Mrs Grainger's Gift 21

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 XXI

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Friday 3^rd July

Paris

Paris! The romantic city! The hotbed of students’ rebellion and political intrigue! Of art and music and dirty postcards!

Justine came to the apartment just as they were finishing breakfast, and helped with the washing up. She hadn’t met Catherine before, and so was introduced, regarding the girl with a comradely expression, knowing that she was another contender for Matthew’s attentions. Raoul Bauvais came down to tell them that Amelia and Jennie were expected to look after Lydia (and him, bien sur), while the orphans were shown around by Mlle Maury, at whom he beamed and nodded his head. Oh no, thought Catherine, I bet he fancies her! What’ll Mrs G say?

The teacher, for her part, was not slow in taking stock of the handsome poet, and smiled in what Matthew thought was an embarrassing flirty manner. But then they were off, bound, they were told, for a little walk to get their feet, so to speak, to enjoy the scenery, have a coffee at one of the innumerable cafés that dotted the place, listen to a street musician, and see some of the sights – apart, that was, from the Eiffel Tower itself, which they’d see when they went to the Exposition.

“What is it?” asked Catherine. “The exhibition, I mean. I’ve heard talk about it, is it so big or important? What are they showing, what are they—”

“Patience! Ma foi, you will see, you will see. I’ll tell you all about it, and other things, when we are in the café. Ah, look, here is one. It looks very comfortable, typical! Yes, you see many such as these all over Paris. There is a definite ‘café society’, one might say, those who frequent the cafés, who love to sit and drink coffee, or wine, or other things, and smoke and discuss the affairs of state and their lovers. Here, sit down, and relax.”

A sad-looking man with a black moustache and a long spotless apron came up and Justine had a brisk conversation with him. He looked brightly at the children, and said slowly “Good … day, you English! Bienvenue, ah, well come to Paris!” They smiled and made agreeable noises, and he bustled off to bring their drinks.

Justine produced cigarettes and offered them to the children. They declined, and she lit her own. Waving the spent match, she looked around and said “Well, now! I’ve got a map here, it will show you where we are, and where we’re going. I’ve marked on it several places of interest, for instance Notre Dame, the old cathedral on the island in the middle of the Seine, the basilica of Sacre-Coeur, which is terribly new in comparison, but really beautiful, and so forth. See.” She produced a sizeable map, and they pored over it for a while, raising their heads when the coffee arrived.

“Now,” she said, “the exposition. The full title of it is L'Exposition internationale des arts décoratifs et industriels moderns, which means ‘The International Exposition of Modern Decorative and Industrial Arts.’ It’s really an opportunity for all the avant-garde, the designers and inventors and architects who are in the van, as they say, of developments, to come together and show their ideas to the world. It began in April, and it runs till October. We won’t really have much time to see all of it, it’s quite large, lots of pavilions from many countries, but we’ll sample it. Not today though. I just want to … acclimatise you to the ambience, the atmosphere, of Paris. Ah, here’s the croissants. Eat up. This is regular Paris fare. Let us plan our excursions.”

Luncheon at Les Deux Magots

Matthew looked up at the two Chinese figures and furrowed his brow. “What are they, mandarins, maybe?”

“Why yes,” Justine said, “these are the two magots that give their name to the place. The word really means a seated grotesque figurine, usually of ceramic ware, and it originally meant a monkey, like those down there in Gibraltar, the macaques. They were called that from an old French word magog, which means ‘deformed creature’ – it’s supposedly a sort of pejorative name from the nasty Magog people in the Bible, whose king Gog wanted to destroy Jerusalem.

These figures are all that remain of the original shop, which was a silk emporium, you see the connection? But in time it became an eating and drinking place. It’s about forty years old, it’s not the oldest place in town, but one of the more famous, along with La Flore near here. Famous people have walked through that door. The poets, for instance Verlaine, his lover Rimbaud, Mallarmé; right now it’s a favourite haunt of the surrealists, though maybe not at this time of day.”

“Who are they?”

“Well, Mathieu, you won’t know the names -- André Breton, Louis Aragon, Robert Desnos, Antonin Artaud, Paul Eluard …”

She looked round at the red moleskin couches, the mahogany tables, and smiled as she imagined the intellectual discussions taking place. They were there for lunch, fortified with the delicious hot chocolate the place was known for, and the children were fascinated by it all.

“The poets I spoke of first were the symbolists, looking for symbols and signs throughout nature and the world. You might say they looked under the reality that surrounds us. They developed I think out of Charles Baudelaire, writing about seventy years ago, who has a remarkable poem about the unity of sensations, called Correspondences . He says … listen to his language!

Comme de longs échos qui de loin se confondent
Dans une ténébreuse et profonde unité,
Vaste comme la nuit et comme la clarté,
Les parfums, les couleurs et les sons se répondent. ”

The others drank in the poetry with appreciative smiles, but of course they didn’t quite get the meaning. She translated: “It means, hmm, ‘Like long echoes which mingle afar in a shadowy and deep unity, vast as the night and as brightness, perfumes, colours and sounds correspond.’ Oh Lord, it is difficult. Clarté can mean ‘clarity’, the English word borrowed from French, ‘splendour’, ‘limpidity’, oh, several things. And these things, scents, colours, sounds, all answer to each other. All is connected, all of a piece. Do you understand?”

“Oh yes,” said Matthew, “I see what he’s saying, and it makes sense. So he started this movement?”

“You may say so, Matthew, he’s the ancestor. Before him, though, maybe I should mention Gérard de Nerval, who has a strange delightful poem called ‘Vers Dorés’, ‘Golden Verses’, where he tells us that ‘Everything is sentient’. What?”

She stopped when she saw Matthew’s lips open. He smiled and said “It’s just that I remember William Blake saying ‘Everything that lives is holy’.”

“Hah! Yes. Anyhow, Verlaine and the others, they kept up the motion. These days however their descendants, who gather here, are the Surrealists. They have looked ‘above reality’, you might say, and found some very amazing things. They are also a bit playful, like their predecessors the Cubists. Marcel Duchamps is notorious for putting a urinal into an exhibition titled ‘Fountain’.”

The children laughed. “But,” she continued, “the playfulness, the anarchy even, goes back to the movement, call it a protest against stuffiness and mediocrity, that started in Switzerland during the war, called Dada.”

Matthew asked “Anything to do with ‘Daddy’?”

Justine laughed. “It is actually a sort of nonsense word, a silly name for a seriously silly movement. It’s a child’s word for a rocking-horse. It was accepted as the name for an attack on smug complacency in the arts, and gathered force. It developed I think also, simultaneously, in New York. It’s in German too, such as Kurt Schwitters, who has a great poem called Anna Blume. Blume means ‘flower’.”

“How does it go?” asked Catherine.

“Let’s see. I can’t recall all of it, but here’s a sample. I’ll give you the German and translate.”

She looked up in the air and with an amused look to her quoted a few lines.

“Anna Blume, Anna, A----N----N----A!
Ich träufle Deinen Namen.
Dein Name tropft wie weiches Rindertalg.
Weißt Du es Anna, weißt Du es schon?
Man kann Dich auch von hinten lesen.
Und Du, Du Herrlichste von allen,
Du bist von hinten, wie von vorne:
A----N----N----A.”

She paused, thinking.

“And that means, let me see—

Anna Flower, Anna, A – N – N – A!

I trickle your name.

Your name drips like soft tallow.

Do you know it, Anna, do you know it already?

You can be read from behind, too.

And you, you the most glorious of all,

You are from behind as you are from in front,

A – N – N – A.”

The children looked at her with grins, Matthew saying that it had a sort of meaningfulness to it, but for a love poem it lacked something. Justine smiled and had to agree, though she told them it was a famous poem (“if you call it a poem, mind”) that had brought the Hannover writer instant fame.

“So that was Dada. But it seems immediately to have begot this Surrealism, and I suppose there’s no end to the proliferation of different schools, some sensible, some facetious, and it also depends on where one meets. Les deux magots is the haunt of Surrealism, and other places have their own rival schools of thought. And I suppose we can call them all species of Modernism, which can include all sorts of things. Drink your chocolate.”

A while later Matthew’s eyes were drawn to a thirtyish man with a hawk-like face and brooding eyes that were fixed on his. He felt uncomfortable and looked down at his cup.

“Justine,” he muttered, “do you see that chap over there by the window, in a black overcoat?”

She glanced over and said idly “Yes?”

“He’s looking at me,” said the boy nervously, “as if I’ve insulted him or something.”

“Hmm,” she said, “wait a minute.”

She summoned a waiter in an impeccable black suit and white apron, and after a brief exchange nodded and dismissed him. “Don’t be upset, Mathieu,” she said, “he’s just one of those surrealists. I know of him, though I’ve never seen him. His name is Antonin Artaud, an up-and-coming writer and stage designer. And I don’t think he’s looking at you. He’s probably looking through you. So don’t worry. Still, we should be going. Let’s take a stroll in the Jardin du Luxembourg. It’s really pretty.”

