Mrs Grainger's Gift 23

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 XXIII

=====================================================================Thursday 16th July

Another letter

21 Rue Coulvain

Dear Maude:

How are you getting on over there in the rain? I understand it’s a very English sort of summer. I won’t crow over our weather, it’s not my doing anyway. But can you blame me for seeking the sun? You do too when you can. I should give you some of another instalment of the adventures of your erstwhile footman, who continues to be enchanting in his blushing confusion. Here in Paris, naturally, there is some scope for experimentation. Let’s see, it’s been ages since I wrote you last, when I think I told you about the dinner party.

Well, now! Matthew has been sent to take a shower bath at the Academy, which pleased the girls of course. This is in addition to the bath proper, done with the help of a couple of girls, which always ends in ejaculation. The girls (both staff and students) are getting some fine lessons here in male physiology, while he is in constant embarrassment. Another source of which is the spanking I’ve reintroduced – application of the hand (by a female) to the bare bum of the male. Which is reversed in the case of Catherine Hammond, his counterpart. It was his intervening in her spanking punishment that made me start it for him. Every night, or every other.

The girl has been satisfactorily exposed and manhandled (to coin a word), as when Miss James, our medical helper, used her to demonstrate a few devices – menstrual pads, dildoes, and anal plugs, with the help of two boys who were visiting. And it included the necessary lubrication of the vulva and the bowel. I’m sure they enjoyed that, particularly the boy from the boarding school to the west of us, St Vincent’s. The other was my unsuspecting young friend the law clerk, and he amused me no end by his own embarrassed amazement. He couldn’t help himself of course, he was just as randy as the other (they were both about sixteen) and I laughed up my sleeve to see the erections straining their trousers.

What else? I’ve been exercising my imagination, and sent Matthew to join the girls at their swim in town. He was given that vanishing costume I told you about, and it succeeded marvellously. Then the hols, and our travel out here, where I met up with Raoul Bauvais, who is quite inventive at shaming circumstances, and a week ago we had the pair of them at some clubs where we managed to have them stripped for the patrons’ entertainment. Both of them – which is something of a novelty for Paris. Even more, Matthew was scarcely drawing a breath after being exposed before we invited the girls present to milk him, for a prize. That to my knowledge hasn’t been done before. Two days ago, to a beauty salon for a naked massage and all that – great fun. Tomorrow he’ll be at a girl’s birthday party, where they are expected to expose him and bath him and so on, and he should be absolutely bedraggled when he comes back. Poor fellow! We’ll be sending them all to Vaulx on the 18th, then I join them by the 25th or so. After a month of delightful Provençal sunshine, back to the grind of Summerton.

Otherwise, our stay is predictable. Haven’t seen the Expo yet, nor met up with any of the crowd. Picasso is in Antibes with the Murphys, bless their hearts! Gertrude and Alice Toklas off at their hotel, Hemingway at Pamplona or somewhere writing a novel, evidently, probably about bulls. Scott has written a new novel which I must recommend, called “The Great Gatsby”, which takes a good look at modern America and mores etc. It’s his best work yet, I think, and you’ll have to read it. I’ll have Sylvia Beach send you a copy, and I promise to persuade Scott to sign it. I was hoping to see Ezra Pound again but he’s decamped to Italy for some godawful purpose – perhaps he feels more at home there, ideologically I mean, so anyway I can’t get him to sign his poems for you. Joyce is in town though, so I can fulfil my other promise. We’ll argue about him when I get back. For now though, you’ll get your Ulysses and other things, signed, yes! And I’ll ask Sylvia to thank Mr J (I won’t see him myself I hope) for the honour. You know, how she dotes on him is nearly upsetting, in a dyspeptic sort of way. I’m sure he hasn’t given her a ha’penny yet for all the money and effort she put in. She’s a real devotee, and in a way it’s heartwarming as they say to witness such devotion. But for me it’s saddening. Be that as it may, on a merrier note I’m looking forward to Vaulx. I’ll write you next from there.

Love

Lydia

PS – You should let the Ravens know that Matthew is thoroughly enjoying his visit to France, broadening his horizons and picking up French.

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Friday 17th July

M attends party for young Lisette, chez Dubois

Matthew awoke on the Friday morning with an inexplicable feeling of anxiety. It wasn’t until he’d finished breakfast that he remembered that today he was supposed to attend that party thrown by Mme Dubois for young Lisette, who seemed just as rude-minded as that other Charlotte. He went upstairs and knocked on the door of the other apartment. Amelia opened the door and let him in, then went back to serving a simple breakfast (croissants and coffee) to the adults, who were lounging about in dressing gowns. Lydia Grainger looked at him with a sly sort of smile and said “Good morning, Matthew! I’m sure you’re remembering about today – it’ll be exciting, going to the girls’ party. Yes,” she added, seeing the misery on his face, “Lisette’s party. You’ll be picked up about two o’clock, they told me. The party starts about three, and should finish by about six. That gives time for all the celebrants to get home for bed-time.”

Matthew swallowed and asked hesitantly “How – how many children will be there?”

She laughed. “Oh, Matthew! They’re not children. Oh no, they’re young ladies, all of them, round your own age. Fourteen to sixteen, I believe. They’re all old enough to be interested in you.”

He gritted his teeth. “And I—”

“Yes,” she said, “you! You’re the guest of honour, or more precisely you are the main entertainment. Oh yes,” she continued, smirking at his expression, “I’m sure the Dubois girls have got some interesting activities planned for the afternoon, featuring you in one form or another. In one form of dress or another.”

He licked his lips. “That means that they’ll be undressing me, doesn’t it? They’re going to make me naked in front of all their friends. God! – How many girls?”

“I can’t say, Matthew, how can I tell? But I’d say around forty, perhaps. Mathilde is a popular woman with many friends, who have children. I know of one of her closest acquaintances, Marguérite Gautier, who has eight children. A remarkable family, actually. Three sets of twins, and two adopted after the war. Their ages will range from eleven to fifteen I suppose. Just the right ages to be interested in you and your body.”

He set his teeth and whined, “But for God’s sake, madam, what will they want? Will they just see me naked—”

“Oh, Matthew, don’t be silly! I know that once they see your nude charms, that’s it, they’ve seen them. Once they’ve tickled you all over till you come, that’s it! What more can they do? I don’t know, and I don’t care. As long as they don’t damage you beyond repair.”

He stared at her in terror. “Damage?”

“Yes, Matthew. I told Mathilde that the girls had carte blanche to do with you whatever they wanted. I made some suggestions of course.” She eyed him suggestively. “And maybe they’ll be inspired. Ah – one thing I do suggest to you is that you make sure you’re clean before you go. I mean especially your little boy bits.”

Raoul looked over and guffawed. “Mais oui,” he said, gesticulating with his cigarette, “it is possible the girls will want to bathe you themselves, just to be sure, but again, just to be sure on your part that they do not find any displeasing dirt or ordure on your handsome bum or elsewhere, you should bathe very meticulously.”

Amelia snickered, and refilled his coffee cup. “Yes,” he added, “and why not have kind Amélie here, and Jennie too, perform that useful function, hmm?”

Lydia laughed. “Of course. Let’s see. It’s ten now. Why don’t we have you bathed at noon, nicely dressed by one, with a little snack before they call for you at two. That should work. What do you say, Raoul?”

“Oh yes,” he said, “that should do. Amélie, you’ll be happy to do it, yes?”

“Oh yes, sir,” she said grinning. “Jennie and I have it down to a fine art!” She looked at the boy and grinned a little more, saying “—And Matthew knows how thorough we are. Top to toe and all around, in and out and in between. All the length and breadth of him!”

