Mrs Grainger's Gift 25

By Ritchie Moore

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Copyright 2016 by Ritchie Moore, all rights reserved

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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 XXV
 
=====================================================================
 
Friday 31st July
 
Matthew at the doctor’s. Catherine’s anointing from the boys
 
 “Catherine,” said Mrs Grainger with an ominous smile. “you should have your ointment again. That nice boy Ugues was useful yesterday, and he’s probably told all his pals about it. Oh my, you should have seen his erection! Well, today….”
 
The girl looked at her with thudding heart. Oh no, please God, not again! But she knew full well what the detestable woman wanted to do, and she couldn’t get out of it. Oh, the bravery they had started with those months ago! But it was becoming unendurable, all this, this endless series of shaming situations…. Lydia broke into her despairing thoughts.
 
“Go and get the salve, it’s in your room, is it? Bring it out here in the sun.” She went off with a heavy heart, and when she came back she found her tormentor talking to four of the boys, who looked up at her approach with eager grins.
 
“Ah, Catherine! The boys have heard from Ugues, as I thought. He isn’t here to show them what to do, but I’ve explained, and they are in full sympathy with your problem. Right, now give the salve to Toumas here. He’s all of fourteen years old, he tells me, and just champing at the bit, as they say, to get his hands on you. Oh yes, girl, I’m being quite open with you. As you are to be with him, and his pals, who are here to witness the procedure. Now what are you wearing? That short dress, yes, and under it what, a slip? Right. Take the dress off. Ah now, that’s fine, the slip just comes down to your pubis! No knickers. Excellent. Don’t cover up, miss! Now how did we do with Ugues … Right. Down on all fours, and stick your bum out.
 
“There she is, Toumas! She’s pretty, isn’t she? And yes, see how she blushes so attractively. But she’s going to blush some more very soon! Now get the salve on your fingers. There’s her bum, her seam and her cunny all ready for you. Apply the salve quite liberally, rub it well in all over there, and then we’ll see how it goes. You others, you can help by making sure she doesn’t move too much. Now!”
 
…………………………………………………………………………………………………….
 
Matthew rather enjoyed riding in the donkey-cart, and brought the beast to a halt successfully close to the door of the surgery. He hoped the cart would still be there when he came out. It wasn’t blocking traffic, at least. There was no-one in the surgery, but after a minute a young girl came out of a back room to greet him and ask if he was the English boy? “Oui,” he said, wondering about communication. The girl switched to English however, which she spoke with an attractive accent, and bade him come through to the back. There he found a rather large room with shelves of medicaments and devices around the walls, a commode and a sink and weighing machine, and an examination table fitted with stirrups, with a curtain on rings around it. The girl told him to undress and sit on the table, and left.
 
He took off his clothes and laid them on a nearby chair, then sat on the table and felt very exposed. He got up and adjusted the curtain so that he was hidden, and had no sooner sat down than the doctor entered in something of a rush, pulling back the curtain to inspect the patient with small piercing eyes.”Eh bien, mon enfant, you must be Mathieu Raven, the English boy staying with Mme Grainger, no? I am Félicien Fauré, the doctor of medicine here. Let us start with a general examination, your height and so on, and you will tell me about your general health, no?” Matthew nodded, then shrank in confusion as the girl entered to come right up to the pair and look at the doctor.
 
“This is my daughter Geneviève. Do not be alarmed,” and he gave a snigger, “for she is going to be a nurse, and is in training already, though she is only fifteen years old. Now stand up and we will measure you.” Matthew reluctantly came forward and allowed the girl (a fifteen-year-old girl!) to lead him to a scale on the wall, where she told him to stand up straight, hands at the sides. He sighed and uncovered himself, and she rapidly read off his height, in centimetres, to her father, who was filling in a chart. Next she took the red-faced boy’s hand to put him on the weighing machine, positioning him by putting her hands to his waist, at which he trembled, feeling her cool hands on his warm (very warm) flesh. He hoped he’d be able to control himself and not get to an embarrassing state of arousal.
 
In the course of the next minutes he managed to forget about his nakedness as Fauré tapped his chest and back, listened with his stethoscope to the heartbeat, peered into his mouth and ears and struck his legs for reflexes. Then he looked up and managed to catch the girl’s eye, which to him seemed brightly focused on his groin. He flushed and looked away, but not before he’d caught her grin. Then he shied as the doctor asked his daughter to fetch a jar for the urine specimen, and a look of horror came over his face. It was standard practice, of course, to be expected, but she was going to take a urine sample from him? Of course; she led him over to the commode and held the graduated jar under his penis with one hand, holding the organ itself with the other. The process was soon accomplished, but his blushes were hot, and his penis wanted to react to the fingers of this girl, this young girl his own age, and he could see that she was not impassively going through the motions but wantonly interested in his condition. When she took a piece of tissue paper to dry the end of the urethra, the penis gave a sort of shiver, and she looked down and grinned as she squeezed the organ affectionately. She was enjoying this, he knew, and not at all in a disinterested scientific way.
 
Fauré looked at his watch and muttered some French to himself, then said “Now we examine more closely, yes? Get up on the table, please. Geneviève, help him.” To his discomfiture her hands were again on his naked body to manoeuvre him up onto the examination table, where he was laid flat on his back and looked at again. Then it got worse.
 
The girl was instructed to put his feet into the stirrups and raise his feet so that his genitals were on full display. She did this quite expertly with a pleased smile on her young face, then looked at her father, who peered at the exposed area and grunted. “Again! Boy,” he said, “have you been bathing in our local streams? Or sun bathing in a wild place?” Matthew admitted to both activities with some anxiety. “I ask because you have acquired some sort of infection, mainly on the perinée, there.” He gently touched the seam, “between your anus and your testicules. Regarde, Geneviève.” To Matthew’s dismay he indicated the place to his interested daughter, who grinned at the helpless boy. “Hm, hm,” the doctor muttered, “perhaps a wash, as before … yes, get that cloth damp with that lotion there.” His daughter hastened to bring the cloth and was allowed to wipe the entire area. Matthew was very red by this time, and after a glance at the girl’s enjoyment shut his eyes and tried to think of nothing.
 
Then he opened his eyes, startled, as she carefully dried him, lifting his penis (Christ! It was thickening, growing tumescent, trying to erect again!) to dry it and the scrotum. Her grin was still there, and he swallowed in dismay and embarrassment. Let me get out of here! But what about the rash, is it? “Yes,” said Fauré judiciously, “it is the same. Your colleague Catherine has the same. I am not sure of the cause, it might be insect bites, or a plant, like urticaire, though you have had no trouble, no sensible irritation, am I correct? Well, we must put on some ointment. To begin with, a general purpose one. I have something here that should do. Just a moment.” He went over to a shelf and began looking at labels.
 
Just then to Matthew’s horror another girl came in, and stopped as she saw the scene. She spoke to the daughter (nurse?) with something like a smirk on her face, and the boy cringed as well as he could in his position. “Oh, Geneviève, there you are! I wanted to see you and tell you something. But you’re busy, I see! A charming patient!” Her friend smiled pleasantly and replied “Yes he is! Just wait, though, we won’t be long.” “Certainly! I can help maybe!” “Why not? Papa, here’s Héloise, who can help, can’t she?”
 
Fauré turned, a jar in his hand, and spoke in English so that the helpless boy could understand. “Assist, yes, why not? It does not need any training really to put on ointment.” He handed his daughter the jar. “But first, when he is in this position, before we attend to his perineum and apply any medicaments, we may collect a specimen of the stool.” Matthew looked at him in anguish. “Yes, and it will be good training for you, Geneviève. And for Héloise too, perhaps.” He looked at his subject and with a sort of smile continued, “Do not be upset, boy. This will not hurt you, we are merely going to obtain some of the excrement that is in your bowel, to examine at leisure for various ailments. Your colleague should have told you about this, it is very simple. These girls will find it useful to learn.”
 
Matthew couldn’t believe it. “Please, d-doctor,” he quavered, “they’re girls, they … they can’t—you can’t—”
 
 Fauré frowned, and shook his head, then addressed his daughter and her eager friend while donning a pair of rubber gloves. “Now pay attention, girls. I take this, we call it a swab, torchon, and insert it thus into the rectum. Boy, please relax your sphincter! That’s right. I insert it, gently, twirl it round like this – can you see, both of you? – and it should collect a little of the stool, la selle, which is usually present. I withdraw like this, and you can see a little excrement there.” The girls looked at it and wrinkled their noses, but Genevieve, the would-be nurse, bethought herself to play out her character and volunteered to try her luck. While her friend looked on with amusement she pushed the swab into his bum and played about with it for a while, Matthew flinching at the invasion and blushing anew, or harder, at her evident bawdy enjoyment.
 
Fauré wanted to get on however and didn’t waste time letting Héloise try, but turned to her to explain the main concern. “Now see here, Héloise, this is the part that is infected. It is what we call the perineum, between the anus and the scrotum, this bag here. Do not worry about contagion, it has been disinfected.” He spoke to Matthew, who was trying to mouth a protest. “You see, boy, that it is difficult to apply the ointment yourself. I explained this to your colleague. At home you will have to have another apply it for you. You cannot see what you are doing, vous comprenez? Yes, so for now I suggest you lie back and allow Geneviève and her friend to help you. I will telephone Mme Grainger and explain.” He turned and began to leave the room, but turned back to see the boy trying to hide his genitals, and said sharply “No! You must let the medicine be applied. Wait.”
 
In a couple of strides he was at the table pulling Matthew’s hands up and back to confine them in what felt like bracelets, or handcuffs. “There!” said the doctor sternly, “that will prevent you interfering. Patients!” He muttered as he left, probably telling himself for the umpteenth time that the sick had no idea at all how to behave.
 
His daughter opened the jar and got the ointment on her fingers, while Héloise, who might have been fourteen, looked at Matthew with amusement. Then (oh God!) the girl, his peer, a strange girl, was putting her hands to his backside, and to his perineum, and his groins, and his scrotum. By then his penis had elevated at right angles to his body, and Héloise was smothering a laugh, looking at her friend with a conspiratorial mischief.
 
His mortification increased to a heart-thumping level when Geneviève turned to her friend to say “You should try it now.” Then to the astonished boy she added “Héloise is thinking of being a nurse too, like me. She should try to put it on too.” He stared up at her and panted, not able to speak, knowing it couldn’t be avoided. The lucky girl, who probably had no intention of a nursing career, lost no time in putting on a second dose of ointment and rubbing it in to his tender spots, chuckling to herself as she did so about his beau cul. This time she dared to rub his anus, and gently push herself into his long-suffering colon, where she lingered for quite a while, managing to induce total hard erection on his twitching penis by fingering (probably by accident) his traitorous prostate, then feeling his testicles with curiosity.
 
Dr Fauré came back in and gave a cursory glance in their direction before looking for something on his desk nearby. Matthew turned his head to catch his attention and signal his desperation, but the doctor went on searching and finally found a piece of paper, which he pocketed with satisfaction and turned to go. Then the door opened again and another witness to Matthew’s treatment entered, to see past the opened curtain to where a scarlet-faced naked boy was writhing on the table, his feet elevated and separated to show his most private parts, and two girls were engaged in rubbing ointment on the exposed skin.
 
Fauré looked over at her. “Ah, it’s you, my little one!” he cooed, “you’re looking for Geneviève of course. Come in, we shan’t be long.” The girl smiled and nodded, and came over to join her friends. Matthew shut his eyes in anguish, then opened them in shock as he realised the newcomer was being offered participation in the anointing of his seam. She, evidently called Nicole, probably the same age as Héloise, eagerly accepted her role, and with a glance at Fauré, who was leaving, put a tentative hand out to his delicate seam, just behind the scrotum.
 
He twitched wildly, and found his voice. “Please, girls! Please! That’s enough! You’re not nurses, you shouldn’t be doing this! Doctor! Stop!” They were laughing at their fun, and encouraging Nicole to do as they had done, bumhole and all, and then (oh God!) his erect queue, straining like an eager hound on a leash, as an extra bonne bouche to the play. He ejaculated in a great spate, they thought, with a series of loud moans that sent them giggling anew.
 
They set about washing away the traces of his spend, and were just drying off his abdomen when the doctor returned, to talk to the boy in very normal fashion, ignoring his reproachful eyes. “Now, boy, I’m recommending to Mme Grainger that you be treated with the ointment twice a day, and come back in two days’ time to check how it is healing. At that point we may change the ointment. This is the same regimen as Mlle Catherine has. In the meantime, don’t wear anything close to the perineum. That is, no underpants, and no trousers either if possible. Oh, and next time we can obtain a sample of your sperm. The girls will find it interesting. Right, then I’ll see you on … Sunday, at the same time, yes? Au revoir.”
 
The girls released the bewildered boy from the bracelets and stirrups and set about getting him into his clothes, except that they laid by his underpants and trousers, rolling them into a bundle and putting them in his hands as they led him to the door. “Au ’voir, Mathieu!” they chorused, and he turned to his cart, realising he was practically naked below the waist – his shirt came to mid-thigh, but was not much protection. He hastily climbed in and took up the reins, wondering about getting the ointment on the seat, or on the tail of the shirt? He decided that the latter could be washed, and tucked it underneath him. This still left him with the short front flap loosely covering his penis, and knowing its vulnerability made it threaten to tumesce again. God! He couldn’t ride through town with an erection! He was up on a shallow seat, four feet from the ground, visible from all sides, visibly aroused? He couldn’t wait, though, and decided to get back to the haven of the estate as quickly as possible. He persuaded the donkey to start pulling the cart, and drove around the square to go back the way he’d come. He paid no attention to the stares of some of the people he passed, or the girlish laughter he was sure he heard, and was soon on his way out of town, breathing more easily. As he went he rehearsed in his mind how he’d deal with this at the estate. How had Catherine handled it? She hadn’t managed to tell him much, for they hadn’t had more than a minute alone. He imagined she’d manage without knickers easily enough. At the thought he felt his ready penis twitch. Wait, though! Could he have given it to her, when they made love? When was it? No, the girls hadn’t noticed, or hadn’t said anything, when they were putting on the sun lotion the day before. But how long would it take to appear? They had had a delightful fuck last … Monday, yes, but Catherine had been shaved since then … oh well, however it happened, they were stuck with it. And he had to leave off his pants, all right, but his trousers? Maybe a loose towel, or a kilt maybe! The Scots had the advantage there…. And wait, what the hell had the sadistic doctor said about a sample of his sperm? His heart turned over at the thought.
 
Mrs G looked at him and grunted. “Well, whatever it is,” she said, “it means you don’t wear your trousers or pants. And till the ointment is absorbed, you don’t sit on the furniture. Oh yes, a towel will do. Off you go. You can try to sunbathe I suppose. Yes, you’re getting a rather attractive tan, as is Catherine. All over.”
 
