Mrs Grainger's Gift 27

By Ritchie Moore

Send your feedback to puericil@hotmail.com

(I'll forward it to the author)

* * * * *
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.
* * * * *

MRS GRAINGER’S GIFT

Part XXVII

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

Friday 7th August

Visit to the neighbour for an artistic interlude

Pascau stopped the car in a courtyard paved in large flagstones, surrounded by grey walls and a couple of little conical towers flanking the gate. Over a massive door they saw some armorial bearings, with a hard-to-read motto in old French which Pascau looked at and grunted. The children left the car and stretched, then looked up as the door swung open and the host darted out with an effusive welcome. He spoke to Pascau, saying he’d phone to let Madame know when the couple could be picked up again, and watched him drive off. Then he turned to the young folk and introduced himself to Catherine, quite obviously weighing her up, eyeing her from head to toe. With smiles, he took them inside the house – mansion, really – and gave them a quick tour of what he called the living rooms.

Then they found themselves in a sort of anteroom with a brocaded sofa and an old armoire. Morelli looked at them and his smile grew. “Now, my young friends, you can undress here. Lay your clothes on the couch there, that will do.” He saw their alarm and frowned.

“Come! Off with your clothes! Signora Grainger told me that you were ready for this.” They looked at each other and with sighs of resignation took off their clothes, not looking at their host. When they were nude, they automatically covered themselves, at which he laughed, then beckoned them into the room next door, where several cameras faced them – one evidently for moving pictures. Bright lights shone from several directions at a small stage where the pair were quickly positioned by the grinning artist, Matthew behind Catherine, his arms round her waist, her hands reaching behind her to his thighs. This meant that his penis pressed against her backside, and the erotic contact made him erect very quickly. Catherine gasped as she felt him tumesce, and Morelli looked at her curiously. When he separated them he saw the erection and smiled. “Bene, bene!” he chortled, “it is good. You are up, young man! Now we take more pictures.”

He placed them in a few more poses, making it appear the boy was about to rape the girl, and then lying beside her toying with her cunny, then she was kneeling over him with her hand caressing his erection. The pair of them were beginning to pant with arousal, but Morelli paused his enthusiastic exposures and let them rest. He went outside through another door and they drew shuddering breaths and looked at each other.

Then the door opened and two girls of thirteen or so came in. Matthew gave a small shriek and covered himself, and Catherine did the same automatically. The girls stared at them and began to laugh, just as Morelli reentered and spoke to them in Italian. He looked at Matthew and smiled in a disdainful sort of way, saying “Now go with my daughters. I am going to take more pictures of your friend. Off you go.”

Matthew knew he was supposed to submit to whatever his host had in mind; he was sure the Italian and Mrs G had some understanding, and he once again was an erotic pawn like Catherine, who was probably going to be photographed for posterity in obscene poses just like those horrible sepia pictures in the library. He had to go along, and stepped down from the platform to be grabbed by the young girls. He looked up at Catherine, who nodded sadly to him, and he was led away, no longer shielding himself, his erection stiff and pointing up, to the unashamed delight of the girls, who each had a hand to lead him outside to the sun.

They took him down a grassy footpath to a little lawn where two other girls were sitting. They jumped up when they saw the naked boy being led to them, and lost no time in admiring his nudity with soft hands that felt him all over and deliberately sought his intimate parts. He knew he couldn’t escape, and shut his eyes in yet another bout of shame. His penis throbbed, his breath was panting again, a girl’s hands squeezed his buttocks, and he came with a throaty moan. They yelled loudly at the sight, and he stood there spent and shamed as they made remarks that were probably about his performance, but in Italian so were lost to him.

Then another two arrived – the twins he’d already seen at Mrs G’s estate. They were disappointed, evidently, to have missed his ejaculation, but from what Matthew could gather from their conversation they were content to wait for another opportunity. They made him sit down and fed him some fruit, washed down with wine, every so often stroking his bare skin tenderly. Then one grinned and suggested something about a camera. The others happily agreed, and she went off to fetch it. Matthew knew he was in for a photographic session all by himself, and shivered to imagine what poses they would place him in. They were looking at him with grins and bright eyes, chattering to each other and tittering as they laid their bawdy plans.

……………………………………….

“Now, Catherine! A few poses by yourself.” Morelli proceeded to arrange her in a variety of attitudes, including some of open lubricity, holding her hands so as to frame her vulva, squatting to show her reddened lips gaping at the camera, bending to show the behind and the anus and the vulva, peering around coyly, besides merely holding her breasts to show the erect nipples. Then he surprised her by dressing her in a series of shawls, but it was only to simulate the seven veils of Salome. He put on a record of sensuous oriental music, and positioned himself behind a motion picture camera, commanding her: “Dance!” She knew what he wanted, so she tried to provide it, remembering how she’d managed to move to the jazzy music at that party. “Yes! Now slowly unfold the green veil and drop it.” She went through the dance, obediently looking coy and knowing, then lecherous and teasing, while Morelli operated his camera and gave her directions, restarting the record when needed. The last veil of course covered everything, and she finally dropped it to pose for a moment up on her toes, her hands reaching up in the air, then squat with knees apart, her hands splayed to the sides, her head down in submission and her labia open to the camera.

The record ended and Morelli dashed out to raise her up and kiss her crimson cheeks “Brava!” he said, “Brava! Oh Miss Catherine, you are a naturally good performer. That was magnificent. It is better than … it doesn’t matter. We do not need any retakes. You are a star!” She looked at him in bewilderment. “Yes!” he said. “When I show this, the crowd that said my work was a lucky series of accidents, they will admit I am a great director. You will be famous! You will be seen all over Europe. Even that stupid prig Benito Mussolini will agree….”

She stared at him in horror. Her bawdy nakedness would be shown all over Europe! “Yes!” he continued. “Now we have to think of a name for you. What is your full name, in English?”

“C—Catherine Hammond,” she stuttered.

“Well, that is nice but not artistic. No, we need something more … more glorious. Ah! Why not ‘Gloriana’? That should do. Just the one name, like Mistinguett or the Greek actress Cybele, and many other artistes. Yes. I’ll ask Mrs Grainger of course. She may have ideas.” Oh yes, said Catherine to herself, she’ll have ideas, all right. She’ll jump at the chance of exhibiting my cunt to all of Europe, oh God! And as for a name, probably something obscene, or a double entendre like Pussy Contessa!

Then the door opened and a handsome boy with dark Italian looks came in. Catherine covered herself with a cry, and he looked at her with appreciation. “Ah, Marco,” said Morelli, “come in! This is Catherine Hammond, who is modelling for us. Catherine, this is my step-son Marco. I am training him in the art of the cinema.” The boy’s eyes went all over her, and he made some remark to his step-father, who laughed and replied in Italian, then said “It is good you are here, Marco. You may take over the camera now, and we will film some more.”

The boy brightened, and said to Catherine in careful English “I will be happy to take your pictures, Catherine! You are a very pretty girl.” She nodded in acknowledgement, but still blushed as she continued to cover her breasts, now once again with erect nipples, and her delta, now once again reacting in arousal to the gaze of another new pair of eyes.

The boy was handsome: dark eyes, dark brown hair, rather full lips and brilliant teeth which he flashed in a smile that she somehow knew was salacious, and impatient to see her whole bare body. The thought somehow triggered her bladder and she blurted out to Morelli “Please, I have to go to the bathroom!”

He looked puzzled for a second, then said “Aha! Perfect! Marco, to work! See this!” He dashed out for a minute and returned carrying a large round object which turned out to be a tin basin or chamber pot. Memories of the awful experience at St Vincent’s came back to Catherine, who saw what was required of her, and she swallowed in shame as she was positioned over the pot and allowed to urinate, the whole episode being filmed by the boy, who gave exclamations of satisfaction as he focussed on her vulva and the stream of piss. Then she was let dab herself dry, and told to smile into the camera lens. She did so, and the others congratulated each other on a good unusual short – another obscene vignette to broadcast all over Europe!

The two conferred in rapid Italian for a while, presumably deciding what next to do with her, while she sat on a nearby stool, her knees apart, not caring about concealment. She awoke out of a sort of trance when the door opened suddenly and another young man entered with a tray and some filled glasses. He looked at her, momentarily startled, it seemed, but then a broad grin wreathed his face and he kept his eyes on her as he offered the wine to Morelli. This was evidently one of his servants, and she wondered how many others he had – and how many of them were men. Young men, with lecherous eyes….

The others took their wine, and told the servant, evidently named Alberto, who must have been about twenty, to offer a glass to Catherine. She accepted without thinking, but had to uncover her breasts to take it from him, and sipped it, blushing under his gaze, which he did not pretend to be elsewhere than on her bosom, with its perky nipples pointing straight out at him. Her left hand was on her vulva, and she feared she’d be getting moist again.

Alberto was asked a question and replied with a shrug. Morelli turned to Catherine and raised his glass to her as he said “I was asking where Marco’s friend is. His name is Amadeo, a nice boy of your own age, perhaps. I’ve been wanting to use him in a cine film for a while. Hmm….” She looked at him anxiously. Surely he wasn’t going to exhibit her to yet another boy, doing God knows what, to be filmed for all Europe to gawk at? But, she told herself, that’s exactly what he means, and Lydia G probably put him up to it. So it will happen, no getting away from it. She hunched her shoulders in misery and drank her wine, conscious of a nagging feeling of excitement. It’s true, her thoughts ran on, I’m looking forward to arousal, even coming, coming on camera! Oh, am I really so sluttish? Flaunting my cunt like a whore? No, really, I’m not as bad as those horrid pictures Matthew showed me, am I? Am I?

And what about the women who were photographed, eh? Were they too coerced into posing, pretending indifference or coyly smiling, when inside they were really shaking with shame, cursing the photographers and their lecherous customers? – As she was cursing, and despising, this Italian voyeur who preserved her, and countless others evidently, in naked splendour for a whole series of generations to gloat over. God, she thought, maybe when I’m an old woman I’ll come across these nasty things in an attic, or someone will show them to me and laugh, and say How could she let herself be exposed like that, the slut! And I’ll tut-tut and make a face and agree. But hey, maybe by that time it’ll be ordinary, nothing special, when the laws are relaxed, as they said at the dinner, and that gentle-hearted Mr Mayne could love whom he liked, and young Damian – hah, as old as she by then! – would be able to walk hand in hand with his lover in broad daylight, without frightening the horses, and the authorities let us show everything we’ve got….

She drank off her wine, and Alberto took her glass, his eyes still on her breasts. Then he was ordered to remove the pot of urine, which he did with distaste, eyeing her with something of a sneer. He returned to be told to find Signor Cardinale, and left with another dismissive shrug.

Morelli and Marco continued to converse, every so often gazing at her with satisfied looks that were half proprietorial and half openly libidinous. Then Amadeo came in – a boy of medium height with dark brown eyes and hair, bare to the waist and showing a fine bronzed torso. He must have been sunbathing, thought Catherine. How handsome he is! She felt a stirring in her that took her by surprise. She actually had a sudden ache of desire, and flushed at the realisation of her own sexual promptings. And what about Matthew?