On the way out she paused at the man’s table and had a quick conversation in French , evidently telling him about the children. The surrealist look at her with lacklustre eyes, then turned his gaze upon Matthew, peering at him as if in lust, then at Catherine, in a hungry sort of attraction..

“Ha!” he exclaimed, “it is the apostle, and the queen! How to honour them, without the inspiration of opium? They must have a memorial, a testament, a design for Limbo, for a play that will open the eyes, that will gush with jets of blood, a massacre of minds, a holocaust of ideas that will stain the universe! Well, perhaps thus—” He grabbed a napkin and rapidly drew a design on it, added a few words and the date, and signed with a flourish. “Here,” he said, thrusting the paper at Justine, “here, mademoiselle, your children may like a brief view of the future cruelties of Hell, the setting for a pageant of unknown darknesses, of silent screams, of deafening muteness. Take it and talk about it in your beds, in your sleep, in your dreams….”

She took the napkin, looking at him doubtfully, then turned to usher them out. They thought it polite to nod to the odd fellow, but he shut his eyes and frowned as if with a migraine headache, and turned away.

Outside, Justine held the paper out to Matthew, saying he might like to have it as a souvenir.

“What was that?” asked Matthew. “You asked for his autograph? And he gave us one! That’s fine, though I don’t know if we’ll keep it.”

“Oh no, Matthew! Please, I think he was being nice to us, and he didn’t look at all well. He sounded a bit mad actually, but I’m sure he’s not….”

“All right, love, we’ll keep it and frame it maybe, but where it’ll go I can’t imagine. It’s a real memento of our visit, though, from a real Surrealist! Not every tourist gets anything like that! He did seem a bit … out of it, though. What did he say about opium?”

“I imagine,” she said, “he gets inspiration from opium, as Coleridge did, or maybe just comfort. He didn’t look well at all, you’re right. It was good of him to give you that, two impertinent English children, and for all I know it’ll be valuable some day.”

Some day….

They were hauled away from the bouquinistes who showed their wares on stands at the sides of the Seine, and shown the Ile de la Cité in the middle of the river, bearing the old cathedral of Notre Dame de Paris.

As Matthew snapped a photograph Catherine looked up at the imposing façade and said “It’s just as I imagined it, somehow! Victor Hugo describes it so well….”

“Ah,” said Justine, “you have read the novel? But did you see a film a couple of years ago? With Lon Chaney?”

“I saw it,” said Matthew, “and I was quite struck by it. Chaney looked horrible, and very lifelike, if you know what I mean. And the setting was impressive. It must have been some effort to build the set, a huge building, with the cornices or whatever, that the hunchback could climb down and up….”

“Well, there is the real thing,” said Justine. “Of course, it isn’t quite the same as it looked in the fifteenth century. The spire, for instance, wasn’t there, nor the gargoyles, the chimeras, I think. They were added when it was restored last century. Hugo, you know, wrote the novel as a sort of reminder of our heritage, a petition, a plea to the public to refurbish the cathedral. And many other old buildings. Before this, it had fallen into decay. During the Revolution, of course, it was damaged, though the two great rose windows were saved. But I think it was used as a storehouse.”

“That reminds me,” said Catherine, “of the Roundheads using St Paul’s as a barracks, and stabling their horses in the nave.”

Justine laughed. “Yes, that’s the same sort of thing. But let’s go in. By the way, I heard that there’s going to be a film out soon also with Mr Chaney, another French novel, by Gaston Leroux, called The Phantom of the Opera. I hope it comes to Heighsham before too long.”

“What’s that about?”

“It’s another sort of love story. Oh good heavens, Mathieu, I’ll tell you some other time. For now, let’s enjoy the old cathedral.”

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They admired the work in progress of a whole lot of painters and sketchers in Montmartre, and were pleased to be made the subject of a couple of drawings by two artists who vied for the privilege of presenting their work to the flattered couple, who were chosen because of their youth and beauty, as one of the artists said, and the other concurred. “It is a great pleasure,” he said, “to have as a subject two young people of such beauty as yours. Madame, I tell you, I want no payment for my poor work. I cannot capture the essence, the pure … brightness, of these two. No, I give my piece to them for nothing but a smile.”

“And a kiss, perhaps!” said the other, and the two children were embraced by the artists, Justine laughing at the scene, while the subjects blushed and rewarded their admirers with their smiles.

“I don’t know those artists,” said Justine, “but they could be well-known. Who are they? Let’s see … Jean Hélion, Marcel Corniche. They’re both very young, about twenty…. Those pictures, which are not so indifferent, could well be worth something in a few years! Keep them!”

In a few years, thought Catherine, a few years! Oh, I hope we’ll be together still, and have a lot more to enjoy!

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Saturday 4^th July

A bath for Matthew, like Telemachus

“Ah, Raoul, I’m glad you’ve picked up La Nouvelle Revue Francaise. What’s in it?”

“There’s a story serialised, it began in March, called The Fake Money Men, by André Gide.”

She wrinkled her nose. “What’s that in French?”

“Les Faux-monnayeurs. Didn’t I translate it right?”

“Ah, no, chéri, it’d be The Coiners, I think, in English. Or Counterfeiters, perhaps.”

“Ah, yes, that sounds good. Anyway, it’s quite interesting, very innovative – it’s really a very new style for the novel. Complicated, intricate, and I think you’ll like it. Though you didn’t like Ulysses, did you? So, as for who’s around right now, I don’t know, chérie. Those acquaintances of yours are all away, I fear. The two ladies are at their favourite hotel over there, the good-looking American has taken his red-haired wife with a pack of others to Pamplona, to see the bulls, and your painter has taken his place at Antibes staying with your rich American friends Gerald and Sara Murphy …. So perhaps we will settle for amusements and films. Yes! There is a moving picture just come out, in April, called La fille de l’eau, supposed to be good, and another at the same cinema is the one from last year, called Paris qui dort. A strangely poetical film.”

“Oh, you’ve seen it?”

“But yes, and I enjoyed it. It is almost surrealistic, whatever that means, in its picture of—no, no, you must see it yourself. I will be interested in hearing what your children think of it.”

“Fine. I also want to look at the galleries….”

“Ah, yes, I think you will want to see Max Ernst’s new studio on the Rue Tourlaque. You might want to pick up a collage or two, hmm?”

“Yes, we’ll take a look at them anyway. So the town isn’t entirely bereft. What about my other American?”

“Ah, you mean that older married one, with the crazy wife? I think I saw him in Harry’s Bar the other week. He drinks, my God, he drinks! The pair of them! Their antics give Americans a bad name, truly. But he writes. Quite well, as far as I can follow the writing. I understand he has a new story out, he’s been writing it for a year. I do think he has some talent, for an American….”

“But you don’t much like the other, do you? Did you see his story, Indian Camp, in the Transatlantic? Very direct, very simple, that’s his style, and somehow mysterious and dark. His character says he’ll never die. But then, he’s a child. The reader has to smile sardonically. Anyway, just be patient. I really believe neither has reached his true level yet, though Scott’s last story was well crafted, I thought. His short stories, too, I thought they were pretty good, about the Jazz Age…. His new book, well we’ll see. I’ll have to get a copy. I should ask Sylvia Beach. What’s it called?”

“The Great Gatsby. It almost reminds me of Le grand Meaulnes!”

“Now there’s a book that’s hard to follow! I wonder if he got the idea from Alain-Fournier? Anyhow, if he’s around we can ask him over.”

“Certainly, my dear. And we’ll try to have a good time at the theatre, translating, I suppose, the intertitles for Catherine and Mathieu?”

“Yes, Raoul. They may have interesting things to say about those films. I think they are intelligent, after all, however inexperienced in life they are.”

Raoul gave Lydia to understand that he liked the look of Catherine, and made noises about how nice it would be for the man who took her maidenhead. They could speak in French in front of the others without being understood too well, and so were able to carry on a private conversation.

“Oh no, Raoul, she’s lost her maidenhead already, to a pony on a farm.”

“What? Oh, I see. That makes it easier, of course. No squawking or mess. – She has nice tits. What did Chevalier say? …

Elle avait des tout petits petons, Valentine, Valentine,

Elle avait des tout petits tétons que je tâtais â tâtons,

–Ton ton tontaine,

Elle avait un tout petit menton, Valentine, Valentine,

Outre ses petits petons, ses petits tétons, son petit menton,

Elle était frisée comme un mouton.”

He sang the saucy lyrics, and the four young people looked at him in amazement.

“– And what about the rest, frizzy, like a sheep? Like a lamb, maybe?”

“ – No, Raoul, I’m afraid she’s been shaved. Or sheared! All of it down there, such as it was. It was very entertaining. You would have laughed to see the barber’s boy, who was I think about fourteen, soaping her pubis and then her arse, and when it was done young Matthew here was told to smooth ointment on to her. He was as red as she was. Delicious! So that’s it, she’s all bare. You like that, don’t you?”

