Mrs Grainger's Gift 32

By Ritchie Moore

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Copyright 2017 by Ritchie Moore, all rights reserved

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This work is intended for ADULTS ONLY. It may contain depictions of sexual activity involving minors. If you are not of a legal age in your locality to view such material or if such material does not appeal to you, do not read further, and do not save this story.
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Mrs Grainger’s Gift
 
Part XXXII
 
 
 
Thursday 27th August
 
German class. Humiliations will continue. Catherine whisked off to an embarrassing party. Naked gym and a shower
 
 
 
In the morning of an unusually fine warm day they told each other something of what they had been through the day before, and kissed to heal the hurt before they went down to breakfast. There Matthew was reminded about his German class, and Catherine was sent off to clean the carpets. They nodded farewells to each other, Catherine looking compassionate sympathy at what they both knew would be another exposure to laughing young eyes.
 
 “I am very pleased,” said Fräulein Benz, “to welcome young Matthew here. I am pleased he has agreed to be a showpiece for our lesson today. You see he is fully dressed, with a hat and everything. Now I am going to name the pieces of clothing, das Kleid, and he will show you what it is. I will write the German words on the blackboard, and you will copy them into your notebooks. Do you understand? Verstehen Sie?” The class of fourteen year olds nodded, and looked bored. Matthew looked back at them and knew that they’d soon be a lot more interested. The woman (girl, really) from Heidelberg, who was proud of her city, had impressed on the class the venerable qualities of the place, telling them about the play by Wilhelm Meyer-Förster, Alt Heidelberg, which had been recently adapted as an operetta called The Student Prince, and was packing them in in America. She was a slim brunette with short hair, something like the boyish cut of Mlle Maury, and looked at Matthew with satisfaction.
 
“So!” cried the teacher, “let us begin!” She nodded to Matthew. “The hat, der Hut.” He pointed to it and laid it by. She wrote the words on the board, and the girls dutifully copied them down, some of them casting cheeky glances at Matthew, knowing that ultimately they’d see his bare body, and smiling to themselves in anticipation. By the time he was reduced to his underpants he was sweating and sporting an erection that poked them out, a sight the girls appreciated with giggles and murmurs. Fräulein Benz rapped with a ruler on the desk and told them to take this exercise seriously. “Next, the drawers, die Unterbeinkleid, oder Unterhosen.” She wrote the terms on the blackboard and turned back to see him slowly pulling his pants down, not looking at the class. The girls gave a pleased murmur at the sight, and he put his hands to his crotch and waited in dread.
 
“Pay attention, class! Now we have him nackt, naked, we can see the various parts of the body. To begin at the top, the hair, das Haar.” She went to him and stroked his head, then returned to the board. “I might as well give you connected words, like barber, hairdresser, which is Friseur, feminine Friseurin. I believe it’s really a French word, where friser means to curl, so he’s the man who curls your hair. The head itself,” and she tapped him on his top, “is der Kopf.” By the time she’d reached die Hintere, the behind or buttocks, and was smoothing an admiring hand over the swell of die Gesäß, the class was getting noisy, but the teacher seemed to be taking their reaction in her stride, and she doubtless expected the giggles and oohs from the girls, who hadn’t had a German lesson like this before. But then, neither had she, and she was enjoying herself. Of course teacher and pupils spent some time on his genitals, die Hoden, the testicles, der Schwanz, the tail, or prick, and “der Arsch, with Arschloch, which is the hole of the arse. The polite word,” she said with a saucy grin, “is der After.”
 
Then as a grand finale came the same identification parade that Justine had put him through, and which she’d evidently passed on as a good teaching tip to the young substitute teacher. Matthew submitted to the inevitable and allowed himself to be handled by the eager girls, his peers, who were very ready to demonstrate their handling of the vocabulary, and him, to the natural point of inducing a magnificent spend, at which they applauded rowdily. The Fräulein grinned and thanked him, telling him she’d be awfully pleased to see him at the next session in a few days. He swallowed and nodded, and left with flaming cheeks and a low spirit. Back to normal!
 
 
 
“Oh Matthew! Did I tell you we’re going to reinstate baths and showers? And spanks? Well I’m telling you now. In fact you can have an invigorating shower right now. What time is it? Yes, I thought so. Away you go to the gym and join the class. It’ll be the sixteeners I think. And then the shower. Off.”
 