Amadeo was introduced to her, and came over to take her hand and pay her compliments in careful English, his eyes openly admiring her nude charms. Then the three men had a rapid conversation in Italian, sometimes looking and making gestures at her as she sat on the stool and sighed. What was happening to Matthew now? She just knew he was being teased in his own dear nakedness by those awful girls. But then, could she really blame them for wanting to see his body, all his fine proportions, and mostly his arse and his ballocks and his cock, flaccid or especially erect in pride. She liked all that, and why wouldn’t they? Then she realised she was thinking of Amadeo – what was his body like? She’d like to see him naked! How nice was his bum? How big was his cock? That ache returned, more forcefully….

Morelli was reloading the motion picture camera with film, and the two boys were looking at her and nodding. Then Marco came over to say “Catherine! We want to recreate some scenes of classical times. Other people have done this, but we think we will be as good as, if not better than, those others.”

The other two came over and Morelli explained, “There is a man in Taormina in Sicily who has done quite well out of photographs of young boys (and a few girls) in classical poses. Nude, I mean. Von Gloeden is his name. And there’s another, von Plüschow, his cousin as it happens, who has mostly served the market of paedophiles and paederasts. I think he’s retired by now, though, in Berlin perhaps. Well, we want to go one better.” Catherine remembered that awful photo session at the Academy, and trembled. And dear Matthew wasn’t here to give her courage!

“I don’t know how much longer these artists will be allowed to continue their activities, however discreet or sporadic they may be. Il Duce has driven me out, so von Gloeden’s days are undoubtedly numbered, and Germany still frowns on homoerotic activities. But here in the land of liberty we can show the world scenes of naked beauty, both male and female, and I am glad to have the opportunity of using you, my Gloriana!” They all broke into smiles, and she nodded in acquiescence, her heart thumping and her lips trying to smile at them. God, Mrs Grainger was going to love this!

“I have been told by Signora Grainger that you have been photographed before, but this will be very different. Now! Let us see what we can do….”

They lit cigarettes and gazed at her, evidently turning ideas over in their heads.

“There’s so many classical scenes,” said Morelli, “that have not been attempted, even by art, except in a half-hearted way, in a fearful way with an eye to the censorious public – which, my dear Gloriana, is really paying only lip service to current ideas of what is proper. It is high time we had some realism in art. To be perfectly frank, it is time for pictures of pubic hair, it is time for pictures not just of the behind, but of the anus. Not just the loins, but the charming delta and its groove, and the penis too, not just juvenile and quiet, but active and rampant and erect!”

His son was nodding in agreement, and Amadeo had a musing smile on his face. He began to suggest topics to Morelli. “Signor Luigi, what about Rogero, in Ariosto? Let me be Rogero rescuing the naked Angelica! Or Perseus and Andromeda, it’s the same thing. What about the Rape of Lucrezia?”

Catherine looked at him aghast. Morelli laughed. “Oh, young lady, do not be troubled. There are ways of suggesting action – the camera can lie, you know. So it will appear you are being penetrated but it will not be real, it will be indicated by the expression on your face. And I am sure that is well within your fine acting abilities. The penis,” he said, looking sideways at Amadeo, “will be placed under the vulva, you see, and then our actor will simulate coition till he ejaculates, in truth. Then we film him rising from his victim with a flaccid penis, and the woman hiding her face in shame. The rest of the story will entail her telling of the event and her suicide. We probably can’t go into the driving out of the family and so forth. But there are other topics.”

His son broke in with “Eros and Psyche! All the actor needs are wings!”

“Wait,” said Amadeo, “there is that fine story about Daphnis and Chloe, the shepherds in Lesbos.” Catherine drew in her breath. This was the same story that had taken their imagination – was it going to be the excuse for a nude exhibition?

Marco licked his lips and said “Don’t forget the girls! What about a cine film all about Lesbos, about Sappho and her lovers?”

“No, Marco, we need lots of girls for that. Mind you, you have Speranza and Sylvia, those young servants. Would they do? Besides your sisters, I mean. And the other girls will be here shortly.”

Catherine wondered what that meant. Another gaggle of randy teens to torment Matthew? She wouldn’t be surprised.

Marco looked the question at his stepfather. “No,” said Morelli, “I’d rather do something with a script, frankly. The story already set out. Have you read anything by Pierre Louÿs?”

“Ah,” said Amadeo, “he has an excellent story about a courtesan named Aphrodite!’

“Yes,” said Morelli, “we could do that. Excerpts at least. Scenes. Hmm, I must think about that. Particularly since he’s just died.”

“What!” exclaimed Amadeo, “he’s dead?”

“Oh yes,” said Morelli, “in June last. It’s a great pity. He was only fifty-four or so. So perhaps we can create something in his honour, yes?”

He eyed Catherine, who eyed him back insolently. I don’t need to pretend I’m enjoying this, do I? Since we all know the real nature of what’s going on. But I’ll do as he asks, he knows that, and he also knows that I’m hiding my true feelings, I’m shuddering in shame – and oh God maybe, no, probably, shuddering in arousal and wanting it, wanting it to go on. And maybe if it were Amadeo I was partnered with, I’d be sure to climax. – For God’s sake girl! she chided herself. Settle down. But the handsome boy was looking at her as if he understood what was going through her mind, and winked. She blushed hard, and he smiled, showing his nice teeth….

“Ah,” said Morelli suddenly, “I have it! It will require some preparation, but perhaps we can do that tomorrow, hmm? Yes.” He looked at Catherine, sitting glumly naked on the stool. “I will speak to Signora Grainger about this. For now, though, what about a simple scene of disrobing, eh? Yes.”

He directed the boys to dress her in a complete outfit, which they did with speed, eyeing her privates with grins before covering them with drawers, giving the nipples a caress before hiding them in a bodice, and finally giving her a parasol and presenting her to Morelli for inspection. “Si,” he said, “that is good. Now! Roughly the action is as follows. Miss is walking along – see the backcloth there – and meets two brazen fellows who stop her and begin wooing her. She tries to get away – they catch her and take off her clothes.” Catherine swallowed and looked beseechingly at the cinéaste. “Then,” he continued, “she is naked, and writhing in their arms as they fondle her, her breasts, her belly, her vulva, till she comes in orgasm. Then they laugh and abandon her naked in the wood. All right? You understand. I will direct you from the camera. Right. Catherine, you enter from there. Boys, you from there. Ready.” He positioned himself behind the camera. “Yes!” he cried. “Action!”

…………………………………………………………………….

A quarter of an hour later she was back on her stool, naked, with another glass of wine, her heart gradually lessening its thumping, listening to Morelli extolling her virtues, anatomical and cinematic. The boys were nodding in agreement, and Amadeo said “I like your name for her, Signor Morelli! ‘Gloriana’ just suits her” He turned to her. “Yes, Catherine, you are glorious, with a fine body, and, unlike many a model, you can really act! Signor Morelli is very lucky to have discovered you. I can see that all Europe will be singing your praises. All Europe, that is, that is not like these Fascisti bastards or these English or American puritans!”

“Ha!” said Morelli, “I predict a great wave of appreciation from the aficionados of the secret cinema.” He nodded enthusiastically. “You have the perfect body for such films, and the ability to project your innocence, your virginity, a shy reserve, and then a horror at being stripped, and then a blushing excitement at being stimulated by the boys’ fingers. Yes!”

She looked up at him bleakly and said “But Mr Morelli, you don’t realise that I wasn’t acting. I am horrified to be stripped, I really blush in shame to be … fingered. I—”

“Yes,” said Amadeo, “but it is also true that you are excited to be handled like that. I could tell that you enjoyed, you welcomed my fingers. And I will say that you really did get into the spirit of the story. Didn’t she, Signor Luigi?”

Morelli laughed. “All that is true. Well, listen. I am going to ask Signora Grainger to let you come back – now it’s Friday the seventh of August. So on Sunday the ninth, perhaps, you can come and we’ll spend the entire day filming. That gives me some time to arrange things. Now where are we? Oh, wait. We’re forgetting about young Matthew. Where is he?”

Amadeo laughed. “He’s out on the lawn, being teased and tickled by your daughters.”

Catherine winced. Morelli grinned and said “Well, we will have to rescue him. More pictures. In fact we can use the girls as well. Right! Marco, go and bring them in.”

In a minute the red-faced boy was being escorted back, the girls laughing and chattering, and Marco smiling at the situation. Catherine looked anxiously at her friend, who had a tired and defeated look about him. She immediately thought he was exhausted by being made to come, and gave him a sympathetic smile. He smiled back and seemed to brace himself for more sexual exploitation. Morelli clapped his hands and cried “Now! Children, we are going to make some more pictures!”

Catherine was a little overwhelmed by the ensuing series of stills and moving pictures that the Italian conjured up out of his lascivious imagination, and after an hour of being posed in shots of varying lubricity the orphans were allowed to dress and leave, to the parting smiles and gleeful looks of Morelli’s entourage, he beaming as he reminded them to return on Sunday, if Signora Grainger allowed.

When they got back to the relative safety of the estate, Mrs G was very interested to hear their side of the events, and smiled herself to hear about their embarrassments. “Yes!” she said, “on Sunday you can go back, at least you, Catherine, sleep over, yes, and Matthew can go on Monday to join in the frolics. Signor Morelli seems to have a real genius at what he’s doing. I’ll be interested to see the results. So will others.”

They looked at her in despair. “Others?” moaned Matthew.

“Why yes, of course,” she said, with an “Isn’t it obvious?” look. “Signor Morelli intends to exhibit his films, and the still pictures also, as widely as he can. I shall be doing my best to represent him in England, and I also have friends in America, but here in Europe he will, I’m sure, have a good reception.” She looked at them again, seeing their alarm at being gawked at by all the lechers of Europe. “Yes,” she said, “don’t you see, Europe has been torn apart by a Great War. People are exhausted, upset; they’ve lost homes, family, self-respect. To cheer them up is the job of the entertainers in the music halls and the motion pictures, the Charlie Chaplins and Harry Lauders, to take their minds off harsh reality. And part of that noble endeavour is in the artistic hands of such as Signor Morelli.”

Catherine sighed and made to leave, saying “Excuse me, I have to go to the bath—”

“Bathroom? What for?”

The girl flushed and answered as she knew she was wanted to. “I need a shit, madam.”

Mrs G laughed and waved her away, and with a sad look at her lover she left the room. Lydia drew on her cigarette. “I do wonder, though, what might be ahead for our Gloriana. That’s not a bad name, actually, though some might confuse it with Gloria Swanson, I suppose. Still, you’re going back to obscurity, of course. But she, she may have something more of a future. And the good thing about films without speech is that they’re international. Whatever Girvan was saying at the dinner – that may happen, but it would be a distraction to hear dialogue in Swedish, say, and the plot would be lost. I might even say that an English accompaniment would be a distraction. But a film that depends not on dialogue but on the scene, the contents of that projected square – that will last, and be understandable, accessible to the critical faculty, as long as the celluloid lasts. So a film of a sexual nature, showing the exciting parts of young Gloriana, that’ll still be appreciated in another hundred years! Oh my,” she said, laughing at his agonised expression, “your Catherine has a future!”

He leaned back against the wall, watching her as she shrugged her shoulders, as if throwing off a burden, then shivered, though it was another warm day. Mrs G was acting rather oddly these days, he thought. But then, when did she ever act normally? The question brought a sort of smile to his lips, and she peered at him suspiciously. “It’s not really funny,” she said, giving another twist to her lips.