Matthew flushed as the adults laughed and waved him away. ………………………………………………………………………………………………………

He fell asleep over the paper, though it seemed to be full of interesting news about Italy and Germany and even Britain. He was wondering idly about that when he drifted into a doze, and was awakened with a boisterous voice and a hand under his chin. “Wake up, wake up, Matthew! It’s twelve o’clock, it’s bath time! Come on!” Amelia tickled him and he opened his eyes to see the two of them, gazing at him with lewd grins. Oh God, he muttered to himself, it’s another bath, another feel-up. Why don’t they get tired of it? Slowly he got up and led the way to the bathroom, but Jennie took his hand to draw him to the apartment door. “Upstairs!” she said. “It’s all ready upstairs in madam’s apartment.” He shrugged and went out up the stairs to the other flat followed by the two girls, and knocked on the door. Raoul Bauvais opened it and grinned at him. “Come in, Mathieu!” he said. “We’re all waiting for you.” Matthew didn’t understand. All? Who? But he soon found out, with a resigned shock, that his bath was again to be shared with strangers.

“Ah, Matthew!” said Mrs G, “it so happens that some friends of Lisette have dropped by, they’re going to the party and we decided it was easier if they were picked up here, with you. So here they are. Let me introduce you.”

Matthew swallowed and shyly shook hands with four young girls, introduced as Claudine, twelve, Annette, thirteen, and Julie and Mérelle, fourteen-year-old twins. They looked at him with evident anticipation, and he knew what was in store.

“Right, girls, go and test the water. Matthew, you might as well undress here.”

He stared at her in dismay. “Here?” His voice cracked in a yelp.

“Yes, here,” said Mrs Grainger. “Ah, Jennie, the bath water is all right?”

“Yes, madam,” said the girl with a grin. “All ready for him.”

“Right, Matthew, undress.”

He sighed piteously and looked at the floor, but it was just as it had been before. He couldn’t get out of it. How did the bitch manage to find these randy girls, none of whom seemed to have any modest disinclination to see a naked boy, let alone touch him?

“Well, Matthew!” Mrs G clapped her hands, and he began to undo his buttons. Jennie and Amelia were openly amused at his blushes, which mounted as he neared nudity and the visitors eyed him with evident excitement..

The last garment came off, and Mrts Grainger motioned to her maids, saying “Now, girls, take the clothes downstairs. He’s going to wear some others when he leaves.” They snatched up the clothes, giggling, and left. Matthew couldn’t believe his ears. He stood there with his hands at his groin, conscious of the delighted stares of these new witnesses to his humiliation, and kept his eyes down. He couldn’t meet the gaze of these girls, just a bit younger than he, but then he just knew they weren’t looking at his face.

Then he looked up at Mrs Grainger, expecting to be told to go to the bathroom, but she smiled at him and spoke in French to one of the twins, “Do you want to see him, touch him? Admire that fine body of his. I bet you haven’t done this before, no? Well, all of you should feel free to look at him, all over, before you bathe him. Go ahead.”

Matthew understood only too well what she said, and anticipated her next order. “Matthew! Put your hands on your head, and allow the girls to examine you. Put your feet apart. Yes, like that! My, your erection is handsome, I’ll say that! Don’t look like that, you miserable boy! Suffer their attentions, try to enjoy the experience. Don’t you ever learn?”

He swallowed weakly and obeyed. The girls gave a concerted murmur of pleasure as they approached the quaking boy, to lay tentative hands on his arms, his back, his bum, his thighs, smoothing their fingers over his skin, down from his shoulders to his belly, down his sides to his waist, his—groin! His testes, his prick, his arsehole, his hot privates – hah! Publics! God, four young kids – girls, girls, at my prick! God!

Raoul Bauvais rose from the ottoman and sauntered over to the group, holding his newspaper, and looked at Lydia, who nodded. He laid the paper down on the floor, and stood back with folded arms to contemplate the spectacle.

They fingered the panting boy till he felt his penis begin to throb, and he gasped to Mrs Grainger, “Please, madam, I’m—I’m going to, to spend, any minute!” She had been contemplating the scene in amusement, but looked up at him to say “What?”

He raised his voice. “For God’s sake, I’m just about coming! Please—”

“Oh,” she said calmly, “just be sure to do it over there,” indicating the clear space on the floor where Bauvais had spread his paper. He lurched towards it, and the four continued their ministrations till he gave a moan of pleasure and ejaculated a fair bit, as he thought, of sperm into the air and onto the paper protecting the floorboards. The girls gave yells of glee at the sight, and stood back to watch till the last drop left his beleaguered penis, then looked at their hostess, who said merely “Wasn’t that exciting? Now take him away to the bath before the water gets cold.” Young Claudine, three whole years his junior, grabbed his hand and pulled him away followed by the others, grinning in anticipation. He looked back at Mrs G and her partner in crime, and tried to accuse them with his eyes of shameful abuse, but of course it was no use. They looked at him and shrugged, then looked at each other and laughed.

“Well,” said Lydia, “aren’t those other girls due to arrive? It’s half past twelve, surely.”

“Yes,” said Bauvais, “They should be here by now. But the traffic may be heavy. It was bad enough with carriages and fiacres, but with these motor cars, automobiles, it can get ridiculous. What’s your plan again?”

“As you know, Raoul, I tend to improvise a lot, so the ‘plan’ is rather amorphous. But in general they’re going to get to fondle him, maybe till he comes, and dress him, after lunch of course – he being naked up till then –“

Her lover’s face creased in a wicked smile. “Of course!”

“Then they take him off to the Dubois, after which things are again in the lap of the gods (as usual), and you and I have the place to ourselves. As to when he comes back et cetera, it all depends obviously on Mme Dubois, but as I said the guests will be sent packing by six or so. Ah! Here they are.”

Amelia came in to announce the arrival of another four girls, who looked around curiously as they were welcomed in rapid French. “Thank you, Amelia! Off you go. We’ll take it from here. Now girls, come in, make yourselves at home. This is M. Bauvais, who is preparing a little snack for you before you go to Mme Dubois.”

They introduced themselves: Simette (14), Vivienne (15), Marcelle (15), and Jeannine (15+), and sat down, chattering away for a while till the bath party appeared, and they crowed with excitement. Matthew was of course upset to find another four strange girls his own age laughing at his nakedness, but he wasn’t surprised. Mrs G introduced him to them, and they sat down to chatter, again, he standing in their midst in the classic position, not looking at them. Mrs G was treating him like part of the furniture, ignoring him, which was good, but the girls (all eight of them) kept glancing across at him and smiling lasciviously. It was too good to last of course. Raoul got up and went to the little kitchen to prepare a light meal, which broke up the conversation, and they all looked at Matthew together. Mrs G said brightly “Well, girls, perhaps it’s time to get closer acquainted. You four have bathed Matthew. Did you enjoy that?”

“Oh yes, madame, we did. We washed him all over and he got taut again, as taut as a deer! Then he came. It was funny and we all laughed.” Matthew understood what she said too well, and began to blush again. Mrs G continued, “But you others haven’t got to know him intimately. I want to correct that. Matthew, come forward.”

He padded over to stand before her and looked her in the eye, daring her to shame him yet again. She looked up at him and her lip curled in a sardonic smirk, saying “Turn round, face the girls.” He raised his eyes to meet theirs, all of them grinning in expectation, and he drew in his breath in an agony of humiliation. What would she do next?

“Put your hands to the nape of your neck.” The girls gasped as his erection was revealed. “Now, go to the middle of the room, and turn round so that all may see you plainly.” There were little chuckles and sounds of admiration from the audience, just a few feet from his trembling body. Mrs G called on Simette, the youngest of them, to approach him and directed her to touch his nipples. The contact was sensual, and made his penis twitch, to the girls’ amusement. Then she was told to feel his belly. She stroked him up and down, circling the navel and making him gasp, then it was his back. Lydia took the girl through all the erogenous zones, the backside, the anus, the groin, the scrotum, the poil and the queue, with its various individual parts, of which she evidently knew both the anatomical terms and the colloquial. The girls were enthralled by the lesson, and the chosen girl was quite excited, though Matthew was panting at the possibility he might ejaculate yet again. Mrs G finally halted her lecture, and the girl returned to her seat.

