah!” Matthew put his hand to his penis and as soon as he touched it he came violently. The two of them experienced orgasms that shook them to the core, perhaps because the public exhibition increased their arousal, but they could also see each other’s excitement, which increased their own, though they turned away from each other in their own private shame, while the sizeable crowd applauded as Grandison took photo after photo of their ecstasy. When they finished they slumped to the grass and the crowd dispersed, talking among themselves. Abigail congratulated Grandison on his expert manipulation of the pair, and delegated two of the girls to help him get packed up, then went off to tell Mrs G of the day’s events, knowing she’d be congratulated on the outcome.

Catherine and Matthew picked themselves up and dressed slowly, not looking at each other. Each was mightily embarrassed at their reaction to the other’s nudity, though each had an emotion they found hard to identify. Catherine had admired the boy almost from the first sight of his bare body by the window, and found herself wondering what a closer contact would be like. Would he like to be naked with her again? To touch her, maybe press his body to hers? Then they had actually kissed, naked, after the medical exam. And she wanted that again! Oh, why was she thinking like this? She turned away and sighed. Matthew for his part was frank with himself, hoping to be in a position to see the attractive girl all naked again, to touch her, to explore her body and stroke her delicate slit. He didn’t say it to her, but thought to himself that it had been horrid, but it was also magnificent in its way. Some day, he thought, we’ll do this again, by ourselves, for each other, not for Abigail’s vicious pleasure. There has to be a bright side, surely! Oh God, I hope that’s true!

*   *   *

“Abigail,” said Mrs Grainger, “I have to tell you about the arrangements for the holidays.”

“Yes, madam,” said the girl, “are there any changes?”

“A few,” said her employer. “To begin with, I want you and a few others to stay here and look after the place. You’ve done it before, so you can do it again. You are to assist the bailiff Mr Montmorency, and I expect the two of you to be able to handle anything that arises. You may telegraph of course if there’s an emergency. The address this time will be the same one in Paris as last time, and you know the property in Provence.”

“Yes, madam, I’m quite clear on that.”

“The party that goes with me will comprise the two children, Matthew and Catherine, and Amelia and Jennie as maids.” (Children! thought Abigail. Well, they were, weren’t they? Untaught, inexperienced, naïve, innocent!) “Also we’ll be joined on the journey by Mlle Maury, she’ll be going to her home in Nice. If anything of a legal nature turns up that seems difficult to handle, remember the lawyer Mr Barry, and his nice young assistant Jeremy Crowther. Any expense has to be accounted for, naturally, but I trust you and Mr Montmorency to spend wisely. At the same time, you may understand that if need be, no money should be spared. You may have to send something or someone somewhere—don’t ask me what or who, I’m thinking of unforeseen problems. And there’s always the telegraph. And a long-distance telephone of course, at least in Paris. I forget what the Vaulx number is. But Mr M will know.”

“Yes, madam. I follow. May I ask who else will be staying?”

“Oh, naturally, Mrs Ponsonby will be here, to cater for you and any pupils who elect to stay. No more than a dozen, I expect. I know the Bromley girls’ people are in America, and Freda Henderson’s mother is in Oslo, so they’ll be here. Anyway, Miss Simpson will look after the dormitory, and all the usual support staff (albeit a skeleton staff) will be here to keep things sailing till we return. Oh, and Bryden, of course. I keep forgetting about him.”

“Yes, madam,” said Abigail with something of a derisive smile, “we all do, I’m afraid. He’ll keep to himself as he usually does, I suppose.”

“I haven’t heard otherwise. Just let him toddle around as usual and drink his gin. One more thing: the builder, Mr Bonner, will be coming to do some work on the sports arena out there, and he might do some surveying work for the swimming pool I’m thinking of. You should check up on his progress regularly. All right, that’s it, unless something else turns up.”

“Thank you, madam.” Abigail left, casually wondering what the two “children” would get up to without her direction. Her employer, she knew full well, was eager to get back to Paris where (she was sure) a lover was waiting, probably the Raoul Bauvais she was sending letters to. Abigail was convinced her beautiful employer had lovers in each of her holiday areas, Belgium, Florence, though she wondered about a lover (or more) in England itself. While there were a couple of guest bedrooms in the private quarters, she’d never noticed them being used, or even occupied by anyone, male or female. Not until that pair of artists were there, at least. It was just an indication of the opulent habits of the family to have lots of space “just in case”. Still, her mind turned again to the pair of orphans, and she wondered about their supervision in the big city, or even in that little estate in the south; would madam be able to cow them into submission by herself? But then of course she would. Abigail could see they were terrified of her. And while the other two servants were no doubt sympathetic, they knew better than to cross Mrs G, so there was not much help there. Yes, all would go smoothly, just as smooth as Catherine’s bare mount of Venus.