He gazed at her sadly. “No, madam, it’s not. I admit that. But let me be open with you, exercise my opinions and tell you that I don’t like the prospect for a lot of reasons. Listen, I may as well tell you, I love Catherine, and don’t want her hurt. As you will hurt her by showing her shame to the world….”

“Nonsense. How is she going to be aware what people are saying about her? She’ll never see the films herself. She’ll never come in contact with her admirers. Ignorance is bliss. I don’t think she’ll lose any sleep over what might be happening at the premiere of her film. Unless….”

He looked at her suspiciously in his turn. What awful idea did she have?

She stubbed out her cigarette. “Yes, Matthew, I grant you, she may have a renewal of her embarrassment when she comes out to meet the audience at a special showing of her latest revealing performance. At which, goodness me, she may give them a bonne-bouche by doing a nude dance….”

He clenched his teeth. “Madam! I hope you’re joking. Besides, no matter whether there’s crowds in the theatre or not, she’ll know that somewhere someone, only a few maybe, are looking at her beautiful body and drooling, and even a few are too many. I really hate the idea of all those randy boys and nasty old men slavering over those pictures. Oh, I know I can’t stop it, I can’t even ask you to not publicise the things, but I’m telling you what I can tell you, that I think it’s horrible, all those men—”

“Yes,” she said calmly, “but you can also think of all the randy girls and nasty old women who will enjoy an eyeful of your exciting parts. I suppose the main thing there—”

She twisted her face, and he thought she was going to say something venomous about him, but she held back and breathed smoke out her nostrils. “The main thing there,” she continued, “is your erection of course. You recall us discussing this sort of thing at the dinner. You never see an erection (in regular art that is), and the idea of seeing the arousal of an actor is unthinkable. Except in the clandestine cinema, which is, let’s face it, more interested in shocking than in art. But Morelli, you see, wants to make all that acceptable, normal even, putting your erection in an artistic context, and he well may do that. I’ll be talking to him about it.”

“I see what you’re saying, madam, but it’s still not right. Morelli is a dirty old man, and his entire household is … is ….” His voice trailed away as he saw her smile with what looked like malevolence, and he suddenly stood up and said “Listen, madam! I’ve been wondering why you keep talking like this to me. Is it because you like turning the knife in the wound, rubbing in salt, reminding me of our helpless position?”

She laughed and got her cigarette case out again. “God, Matthew, you are funny. And don’t mix your metaphors. Actually, it’s because you argue.” She selected another cigarette and lit it with another odd expression. He wrinkled his nose in puzzlement.

“Yes,” she continued, “it’s because you argue. If you think about it, you’re the only person, both here and back home, who dares to disagree with me. It’s quite refreshing, really. But not all the time, no! And I have the assurance, after all, that you dare not – dare not – go too far. You may argue, yes, you may vehemently give your opinions, but in the end, you are unable to do anything about your condition, so I am not in any danger of rebellion. Now go away and read a nice book or something. We’ve got quite a few here. And no, they aren’t erotic, particularly. D’you like Victor Hugo? Or Turgenev, maybe— Ah!”

He looked at her anxiously, as she bent forward and drew on her cigarette, then raised her eyes to meet his. She seemed to be angry all of a sudden, and he shrank in alarm.”Madam—”

“No, no, Ma-Matthew!” She blinked and seemed to grit her teeth. Why was she angry? “It’s all right, boy, it’s all right. Now away you go and tan a little more, on your crotch. Go and lie in the sun – and don’t forget the sun lotion – and prepare your mind for your return to Morelli, whatever you think of him. Go.”

He sidled out of the room, and went to find Catherine, thinking to himself that there were times when Mrs G struck him as nearly unhinged.

His lover wasn’t in her room, probably still taking her shit, so he went to his own to undress, as he knew Mrs G wanted, gathered the towel and dark glasses and lotion, and made his way to the lawn. He remembered how he’d looked forward to the sun in a beautiful country, and drew a deep sigh. A thought flitted into his mind about a dull summer’s day in Essex – God, so long ago, it seemed! – and what were his family doing now? They’d never imagine what was happening to him.

He rubbed the lotion all over, and lay spread-eagled on the towel. If the girls came by, he didn’t care. In fact, he thought, I’m getting to the bit where I don’t care what happens to me. God, how did this happen? In a few minutes he was asleep, away from his shame and his troubles.

When he awoke he looked up to see Catherine sitting on the chaise longue gazing at him with a wondering sort of expression. She perked up, seeing him awake, and smiled to say “Oh Matthew, you don’t know how handsome you look. You really do. I can’t describe it, how you look, it’s just … the way you have to look, the way you must look, so perfect and fine in your nakedness. No, don’t move—”

He had begun to stretch, but stopped with a deprecating smile, letting her ogle him, and accepting her delight as an expression of her love of him, to please her.

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

Saturday 8th August

Visitors and baths. Picking berries, meeting boys.

“Matthew, Catherine, come and present yourselves. We have visitors.” The two came into the room to find their mistress in conversation with a sleek woman a few years older than she, sitting with drinks and cigarettes in their hands. Matthew stopped and stared with a flush on his cheeks. “You remember Mrs Miller, don’t you? Yes, I thought you would. Catherine, this is Deirdre Miller, an old friend of mine from America. Deirdre, this is Catherine Hammond, a recent arrival at Summerton.” The girl came forward to shake hands and mouth a welcome, but she had seen the effect on Matthew and tried to remember if he had mentioned some awful experience.

Mrs Miller smiled graciously and shook hands. “How are you enjoying your stay here? It’s lovely, isn’t it?” The woman was making herself agreeable, only now and then glancing in an amused sort of way at Matthew.

After some desultory conversation Mrs G told Catherine that she should get ready to go into the village to see the doctor, and buy some groceries. “You have enough French for that, I think. I’ve made a list, here, so all you have to do is say S’il vous plaît and Merci! The locals won’t use their Occitan dialect when speaking to you. Oh, and see if you can bring back Matthew’s clothes that he left last time.” Mrs Miller looked amused but forbore to press for any explanation. Lydia indicated that the girl should leave, and with an anxious expression she did so, with a “See you later” look at Matthew.

“Well, Matthew,” said Mrs Miller, “how are you getting on? I see you’ve been in the sun. It’s most attractive. I think a sun tan gives an extra element of masculinity, don’t you, Lydia? While a lady is supposed to be pale and lily-like. My Charlotte, I’m afraid, is eager to be tanned all over just like one of the natives.”

Matthew swallowed and stammered “Ch—Charlotte? Is, is she here?”

“Why of course,” her mother said. “We’re actually on an extended trip to France and Italy, and I thought it would be nice to visit Mrs Grainger here, who’s kindly offered us the use of her delightful villa in Florence. Charlotte and her friends are having a good time, they tell me. Travel is so broadening, you know. That’s what they say, and believe me it’s true. I take it this is your first trip abroad, hmm?”

“Y-Yes,” he said. “You said her friends….”

“Yes, her cousin Frederica and her schoolfriend Elinor. They’re both fifteen, delightful girls, at school in Switzerland. They’re out in the village now, I think….”

Just then the sound came from outside of girlish laughter, and three young girls came into the room, stopping when they noticed Matthew. Charlotte beamed when she saw the boy she’d enjoyed tormenting, and hastened to introduce him to her friends. Matthew shook hands politely and studied them. Frederica was a tallish slim girl with bobbed brown hair and hazel eyes, who smiled in a knowing way, or so it seemed to the sensitive boy. Her schoolmate was his own height, with very fair hair that fell to her shoulders and startling green eyes. They seemed pleased to meet him, and he guessed that he was a welcome male sight to them. They sat down and Charlotte patted a hand at the seat beside her, saying “Come on, Matthew, don’t be shy!” She giggled, and Matthew sighed as he joined them. He hoped she hadn’t told her cronies about their meeting at Summerton, but somehow he knew she had, and if she hadn’t yet, she’d be bound to now that she’d seen him and they’d met him. Thinking like this brought a bit of a flush to his cheek, and he tried to be as invisible as could be.

The ladies chattered among themselves until Mireio came in to receive instructions about tea. As she was leaving Lydia gave her some more orders in quick French, and she nodded and left. The others, who had understood the French, looked at her. “What,” said Mrs Miller, “a bath at this hour?” “Oh yes,” said Lydia idly, “it’s more or less a custom. In this weather, the more baths one has, the better. Catherine is in town for a special bath from the doctor, but Matthew has his here.” She said no more, but Matthew had a premonition about this. He’d had that bath just the other day! It was true, though, that one could do with frequent baths in this climate. But he knew the servants had been sent out to pick berries. This time there’d be no embarrassment, and he breathed easier.

Mireio came back to say that the bath was ready for the young monsieur, and she’d be preparing the tea soon, to be ready in half an hour. “Merci, Mireio,” said the chatelaine, and waved her away. “There, Matthew,” she said, “your bath awaits. Off with you. Remember,” she said meaningfully, “to clean everywhere.”

He coloured and said “Yes, madam. Excuse me,” to the others, and went out to the bathroom, already full of steam. He turned to shut the door but saw to his consternation that the girls had followed him and were gazing in. He looked at them in disbelief and stammered “G-girls, excuse me, but—”

Charlotte burst into laughter. “No, Matthew, Aunt Lydia has told us about these baths of yours, and she promised us a chance at helping you.”

“What?” he screamed, “but you can’t, you can’t!”

“Oh, Matthew,” said Elinor, “don’t say that. I’ve been looking forward to this. So has Frederica.” She led them in and turned to shut the door. He backed against the wall and trembled as they approached him.

“It’s not often one gets a chance like this,” said Frederica, “so one seizes it when it turns up. So what’s it to be? Shall we undress you, or will you do it yourself?” He looked at her and gulped. There wasn’t going to be any way out of this, he could see, and he’d have to submit yet again, driven by the fear of reprisal, to the hands of that randy fourteen-year-old, which already knew his body, and those of two girls his own age whom he’d just met. He could feel his penis stirring just at the thought of exposure, and he knew exactly how the occasion would finish.

He licked his lips and was about to reply when Elinor said “Too late, too late! We’ll be glad to do it, Hold still.” She took his wrist and pulled him away from the wall, and her friend began to undo his belt. Then Charlotte loosened his trousers and took them to his ankles, while her cousin lifted off his shirt. In no time he was stripped and quailing before their eyes, his hands over his crotch in a vain effort to keep his modesty. What modesty? Christ, I surely lost it with my virginity long ago! But I can’t help it, I’m shamed to be seen naked. But why do I have a shiver of anticipation?

Elinor took his left arm, Charlotte his right, and gently moved them to uncover his erection. The three of them looked long and appreciatively at his member, now pleasingly poking upright, and Frederica said with a pleased sigh “He’s not too big, he’s not too ugly, he’s just right. What do the French say? Il bande comme un étalon!”

“Comme un tigre! Ooh, there’s lots of animals. It’s all right, Matthew,” said Elinor, “we’re just comparing you to an excited stallion, tiger, what have you.”

“And what you have,” said Charlotte cheekily, “will do nicely. But let’s get him in the tub and washed. That’s what he’s here for, isn’t he?”