Bauvais called them to the table for a light meal, and Matthew was pressed into service as waiter, carrying plates to the table and dishing out water and wine. The girls, naturally, kept ogling him, and were not reluctant to give a pat to his backside or his erection, which lasted throughout the meal. Then it was time to dress him, and he was put into a shirt that had seen better days, as Lydia noted, but “It won’t matter,” she laughed, “for you’ll be losing it anyway soon enough!” A similar throw-away pair of trousers was soon covering his nakedness, and for the first time in hours he could breathe thankfully. He was then ignored again while the rest of them conversed in French, sometimes looking over at him and smiling in a smug sort of way, but he couldn’t be bothered working out, or even wondering about, what was in their minds. Then Mrs G seemed to be giving them instructions, or maybe some suggestions for their amusements at the impending party, and as he looked at her gestures he got an uneasy feeling she was telling them to … what? Push something into him? Oh God, what – then she was making tossing movements, as if throwing something. God, he thought, I bet I’m to be a naked Aunt Sally!

All too soon though Jennie came to tell them the carriage was at the door, and they all trooped down to board it. Mrs G and her lover waved them farewell, laughing at the doomed expression on Matthew’s face, and making jokes with the girls. Matthew closed his eyes and resolved to pay no attention to anything the boisterous teens said or did. Oddly enough they were well-behaved on the journey and sat quite sedately, conversing among themselves as if all was normal. It was only as they turned into an imposing gate that they looked directly at him and began to smirk in anticipation of fun to come.

Mme Dubois looked him over and gave a sort of scornful smile, then turned to go, saying only “Boy, you will do whatever the girls tell you. Is it understood?”

“Oh yes,” he said with a little shiver. “I understand, madame.”

She left to go into the house, and he was led down a path to a wide grass plot in a rather beautiful garden. Flagstones separated several sections of the shrubs and flowers and surrounded the lawn, where he found a half-dozen other girls with an average age, he supposed, of his own. Lisette took his arm and led him to a table covered in bottles and glasses, and indicated he was to convey drinks to the party girls. This he did for a short while, and thought about a drink for himself, but Francine forestalled him and offered a large glass of pink lemonade that he quaffed with relish. The sun was beating down on the garden and he was beginning to sweat. The girls, meanwhile, were drinking lemonade and chattering, and it seemed a rather pleasant way to spend an afternoon. But Matthew kept thinking of what would inevitably happen. He was really there for one purpose, and the delay in introducing it was making him very nervous. All of a sudden Hélène seized his arm and yelled to the others “Hey! Here’s a donkey. Anyone want a ride?”

He stared at them as they broke into cheers, and saw that this was the start of his humiliation. They surrounded him and argued about who would get first go, while he was pushed down to all fours and waited, sweating more copiously. His first customer was the birthday girl, followed by another, and another – until at the end of what seemed a long time he was not just sweating, but bathed in perspiration, being ridden all over the extensive lawn by thirty or so girls, who didn’t hesitate to whack him with their hands or a casual twig to urge him on. By this time the full complement of guests had arrived, seemingly about fifty of them, and Matthew begged them to let him rest, he couldn’t face carrying any more. Hélène relented and let him go back to serving drinks, now supplemented by sweets and little cakes, and for just a while all settled back into peaceful enjoyment of a Paris summer.

Then, just as he was about to pour a drink from a jug into a girl’s glass, he flinched and tensed up. She looked at him curiously. His eyes grew big and he put the jug down, turning to find the Dubois girls, or Lisette, presumably in charge of things. He walked away and the girl yelled at him with a frown, which quickly changed to an expression of impatient delight. Matthew hastened up to Lisette, standing on the flagstones at the edge of the lawn, and took her roughly by the elbow. She turned with a glare and he muttered “Sorry, Lisette, really, I’m sorry but you have to tell me where the … the toilet is.”

She looked at him with a sudden smile. “Do you want to go to the bathroom?” she asked deliberately.

“Ooh, yes, please, I can’t … I’ve got to …” He threw aside modesty and pressed his legs together, putting his hands to his crotch. Lisette looked down and said merely “Oh, I see. I’m sorry, I don’t know where it is. Hélène will know, over there. Hélène!”

Matthew was embarrassed as hell to be the subject of a shouted conversation between the two girls, and cringed as he became the centre of attraction, squirming with his hands over his crotch. Hélène didn’t seem to hear what her friend was saying, so she shouted louder. “The boy wants to pee! Look at him! Where’s the bathroom in your house?”

“Oh,” said Hélène nonchalantly, “there’s three, but maybe he can use the privy at the bottom of the garden.”

Matthew was so relieved he relaxed his anal sphincter and farted loudly. He was covered in blushes, and the girls roared with laughter. “Well,” he nearly screamed, “where the hell is it? Where’s the fucking privy? Oh God!!”

His body couldn’t maintain its control any longer, and he felt his sphincter give way. The girls stood in awe as he pissed himself in their midst, and made no pretence of modest indifference, but stared entranced as he wet those expendable trousers.

He finished urinating, and stood for a moment panting, wondering how he could function now with soaked trousers, and how he could look any of the girls in the face. Those that hadn’t seen him naked, at least. Then he trembled as he realised what they’d done. That drink – he might have guessed – was a typical Lydia or Abigail trick. And he knew there was more to come. He put his hand to his abdomen and breathed deeply, looking pleadingly at Hélène, then closed his eyes as he gave another fart. The girls shouted in bawdy glee as he turned round looking for an avenue of escape, but he didn’t know where the bloody privy was, and oh God!

The next fart drew with it the start of the shit, and he couldn’t move – what was the point? – as he gave these girls another exhibition. He clenched his teeth and bowed his head in abject shame as he felt the turds leave him, to stain the trousers and accumulate at his arse, sliding down his legs still wet with urine, to land at his feet till he was standing in a pool of his own ordure. Now what could he do?

It seemed an age that he stood there, the object of their vocal mockery, but it could only have been a few minutes. He was conscious of a girl saying it was just as well he hadn’t shat himself in the middle of the lawn. At least now they could clear it up. Hélène directed him to step out of the ruined trousers, and he did this, to the hoots of laughter of the company. He shielded his privates as well as he could, and looked round at the girls, all drinking in his crimson embarrassment. A gardener was summoned, who looked at the spectacle and laughed, then produced a hose and proceeded to hose him down, flushing the urine and excrement away into the bushes close to him. Inevitably the wet shirt clung to his body and transparently showed his nakedness to their amusement.

He was allowed no respite. He had to carry on with serving the girls, who now had every chance of ogling his nudity as he stood before them with the lemonade jug. Within a short time however the sun had dried the shirt and his body, and this induced the girls to make him the donkey again. This time they could slap his bare arse with their hands, which he found sexually stimulating, or with a twig, which hurt but oddly enough was even more stimulating. After a while Jeannine seemed to remember what Lydia had told them at the apartment, and a crowd descended on him to seize him and hold him on all fours while they took a carrot and flourished it in front of his horrified eyes before pushing it deliberately into his rectum. He couldn’t believe it – but there they were laughing at his degradation as he winced in discomfort at the process. They hadn’t been too rough, thank God, but it was not pleasant, and he felt as if he were shitting himself again.

They tired of this and hauled him over to a table laden with various mysterious containers, which turned out to be paint-pots. To decorate him they had to tear off his shirt, of course, and then they had to admire his torso with their hands. Everyone seemed to have a paintbrush, and set about ornamenting his body with a startling combination of colours. Matthew had to stand among them to be tickled unbearably by the brushes, which went everywhere, and in particular his backside, his arsehole, whose decoration was yanked out roughly, his seam, his scanty pubic hair and his ballocks, and naturally his penis, a favourite target, which changed colour forty times in twenty minutes.