“ – Yes, my dear, and why don’t you do it? Your pubic hair is fine, don’t misunderstand me.”

‘ – Oh, be quiet, Raoul. The main thing is, if you’re thinking of taking her, think again. I’m not willing for her to be violated yet. Sometime, and probably in public, but not yet. But listen, dear: There’s no reason why you can’t see her naked, to admire her bare pubis, touch her even—! Yes! In England I started baths for her, and she’ll be due for one now. Overdue. And I mean a public bath, helped by a man. Why not? Listen: we’ll have her bathe in the big tub next door. You and I have enjoyed ourselves in there, and now it’s her turn. You can wash her all over.”

“—All over? All over, from head to toe? And the rest, her special parts perhaps? Even though they’re not curled like a lamb?”

“– Ah, Raoul! Of course. Make sure her behind is clean, make sure her puss is clean, put your fingers inside her, make her come to orgasm. Yes! And then maybe she can do the same for you! Listen: today it’s Matthew’s bath, but tomorrow it can be hers.”

“– Ah, my love, yes, thank you. I look forward to it!”

The others looked each other, wondering what the adults were plotting, and Matthew shrugged. He was sure it wasn’t altogether innocent, but what could they do?

“Well,” said Mrs G, “today is the American Independence Day, and we’re going to a little party tonight at the American embassy. You folks can do as you please, but the main thing for you, Matthew, is a bath.” He groaned. “Yes,” she said brightly, “and the girls will help you of course. It doesn’t matter what time you do it, as long as it’s done. But it’d be better if we can witness it, so I’m suggesting the mid-afternoon. Till then, you can see some more sights. Meanwhile, M. Bauvais and I are going to attend an auction viewing, and we’ll be attending the sale itself on Tuesday next. All right? Fine.”

They got back to the apartment by half past two, and Matthew braced himself for another attack on his privates. Amelia and Jennie were predictably pleased about it, and as they ran the bath they chattered on about how they’d enjoyed their first time shortly after the lucky boy had come to Summerton two months before.

“We’ve been thinking about it ever since,” said Jennie. “Haven’t we, ’Melia? The other girls have been talking about it of course – we talk about it all the time, don’t we, Catherine?”

The other girl blushed and muttered “Yes, you do. I think it’s shameful how they describe what they’ve done, in great detail—”

“Yes,” said Amelia with a smile, “and don’t tell me you aren’t interested as well! I’ve watched you, when the girls are describing it. You pretend to be shocked, you pretend to be not interested, but you’re really hanging on to every word. Your eyes are bright, your tongue pokes out your lips, you seem to be repeating what you hear with – relish, somehow. Yes, she does, Matthew! She’s interested right enough. Catherine! You haven’t had your turn yet. Now perhaps is the time. What say, Jennie?”

Her colleague grinned and nodded. “It’s only fair. Then you won’t have to be embarrassed by us talking about it. Reminiscing about the feel of his ballocks, for instance, the nice knob under his foreskin, how hot it seems to get!”

Matthew stood up. “Listen, girls, please! It’s embarrassing me! You shouldn’t—”

“Oh, shut up, Matthew, you pious prig! I bet you like it when we’re washing you. You squirm, yes, but in your heart (or somewhere else) you’re pleased to have the attention, you’re pleased to have the hands! Aren’t you?” He subsided and bit his lip.

Just then Mrs Grainger walked in to see what was going on, and Jennie said “Oh, Mrs G! We’re suggesting Catherine helps us in the chore.”

“Though it’s not really a chore,” said Amelia.

“Oh yes! Of course. Do that, Catherine. I do believe you’ve been neglected up till now. You must have felt out of it. But now we can redress that. You’d like to bath Matthew, wouldn’t you? Tell the truth.”

Catherine’s blush seemed to deepen, and she cast about for an answer, then threw caution to the winds and stammered “Y-yes! I—I’d like to….”

Mrs G smiled and said “Catherine. Look at Matthew and repeat after me, ‘I want to wash you all over’.”

The girl gave something like a whimper and repeated the words.

“‘I want to wash your body.’”

“I—I—want to—to wash your body.”

“Look him in the eyes! ‘I want to put my hands to your arse.’” There was a pause.

“I, I want to put my … hands to your … arse.”

Mrs G looked at Matthew with a sardonic smirk. “‘I want to hold your ballocks in my hands.’”

Catherine sighed, and said “I, I want to hold your … ballocks … in my hands.”

Matthew had had enough. “Stop it right there. Mrs G, don’t tease Catherine like that. It isn’t right—”

“Be quiet, you silly boy! I bet I’m just voicing her thoughts. But anyway, you’ll be bathed by all three girls. They can divide the ‘chore’ between them. But actually you should try taking turns, one after the other. See how that works.”

She left them, and Jennie turned off the taps. “Right Matthew. Just stand there, we’ll do all the work” She started undoing his shirt buttons, and Matthew gritted his teeth. “Catherine! Undo his other sleeve.”

She moved to obey, knowing that she couldn’t escape. But maybe she should try to enjoy this? After all, she’d imagined doing it so often. The shirt came over his head, the trousers to the floor, the underpants – well, Catherine drew them down with something like a sob, baring her lover’s prick to the laughing eyes of others. They hadn’t seen his privates for a while, and so were quite pleased to renew their admiration. Matthew stared at them, challenging them to make remarks about him or Catherine, who was looking at his organ with a wistful sort of half-smile. For a moment they stood thus, then Amelia broke the spell. “Into the tub!”

She nodded to Catherine, who put her hands to that dear body and helped to instal him in the bath. Then Jennie took the soap. “My go first,” she cried. The others stood back to watch as the young girl lathered the boy’s bare shoulders. He bore this with a stoic passivity, willing his body not to react to those questing fingers as they passed over his arms, his armpits, his back, his belly….

It was different from her previous bathing, it was different from all of the baths given by the randy girls at the school and elsewhere, because this time Catherine was there, looking on as Jennie ran her hands over the curves of his arse and found (again) the naughty hole in the midst. Matthew was resolved however not to allow his traitor body any chance of yielding to the bawdy fingers and react with an erection, let alone an emission of his seed. It was difficult, by God, but he lasted out her ministrations, and Jennie ultimately realised this and stopped in resignation, giving her place to Amelia, who put on an expression of superior ability and went at the task with grinning determination.

This time she tried an overall sensuous massage, insinuating her soapy hands into every bit of him, quite slowly, and making sure she penetrated his arsehole to find the too sensitive prostate, which had already been primed by Jennie, and now was coaxed into fulfilling its function. His penis stirred, then fattened, then stood out, then (under persuasion by her hot hands) erected to point at the ceiling, and Jennie congratulated her colleague.

“Come on, Jen,” Amelia cried, “a little bit more! Get to his testicles, tickle him there, and I’ll tease the tip of his prick!”

Jennie lost no time in joining in, inserting a finger into his rear and fondling his scrotum, while Amelia used both her hands to excite the shaft and the head of the throbbing penis, and between them they persuaded him to surrender. His body writhed and his fingers splayed out, his arsehole clenched, tightening on the finger, he gave a little cry as he arched his back and spurted out his semen into the air. The girls kept at him till they thought he was all emptied out, then laughed and rinsed him off, turning to Catherine, who had looked at the exhibition with staring eagerness and thudding heart, looking into his eyes as he came. Then she dropped her gaze to the floor.

“All right, now, Catherine! He’s all yours! Wash away!”

She looked at the other girls and took up the soap, then looked directly at her friend, and began to lather that dear body again. She had learned perhaps from the others what moves might excite him, and tried as many as she could remember. He for his part moved his body in erotic delight responding to her attentions, and the others regarded the scene with amusement and some envy. After all, they knew he didn’t have much affection for them, but here was his own girl washing him, an occupation she surely had ached to take part in, here she was washing his lovely body, and he was answering the siren call of her fond hands, saying yes to her probing fingers, accepting the adulation of her wondering blushes with a new blush of his own.

They weren’t at all surprised when he gave a sort of shiver and seemed to deliberately raise his cock to face her, at which she stared at him and it and laughed. Then, why were they surprised when the pair went for it quite blatantly, stroking his prick to yet another erection, yet another climax? Catherine kept stroking his penis up, up, one hand after the other, constantly pulling him into a grand show of coming, all for her. Forget them, this was her doing, this was for her!

He sat down in the tub and looked up at her with a smile. She put her arms under his to lift him out, and the other two came to help. Then all three did the drying, feeling him all over as usual, and he stood in their circle and cooperated, raising his feet, raising his arms, bending to display his arse and his anus, smiling while blushing at the frank remarks of his audience, indeed telling himself that this sort of thing could be enjoyable. A mad thought!

Then Lydia Grainger came in and smiled happily at the scene. They all looked at her with some sort of satisfaction, and she folded her arms and said “Bring him out to the living room, to the carpet and cushions.”