“To be sure,” said Elinor with a laugh, “let’s get him in, and we can rub him down from there.” The other two giggled, and pulled and pushed him into the steaming water, where he stood looking at them and trembling. All three soaped up and set to to cover his body with suds, paying most attention, naturally, to his middle, where each took a turn at lathering his backside, concentrating on his anus, and his pubis, tenderly treating his testicles and stroking the penis, making sure the bared head was well cleaned and the prepuce pulled back to rub it and the rest of the shaft. During this time he was panting with a mixture of hot embarrassment and a quivering pleasure in their attentions, and of course reacted as any boy would. He thrust his loins forward to greet their hands and arched his body, throwing his head back with something like a howl as he came mightily under the six eager hands.

He was brought out and dried, a long and careful process, during which Mrs Grainger poked in her head to grin at the sight and say “Excellent, girls! Be sure to feel him all over to make sure there’s not a wet spot left!”

The girls chorussed a “Yes!” and set to doing just that. They didn’t just feel him, of course. They passed their hands over his warm skin several times, Charlotte repeating what Elinor had done, Frederica meanwhile smoothing her delicate fingers over his back, then his buttocks, the girls moving round him to cover every inch they could see and press lightly on each reachable area, from crown to toe, from chest to thigh, from waist to groin, from hip to pubis, from arse to testes, and making admiring sounds mixed with giggles as they covered and uncovered every intimate part of him. Finally though he started wriggling and trying to escape as he felt his cock tumesce and begin to strain again. The girls noticed and laughed in glee and redoubled their attentions, deliberately arousing him to full erection. It was another few minutes of torturous caresses till he jerked up and thrust out his pelvis in another grand demonstration of welcome orgasm. The girls watched with grins his second performance and then cleaned him up, saying “Maybe you can dress yourself, Matthew. See you at tea!” They went off, giggling, no doubt to report to Mrs G how it all went. God, thought Matthew, I wonder if I should tell Catherine about this. She’ll only be upset…. But she’ll be being put through that awful regimen at Fauré’s, I wonder how she’ll do? I bet those boys will turn up. Didn’t François say that? Oh, Catherine, my love, I hope you have the courage to bear it…. But no, you stupid bastard, he told himself, she will, she’s a strong girl, she’s probably stronger than me. And she’ll look them in the eye and despise them for the lecherous bullies they are. Oh God, though, I can’t bear the thought of them looking at her, looking at her bare breasts and vulva, probably going into her and making her come, with gloating and, and—. With something like a sob he steeled himself to go through to where the ladies waited for him.

He sat down, next to Charlotte of course, not looking at them. They, after amused looks at his blush, ignored him and carried on their conversation. He didn’t dare lift his eyes in case he met the stares of the girls, to reinforce his hot embarrassment. Somehow he’d get through the visit.

“Yes,” said Mrs Grainger, “the girls went to pick berries. Mireio, my local girl, is rather good at making preserves of all sorts. So that’s them back, and they’ll be off again shortly. They don’t know the country too well, so I’ve asked a boy from the village to show them. Entre nous,” she gave a quiet snigger, “I do believe they’re pleased to be out there, probably looking for boys as well as berries. The locals mostly seem the sturdy types, well-made and lithe.” She looked at the guests. “It’s a pity you can’t meet them.” The girls looked interested. “Perhaps you could join in the berry-picking,” she continued. She raised her voice. “Mireio!” The girl appeared, to be told to fetch Amelia, who was informed that these other girls would be joining the party, and that they spoke French, which would be useful, no? Amelia of course agreed, and the young crowd set off, the local boy, fifteen-year-old Baptiste, chattering to the others at a great rate, promising some very good berries, he knew exactly where they were. Matthew looked after them, seeing with a small shock that Charlotte had taken the hand of the boy, who was looking at her with something like a predatory expression. What would they get up to?

When Catherine entered the surgery she saw the waiting room was full, and was sure there wouldn’t be time for her, but the nurse caught sight of her and beckoned her through to a curtained-off cubbyhole about six feet square with a small bed on wheels to one side. She was told to undress completely and lie down on the bed, which turned out to be exactly her size. She hung her clothes on some hooks on the wall and lay down in some unease. Through the curtain she heard a confused murmur of talk from the patients, and wondered where the bath was. She couldn’t remember what Matthew had told her about the occasion.

Then the nurse, Mlle Lefevre, poked her head in to say “Patience, mademoiselle! The doctor will see you soon! Here is a cover for you.” She produced a sheet which looked (and was) inadequate to cover all of her, but it did hide her body from her collarbone to her knees. On the other hand it was just about the width of the bed she lay on, and she didn’t dare move for fear of revealing the sides of her body. Where was Fauré? The nurse disappeared, and the noise next door increased; she heard young voices, and evidently quite a number of children had arrived to further crowd the waiting room. In a few minutes there were confident steps beyond the curtain, which parted to show François’ eager face.

“Good-day, Catherine!” he said, with a beaming smile. “I am to take you to the bath.” She looked at him in dismay as he took hold of the bed and began to wheel it through the curtain, which caught the sheet that covered her. She gave a yelp, and conversation died down as the crowd looked at the curtain, which was swept aside by the trolley-bed, bearing a red-faced girl clutching a sheet to her evidently naked body and showing her delicious bare limbs. Catherine managed to replace the sheet and lie back, not daring to move again. François wheeled her through the crowd and paused at the door. Catherine could see that the waiting patients were mostly young, including many boys of high school age, who ogled her unabashed, and made no secret of their desire to see more of her. “François,” she quavered, “why have you stopped? Please, get me out of here to the bathroom!”

He, who had been making conversation to a boy his age, said “Oh yes, pardon. Here we go.” He opened the door to push her through into the next room, but stopped because of some difficulty with the wheels, which had locked somehow. He went down on his knees to take a look, but couldn’t move them. She was on her bed badly concealed by the sheet, which quivered alarmingly as the boy shook the trolley in exasperation, only a quarter of the way into the room, and was getting agitated. François finally had the idea of lifting the trolley-bed manually and carrying it into the next room, and engaged the muscles of half-a-dozen of his peers to manage it. Catherine got the chilling thought that they were there solely on her account, and gritted her teeth.

Two of them squeezed past the trolley to take the other end, slightly dislodging her cover, which slid down her breasts almost to the nipples. She couldn’t move without dislodging it further, and hoped she’d soon be out of everyone’s sight. Then the sheet inched slowly down when the others heaved their end up, tilting the bed. She gave a little scream and grabbed the sheet to stop its progress, but the motion took the edges away from her sides and she ended up with the cover only on the centre line of her body – her naked sides and legs were all too visible.

The two at the foot lifted their end, and straightened things out, then slowly carried her into the other room. The folk in the waiting room laughed and regretted her leaving, and made remarks she was glad not to understand. Now she took a deep breath and looked at François, who was grinning at her. “We’ll have you in your bath in good time,” he said. “There it is.” He pointed to the tub behind him, which one of the boys was filling with steamy water.

She frowned anxiously and said “Where’s the doctor?”

“Oh, he is much too busy right now, it seems. Mlle Lefevre too, so I volunteered to start things off.” He looked at her complacently.

“But, but—“ she stammered, looking round at the others.

“Yes,” the awful boy said cheerfully, “my pals will be able to help too.”

“No,” she cried, “please!”

“But yes,” he said with a smug look, rubbing his hands. “I am sure they will be useful, and the treatment will be very educational for them. Let me introduce you.”

There were six boys of sixteen-seventeen: Maurice, Jean-Jacques, Simon, Paul, Eugène and Alfredo, the last a visiting friend from San Remo along the coast, whose eyes shone with unashamed lust as he gazed at the girl so nearly naked. She meanwhile was quaking, looking forward, she knew, to some shaming experience or other. She might have anticipated it – she was sure it would be a repetition of Matthew’s treatment, only this time it would be teenaged boys, those libidinous boys, washing and touching and feeling and fondling….

“Well then! The bath is ready,” said François with a smile. “Let us put you in. Paul, Eugène, bring the bed over, and Alfredo, take the sheet and put it over there.”

She whimpered as the grinning Italian took her cover, and shielded herself with her hands, beginning to sweat. The others tried to wheel the bed, but it was still locked, so they lifted her off and carried her over to the bath, slowly dipping her rear into the water. When she didn’t complain of its hotness they deposited her carefully and stood round to admire her. She gazed up at them hopelessly. There was no way out of it – they would be feeling her up and everything, as usual. And were there any other boys in the town who hadn’t yet seen her naked charms?

Almost on cue François’ cronies Louis and Henri came in noisily, and joined the audience. François started to describe the treatment she was about to receive, but Catherine wasn’t listening, in a private world of her own despair, but yielding gradually to a nagging excitement at the prospect of nine boys bringing her to orgasm.

First the bath itself – just an ordinary washing session with a somewhat strong-smelling soap, lathered all over her by the hands of the teenagers, who were assiduous in their attentions to every square centimetre of her body. She nearly came at least three times in the process but somehow the boys knew to refrain at the proper time, and left her gasping in frustration.The drying was another torment, and again she was just about on the edge of orgasm when the smiling boys desisted. She was left standing on the floor while the boys emptied the bath and filled it again, and François left the room, leaving the door open. She moaned to see the boys in the waiting room eyeing her, and asked for a towel, but they refused, saying her body had to breathe.

François returned with a small package and presented it to Simon, the youngest and smallest of the gang. “Take one of those,” he said, “and insert it into her arsehole. It’s a suppository, it’ll make her shit.”

Simon laughed and looked at his victim with a great grin. “Certainly!” he said. “Catherine, bend over. Show us your arsehole again.”

Suppressing a sob, she obeyed, and wriggled a bit as she felt his fingers separating her cheeks to bare the anus, which he then stroked for a bit before inserting the suppository. “Now stay like that for a little,” said François, “while the medicine does its work.” Catherine glanced over at the door to see a gloating horde of wide-eyed boys drinking in the situation. Louis suggested to his pal that they might as well come in to observe the exhibition, and François laughed. “Surely,” he said chuckling, “they might as well.”

Catherine was beside herself. Not just these lascivious nine to torment her, but how many more? She looked up to see a jovial crowd of about twenty young boys – yes, some as young as twelve, she thought, streaming through the door, which was then shut, thank goodness. But there they were, the randy audience of a personal process, discussing in shameless terms the girl in their midst, bending over to exhibit her delightful arse, et sa chatte, o mon Dieu! They were content just to look at her and admire, but she knew that sooner or later it’d be hands on time again. And aah! She gave a noisy fart and they all howled in laughter. “Quick,” said François, “to the commode!”

She was seized and carried over to the lavatory pan in the corner, and Alfredo suggested they hold her a bit above the bowl to be able to see the shit leave her. They laughingly tried this, until they got tired, but for several minutes they were able to enjoy and comment on the lubricious spectacle, while she was near tears with the degradation.

They let her finish by herself, then smirked as she cleaned her behind. All right, what next? Another bath, evidently, this time in water chockfull of nutritious healing herbs, which was aromatic and quite pleasant. The boys saw that the exciting stuff was over, so bade her au revoir and left, grinning and chattering among themselves. François and Louis told her they’d be back in a while, and in the meantime she should allow her pretty body to soak in the herbal stew. She was nearly asleep when they returned to yank her out of the cooling water and dry her, once more fondling her every crease, and offer her lunch.