His erection entranced them all, and they discussed it gleefully, but by this time he was deaf to their conversation and didn’t even look at them. When one of them brought a glass of lemonade to his lips he drank it in a sort of stupor before getting the awful idea that it would make him piss himself again. But what the hell, Raven he thought, They’ve seen it. They can’t do much more to me….

Then they frogmarched him over to where two small trees stood about five feet apart and quickly bound him between them, facing out to the giggling assembly, and he stood there presenting a penis at right angles to his abused body. Lisette took it upon herself, as the name-day girl, to make sure it stood up to salute them, and they all cheered as she stroked Matthew’s red (white and blue) prick to full attention. He was beginning to get frantic, having come to the very edge of ejaculation several times that afternoon, and was hoping for release at Lisette’s hands, but no, she merely stood back and told the others to line up.

This was what damnable Lydia Granger had been telling them – he knew when he saw Helène take up a half-dozen rings made out of cardboard, it seemed, painted in gay colours. He was to be the target of a hoop-la competition. He cringed as the girl threw her ring at his prick, and missed, but struck him in the belly, and it wasn’t terribly painful as he’d feared. But the next hit his erection, and the surprise made it wilt a little. “Oh,” said Helène, “someone go help him!”

Fourteen-year-old Simette, with auburn bobbed hair, darted forward with a squeal of joy and quickly restored his erection to grandeur. Matthew could see that this would be the process all the way. And God, he’d be brought to the fucking edge so many times! In the ensuing many minutes he was brought to that edge again and again, the girls who were lucky enough to ring his penis being careful to fondle him as they removed the rings, and those who just hit it rushed to repair the resulting detumescence.

They ultimately finished the game, and they all gathered round the winner, fifteen-year-old Marcelle, as she was presented with her prize – shades of the garden party! Of course, Mrs G had suggested it. The girl was allowed to sponge his body, removing most of the art work, then dry him, in the usual way of entering every crack and fondling every inch, till she brought him to the very edge again, and this time hauled him over. The rest of them squealed in glee as he bucked and spasmed, supported by his bonds, then bucked and spasmed again as she plied her fingers at his perineum and arsehole from behind him. He was milked dry, or so it seemed, and then freed, to serve drinks again, only this time the girls were able to fondle his prick as he did so, It took a while, but they managed to induce yet another ejaculation, and he sat down wearily.

The party ended shortly thereafter and he was led naked to the street and put into a cab, whose driver looked at him without curiosity and merely asked “Where?”. The girls paid him in advance and waved their victim off with laughter and kisses. Matthew sat in the car wondering if people would see his nudity, trembling at the thought of being discovered in the street. At the other end the cabbie stopped the car outside the door of the building and said “Here it is, kid. You had a nice time with your girls, eh? Hah! Oh, when I was young….”

The boy ignored him and peeked out to see how busy the street was, and breathed a relieved sigh to see no-one in the immediate neighbourhood. He opened the door and quickly darted out, the cabbie’s laughter still pursuing him, and got to the door. Which was shut, naturally, and God it seemed locked!

He couldn ‘t bang on the door, to attract attention, and Christ he saw folk coming down the street. His heart in his mouth, he turned and ran back into the cab, whose driver was just about to take off. “What are you about? You’ve had your ride, now be off. Off!”

“Please, monsieur,” babbled the poor waif, “je suis … je suis nu! Yes, je ne parle pas très bien….”

“Je comprends, mon enfant. Mais … you cannot stay ’ere. I ’ave other customers.”

Wearily Matthew rose to open the door again, and saw that the couple had passed by, thankfully without noticing him, and there were no other pedestrians in sight. He ran to the door and tugged at the handle. Then there was another at his side, and he gave a little shriek, covering himself, then gasped in relief when he saw the considerate cabbie had come to see what he could do. “It’s fine, kid, just wait,” his helper said, grasping the ornate handle in a big fist. “It’s probably just stiff.”

Matthew, meanwhile, was halfway to stiffness himself by this time, and tried to hide behind the cabbie as a couple walked by deep in conversation. Thank God for that, because they didn’t look in his direction. But it was only a matter of time before someone noticed him, and he cringed in the little porch beside the cabbie, who looked doubtfully at him and said he had to get going, but he’d try again.

After wrenching at the handle without success he rang the bell, at which Matthew shut his eyes in despair, not knowing who would answer it. There was a sound of little steps and the door swung back on its hinges. “Oh!” exclaimed a girl in a maid’s uniform, as she took in the unlikely sight, then looked at the cabbie, who told her something about the situation then clapped the boy on the shoulder and left. Matthew pushed past the maid and turned away, presenting just his trembling back to her amused eyes, and she leaned against the wall of the entrance hall and stared at the sight with a grin, wondering how she could turn the situation to her advantage, or only for a laugh.

“Stay there!” she commanded. “I have to see what to do with you.”

“No, please,” he babbled over his shoulder, “I must … je dois … get upstairs to the apartment.”

She grinned to herself, then approached his back, and deliberately put her hand to his shoulder. He quivered, and made more noises, but had to wait till he saw her intentions. Naturally, they were not to his liking. For a few excruciating minutes she ran her hands over his bare back, bum, yes, arsehole, of course, perineum, oh God! – and he had the awful idea that he might come right there in the lobby.

“You are English? Anyway, I think you’re up to no good. How did you lose your clothes? Or have you removed them to show yourself off and scare people? I think that’s it. You probably want to get into the apartments and steal things. I don’t believe you,” she said in English, “you’re probably trying to get in to burgle us, or rape us!”

“Please let me go upstairs,” he pleaded, “ask Mme Grainger, she knows me.”

“Hmm, peut-être.” She suddenly seized his arm and dragged him over to a door, which she thrust open to push him inside. He found himself facing a young woman of twenty perhaps, who looked at him with astonishment. The maid behind him explained his presence in a torrent of fast French, and the other burst into peals of laughter. “Oh, Thérèse,” she gasped, “this is a piece of luck! Can we keep him here? What a nice plaything!”

Matthew had covered himself again and looked at this new tormentor with an agonised expression. “Please,” he stammered, “s’il vous plaît, mademoiselle, je suis nu, et … et ….”

“Yes,” she said, “we can see you are naked, all too plainly! But what have you been doing? You’ve got paint on your bum! I think you’re a clown, yes, a circus clown, though I’d love to see your act! Come, do it for us! Dance for us!”

He understood what she was asking him to do, and after an incredulous hesitation he thought that if he amused them for a bit they might let him go, so he looked around and took up a position in the middle of the carpet. The other two sat down on an ottoman and stared at him roguishly, telling him to begin. He sighed and tried to remember how he’d entranced the Academy girls. There was no music, but he imagined some in his head, and began to move sinuously, still shielding his privates, till he unveiled them in a quick motion and the girls gasped with excitement. He was getting good at this, he thought.

Five minutes later he was beginning to tire, though his member was still fairly upright. He got something of a shock when the door opened and another two girls came in. This had to be a room for the staff, he realised, and there was no knowing how many could turn up. The new arrivals, aged about seventeen maybe, were amazed at the spectacle, which was quickly explained to them – this naked clown was performing a dance for them – and so settled down to enjoy it. Matthew was cringing at another bawdy audience, but had to continue, and finally stopped, tired and despairing, at which they surrounded him and began stroking him, probably to encourage another dance, but he had to get relief, and writhed under their touch till he stood up and thrust out his pelvis, inviting another hand, it seemed – only it was to ejaculate in a pleasurable (yes) spasm, to their loud amusement.

They laughed as they took him to the door, and the first girl told him he could go upstairs. “Though God knows what Mme Grainger can do for you,” she said. “Good luck!” And he was pushed out into the hall. He took a deep breath and bolted up the stairs, to bang on the apartment door, hoping no-one else came by. Amelia opened the door to him and shrieked with laughter. Jennie joined her, and pointed out where traces of his ornamentation still showed. The girls led him, chuckling, to the bathroom, where he got another wash to remove the paint from his arse. Catherine came in halfway through the process, and was allowed to finish off the bath, which she did with a flushed face and an internal quiver of lust as her hands went over his body. He for his part, having been sexually aroused much of the afternoon, and still randy after coming for the girls, was quickly aroused again, and it only needed the other two to put their hands to his body to make him come again, copiously, to the delight of all three of them, and actually all four.