When he asked Catherine, she coloured and said “No, I’m not wearing knickers. Doctor Fauré wasn’t sure what it was. I don’t think it’s a disease, I think it’s just an allergy actually, a reaction to some plant or other. We were both naked that time.”
 
“But we didn’t notice anything , no sting or whatever, like a nettle. And it seems to have taken its time to appear. Anyhow, love, we just have to put up with it. And with the treatment. You go back tomorrow, I the next day. For another dose, maybe! Oh God, maybe those girls will be there!”
 
 “Oh no! And – God! – maybe those boys will turn up! Oh, I just know they will!” They looked at each other in dismay.
 
Later Mrs G told them, with something of a grim smile, that it would be convenient if they applied the ointment to each other. They looked at each other and blushed, “Yes,” she said gaily, “Matthew is used to oiling up your pubis, and you’ve done it before, I know, after his spanking, haven’t you? You’ll enjoy that I think! Away to your bedroom, Catherine, and Matthew too. Have a nice time.” They looked at her and went off together, blushing, but secretly looking forward to the anointing, she on him and he on her. Lydia looked after them sardonically. A fine pair they were, to be sure! At some point she really had to get them together in bed, or even in a glade somewhere, and let nature take its course. She guessed they’d probably set each other off with this rubbing on of the ointment, as had happened that time. But had they actually fucked, as Fauré suggested? Who cared? But she’d like to witness it, oh yes, Catherine’s deflowering. And then perhaps sharing her with other boys. What about the school? Yes, Abigail and she had suggested something like that to Bradley. How many boys were at the school? A couple of hundred at least, even three; it was a bit larger than Summerton. So we’re thinking of … what, thirty to a class, maybe. Thirty fucks per class. And perhaps the randy little bastards could be taught the refinements of cunnilingus? Which should give the girl some satisfaction, surely? And again she could learn the art of fellatio, sucking off thirty times in a class! And then what about a double fuck, like those grand boys back when … which would mean fifteen per class. Or ten, if three boys could participate, with one in her mouth; hah! Shit! The discomfort! All right, she’d see that specialist.
 
=====================================================================Saturday 1st August
 
Catherine’s check-up; Matthew at estate with a basket of eggs. The locals entertain. Amelia and Jennie ogle them up – make assignations.
 
 “Catherine,” said Mrs Grainger, “Dr Fauré tells me he recommended that you wear as little as possible over your bottom. Is this true?” She flushed and admitted it. “Well, it also will save any staining of your clothes. We’ll ignore yesterday, but today (and tomorrow if necessary) you will wear nothing there. What you will have will be a towel. After the ointment, you must sit on it in order to spare the cushions, like an antimacassar, you know? Fine. You’re going back for a check-up today, yes? At the same time. You may use the donkey-cart as Matthew did yesterday. Right, off you go. Take off the dress. Aha, no knickers, excellent. As I told Matthew, it’s a good way to tan all over. Actually you should do that outside until it’s time for your appointment. It strikes me you can see for yourself the difficulty of applying the ointment where you can’t see. Try it! Away you go then.”
 
The girl went to her room to lay her dress by and attempt to anoint herself. She admitted it wasn’t easy. Then she steeled herself to go out into the sunshine in nothing but her short slip. As she passed Mrs G, she was given a searching look and a smug sort of smile, and shivered. She just knew her employer would use this happenstance for some invasion of her modesty. Matthew, she knew, would be pleased, for he made no bones about enjoying her nudity, while Pascau, if he were around, she would trust to look the other way. Still, she felt very exposed, in all senses, as she made her way to the garden.
 
She strolled about for some time, enjoying the sun on her bare limbs, and relishing in a way its heat on her most private parts, which hadn’t been bared like this before. On a whim she knelt on the grass and deliberately raised her bum to the sky, then parted her legs to let the sunshine at her vulva and that infected seam. She managed to feel quite wanton as she did this, as if she were showing herself with intent to a lover or a whorehouse customer. She shut her eyes and squirmed a bit, shaking her backside and feeling naughty. Then she opened her eyes with a shriek as a young voice exclaimed something in the local tongue. God! She was surrounded by those boys that were working in the garden – she’d forgotten they were due today. Oh God, what could she do, but close her legs and crouch in a huddle, shielding herself as far as she could from their bawdy stares and bawdy comments. She shuddered and panted, realising they didn’t want to leave, and she had to stay there under their laughing eyes till – when?
 
Then she heard the welcome voice of Lydia Grainger, who had come to rescue her. Hadn’t she? But she knew the boys were coming, and told me to sunbathe outside! “Catherine! Stop teasing the boys. Ha, boys!” she added in French, “This is Catherine, whom you saw before. Oh no, there’s another two of you! You should introduce yourselves, you know. Catherine, sit up.” With a moan she did so, pressing her legs together to hide her groin. The boys surrounded her with grins, looking at Mrs Grainger for direction. She told them to say hello to the girl and tell their names and ages. In succession they did so – Baptiste, Toumas, Ugues, Georges, Emile, Vincen. Their ages ranged from thirteen to sixteen, and they stared at her all too visible body – her breasts were fairly plain to see under her slip, and her thighs were bare to their view. She kept her hands at her crotch, and tried to look them in the eye, but kept casting her gaze down and blushing, blushing! Oh God, she thought, there’s that awful Ugues, and Toumas, and … oh God!
 
 
 
Mrs G smiled at them. “Well, boys! Have you learned to dance the farandole yet?” They looked blank, then the eldest, Vincen, admitted they could. She smiled widely and asked them to demonstrate.
 
 
 
The boy shrugged and took a little pipe from his pocket. “I play this, madame,” he said, “and the others can dance.”
 
 
 
“Excellent! Begin!”
 
 
 
Vincen started a tune, and the others linked hands and started their dance, which they executed rather well, forming a small ring, by tacit consent, round the naked girl, who looked at them and drew her knees together. After a minute or two Lydia clapped her hands and cried “Very good! Boys, take Catherine into your ring, all dance!” The girl gave an anguished squeal as they broke the ring and pulled her to her feet, putting her in the middle of the line. The music continued, Vincen eyeing her nudity with pleasure as he whistled, and the others catching sight of it as they danced round. Catherine had no choice but to dance with them, unable to shield herself from their libidinous stares, her face red as a rose, and her vulva – oh God! – showing its damp arousal. After five minutes of acute mortification the tune stopped and they let her go. She made to cover herself, but Mrs G told her to put her hands to her side and thank the boys for the dance. She did this, and they, with eyes on her crotch, thanked her. Then she was allowed to leave, which she tried to do with as much dignity as she could muster, clenching her fists and holding her head high. Inside the house she threw herself on her bed and wept a few tears. There was no end to it, not even here in idyllic Provence….
 
 
 
She was roused by Jennie to come to lunch. There she saw Matthew in his shirt, looking sheepish, sitting on a towel, and she remembered the instruction. Then Mireio, bless her, offered a towel, and she accepted it with thanks. The meal was a little constrained, though Jennie and Amelia tended to chatter about trivialities, and Catherine actually forgot about her condition till she rose and noticed it. She covered herself, to the guffaws of the other girls, while Mireio looked coldly at Lydia and asked about the donkey. “Ah, Mireio,” said Mrs G, “you’re right. Bring the cart to the front door. Catherine will be in fine time if she leaves shortly.”
 
 
 
To the others she issued instructions about clearing the table and helping with washing up. To Catherine she said “Come along then! To the door. You can put on your blouse if you like. Bring your towel.” The girl started as she realised she’d be driving into town wearing only a towel below the waist, and began to tremble. She girded herself with the inadequate cloth and stepped up into the cart. The donkey turned and looked at her and brayed, as if in protest at this apparition. Then she set off in seeming resignation, followed by Lydia’s sardonic look.
 
Matthew looked out of the house to see the cart disappear, and turned round to catch the eye of Mrs Grainger, who looked at him questioningly. “Oh madam!” he said with something of a stammer, “I … I wish ….”
 
“Don’t tell me,” she said with an odd quirk to her lips. “You’re not pleased that she’s going to be intimately examined, are you? Well, your pleasure has nothing to do with the case.”
 
He looked at her with a pleading desperation and found courage to voice his feelings. “You were so nice, so pleasant to me, that first day! You were kind, you gave me lemonade….”
 
She raised eyebrows and regarded him with amusement. “And now,” she said maliciously, “I’m not so kind, is that it? Oh, don’t worry, boy, I won’t take it as an insult. Even a criticism. I’ll admit it, in fact: there’s nothing in being kind when the recipient can’t do anything for you. It meant nothing to me, and cost me nothing. I was of course being somewhat circumspect, not intending at that time to reveal what I’d got you there for. So it would come as a gradual surprise, let us say.
 
“Yes,” she said, “I might as well be candid, for you can’t do anything about it. You’re here, and at Summerton, to amuse me and my staff, and the girls at the Academy. Just as Catherine amuses me by amusing as many boys as possible. As regards my staff, the girls are allowed to see you naked and enjoy feeling you up. It’s a diversion for them, a distraction from my otherwise very strict, call it totalitarian, regime. I admit to being ruthless in my treatment of the staff, and you are a part – quite a sizeable one – of the lump of sugar that sweetens the medicine. The girls at the Academy are in a similar sort of case, but the sight of you, naked, and the chance of handling you naked – all your shameful parts – will keep them from being too restless under my draconian rule.”
 
He bit his lip and looked up at her. “Catherine—” he said, but she broke in.
 
“Catherine! Yes, as I say, she is your complement. The boys on the estate are given the chance to bathe her and excite her to orgasm.” He glared at her. “And we’re discovering a good use for her naked talents at St Vincent’s. There she’s on display as you are at the Academy, and here, as a diversion – Bradley is really a latter-day Wackford Squeers, you know. He pretends to be a dispassionate, even compassionate, dealer of justice, but loves to intimidate and humiliate, and relishes corporal punishment, as you’ve seen. He’s also a somewhat libidinous individual, like many men.” She stared at him.
 
“But I’m not—”
 
“What? You’re not libidinous? Do you want another adjective? My friends in the States call it ‘horny’. Isn’t that descriptive? And you are, you know, just as horny as any boy your age. You are in deep adolescence, developing your body; your instincts, what Professor Starling calls hormones, the ‘rousers’, are active, you’re ready for procreation. You not only masturbate, you produce seminal fluid.” He stared at her aghast. “Yes, you’re excited by a naked girl, you’d like to feel her up, wouldn’t you – not just Catherine, you lecherous boy, but all of them.” She stared into his eyes and said “I know, I know that you’ve enjoyed (as they say) the charms of Amelia and Jennie, and probably some of the others. You’re not a virgin any more, are you? Thought not.”
 
He licked his lips. “Madam—”
 
“If you’re wondering why I’m showing you off to others, like the doctor’s girl and her inquisitive friends, and why I allow Catherine to be pawed over by local boys, the answer is, Why not? I can, so I do. And doing so emphasises the fact of my control over you both.” She paused, and seemed to wince. “Yes,” she said slowly, “my … control. Just as doing good, as they say, makes one feel good, pleases the sense of amour propre, so the act of exercising power, particularly in a sexual way, pleases the inner person, makes one feel good. Not virtuous, by God! But good. And I may as well tell you, boy, that the satisfaction one derives from being cruel in this bloodless way becomes close to a sexual experience. Oh yes.”
 
He drew breath and looked at her, as she lit a cigarette and blew smoke at the ceiling. Why was she telling him this? Just to make him feel uncomfortable, small, of no account? Why was she grimacing in that odd way?
 
“So that’s what you’re for,” she said. “I know I’ve only borrowed you from Maude Crossley, and you’ll be sent back shortly, but you’re serving nicely in this little niche, full of naked humiliation, till then. Actually, I might as well tell you, I’ll be looking for a replacement.”
 
His jaw dropped. “You mean—”
 
“Yes,” she said, “of course. You go back to your dreary life and dreary family, and the position of naked plaything will be vacant. We’ve found it useful and stimulating, so I’ll need another one.”
 
“Another boy to torment! Another boy to humiliate! God, you … you—”
 
“Yes, Matthew! Edith Malvern agrees with the idea – she’s going to employ a young person as a sort of naked whipping boy. It’ll probably be easier to pick a nice-looking young virgin from Mrs Grove’s orphanage. We’ll see about that when we get back to England next month. Maybe much younger than you. You strike me as being too opinionated.”
 
He stammered “B-but m-madam, I try to give satisfaction—”
 
“Don’t be silly. I’m not going to tell Maude to dismiss your people just because you’ve a mind of your own. But take care, Matthew! There are things I do not tolerate, like wilful disobedience. Now go, and get browner if you can.”
 
He turned to go, and she held up her hand. “Wait!”
 
He looked back at her. “I’m forgetting,” she said. “You’re supposed to wear as little as possible on your nether regions.”
 
“Yes madam,” he said with a trace of exasperation. “That’s why I’m in this long shirt. I—”
 
“Yes, that’s the point. You’re not in town now. It’s too long. Take it off.”
 
He flinched and put his hands to the neck. “But what am I to—”
 
“What are you to wear? Get it off. Something much shorter. Yes. You know, Matthew, you are quite a nice-looking boy.”
 
He goggled at her, holding his shirt by his side, suffering her approval of his nakedness.
 
“Yes,” she said again. “I liked your looks when I saw you at the Crossleys. Your hands were attractive, and your feet were well-shaped. I like well-shaped feet.” Her face took on a reminiscent look, as she thought to herself about Raphael, particularly. He had what had to be called dainty feet, to match his dainty body. And then when he was enticed into erection, O Dio! What a difference….
 
She came to the present and smiled at him. “Well, Matthew, I thought your hands and feet promised a nice body, and there you are! But you have to look after it, not neglect it, not allow it to be diminished by disease or debility, no rash, for instance. So let your bum feel the air, let it feel the sun. Don’t put anything on it, till later at least. I know you worry about Mireio, but she won’t worry about you. Besides, she’s away on an errand. When Jennie and Amelia come back, they’ll be of no account, you’re used to them. So feel free to show yourself to the elements. Off you go.”
 
With a sigh he put the shirt on a chair and turned to go outside to the lawn. Just then there was a ring at the doorbell and Lydia frowned. “It’ll be the boys for the garden,” she said. “Go and let them in.”
 
“But—”
 
“No buts! Don’t be so coy. They have pricks like you!”
 
The bell rang again, and he gritted his teeth and went to the front door. Opening it, he recoiled and hid behind it, peeping out at a young girl of thirteen maybe who stood beside a large basket of eggs.
 
She said something to him and gestured to the basket. He found his voice and managed to stammer to her that she should wait here, please. She accepted this, peering at his red face and smiling. But he had to turn to go down the hall, and the door swung open to let her see his retreating naked back. She exclaimed and giggled, and he ran the rest of the way to tell Mrs G she had a guest.
 