Wondering, they obeyed, and displayed him to the adults, who looked him over critically, and nodded to each other. Bauvais gestured with a cigarette and spoke to Catherine. “My dear, you have been chosen to do a further task, though it should be an enjoyable one. Madame has been telling me about the discussion at that dinner she gave, how the guests talked about the scenes in Homer where a guest is anointed with oil after a bath. A very titillating process! So I suggested you should do this, rub oil on to the body. Perhaps it will be more than titillating, hein?”

Jenny and Amelia grinned at the prospect, Catherine gained another flush, while Matthew, who would be the recipient of the favoured guest treatment, didn’t know what to do or how to react or where to look.

“Come, here is a bottle of aromatic oil,” Bauvais said, holding out an ornate-looking bottle. “I recommend it, it’s very fine and exquisitely scented. Take it, come on.”

Catherine shuffled forward to timidly take the oil, and looked back at her lover.

“Yes, Matthew,” said Mrs G, “for God’s sake! Stand there on the carpet and spread your legs and arms. Let her get access to all of you. That’s right. Now, Catherine, it’s up to you. Treat him as Telemachus was treated by young Polycaste. Imagine the scene, after the bath, she brings the oil to the guest and rubs him all over. This is in book three of the epic, and nothing much is made of it, as we said. But here we have another young Telemachus, and another young Polycaste eager to anoint the body of the handsome guest.”

Catherine licked her lips and uncapped the bottle. She put a little of the contents on her hands and laid the bottle down, then approached Matthew and put her hand up to his cheek, which still had his blush. Carefully, lovingly, she stroked his skin, and he looked into her eyes with a half smile on his lips. Then she put oil all over his face, his brow, his cheeks, his ears, his nose, his eyelids, his neck….

The others looked at her activity with smiles of their own, mostly cynical of course. Gradually Catherine worked her way to her boy’s waist, and went round to attend to his back. His shoulders, his arms, his spine, the unreachable small of the back, and the top of his buttocks…. The oil was dripping down in little rivulets, over the swell of his bum, and her hands followed it to spread the lubricant over the glutei, down the crack, and then onto that desirable rosette, where she supplied more oil, to anoint the sphincter and enter, to slick the sensitive interior. And to search for that elusive little gland that they’d talked about. Yes! There it was! Matthew gave a shuddering grunt, and the observers watched as his penis started to move. It twitched, twitched again, and slowly shifted its position as if to be more comfortable. As Catherine worked her way down the legs, the organ began to tumesce, slowly, very slowly, but definitively, as though to demonstrate in slow motion how a penis could erect.

By the time she’d reached his feet, those beautiful feet that had attracted Lydia those months ago, he was pointing straight out at the assembly. Catherine took more of the unguent, which did have a most pleasant scent, and started on his pubic hair, then circling round his ballocks to join at his seam, where she rubbed him sensuously, looking into his eyes as if to challenge him. He stared back with that smile on his face, which grew as she brought her hands forward to his scrotum, finding the testicles within it, then tracing the line up to the tip of the penis, now erect and jutting out and up, up, seemingly trying to force itself into an invisible vulva, pointing and pushing, thrusting itself between her hands, until he cried out in ecstasy and came, came into her grasp, came up in the air, came, he panting and stammering her name, till he was once more done.

The others couldn’t help but applaud, and Mrs G told Catherine to take him down and put him to bed. “And now you have another perspective on Homer, perhaps! It’s a pity young King, or Tarrant, or old George weren’t here to see how it worked out! Away.”

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Summerton Manor

4^th July 1925

Dear Mr Chester,

I wonder if you would be so kind as to put me in touch with the gentleman who purchased Beales’s Farm last year. I would like to talk to him about the details of the transaction, if he is willing to discuss it, and also to request permission to visit the property. The reason for my request is of a personal nature connected with the previous owner and his family, and help in this regard would be much appreciated.

Yours faithfully

Theobald Bryden

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Sunday 5^th July

Catherine gets her bath, Raoul gets his reward

Mrs G appeared at the apartment. “Catherine! Come upstairs.” The girl put down the newspaper she was trying to read and rose, wondering what was up. Matthew, trying to read his own paper, smiled at her as she left. Upstairs Catherine looked enquiringly at her mistress, who smiled gaily and said “Well, Catherine, it’s bath time again.”

Her heart sank, but quickly she recovered her spirits, remembering there were no gardener’s boys around to participate in her shame, and she made her way to the bathroom to turn on the taps. When she came back Raoul had joined Lydia and they were discussing something in rapid French. The older woman turned to her to say sweetly, “Oh, Catherine! M. Bauvais has been kind enough to offer to supervise your bath. Isn’t that nice of him?” The girl blushed and tried to protest, but all that came out was a hopeless series of pants. “Right, away you go. Wash everywhere. My friend will help you. Off!” Bauvais took her limp hand and led her through to the bathroom, and Lydia watched them go with a satisfied expression and settled down with a magazine. She’d look in on them in a little while to enjoy the blushing girl’s mortification.

In the bathroom Raoul was enjoying himself, removing Catherine’s clothes one by one in a leisurely sort of way, chatting away to her in French at a slow enough pace to be understood by the red-faced girl, who was shaking as he reached her underpants, a pair of the brief “panties” that Jackson had made for her. For a moment he gazed at her, then at her crotch, and put out a finger to trace the cleft of her vulva, so visible through the thin cloth. She gave a little squeal and shivered, and he said “All’s well, my dear! If you’re cold we’ll soon warm you up. Let me take that intriguing piece of cloth away.” He put his hands to her waist and drew the knickers down swiftly, to bare her shaved pubis and show the naked vulva, while she shut her eyes and panted.

After a few seconds she opened them, wondering what he was doing, and saw he was kneeling in front of her, quietly staring fixedly at her cunny, whetting his lips and seeming to gloat. What’s the matter, she thought, hasn’t he see a cunt before? He’s certainly seen Lydia Grainger’s. And fucked it too! So what’s so fascinating about mine? As if he’d heard her, Raoul answered her. “Yes, my dear, your cunt is really beautiful. It’s not too big, and it’s not impossibly small, but it’s certainly the cunt of a virgin. A wonderful sight. Believe me, Catherine, they’re not so easy to find these days, it seems. The lips – oh yes, they seem to kiss the onlooker, they seem to pout in preparation for a kiss, or maybe even a fuck….” He raised his eyes to hers and smiled wryly. “No, Catherine,” he said in English, “I’m not going to fuck you. It’d be rape, and that is against my principles. But there are other ways to play with your chatte. For now, let’s get you in the bath.”

Up until now the boys who bathed Catherine to sexual release had all, naturally enough, been amateurs at the act, and only Matthew, the dear soul, had come close to doing it with any degree of deftness or understanding when anointing her after the shave. Now however the man who took his hands over her body was practised in the art of female arousal, and it showed in the way he moved over her, how he applied just sufficient pressure to the flesh, with various parts of the hands, how he touched her here and there, sometimes passing over a portion of the skin, stopping short of a particular erogenous zone, to bring about, and then intensify, the erotic ache in her whole body, not just her thirsty vulva but her entire sexual being. He knew when to trigger her orgasm, and she came to it with an almost stupefying cloudburst of emotion, her heart thudding in her naked ribcage and her breath halting before emitting a scream that echoed from the walls. She clamped down immediately, hoping that Matthew hadn’t heard anything downstairs. Then she breathed hard and looked in dismay at Bauvais, who dropped his clothes and joined her in the bath brandishing a penis that was a couple of inches longer than Matthew’s, and a bit thicker. He had quite a bit of pubic hair, which was somehow quite attractive, and certainly not as bestial as that of Andrew back at Summerton. He saw her staring at his member, which wasn’t erect, and smiled. “No, no, Catherine,” he said, “I am not standing, yet. That is your job, your privilege. Here is my cock, bring it to full attention, I know you can!”

He seemed to be in full command of his organ, willing it to remain quiescent until he’d reached the proper state of mind, perhaps, but eventually he surrendered to her touch and produced an erection of what seemed to be nine inches. The thought went through her head that Lydia had managed that, and she wondered what it would feel like, being impaled by a weapon that long! But what had Dr Braithwaite said about the expandable vagina? She cast the thought away and comforted herself with knowledge that Matthew’s cock was more modest (ironic word) and manageable than this pretentious prick. Then Raoul gave way and his tool jerked in her hands to spout forth what seemed a gallon of hot sperm, he gasping and loudly exclaiming in French patois, then subsiding and looking at her in some disbelief.

“Merci, mon enfant! That … was … an amazing branlette … I’m not sure what that is in English. Mme Grainger will know of course. ‘Shake-up’, maybe, hein? But now, let us clear the dirty water and do some more.”

She looked at him and took a deep breath. There was more to come? And did he want another wank? At that moment Lydia G appeared to take in the situation, and rubbed her hands. “Well now!” she said, “you’re getting acquainted. Excellent.”

Raoul broke in. “Cherie, que veut dire en anglais ‘branlette’?”