He was dried and dressed, and told to report upstairs. Mrs G was reclining on her couch, Bauvais at her side, listening to that wireless apparatus that Bryden despised. “Ah!” she exclaimed, “so here you are, back from your star performance! Tell us how it went. And I mean everything,” she said with a hint of menace.

He stumbled through an accurate account of the awful afternoon, knowing that she’d get the details anyway from Dubois, and the adults were vastly amused. “I hope you thanked them for inviting you, Mathieu,” said Bauvais. “And I hope they thanked you for coming. Haha!” He broke into a bray of laughter, and Mrs G smiled at his pun.

“Yes,” she said, “it seems to have been a success. Perhaps we can do some more of that sort of thing.” She laughed out loud at his expression. “Not in the near future though. I’m sending you to Vaulx tomorrow. To sunny Provence, to soak up the rays and turn as brown as a berry maybe. I think you have the skin for it, the physiology. We’ll talk about that tomorrow.”

He went downstairs to tell the others, who got quite excited. Catherine looked at him with a meaningful smile, and he just knew she was silently promising him some loving attention, some naked cuddling, away from the eyes of the adults. He nodded and smiled, and after a quiet evening went to bed with a smile still on his face. Vaulx called, and he was ready to go.

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

Saturday 18th July

“Right, you’re going to Vaulx today. I shall follow in a few days. You’ll be under the direction of Mlle Maury, who’ll take you to Marseille. My local servant, Pascau, will collect you and take you to the estate. There you’ll be attended to by him and his daughter Mireio. I need hardly say I expect you to behave yourselves. Roam around, see the countryside, have a dip in one of the pools on the property – there aren’t many, believe me! – and sunbathe. Be careful of the sun, mind. Actually you should ask Mireio to find an oil that the local doctor invented to prevent being burned. It’s rather good, made from opoponax and things,” she said vaguely. “Apart from that, you might think about helping Pascau in the garden, with the olive trees, or Mireio in the kitchen, or washing the floor, or that sort of thing. As I said, I’ll be there in a few days, say a week hence, on the 25th. So pack your bags, and be ready to leave in an hour.”

They found Justine at the station, and hurried into the sleeping carriage, Mrs G waving goodbye like a fond aunt, and Bauvais grinning in anticipation of unhindered frolicking with his amour for a whole week. The motion of the train made them all a little drowsy, and they quickly retired to their own little berths, in some excitement at this new chapter in their adventure, for they all had different ideas about the sort of place they were bound for. Matthew kissed Catherine goodnight and went to his quarters, where he shed his clothes, not bothering about a nightshirt, and crawled into the bunk, wondering what was ahead in Provence. He found that he couldn’t get to sleep, and thought about getting up for a book, but then was startled by the sound of the door opening softly. He lay there petrified, and didn’t move as the intruder came over to the bunk and gently raised the sheet. Then he found his voice to whisper “Who’s there? Listen, you mustn’t….” She slid carefully into the bed and snuggled up to him, and he realised she was naked too. Then she spoke, and he knew who had come to seduce him.

“Mathieu, mon amour! Mon enfant, mon beau, je te désire. Embrasse-moi, chéri, baise-moi!” She put her arms round him and her mouth found his. He reacted to her nakedness with an eager erection, and her hands roved over his body and quickly brought him to the edge of orgasm. He was muttering her name by now, and trying to plead with her to leave him alone, but his body had other ideas and he couldn’t help himself. He shifted to place his penis by her vagina, and she guided him in. They kissed in the French fashion and he began to move his pelvis against hers, while she murmured endearments in the language of love. Soon they were in full motion, and she raised her legs to clasp them behind his back. The heaving embrace went on for what seemed a long time before he realised he was about to ejaculate, and he cried “Justine, I’m coming! I’m –” She kissed him again and strove against him, their bodies now slick with sweat. He gasped as he reached the crest and felt the evacuation of his seed into her belly. He continued to thrust while she gasped in her turn, then both lay silent and exhausted.

After a while she eased herself out of the bed and leaned over to stroke his hair. “I don’t know if we’ll meet again, Mathieu,” she said quietly, “so I tell you this. I am proud to have been the woman to take your virginity, and I will never forget you. In the morning, I won’t say anything except goodbye. Bonne chance in your life, chéri. Adieu.”

The door closed, and he lay for a long time staring into the darkness. She’d be off tomorrow, and he might never see her again. He’d think of her, though, he was sure of that… And what about Catherine?

Next door, Jennie lay awake, listening to the soft pad of bare feet passing the door. The French teacher had had sex with Matthew! An indignant feeling of jealousy grew in her. She’d wondered about the boy’s sexual prowess herself since she’d helped Amelia frig him after the bath, but she knew she couldn’t do much about it at the house. Mlle Maury had managed it in the sleeper train, though, and he seemed willing enough. But what about the estate in Provence they were approaching? There might be lots of opportunity for a nice fuck at Vaulx. Yes, she decided, she’d work on that….

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

Sunday 19th July

Marseille, Vaulx

Justine pretended all was normal, but Jennie let her know by her expression that she knew about that nocturnal bout of sex. Still, with a straight face she introduced them to Marseille, a sea-port and sailors’ hangout, full of dives and dens, and a city of some repute, not all of it wholesome. A taxi took them about here and there, and later she relaxed at an inevitable café and could talk about the Marseillaise (of course).

“I expect you want to hear about how the song came to be written. Well, after the Revolution and the Bourbons were toppled, the rest of Europe looked on with unease, and downright horror, and thought that this sort of thing had to be stamped out. So you have the army of the revolution facing the experienced Habsburg armies and allies. Strasbourg and other cities along the Upper Rhine saw the enemy, call them the Coalition of Empire, massing on the east side of the river Rhine. This was in April of 1792. The mayor of Strasbourg asked a young soldier with musical ambitions to compose a song to rally the troops, and the populace, against that threat. The soldier was called Rouget de Lisle, and he came up with what he called Chant de guerre pour l'Armée du Rhin (that is, ‘War Song for the Army of the Rhine’), and dedicated the song to Marshal Nicolas Luckner, who was a Bavarian in French service. (Two years later, I may tell you, he was executed by guillotine for failing in his duty, I suppose.) It caught on, and was memorably sung by the militia from Marseille, and it got that name then.

“It was banned, naturally, under the Empire and the Restoration, but it came back into favour with the revolution of 1830, and Berlioz made an elaborate orchestration, which he dedicated to Rouget de Lisle, who was in his seventies by then.

“It’s a terrible tune,” she said. “Don’t look surprised. Why should I pretend otherwise if I don’t like it? Am I supposed to, just because I’m French? There are besides many national anthems which are bad tunes, and bad words too. That one is an odd tune that doesn’t go anywhere. Think about it: the pieces of melody that make up the tune are all separate, a few bars that don’t repeat, but go on to another piece with no real connection between them.”

“Hey, you’re right,” said Matthew. “The only bit that happens twice is ‘Aux armes citoyens’, isn’t it. Yes, all the others seem sort of random, stuck together!”

“But the whole thing is – it’s greater than the sum of its parts, you might say. And it is stirring. It’s incredibly memorable, surely. And look at the way Schubert quotes it in The Two Grenadiers.”

“Very well, Catherine, but then consider the words. I have never liked the savagery of the sentiments.”

The girl looked puzzled. “What do you mean?” she asked.

“Don’t you remember how it goes? ‘Qu’un sang impur Abreuve nos sillons!’ – which means ‘Let an impure blood overflow our gutters!’ Surely that’s savage enough for anyone!”