He dragged himself over to the gymnasium, to be met with a disgusted-looking expression on the part of the quick-tempered Scot, who merely said “Strip and join the class.” The girls were pleased to have another close look at him, though they were obviously uncomfortable with his views of their pantieless bodies. Miss Cramond was quite deliberate in stationing him in the midst of the twenty teenagers to do an extended series of exercises, which displayed his behind and his genitals to good effect.
 
When the class showed off its suppleness on the parallel bars, the intermittent shift of the gym dresses pleased his eyes, but he was not in a good position to see much, at the back of the line. When it was his turn on the other hand they all crowded round to stare with undisguised mirth at his penis swinging with his body. It was much the same on the next exercise, on a new American device which consisted of a framework of two long bars about seven or eight feet above the floor with shorter bars crossing between them, which was called a jungle gym, or something. They were supposed to jump up and hang from a crossbar, then proceed along hand by hand, like a monkey through trees, which was easy enough but oh Lord it displayed the penis blatantly. Matthew wasn’t getting an erection yet, though he guessed he would eventually, and it didn’t happen until their hands touched him. They were to walk along the balance beam, hands outstretched and his prick thinking of quivering, then fall into the arms of the others, an exercise in trust that Catherine had told him about. So there he was, falling naked into their arms, and their hands on his waist, his arse, his prick! Of course he erected, who wouldn’t? And he had to do it again.
 
Miss Cramond got a glint in her eye and decided to feature the boy and his erection in the next few exercises, which included climbing the wall bars and turning round, his erection jutting out nobly, and launching himself off into the (naturally) eager arms of the class. With another accidental laying on of hands, as he knew would happen. Everyone enjoyed this, so he was put through it several times, the variation being that he was placed on the bars by enthusiastic fingers and his bottom smacked to drive him up, or a finger prodding his anus. Turn around, look down at the crowd of excited faces, and quail before their bawdy eyes. Leap down to the welcoming hands….
 
There was a concerted effort to bring him to an orgasmic boil, but Miss Cramond stopped them before that point was reached. Yes, it was that awful system of nearly going over, but stopped. Then more stimulation, then stopped, et cetera! At last with a seemingly bursting prick he was sent to the showers, and they all trooped after him. A trio of dauntless girlhood followed him into the water, to assist him in his ablutions. The rest cheered them on, with loud vocal encouragement when they got to the interesting parts. Matthew was fairly quick to respond, and in fact he reacted very willingly to the pleasure of a six-handed wank, closing his eyes in ecstasy, then opening them to look into the big-eyed concentration of the sixteen-year-old throng. He thrust his loins forward as he accepted the service, and came mightily with a cry that was greeted with laughter and squeals. Then came the drying, in which all could try to participate. Miss Cramond peeked in the door to view this with a sardonic smirk on her lips, and directed them to dress him. He suffered all this in a kind of a dream, realising that this had to be yet another preliminary bout in his “helping” in class, at the beginning of a whole school term. Which, God knew, was the start of a whole school year….
 
 
 
Catherine was getting a little tired of beating at a richly decorated carpet (from Persia, she was told), and stopped to draw breath. Then she caught sight of Abigail bearing down upon her with a satisfied gleam in her eye.
 
“Catherine! The very one we’re looking for! Come.”
 
With a glance at Christine, who returned it with a shrug and a look of commiseration, Catherine laid down the beater and followed, being led to the morning room. The sunshine flooded in, and lit up the figures of two of the gardener’s boys, George and Giles, both fifteen, who were doing something with a small shrub in a pot at one side, who had been talking about the great day in spring when they got to see that Catherine girl all naked, at the doctor’s talk. And now here she was, and they looked at each other with grins.
 
Catherine had stopped short at the door, but was pulled into the room by an irritated Abigail, who told her to take her clothes off. “But, Abigail! Is it bath time? I didn’t –”
 
“No, it’s not a bath. Take your clothes off, and don’t mind the boys. They’ve seen you stripped before, anyway, haven’t they? Haven’t they?”
 
“Y-yes, but please—”
 
“Well then. Take your clothes off, and come out to the lawn.”
 
“Outside, to the lawn? Wh—’
 
“Just do as you’re told, damn it! You’ll see.” She went out the French windows, and Catherine gave a small sob as she put her hands to the buttons on her dress, avoiding the gleeful stares – leers – of the randy boys, her own age, looking forward to another peek at her quailing body, or rather as long an examination as possible. Why were they here? Abigail had brought them, just to see her? Oh hell, she muttered to herself, whatever Abigail’s up to, let’s get it over with. And then again she had that frisson in her loins, a sort of itch that asked to be attended to! Yes, looked at by boys! Could she enjoy this?
 