“What? Eggs? Why, yes, we could do with some. Go and ask her how much they are. You can manage that.”
 
“But madam,” he entreated, “I’m naked!”
 
“Yes,” she said, “we can see that. Ask her the price. The word is Combien.”
 
He had to accept it, she was going to expose him again. He went back to the front, shielding his genitals from the gaze of the girl, who eyed his approach down the hall with sparkling eyes. He went to the door and choked out “Combien?”
 
He wasn’t sure he understood her reply, but was able to relay it to the amused Lydia, who nodded and said it would do. “How many has she got?”
 
“I—I don’t know, m-madam, several dozen it looks like.”
 
“All right,” she said. “Why not? Go and ask her how much she wants for the whole basket.”
 
He set his lips and went back to the girl, who was openly grinning at his condition, to find her total price. “Wait,” he said. Again she viewed his attractive back, and hummed a tune as she waited, very content with the way things were going.
 
When he told Mrs G what her total price was she smiled thinly and said “Excellent! We’ll take them. Why don’t you go and ask her to bring the basket in, and I’ll pay her.”
 
Matthew knew she was really just extending his time of embarrassment, and looked her in the eye as he said “Yes, madam,” trying to convey his indignation. Out he went to invite the girl through to the living room, where Lydia welcomed her. “Put the eggs down over there,” she said, “and I’ll pay you directly. What’s your name?”
 
Matthew was upset at what was evidently going to be some conversation, and he there stark naked to participate, maybe! Then he gasped at being told to take the basket through to the kitchen. This meant he couldn’t hide himself, not with his hands at least, but the basket might do, yes! All he showed them was his arse on the way out. But he had to come back, to be told to look in the bureau for a cashbox. There was no way he could continue to conceal himself, and the girl was treated to a full view of his pubis, which she eyed with evident approval, and gave a little giggle. Lydia took the box and rummaged in it to produce a handful of francs, which she gave to the girl, who nodded in thanks. The box went back in the drawer and Matthew stood for a second with his back turned, then took a deep breath and turned to face them.
 
“Don’t you think the boy is handsome, girl?” asked Lydia mercilessly.
 
“Oh yes, madame,” she replied licking her lips. “He’s very nice. Is he always naked like that?”
 
Mrs G laughed. “No, child, not always. But I bet you wish he was! No, he has a medical condition, actually, which means his body must be exposed to the air and the sun. And oh!”
 
She smiled broadly as she thought of something. “He has an ointment,” she said deliberately, “which must be applied by another person.” She looked at the appalled boy. “And there’s no reason why you should not earn another franc or two for a small service.”
 
“Madam, p-please! I know what you’re thinking! Please don’t—”
 
She ignored the sob in his voice to say to the girl that she’d be very pleased if she would agree to rub some ointment on the boy. The girl, who told them her name was Berthe, was very willing indeed, she’d be happy to help.
 
“Good! Berthe, now, that’s a famous name, a powerful name! The mother of king Charlemagne! Yes, ‘Berthe of the Big Foot’, isn’t it? But you have no deformities. You’re rather pretty, child. And young Mathieu here, he’s very well made, isn’t he, nothing wrong with his feet, or any other part of him, look!”
 
Matthew squirmed at being exhibited, and knew he’d not escape without more shame.
 
“Right! Now Matthew, fetch the ointment, it’s in your room I believe. Now, dear, I’m going to ask you to go out in the sun, on the grass out there and get the boy to go down on all fours. This is to enable you to put ointment on his behind.”
 
Berthe gave a little crow of delight at the prospect, and by the time Lydia had instructed her in her duty she was all agog. “Yes, my child, I can see you’re interested! To rub all over a young boy’s arse, seam, testicles! And it’s better if he’s so nice-looking, isn’t it? We understand each other, don’t we?”
 
Berthe nodded in a sort of female conspiracy, and looked up to see the blushing boy come back with a little jar of cream. He was instructed to lead the girl out onto the grass and go down to allow her ready access to his genitals. Trembling, he did so, and shut his eyes as he waited for the touch of yet another female hand at his arse.
 
“There he is, Berthe! Rub away!” She lost no time in applying herself to the pleasant task, and was soon sliding her hand between his legs to grease the perineum and reach through to his couillons, oh madame! and press the arsehole like a button to open it up for an intrusion of naughty fingers.
 
He’d forgotten that there were supposed to be two applications, and sighed with relief when she stopped. But once more he bowed his head in hot shame when he heard Lydia tell the amused girl that was just half the job, and she was invited to take a little lemonade. It was hot, wasn’t it? The usual fine Provençal weather.
 
Berthe was induced to tell her circumstances, how she came to sell eggs, how she did at school, and – “Matthew! Stand up, stretch! Stay like that. But yes, I’ve been coming to this beautiful place now for five years….”
 
They conversed on, Berthe sipping her lemonade and smiling happily at the beautiful youth who stood before her, a couple of feet away, naked as he was born, although he had acquired a little dark hair since then just above his delicious cock. That organ was halfway towards standing, pointing out at her impudently, but not shamelessly, no; she could see how desperately embarrassed he was. His cheeks were brilliantly red, interesting to see through that fine bronzed skin. And that skin, all over! She could admire the muscles under it, though they weren’t obtrusive, and the bones under that, see how his ribcage stopped at his belly, with its own striations of muscle that led down to the pubic bone, the poile, the queue, oh my God, his prick and his ballocks, and yes, I’m going to handle all that again!
 
All too soon he was on all fours again, and she was caressing his anus, pushing inside him with a giggle, not pretending any shyness or disinterest, oh no, she was enjoying herself to be thus stroking the most intimate of places of a boy close to her own age, and he was beginning to react. He moved his behind towards her strokes, seemingly asking for her welcome hand, relishing those fingers that probed hungrily and tickled the most sensitive of places.
 
All of a sudden he jerked upright on his knees and moaned loudly. Berthe looked at him in wonder. God, he was coming! And she had brought it on! She looked on proudly as he spasmed in orgasmic ecstasy, again and again, then sank back on the grass and groaned.
 
“Hah! Matthew, a fine performance. And Berthe, child, what do you think?”
 
“Oh madame, it was great, just magnificent! Thank you for letting me do this, and see that. A thousand thanks.”
 
“Right you are, dear. Now come and I’ll give a little reward for helping. Wash your hands, and off home.”
 
Berthe stayed a moment to come to Matthew and look him in the eye. She kissed him, saying “Goodbye, Mathieu! You’re fine! Thanks!” then put down her hand to stroke his wilted member and wink at him. He looked at her and smiled himself, nodding as if to say yes, he’d enjoyed it too. Then she was off.  
 
Mrs G came back with a large towel and told him he should try some more of a tan, and he lay down with a sigh. God, he thought, and I go back to Fauré tomorrow! And there’s that nagging thought, the realisation that I enjoy being tossed off by a girl. I do, I admit it, it’s very embarrassing but in the throes of ejaculation who cares?
 
* * * *
 
The donkey plodded along, taking her to an appointment with shame. She knew full well that this would be just as embarrassing as last time. The doctor had been speaking to Mrs Grainger, and for sure she had told him not to bother about propriety when it came to examining her. That meant that he’d be just as careless about his son – and his son’s friend! – looking at her bum and putting on the ointment. The thought brought a flush to her cheeks, and she shifted uncomfortably on the seat, resulting in a displacement of the towel, so she ended up merely sitting on the cloth, with her bum bare to the air and sun, and her cunny open to anyone. But there were no onlookers, of course, and she began to enjoy the freedom of her nudity, and jerked the reins to encourage the donkey on her task.
 
Then the cart rounded a corner, and met a couple of boys out on a walk. They stared at her in surprise and amusement, and shouted something at her which she didn’t understand but knew to be rude. Blushing, she covered herself with the towel and urged on the donkey, and they looked after her and yelled something else. She drew a deep breath and cursed her carelessness. This was public land now. As she drew near the village her anxiety grew, and then she was in the main street with people on all sides. Heavens! It was market day, and the street was thronged! She got fairly close to the doctor’s office, but was still many yards away. The donkey stopped and Catherine carefully girded herself before stepping out of the cart, still displaying a lot of leg to the interested stares of passers-by.Then she was at the door and thankfully tried the handle. To her astonishment and dismay it didn’t give, the door was locked. And she was there half dressed on the busy street. She knocked, but the movement dislodged her towel, which fell to the ground at her feet. She gave a small shriek and stooped to pick it up, showing her backside to whoever might be looking, then crouched in a squat trying to fasten the towel again.
 
A boy of about fourteen stopped and grinned, asking (she thought) if he could help. Blushing, she said No, it’s fine, though she couldn’t work out what to do. But then another boy joined them and spoke to her in slow French. “Pardon, Catherine, but I’m late, I’m supposed to open the surgery. I went for a coffee.” She looked up at him thankfully and stood, clutching her towel, as he inserted a large key and unlocked the door. He motioned her in and followed, leaving the door open, then led her through to the examination room, indicating the table with its stirrups. She looked at him anxiously. This was a new face; was the son, François, coming again? Where was Fauré? The boy soon explained, causing her to pant and blush anew.
 
“I’m Henri. I’m a friend of François. He’s going to be here soon. Dr Fauré will be coming too, but he’s a bit late. In the meantime take off your things and get up on the table.”
 
She began to protest and ask why another boy should be involved, but knew that Mrs G had probably given permission, or even ordered, this new indignity. She took off the towel and her blouse and slip and crawled up onto the table, blushing as she exposed herself to the boy, who could only be fifteen or so. He helped put her feet into the stirrups and looked at the result with satisfaction. “Yes,” he said, “François told us about you and how you’d be examined again, and we asked if we could come. Dr Fauré agreed, he thought it was a good idea. François said you were pretty, with a pretty cunt, and Louis said the same. So we’re looking forward to this.”
 
Her eyes widened. “You say ‘we’ – who do you mean?” An awful presentiment made her catch her breath.
 
“Why, me and my friends, Jules and Martin. And here they come!”
 
She moaned as she saw two other boys of fifteen or sixteen come in the door, followed by the doctor, who introduced them to her in ludicrously polite fashion, then went to the sink to wash his hands while they stood at the foot of the table and feasted their adolescent eyes on her not so private parts. Then François and Louis came in to greet their friends, and the gallery was complete.
 
They gathered round as Fauré took a cloth and bathed her as before, then inspected her closely. “Yes,” he said, “I believe it is clearing up. We will continue with the treatment. But I want you back in another two days, eh? Fine.” She could see the boys were very pleased at the prospect, and shivered. “And you are not wearing anything to allow your perineum to breathe, yes? Fine. Then I leave you to François. Au revoir.” He left, going to to his office, presumably to tell Mrs G he was satisfied, before she could open her lips to plead protest, and François looked round at his friends to say “Right, pals, let’s get to it!”
 
He rubbed the ointment on his hands and slowly applied it to her seam, rubbing up and down to take in her bumhole and her cunny, not forgetting the rounds of her bum and her groins. She had shut her eyes to avoid the excited looks of the others, awaiting their turn, so could only tell from time to time when a new boy was sliding bawdy fingers over her soft skin. Once they had all had a chance and washed their hands, they stood back to admire her charms and discuss her quite openly, not caring about her blushes, though they used some expressions, probably slang or local dialect, which she was glad she didn’t understand. After about five minutes they took up the ointment again to reapply it, and this time they went quickly from perineum to bumhole, all pushing fingers in and emulating an eager prick, they explained to her, then attacking the vulva, teasing her clitoris, one after the other, inducing a massive orgasm that made her scream in ecstasy. In a minute however they were at it again, simultaneously, one boy in one hole and another in the other, till after several pairs had enjoyed themselves the combination brought on an even heavier climax. She thought she fainted, but was conscious of being cleaned up – she had sweated, for sure – before release from the stirrups and replacement of her slip and blouse. They handed her the towel and escorted her to the door, telling her they were looking forward to seeing her naked charms again, and thrusting her out into the crowded street. Her heart thudded madly as she fumbled with the towel, trying to ignore the appreciative stare of an old gentleman nearby, and finally made herself decent, then made her way to where the donkey waited patiently. She managed to get up on the seat without dislodging her towel, and breathed more easily. Jerking the reins, she woke the animal from a seeming doze and started off. She had to circle the square to go back, and felt quite a spectacle, and she did receive some looks, but all went well till another cart jostled its way in front of her and the donkey came to an abrupt halt, throwing her forward and letting her precious towel slip to her feet, and she was bent forward, her bare bum shown to the sky. She babbled in terror as she righted herself and sat back, her thighs tight together, wondering what to do. Dive for the towel, and show more bum? Sit like this and maybe show her vulva? But the other cart moved on and she whipped up the donkey to get the hell out of there. Modestine picked up the pace but was still agonisingly slow, and Catherine saw with horror that the towel slipped off the cart entirely to land on the ground. Now she was truly defenceless and exposed, and pressed her legs together in panic, urging the donkey through the traffic, looking in fear at a gendarme who gave her a searching glance and then seemed to suppress a laugh. She knew the townsfolk could see her bare thighs, and the upper part of the cleft of her arse, but had to keep going, and in a minute (a very long minute) she was on her way out of the village back to the safety of the estate. Then an awful thought hit her – she had to go back! God, she had to go through it again! She just knew, knew, that Fauré would let all those boys put on the ointment and finger her up, push into her bum and her vulva, bring her to orgasm again. And for Christ’s sake, what if there’s more of them? How can I survive it? But she knew she would, she had to. Besides, she had Matthew to comfort her. He’d put on the second application and she could put on his, on his dear bum, and maybe they could fuck to complete the treatment…! She smiled and spoke to the donkey, urging her on, back to Matthew.
 
In the evening, a group of locals came up to entertain with their pipes and farandoles. Catherine and Matthew were there, naked from the waist, she in her slip and he in his shirt, sitting bare-bottomed on towels outside, not daring to move. They avoided exposure, however, and actually enjoyed themselves, nodding in time to the music and smiling in appreciation at the dancers. At night, they retired to Catherine’s room to mutually apply the ointment, and incidentally bring each other to climax. Amelia and Jennie, meanwhile, were having conversations with a couple of the young dancers, and retired well pleased with the prospects of further intimacy.
 
=====================================================================
 
===================================================================== Sunday 2nd August
 
M back for checkup
 
“Right, Matthew,” said Mrs Grainger, “you’re going back to Fauré today to see how that rash is getting on. That towel will have to do, I’m afraid, and that shirt – but it looks a bit grubby. Take it off and put it in the laundry basket. Wait – see! The tail is all dirty with the ointment. The towel should be next your behind, nothing else. Hmm. Away with that. Let me think.”
 