“Why, thank you,” she said, “but I’m—”

“Do not worry,” said Louis with a chuckle. “Come through here. Mme Fauré has a small meal for us.”

It was of course a contrived repetition of the embarrassing meal Matthew had told her about. This time she was seated at a table along with six teenagers, three of them new (René, Alphonse and Denis, all sixteen more or less), who deliberately used English as they assured the doctor that they weren’t offended, they didn’t mind the girl being naked in front of them. In fact they were clinically interested in the hygienic qualities of bathing, and would be pleased to participate in the process of helping this girl, oh yes, sir!

“Well then,” said Fauré, “I can safely leave the process to François here, who knows the routine and can direct you in all its aspects. This particularly involves the treatment of her delicate parts.”

Catherine froze, her fork halfway to her mouth. “Yes,” Fauré continued, “it is especially necessary, I could almost say essential, to deal very carefully with her loins and her behind.”

“Do you mean doctor, we should occupy ourselves in particular with her … vulva and her anus?”

Catherine dropped her fork and got another blush. How could they talk about her genitals like this, in her presence?

“Exactly so, Louis, and while you yourself have examined her your friends here have not. I think you had better explain to them, demonstrate, the parts they have to deal with. The anus,” he said to the three sixteen-year-olds, “is a very delicate part of the body, as you yourselves know, and must be handled gently. Likewise with the vulva, particularly in the case of a virgo intacta like Catherine. She, thankfully, has no maidenhead, as you’ll discover – no, don’t grin, boys, she lost it in an accident – come, come, don’t laugh. She fell off her horse, or some such thing. Didn’t you?”

She stuttered a reply, wondering if she’d get any redder in the face. Fauré went on to talk about her vulva and its constituent parts, emphasising the need to check its cleanliness very carefully. “It will probably be useful for each of you to do that. Eh, François, you’ll see to it?”

François grinned widely and assured his father that her pretty vulva would be well attended to. Catherine shut her eyes and shuddered, conjuring up horrid – enticing – visions of what they might do.

The meal ended and the doctor and his wife left, she to her knitting and he to his other patients, which gave the boys freedom to raise the victim to her feet and gaze lustily at her nakedness, then run their hands over her, the three new boys being particularly attentive, making pleased sounds and little complimentary remarks. She couldn’t answer – what could she answer when a sixteen-year-old had his hand firmly in her crotch?

But in her mind round and round there ran ideas, visions, of what would be happening, and again she felt the tingle of excitement, which she wanted to accept, even this teenaged hand at her perineum, yes, but oh God he’s stopped! All right! I acknowledge my need to feel it, my desire to submit to those fingers, for I want that tingle to continue, to magnify, into the dizzying pleasure of an orgasm. Yes! Just wait, girl, and it’ll happen. Just wait, it’s inevitable. I’ll soon be there.

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

Sunday 9th August

Back to Bertin, and more girls

“Here is the cheque. I’ve also included, as I said I would, a note of apology to M. Bertin for your behaviour, and an injunction to take upon himself the delivery of punishment for any further delinquency. You’re expected back in the afternoon. Try to keep your concupiscence under control.”

“Yes, madam, I promise to behave properly. I —”

“Don’t make rash promises you might not be able to keep. Away you go then, put on some sunburn cream first.” She looked after him as he went to his room and smiled in a sinister way. Another adventure? He really did have some extraordinary experiences….

At the gate, he was offered a bottle of water flavoured with lemon, for the heat, and thanked Mireio who said “Oh no, it was not—” but the boy interrupted her to say goodbye to Catherine, with a kiss – and off. They looked after him as he strode down the path and shared a grin at their joint admiration of his body.

“Come,” said Mireio, “we’ll have a cup of coffee.”

They had a pleasant chat, and the older girl congratulated Catherine on how good her French was.

“Thank you,” Catherine said with a flush. “no, merci! And don’t you think Matthew is getting more fluent? Oh, by the way, it was good of you to think of a refreshing drink to the journey.”

“No, Catherine,” said the other, slipping into French. “It was madame who thought of it. She is not always forgetful of others. She cut the lemons herself.” She shook her head in wonderment.

Catherine drank her coffee with a frown. She realised she had an uneasy feeling about it – when did Lydia Grainger do anything nice?

He wasn’t happy about going back but that was just too bad – he only had himself to blame for his misadventure, and admitted it to himself with a wry smile. It was a hot day and he was sweating before he’d gone very far, and was grateful for the drink Mireio provided. After a while, swigging the drink [very refreshing!] he needed a pee, and stopped blatantly in the middle of the road to unbutton his spare and let fly, in an exhibitionist sort of mood.

He tried writing Catherine’s name in piss, but didn’t get very far.|Next time he would try his own, which was shorter. Or maybe just an obscenity or two. He shrugged and continued on, amusing himself by making up limericks, at which he had to admit he was not that successful. Edward Lear must have been very clever. But maybe Matthew’s imagination wasn’t too good, at thinking of a placename, for instance, to rhyme with. Some of the ones he remembered however were rather clever. Digby in Essex had been an inexhaustible source of rude rhymes, especially limericks, but Matthew could only remember a few. He yelled out to the sky.

“There was a young girl of Aberystwyth

Who took grain to the mill to get grist with.

            The miller’s son Jack

            Laid her flat on her back,

And united the organs they pissed with. Ha!”

He couldn’t remember any more, and puzzled over that for a while. Then he realised he could do with a shit. Could he put it off till he arrived at the castle? After a while he said no, it had to be done very shortly, and he began looking for some discreet shitting place. Hell, it was urgent! He stumbled along for another few minutes and then stopped and tore down his trousers, then shuffled off the path behind a bush. Just then a pair of girls he hadn’t seen behind him going in the same direction caught him up, and stopped to laugh at the spectacle. Matthew was cringing in scarlet shame before them, keeping his eyes low, and understanding too much of their giggling comments. After an unconscionable time they continued on their way, talking about the smell, and saying they’d have to tell their friends. Matthew heaved a sigh and looked after them with a pained expression. How did it come about that they came upon him just at the critical time, eh? Mrs Grainger must really have a magic wand or something to manage such an accidental exposure. But wait, he realised, it’s that, it’s her, the fucking witch! Maybe she didn’t arrange the girls, but she sure as hell had to do with that drink, spiked like those others, to make me piss and shit like I did at the party, and I bet she always hoped I’d shit myself at an embarrassing time. God damn her! But how do I clean myself?

He looked around, but couldn’t see how to wipe himself. Where are dock leaves when you need them? He didn’t fancy drawing up his trousers over a shitty arse, and finally made the obvious decision to get to that pool, which wasn’t too far away, in the wood, to wash himself clean properly. He yanked off his trousers and hurried along to the scene of those lovely girls’ lovely bath. In a minute he was there, and took off (carefully) his shirt, checking the safety of the cheque, and splashed in.

Mrs G was still waving her wand. Girlish voices alarmed him, and there they were, those two had come back with the Charbonneau sisters to point and laugh. He gave a sort of howl to see them, and they howled back, doubled over in mirth, to see a fine nude boy cleaning his cul, staring at them in crimson anguish. They picked up his clothes and looked at him coyly.

“Are you coming out?”

He covered his groin and stuttered. “N-No, please, girls! Look, oh no, don’t look! Hey, don’t take my clothes! Oh God, don’t make me naked again!”

“But you are naked, Mathieu!” said Élodie with a sexy grin. “You are all naked, and it is good to see. If you want your clothes you must come out and walk with us to the house.”

He slowly exited the water, his hands firmly protecting what remained of his modesty, to be admired for a bit before they led him to the old fortress. The blushing boy was meanwhile rather terrified by what they might inveigle him into vis-à-vis Bertin, leading to another beating, or worse, but all they did was escort him to the house naked, carrying his clothes rather carelessly, and he was bothered in case they lost the letter somehow. The door was answered by M. Carousse, who is not pleased to see him. The girls said Look what we found! and burst into giggles. Carousse looked at them tiredly and forbore to say anything unpleasant to the guests, so merely heaved an irritated sigh and nodded to them, saying a polite thankyou. They still had the clothes, and Matthew made to stop them leaving, but the doorkeeper held his arm, fastidiously scowling at its wetness. Then the grumpy major domo crooked his finger at the trembling boy and started off down the hall. Matthew had to follow him, with a backward appeal to the girls, who sauntered off with his clothes, which contained (oh God!) that cheque. That cheque!

Shortly they were at the door of the crusty scholar’s den, on which Carousse knocked gently. There was a growl in reply, which was interpreted as permission to enter (and the servant would of course be familiar with how to interpret all his master’s pronouncements, even seeming incoherent grunts), and Carousse opened the door and walked in, pulling Matthew with him a little roughly. He explained to Bertin what the situation was, as he saw it, and stood back folding his arms. Bertin raised his eyes to the ceiling, then looked at the boy with what seemed to be weary exasperation.

“Thank you, Carousse. Leave him to me.”

The major-domo left, and Bertin shut his eyes and sighed. He opened them to gaze at the naked guest, who was covering himself and trembling.

“Well,” he said, “here we are again, as the song goes. So what happened this time? I trust,” he said with a menacing intonation,, “that nothing has happened to my cheque?”

“N-no, sir, no! It’s fine … I think. The girls took my clothes—”

“Why? You were naked? So you were showing yourself naked to the girls, eh?”

“N-not deliberately, no! It was an accident—”

“So how were you naked?”

“I was bathing in the pool out there—“

“So why,” he said heavily patient, “were you bathing?”

“I was d-dirty, I had had a – bowel movement, a –”

“You had a shit, you mean? Where were the girls?”

“Two came by, I don’t know who, and saw … saw me having a shit,” he mumbled shamefacedly. “Th-then they came back to show the Charbonneau girls, and I was washing in the pool, and they took my clothes and brought me here naked.” He looked indignation at Bertin, who was not very sympathetic.

“Hmm, you do have misfortune it seems. But the main thing is the integrity of the cheque. I assume the girls have it?”

“Yes, sir, I suppose they do.”

“Well, go and find them and retrieve it, you fool!”

Matthew looked at him in dismay. “But I’m naked!”

“Yes,” said Bertin, “again, and you should be used to it. Go and find that cheque. You may imagine what will happen if you can’t produce it.”

Matthew drew in his breath and licked his lips.

“I may as well warn you, though, that there are more girls here. You’ve seen four of them, but there are others, and I’m sure you’ll meet them. They’ll have your clothes as well, and they may be persuaded to return them. But if I am any judge they’ll prefer to keep you attractively nude. So good luck!”

He looked at the boy with a sneering smile.

“Ho! You don’t seem keen to be seen naked.”

“But monsieur, I really – You must see I’m ashamed, I’m deeply embarrassed, if anyone sees me naked. Even you. Listen, I’m really very shy, modest, especially with girls. And no matter how often it happens, I’m still totally mortified if a girl sees me, my … backside, my …”

“Prick!” said Bertin helpfully. “Ah, you must have been faint with shame last time, with such as young Dominique allowed to gaze at your erection. Well, we’ll just hope for your peace of mind that you don’t find the girls, then. Maybe Aimeric and Denys can help you. They do like to see you naked, but they won’t make fun of you. So away.”