She ignored the heavy breathing of the teen-aged voyeurs, and their under-the-breath exclamations of open lust, then opened the window and stepped out. She nearly shrieked when she saw who was standing on the grass – those jokers from the Radcliffe party, Donald and Maurice, who’d enjoyed her naked dance – and oh God! They’d brought along more friends of course, to gloat at her nudity. Ah! a throng of about fifty teenagers and early twenties, who were eager to repeat the experience of the party. A large crowd of like-minded salacious teens was looking at her and evidently licking lips as they drank in her beautiful body. And what was to happen now?
 
Abigail took charge. “These nice young boys,” she said, grinning in irony, “have invited you to a party over in Robson’s Vale, a pretty park on the other side of the town. You’re the guest of honour, as they say, and you’ll be nude of course as you are.”
 
She sneered at the girl’s horrified expression. “Yes, Catherine! The guest of honour. And there’s going to be a little band, they tell me, so you can dance for them.”
 
Catherine swallowed and hugged herself, vainly trying to hide her charms, and looked out at the mob.
 
“There she is, boys! Look after her, won’t you? Bring her back in one piece round about three, maybe? Four perhaps. If everyone has a dance with her it’ll take at least that long. Goodbye, dear! Have a nice time!”
 
With that she shoved her victim into their midst and watched as the crowd went off to the drive where they loaded up a bus and half a dozen cars and tooted off, waving in delight at the prospect of an afternoon with a handsome nude.
 
She sat beside Maurice in the back of a car, driven by Donald, open to the air and also open to the eyes of any passers-by – as she found when they reached Heighsham. It was busy, and the streets were full of people, who seemed to relish, mostly, the spectacle of an obviously naked girl showing her pretty attributes to the world. There were of course those prudes who stared angrily at the sight, but they could do little to prevent the display. Catherine remembered the jolly gendarme in Vaulx when a uniformed bobby opened wide astonished eyes, then shrugged and turned his back. It was only too true – the Grainger name pervaded the town, and this event, while distasteful, was by no means unexpected. She remembered her ride out of town that time – so long ago it seemed! – and what Matthew had told her of his similar experience, and groaned. Maurice glanced at her mischievously and merely said “It’s great, isn’t it? Being admired like this. Hey, you’re not too cold, are you, with the breeze? It’s a warm day! Donald wants the roof down like this so’s they can see you. Not keeping you to ourselves. Very generous, very public-spirited!”
 
So the cavalcade went through the town, she being ogled by the population, particularly the boys at the school, when they passed it, and Maurice, the spokesman, yelled to those who made no bones about their interest that they were invited to join them in Robson’s Vale later when the lessons were over. Onward they went, finally getting to a nice sunny spot where they settled down to drink ginger pop and beer and smoke Wills’s Woodbines. And admire her. She realised as she got out of the car and was invited to stretch those nice limbs that this was a sort of counterpart to Matthew’s experience chez Bertin, and reflected on the uncanny duplication of their shameful situations. Unless, of course, Mrs G had written home to give Abigail some ideas. She was handed a drink and told to wander about, being friendly to everybody. She couldn’t hide her too well and finally gave up trying. For about an hour (or so it seemed) she endured the gleeful stares of all those boys, some even younger than she, and a few were so bold as to stroke her hair, or her shoulder, and she knew they wanted more. All of a sudden she heard music start up, and there was a six-member band all ready to entertain. The boy she was with took her hand and led her to a picnic table nearby. “Right!” he said, “This is it! We’ve been waiting for this. Go!”
 
She gave a broken sigh and clambered up to the tabletop, and the entire company gave a tremendous cheer. The music started again, and she did what was expected of her, the boys laughing and cheering along, and the noise gradually brought some others, strangers, to the periphery, who were quickly informed that this was a special occasion. Whatever they thought about the rude motions of a young girl they stayed to watch, and clap, and cheer.
 
She was feeling quite tired by the time that concert was done. The players sat down at her table for a snack of their own, each of them toasting their dancer. It wasn’t long however before there was more excitement – a horde of teenage boys swarmed up, evidently those schoolboys (and assorted friends), all eager to meet this delicious artiste. Some of the boys had made her acquaintance before, in Mason’s shop, and were vocal in their praises. Now they had her captive, it seemed, for as long as they liked. Right!
 
Maurice suggested she dance with everyone, just a little, “and I’m sure they all want to hold you, Catherine! Hold your hands,” he added in her ear, “hold your waist, hold your bum cheeks! And to start things off, dance with me!”
 