When he returned, clad only in the somewhat inadequate towel, she appraised him and mentally smacked her lips at contemplation of his lithe body. “Well, you’ll have to wear something. The townsfolk will forgive English eccentrics, but that’s a bit much, especially on the Sabbath! All right, let’s see. The towel will be on the seat of the donkey-cart. You won’t lose it that way, as Catherine did, stupid girl. All you really need is a cover for your torso and loins. A shirt or short smock, which you will keep away from your behind, all right? Tuck it up as necessary. Go and find one and come back.”
 
She looked at the result: he had found a cotton shirt that came down to the bottom of his arse cheeks and covered his genitals, with tails cut up the sides practically to the hip bones, to display his bare thighs. “Listen, madam! This is the only clean thing I could find. I don’t know where the others are. In the wash maybe. Let me wear a towel as well, please! This is too revealing. I bet the village police won’t like it!”
 
He bit his lip as he thought she might take that as a threat, but she smiled. “Ah, Matthew, something tells me the local gendarmes will tolerate quite a lot. It all depends on how much largesse is spread around. Not much has changed in that regard in the last few years here. You should take a look at the fine pissoir in the square I donated. I really don’t see what you’re worried about. That covers you quite well. Once the ointment is applied, mind you, you must ensure that it doesn’t stain the cloth, so it’ll have to be turned up.”
 
He gasped, “Madam! I—”
 
“Off you go,” she said carelessly. “Take some carrots with you for Modestine. She’s working hard these days.” He looked at her, his mouth gaping wordlessly, then gave a sighing sob and turned to go. Yes, she thought, he’s steeling himself to set off on a visit he knows full well will end in his sexual humiliation. How delightful! He’s got the beginning of a flush right now thinking of it. And soon, very soon, his cheeks will be crimson with blushes and his tool erect in shame. I’ll be interested to hear from Fauré, or his daughter, even! how it went….
 
He dutifully laid the towel on the cart seat and sat down, acutely conscious of his bare thighs. Amelia came by with a handful of carrots and eyed him lustfully. “Hey, Matthew,” she said, “you’re going to give them a good show in town today! Mind you, don’t get a hard-on, eh!” She tittered and waved him goodbye, while he gritted his teeth and tried to ignore her. The donkey pulled the cart and he slumped on the seat, wondering how he could escape being exposed, and (for the umpteenth time) how he could still be so sensitive to naked embarrassment after months – months! – of being manoeuvred into nudity by that bitch and her minions.
 
By the time he got to the village he’d cheered up somewhat, but found he had to park the cart a hundred yards away from the doctor’s office, so he’d have to walk that length in his very inadequate garb. He handed a couple of carrots to Modestine and patted her head. “See you shortly, old girl,” he said. “Whatever the state I’m in!” She looked at him and seemed to be agreeing with a nod, so he turned to walk that distance, not looking to right or left, fearful of seeing the looks on the faces of passers-by when they noticed his lack of modest clothing. He was halfway to his goal when he was met by the friend of Geneviève, the fourteen-year-old girl Nicole, who seized his hand and told him she was very pleased to meet him again. He stammered something, which turned into a yelp as she put a hand to his bare thigh. How could she do that, in the middle of the street? She looked at him in amusement and began to stroke his thigh, and the erotic movement caused an erection of course. She looked down at the result – the front of his shirt being poked out, raising the hem, and his balls nearly exposed – and grinned widely, all the while chattering away in French, which he wasn’t trying to listen to, being suffocatingly panicked at his condition, visible to any who cared to look.
 
“Please, Nicole,” he said, “I must go to Dr Fauré. Stop, let me be!” The girl, who understood English very well, sighed and said “Yes, Mathieu, but we’ll go together, yes?” She pulled him along the last hundred feet and he looked down at the ground, trying to will his erection to subside. Oddly enough no-one seemed to notice it, for which he was thankful. But then about twenty feet from the door she ran into a friend and stopped to gossip. Matthew was fidgeting in anxiety, and she looked at him (and his erection) with a smirk. “This is Jeanette,” she said, slily caressing his thigh again, “another school friend. Jeanette, this is Mathieu, a visitor from England. We’re on our way to Doctor Fauré there, to look at his skin.” Matthew began to tremble. “His skin is smooth and soft, though. On his thighs at least.” She rubbed him salaciously. “Feel him.”
 
Matthew couldn’t make a scene in the street, so had to stand there and squirm as another new stranger felt his body, laughing as she did so, moving from his thigh to his waist and round to his bum. “Oh yes,” she said. “He is soft and smooth, like a girl’s skin, like a baby’s skin. His thigh and his waist and his behind,” and she stroked his arse again, “it’s all so smooth and tender. Mathieu – that’s your name? You are delicious!”
 
“All right,” said Nicole, “but we have to go. But why don’t you come with us?”
 
Matthew understood this all too well, and hissed “For God’s sake, Nicole! I don’t want another girl looking at me!”
 
Nicole laughed. “Don’t be silly. What is one more pair of eyes? Or one more pair of hands, maybe!” She gave a snorting chuckle and seized his hand. “Come!” The three of them continued to the door, which Nicole opened with a flourish and motioned the others inside, following them to the outer office, where they found four teenaged girls sitting. They jumped up when they saw Matthew, and he stopped in confusion. Nicole asked what they were doing there, and the red-faced boy was horrified to hear they’d come to see le garçon anglais tout nu. He knew he couldn’t run away, and it was going to be another session like the last time, All of them, all six of them, gawking at his nudity, and – God! – maybe smearing on that ointment.
 
Then Fauré appeared, looking rather harassed and impatient. Matthew appealed to him: “Doctor, please don’t let the girls see me—”
 
“What? My daughter—”
 
“No, please don’t, I don’t want them to see me and touch—”
 
“Nonsense. That ointment has to be applied by someone else. And to do that, you must be undressed and your perinée open to view. It does not have to be done on the table, that is true—”
 
“Oh papa,” said Genevieve, who had just come in, “we might as well do it here!”
 
He looked at her and nodded with an indulgent smile. “True! Boy, take off your shirt.”
 
Matthew cringed but couldn’t escape. In the midst of a crowd of girls he stripped himself bare, to the jubilation of the audience, and he covered himself with his hands, knowing full well it was useless. His blush increased as Fauré put him up on the couch and directed the girls to hold his legs so as to display his behind. The doctor peered at him and asked Geneviève’s opinion. She stared lasciviously at the view and said “It’s clearing up, papa. But we should put another application on, I think, just to finish with, no?”
 
“Certainly. Go and get the ointment.”
 
Héloise came in just then to grin at the scene. “Welcome, Héloise!” said Nicole, “we’re just about to put on the ointment.”
 
“Oh,” she said, “but it’s a bit crowded and uncomfortable here surely. Why don’t you do it outside on the lawn, in the sun?” Fauré smiled easily and agreed, then disappeared into his office.
 
Matthew was hyperventilating by this time. Eight girls at his arse! How could the doctor do this? But then he realised with despair that Mrs G had some hand in this as always. The girls got him on his feet and led him to the back door of the vestibule, which opened on a little grass plot surrounded by a low hedge, beyond which a public park evidently lay, extending for several hundred yards. The sun shone hotly on Matthew’s skin, but he shivered as he realised how public the scene was. The girls lost no time in positioning him in the middle of the grass on all fours, then surrounded him as Geneviève, the “future nurse”, smoothed the cream on his backside.
 
He was sweating by now, and flinching as she poked a lubricated finger into his anus again. She wiggled it about, drew it nearly out and pushed it in again, and he felt his erection throb in response. Then she was at the perineum, and his groins, and his testicles, which she stroked tenderly to the oohs and aahs of her friends. Then (of course) she relinquished the pleasurable task to Héloise, who in turn yielded to Nicole—. Matthew was sweating hard in the sun, and trying to control himself, but it was no use, for his penis, straining to release its burden, could take no more. As Jeanette pushed her finger into his bum he came with a choking groan, and the delighted girls turned him over to watch the arc of his semen spout into the air. He lay back exhausted, and the girls took time out to fetch a damp cloth to clean him up, and another jar of cream.
 
He looked at them with pain in his eyes and begged, “No, girls, please! You’ve done me, you’ve put on the ointment.”
 
“But Mathieu,” said Nicole, “all our friends are here! They must be allowed to play with you as well, no?”
 
He sighed in defeat, and let them rearrange his limbs to expose his “privates” as much as possible. The four he’d found in the waiting room needed no encouragement to investigate his bare body, tickling his nipples and passing hands over his belly and his thighs and his calves and his loins and his pubic hair and his groins and his scrotum. By this time he’d got his erection back, and Jeanette was given the chance to anoint him again.
 
Her finger went in and out his anus, and she found his prostate, which brought even more hardness to his penis, then she transferred her attention to the rest of him, ending with his penis, which was just beginning to throb when she desisted. The others took over, one after the other, and the last two wisely combined their efforts, to bring about a glorious spend that again produced admiring sounds from the company.
 
He lay back and closed his eyes, not moving as they took the moist cloth to his body, and nearly fell asleep in the sun. He jerked his eyes open to see he’d been left alone to recover, and wondered fearfully if they intended any more humiliations for him. Then with a shock he saw several other children looking at him over the hedge from the park, giggling at his nakedness. Hastily he covered himself and wondered what to do, and then saw with relief that Geneviève was at the door with his shirt. She saw the others and gave them a cheery greeting. “Hello there! You’re Madeleine Duclos, aren’t you? Your brother is in François’ class. Come and meet Mathieu here. He’s the English boy you’ll have heard about.”
 
The girl she addressed was about twelve or thirteen, a pretty nymph with dark hair, who accepted the invitation and brought her two companions over the hedge to stand in contemplation of the reddening boy, who sat before them crouching with his hands over his crotch. Geneviève shook him by his naked shoulder. “Stand up and shake hands,” she commanded naughtily, “and they’ll introduce themselves.”
 
His blush returned full force, and he felt his penis begin to tumesce again, as Madeleine put out her hand to take his, her eyes on his groin now covered by one hand, and he babbled a hello as he got to his feet. “I am Madeleine,” she said, “and this is my sister Marie.” This girl was probably eleven or so, and her brown eyes were wide with amusement as she shook his hand. “And this is Gabrielle, my cousin from Arles. She’s fourteen. How old are you?”
 
He stammered “F-fifteen.” Then in French, “Quinze.” He turned to Geneviève, saying “Please give me my shirt now. Please!”
 
The girl smiled teasingly. “Certainly,” she said. “Put your hands up and I’ll put it on.”
 
“N-no!” he stuttered, “I can do it, just give it to me,” and put out his free hand to take it.
 
She frowned, then grinned and said to Madeleine, “Why don’t you girls help him?” – and gave the garment to her.
 
“Now, Mathieu,” she said with a smile, “put up your hands so they can dress you.” He gave a little moan but had to comply, for he could see no way out of this. He took his hand off his crotch and held out both to the girl, who gazed at his erection with a wide smile, and the others drew in their breaths.
 
“Put your hands up,” she said, and he raised his arms to let her put the shirt over his head, fit his arms into the sleeves, and pull it down his body to his thighs, meeting his erection and bringing another grin to her friends.
 
Gabrielle stepped up to him and brazenly took hold of his erection to hide it under the front flap of the shirt. Matthew squirmed and jerked back, but she laughed and said “It’s fine, his prick! Why’s he naked?”
 
Genevieve explained at length, and the others were fascinated. “You say he’s coming back?”
 
Genevieve laughed. “That’s the plan. Are you interested? You should come too.”
 
Matthew caught the drift of this, and began making desperate objections, but Genevieve said “No, Mathieu, I am going to tell my papa we need one more application to finish the job. So you can come back on Tuesday and we’ll all get a chance to help you.”
 
“Help me?” he groaned, “God! You just want to touch me, touch my … balls, my prick, and make me come!”
 
“But yes, Mathieu!” she said with a grin, “and we will enjoy the task!”
 
Madeleine said “So we can come to help? Yes! We will be here. Till then, Mathieu, adieu!”
 
The three left, giggling, and Matthew said with a sob, “Why do you do this? Can’t you see how humiliating it is?” The girl made sympathetic sounds, then took his hand to lead him through the house to the front door.
 
She looked at his shirt and said “You remember papa said you must keep your behind uncovered?”
 
He swallowed and stammered “Y-yes. So—”
 
“Well, you have to tuck up your shirt I’m afraid. The front doesn’t matter so much, but you’ve got to let the air in, all around your bum (isn’t that the word?) and the perinée.”
 
“Perineum,” he translated.
 
“Merci. So—” To his alarm she turned up the hem of his shirt tail to the bottom of his spine, so that the buttocks were entirely bare. “What are you doing?” he quavered, “Where is it?”
 
“I have put it up to the top of your bum,” she said complacently. “That is what papa wanted, I’m sure. You should not be worried. Your bum (I like that word) is really handsome. Now go, and we will see you again in two days’ time, yes? Goodbye.”
 
He was on the street in his shirt, with a bare arse and an incipient erection, to walk a hundred yards to where Modestine waited sleepily for him. He wondered about letting down the shirt tail, but Geneviève opened the door again to shoo him off, and he realised with desperation that Mrs G would probably take it amiss if he soiled this shirt as well. With his heart in his mouth he turned and began to walk to the cart, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible.
 
He could feel the sun on his arse cheeks, and knowledge of his exposure gave him the start of yet another erection. With a hint of panic he saw that his penis would be pushing up the front tail to reveal his entire genitals, and so he put his hand down to thrust his member up under the cloth, just as another girl of his own age was approaching. She looked at him and burst out laughing, which increased as she spied his naked behind. He stumbled in confusion and pulled at his shirt. The girl stopped and said “You must be the English boy Geneviève was talking about. She said you have ointment on the cul and can’t wear trousers. Isn’t that right? Let me help you.” With a lascivious grin she seized his shirt and in a minute had redone the tail so that it only came down to the middle of his back, which meant that the front was also raised above his pubic hair. Looking at her handiwork with pleasure she smacked his bum and sent him on his way, this time covering himself with his hands and going as fast as seemed discreet to the donkey cart.
 
He climbed on, showing everything he had – his bare cheeks and a fine erection – without looking to see if he had an audience. He sat on the towel and shook the reins and managed to tuck his penis between his thighs. His bum was still bare, though, and attracted quite a few looks as he made his way out of town – some of surprise, some of outrage, and a good many of amused admiration, besides one or two of plain lust, from both sexes. He was sweating again, and again turning over in his fearful mind what might happen in two days’ time. Another trip in his shirt, another crowd of ogling girls, another concerted attack on his arse and his penis – and the crowd was getting bigger every day! But please God, next time would be the end of it. And so … tonight we’ll put on each other’s ointment. Catherine will be stroking me and I’ll be stroking her. I bet you we’ll come, maybe together again. That sort of thing makes up for all this, doesn’t it? He imagined his hand cupping her mount of Venus, the tips of his fingers at her lovely bumhole, his palm on her seam, and his other hand soothing her groins and her beautiful cunt. He felt his erection twitch, and let it out from his thighs to poke up unashamed as he left the village behind. He smiled in anticipation and looked down fondly at Modestine, who turned her head and seemed to grin at him. He took a deep breath and cleared his head of dismal thoughts. He was going home to the girl he loved.
 