“You’re right again,” said Matthew, nodding. “Still, I think I’d be right in thinking that most sing it without a single thought as to what it means. Rather like our own anthem. God Save the King is a rather pathetic tune, as well. I bet you it’s appreciated mostly by exiles like us, English expatriates, and Americans too, because they use the same tune for something, don’t they? Because a little bit of one’s home, however banal or whatever, when you’re away from it, reminds you of what you left behind …, you know what I mean?”

“Exactly, Mathieu, c’est ça. So anyway that is why I do not like the Marseillaise. I do not tell everybody, though!”

“I can see,” said Catherine, “that you wouldn’t want to be labelled as unpatriotic. When I think of it though, surely there was a reaction to the revolution? Not everybody accepted it. Yes, wasn’t there a Peasants’ Revolt or something?”

“Quite so, Catherine, in several places actually. In the Vendée, on the coast, they rose because they didn’t approve of what the rebels, the Convention, were doing to the church. Also in Brittany, Les Chouans, written about by Balzac, which was mostly because of the forced conscription, I think. Someone even composed a contremarseillaise, to the tune. But we should start going back to the station. My leaving point and your rendezvous with Mme Grainger’s driver.”

The quartet thanked Justine for the sightseeing tour of the old seaport and said goodbye, Matthew looking into her eyes with a fond thankfulness, saying to himself that he would probably never forget the woman who taught him how to fuck, like Lycainion. She kissed him warmly and merely said “Bonne chance. Adieu.” She went off to her train and they went outside, where they were met by a man in his mid-forties, lean, with sad brown eyes and a large moustache, who spoke to them in French and then seeing their bewilderment, in strongly accented English, so that he sounded like a caricature. “Welcome, welcome! I ’ave se car ’ere. You are se servans ov Madame Grainger. Zo ’ere it is. I call myselve Pascau.” They looked at him curiously, and Catherine felt she had to say something. Summoning up her best and clearest pronunciation, she said “Bonjour, monsieur Pascau. Nous sommes très … ah, contents être ici. Sorry, Mr Pascau, but we’re not good at French.” His face lit up as he said “Ça, ce n’est rien, rien! Je suis … I am ’appy you try to speak our belle langue. ’Ere is se car, enter please.” The car was a large vehicle that had a capacity for at least half a dozen and luggage, so they could space themselves out. The noise of the car was slight, but conversation with the driver was limited, and for the last several miles they rode in silence. They could however look out at the countryside they were passing through, and exchange remarks, mostly exclaiming over the beauty of the view. Catherine was comparing it to what she’d seen of the paintings done by such as Van Gogh and other Impressionists, and remarked to Matthew that while they were true to the look of the countryside, that countryside was amazingly superior somehow. “It’s true, as Abigail said, the colours are more real somehow, more vibrant. And look at that meadow of lavender. Oh! I am glad we’re here, Matthew.” The others chimed in to agree, and Pascau, who seemed to understand every word, beamed at their appreciation of his native land.

Several hours later, after dusk, they halted beside a gate and Pascau got down to fling it open. He called something out and a figure appeared with a lantern. “Please, people, enter, zis is my daughter Mireio. She will show you everysing.” They clambered out and were led into the house through a little garden. They found themselves in a largish airy room with a small fire at one end, furnished with plain wooden tables and chairs. The floor was flagged stone; window sills in the thick walls bore vases of flowers, and several lamps brightened the place. Their guide was a small woman with tanned skin and black curly hair, who introduced herself as Mireio. She had some English but forbore to try conversation. She led her charges through to where they would sleep, saying “Boy,” “Cathérine,” “Jennie,” “Amélie,” and then pointing to another large room, “Madame.” She led them back to the first room and through to another, evidently the kitchen-cum-living room, and said “Eat here. Supper is ready. Sit.” They obeyed with smiles of appreciation for the aromas that they caught in the air, but Amelia asked “What about washing our hands? And ... maybe having a pee?” Mireio looked unsure, and Catherine tried to help. “Merci, Mireio,” she said carefully, “mais we … nous voulons laver les mains, s’il vous plaît.” The girl’s face cleared and she smiled, evidently pleased at the attempt at her language, and, Catherine realised, pleased that she’d been addressed in the polite plural, and not the familiar singular for a servant. “Mais oui,” she said, “is ’ere,” and led them through in the other direction to a small bathroom, where they took turns washing and using the lavatory, which they discovered they needed after the long ride. Then back to the living room where the girl placed steaming dishes on the table and indicated they should help themselves. The meal was quiet, for they were all tired with travelling, but friendly and relaxed. A carafe of wine was on the table and they all partook of it freely, but Matthew was interested to notice no befuddlement, just good humour. By mutual consent they had an early night, and thanked Mireio for a pleasant meal before going through to their bedrooms. The night was warm, and Matthew decided to sleep naked again, imagining the others were doing the same. Erotic thoughts came into his head, but he was too sleepy to maintain them. The sheets were cool and comfortable. So this was Provence! He’d be happy here….

==================================-----------------------------------------------------------Monday 20th July

A ramble, a good spot to cuddle

After breakfast they all helped with washing up, and the two other girls went strolling in the garden. Catherine looked at Matthew and said “It’s going to be lazy days, I think. Feel the warmth! What was that about a sun oil?”

“Ask Mireio,” said Matthew. “I suppose she meant it’s around here somewhere in a cupboard.”

Catherine went to find her, and practised her French. The girl smiled and went to a cupboard, right enough, to produce a big bottle labelled “Esprit de Soleil”, which she proferred to them, saying in careful French “This ‘Spirit of the Sun’ is really pleasant, with an attractive odour of balsam and flowers. The local doctor devised it. If you rub it on your body before going out into the sun, I think you will gain a pleasant colour. Good luck!”

“Merci, Mireio,” they chorussed, and she smiled at them, saying to herself that these were very amiable English children, nothing like – ah, she’d better not start that.

“Well,” said Matthew, “I think it’s not very proper for us to sunbathe together unless we’re quite dressed, don’t you think? At the same time, we really should try to let the sun get at all of us. So I suggest we divide the lotion in two, getting another bottle, and each finds a favourite private spot, hmm?”

“Good idea!” exclaimed his friend, “I’ll get one from Mireio. Don’t you think she’s very nice?”

“Yes,” said Matthew, “the pair of them. I’m going to like it here, I can tell. Away you go and we’ll decant the stuff into another bottle, then we can explore. My, I’ll love to see you with a nice caramel look to you!”

They wandered around for a bit, trying to get an idea of the size of the estate, which seemed to be enormous, but that was because it was kept in a state approaching wilderness, or at least a nicely groomed variety. Moss sprang under their feet, and lush grass bordered a little stream; rocky crags were visible in the near distance, and they discovered a small pool, or large pond, with crystal clear water – just the spot to dive in, said Matthew to himself – bushes and berries, trees and calling birds in them, and the throbbing sound of cicadas. The estate did have some tended crops, mainly olive trees, and a fairly small plantation of vines. The children wondered how one old man could look after all this, but Mireio told them that her father often got help from the neighbours, and the village of Vaulx, some miles away. Yes, there were three springs on the estate, and another little lake they might bathe in, and a small mountain even, at the very end, which was the boundary between them and a neighbour, M. Bertin, who, said Mireio, was not very sociable, practically a hermit, and it would be better if they didn’t go near him. On the other hand the neighbour to the south, now, was a different story. He was called Giraud, and was a delightful old man of sixty who looked like Père Noel.

They would of course see the village – a real town, now – and meet the people. They would be made welcome, said Mireio, telling herself that they at least would, though Madame, when she came, would be left in her solitude quite readily by the townsfolk, who were ready to suffer her condescension as the price of doing business, and she did employ men and boys in the garden and the fields, after all.

Matthew and Catherine found a nice shady spot under a gnarled old beech that seemed to invite them to sit and admire the sultry greenery. After a while, they looked at each other and nodded, then relaxed into an embrace.