The band members set up again, and Maurice led her into the middle of a very large ring of panting boyhood, to dance (this time) a slowish waltz, to which he was able to glide his hands over her back, over oh God! her flinching buttocks, over her pubic mound oh Christ I’m wet! Please, don’t let him notice! But he did, of course, and so did the next boy, and the next. They cut in with wide smiles, and no-one failed to finger some part of her. She had lost count by the time her nerves had had enough and answered a ticklish finger with a devastating orgasm. The boys were fascinated and kept up their efforts, inducing another, and after that, another….
 
A long time later, it seemed, she was driven back through the town, this time laid out in the back of the car, to be seen and appreciated by the townsfolk. At the estate the boys carried her into the morning room and were thanked by Abigail, who promised another occasion like this at some future time. Maurice came up to Catherine and smiled lewdly at the exhausted girl as he placed a hand on her vulva. “Till then, my sweet Catherine,” he said. “We’ll all be counting the hours!” She closed tired eyes and tried to fall asleep. – And was successful, for she woke in her bed, wondering who put her there. As it turned out, it was Matthew, with whom she had an emotional conversation before turning in around ten at night, and they literally cried on each other’s shoulders, both feeling that the pace of their humiliation was somehow accelerating, and they couldn’t even slow it down, let alone stop it.  
 
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Friday 28th August
 
 
 
Hobson’s choice – baths or spanks for Catherine – Oriental stories – pain and pleasure – art and lust
 
 
 
“I have a question for you,” said Abigail after breakfast, before Matthew went off to the library.
 
“Yes,” he said, “what is it?”
 
“It’s about what happens to Catherine. A choice. It’s whether she gets baths, or a spanking.”
 
“What do you mean?” he asked in a sort of howl, “You’re going to spank her, but she hasn’t done anything? But—”
 
“Exactly, Matthew, but she doesn’t actually have to have done anything, you know. The spanking is undeserved? Of course it is. That’s not the point. The point is, will she get a spanking or a bath?”
 
“That’s your decision, I expect! It’s what you want, you … you bitch!” he spat.
 
“No,” she said calmly, “it’s yours. You are going to decide. She’s to get a spanking, or a bath. And before you reply, know that the alternative is what you’ll get.”
 
He looked at her puzzled. “I’ll get— oh, no, d’you mean that she gets a spanking, and I get a bath?”
 
She smiled condescendingly. “How clever of you! That’s it. So, which is it to be? Do you want her bathed, or spanked? One or the other!”
 
He swallowed and looked about in desperation. It was up to him to condemn her to a shameful spanking, or to a shameful bath. But maybe he could decide on what he would be able to bear rather than she….
 
“All right,” he said slowly, “it’ll be a bath. I don’t want her hurt, so it has to be a bath. Though God knows it’ll hurt her in other ways. But if anyone’s to be hurt, physically I mean, it must be me.”
 
She looked at him proudly. “That’s my boy! That’s my hero! So in practice, she has another bath, and you have another spanking. Fine!” With a satisfied smirk she went off, and Matthew shook his head in despair.
 
 
 
De Groot picked up another volume and smiled. “Here’s a good one. I mean, it’s not just a catalogue of sexual high jinks, isn’t that what you say? See the title. It’s in French, can you handle that?”
 
Matthew took the volume and read it out.
 
“La fleur lascive orientale, contes libres inédits traduits du Mongol, de l'Arabe, du Japonais, de l'Indien, du Chinois, du Persan, du Malay, du Tamoul, etc., avec une eau-forte de F. Rops. Oxford, imprimé par les presses de la Bibliomaniac Society exclusivement pour les membres, 1882.” He looked at the Dutch scholar and smiled to say he understood practically all of that, but what was the “eau-forte”? Strong water?
 
“Literally, Matthew, you’re correct, but it’s actually the French for what you call aqua fortis, or nitric acid, in English. But it comes to mean the art of making printing plates with acid, or etchings.”
 
“Ah, it’s this frontispiece by this Rops fellow? Who’s he?”
 
“Felicien Rops, an interesting artist – there’s a few of his things here. He does sex and death and so on. He was friendly with the Symbolists. Baudelaire, for one. This particular book, though, is quite rare, I believe. It wasn’t printed at Oxford for English bibliomaniacs, no; at Brussels, by Gai and Mlle Douce. It was anonymously translated from all those languages by a formidable Orientalist, J,-A. Decourdemanche. But ah, here is the English version, it’s even rarer!”
 
Matthew looked at the title page.
 