* * *
 
“Catherine, it’s that time again.”
 
The girl swallowed and went for the salve without being told. She knew what madam wanted, and wondered who the lucky boy would be this time. When she went out to the lawn Lydia was talking to two boys who looked to be identical twins of fifteen or so, introduced to her as Deri and Dovi, which sounded ludicrous, though Lydia explained that they were diminutives of Frederick and Ludovick. She couldn’t tell them apart, but it made no difference anyway. They were there to “help” with the ointment, and they’d probably each get a turn at her perineum.
 
 
 
So it was, and it was just as awful – and just as exciting, admit it! – as last time. She took off her dress, and looked with a flush at the wide-eyed boys, conscious that the slip she had on only came down to the top of her vulva. There was no point in hiding; and she stood with head down looking despondently at the ground. Deri (or Dovi) got the salve on his fingers and approached her with a grin that said he didn’t believe his luck at getting to smear ointment on a naked girl The boy took his time to slide his hand between her legs, egged on by his sibling, and they both had those incredulous grins on their faces. From time to time they glanced over at Mrs Grainger, who was gazing at the exhibition with satisfaction, and nodded at them with encouraging words.
 
 
 
The first application finished, and Lydia told her crimson victim to stand up straight. “That’s fine, boys! Deri, is it? Right! While Catherine takes a little rest – oh, boys, I guarantee her heart is thumping! As yours are too maybe? Take a moment, have a cigarette. You do smoke, I expect?”
 
Yes they did, and accepted her expensive brand with smiles. As they smoked and talked, Catherine tried to empty her mind, and then to fill it with thoughts of Matthew, who was that minute being put through something awful by that quack Fauré, damn him, damn him! But soon enough he’d be home, and they could cuddle and comfort each other.
 
“Catherine! Wake up! Dovi here is to have his turn. Down on your knees. Now then, boy, you saw what your brother did. Get the salve – that’s it, now put one finger on her anus, I suggest, yes, her bumhole, that’s it. Catherine, be quiet! Now you have her at your disposal. On her bum, on her seam, on her puss. Yes!”
 
The other twin held her waist as Dovi thrust his hand over and under her, and then Deri slowly moved his hands up her body, pushing the slip as he went, till he was kneeling at her head, his palms on her breasts, feeling the cheeky points of her erect nipples, while glancing at the madame, who nodded in bawdy approval as the twins enjoyed her body and quickly induced a great orgasm. Catherine twisted her frame in what had to be ecstasy, and she knew she was in the throes of a great burst of pleasure. Pleasure, yes! She liked this, she enjoyed this, she wanted more!
 
But the boys were sent away with thanks, and they were profuse in their own gratitude for an exciting little adventure. They’d be back, they assured Lydia. Whether or not anything else was to happen. Lydia ushered them away and returned to regard the girl, who by this time was kneeling and breathing hard. “Well, Catherine,” she said, “there’s no point into putting your dress on again. Let the body breathe, says Fauré. So stay like that. Sit on a towel if you’re indoors.”
 
She left her there for some time, and busied herself in her office on letters. Then she came out to rouse Catherine, who was sitting cross-legged in the middle of the lawn, to give her a basket and direct her to go and pick berries in that easterly corner of the estate. “You know where,” she said. “Where there’s that prehistoric cairn.”
 
“What? Oh yes, madam, I know, but I haven’t got—”
 
“You’ve got enough,” Mrs G said brusquely. “Off you go.”
 
The girl shuddered and turned hopelessly to leave on her task, not knowing who might be out there. Lydia smiled malevolently and watched her disappear into the greenery, then turned to clench her fists. Christ Almighty! There it was again! And could she expect a good result in the toilet?
 
* * * *
 
As she walked along she began to enjoy the feel of the sun and the air on her bare legs, and gradually lost her first feeling of awful exposure. After all, who was likely to see her? She looked about at the greenery and the birds, catching sight of a rabbit, who looked at her boldly and hopped off carelessly into the scrub. Ah, le lapin agile! She swung her basket and thought about singing. That’s the thing to do in this weather, she thought. I haven’t sung for a long time….
 
Her thoughts grew melancholy as she reflected on the experiences of the last few months. Still, she said to herself, I didn’t sing much at Mrs Grove’s, did I? So now, what shall it be? Let me cheer myself up with a song. But what? She frowned in concentration, then smiled naughtily as she remembered the suggestive words of an old French song she’d found in a dusty book in Surrey. (Where was her uncle’s library now?) Mozart had liked the tune, like a lot of other people, including the one who set it to ‘Baa baa black sheep’. She lifted her head and began to give cheerful voice.
 
“Ah, vous dirais-je, maman,
 
Ce qui cause mon tourment?
 
Depuis que j’ai vu Sylvandre
 
Me regarder d’un air tendre,
 
Je me dis a tout moment,
 
Peut-on vivre sans amant?”
 
 
 
Well, she thought, I’m sure I can’t live without one particular lover. Oh dear, it would be marvellous if we could be here, in this beautiful place, here together, holding hands as we walk in the sun past the olives, past the lavender, to sit down at last under a beech tree to embrace, to kiss and cuddle and explore for the umpteenth time the beautiful geography of the lover’s body….

 
 
She sang her song through to its suggestive end with a naughty smile on her lips, then stopped in shock as she came upon a boy of fifteen or sixteen who looked at her bare legs in delight. She covered herself quickly and had to explain her errand. He nodded and said he understood, he’d heard of the English lady, and how she treated her servants, which was a great gift from God, oh yes, and he was pleased to see her, for she was very pretty. He offered to convoy her to where she was bound – he knew the cairn very well, and in fact he insisted on joining her.
 
 
 
She swallowed and sighed and accepted his company, for she knew this was exactly what Mrs G had expected to happen, She walked along, he at her side, looking at her with open admiration as well as lust, and her blush didn’t diminish. Conversation was stilted.
 
 
 
“What’s your name?”
 
 
 
“Catherine.”
 
 
 
“A good name, like the saint.”
 
 
 
He glanced at her beside him, admiring (it was so evident, so blatant, his fascination) and speculating (it was obvious) what the rest of her body was like. He could see her bare arse and the groove of her shaven pubis, intermittently showing between her legs as she walked along, not really trying to conceal herself – what was the use? – and with downcast eyes, trying to ignore him. But she couldn’t for long.
 
 
 
“My name is Alain.”
 
 
 
She glanced at him briefly. She didn’t want to see the lechery in his eyes.
 
 
 
“I’m sixteen. How old are you?”
 
 
 
She drew a shaky breath and forced herself to answer. “I’m … fifteen and a half.”
 
 
 
“You’re very nice-looking. Where are you from?”
 
 
 
He wasn’t even asking why she was practically naked! If he knew about Mrs G, then he must know her cruel habits, she supposed. She answered him in monosyllables, or as few as she could.
 
 
 
“England.”
 
 
 
“A nice country, they say. Me, I was born here, on the other side of the village. My father is a farrier.”
 
 
 
She looked off to where they were bound. How long till they got there? And was he going to feast his eyes like that all the time? But oh God, she could feel the tingle in her vulva that meant she was close to becoming aroused. How could she?
 
 
 
“When we reach the cairn, do you think I could touch you?”
 
 
 
Oh Christ! He was being open about it. She shivered and said quickly “No! Oh, no! You mustn’t. Please, you must leave me alone.”
 
 
 
“But,” he said reasonably, “if Mme Grainger sent you out like this, in such a short chemise that you can’t hide your cunny, then she must expect you to be touched, mustn’t she? So then, she will like it if I touch you!”
 
 
 
She stopped and turned to him, looking straight at him for the first time.
 
 
 
“No,” she faltered, “please! Madame sent me out like this because she knew I was ashamed, to embarrass me. She knows I do not want boys to see me ... naked. She enjoys embarrassing me like this. But please, have mercy! Please don’t look at me like that….”
 
 
 
“But Catherine, my beauty, if I look at you at all, I see your bare legs, your arse, and even through the cloth I see the pretty nipples of your breasts. I can’t help seeing them. So I’m afraid,” he said flashing a grin, “that I’ll be looking at you like this all the time. Come, we’re nearly there.”
 
 
 
It was a pile of stones about five feet high, evidently covering a mound of earth, a tumulus that could have been the grave of a Carolingian hero. Catherine’s romantic imagination made her place in it the body of a knight in full ancient armour, sleeping until called forth by his country’s needs. But right now she saw it just as a milestone in her journey of shame, and ignored it, studying the berry bushes that clustered around it for the juiciest specimens. As she reached up and picked the berries she knew her inadequate shift was lifting up to show off her backside to the eager boy, who had positioned himself to have a good view of her body as she stretched those fine brown limbs, showing her tight arse and her neat waist, her delicious bare legs and arms, and when she reached down to put the berries in the basket he looked with pleasure at her pretty face, all blushes.
 
 
 
In a few minutes she forgot he was there, and thankfully he didn’t keep speaking about her nude charms. But inevitably the moment came when her shame escalated fearsomely. All of a sudden half a dozen more boys appeared to join them and admire the action, and she covered herself with a little scream, while they saluted the apparition with shouts and laughter. She saw Ugues among them, and he started telling his companions about the great job he had had of putting on the ointment. They roared at that, and one asked what the problem was, at which they had to see for themselves. She couldn’t stop their libidinous curiosity, and merely moaned as they seized her to pull up her slip, and peer at her perineum, to admire it, to touch it – and then all over her – all of them, fingering her tits, her belly, her bum, her vulva, her clit – and with a wrenching scream, a grand orgasm. Alain however kept his hands on her, smoothing them over her flinching skin, touching up her sensitive parts, lightly stroking her into more shivering and trembling yielding to her own desires. He kept at her, egged on by the others gathered round, until she panted loudly, asking him to bring her over – please, I want it! she screamed – and he obliged, to the applause of the rest, who looked at her flushed body with satisfaction and chorused compliments.
 
 
 
“When we see madame,” said one of them (the youngest, perhaps, called Benoit by his friends), “we will thank her for bringing you. Yes, and we’ll see you at the estate tomorrow, I’m sure!”
 
 
 
She picked up her basket and left without looking back When she reached the house she realised she had a strange feeling of content. It’s the aftermath of orgasm, surely, she thought. A sort of peace, a sense of … what? Fulfilment? Surely not! But she had to admit…..
 
Mrs G interrogated the blushing girl and got the story, including the admission that she enjoyed being felt up by a horde of boys. “Aren’t you grateful, then? ere’Here’s your desired thrill all supplied without you lifting an eyebrow! And your colleague similarly. Tomorrow I’ll send him out to work au naturel. That should be amusing.”
 
“But there’ll be no—”
 
“Yes there will, Catherine. There’ll be girls, don’t worry. It’s very easily arranged. Oh my, what fun! Now away and put some more lotion on. You’re getting nicely brown, I must say, all over, even the cunny lips. Bravo!”
 
 ===================================================================== Monday 3rd August
 
A check-up and a lesson for eleven, Matthew in an unbuttoned shirt, and boys meet girls for socialising.
 
 
 
The sun shone down hotly on the garden grass, where Lydia Grainger sat on a wicker-work chaise longue and looked at Catherine critically. The girl wore a white cloth chemise that came to her mid-thigh, and it showed nothing of her body save the discreet forms of her breasts. “I don’t know that that will do,” she said, “I’m sure it’ll stain. Is there a dark colour? You’ve certainly got enough to choose from, haven’t you? Maybe we need to get more in town. But right now, you’re forbidden to wear anything impeding the flow of air around your bottom. So we’re looking at a compromise somehow. And I don’t want you losing any towels, cheap though they be. That was ridiculous last time. Well, let’s see. You’ll sit on a towel up on the donkey cart. On the way to town it doesn’t matter what you wear, how long it is or anything. But on the way back, once the ointment is applied, it mustn’t go on your clothes. So one solution would be if your chemise were tucked up above your buttocks, and even better,” her face creased in a smile, “if you stand up in the cart so that the ointment isn’t interfered with by the towel. Yes.”
 
Catherine looked at her incredulously. “But everyone will see me!” she moaned, “they’ll see my … my—”
 
“Your cunt, I think you mean. Yes, I suppose they will.”
 
“And if I stand up, they’ll see me plainly, riding through town!”
 
“Yes,” said Mrs Grainger, “a bit like Lady Godiva, I suppose. With a few more peeping Toms!”
 
“But you can’t!” Catherine used the same rebuttal as Matthew had. “I’ll be arrested! And you’ll be attacked too!”
 
Lydia smiled. “As to that, Catherine, time will tell. Still, the prospect of you showing your bum and all to the locals as you progress through town and all round the square is rather fascinating. Delightful!”
 
Catherine was trembling at the thought, but Mrs G relented. “Don’t worry,” she said comfortingly. “I’m sure it won’t come to that, quite. There is still the problem of protecting the ointment and protecting your clothes. That goes for Matthew too, of course. I think that a sort of loose loincloth might do, to bare your lower bum, including your anus, and free your perineum, while covering what doesn’t have to be uncovered, namely your pubis. Is that to your satisfaction?”
 
Catherine swallowed and replied “Oh madam, thank you for letting me hide my … my cunt,” she quavered, as Lydia smirked, “but it’s still going to be indecent with my bum showing.”
 
“Oh, for God’s sake, girl,” said her employer with irritation, “do you have any solution then?”
 
“Madam,” she answered timidly, “I promise to look after the towel. Both towels. Let me wear one, and sit on the other. It can’t make much difference to the ointment, surely.”
 
Lydia contemplated her pleading face for a moment. “All right,” she said with a frown, “but your garment must have no chance of soiling, so it’ll be short, just down to your waist. Or navel, even. Yes?”
 
Catherine couldn’t believe her ears. “But surely, madam, that’s nearly as bad! Especially if it’s so short they can see my belly button!”
 
“Maybe,” said Lydia indifferently, “but we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. Now away and find something that short, and we’ll see about another towel.” The girl, some of her concerns taken care of, left to look through the wardrobe, and Lydia roused herself to wander over to a high hedge that cut off one end of the lawn and talk to the boys who were working there.
 
She settled back to her book, and in a minute Catherine returned carrying two camisoles, which she showed to Mrs Grainger.
 
“All right, put them on.”
 
“Here, madam?”
 