Matthew left him, aghast, and crept down the corridor hoping he wouldn’t see anybody. The boys, though, might help him out, as Bertin said, and he wouldn’t need to meet anyone else. Where would they be?

He could see the long corridor in front of him, with doors and curtains here and there, and wondered if the young men were around in any of the rooms, and an unsought image came into his head: the two of them on a bed or ottoman lustfully grappling their nude bodies with panting sighs and little grunts of pleasure—why on earth think of that? Stop it. Here he was, not knowing where he was going, trying to remember what he’d been shown on his first visit, and hoping he could find the way back when he got the cheque. Finding a heavy curtain to one side he pushed past it to find what was evidently a privy (though hardly private!) with two (two?) seats in it. Without thinking he sat down to think and plan a strategy, and somewhat automatically he started to pee.

Then the curtain, half-open to show a lavatory bowl, was jerked back and a dark-haired girl of about sixteen flung herself in and lifted her skirt to sit on the pan next to Matthew. She looked at him in horror and gave a little scream, but couldn’t move because she’d already started a shit. He for his part finished his pee but couldn’t rise without showing his cock, now well into erection. There they sat, trying not to look at each other, for an embarrassing couple of minutes. Then the girl found her voice and tremulously asked what he was doing. She evidently meant, why was he naked, so he tried to explain. She saw he was English, and switched languages vcry easily, as most of the educated seemed to do.

“Who are you? And why are you naked? What are you doing here?”

“I’m sorry,” he faltered, “I … lost my clothes, and I’m trying to find them. I’m Matthew Raven, from England.”

“Eh bien, I am Roxane Monceaux, I have sixteen years. O dieu!” She farted, and Matthew heard a turd drop into the bowl with a faint thud. “Que faire? Oh, boy, Mathieu, do not look at me.”

He remembered seeing Catherine taking her shit, and stammered as he said “No, please do not be ashamed. I …I’ll go.”

“No, wait! See, there is no paper! Can you get me some?”

“Of course. Please be patient.”

With that he left the seat, and showed his handsome behind to the blushing girl, who looked at the sight and gave something like a moan. Of admiration? Lust? God knew, and he didn’t say. Matthew left the alcove and went as briskly as he dared down the corridor, and turned a corner to see Denys at the far end of it standing by a window smoking.

The young man looked up to see Matthew with pleasure and eyed him as he approached, openly enjoying the view, the way Matthew walked towards him, the way the penis waggled, the way he blushed at knowing he was being admired. He started a conversation, ogling the boy’s body with obvious lust, but Matthew tried to tell him what he wanted – his clothes, the cheque, some paper for the girl. Denys was much amused.

“As for the cheque, it must be in your clothes. As for your clothes, the girls must have them. As for the girls, I know they were going to be playing some game or other on the east lawn. Which is down there,” (he nodded out the window) “as you may see. And as for paper, well I suggest you find a little store room along here, which contains all kinds of things. What is it for?”

On learning it was for cleaning the arse of one of the girls, he was amused even more, and decided to come along. They found the store room and got the paper, then made it back to the privy, and the girl was mortified to see another boy, who laughed and said they hadn’t used this shitplace for years, and he hoped it still worked. He tested a chain, and nothing happened, so he decided the tank was empty, and went off to get water. Matthew looked at the girl and offered paper, and couldn’t help but watch while she wiped her arse, which added to her blushes, and she scowled at him and made some remark he couldn’t catch, then her eyes grew big as she stared at his prick, and it was his turn for a blush as the traitor organ rose in salute again.

She left the lavatory unflushed of course, and went off to her game, not looking at him again, as he came after her, telling her he wanted to ask the girls for his clothes, which made her laugh coarsely. Down they went to where all the girls were playing some game or other with a ball, and of course Margot was pleased (as were they all) to see his nudity again, but he was disappointed because she just handed him the envelope and said the girls wouldn’t let her return the clothes yet. He complained, naturally, and naturally they were offended, more so by Roxane telling them about her experience, of how he looked at her taking a shit, then fetched Denys to laugh at her, before giving her the paper so she could wipe her arse, and he looking lustfully at her all the while.

It was all the excuse they needed to seize him and give him a concerted beating – spanked till his bum was as red as his face, spanked till he was nearly crying, spanked till he got yet another erection, and ejaculated in their midst, to the laughing triumph of them all.

He was looking for Bertin’s study and becoming worried that the old roué would be annoyed at the length of time it took to retrieve the cheque, when he caught sight of the young servant, Dominique, who saw him with a startled cry and began to turn away. But she didn’t run this time. She stood stock still and turned very slowly till she was facing him, and raised her eyes from the ground till she was looking at his body. His hands were at his crotch to hide a return of his disobedient phallus, and he had to stand there while her eyes went over what she could see of this delightful English boy. He had to ask her help, whatever shame it cost him.

“Dominique, please, I’m looking for M. Bertin. Could you please take me to him?”

Her eyes met his, and it was then that she blushed.

“But certainly. Follow me please.”

She began to lead him down the corridor, then paused and turned with a faint smile to take a hand from his quaking groin and pull him gently with her, eyeing him sideways from time to time as she asked him about himself and he gave faltering answers, trying rather unsuccessfully to keep his wayward penis under control.

Then they were in familiar territory, and the door to the sanctum appeared in the distance. She stopped and drew him into a shallow alcove that was evidently designed for a statue or similar but was bare. As bare as he, he thought with an alarmed sob. What the hell was she doing?

She held on to his hand, so that he could not use it to protect himself, as she looked up at him and murmured, “I wanted to touch you, Mathieu. I wanted to feel your body, to know how smooth it is, how soft, or how firm it is. Let me do this.”

And she took her hand from his and placed it on his shoulder. He shivered, then braced himself and tried to cast his inhibitions away. Here was a pretty young girl asking to be allowed to feel him up. Why not? She at least was asking for the privilege. He smiled at her and said “Surely, Dominique. Touch me. But you’ll have to let me kiss you.”

“Oh! Then I will. Oh, thank you!”

She put her hands round his neck and kissed him full on the mouth. His hands went up behind her to her shoulder blades, and they pressed together. Ah, there was his penis striving to reassert itself, and this time he gloried in the sensation. She quickly drew apart a little and ran her hands over his back, down to the bottom of the spine, to the start of the rounds of his arse. His own hands were somewhat occupied with holding on to the cheque envelope, but he dropped it to the floor and clasped her more tightly. She purred as she felt his hardness through her dress, and rubbed her palms over his nice smooth skin, muttering some approval to herself. Then she was at a little distance to touch his chest, to caress his belly, to gaze at his bold erection with an amazed grin and say “Yes, Mathieu! It is beautiful, it is … oh, I can’t describe it." She put her hand under his scrotum and he shivered in anticipation and thrust his pelvis forward to her. Her other hand she put to his thigh, and stroked it tenderly. Matthew was riding high on the way to the bliss of an orgasm, and his breath grew short as he looked into her glowing face and said “Dominique, frig me, please! Do you understand? Tu comprends? Ah, yes, the word is branler isn’t it!”

She looked startled, and laughed, saying yes, that was it, and straightway got on with the enjoyable task. She had acted very innocent before, and maybe she was truly unused to the nakedness of a boy, let alone his erection, but she seemed to know instinctively what to do to manipulate that engorged organ to bring the boy to ecstasy. She went about it rather slowly and carefully, almost experimentally, but did all the right things. Stroke the perineum, fondle the ballocks, push the foreskin back and forward, touching so gently that crimson head of that oh so erect cock!

She drew back a little when he gasped out that he was coming. She didn’t know the phrase, but guessed what he meant, and was able to look with delight at what she’d accomplished. Both her hands grasped his penis and pulled the spermatic fluid out of the eager prick, to cover her hands and put a spot or two on her dress. She looked down and shrugged, then up at him and grinned her thanks. He grinned back, and leaned forward to kiss her again. Then she turned to escort him to Bertin’s study, and he remembered the envelope. He picked it up and saw with sinking heart that it had some come on it. How was he to explain to the crusty sadist this mess?

They got to that memorable double privy, and she ducked inside to find the paper he’d brought. She cleaned her hands, saying it was lucky the paper was there, the place hadn’t been used for ages, but just a little while ago the master had got her to pour water down the pan because someone had had a shit. Matthew thought about explaining what had happened but thought better of it. Then they were at the door, and she knocked reverently. There was an imperial “Entrez!” from within, and she opened the door and went in, to tell Bertin that young Mathieu was here.

“Aha!” he exclaimed. “Returned from the wars, is he? Where are you? Right. Thank you, Dominique. I’m sure you enjoyed leading a handsome naked boy. Yes?”

She blushed of course and nodded, not trusting herself to say a word. Bertin looked at her keenly, then at Matthew, and noticed the letter in his hand. “Yes! Bravo, you have the cheque. Give it here.”

With some misgiving the boy came to the desk and handed over the envelope, then cringed to expect an expression of surprise and disgust. How could he explain the state of the note? But Bertin looked at it in some bewilderment, then held it to his nose. His brow furrowed, then a grim smile came over his features, and he stared at Matthew, his head on one side.

“So! I’m sure you can tell me why this envelope is stained? Oh, I know what it is, young man. I just want to know – I’m genuinely curious – as to why. But maybe I should ask your pretty cicerone instead, hmm?”

His smile grew as Matthew fumbled for words and blushed in his turn. Then he addressed his servant in what had to be the native dialect, knowing that his guest would not be able to follow it, and evidently being quite graphic, for her blush grew and she looked at the floor.

“All right, I can see what you’ve been up to. It had to happen I suppose. The girls, all of them, can’t seem to keep their hands off you. Well. Thank you, Dominique, you may go.”

The girl bobbed her head and looked at Matthew, bobbed her head again, and left with a smile on that blushing face. Bertin opened the envelope a little gingerly and extracted the cheque, examined it and smiled. Then he looked at the note that accompanied it.

“Hmm! Very interesting. She speaks of punishment.”

Matthew trembled.

“Well,” he said, “do you want to renew your acquaintance with amicus redivivus as my schoolmaster named it, the reviving friend, eh? He thought it was very clever, poor soul. Of course it should be redivivens. Or do you want to experience the pricks of Aimeric and Denys?”

Matthew paled, and stammered “N-no, no, please! I was punished last time, I said I was sorry, p-please—”

Bertin was satisfied with his abject pleading, and laughed in a sinister sort of way, waving a hand. “I am not really serious, you stupid boy. You’re safe under my roof, or even in the gardens, till you do something to annoy me.”

“Oh no, sir, no, I’ll behave –”

“Yes you will, unless you have a desire for some punishment.”

Matthew stumbled on. “I’ve already been beaten ….” He stopped, knowing that if he blurted out his ogling of the Roxane girl on the toilet that the irascible scholar would be incensed again and again would flog him. And maybe the boys would want to fuck him between the legs again…. He blushed.

Bertin looked keenly at the boy, who fidgeted under his gaze.

“You enjoyed that session, didn’t you? Be honest.”

Matthew swallowed and said haltingly, “It was painful, you hurt me, then those two … somehow the contrast … it was better….”