“Oriental Studies (La Fleur Lascive). Being a Recueil of Joyous Stories hitherto unpublished. Translated from Arabian, Mongolian, Japanese, Indian, Tamil, Chinese, Persian, Malayan, and other sources. Imprinted by the Erotika Biblion Society, for Private Distribution only: Athens, MDCCCXCIII. That’s 1893.”
 
He looked thoughtful. “I don’t suppose,” he said, “it’s really printed in Athens? I get the idea all these what-d’you-call-’ems, imprints, are misleading?”
 
The little scholar smiled and nodded. “Yes, Matthew! You’re learning! This was published in 1893, yes, but actually in Sheffield.”
 
“Sheffield? My goodness….”
 
“By Leonard Smithers, who was based in Sheffield. He translated it from the French. Anonymously, again, or pseudonymously. He signed the preface ‘Neaniskos’, which means ‘Young man’. It’s actually a good collection of Modern Greek, Arabic, and other Levantine erotic tales and fool stories, rather well done. Ah, and what’s this? Wait, tick that off in the catalogue, and then look at this, it’s a very similar volume.”
 
Matthew looked at the title page. “Contes Licencieux de Constantinople et de l’Asie Mineure. Oh, all right. ‘Licentious Stories of Constantinople and Asia Minor’. I see, it’s the same sort of thing. Who did this?”
 
“It’s an anthology again, of stories and anecdotes collected before 1893 by Prof. Jean Nicolaidès, as you see there, and the series it is in – it was published in 1906 after his sudden and mysterious death as the opening volume of a series of books imitating Kryptádia, called ‘Contributions au Folklore Erotique’, published in Paris, quite openly, because it’s scientific, you see. The publisher was called Ficker, an acute case of name fatality! Yes, let’s see. Aha, all the volumes seem to be here. It won’t be in Ashbee of course, that only goes up to 1885.” He saw a question on the boy’s face.
 
“What’s that Krip thing?”
 
“Oh, didn’t that come up before? It’s a series of erotic folklore tales and beliefs and so on, published by Krauss. They’re over there, those nicely bound volumes in green. The title means ‘Hidden Things’, and it’s an amazing series. Very good, very valuable, from the folklore point of view, and rather hard to come by. You do understand perhaps that this collection centres on erotica of several sorts, and I mean of varying levels of sophistication and merit – some trash (a good deal, actually), some first class, some quite pedestrian, some exotic, some popular, some scientific – and there you have serious stuff like Freud and Burton and Bourke. Did I show you him before?”
 
He went to a shelf and selected a thick volume.
 
“Here it is. See, it’s another one with a long title.”
 
Matthew read, “Scatalogic rites of all nations. A dissertation upon the employment of excrementitious remedial agents in religion, therapeutics, divination, witchcraft, love-philters, etc., in all parts of the globe. Good heavens, it’s all about shit!”
 
“And piss also,” said the Dutchman gravely. “But see the misprint, or maybe it is an actual error, in the title? It should be scatologic rites, obviously. But there it is. It’s a fascinating book, full of honest ethnological material. You should read it. Once you’re finished with Hudibras, naturally.”
 
“Oh! I’d forgotten. I’ve got to finish it….”
 
“No matter, no hurry. I’m sure Mrs Grainger doesn’t even know she has it.”
 
“But she said she’d give me a parting gift when she sent me back to Essex. Maybe she’ll let me keep that.”
 
“Perhaps. I can try a word in her ear, no? So you’re going back soon?”
 
“Well, we don’t know when, she hasn’t said, but I don’t imagine it can be very long now. I’ve been here (and abroad) since May, and my mistress may be asking me back before the season starts up. Though I really think she’ll wait till we’ve finished the catalogue, wouldn’t you say?”
 
“Indeed, Matthew. But I must say it will not be too long before we’re done.”
 
 
 
Catherine stared at the smart-looking automobile in the drive, where two attractive young men of seventeen or so were lounging, looking at her with bright smiles. Then she turned to Abigail, who had fetched her peremptorily from her polishing of the silver.
 
 “Well, Catherine, these nice boys, Ralph and Willy, have come to take you away to town, to the school.”
 
She looked puzzled, and they laughed. The blond boy grinned excitedly and nodded, saying “Yes, Catherine! Hop in and we’ll be there in a jiffy!”
 
Frowning, she stepped into the car and sat down next to the redhead who put his arm round her, “to steady her” of course. Abigail waved them off, and they left with a roar. After a minute the second boy patted her shoulder and raised his voice above the roar of the engine.
 