“Certainly. Take off your chemise and model the camisoles.” Catherine sighed and looked up to see five boys coming round the hedge, and she gave a yelp. “What are you waiting for?” said Mrs Grainger cruelly. “Off with that and on with the camisole.” Biting her lip, and getting another flush on her cheeks, she slowly drew off her garment and stood for a second, thinking of hiding behind her hands as usual, or would she immediately dive into the camisole? But Lydia held up her hand.”Stay as you are a minute,” she commanded. The blushing girl stood there nude to everyone’s gaze and clenched her hands, shutting her eyes to avoid seeing the grinning stares of the boys, but she could still hear the lustful murmurs the sight of her evoked. Mrs Grainger for the umpteenth time found herself admiring the girl’s body, now tanned all over. Smallish breasts, flat belly – the belly button there, to attract the townsfolk’s eyes? Narrow hips, almost boyish, but there was nothing of the boy about her mount of Venus, a palpable curve of flesh at the bottom of her trunk, with that bared slit that proclaimed her womanhood to the interested eye. And those boys were interested, weren’t they? Another perquisite of working for madame.
 
“All right, Catherine, put on one of the camisoles. Boys, attend to that lot of roses over there.” They took another look at the girl’s naked attractiveness and went over to the bushes. Catherine quickly shrugged herself into one of the camisoles, a nice piece in green silk, which came down to the top of her mons. She looked at Mrs G for approval, giving a sidelong glance at the gardener boys, who were still paying her attention. “I don’t know,” said Lydia thoughtfully. “Try the other one.” She took off the silk, raising her fine breasts in doing so, and earning a murmur from her audience, and put on the other, a delicate lacy sort of thing in blue which came down exactly to her navel, and drew a smile from Mrs G, who said judiciously “All right, let’s see that other one again.” As Catherine took it off she winced to hear madam invite the boys to give their verdict, a sort of reminder of that ghastly day when those teenagers had debated the pros and cons of her skirts. They ceased pretending to work and turned to give their full attention, looking in glee at the nude girl as she picked up the first camisole and put it on. “Now, Catherine,” said Mrs G, “show yourself to the boys. Go on! Go up to them and let them see you.” Wishing the ground would open to swallow her up she went close to them, and shuddered as they looked straight at the hem of the garment, and of course at her delta with its pretty slit. “What do you think, boys? Will that do when she goes to town?” They nodded and smiled, saying it was just the thing. “All right! Now the other one.” Under their lecherous eyes she stripped it off and donned the smaller lacy affair, then gulped and went over to them again. This time they looked long and hard (and so, thought Lydia, were their pricks! Look at that one, the oldest, Vincen, isn’t that him? He’s got an erection to be proud of!) and finally agreed it was better, for it plainly showed her belly, which was attractive and inviting and just plain pretty. “Yes,” said madame, “it does ask to be stroked, doesn’t it? And her pubis too, smooth and bare, isn’t it fine, isn’t it beautiful?” They nodded, and one (fifteen-year-old Baptiste) took the hint, and with a pleased glance at Mrs G he went up to the trembling girl, laying a hand on that attractive belly. Catherine cried out but could not prevent her stroking by Baptiste, then all four adolescents, on her belly – and her back, and her bum, and the bumhole again – and down to the fine pubis, bare and open – and her joli con, as they called it, and what it concealed, and what it contained, oh mon dieu, magnifique, madame! Lydia smiled at the exhibition of young lust, and relished the absolute burning blushes of her victim, who sank to her knees in the midst of them and shuddered into an orgasm that shook her to her roots. The boys were sent on their way to the kitchen for a snack, and Lydia said cheerfully “Well, it does seem as if that one gets the vote. Fine! You’ll wear that this afternoon. Go and wash up.” Catherine wobbled to her feet, picked up her slip, and left without looking at her tormentor, and Lydia smirked in satisfaction.
 
==================================================================
 
Catherine, girded with her towel, went off in the cart, pulled by Modestine, who seemed to know something of what was in the girl’s mind, foe she was plodding along in a very deliberate thoughtful gait, as if on her way to an unpleasant place. And so it was of course. The donkey’s natural reluctance mirrored Catherine’s foreboding, and her gloomy look over her shoulder made her seem sympathetic to the poor victim of the doctor’s cruel humour. Yes, Catherine said to herself, and then out loud to Modestine. “Yes! He’s a sadistic man who delights in embarrassing women! I just know he’s going to continue with this stupid ointment and letting boys rub it on my privates! And when I’m cured, what will he do? Something else, I just feel it, so that more boys can feel me up! Christ!” she yelled in the general direction of heaven, “he’s a fraud! A kind empathetic healer of the sick, but ah! He enjoys embarrassing us – not just me, poor Matthew too! It fits right in with Mrs G’s plans, to keep us in constant anticipation of shame-making experiences, being stripped and ridiculed by the opposite sex!”
 
All of a sudden she stopped, and Modestine, sensing a change, looked round and stopped herself.
 
“But God! I … somehow I … God, I’m looking forward to it. My cunt is wet! I’m … I’m aroused by the very thought!”
 
Modestine brayed her answer, seeming to say “Right, deary! And I’m taking you to an appointment with a lot of boys just itching to get a look (and a feel) at your naked breasts and arse and cunt. Oh yes!” She set off again, this time quite quickly, and Catherine sat back and didn’t try to analyse her ambiguous feelings, but kept her mind as vacant as she could till she was in town and to pay attention to her attire, or lack of it. That gendarme was looking at her again with a beaming smile and a raised eyebrow, as if to ask “What are you going to show us today?” So much for her objection about what the police might say.
 
She stopped Modestine as near the office as she could and with great care stepped down from the cart. There weren’t many people about right then, and she was able to get to the door with no impedance. Once inside, she found no-one in the waiting area, and went through to the examination room, where Louis and François were sitting on chairs, salivating at another session. They greeted her with lascivious grins, and didn’t try to dissemble their bawdy interest in her body. They waited until the other three turned up, those who had helped at the second examination, then the titillation could start.
 
“Right, Catherine!” said François, “let’s have you undress. But slowly, like a strip-tease. To tell the truth, we want to see your blushes become more intense as the process goes on. Bien! Begin with your shoes. Go on.”
 
She breathed hard and bent down to undo her shoes, and the movement naturally affected that towel. The boys yelled in glee as it slid off her loins, and she was crouched naked on the floor. She was blushing already, and what more could happen? Trying to be calm she took the towel and replaced it on her waist, took off her shoes, then stood up to stare defiantly at the nasty adolescents, who were gazing contentedly at the show. Then it had to be her camisole, the lacy blue one, that showed her belly and her navel so invitingly. She put her hands to the hem of it and lifted it, trembling, to bare her small breasts, and the boys sighed and licked their lips, Louis breaking the rapt silence to say “Yes, Catherine, your breasts are truly fine. They deserve to be admired in the touch, to be stroked, to be fondled, and their nipples deserve to be tickled and sucked. I’m going to do that rather soon. I promise.”
 
Off came the blue lace and was discarded to the side, leaving nothing but the towel. Catherine was seized by a perverse urge to tittilate her audience, and began to move her hips in a circular motion, turning her body round at the same time, so that the boys could see her shapely buttocks dancing under the cloth. Yes! Dancing! That would do! She put her hands out to the sides, then up, imitating what she thought of as an exotic eastern dance, and the boys stamped their feet and whistled. Round she went again, her hips moving as erotically as she could make them, and she worked out the length of time it took to finally free the towel again; her back to the boys, she flicked her behind and helped to dislodge her covering. As it fell to the floor their appreciation increased, and Jules exclaimed “Oh Catherine! Your fesses, your buttocks, the look of your whole back! It is neat and … trim, compact, so attractive! Yes, and I can promise that I’ll be caressing it, each of your buttocks, your spine, your fente natale, and your arsehole! Mais oui! I cannot wait till I have my hands on you.”
 
The others were laughing, and watched as Catherine coyly picked up the towel and flourished it behind her back as if drying after a bath. Then she turned round, with the cloth strategically placed over her breasts and her crotch, to wiggle herself seductively, before she put her hand behind her to find the end of the towel, which went from between her breasts down between her legs, so that she could simulate some more drying, this time of her belly and her cunt. Of course the frottage induced a great tingle in her vulva, and she wondered about coming in front of them. Then she realised with a shock that that was exactly what was supposed to happen ultimately.
 
Then there was a clatter of feet and six other boys rushed in, glad to find they weren’t too late to see the joli con. They made her continue with her tease dance, and applauded at each peek at her vulva, which she hid most of the time behind her towel, but finally threw her cover into the air and finished with another writhe of her loins, and the boys broke into cheers. This time it was one of the new boys, Étienne, who looked an undersized seventeen, who gave voice to the adolescent lust of them all. “O my God, Catherine! Your body is so beautiful, so luscious, so enticing! I want to … hug you, kiss you, no, I want to get to your derrière, to your con, I want to put my fingers into you, and to fuck you, yes, foutre comme un étalon, foutre comme un taureau!”
 
He stood up and took a step towards her. What might have been in his mind however was squelched by the door being flung open and the doctor marching in, seemingly harassed as usual. But he stopped to contemplate the scene – near a dozen teenagers forming an audience to a nude girl, who looked at him in thankfulness and said “Oh, doctor! I—”
 
He interrupted. “I am glad you are naked already, mademoiselle. Kindly get up on the examination table. Boys, help her.”
 
They rushed to do so, and when she was in position, red-faced and beginning to think about her wetness, he turned to the boys to greet them and find out the names and ages of the new ones. They ranged from thirteen to seventeen, and Fauré bade them welcome to the treatment. “You’ll see,” he said, “how these complaints are dealt with. I do hope by the way that you understand English well enough. You’ll all be at the high school, yes? Then I trust you are sufficiently acquainted with the fine language of Shakespeare. Now then! Gather round. Can you all see well? Good. Now here is Mlle Catherine, who has had an infection of the perineum, which is the short section of skin between her anus and her vulva, here.”
 
The boys looked closely at her body, the new ones, who had not been there before, with bright eyes and protruding tongues, the five old hands amused to see their salacity. Fauré peered at her and his eyes narrowed as he smiled. “Yes!” he said in a definitive sort of voice, “it is gone! Look, boys, there is nothing visible here, all is unmarked and without blemish. It used to look quite angry, but now it is all quiet and pleasant. See!”
 
The boys licked their lips and stared, and Catherine shuddered as she seemed to physically feel the touch of their gaze, and her labia told her they were reacting, her vagina was watering in anticipation, and her whole organ seemed to clench itself to say Yes! I’m ready!
 
 “Yes,” Fauré said with a considered nod, flourishing his fingers at her crotch. “It is all gone, all completely cured. I must remember to write down a description of the case – cases, including the boy – for our medical journal. It is a pity that I did not remember to take a photograph of the problem. Ah well.”
 
Martin, looking a little sheepish, said “M. le Docteur, I think you may be pleased to use my photograph.”
 
“What! A photograph! When was this?”
 
“Last time, sir. I took a picture of the trouble because it was so interesting….”
 
 Faure frowned, and said “You really should have asked permission. Besides, I suppose you didn’t bother to ask Mlle Catherine for her permission, did you?”
 
The crestfallen boy coloured and shook his head.
 
“Well!” Fauré shook his head. “What’s done is done. And,” his face cleared, “it will be very useful to have that photograph. Thank you, Martin! It was very thoughtful of you. Yes, we’ll use that in our article, and I’ll give you full credit.”
 
Catherine gasped in astonishment, and looked at the doctor, who turned to her and said “You do not mind, I hope, that Martin here took a photograph of your perineum? It will be very instructive for the readership.”
 
She opened her mouth but nothing came out, and Fauré turned to the boy and said “You must bring me a copy. But wait.” He looked the boy over, and asked “Do you have your camera with you today?”
 
“Why yes,” said the boy, “I have it here,” showing a camera case slung over his shoulder.
 
“Excellent! For now we can take a picture of the region to show it is once more healthy. Do you mind?”
 
Of course the boy didn’t mind, and grinned at the victim, who shivered to know that pictures of her crotch would be printed in a magazine for others to be instructed by. Thank God her face wouldn’t be there. But what the fuck had that lecherous boy been up to? She hadn’t noticed the camera. Oh God, and how many other photos had he taken? I bet, she said to herself, the little bastard has given copies to all his pals, so that they can put them on their walls and masturbate over them.
 
“Yes, now we can do that, I think it only proper to utilise the opportunity, while Martin here takes his pictures—”
 
Pictures? More than one? What the hell….
 
“—to go over the anatomy and physiology of the region. You do not mind, mademoiselle? Consider it an opportunity to aid in the education of these boys. You permit? Thank you.”
 
She gawked at him and shut her mouth, which she had opened to beseech him to stop this exposure, then closed her eyes in abject shame as he went over her entire genital area. It seemed to take ages, but it could only be a few minutes before he was winding up his lecture with an invitation to examine her displayed intimacies for themselves. She opened her eyes in shock as the boys arranged themselves in an orderly queue to look intently, to touch, to finger, to stroke the smooth skin from vulva to anus, and accidentally incite in her a panting escalation of her arousal. This was just as bad as it had been at St Vincent’s, and the boys faces were even closer to her body, and their fingers were somehow even more exciting, titillating, whatever the word should be….
 
“Thank you, Catherine!” he said, smiling at her blushing face. “That was very useful. And Martin’s pictures will have captured every moment of that exhibition, I’m sure.”
 
She looked at him in misery. An exhibition was the right word. Surely he could see how embarrassed she was, with her trembling and her blushing and (God!) her wetness at the cunt? But he had dismissed all that and thought only of his status as medical mentor to the inquisitive schoolboys. Then Louis spoke up.
 
“M. le Docteur, perhaps you will allow us to apply an aromatic cream to her loins, to lubricate them. Not a medical cream, but a soothing one. Hein?”
 
“That’s a good thought, Louis. Yes, Catherine, I’m sure you’ll like it, to be soothed by application of an aromatic balsam. Yes?”
 
She looked at him and for some reason she shrugged her shoulders. She was still halfway towards a crest of emotion, and didn’t really have much control over her body’s reactions. The boys were of course very pleased at the suggestion and began to discuss which potion they should use, François naturally having the final word. Fauré left it up to him and turned to go, pausing to address his patient kndly.
 
“Mademoiselle, it has been very good to have treated you. Thank you for co-operating. I shall send the bill to Mme Grainger shortly. I leave you in the capable hands of François and his friends. Good day.”
 
He nodded and left. The boys, armed with the ointment and permission to anoint her sexual parts, looked at each other and grinned. Francois, as was only fitting, began the delightful task, pouring thick ointment on to his palm and putting it square on her seam, the heel of his hand at her vulva and his finger tips playing with her arsehole.
 
“Ah Catherine!” he exclaimed. “To see your naked loveliness is pleasure, but to touch it is exquisite!”
 
He wiggled his fingers, and sent a trembling tingle up into her body.
 