She laughed. “I expect the proper term would be the clinical ‘masturbation’, but the common ‘wank’ will do. Don’t ask me the derivation! Now then, where are we?”

He pulled the plug and let the water swirl round their feet. “Why, we return to our sheep, as the saying is! Whether they are frisés or not!” He turned on the taps again.

Lydia laughed. “Indeed! This time I can assist. I haven’t had the pleasure before. Two baths for the price of one, Catherine, oh you are lucky!”

The girl drew a deep breath. When would they get tired of shaming her? Not for some time yet.

By the time the bath was full again, Raoul had dressed and rolled up his sleeves to set to work on her delightful body once more. Then the doorbell went, and Lydia said nonchalantly “It’ll be the paper-boy, you know the nice-looking one on the corner? I asked him to bring the latest editions.” She left to let him in, and Catherine stood petrified. What was Mrs G doing now? He didn’t need to come in, did he? Unless— Unless it was solely to show her off.

In he came with an armful of papers, and stopped short when he saw the naked girl standing quivering in the bath, and the gentleman soaping his hands. He turned to Lydia with big eyes and turned back to drink in the nude teenager, a year or so older than he.

“She’s beautiful isn’t she, eh? Go closer, see how nice-looking she is.”

He gave the papers to Mrs G and walked hesitantly toward the bath, whose occupant looked at him in despair and closed her eyes, blushing prettily.

“Oh, madame!!” he said, his breath coming short. “Oh, madame! She ‘s….”

“Why don’t you help our friend here, hein? Help him to bath her beautiful body.”

Keeping his eyes on the girl, he accepted the soap from the gentleman, and lathered his trembling hands. Then he approached her to put them on her waist, and slowly move them up her body to her breasts, oh mon dieu, oh quels tétons! Et quels mamelons!

He was careful, and took his time. He did her back before going for her crotch, exploring her buttocks and her anus, and (yes, of course) the colon within. She was getting aroused again by now, and when he turned his fascinated attention to her vulva she was begging him to bring her to climax – not in so many words of course, but surely he could see her just aching to be brought over?

And the point was reached at last, when his fingers had drawn out her erect clitoris and teased it to throbbing excitement. She came with a little shriek, and sat down abruptly with her head in her hands. The boy looked at Mrs G with something like a boasting smile, as if to say “See what I did?”

Madame nodded approvingly and took him off to be paid for the papers, with a little extra for his labours. He went off chortling to himself, with the half-promise of another visit like this. Mrs G returned to watch her victim being dried and dressed by Raoul, then sent her downstairs to rest, poor lamb. Then she smiled at her lover and locked the door against interruption.

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Monday 6^th July

Bauvais and Mrs G, attended by the two other girls, went off to the art galleries, and the two orphans were collected by Justine, who promised them a complete day at the Exposition, preceded by a trip up the Eiffel Tower, for a breathtaking panorama of the city. She told them a lot of facts about the monument, culled from a guidebook, and they were suitably impressed. The view they had from up there took their breath away, and they were in an awed sort of mood by the time they got to lunch. At the exposition itself they admired a lot of the exhibits, though when they got to another café later, having walked their feet off, they were able to discuss the wonderful bits and the several disappointments.

“Evidently,” said their guide, “that Esprit Nouveau pavilion, by Le Corbusier – he’s a very famous architect, believe me, and he obviously would have something to say. He has these new ideas about architecture, with skyscrapers, do you know what they are? Very tall buildings, as they have in New York, I’m told. And he proposes square-shaped apartments, to be built to replace quite a large sector of the right bank, the Rive Droit, in the city. It’s called the Plan Voisin for Paris.”

They listened to her, sipping more chocolate.

“The Plan Voisin is named for a pioneer of aviation, Gabriel Voisin, though why I can’t tell you. The word means ‘neighbour’ as you may know, which is maybe significant. Anyway, we’re talking about a series of identical two-hundred metre tall skyscrapers and these lower square or rectangular apartments. I can see why you didn’t much like them. There have been complaints about the plainness of the whole project – the ‘modernity’ is too modern, too stark, too severely functional, for many, and seemingly for you.”

“Yes,” said Matthew, “and I’d say the same about the Soviet pavilion, which is too modern – I mean, it was evidently trying to be more up-to-date, more advanced, than anybody – showing perhaps a sense of inferiority, among all those venerable states. I think they’re trying too hard.”

“You may be right, Matthew,” said Catherine thoughtfully, “but you can understand why, I mean they’ve just had their revolution, to bring Russia into the twentieth century! But hey, I just noticed, there was nothing from Germany, was there? Not that I could see. Is that—”

“Yes, Catherine, it’s because they lost the war and they’re still not a persona grata nation. Actually I think it’ll take quite some time before the stigma of bellicose Huns disappears.”

“Which is maybe a pity,” saids Matthew, “because in truth they are in just as much a mess as any other part of Europe. Their economy is crippled, they’re paying lots of reparations, and it seems their politics is in chaos. At that party the other week one young fellow was describing it, and I think they’re ready for a revolution themselves.”

“Yes, love,” said Catherine, “but there’s those other socialists, the nationalists. There’s fights and things. I got the impression that all that’s needed is a strong voice to direct that internecine energy to take charge of the country and take it back to the nice place it was.”

Justine looked at her with big eyes. “If you’d seen the articles in the papers, I mean here in France, you might have other ideas. I know the country is a mess, but its future is really disquieting. Just wait, and you might see a different Germany. But anyway, tell me again what you thought of the British pavilion.”

“Oh, it was fine, though somehow it didn’t grab me to say look at all our ideas! How pretty we are! I suppose I expected it to be a bit stodgy, er, what would you say, boring, really, but that’s because I don’t really expect Britain to be in the avant-garde of anything. But the textiles looked good, and the, the general … functionality was good. What do you think, Matthew?”

“I knew about what they were doing from the papers last year, when they showed things off at Wembley. Somehow I thought they’d do something extraordinary for an international show like this. But on the whole it was competent, and enjoyable, I’d say.”

Catherine finished off her chocolate and licked her lips.

“As for the others, what about the pavilions where they were displaying the products of the Royal Porcelain Factory at Copenhagen? They were designed in the style of a Georgian shop front, complete with charming bow-fronted windows. It made a nice change from all the ultra-modern stuff.”

“Yes. Catherine. And the porcelain items themselves, though, they were quite ready to be very twentieth-century.”

“The Italian pavilion was on a very large scale, don’t you think? It was really impressive, very attractive. Those columns of marble, was it—”

“No, Mathieu,” corrected Justine, “that was travertine, which is commonly used for building in Italy. It’s really just another form of limestone, calcium carbonate, if you like, for you get it in limestone caves. And at hot springs too, I believe. I suppose its distinguishing feature is the holes in it, which someone told me come from the escape of carbon dioxide. But anyway it was a fine-looking place. The coloured bricks—””

“And the joints picked out in gold!” said Matthew. “Yes, it was nice, really beautiful.”

“But there’s a lot more to see!” exclaimed Catherine, “and I only hope our feet don’t wear out.”

“I don’t know when we’ll be back, but we’ll certainly be back. You do realise that this international exposition is something of a milestone, in design terms? You’ll have to see more of it, and remember it, for a long time to come. Mathieu has his photographs, though, to bring back the memories in future years.”

There it was again, future years. How long did they have?

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Tuesday 7^th July

The Louvre

“It seems quite small,” said Catherine wonderingly.

“Yes,” said Matthew, “somehow I thought it would be a big portrait.”

“Very well,” Justine said with a smile, “but it doesn’t have to be big to be beautiful. Think of the mastery of the painting, see what Leonardo has captured here. She’s enigmatic, isn’t she? She’s smiling, but who to? And why? It’s been suggested, you know, that they were lovers. Oh, not in a physical sense, no, but deeply enamoured of each other, call it platonically in love. I wouldn’t be surprised at all.”

They gazed at the enigma and nodded. “Francis knew what he was doing when he got this,” said Catherine. “It is actually a very beautiful thing, and it makes you ponder too. It doesn’t just hang there.”

“Very good, Catherine! And so, come and tell me what you think of the Winged Victory.”

They stood at the foot of an impressive flight of steps to look up at the ancient mutilated statue.

“It is impressive,” said Matthew. “Even from down here, yards away, it’s quite amazing. The Winged Victory of Samothrace. How big is it?”

“It is 2.4 metres high, as I recall. In British measure, say eight feet. In contrast, the beautiful statue of David by Michelangelo in Florence is about seventeen feet high, I think. But you’ll see once we get near, that this is tall enough. And close up you will appreciate the flowing vestments, which are billowed by the wind, as she alights on the prow of a ship to proclaim ‘Niké! Victory!’ – her hand was probably raised to the mouth that’s no longer there. Yes, even maimed like this it is evocative and powerful. One of the main glories of the Louvre.”

“Oh, Justine,” said Catherine gratefully, “I’m so pleased you took us to that museum. It’s a wonderful place.”