“If you’re wondering what’s going to happen, it’s just that Mrs Grainger offered your services a while ago, and Mr Desmond was able to schedule you now, this term. He got permission from the parents and everybody – even Cartwright, the mayor, just in case. So everything is arranged.”
 
“But what—? I haven’t been told –”
 
“Oh, I thought you knew, and agreed to the whole thing.”
 
Her blood ran cold.
 
“Wh—what am I expected to do?” she quavered.
 
“You’ll be posing all day, for four different classes. The first is in half an hour, so Willy here has to put his foot down.”
 
The blond glanced back at them and grinned encouragingly. Catherine understood that this was to be another public exposure, and shivered, knotting her hands together. It all made perfect sense of course. Mrs G’s influence extended to the high school in town, as she should have known from Matthew’s awful swimming lessons, and the lucky boys were to get an eyeful. That was her job, after all, wasn’t it? She was in no doubt that everyone concerned knew the drawing was just an excuse to get a close look at her cringing nakedness, and – God! Four classes!
 
She closed her eyes in shame as her body reacted to the thought of all those boys staring at her cunny. Yes, there it was, that frisson of naughty expectation, that welcome – yes, welcome! itch down there, a warmth and a clenching of those muscles – she was sure she felt her labia tremble and want to gape, and her arsehole’s sphincter tightened and relaxed, tightened and relaxed, and – oh Christ! She wanted it! She wanted it!
 
“Wh-who’s Mr Desmond? The art teacher?"
 
“No, no!” The pair of them laughed. “No,” said Ralph, “he’s the Deputy Principal, responsible for the boys. There’s one responsible for the girls too, Miss Pringle. We call her Prim Pringle.”
 
“What do you call Mr Desmond?”
 
“We don’t call him anything, actually. He happens to be black, so I suppose you’d think we’d call him Darkie Desmond, but no one dares to. He’s a good teacher, though, and everybody likes him, so we don’t make fun of him.”
 
Mr Desmond turned out to be a rather sad-looking negro, though he was more of a pleasant bronze colour than the ebony Catherine expected, and he spoke in an attractive accent that was like that of Marion, from Jamaica. He welcomed the party and introduced Catherine to the art teacher Mr Cox, who grinned at her and rubbed his hands, thanking Desmond for arranging this grand opportunity of drawing a real live nude model – “Oh yes, miss, didn’t they tell you? We have four sessions lined up for four separate classes involving two forms each, so that as many boys as possible can avail themselves of this grand chance. This won’t happen again, I expect, unless, that is, we make it a regular part of our instruction, and you come every term or so. Could you do that?”
 
She paled and looked at the negro. He nodded in a resigned way and said it was always possible, then left. Cox beamed at Catherine and led her and her escort to the art room, which was large and airy-looking and had lights all round, which he explained would be able to illuminate every part of the subject. With that he leered delightedly at the subject, who shivered.
 
“Oho!” he said, “you can’t be cold, can you? The heating is on, we have it set at a very comfortable temperature especially for you. You’ll be naked, but you’ll not be chilled, I guarantee it. Well, boys,” he went on, turning to Ralph and Willy, “now you’re here, you may as well stay and enjoy the session.” They grinned and said they’d be glad to. Cox went out for a moment to summon the first class, and the boys looked at Catherine like predators. She stared back defiantly, but she knew in her heart that she’d have an awful time and she just had to accept it. Where was that boldness they’d decided on back in May? The resolution not to be beaten was worn thin, and she had a momentary feeling of absolute despair. But then Ralph put his hand to her waist and murmured something about what her body must be like under all that clothing, and she swallowed as she felt that other urge, her sphincter and her labia twitched in expectation of a welcome stimulus, Yes, she knew she was going to accept this exposure and indulge her appetite. God, how she’d changed this half-year!  
 
Boys began to enter the room and sit at the little easels arranged in a large circle around a central dais about four feet high.
 
“Yes,” said Willy, “that’s where you’ll be. It’s high enough that you’ll be seen by everyone, even from the back. And you’ll see when you’re up there that the centre portion is actually movable, I mean it’s a sort of built-in turntable that Cox can manipulate by that little wheel there, so’s you can be turned round and everyone can have a look at every side of you.”
 
“Especially the backside!” said Ralph laughing.
 
Catherine flinched and took a deep breath. She had to get through this. She had to endure all this so that Matthew and his family would be safe, and she wouldn’t be sent away from him back to Cumberland. Surely she’d get through this!
 
The room was full, packed with the boys from two forms, and she couldn’t tell how many there were. Ralph and Willy sat down as Cox strode purposefully into the room, beaming at the boys, and clapped his hands.
 