“You cannot know,” he continued, “how it feels for me, for any boy, for your admirers here, all eleven of us, you cannot know the sheer sensation of feeling this soft smooth skin, this little corner of you, a few centimetres broad, that we know joins your two admirable orifices, your arsehole and your cunt. I know you are feeling your own sensations when I slide my hand like this,” and he pushed it along her seam just a fraction, and back, “when I do that, you feel it – I can see you react, you take a deep breath and give a sort of shiver or sigh, yes, you are feeling,” he increased the speed, “you feel it and you are becoming excited, yes? Yes!”
 
He kept up his shameful commentary as he applied the balsam to her little corner, then her admirable orifices, then relinquished the onerous task to his friends, one after another, all eleven boys, the newcomers with big eyes and big grins, short of breath to match hers, their hearts thudding in their chests to accompany hers, which sounded in her ears like a – like a drum! For God’s sake, a couple of lines came into her head, from a poem she’d admired in her uncle’s library, lines she almost laughed to be reminded of now in this mortifying situation, and she found herself speaking them (albeit misquoting in a fluster) to the boy at her crotch, one of the new ones, Léon, aged just fifteen.
 
“Hark, my pulse, like a soft drum,
 
Beats to tell thee that I come!”
 
 
 
And she was close to it, but didn’t get there until the eleventh, thirteen-year-old Maurice, triggered her clitoris, and she gave a shuddering cry and clenched her entire body, to spasm for a whole minute before relaxing with an astonished half-smile on her face.
 
They let her down, and got her clothes (her one garment and a towel), but couldn’t relinquish her so soon, and started feeling her from head to toe. After some minutes of this she realiused she was on her way to getting to another orgasm, and was looking forward (yes!) to it when one of the new boys couldn’t help himself – he pulled out his penis and started to wank. The others, after an initial shock, joined in, seeking relief for their erect and straining cocks, eyeing her, in the middle of their ring, and yelling at her to finger herself. In a kind of stupor she, very close to her desired relief, obeyed, and the sight of their naked pricks, yearning after her cunt, and latter ejaculations, brought her to a grand ecstatic orgasm of her own.
 
They recovered after a few minutes and dressed her, pushing her out the door with thankyous and grins. Now she had to get home, and all was well…
 
Of course the towel was inadequate – they’d put it on so as to reveal her arse, though she couldn’t see it. She wondered why people were staring and laughing, and it wasn’t till she was close to the cart that she realised why. In a blushing panic she tried to rearrange the towel, but got on the cart anyway and shook the reins. Modestine started up abruptly, and Catherine staggered back, losing the towel, and was standing there in her glory as the donkey proceeded through the square. She was frozen in fright for a minute, but an exclamation from a passer-by woke her up. She dropped the reins and sat down in horror, and Modestine obediently stopped. The scarlet girl was trying to get the towel, squatting in the cart, and folk were beginning to crowd round, staring and pointing and laughing,. She was near shrieking in shame, but managed to gird herself again and get the reins, making the donkey move, and finally getting away, looking up to see the gendarme salute her with a broad grin. Later Lydia G got a report from an interested citizen, and was sardonically amused. ………………………………………………………………………………………………..
 
Genevieve looked at her friend Arienne with a smile. “I’m going to Mme Grainger’s place today,” she said, “to borrow a book for papa. Do you want to come with me?”
 
Arienne looked doubtful. “To be honest, I don’t like her too much,” she said hesitantly. “Of course I don’t know her much at all. But when I’ve seen her she’s always been so austere and haughty-looking….”
 
“But come, do come,” said Genevieve, “as company for me. You’ve never seen the inside of the mansion, have you? You don’t need to speak to the woman, after all.”
 
“Oh, all right. To please you. And it is a fine day for a walk.”
 
So it was agreed, and they set off with some sandwiches to eat al fresco on the way, conversing idly from time to time.
 
“Hey, Arienne,” said Genevieve, “I’ve just thought. The boy may be there.”
 
“The boy? The English boy?”
 
“Yes, of course. You haven’t met him, but I told you about him and—”
 
“God! Yes, and I admit I was excited to hear it. So he’s going to be there today?”
 
“I imagine so. He may be out helping M. Boucard with the olives or whatever, but if we’re lucky we’ll see him. I bet you as soon as he sees me, he’ll blush crimson red. He’s so shy and modest, but when he’s embarrassed to be undressed in front of a girl – let alone a lot of girls! – he blushes deep red all over. And Mme Grainger, it seems, is quite pleased to have that happen. She’s young enough to be able to enjoy the sight of a naked boy. Man, even. Like it, and not be shocked, like a lot of our elders in the village. And she seems to be scornful of males to the extent that she gets pleasure out of seeing a boy tormented like that. So I’m going to tell her all about the medical visits, and you’ll see how she reacts.”
 
“And I admit I’ll be pleased to hear again how he was treated, and blushed, … and came!”
 
Genevieve laughed. “I bet you will. I wonder if I might exaggerate? No. It’ll be thrilling enough just as it happened. Oh wait! If the boy is there, he may be undressed – yes, listen! He (and his friend, the girl who came with them) have had this rash I told you about that they got on their arses, right? They probably passed it on when they were fucking, I bet. They’ve been told not to cover themselves to let the skin breathe, especially after application of their ointment. So if we’re lucky, he may not be wearing his trousers when we get there!”
 
Arienne squealed in delight. “And tell me, what did your father do with the girl?”
 
Genevieve giggled. “He let François help with the ointment. François being (of course) a mature boy – young man – serious and proper and scientific and objective. He wouldn’t be upset at having to rub ointment on a girl’s bottom, would he? But of course,” she giggled more, “there was no reason why he couldn’t allow his friends to take part of the onerous and important task.”
 
Arienne smiled bawdily. “So it’s the same for her and the boy, they each get their treatment, very carefully I’m sure, very detailed and thorough, from some of the opposite sex.”
 
“Yes, it so happens. François and Louis were there the first time, and so it was convenient. With Mathieu it was more deliberate. Papa knows I’m thinking of a nursing career, so he arranged it. And naturally I let a couple of my friends help me. Why not? – The fact,” she grinned wickedly, “that he would be mortified had nothing to do with it. So anyway, with any luck we may catch him with his trousers down. Or off. You’re interested?”
 
“You’re joking! Interested? Is the bee interested in a blushing red rose?”
 
They laughed together and ate some sandwiches.
 
They rang the bell at the front door of the house and shortly it was opened by a girl in her later teens with a complexion browned by the sun.
 
“Hello,” said Genevieve. “Do you remember me? I’m Geneviève Fauré, the doctor’s daughter. This is Arienne Lemieux, my friend, We’ve come to see madame, if she’s in.”
 
Mireio smiled and greeted them, then led them through to the kitchen. She left them there, the new girl looking around with interest, and went to tell her mistress she had visitors.
 
“Oh yes, Mireio, I remember. She’s come for a book I promised to lend to the doctor. Yes, bring them through.”
 
She greeted the girls affably and sat them down, offering coffee, which they accepted, and they spoke for a while of generalities. Then Mrs Grainger rose to fetch the book she’d promised Fauré, and on her return she asked them if they could tell her how those medical examinations had gone.
 
Genevieve was eager to tell her, and knew Arienne was keen to hear, so she launched into a vivid description of the events.
 
“So you see, madame, when the boy came, I was ready to help in the examination. I’d been looking forward to it all night! He was undressed of course, and I took his measurements, and helped with the specimen of urine….”
 
Their hostess smiled, and Arienne licked her lips.
 
“Then I helped him up on to the examination table, where papa flexed his knees and so forth, then his feet were raised and placed in the stirrups and the body arranged for a pelvic examination. So that,” she continued deliberately, “his anus and genitals were clearly displayed.”
 
She looked at her friend and grinned. Arienne’s eyes were bright, and her cheeks had gained a flush.
 
“Well,” she said with some reddening of her own, “I must confess that I’d never seen a boy like this, as old as this, anyway – we’ve all seen toddlers! – and my brother François doesn’t count somehow, and anyway I’ve not seen him naked for years – I’d never seen a naked boy close up, though naturally I’d often imagined it. I was fascinated by what I saw. His penis was about seven and a half centimetres long, and sort of thin. He had short curly hairs, dark like his head, just dusting the whole area. Not too much, that is. On his penis, where I could see the veins clearly, and on the scrotum. His testicles hung down, but not very low, and I think that he was beginning, just then, to start the signs of his … excitement….”
 
“Yes, Geneviève, how was he? How was he acting?”
 
“Ah, madame, he was ashamed to be naked in front of me. Not just naked, as he’d been before, but displayed, all his genital area laid out and … emphasised, very much centre stage, as it were.”
 
The others nodded, intent on her tale.
 
“So then papa was able to see the same infection that the girl had shown. He called me over to look at it. I think the boy gave a great sigh or something when he saw me staring at his privates! Well, the infection – it was like a red rash, or a lot of little red spots, something like a nettle I suppose, but smaller, on the perineum. Between the anus and the testicles,” she added, for her friend’s benefit, and Ariednne nodded interestedly.
 
“We could see it there, and it could be spreading, so I was allowed to cleanse the area with disinfectant lotion, all over, his anus and his seam and groins and testicles and penis, just to be sure. Then I dried him, carefully lifting the testicles and his penis. I must say that by this time he was blushing like mad and that his member was getting thick. It may have been a couple of centimetres across, I think, but now it must have been about three.”
 
His fascinated audience smiled and looked at each other in a sororital solidarity.
 
“Papa went to look for some antiseptic cream to apply to the infection, and I admit I hoped (or expected) to be allowed to apply it. And just then my friend Héloise came in to look for me, and I invited her to join us. The boy of course went pale and then blushed beautifully. I knew papa would let Héloise help, I got the impression he had already spoken about this with madame (papa said yes, it was fine). So there we were, two girls staring at the boy’s genitals, and our mouths watering at the thought of putting our hands to his naked body.”
 
She looked directly at Mrs Grainger, who nodded in approval and understanding. Arienne breathed in deeply, which made their hostess look at her in amusement.
 
“Yes,” she said, “I understand your feelings. Thank you for being so honest, Geneviève. And so?”
 
“Papa gave us the ointment, but first he took a little swab on a stick and put it in the boy’s anus to obtain a little excrement sample. Then he let me do it. I must say it was funny, pushing into his hole—”
 
She caught herself and looked apologetically at her hostess, who smiled and nodded, giving silent permission to be direct and even vulgar in her language. Genevieve continued, not bothering any more to be scientific.
 
“Well, I took the ointment and applied it to his seam, where the main infection was. It was funny, an odd kind of feeling, to put my fingers on that, near to his hole and near to his testicles … but then I applied it to his hole completely, and the feel of it was … odd, and droll, oh my God—”
 
She paused for breath, and Mrs G asked her “And what was Mathieu doing meanwhile?”
 
“Oh, madame, he was twitching, trying to avoid my fingers, moving his pelvis, but he couldn’t escape of course. His belly was sucked in, he was panting, he was blushing so hard! And making funny little moaning noises. And so I larded him up, and looked at Héloise to tell her that she should have a go.”
 
Mrs G said drily, “And I imagine Mathieu was horrified?”
 
“Oh, madame! It was funny to see how he was so speechless, he couldn’t get out a word to us – papa had gone to the office by then anyway so we girls could play with him as we liked. When papa came back he still couldn’t talk, he was trembling and panting so hard. Héloise managed to anoint his perineum and bum hole nicely, and even go inside him – it was really droll to see! But his penis by now was thick and pointing out at us, And it seemed to twitch as she moved her fingers inside his hole. Then his ballocks, and she felt them very carefully. Papa was back by now and I almost expected him to tell Héloise to be careful, for I knew the testes are very sensitive, but he didn’t, he was looking for something. Then Nicole came in. She’s another school friend of mine. Her uncle keeps the post office in town.”
 
The others looked amusedly at the recital, and Arienne’s tongue was out in concentration.
 
“She was allowed to stay and watch, and allowed to smear the ointment on him. He was moaning all the way, but papa went away again, so he couldn’t be appealed to. So anyway, Nicole did it all again – the perineum, the bum hole, and the bowel – oh, you should have seen him writhe! – the testicles, the penis! It was standing up so proudly by this time, at least sixteen centimetres, so Nicole couldn’t resist seizing it and rubbing the ointment on. For medicine’s sake of course!”
 
She laughed outright, and the others joined her.
 
“Well, he couldn’t hold back any longer, and the last caress he got on his cock from Nicole sent him into a fit, or so it seemed. He gave a great groan, or sigh, and heaved his arse off the table, thrusting himself up in the air, and it looked like he was showing off his cock and everything, but then he ejaculated. God, he ejaculated!”
 
She shut her eyes in remembrance, then opened then to blink at Mrs G.
 
“You understand, madame, none of us had seen it before. Heard about it, yes, dreamed about it, but hadn’t seen it in our lives. We looked at this spectacle in amazement, I can say, and admired the sight – the balls seemed to draw in, the cock got even bigger and redder and pointed straight up, and this cream suddenly erupted, that’s the word, erupted from his peehole. It went up in the air like a geyser, I don’t know how high, and again, and again!
 
“I was afraid of a possible mess, but most of it, the come, landed on him, his belly mostly. After a while he stopped heaving and moaning and lay back, sweating and blushing so brightly! Then we were able to wash him and dry him, and papa came back to give him his instructions about not wearing anything on his arse. So that’s what happened, that first time.”
 
Mrs G nodded in satisfaction. “I was hoping,” she said, “for something like that. You do understand that I’m of the possibly heterodox opinion that there should be no great mystery between the sexes. Boys like to see girls naked; and girls like to see boys naked. Neither get the chance, too much, for in general society wants to keep the sexes apart when they are in any state of undress. So when the opportunity comes along, it is seized with both hands. After all,” she looked at Arienne, “if Mathieu was able to see you naked, don’t you think he’d relish it and try to renew the experience? I’m not talking about sexual intercourse, naturally. Just looking at nudity, and yielding to the obvious desire, to touch and caress the bare skin. However, let’s have a cup of coffee, hm? And then you can tell me more.”
 
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
 
Matthew came into the house, looking forward to a wash, after helping Pascau with his chores. He felt sweaty and tired, with the work and the weather, and was looking forward to a nice soak in the tub. He was therefore a bit discomfited to be called through to the parlour to be introduced to a pretty girl from town and the dreadful Genevieve, who looked at him cheekily to say hello, how was he? He flushed as her eyes told him she was remembering the last encounter, and indeed all of them, when she put her eager hands to his quailing nudity. And her friend Arienne, now; a nice-looking, no, extremely pretty girl, with chestnut-coloured hair in waves down to her shoulders. Brown eyes that gazed at him with what seemed excitement. Red lips and neat teeth, and the rest of her that he could see was somehow so pleasant and attractive. Her bosom seemed to be just a little bigger than Catherine’s, her waist smaller if anything, and he had the fleeting image of putting his arm completely round her—.
 