“Thank you, Catherine! You are most welcome. But it isn’t the only such place in Paris, you know. There are several devoted to various aspects of art, and history. And literature, too, the Balzac museum for instance. Oh, I really should take you to the Musée Grévin. It is a museum of waxworks. Just like your one in London called Madame Tussaud’s.”

“Oh, I’ve heard of that,” said Matthew. “It has a Chamber of Horrors, featuring grisly murders and so on.”

“Yes,” replied Justine. “She called it her ‘Separate Room’, displaying relics of the Revolution, the Reign of Terror, and so on, which she lived through, did you know? Well, Grévin did the same. It’s only about forty years old, while yours is close to a hundred years old. But here you should see the tableau depicting the assassination of Marat by Charlotte Corday—”

“That’s the chap who was murdered in his bath, right?”

“Yes, Mathieu. But at the Grévin, it’s just a little bit more shocking, I should say it gives a shiver, a frisson, to know that the bathtub is the original, and the knife is the same one poor Charlotte Corday used.”

“Heavens,” said Catherine, “I can imagine. So when can we go?”

“Not today, my dear. Don’t worry, we’ve plenty time I think before you go away south. You have to see Versailles, more of the Exposition, and a lot of other places. Patience!”

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Wednesday 8^th July

A day on the Left Bank, drinking coffee. In the evening, three clubs and three shows and solace for both, a first for Catherine.

“Well, children,” said Mrs Grainger beaming at them, “have you had a nice day on the Left Bank? Tonight we have a treat. We’re going to a boite, a night club.”

Catherine’s eyes widened. “But we’re not old enough, surely?”

“Don’t worry, my dear, “said Lydia kindly, “all will be taken care of. We’ll go to three places, actually, to give you a real feel for Paris night life. My friend M. Bauvais is an old friend of the proprietor of one of them, and all is arranged.” Matthew looked dubious, and couldn’t believe that the beautiful tyrant was sincerely going to give them a good time, but he couldn’t demur.

“Right!” exclaimed Mrs G, “off you go and clean yourselves up. Put on your nice clothes, and we’ll be set to leave at nine o’clock.” She dismissed them and opened her magazine, then dropped it with a grunt as a sudden ache in her belly told her the trouble was back. Should she take yet another pill? Or just go to the toilet and see if anything materialised? God, she thought, I’ve been constipated before, but nothing like this. Dr Brébeuf is right, I suppose. I’ll go and see that other quack tomorrow. For now, persuade my bowels to give me a decent shit….

The old clock on the wall of the downstairs apartment struck nine, and on the last stroke Lydia came into the living room and clapped her hands. “Catherine! Matthew! Are you ready? Paris awaits!” They came out of their rooms and presented themselves for her inspection. Matthew looked handsome in his version of evening dress – white shirt, black suit and tie, his hair combed neatly, carrying a top hat and gloves; he looked older, maybe twenty. Catherine too looked older than her years in a calf-length gown of white satin, with a gauze wrap around her bare shoulders. The children gazed at each other with smiles of admiration, and Lydia smiled too to see what a fine pair they made. Then she clapped her hands again and said peremptorily, “Come now! M. Bauvais is downstairs with a fiacre. Let’s go!” They followed her out, and went down, Catherine asking about Jennie and Amelia. “They’ve gone to the theatre with Mlle Maury. Didn’t they tell you? They’ll be back around midnight, I suppose, but we’ll be long after that. I don’t know when, exactly,” she said in response to a questioning look from Matthew. “We’ll see. Here we are.” A cab stood at the door, Raoul Bauvais peeping out with a smile.

“Bonsoir, les enfants!” he said, throwing open the door and leaping out to hold it for them to enter. When all were seated he knocked on the ceiling and the fiacre set off at a steady clip. As they went along Matthew made bold to ask “M. Bauvais, where are we going, exactly?”

The older man’s face creased in a grin. “We go to three clubs tonight,” he said. “We will not stay long at the first one, that is to give you a taste of it, no more – a glass of wine, listen to a song, c’est ça. It is called Le Paradis, the Paradise. It also means the upper gallery in a theatre, what you call ‘the gods’, yes? It is very popular. I do not remember who the chanteuse is. But then after that we go to a show at the Café de Vénus, which will have an amusing presentation that may shock you,” he said archly, “and then we go to the Club Vermeil, which a friend of mine owns, and there we will have another little show.” He flashed his teeth at them, and laughed.

Lydia smiled demurely. “It sounds interesting, doesn’t it? I’m sure you’ll enjoy yourselves.”

Matthew felt an uneasy premonition at her words and her manner, but for the life of him couldn’t imagine how she could manage to embarrass them in a public nightclub. He brooded until the cab stopped. Raoul dashed out and helped them all to descend to the street, then paid off the cocher and ushered them into what seemed just another café. They arranged themselves at a table and a waiter bustled up to them. There was a brisk exchange of French, and Lydia turned to the young people. “We’re having wine, all right? The show is just about to start. Settle down and enjoy yourselves.” The wine arrived, and they were invited to toast each other. Matthew began to relax, though he did think that he’d better be careful about alcohol going to his head and lowering his inhibitions.

He looked around: a spacious room with tables around a small dance floor, and off to the side a little platform for a band. He saw a drum kit, bass and piano, but no more instruments and no performers. The place was lit with little lamps on the tables, which illuminated the faces of the crowd but not much else. There were quite a few customers, but it was not exactly crowded. He remarked on this to Raoul, who smiled condescendingly and told him it was very early yet. “Just wait,” he said, “till the theatres come out, and the night life comes out of its holes!”

Conversation buzzed around them. Matthew noticed many eyes fixed on their table – admiring the youth and beauty of the boy and girl, and envying the older pair their company. In a short while a whiskered gentleman stepped up to a microphone and introduced the singer, who was evidently well-known and liked, for she got a rousing acclaim from the assembly. A young man strolled up to the piano and began to play, the crowd quietened down and the woman – girl really – began to sing in a throaty sort of voice that was huskily seductive. Matthew didn’t understand what it was about, but he could see Catherine squinting in concentration, and she evidently got some of it, for she reddened suddenly and took a quick drink of her wine and looked down at her plate. He made a mental note to ask her about that later. Raoul and Lydia had smiles on their faces and drank their wine, and applauded when the chanteuse finished the song. She gave a few more pieces, some cheery and some breathing Gallic melancholy, and then withdrew to an appreciative round of applause; a couple of musicians came forth and struck up a jazzy number, and a few customers got up to dance something called the Charleston, which Catherine remembered from her embarrassing visit to the Radcliffes’ party. During the tumult Raoul paid the bill and led them out, hailing another fiacre and telling it to go to “La Vénus!” “Oui, monsieur, je le connais,” said the driver and whipped up his horse. Inside Raoul told the young pair about their next stop. “It is not as old as Les Deux Magots, for instance, or Le Fleuri, which are fashionable these days – as they always have been, really, among the intelligentsia. Maybe we go there tomorrow, hein? But the Venus is a popular little place which the visitors like, the English and the Americans. It has some naughty shows.” He grinned suggestively.

Catherine looked a bit dubious, and asked “Are you sure Matthew and I are old enough for this—”

“But yes,” he said grinning more widely. “You both look to be at least eighteen, I would say. And besides, here we take a more relaxed view of such things. To speak truth, if you are old enough to make love, then you are old enough for this.”

Catherine nearly said that they hadn’t made love yet, but Matthew forestalled her to ask “But what are we going to see that’s so naughty? Is it girls without much on, or something?”

“Just wait,” he said. “Just wait.”

The Venus was better lit than the Paradise, but looked much the same. One curious object was what looked like a large crib with wooden sides that stood against a wall. Catherine asked if it was to put toddlers in, or what? Lydia and Raoul laughed hugely and he said “But no, Catherine, it is used for a game, for a contest. You’ll see later on. For now, let us sit and drink our wine and enjoy the concert.”

This time the singer was a man of about forty who rendered songs that seemed to be very funny, for all the crowd seemed highly amused, some of the ladies acquiring a slight blush of discomfiture at what were evidently very risqué words. Matthew looked at Catherine, who had acquired a flush of her own, and wished he was better at understanding the language. He sighed and sipped his wine and tried to enjoy the cheery ambience. The music was pleasant and he was with the girl he loved; why should he not be perfectly happy and at ease? It was not long before he had thrown off his dark thoughts.

The band played a sort of fanfare, and the announcer said (in three languages) that they would now dance the ‘Farandole de la Vénus’, which turned out to be a form of Paul Jones, a dance he knew of but had never done. Raoul urged them to get up and join the throng, who formed two concentric circles of men and women and moved in opposite directions to a lively jig tune. When it stopped you were expected to take hold of the person opposite and dance whatever suited the tune the band played, so one danced a polka, a waltz, a foxtrot, a Charleston, interspersed with the jig as a kind of chorus. The two young folk enjoyed this, although they weren’t sure of the steps sometimes, and finally dropped back in their seats and recovered their breath.