“Boys, this is a special drawing class, arranged by Mr Desmond and myself for your instruction and pleasure. This young lady here,” and he threw out a hand in Catherine’s direction, “has consented to pose for you, and since this may turn out to be a once in a school lifetime occasion, I trust you will be serious and attend to your drawing, and be appreciative of our young model’s time. Catherine! Up on the dais please.”
 
He threw a glance at her escorts, who were quick to help her up to the little stage, where she stood blinking in the bright lights and clenching her hands. As she gazed out at the boys she wondered if any were there who attended that shameful party in Robson’s Vale. By now all the boys had heard of it, for sure, and those that had missed it would be glad to sign up for this artistic occasion. She supposed they’d been asked to volunteer, and the parents and everyone, Ralph had said, had given permission. If any hadn’t, their boys would be off doing something else innocuous. So here were gathered all the boys who could, and wanted to, stare at her unclothed body for an hour or so – but wait, how long, for fuck’s sake, was the bloody lesson to last? She blinked away an incipient tear and resigned herself to posing for as long as Cox and his mob out there wanted. She was just a model, a nobody, an object.
 
“Right now! Settle down, boys, get your pencils ready and your paper lined up. Catherine, I’m going to try an experiment. A series of rapid sketches. Boys, ready? All right. Catherine, stand just you are there, hands to sides, looking out to the back of the room. Boys, there she is. Draw. Four minutes.”
 
They bent to their task, and she felt absurdly self-conscious. Why now?
 
“All right, time! Next pose. Catherine, off with your blouse. Yes, the blouse. Just drop it there, and stand as before. Right boys, four minutes.”
 
As she resumed her attitude she felt a flush start on her cheeks, and the realisation set in that this was to be a sort of strip tease by stages, each one preserved in a sketch, and ultimately a totally nude pose – probably in a more provocative position – for the serious boys to work on. What would be next?
 
“Time! Catherine, your skirt. Yes, that’s it. Just cast it aside, yes. Boys, four minutes.”
 
At the next break he fiddled with that wheel and she found herself swivelled round to face the other way, and he told her to take off her shoes and stockings. She was now in a camisole and knickers, and the boys were getting enthusiastic. She wondered about erections from those who had never seen a woman less than dressed, and tried to make out any obviously uncomfortable teenagers. There were a few, but most tried to appear blasé.
 
This did not last. After four minutes she was told to take off the camisole, and this time, with the baring of her breasts, the boys couldn’t prevent giving a throaty sigh and a few murmurs of “God! Look at that!” Her cheeks were now quite red, and she wondered how Cox couldn’t see how embarrassed she was. I’m not a fucking volunteer! she wanted to shout. But then with a touch of sickness she told herself that he knew full well that she was an unwilling toy for boys to leer at, and his words were a token phrase for hypocrisy’s sake. He knew she was squirming as she showed herself to the class, albeit standing still, squirming inside with an excruciating shame that threatened to engulf her if she didn’t keep a tight hold on her feelings. But the main thing in her mind was What next?
 
Cox turned his wheel and rotated her a quarter turn, and gave the dreaded order “Now the knickers!”
 
There was a hush – almost audible! – in the room as they all drew breath and held it. She hooked her thumbs in the top of the panties and drew them down her legs, kicking them off to the side. Her hands wanted to shield herself, but she knew it was not negotiable. Cox directed her to shift her stance a little, and gave the boys another four minutes.
 
Now the boys she was facing had a clear view, under those merciless lights, of her breasts, pointing their hard nipples right at them, of her slim body that broadened ever so slightly to accommodate her hips, and then her shaven pubis, that delta they’d heard about but which few of them had seen, and certainly not on a living breathing girl a few feet away. That delta that showed two lips – yes, that’s what they called them, and they really did look like two lips, although sideways! But they seemed to flutter, to want to open and speak to them! God, what a sight! Then another quarter-turn, and she was back to her original orientation, this time blushing all over in nude attraction. Cox, after allowing a minute of contemplation, gave the boys their four minutes.
 
She couldn’t help it – for some reason she was very conscious of her nakedness, not just her state, but the feeling of her uncovered parts, and she felt her labia again seem to twitch, knowing that they were the centrepiece of all those drawings. God! There it was, the sensation of a bead of moisture forming at the bottom of her slit. Oh no! Will they see it? Of course they will, you idiot, they’re looking intently straight at it. Will they know what it is? I’m sweating already, but will they know the difference? Her blushes grew as she felt a wave of heat suffuse her. There were many admiring looks from the boys, and she saw one reaching for a red crayon, evidently, probably to capture her red face. And body too; she was sure the blush covered her entire body.
 