His flush suddenly flared as he felt an unexpected surge of feeling in his penis. Good God, he had an ache of lust in his loins, for a girl he’d just met! He stammered a greeting and stood awkwardly, looking at the ground, then at Genevieve, then at Mrs G.
 
That student of human nature looked at him closely with what seemed an awful comprehension of his thoughts, and he looked down at his crotch to make sure his member wasn’t betraying him. She smiled in what had to be understanding, and asked if he was going to wash. Unthinkingly he nodded, then flushed again at the next image in his head, but Mrs G merely said “Away you go then. Don’t be long.”
 
In some perplexity (for he was wondering why she hadn’t made some move to embarrass him) he went to the bathroom and turned on the taps. In the parlour, Lydia looked at her guests and pondered, then made up her mind. Ah yes, the phrase was ‘lulled into a false sense of security’, wasn’t it? Right. Wait till he comes out all clean and shiny.
 
“Now then, Geneviève, where were we?”
 
……………………………………………………………………………………………………..
 
Matthew towelled himself dry and put the cloth round him like a sarong, picked up his clothes and took them to his own bedroom. He put them on the bed and turned to see Genevieve at the door beckoning to him. A little flustered, he followed her to the parlour, conscious of the fact that he was dressed only in a towel, and wondering why he hadn’t put something else on.
 
“Ah Matthew,” said Mrs G, “there you are. My, how clean and fresh you look! Doesn’t he, girls? I was thinking that when the girls go home you could accompany them for a bit. It’s a nice day for a walk, even in this heat, don’t you think? Yes, and you could wear that nice yellow shirt you have.”
 
His heart skipped a beat as he remembered the nice shirt, in a thin cotton that buttoned all down the front, only reached the end of his penis, or covered him more than half an inch. But why was he worried? He nodded, and was told to go and fetch it. When he returned, with the shirt and a pair of shorts in his hands, Mrs G looked at him and said “Oh, Matthew, I quite forgot. Your ointment.”
 
He froze, and stared at the three of them aghast. The two girls stared back, with open amusement, and Mrs G smiled in a predictable predatory way as she said “Genevieve here has been telling me about the rash and how the girls have been helpful in applying the ointment. I must say it reflects well on their interest in health matters. So I’m reminded that you have to have another application, don’t you? Where is it? In your room? Fetch it.”
 
He took a deep breath and turned to leave, but the action loosened the folds of his cover and the towel dropped to the floor. With a little whimper he stooped to pick it up but Genevieve, the fucking slut! got there first and held it to her chest with glee. He swivelled round to show them his naked arse, and Arienne gave a delighted squeal. Mrs G brusquely ordered him to go for the ointment, and he moved stiffly away, knowing the cards were stacked against him, and how the next little while would develop.
 
He returned with the salve, one hand over his genitals, and they stared at him in amusement.
 
“Right, Matthew! Out to the lawn, it’s easier there.” Lydia saw the anticipation on Arienne’s face and smiled cruelly. Matthew led them out to the middle of the lawn and stopped. He turned to his mistress and thought of appealing, but of course it was impossible. Foolish boy!
 
“Now, Matthew, hand the ointment to Arienne.” He did so, and their fingers met, with a sort of shock, and she went a little red herself.
 
“No, wait!”
 
They stared at Mrs G, whose grin widened, and she said “We’re forgetting: he really should apply his sun lotion, don’t you think?”
 
Genevieve gave a crow. “Yes, madame, he should always protect himself with papa’s cream. And I’ve brought some with me!” She ran into the house and came out with a bottle of the buttery substance. Arienne frowned and asked about the other stuff, and Mrs G solved any dilemma by deciding that the girls ahould apply the sun cream first, covering all of him except his perineum, and then wind up covering that, and the immediate area, with the healing ointment. This pleased them mightily, and Matthew bit his lip as he saw how things would pan out.
 
First though he was told to stand straight, legs apart, hands behind his head, to let Arienne have an unobstructed view (inspection, actually) of his total body, especially the more interesting parts. His blush grew as she knelt to stare at his penis, which he was pleased to know was not reacting too forcibly to the circumstances. Then it was time to anoint him.
 
Genevieve and Arienne poured some of Fauré’s invention on their hands and put them on his shoulders. He shivered as they worked the lotion on his shoulder blades and his arms. The small of his back, the armpits, his sides as far as his waist, his face and chest, playfully tweaking his nipples, which gave him a tingle and made his peaceful cock twitch, which they noticed and commented on. Then his abdomen, poking a finger into his navel, and another glance at his slowly tumescing organ, then to his behind.
 
They stood on either side of him, a hamd at his hip, the other carefully smearing the fragrant protection over the rounds of his arse, which twitched and flexed under the pressure of those impertinent fingers, which met at the anal cleft and liberally greased it, reaching down to that anus, and individually searching how to access the puckered entrance to his bowel. They exclaimed with delight when they saw his penis pointing out straight, and with a last fond smoothing of the palms on the underside of his arse, they started on his lower belly and pubic hair, but halted to take care of his legs, from the toes up his thighs to where they’d left off, to attend to his penis. It was now pointing up, and he was beginning to pant. With wicked smiles, egged on by madame, who lay on the chaise longue and smiled, they got more cream on their hands, and attacked that member, running hands up and down and delicately teasing the very tip, the unbearably sensitive glans, brilliantly red now, as red as the boy’s cheeks. But then the inevitable happened – he tensed up, drew in his belly, stood on tiptoe and clenched his fists at his side as he gave a great cry and came, finally climaxing in an explosion of sperm over the grass.
 
“Ha!” exclaimed the chatelaine in satisfaction. “Thank you, girls! Matthew, you boorish boy, thank them for their taking care of you – and the spend! Well?”
 
He drew a panting breath and stammered “Th—thank you, Genevieve, Arienne, for … for doing this….”
 
“Oh, you are very welcome, Mathieu!” laughed Genevieve, who looked at Mrs Grainger and winked in girlish solidarity. “You should rest now!” she commanded in the guise of a trainee nurse.
 
“Sit down, Matthew,” said Mrs G, “and recover your breath. There is still the ointment for your rash, remember?”
 
His face clenched in misery and he started to protest, but what was the use? He sat on the grass, not caring how he splayed his limbs and displayed his body, and closed his eyes. When he opened them he saw the ladies had qone into the house, probably to giggle over his performance. A weariness came over him, together with an odd feeling of … what? Relaxation? Contentment? God forbid. Pride? What! Was he proud of his erection and his projection of ejaculate, to please and maybe impress these young girls, his peers? What was the matter with him?
 
He woke up with a start. He had no idea how long he’d been drowsing in the sun, but with all that lotion on he had to be protected. Yes. But God, what about the other—?
 
He was answered by the giggling arrival of the girls, who brandished the tin of ointment Fauré had recommended for that mysterious infection. He rose to his knees and ineffectually put his trembling hands to his crotch.
 
“None of that!” called Mrs G, “why do you bother? Look, it’s nearly time the girls were going back, but first they can apply that healing salve to your perineum! They’re looking forward to it, and are you sure you’re not, as well?”
 
He glared at her but couldn’t contradict her, so merely moaned as Arienne lifted him by the armpits and posed him as before. “Now, Mathieu, we put on the doctor’s ointment. Here it is.”
 
She got a blob on her fingers and came at him with a salacious grin. As he felt her hand slide under his ballocks to coat the seam in the preparation he gave a shiver, and felt an immediate tingle of arousement. Not again! Oh God, not again!
 
Arienne’s fingers caressed that delicate area between scrotum and anus, spreading the medicine over those pimples or whatever, and in a very short while he was erect, enjoying in spite of himself the titillation of that erogenous zone by the hand of a girl his own age, whom he’d just met, who was not treating the treatment as a therapeutic service, but openly and unashamedly rejoicing in handling his nakedness and piling on the embarrassment.
 
The first application brought him to pleasing erection, and the action paused for a few minutes while the girls gossiped about his attributes. He hung his head to hear him penis and testicles described in approving terms, compared to what they imagined to be the average for boys of his age. But the girls, as they’d admitted, had no previous experience, and could merely admire what they thought was a very fine show.
 
The second application renewed the tumescence of his member, and they both took part in his arousal, finally combining their talented fingers to bring about a very satisfying ejaculation, greeted with oohs and aahs from the girls and a nod and smirk from Lydia, who looked at the boy to notice his abandoned pleasure in the act. Oh yes, he was enjoying it! And how else could she humiliate him?
 
Quite simply. Once the girls had washed their hands they were convoyed to the front gate, and Matthew was about to draw a breath of relaxation when his mistress ordered him to put on the nice yellow shirt and come back. In an anxious tremble he did so, having donned those shorts he had brought, only to be told to take them off. “You disobedient ninny! No trousers, you know that! Now I’m asking you to escort the girls halfway home. You can do that, it’ll be a good exercise for you. And the shirt will suffice. Leave it unbuttoned, let the sun at you.”
 
Genevieve and Arienne were grinning at the the prospect, and thanked Mme Grainger for her hospitality. Matthew gritted his teeth and walked with them down the road, trying to pretend a nonchalance but acutely conscious of his penis trying to poke out from below the short hem of the nice shirt. He only had one button done up, just at his pubis, and the member could easily be distinguished. The girls gave him a caress every so often, stroking a hand up his thigh to his waist, to his bum, and lingering to pinch a buttock or even tweak his ballocks. He bore all this with a sigh and an anticipation of bidding them farewell halfway, then wandering back at his easy leisure in that glorious sun to the haven of the estate.
 
He was jerked back abruptly to his sordid reality by coming to a fork in the road, leading in one direction to the village and the other to a hamlet at a fair distance, called Gassin, from where a small crowd of girls was approaching. He stopped with a whimper and automatically covered his crotch, and Genevieve burst out laughing. “Oh, Mathieu!” she exclaimed, “Here are some more girls who will be pleased to meet you!”
 
They stopped at the junction and waited till the party joined them, then introduced the cringing boy, who fumbled with his buttons trying to shield himself while mouthing a greeting of some sort to the newcomers, who were surprised and delighted to meet this handsome boy who quite evidently was stark naked under that thin cover. They knew Arienne, who told them something of his problems, and they told her (and him) they were deeply sympathetic, and could they help?
 
He gave a quiet squeal at the thought, but Genevieve said “Oh yes, it’s a pity you couldn’t see the application of his ointment. He’ll be at papa’s tomorrow. You should come.” Matthew understood every word and shook his head in despair. More girls eyeing his privates! But wait, what was she saying?
 
“You can take a look at it now, why not? Mathieu, undo your buttons.”
 
He looked at her in unbelieving horror. Why was he surprised? It was as if she had a mandate from Mrs Grainger to embarrass him as much as she could, and he could do nothing about it. His face grew a hot redness and he broke out in a sweat as he reached for his top button. They watched with eager eyes as he slowly undid them one by one, gradually revealing his chest, his midriff, his abdomen, and with a rush of fire to his cheeks, his pubis, where his penis started to wake up to its exposure and salute these interested ladies, all between twelve and twenty, he surmised in a panting wonder. Arienne came up behind him and eased the cloth off his shoulders, and he allowed it to fall to his feet, baring himself to the sun and their eyes. He clenched his fists at his sides and forbore to try concealment. He knew how it would end, it had to, it was inevitable.
 
The girls crowded round him to inspect him and admire him, making immodest remarks that he didn’t fully follow, but he knew only too well what they were on about. Then Genevieve told him to stand with his legs astride and let them see him. “No, wait! Why not lie back on the grass here to let them look at you more directly? Yes, do that. Lie down over here.”
 
She drew him to the verge of the road and directed the position of his limbs, and the other girls eagerly followed to inspect the boy’s trouble. Matthew closed his eyes and lay back, trying to ignore his audience, but oh so conscious of his penis growing in front of their eyes to its full six-inch glory, its red throbbing excitement, and Christ he was one great blush from head to toe! But … but wasn’t he enjoying this, and revelling in his hard-on, revelling in their fascination with his rampant prick? And there they were, kneeling to stare at that perineum of his, with little exclamations at the sight, which was evidently still reddish and disturbed.
 
“So we’ve rubbed it all over,” said Genevieve, “with ointment, and it is beginning to clear I believe. But we’ll be doing it again tomorrow, and you should all come.”
 
Matthew stopped listening, for his heart was pounding in his ears. He opened his eyes though to stare wildly at one of the new girls, who answered to the name Diane, and who must have been eighteen, who was putting a playful finger out to touch his erection so tenderly – but he jumped and they tittered, then gathered round to touch him all over, all of them, all his sensitive areas, not forgetting (reminded by Arienne) to take care of his beau cul and his trou and his colon. So – his backside and his anus and his prostate, which Diane knew all about and giggled as she explained to her friends, and his nipples and his poile and his testicules and his queue, with its scarlet – no, purple head, which rapidly acquired its own kind of lubrication, and inevitably jerked up in the hands of a sixteen-year-old to spew forth its creamy tribute, three consecutive times.
 
Then they all thanked him and left in their separate directions, allowing him to gather his breath before he rose to collect his shirt and plod back to safety. But he, what did he feel, eh? He felt a sort of satisfaction, didn’t he? God, yes! He’d enjoyed that from first to last. An excruciating embarrassment but a yearning for release, till finally it came, in that explosion of orgasm. Yes, he was satisfied somehow, and yet at the same time looking forward with a hot dread to his medical tomorrow.
 
 
 
Round about the same time the estate workers, all five of them, had washed up and prepared to return to the village. Jennie and Amelia accosted them just as they started their journey, and memory of the previous session made them tarry. Not much conversation was needed to indicate what the girls were after, and the boys, sure of a good thing, were only too happy to delay their return for a little, if they could get in some cuddling as a little reward for working so hard for the great lady. Down the road they strayed into the woods and found a sylvan spot to relax in. Cigarettes were produced and all settled down to make eyes at each other, then fondle the hair, then remove the shirts, then remove the dresses, then fondle the hair, search for the other hair, smooth a hand along a thigh, and finally cast discretion aside and surrender to a willing seduction. The three boys not occupied egged on their companions, and in their turn – for all took turns – they enjoyed the lithe coupling of these two eager English. Another cigarette, another fuck, and a sweaty farewell. The boys went back to their village in pleased exhaustion, and the girls sat for a while looking at each other and grinning.
 
“It’s a great place, this, isn’t it?” said Amelia, stretching. Jennie scratched her quim and answered “Oh yes. I thought I’d be bored, but it gets more interesting day by day!” She trilled a laugh, and her friend nodded as she reached for her slip. “And summer isn’t over yet!”
 
END OF PART 25
 
 
 
 

 
 




   
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