“God,” said Matthew, “this is just so … beautiful and … cosy and … peaceful! Let’s just lie here and breathe the air, and ….”

“And kiss!” said his lover. “This is the place for it!”

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Tuesday 21st July

To the village by donkey cart; Jeremy visits Bryden

“Mathieu,” said Mireio, “mon père, my papa says I should take you to our village in the charrette. Will you come?”

“Oh, certainly!” he said. “Is there room for Catherine as well?”

“Mais oui! I fetch Modestine.”

The donkey looked at them solemnly and showed her teeth. “Bonjour, Modestine!” said Catherine, holding out her hand.

“She doesn’t bite or anything, does she?” asked Matthew with some anxiety.

“Ah, no!” laughed Mireio, “she is very sweet, aimable. But she is … obstinée, qu’ est ce que….”

“Obstinate, stubborn!” said Matthew. “Oh, that’s all right, I expect all donkeys are. So anyway, this is Modestine, named after Stevenson’s donkey!”

“Yes,” said Mireio nodding. “Madame thought it was very droll to name ’er like that. Now mount into the charrette and we go.”

The donkey didn’t balk at being asked to take them in the little cart on a trip she evidently knew by heart. Mireio gave them to understand that they’d have no difficulty in driving by themselves, and they were pleased at the prospect of freedom of movement without relying on anyone else. On the way she sang them a local song, which charmed them to bits, and seemed to please the donkey, and the whole excursion was very pleasant. In town (it was more than a mere village) she showed them the bakery, the wine shop, a book shop, a quaint old café, and the library, which had evidently been a gift to the town by Mrs Grainger, as had the public urinal in the square.

“Oh, it’s nice that she gave things to the town,” said Catherine.

Mireio looked askance. “Yes,” she said, “it is very good. Madame ’as done good things for the town.” She changed the subject quickly. “ This,’ere is the church, it is a church catholique, oui? We ’ave a priest, ’is name is Père Michel. Is a very good man, is very clever. I know ’e speaks English. I am sure ’e will like to meet you.”

“Oh good,” said Matthew, “we were hoping we could talk to some of the villagers. If he knows English, that’ll be an advantage. Can we see him now, d’you think?”

“But yes, if ’e is not busy. Come.” She led them to a door at the side of the old church and knocked. In a minute it was opened by a short man in his fifties perhaps who smiled to see Mireio, to whom he spoke in the local patois. She answered him and introduced the children. Père Michel looked at them with interest and said “Ah! You are welcome, children! I am Father Michel, what you call Michael, is it not? Named after one of the archangels perhaps! So you are Catherine, my dear, welcome to Provence! And Mathieu also. I am pleased to meet you. It will be very useful to me to practise my English. But please, come inside, come.” He led them into a little parlour and sat them down, offering a glass of wine, which they readily accepted.

“So! You are here with Mme Grainger! It is two years since she was here. How is she?” He looked at them with raised eyebrows.

“Well,” said Catherine, “she’s fine, but she’s not here yet. She’s still in Paris with a … friend. She’ll be coming in a week or so. Will you be calling on her?”

She looked in surprise at the priest and Mireio as they snorted in laughter. “Oh, my dear, pardon! It is not very likely,” said the priest with a wry look. “She is not a parishioner, and doesn’t want to be. She is the great lady on her estate, but doesn’t invite visitors.”

Mireio chimed in. “Père Michel, you will not come to the ’ouse, but I am sure Mathieu and Catherine want to talk with you. I ’ope you will invite them to visit you.”

The priest smiled. “But yes, Mireio! Mes enfants, please come to visit me. I’m not asking you to attend our church, though it’s a pretty church, quite old, and you might like some of our hymns. But I’ll be happy to see you whenever you call. I’m sure Mme Grainger will allow Mireio to bring you.”

“No, mon père,” she said, “I am sure pretty Modestine will be able to bring them any time.”

He laughed. “That may be true. She’s a very clever animal. Modestine,” he said, turning to Matthew, “is from your English writer Stevenson—”

“Yes, Father,” he said, “I know, it’s Robert Louis Stevenson. He was Scottish, though.”

The priest looked dismayed at his error, but Catherine reassured him. “Don’t worry, Father,” she said, “we’re not Scottish. If we were we’d chide you for such a mistake. But I seem to remember that Stevenson was liable to call himself English on occasion. And he wouldn’t resent being called by the name of the Old Enemy! But anyway, what Mireio is saying is probably true. Modestine will be able to bring us in to town any time. I think Mrs Grainger will want to come with her other two servants, but Matthew and I can come, and please, allow us to visit you. We can look around the village of course, have a coffee at that little café. And practise our French.”

“But of course. As I said, children, you are most welcome. Perhaps you, or Mireio, can telephone to make sure I’m here, and unoccupied? And perhaps we can make a schedule of possible visits, no? That is for next time, however. And I’ll show you some old documents, old historical documents of the area. I have some interesting books here, I hope you’ll find them so anyway. Now however I have some things to do, so I’ll ask you to excuse me. I’m very pleased that you came, I’m glad to have met you.”

“And us too, Father,” said Catherine, as they rose, “we’re very pleased to meet you. Your English, by the way, is very good.”

His eyes twinkled. “Thank you, Catherine! I have tried to maintain it, for one reason at least, that is to be able to speak to other English who come to visit, come to mass, for example, and I have sometimes played a joke on them if they think I do not know English – many tourists assume we villagers are quite ignorant of everything, including the noble English language! But there’s several here who have at least some English. It depends on the opportunity to practise, of course. The schoolteacher, the librarian, the music teacher, and our maire, for instance, they all understand and speak English quite well. It wasn’t always so, naturally. Your mistress was here five years ago, and then it was one of the sleepiest little places, still in the eighteenth century, practically. It was just about as sleepy two years ago when she returned. But now it calls itself a town, as you can see. We’re quite proud of it. Anyway, you must excuse me. Mireio, give my regards to your father. He’s a good man. I’ll see you, I hope, on Sunday. Goodbye, children, and God bless you.”

He waved goodbye as Modestine took them off, then frowned in an inexplicable worry. Was he disturbed that Mme Grainger was coming back, or that these two nice children were in her house?

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“Good afternoon, young fellow!” Bryden greeted the boy on the doorstep. “Come in, come in. Put your coat over there, and come through to my quarters. What’s your name?”

“It’s Jeremy Crowther, sir.”

“Well, Jeremy – I hope I may call you that, hey? I’m old enough to be your grandfather.”

Jeremy felt curiously at ease with the old butler, and asked “How old are you, sir?”

Bryden laughed. “I’ll be sixty-six in six weeks. And how old are you, may I ask?”

“Sixteen, sir.”

“Ah, Lord,” said Bryden, “what a pity youth is wasted on the young!” Jeremy looked bewildered as he followed his host into a comfortable room with a leather-covered easy chair and a short couch facing the fireplace, where a small fire burned cheerfully. “I hope you’re not too warm, Jeremy, the fire is really just for comfort’s sake, not the heat. Sit you down and I’ll make you some tea. You’ll have some, won’t you?”

“Oh, yes please, sir, I am a bit dry actually.”

The tea was masking in the pot, and Bryden looked at his guest. “Mr Barry said you’d been here before.” To his amazement the boy blushed deeply. He asked in concern “What’s the matter? Was there some trouble?”

Jeremy sighed, “Mr Bryden, Mr Barry said I was to be frank with you about everything, and answer your questions. Maybe I should start by telling you what I told him a little while ago. I came up here one Saturday in June to deliver some papers for Mrs Grainger to sign, and … had an extraordinary experience. I came in to the morning room and saw…. I saw a naked girl in the middle of the room, and Mrs Grainger at ease having tea.”