“Yes,” smiled Bertin, “but you see you had an erection—”

“The girls, it was the—”

“Yes, but you kept it and latterly reacted to Aimeric’s prick, didn’t you, then to that of Denys, by coming to orgasm and ejaculating, quite an amount too, did you not?”

Matthew nodded and blushed in shame. Bertin said musingly “Yes, the body reacts more truly than the will. Underneath,” his smile grew at the double entendre, “at bottom – ha! You wanted it, that sublime frottage – and did you not want it not just under you, but in you, inside you?”

Matthew shuddered and shrugged in defeat. “Yes,” he admitted, “yes! I liked it, the … stimulation, the … pleasure my seam felt, and the pleasure of my orgasm Yes! All right! I admit it, damn you! Are you pleased now, you … you sadist!”

He bit his lip as he saw how he might have angered the touchy sensualist, but Bertin laughed.

“You don’t insult me, you fool, by comparing me to the master! Far from it. It is a compliment, I assure you.”

He lit a perfumed cigarette, and regarded his victim seriously.

“I understand, of course, your dismay at discovering a secret hankering for forbidden pleasures. Your whole culture, with its hypocrisy and double standards, teaches you that such activities are not manly, and that would never do. So you make jokes, and adopt a word for your language that connotes unpleasantness and illicit behaviour, applying it as a general insult – buggery. Isn’t that so? With us, we use bougre to mean chap, or fellow, no more, something like ‘blackguard’, in a bantering sort of way, as Byron does somewhere. But you – if you let your guard down for a moment and admit to enjoying such an experience, oh horrors! You’re not manly, you’re weak, effeminate, depraved.”

Matthew looked at him fearfully, and felt sweat on his brow. “But I—”

“But it isn’t like that, or ought not to be. It is true that exclusive fixation on one of those foramina may lead to being labelled as one thing or another, but you must surely see that a fair acknowledgement of the possible use of both of them is an obvious route to go? With man-woman couples, too. With a pair of men, well there is only one sexual aperture to discuss, though as you saw other areas can be utilised, quite satisfactorily. With two of differing sexes, there are two, the primary cunt and the secondary arsehole, so they are better off, and in fact it’s obvious that a woman can be enjoyed by two penises simultaneously.”

Matthew nodded vigourously, remembering the dinner, and Bertin gave a short smile.

“For women, I mean disciples of Sappho, it’s rather more difficult, but there’s always the dildo, which personally I think is a usurpation of the male endowment, and also of course the gamahuche, which in the so-called ‘69’ position gives equal pleasure to both. That’s what the Kama Sutra poetically calls The Congress of the Crows. What I’m leading up to saying is that you need not feel demeaned by your reaction. You should enjoy it. And I’m even offering you the beautiful bodies of Denys and Aimeric – they are beautiful, aren’t they? – for your pleasure.”

Matthew blushed as he answered. “Yes, sir, I admit I think they’re beautiful young men. But I’m not asking for their favours, they—”

“But my boy, they are asking for yours.” Bertin grinned at the look on Matthew’s face.

“As for what happened last time, that was something of a compromise. I could have flogged you till you bled, but your behind was too handsome to spoil. I could have had Aimeric fuck you in the arse, and he would have, quite willingly, with no coercion whatever, for I could see early on that both of the lads were quite enamoured of you.”

Matthew blushed some more.

“So then I decided on the compromise, what they call a thigh-fuck, I believe.

“Clinically it is called ‘intercrural, or interfemoral intercourse.’ It was a fairly common outlet for the paederasts in ancient Greece, because anal copulation was considered demeaning to the receiving partner, the passive. The Greeks’ term for this practice was diamērizein , which means ‘faire quelque chose entre les cuisses’, hum, in English ‘do something, something unspecified, but we all know what of course, between the thighs.’ Which can be done, obviously, from in front, facing one another, or a tergo; in your case, entre les fesses is more accurate I believe. ‘Between the buttocks’, I suppose, which is as near to sodomy as one can get without actually sodomising. But I see you are uncomfortable with the biblical reference. Then think of it as just another kind of embrace, a very close connection, a conjunction of desires. – Note however that I do not deal here with a forced connection, that is, with anal rape. That desire should be consensual, mutual, otherwise, like the vaginal rape of a virgin, it is a mere demonstration of bestial brutality – to what end? In most cases, merely the demonstration of utter power. But again, to what end? To whose advantage? Cui bono? As a showing of one’s high position in a clique of sensualists? Ah, the pursuit of position, of status! Of influence, of a position at a bargaining table! And the possibilities of increasing one’s wealth, naturally. Here, in my own domain,” he said with something sinister in his voice, “here I am my own critic, and I have no peers (or superiors) to impress. Here I suit myself and no other. Here I may safely indulge my whims, be they for vicarious enjoyment of gay ladies, or thrilled participation in an orgy of decadence, in the pages of Huymans or de Sade, or else in actuality, with an enactment of that delightful rite of the Middle Ages, what they call the droit de cuissage.

“Oh yes,” he went on, seeing a frown of puzzlement, “it literally means ‘the right of the thighs’ I suppose, and it’s the term used for an alleged custom whereby the lord of the area had the right of deflowering the bride of his vassal on the wedding night. You’ve surely heard of this?”

“Oh,” said Matthew with an understanding smile, “yes, we call it the droit de seigneur I think, in English. It’s funny we use the French. I read a book—”

“But in reality it is a myth, as far as I can see. I’ve looked into it in all the old French documents, and I can’t authenticate it.” He rose and turned to the shelves around him and waved a hand in dismissal. “But here!” His eyes gleamed, and he came close to the boy to add in a stealthy sort of murmur, “Here I can make it as true as it should have been!”

Matthew looked at him in dismay. Had he really done that, fucked the brides of his servants, or the labourers on his estate? Or maybe just as an initiation to their service? And oh God maybe it applied to the male servants too? Had he fucked those boys? But then how old was he anyway? Oh God, what a depraved old roué he was, it was true, as he’d first thought.

“However, it is really up to you.”

He looked piercingly at Matthew, who was brought back to the question and renewed his blushes and muttered that he’d maybe talk to the young men, about … things. Bertin gave a twisted smile as he prepared to leave, ushering the boy out, and mentioning lunch. “Perhaps a picnic, a déjeuner sur l’herbe, en plein air!”

He chuckled. “Do you know the celebrated painting by Manet – not the imitation by Monet! – called Luncheon on the Grass? Which depicts two clothed men sitting down with a totally nude woman, while a partially nude woman dabbles in water at the back? So you see this will be the reverse of that. Several clothed women, girls really, and a totally nude boy. I must ask Aimeric to fetch his camera, to create a fine parody of the masterpiece!” He went off in a great good humour, and Matthew thanked his stars that the old devil found him an amusement, for the court jester might expect to be spared punishment. But of course it did mean embarrassment. Oh God! Deliberate teasing and provoking from giggling girls, who (he was sure) would at some point be encouraged to handle him, excite him to erection, if he didn’t get there first on his own, and at last bring him to ejaculation. Yes, and Christ he would like that! He would like that!

But when would he be released from this odd chateau? The cheque was delivered, there was nothing to keep him here except the girls, keeping his clothes and laughing at his prick. He’d have to go back soon, ere nightfall, he thought. Oh God, he’s not thinking – they aren’t thinking – of keeping me here overnight? Surely not – we’re due to be at Morelli’s tomorrow. Catherine’s there right now, undergoing God knows what from those Italian voyeurs!

And so we’re to have a picnic, out on the large lawn I suppose, and where can I go till then? I’ll just have to wander around, explore the place. And hope I don’t run into anybody who’s going to humiliate me. God in heaven! What kind of an existence is this? Things seem to be getting worse, for both of us. Catherine is constantly exposed to the garden boys, and those dirty-minded bastards in town, and that bloody Italian who pretends to be an artist, an inspired creator of beautiful things! And I, God help me, Morelli has me pinned down as a source of … erotic stimulus, and Fauré lets his daughter show my prick to her friends, and the whole scene, the whole … field, somehow, is coloured blue! Blue for risqué, blue for obscene! And we can’t get out. It’s a prison – all right, I admit it’s a comfortable prison, Lydia looks after us, feeds us, and so on, and is it a just requirement that we repay her with our nudity? With our cringing shame, with our shivering blushes? And … our feelings, underneath … our acceptance, no, our looking for it, our anticipation of that feeling of abject humiliation mixed with an enjoyment … yes, an enjoyment of it, as if we clasp the awful sexual mortification to our breasts and somehow grind our hips as the tremor of shame goes through the pelvis! A sort of minor shadow of the ultimate grand explosion of ecstasy in orgasm that we like, that we want, that we ask for!

He wandered the seemingly endless corridors of the old place and thought he should find his way outside, where the al fresco picnic would doubtless take place. He was helped after a while by one of the kitchen maids, Renée, a slim girl of fifteen perhaps with black curly hair cut short as a boy’s. She came upon him suddenly round a corner, carrying a box in front of her, and gave a little shriek of pleasure when she saw him. He covered himself and thought of running, but she immediately told him to stay and come with her, because he was expected at a picnic. He swallowed and fell in beside her, and she walked on, giving him saucy sideways looks and grinning cheekily.

“Oh, you are so handsome, Mathieu! That is your name, yes? Ah, it was very good to help Denys and Aimeric bath you. You have a very attractive body, for sure! Yes!”

She stopped and looked at him, then deliberately set down the box on the floor. He quailed as he saw her intent. “No, Renée, please! Don’t touch me! I … Listen, we have to get to the picnic!”

She stopped and then said “No, we have plenty time! Stand where you are!”

He obeyed with a sinking heart and a shiver of anticipation.

For the umpteenth time a girl of his own young years put her questing hands to his trembling bare body. He reared back against the wall and submitted, giving in to her lubricious attack and his own adolescent desires. He collaborated in his own shaming, and finally with a sort of triumph came mightily under her hands, and almost sobbed with the emotion of it. She looked satisfied and kissed him, then picked up her box and nonchalantly escorted him outside, where she gave the box (which turned out to contain some sweet pastries) to Denys, who eyed Matthew with a small frown of curiosity. The boy tried to act as carelessly as Renée, but knew he failed, and stood at the side while the picnic was set up on the short manicured grass. Looking at the girls, who were naturally looking at him and his hands resolutely pasted over his penis, now at least restfully placid and flaccid and innocent.

* * *

“Come now,” said Bertin expansively, with a broad smile and a wave of his hand, “let us introduce ourselves. I don’t remember, alas, all your names, and handsome Matthew certainly hasn’t been introduced. Those of you who have little English need only speak plainly, and our English friend should follow. All right? D’accord?”

They chorused approval, and Bertin signed to Matthew that he should start. He swallowed and stood straight under their eyes to tell them something about himself and what he was doing in Provence. He wasn’t sure that they all understood him, because his nervousness made him stammer a bit, but they applauded with smiles, their eyes still on his loins.

Then Bertin took the stage, to tell them a little of his own history, in which Matthew was very interested, which included adventures in Africa and Tonkin forty years before, and a childhood in Vienna. He commented politely that monsieur should write his memoirs, it would be very interesting. His host looked pleased but gazed quizzically at the boy to say that some things would certainly have to wait for posthumous publication, and tell his daughter to make sure his papers were preserved for the edification and enlightenment of future generations. She agreed with a cheerful smile, and said that she was longing to read them, all the unpublishable bits, before enshrining them in his library with the rest of the curiosa. Then she told her friends (and Matthew) a lot about herself, and so it went.