                                                      *               *               *

“All right,” said Abigail, “it’s settled, the mistress is going to France for the holidays and this place will close down, mostly. Everything will be laid out shortly, but for now, it’s going to be Jennie and Amelia, as maids for Mrs G and general dogsbodies, helped by Matthew and Catherine to do extra things. There’ll be a companion on the way, Mlle Maury is travelling with you down to Marseilles I suppose, then to her home in Nice along the coast. You’ll be going to London, maybe have a look at the Empire Exhibition, though it’s not as grand as last year, then by train to Dover, boat to Calais, maybe have some time there, depending on arrival time and so on. Train to Paris, it’s called the Blue Train, very comfortable, then what they call wagon-lits down south. But first you’ll be staying in Paris for a while. There’s lots to do and see. Mrs G wants to go to this exhibition of arts and crafts they’ve got going, maybe take a look at a gallery, attend a concert. Anyway you take the sleeper train south and then it’s by car to the estate at Vaulx. You mustn’t take too much luggage with you. Not that you have any. A book or two, clothes, that sort of thing. You’ll be there till the end of August pretty well, unless something turns up. That’s the plan. All right?”

They looked at her wide-eyed. Of course it was all right. A holiday away from this gloomy place, weeks in the sun, away from Abigail! Matthew looked at Catherine and smiled. They were going to be together. She returned his look and smiled in her turn. Then Jennie, who had reacted with her own signs of pleasure, spoiled the mood by asking “Then I suppose Amelia and I are going to be bathing Matthew all summer?” The boy flushed and grimaced, looking at her with anxiety. Amelia guffawed and said “Oh yes! The dogsbodies have to have something to amuse them!” Abigail smiled cruelly and said “I wouldn’t be surprised, though the mistress is pretty good at ringing changes, and anyway it is a holiday. Supposedly. Anyway, I’ve told you the gist. More information closer to the day. Matthew, I understand your own mistress has given permission, and your family is being notified, so that’s all taken care of. Catherine, you’re on indefinite loan, I understand, so you’re all right. That’s it.”

Lydia sat in the drawing room with a glass of wine to hand, her eyes following the smoke of her cigarette, and her thoughts turned to some of the boys she had known. Rafael, Alessandro, Luigi. How they were all different, but all the same in that one thing! And what about Jean-Baptiste, the randy twelve-year-old, who got her maidenhead when she was thirteen?   Oh, but uncle Bernard was livid with rage. Later she’d worked out that he was hoping to take it himself, and now she was no longer a virgin, it wasn’t the same at all. And the eager twenty year old, and of course the double fuck from the boys in Brussels –Yes, with the extraordinary heightening of her sensations. Raoul might not object to a third party joining in the fun. They’d agreed to be open and free in their liaisons, but another at the same time? We’ll see, come Paris…. But it was exciting. She’d been meaning to do it ever since that first time with Derek and Philip in San Francisco, ten years ago. Ten!

Ah! There was that twinge again. She reached for her aspirin bottle. As she swallowed a couple of pills and washed them down with a mouthful of wine, her mind turned again to the delicious smoothness of Alessandro’s young skin. She’d run her hands all over his body and brought him to full arousal, and then he had done the same to her. His slender fingers (the fingers of a musician, a mandolin player, made to pluck at the strings of her nerves down there, the unutterable spot in her open cunt), his fingers probed and stroked and tickled till she was mouthing a plea to him – Alessandro, caro, fotti me! Then he was sliding his eager prick inside her, then moving, pushing, in and nearly out, then in with gentle force that quickly became a violent impassioned assault on her cunny, their bellies smacking together, their sweat mingling, their breaths panting, their eyes closed in concentration, their lips muttering nonsense and moans, till they separately came. That had been a fuck to remember. And where was the boy now? For a moment she idly wondered about looking him up sometime. He’d only be 23 or so. But maybe not. Not this year. Next year, now! She’d go to the villa in Florence, and look for him. But this year, there was Raoul with his inventive sex games, waiting in Paris. Yes, Paris.

She’d ask Raoul if he had any interesting suggestions about what to do with the orphans. Could they take them to one of those raffish night-clubs that abounded? Her money would certainly gain them entrance, and once there, the management might be interested in seeing some embarrassing action. Oh yes (she smiled), there’s lots could happen there. There was always some nudity in the Café de Vénus, for instance, and total nudity could easily be arranged, there or elsewhere.

==================================================================----------------------------------------------------------------------

Friday 5^th June

The Dinner Party plan

“Yes,” said Jessica, as they were changing sheets, “there’s talk of a dinner party. I do hope not.”