Another singer appeared, this time a girl who looked about twelve years old, who was dressed in a costume that accentuated her immature bosom and bared her knees. She sang a couple of songs which Matthew knew to be rude, or at least full of innuendo, for the patrons were hooting with laughter and she was arching her brows suggestively. He caught Catherine’s eye and she blushed. When the girl retired, to a storm of applause and whistles, he asked Catherine if she’d understood. Her blush deepened and she said “Oh yes, the first one was about a girl going to gather rushes, who met four boys. The first boy caressed her chin, the second put her on the grass, the third lifted her dress, and what the fourth did isn’t put in the song. Then the second song was all about her going swimming. In the nude of course, and there were some puns in it too, I think – words that sound very like rude words. Or the first syllable was rude but the rest was all right, like Concorde.”

Before she could explain further, there was a crash on the drums and the master of ceremonies announced (again in three languages) that the moment had come they were all waiting for, a contest with winners. It wasn’t clear what the contest consisted of, but the prize evidently concerned a buxom young woman who came out from the back and stood up on the little stage under a spotlight. She was dressed quite conservatively with a large hat and feather boa, and she looked out at the clientele with ill-concealed boredom. The band began to play, yet another song he’d never heard before, and a second spotlight began to roam over the customers. Tension grew – what was to happen? Then with a cymbal crash the tune stopped and the light remained fixed on a middle-aged man with a bald head and sideburns, who was urged to get up, and came forward. “Monsieur! Vous êtes choisi. Ôtez, s’il vous plaît, les chaussures!” He knelt down with a smile and tugged off her footwear, turning to the crowd to exhibit his prize. Matthew looked at Catherine, who looked at him in dismay. He knew this was going to be a strip-tease version of musical chairs, and bit his lip. He looked at Mrs Grainger, who was watching them both with a sardonic smile, and decided to act nonchalant. He picked up a cigarette from a jar on the table and lit up carelessly. Catherine, who had never seen him smoke, was amazed, and Raoul laughed at seeing the boy sowing his wild oats.

The music started up again, the spotlight moved, the cymbal crashed, and a young man was chosen to remove the stockings, which drew oohs and aahs from the crowd as his hands went up her legs -- far up her legs -- to roll them down. So it went, the tension growing as the girl was progressively relieved of her hat, her boa, her dress, and her slip. Then he felt the light on him and the announcer was saying “Allons, mon enfant! Bitte, mein kleiner Herr! Young gentleman, come, it is your turn!” With a blush of his own he rose (as he knew he had to) and went up to the girl, who looked him in the eye and winked. He mumbled “What? Qu’est-ce—” “Ah! Monsieur is English! Here, please, you must undo her soutien-gorge, the brassiere.” He gulped and stared at the girl’s bosom, raised his hands and fluttered his fingers, not really knowing how to do it, the announcer saying coyly “I see the young monsieur is out of practice!” The crowd laughed loudly and applauded as he moved behind her to fumble with the garment, struggling to remember how the thing worked. He’d seen his mother thus a few times, but how did she put it on? A catch at the back, yes – and he managed to remove the garment and returned to his table to the congratulations of Raoul and Lydia, and the wry look of Catherine. He looked back at the girl, now flexing her shoulders to flaunt her full breasts at the crowd. The next young man (evidently now they were being chosen for their youth and look of innocence) managed to take off the lace drawers, which he flourished in triumph as he returned to his table, crowded with friends of his age.

Now the girl stood before them divested of everything, it seemed – but there was one barrier yet. Raoul nudged Matthew as the light roamed about for a long time and tension grew again

. “Do you see the little shield on her pubis?” he asked, “which must be shaved, by the way, like Catherine. It’s called a cache-sexe, it hides her con.”

“My God,” muttered the boy, “the next fellow will take it off!”

Raoul laughed as the cymbal crash came and a boy of Matthew’s own age stood up with blushes of his own and was urged forward by his mates. He came up to the stage and licked his lips as he gazed at the girl’s crotch, where the cache-sexe sparkled in the light. He put out his hand to take it, displaying an erection that the audience whooped to see, and had barely touched it when the master of ceremonies stopped him. “Ah no, monsieur,” he said, “naughty! Not that. These.” He indicated the earrings, which no-one had noticed, and everyone, the boy included, broke into loud laughter. After that the garments were collected and the girl retired, shaking her shapely derrière, to a good round of applause. Raoul looked at them and said “Maybe now we try the Vermeil?” Lydia nodded, and they rose.

***

The Club Vermeil was on a side street and seemed to be hiding from the population, or maybe the police. It looked much like the other places – dim lights, heavy curtains, a bandstand, that curious crib, and smoke from cigars and exotic cigarettes. Matthew sniffed and recognised that sweet sort of scent of the cannabis from the dinner. A trio was playing as they entered, and a little bald man rushed up to them and kissed Lydia and Raoul and Catherine on both cheeks. Matthew shied away, and he grinned and said “Oh, the English!” – whatever that meant. He was introduced as Clément, the owner of the place, evidently a good friend of Raoul, whose party was very welcome. They were led to a discreet table in the corner, and the best of the wine was promised.

The trio finished, and got a scattering of applause. Next another chanteuse appeared, to sing a few sentimental songs that had everyone joining in, and then a dapper man in his forties came on stage with the inevitable saucy repertoire, culminating in something that was evidently of considerable obscenity all about a hussar of the guard, with a chorus that even Matthew could understand the gist of:

Oh merde, merde divine,
toi seule a les appâts.
La rose a les épines,
Toi, merde, tu n’en as pas.

Of course Raoul had to translate in case they missed anything. “It means,” he said grinning from ear to ear, “‘O shit, divine shit, only you have attractions. The rose has thorns, but you, shit, have none.’ Is it not droll?” Catherine looked at him with distaste, and Matthew said ironically “Oh yes, it’s very funny. What did the announccr call it?” “It is,” said Raoul impressively, “a song of the guardroom, a chanson de la salle de garde. There are many of them, all very droll like that one. It is a speciality of the house here, to sing these funny songs. There’ll be more of them before long.” “Oh good,” said Matthew, rolling his eyes at Catherine, who had to laugh.

The audience quietened down a bit and the announcer said something about a fight, and the clientele applauded. Matthew looked on in puzzlement as the ‘crib’ was dragged into the middle of the room by two young women and a couple of hands quickly poured mud into it. Mud! He couldn’t guess what was up, but the others were already crowing with pleasured anticipation. When all was ready the two women took off the robes they wore to reveal vests and knickers, and climbed into the mud. Oh yes, Matthew saw, it was to be a wrestling match in mud. An anti-climax, maybe, after the noisy obscenities of the singers, but still amusing and titillating the raucous throng.

The contest was hotly applauded, the girls grappling each other and inevitably stripping the vest from the opponent. Breasts swung free and the crowd hooted. One of the pair started scooping up the mud and packing it into her foe’s panties, which then sagged down to reveal her muddy bottom. Eventually they were both naked and covered in mud, slapping the black muck on each other’s vulva, and finally falling to the floor of the tub in exhaustion. No-one won, and the audience gave them a big round of applause. It took some time to clear things away, and Catherine, looking appalled at the spectacle, drank her wine hurriedly as if to wash away the memory. Matthew thought he was supposed to be stimulated by the exhibition, but somehow his member hadn’t shown much interest. He sighed and drank his own wine and wanted the evening to end.

There were several more songs, mostly bawdy, it seemed, in most of which the crowd joined on the chorus, and the children were feeling restless, though Matthew admitted to Catherine that the tunes were lively enough. Another glass of wine was offered to Catherine, and she drank that somewhat absent-mindedly. Lydia then summoned the proprietor and they had a brief conversation, after which he turned to the girl and said “Now you play the game, yes?” She looked puzzled, then wary, and then when Mrs G stared at her she flushed in panic. What sort of awful game was she expected to play? “Up you get, girl,” said her tormentor, “follow the gentleman.” Quaking, she did so, and found herself on the stage under a spotlight. M. Clément announced something to the patrons, who broke into cheers. The little ensemble began a tune, and another spotlight began to wander. Matthew realised in horror that his darling was about to be publicly stripped, and stammered to the implacable Lydia, trying to protest.

“But madam, she – she’s not wearing a cache-sexe! What are you doing?”

“Matthew, you silly boy! Sit down, or you’ll regret it.”

“But madam!”

“Sit down and be quiet,” she hissed through her teeth, “the patrons here all want this!” He sat numbly as the spot fell on a young man in his twenties, who was invited to remove her shoes. Catherine stood in her spotlight, petrified, knowing what was to come, but powerless under the thumb of Mrs Grainger and her lecherous friend.