The young folk naturally hadn’t much to say – no adventures as yet. Bertin made erudite remarks about their names when he could. He didn’t say much about the classical names like Livie (:Caesar’s wife, Olivia) and Julie (Julia, the feminine of Caesar himself) and Irene (goddess of peace). But a golden-haired Angelique, fifteen and rather shy-looking, was acclaimed as a personification of the plant angelica, sweet and popular, used to flavour cakes, and noticeable in some liqueurs, like Chartreuse.

“Brigitte! And you are sixteen, you say. That is a saint’s name, but originally from the Irish I believe, where it was the name of a goddess.”

“Yes, monsieur,” she said with a smile. “I was named after my mother’s grandmother, who was Irish, though she had French blood.”

“Now Manon. That’s an attractive diminutive of Marie. The name of the unfortunate heroine of the novel of the Abbé Prévost, and the operas made from it.” Seeing Matthew’s ignorance, he went on, “Manon Lescaut, a sad story of love and fidelity, or the lack of it. It’s a very popular story, there’s an opera by Jules Massenet about forty years ago, and another by the Italian Puccini ten years later or so. It’s also the name of the real actress Manon Balletti, who was born a decade after Prévost’s novel, and became the lover of the famous Giacomo Casanova. But in fact it might be a version of, a diminutive of, ‘Madelon’, which this other young lady is blessed with. Now that’s a name to gladden the heart of an old soldier. Originally you see it is the same as Magdalen, ‘the woman of Magdala’, in the Bible.”

Matthew broke in to show his knowledge. “Who was an early missionary in Provence!”

Bertin curled his lip. “If you listen to some of the credulous, yes. But anyway in Dutch it is Madelon, the heroine of a popular song, especially with the troops.” He broke into song, to everyone’s astonishment.

“La Madelon pour nous n’est pas sevère

Quand on lui prend la taille ou le menton,

Elle rit c’est tout l’mal qu’elle sait faire,

Madelon, Madelon, Madelon!”

They applauded, and he translated for the guest.

“It is about the cheerful servant-girl, who is not reluctant to accept the attentions of the young soldiers. ‘Madelon isn’t hard on us, and when you take her by the waist or the chin, she’ll only laugh, it isn’t serious.’ It is a rather gay song.

“But here is Isabelle, another pretty seventeen-year-old, named for the mother of Tristan, maybe? Or of Jeanne d’Arc? I jest of course. It’s held by quite a lot of historical personalities. Actually it’s a sort of sister to ‘Elizabeth’, and derives from Hebrew, where Elisheba, the wife of Aaron in the Bible, means something like “My God is my oath’.

“And what about my name, monsieur Bertin?”

The speaker was Aude, who said she was nineteen, from Carcassonne, and thought her name was from the river and general area round there.

“But yes, my dear, it is true, it’s a very old and honourable name. That’s Cathar country, again. But it’s also the name of a few dames du temps jadis, as Villon would say. The wife of the Duke of Aquitaine, long ago, or merely the female form of Otto, which is Germanic of course. But she’s also the legendary figure in the Song of Roncevaux, which you all must know, the sister of the hero Olivier, and the betrothed of his equally heroic friend Roland, Count of the Breton Marches, slain by the beastly Saracens, in the time of Charlemagne. A good old name, that!”

“Well, monsieur,” said Madelon cheekily, “what about Roxane?”.

“Ah,” he said, regarding the dark-haired beauty, “I can tell you all about Roxane. I’m guessing actually, but are your parents admirers of the poet Rostand?”

She laughed. “Yes, monsieur. You’ve guessed it. I’m named after the lifelong love of his hero Cyrano de Bergerac.”

“But he got it elsewhere of course. He did a lot of research, actually, about the times and people of that era, to make it an accurate reinvention, shall we say, of the life and death of Cyrano. Antoine Baudeau, sieur de Somaize, published a dictionary, catalogue, really, of the précieuses, the intellectual ladies, the bluestockings, of the time, around 1660, where you find her, an actual person, called properly Marie Robineau, whose nickname is Roxane. But originally it is from the East. It was the name of the daughter of Oxyartes of Bactria, the wife of Alexander the Great. As to what it means, I think it is Persian, or Avestan, meaning something of the order of ‘luminous, bright as dawn’, et cetera; and Rostand chose well. It’s a good name that resonates, somehow. You remember the great speech the warrior makes to her, impersonating his friend? It’s in the third act. And she asks what words he’s going to address to her.”

He quoted from memory, looking with amused admiration at the young girl, who blushed at the attention.

“ … Tous ceux, tous ceux, tous ceux
Qui me viendront, je vais vous les jeter, en touffe,
Sans les mettre en bouquets : je vous aime, j’étouffe,
Je t’aime, je suis fou, je n’en peux plus, c’est trop ;
Ton nom est dans mon cœur comme dans un grelot,
Et comme tout le temps, Roxane, je frissonne,
Tout le temps, le grelot s’agite, et le nom sonne !

“Ah, Matthew, surely you hear the poetry in that impassioned outburst? He says he’s mad with love, that he’s choking with it, he’s overcome, it’s too much; ‘Your name is like a bell in my heart, and all the time, Roxane, I’m trembling, all the time it rings, and sounds out your name!’”

The girls applauded, and the modern Roxane looked quite embarrassed at the performance.

“But come, girls; my servant has brought his camera, and we are going to reproduce (in a manner of speaking) the famous picture by Manet, Déjeuner sur l’herbe. Do you know it?”

“Oh sir!” panted fifteen-year-old Julie, “Who is going to be the naked girl?”

The lecherous old man grinned fearsomely and said in an openly invitational way “Why, my dear! Do you want to volunteer? We can arrange that … later. Now however,” he added, noting the blush and the relief on her face, “we are going to call on the already nude form of young Matthew here. He will sit in front, you others will be beside him, around him, and le tout ensemble will be an amusing parody of the famous picture. Come! Matthew! Sit here.”

The next minutes were just another variation on his mortification, and Aimeric seemed to enjoy himself taking several photographs where Matthew’s body could not but be the central interest, in several different versions of the pose of that body, in close proximity to the watchful eyes and itching hands of all those girls.

Then they relaxed, or at least the girls did, and the boys went off to develop the pictures. Matthew sat on the ground, his head down, wondering why he felt excited, and shutting out the conversation round him, which necessarily had turned bawdy, and he didn’t make out what Bertin was saying till he was nudged by Madelon, sitting behind him and stroking his arse with delicate fingertips.

“The main thing about a man,” said Bertin, “is his penis, at the join of his legs. Look at the boy there! Matthew, stand up, hands on the nape of your neck.Yes, see, girls, the main thing about him is his crotch. Your eyes all went there. Julie, my pretty, go to him, touch him, recognise that that is his defining characteristic.”

Matthew squirmed as the eager fifteen-year-old hefted his ballocks and stroked his member, which perked up pleasantly to the gasps of the others. “It’s the joint of his two legs,” continued the old man conversationally. “No wonder he’s called the forked animal. By your Shakespeare, King Lear, if I recall. – Do you know that the Chinese ideogram for ren, a man, is a picture of two lines meeting in a fork shape – rather like a Greek lambda, actually.”

He grinned, looking at the pair of them, Julie fascinated by the handful of the boy’s privates, putting her fingers in a stroke upwards on the underside of that tumescent prick, her tongue between her lips, her eyes shining; and Matthew putting his head back and trying not to shudder, his belly going in and out and his hands clenched at his sides, his gaze fixed on the girl, who looked up into his eyes and held the gaze as the blushes of both increased. Then Matthew looked across at him and opened his mouth, appealing with his eyes. “Monsieur! Please! Je vous prie!”

Bertin deliberately misunderstood him.

“Julie, my pet! Let him go. The other girls should experience it too, dealing with the penis and the scrotum, recognising their centrality to the nature of the male.”

She reluctantly released him, but he had no time to sigh in relief, for Bertin had signalled another of the lascivious ladies to take over the pleasurable occupation. Matthew was squirming, and stammering to Bertin that he couldn’t take much more of this, but he did of course, and he was able to hang on to his emotions up till the last of them, fifteen-year-old sweet Angelique, had the mad idea of stooping to kiss the empurpled glans, then start back before the inevitable end of all that stimulation. He came with a great cry, spouting his come for what seemed ages, and they all took in a pleased gasp of breath to see it. Bertin smiled wickedly and remarked that it was a pity the boys hadn’t been there to photograph the exhibition.

“However,” he said regretfully, “perhaps that will do for the time being. Girls, give the boy back his clothes. Matthew, we will send you home now. I trust you have enjoyed the hospitality?”

He paused and looked enquiringly at the boy, who had seized the clothes offered by Margot.

“Erm, oh yes, yes, sir! Thank you for … everything….”

“Hmph! All right. Girls, take him to the road and send him off with a kiss or two. Matthew, take this letter to Mrs Grainger. In it I thank her for the cheque and the entertainment, and tell her that if ever she wants you to be punished, just send you over. We’ll be delighted to oblige with a whipping on the bare behind, la derriere nue.Isn’t that so, girls?”

There was a laughing chorus of agreement.

“So, now goodbye.”

He waited till they disappeared before re-entering the house, chuckling at a rather enjoyable day.

………………………………………………………………………………………………

The producer welcomed Catherine with a grin which she interpreted as an expression of his pleasure at the prospect of being again a voyeur to appreciate her naked charms. It was bound to come to that, and she looked at him with a mild loathing and sighed. Still, she had to be pleasant to him and not antagonise him, for he had the ear of her nemesis, and a complaint would be sure to bring some kind of retribution. Morelli was telling her enthusiastically what he intended to do with her, and she’d be there all day! And all night! “At which point,” he said, spreading his hands, “we will film you going to bed, of course.”

“Of course,” she said drily. “And then—”

“And then we can film you getting up in the morning. Performing your ablutions. Washing, brushing teeth, urinating, and even doing your caca! Yes, and dressing to go out on the town.”

She stared at him wordlessly. Of course, it had to be like that. Morelli was pleased to be able to chronicle the ordinary actions of a girl which never appeared on the ordinary screen.

“So, Gloriana,” he said, smacking his hands together, “to begin perhaps we merely film you outside, in this fine weather. It is a fine climate here, is it not? Warm and sunny, something like that in California, where they are making all their pictures now. It does away, you can appreciate, with need for strong electric lights. Film outside, for hours, and it is less expensive. So now, come through to the garden on the east side. I will have you look up at the sky, spread your arms in delight, take off your clothes and dance in the sun.”

She swallowed and nodded. Another grand performance for Gloriana. Maybe she’d get used to this? There was that faint stirring in her groin….

It turned out, naturally, that she had a fascinated audience for her cavorting au naturel – a small crowd of the male servants, together with Marco and Amadeo, who spied on her to begin with and then came out of hiding to confront her and make her dance again before getting her clothes – had Mrs G heard about that party, and passed on the idea? – leading (inevitably) to a concerted feel-up session that brought her to her first orgasm of the day. It was by no means the last.

[to be continued]

(End of File)