“Why not?” asked Catherine, “won’t it be a nice affair?”

“Lord, girl,” said her companion, “you can’t imagine what it’s like.” The other looked at her questioningly. “Well,” Jessica said, “for one thing we all have to attend, unless we’re having a period, and we all have to wear special uniforms.”

“Yes,” said Catherine, “that should be all right.” Then she thought a second and blurted out, “Oh no, you don’t mean—“

“I don’t know what you’re thinking, Catherine,” said Jessica, “but maybe you can guess. The mistress quite likes to humiliate her staff, you’ve seen that. She also likes to chastise.”

“Oh,” Catherine said, “she showed me some paddles and said I’d be spanked—”

“Spanked? Maybe, but it can get a lot worse. You haven’t done anything outrageous yet, and you’ve escaped with a red face, right? But if you defy her or make a real mistake you’ll be for it. She has a whip, actually, though it hasn’t been used so much, Anyway, think of this: annoy her, or a guest, at this nice dinner party and you will be beaten quite severely, on the bare backside.”

Catherine gulped. “You mean maybe … that the special uniform is designed that way? It’s made with a—”

“Yes, exactly! There’s no back to it, it’s just a glorified apron. You serve the table with an entirely naked backside. I had to do it with everyone else last year. She gives these things every one or two years, for the past eight years or so I gather, inviting her cronies who enjoy that sort of thing.”

“But Jessica, what sort of people would do that? Are they all as cruel as she is? Surely they object to the nudity, and the punishment!”

“No, no, you naïve little thing. That’s exactly why they come. They like seeing us like that, and they expect some punishment to be given. One of the gentlemen called it the art of the Marquis de Sade.”

“Gentlemen! Of course, besides the ladies, if that’s what they are. But oh….”

“What’s the matter?”

“It’s just that I imagine poor Matthew will have to be there too, showing his …”

“Goodness, of course! We’ve all seen him, but this’ll be a new set of admirers. And he’d better not do anything to annoy the madam. Look, last time a girl called Naomi, a very pretty Jewish girl, lovely hair—anyway she managed to spill some wine on a guest. He swore filthily and turned to strike her but Mrs G intervened, and produced the paddles. She made Naomi lean across the table and push her bum in the air, and the man began beating her. It seemed to last a long time but it could only have been five minutes or so. Of course Naomi screamed and cried, but we daren’t move or show sympathy. Her bum was red for days. And you know, the mistress didn’t let her away to recover or lie down – she couldn’t sit down, I’ll tell you—she had to carry on serving the table. That’s the sort of party it is. And poor Naomi left shortly afterwards, I don’t know what happened to her.”

Catherine was appalled. “I don’t know how I’ll be able to bear it! And dear Matthew—“

“Oho! It’s dear Matthew, eh?” said Jessica with a laugh.”I did think you were sweet on him. Listen, Catherine, seriously: I think your boy is made of stern stuff. I think he can take anything Mrs G, or anyone else, throws at him. I’ve played my own part in teasing him, I admit, but he’s come through it well. So far, anyway. God alone knows what’s to come, mind you. And in any case,” she cried with a wave of the hand, “there might not be a party after all!”

The two boys who turned up at the bath-house to assist Catherine in her ablutions (as Abigail phrased it with a sneer) were from the garage, and they tried to complement her by comparing her to a motor car. She didn’t understand all the terms they used, but did appreciate the sleekness of her chassis, and the nice hue of her body, so white and pink, especially when she blushed, and then the colour of her lips, and those other lips, by God! She was real rosy down there. She bit her lip and tried to bear it all with patience, saying to herself that the boys were probably not being nasty, just boys, and the pleased comments were clumsy efforts at compliments. When her orgasm came she reached out to embrace it, and somehow found it in her to thank the young randies for their ministrations. They for their part were very pleased with the whole thing and kissed her farewell, which left her blushing anew.

It was something the same when two students came for Matthew; they were both sixteen, one having got good marks in French and the other in Science, and they proceeded to show their knowledge by saying sweet things in the language of love and naming all the portions of his anatomy they could see. Then they named them again using the vulgar words they both knew, enjoying the freedom to be obscene and jollying him along. When they brought him to moaning orgasm they grinned at each other and hugged, then swiftly dried and dressed him in his nightshirt and put him to bed. “Thank you, Matthew!” they chorused, and left him to his tired thoughts. The whole proceedings didn’t seem to take very long, and maybe the girls were getting into the swing of it, passing on from one set to the other hints on how to deal with this bit and that. Matthew laughed sadly and sighed, rejecting a thought about all the other baths that awaited him. One at a time. One at a time, and live from day to day.

(End of File)