He went on to tell his tale as he had told it to his employer, his cheeks maintaining their blush, and Bryden listened with a serious face, only prompting him now and again. When he finished his shame-faced recital he added “Mr Barry comforted me somehow by letting me know he didn’t blame me for joining in the business, it was our client after all, and she had to be catered for. And he meant that he understood me being eager to touch her intimately. I’m only sixteen, Mr Bryden, and she was lying there naked….” Bryden saw his eyes get a faraway look, and knew the teenager was remembering the scene, with longing perhaps, certainly with a young boy’s capacity for lust.

He cleared his throat. “Thank you for telling me, Jeremy. I appreciate what it cost you to tell about this. But I’m very grateful, because the tale encourages me to persevere in my purpose, which, I’ll tell you frankly, is to help that girl in any way I can. She has been – as you may realise – humiliated quite systematically by Mrs Grainger. Your presence was unexpected, and was in the nature of a bonus. She would enjoy that session, because she’d see how the girl was shamed before you. You didn’t just see her naked, after all. You were encouraged to touch her very intimately. This is on a par with other things Mrs G has done, to my knowledge. Listen: I get the impression you regret taking part in the show, that you sympathise with young Catherine, that you’d make up for it if you could, right?”

Jeremy nodded, still red, and said “Yes, Mr Bryden. So if there’s anything I can tell you that can help her in any way, I’ll do it.”

Bryden smiled. “Well, Jeremy, you may be able to help her in ways you don’t see right now. And first you can tell me as much as you know, from personal knowledge or hearsay, or what Mr Barry has told you, about this lawyer in Croydon.”

“Yes, sir. There’s quite a lot. I can see why Mr Barry said it had to be passed on to you in private, viva voce, because some of it is quite … detrimental.”

Bryden nodded encouragingly. “Lay on, MacDuff! This should be interesting. But first, let’s have our tea.”

***

“Mr Barry divided the information, classified it, into harmless gossip, harmful gossip and innuendo, shady dealings, questionable legality, and criminal.”

“My goodness,” said Bryden, “I suppose that covers a great deal.”

“It does, sir, and Mr Barry was quick to tell me that I had to differentiate myself. There’s things like adultery, and improper dealings with a minor (that’s a girl of nine)—”

“What!” exclaimed Bryden in outrage, “Nine!” He drew a breath. “All right, I mustn’t interrupt you. But perhaps I should take notes?”

“I think you’d better, sir. There’s quite a lot, and it gets a bit complicated. I have some things written down here, but I’ve to take them away with me, you understand. Your notes will be your notes, and nothing to do with us. You do understand—”

“Oh yes, lad, of course. Discretion and ignorance! Oh, you lawyers! But in all seriousness, I hope you convey my respects to your employer, and tell him I’m immensely grateful to him for his help. Before I even hear all this, I thank him for it.”

“Right, sir. Did I say that Mr Barry knows all about Catherine Hammond, though he’s never met her. And I know he sympathises with her and her position. He handled the correspondence with that old woman who runs the orphanage, Mrs Grove, who seems to be … quite an unpleasant person. Really, sir, she seems a … real bitch. Excuse me—”

Bryden smiled. “Jeremy, Jeremy! If the cap fits, put it on her! From what I gather from Catherine’s rather reserved comments about her time in the orphanage, Mrs Grove is indeed a bitch, a sadistic harridan who takes scant care of her charges, and somehow or other the money that arrives from charities and the local council never makes much difference in the lives of the children. It seems the visitors who inspect the place are blind to the imperfections in what they see, and there’s a lot they don’t see. But anyway, drink up and tell me about the egregious Mr Bigby.”

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

Notes re Jonas Bigby

Age 51 (born 1873 in Ireland – background unknown since records were destroyed in Irish Civil War)

Married 1903 in Ipswich to Lily Smart, 19, of 4 Royal Road, Ipswich. – Mother Gladys Smart, JB’s landlady. No issue.

Passed exams 1898, set up as solicitor in Croydon with James Cartwright, QC, an “old friend”. Moved to present address, 82 Haig Street, in 1918. Began dealing in properties 1916, bought shares in several companies. Gossip: Like many another, made money from the war, and invested rather well. The companies he had shares in prospered up until 1923, when they began to retrench. By the end of the year B had lost approximately £20,000. Meanwhile he was handling the estates of six different individuals, two of whom died in the war. Another two died in the influenza pandemic of 1918-19. Curiously, they all left very little money. Two died intestate, and one of those, a certain Latimer Fisk, seems to have withdrawn all his money from the bank some months before his death, but no trace of it was found in his effects. Sutton died in February 1924 and his will allowed the executor to handle the estate until niece Catherine Hammond came of age. Unfortunately Sutton did not have enough collateral to fulfil his bequests, and Catherine was an orphaned pauper. The farm was sold and the girl sent to an orphanage in Cumberland. Curiously however Mr B settled all his debts, which were considerable, bought a new car, went on holiday with his wife to Monaco, and seems to have given a bonus of sorts to his partner.

Liaison with Nancy Carstairs (25) in 1910; current mistress Jane Howarth (19) of Park Street, Croydon – wife obviously ignorant of this?

In 1912 he was interviewed by police about allegations he had behaved improperly to a girl of 9, Roberta Raines. Nothing was proved, he was left alone. In 1913 he was seen in her company entering a cinema, and the informant (gossip) saw them leave hand in hand and go into a private house. The address was that of a woman of very low repute, practically a procuress if other accounts are to be believed. The inference is that he’d kept up the liaison all year, and RR was really a child-mistress. Nothing further known of this business, but perhaps significant that in 1914 an eleven-year-old girl identified only as “Bobby” was involved in a case of attempted drowning; and in 1916 a 13-year-old was institutionalised in connection with a prosecution for abortion. The defending KC in the latter case happened to be James Cartwright.

A lawyer acquaintance (who refuses the title of ‘brother lawyer’) calls him that other Jonas, Dickens’s Chuzzlewit. He has few friends, and those are not well regarded by ‘honest men’ (says my informant, who is by no means a prig – Bigby for him is a very shady character indeed, and I get the impression he would love to bring him down).

Possibility of malfeasance.

Some dubious actions in regard to land sales, etc., during the war. Records?

Divorce proceedings?

Insinuations in the Sunday papers about the girl – who is 22 by now. Still inside?

More investigation to be done!

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Matthew woke with a start to find a lithe body sliding into the bed. He hardly had time to register the fact when Jennie seized him and pressed herself to him. His erection was natural and swift. He tried to edge away but she pursued him and breathed in his ear “Oh Matthew, I’ve been waiting for this. And so has Mrs G.” He gave a low moan. Mrs G wanted him to fuck her! But what about Catherine? It wouldn’t be bad if she wanted that. “Here I am, Matthew.” She seized his erection and placed it by her eager vagina. Christ, I want to fuck her! Christ! He accepted the fact of his own lascivious drive, and joined his body to hers. Soon they were heaving their bodies, panting, sweating and mouthing senseless noises. Matthew forgot all else, Catherine, Mrs G, even the girl underneath him, just conscious of the need to spew his semen into that willing receptacle. He heard nothing, he felt only her smooth body in his arms, and the thrusting of that body against his strokes. It didn’t take too long to climax and fall breathless on her bosom. They lay panting for a while, then Jennie extricated herself, kissed him, and left. He lay back and felt his heart still beating wildly. She had been planning this for a while, he supposed. And she must have heard the session with Justine on the train. But why do they all want to fuck me? I’m not good at it, am I? I’m not used to it. But wait, you randy sod, you’re getting used to it, aren’t you? You enjoyed that. You enjoyed Justine, and going back to her first seduction. You’ve enjoyed all those girls, and Jennie’s just the latest. Catherine—Oh, Catherine! I enjoy fucking you too! But you aren’t in the same category, not the same league, as all those others. They’ve just been sex, or lust, haven’t they? But with you, my darling, it’s something else. What did Elizabeth say? Another girl was a practice for the real thing? Well, all right, that confessedly enjoyable fuck was another practice for the next time Catherine and I get naked together and lie with each other in love. Love ….

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