The music played, the spot moved and stopped, and little by little Catherine was reduced to petticoat and knickers. She looked pathetically at Mrs G but knew there was no help coming. Then it was the slip to go – the boy who took it off looked about seventeen – and it was drawn up her body and off her upraised arms, showing her naked breasts to the appreciative audience. A party of boys at a corner table made remarks quite loudly in English, some in American accents, probably thinking they wouldn’t be understood. “Fuck me! Look at those tits!” “Yah, not much to tickle there!” “No, you stupid bugger, they’re just a fine little handful!” “But wait, shut up, she’s only got her panties to go!” “Panties, panties!” “Now for the pussy!” “Pussy, pussy!” they chanted.

Matthew frowned in puzzlement, and Raoul said in his ear, “Do you not know? In America they call the con the ‘pussy’, because it is a dear little furry thing. In French we say the same, we call it la chatte. Catherine isn’t furry of course, which is good I think, and I believe this crowd will like it too. Let’s see!”

“Pussy, pussy!” Matthew glared at them, but they were too far gone in drink to care. As the music played again they clapped in time and yelled. Of course the light came to rest on their table, and a scrawny little youth was pushed forth by his friends, urging him to do his duty. He came up to the blushing girl, who was trying to hide the erect nipples on her breasts, and put his hands to the elastic at her waist. She shivered, and her eyes filled with tears. The boy, evidently called Howard, smiled nastily and hooked his thumbs in the top of her knickers and began to pull them down. He did this deliberately slowly in order to milk the occasion of all its tension and sexual weightiness, and Catherine had to stand there panting, her hands trembling on her chest, as the thin knickers were tugged down past her tingling vulva, past her thighs, past her shins, off her feet, and the band played a rousing fanfare. The master of ceremonies congratulated the youth and took charge of the knickers, making Catherine stand uncovered before them all. They applauded wildly, and Howard resumed his seat to be toasted by his cronies.

The M C led the scarlet girl back to her table and gave her clothes to “the beautiful English lady.” Matthew was beside himself and couldn’t keep from making expostulations to Mrs G, who looked at him coolly and summoned the announcer. She and Raoul had a swift exchange of French with him, and a big grin creased his features as he looked at the boy. “But yes,” he said, “it arranges itself. Monsieur, come.” Matthew got up in bewilderment, and was led to the stage, where he was turned to face the clientele and felt the heat of the spotlight. All at once he knew with a sickening panic that he was to be the focus of another strip-tease, and he looked over at Mrs G, who was nodding as if to say This is your bed. Now lie on it.

The maître gave a quickfire spiel to the crowd, who cheered and whistled, and the music started. The spotlight roved over the eager faces in the room, picking out the girls of course, who were all agog at this unusual variation on a sexy game. The first chosen looked to be about eighteen, and she took off his shoes. Next, stockings, next, jacket, next, tie, and Matthew was beginning to sweat under the hot lamp. He looked over at his table; the adults were looking amused at him and the girls as they gradually revealed more and more, and Catherine, who was still nude, was sitting miserably hiding her breasts and gazing at him with tears on her cheeks.

Off came his trousers, his shirt, his vest, and the last item that stood between him and naked shame was his underpants, now showing a strong erection, which the M C made salacious comments about that the boy understood only too well. “Ce garçon bande comme un tigre, vous voyez!” Finally a very young girl was chosen to do the last unveiling, and Matthew wondered how she had got in. With her permissive parents, perhaps? She looked about thirteen, for God’s sake. Young or not, she seemed to be in control of her feelings, and did not flush as she put her hands to his waist. As she pulled down the underpants however her face did acquire a faint blush, which grew in intensity as the pants reached his pubic hair and the beginning of his erection. She struggled to draw them over his member, and finally took hold of it to push it up against his belly to let the pants come down. The audience were hooting with laughter, and Matthew was near a faint.

The girl drew the pants down inexorably past his member, which sprang out in a stronger erection, and she started back in surprise, the patrons nearly incoherent with laughter, and the girls among them crying out in approval at Matthew’s revealed manhood. Down came the pants to the floor, and the girl raised his feet one after the other to disengage the garment. She went back to her table with a red face but a grin on her lips, and Matthew stood there, clenching his fists and holding back tears. This was the first time the randy audience had seen a male being stripped, and cheered the whole production. What else? Madame signalled Clément and made a suggestion. The man looked astonished but quickly nodded, and with a big grin he announced that there would be a prize of fifty francs (the crowd cheered) to the girl (they hooted) who would make the boy come. They gasped, then cheered and laughed and clapped. The Vermeil was outdoing itself tonight!

Matthew was sweating and looking out at the lecherous mob. The M C put his hand on the boy’s shoulder and stroked it sensuously, announcing that each girl would be given one minute to see what she could do, and the girl would be chosen by the spotlight again. It began to move around the room and quickly found a girl of twenty or so, who came forward and grabbed the erection with a determined hand. Matthew squealed but had to submit while she rubbed him up and down, and he would have come had her roughness not decreased his libido, and in fact he began to wilt. The crowd yelled in disappointment, and the girl retired in petulance. The next girl was about sixteen, and treated him gently, coaxing his member to reinstate its erection. She’d just got there when her time was up. The spotlight, which was roaming about all through this, stopped at another girl in the mid teens, who quickly stroked the shaft and teased the exposed glans till the penis began to throb in her hands – but time ran out, and another girl his own age hurried to take advantage of his condition. She had smeared her hands with butter from the table, and gently stroked him up and down, pulling the foreskin back and forth, touching the glans and the very meatus of the tip, then abruptly thrusting a hand to his behind and a greased finger up his rectum. He came with a cry of “Aagh, God!” and the crowd erupted in laughter and applause.

He was offered a napkin to wipe himself, and sent back to his seat, the other patrons giving him a standing ovation. He sat down and looked across at Catherine’s tears and felt like crying himself. The waiter came up with a magnum of champagne for the table and Raoul popped it open and filled their glasses, then saluted the young pair, and the rowdy audience. Matthew drank his champagne hurriedly and hoped he’d get drunk soon so that he wouldn’t care about anything. Catherine knew how he felt and wondered about following his example. Raoul and Lydia embraced and sipped their drinks with high amusement, telling each other it was a very successful evening.

The band struck up another dance, and couples began moving to the music. Raoul summoned his friend and made some suggestion, and a few minutes later there was a pause in the music during which another announcement was made, to the effect that the young couple would dance together, solo, for their appreciation. The children looked at each other and shrugged, thinking what more could happen? and rose to take hold of each other and go through a slowish waltz, looking into each other’s eyes and blushing, blushing at their naked contact. Matthew acquired another erection, which Catherine had some trouble in avoiding, and the situation caused the salacious crowd to erupt once more in coarse laughter. The pair got another ovation when the music stopped, and returned to their chairs to be applauded by their grinning tormentors.

After a while the champagne was gone and Lydia looked at her lover, who nodded at her and summoned the addition. When they rose, the other patrons saluted them afresh, and poked fun as the young pair were allowed to dress again. They got a cab and were back at the flat shortly, where they stood and looked at each other. Raoul and Lydia smiled sardonically at the youngsters, who were tired and a little drunk. “There!” said Lydia, “that’s Paris nightlife!” They looked back at her and sighed, and put their arms round each other. Before they could start the tears that threatened, Lydia said “Be off with you to your apartment. If the others are there, be quiet. They probably won’t be long, if they’re out. Good night and good morning, and tomorrow we’ll have another adventure.”

Wearily they staggered down to the other apartment, to find it empty. “Where’s Amelia and Jennie, then, hm? Out on the tiles? Anyway, love, let’s get to bed.” Matthew got to his room and switched on the light, then saw Catherine had followed him. She looked at him quite deliberately and started undressing. Her stared at her and began stripping himself, keeping his eyes on hers. Together they reached nudity and crawled into his bed. She reached out for him and drew him to her. “Oh, Matthew!” she murmured, “Matthew! You make everything bearable. Your eyes make up for all the other eyes, your hands erase all the others. Feel me, Matthew, and let me feel you!”

He smiled hugely and suited action to her words. Soon they were panting with desire, and their bodies were pressed together, striving for union. Then she moved her hand that held his penis close to her vulva and let the member find its way in.

“Catherine!” he stammered, “I—”

“Don’t speak, love,” she said. “Only make love to me. Fuck me, Matthew, fuck me!”

He put his arms round her and clasped her body to his. They were finally joined, united, one. They lay thus for a while, enjoying the sensation, he in her and she around him, and kissed. Then he began the motion his own Lycainion had introduced him to, that he’d enjoyed with Alice, that the others had seduced him into. But this was the girl he loved, this was the one he’d desired for so long. Her naked beauty was familiar to him, the details of her dear cunny were no mystery; but now his yearning penis was in that imagined place, and as he moved slowly in her welcoming passage he almost wept with the joy of making sweet love to the sweet girl. Yes, call it a fuck, that’s the old and honourable word, and he’d fuck her till she came with her own ungovernable pleasure. They looked each other in the eye and as he thrust into her she pushed to meet him. Her legs went round his body and clamped him to her, and little inarticulate cries came from her, echoed by his panting grunts and attempts at endearments, till they came together in a wonderful meeting of souls.

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