Cox called another halt, and told her to stretch her limbs. She was glad to do this, but she flinched to realise the erotic performance her movements created. The boys made satisfied murmurs, and one cheeky soul clapped his hands, which was enough to start a whole deluge of applause. Their teacher didn’t make any attempt to stop it, and in fact stood by with that indulgent grin on his face, nodding as if to say he didn't blame them at all.
 
The last part of their session made her assume various poses, some straightforward and a few bawdily suggestive. In all of them, however, she was blushing like fury (they surely knew no professional would show embarrassment!) and trying to forget her wet vulva (surely they could see she was aroused?), and by the time it was over she felt like fainting. Cox called out “Time, gentlemen, please!” in facetious imitation of a public house landlord, and their pencils stopped and their faces turned to him with regret evident on every one.
 
“No, gents, that’s it. Thank our volunteer and put your things away.” He grinned even more and chortled at what was probably an obscene reference that quite a few boys understood, to grin themselves. They applauded the hapless “volunteer” again and began to clear up. Cox motioned to Catherine to descend, and her two boys were glad to assist, with hands on her waist and her arse and her breast. When they had her down he produced a large handkerchief and gave it to Ralph, saying “For God’s sake dry her up.” She shut her eyes in renewed shame as he very carefully wiped her delta free of its moisture, humming a little tune, till his companion made impatient noises and he relinquished the pleasurable task to him.
 
“Recognise the tune?” he asked with a simper. She shook her head. He sniggered.
 
“It’s Handel’s Water Music.” Another snigger, in which Willy joined, then put a sweaty hand to her thigh, and bent to dab the cloth at her slit, and opened her eyes to see several of the class staring at the scene in some wonder and some hilarity. Cox shooed them away and told Catherine to sit down, and wait for the second contingent. She sat with drooping head and put her hands between her thighs, not really hiding her sex, because what was the use? The teacher went off, evidently to round up the audience, and Ralph and Willy started a conversation. She looked at them and realised they both had erections, which they didn’t bother to hide – in fact they seemed to flaunt them, conscious of their virility, shameless in the presence of a young girl totally stark naked. She looked at them and interrupted them, wanting to jolt them out of their smug masculine attitude.
 
“Do you boys masturbate?”
 
 They stared at her in flushed surprise at her frankness, and then looked at each other, murmuring something she couldn’t catch. She laughed at their discomposure, and said “You do, don’t you? How often?”
 
They didn’t know how to take this rude interrogation, and as one they stood up, and bashfully set about rearranging the contents of their trousers. Then without a word they left her, and she sat back with an odd feeling of victory.
 
Cox appeared to grin at the new class and clap his hands for order. The noisy boys quieted down somewhat and he looked out at them to say “All right, boys, settle down! You’ll get a good look at her, don’t worry. Catherine, stand up! Use your stool to climb up to the dais. That’s right.”
 
She clambered up, but immediately stopped and turned to him.
 
“Please, sir,” she mumbled, “I need … I have to go … to the bathroom.”
 
“What? God’s truth, now you say! Oh, for f— listen, all right, otherwise you’ll make a mess. Get down!”
 
He turned to one of the boys, who looked about fourteen, and told him to escort the model to the toilet. The boy brightened up and nodded his head, staring at the girl’s breasts and acquiring something of a flush.
 
“Right, away you go. Don’t be too long, Newman, don’t dawdle. We haven’t got an awful lot of time to waste. Some, but not much!”
 
The rest of the class (all thirteen or fourteen, she thought) looked envious of Newman, who was a cheeky-looking blond with an obvious leer in his eyes. She followed the boy out of the room and closed the door.
 
“Where is it?” she asked.
 
He smiled a little slyly and beckoned her to follow, setting off down the corridor, whose linoleum was cold on her bare feet, and she hurried to keep up with him, but he deliberately slowed his pace and she got a little anxious,
 
“Please, Newman! Hurry! I … I have to …”
 
“Piss!” he cried, “say it! ‘I have to piss!’”
 
She repeated the phrase, and he chuckled at hearing a girl be so vulgar, but then picked up speed and led her to a door marked BOYS.
 
“Wait a minute,” she said, “isn’t there a girls …? Oh hell, it doesn’t make any difference.”
 
He went in and she followed, thankful the room was empty, seeing the urinals and remembering the awful episode in Mason’s store. At least now she could use a cubicle, and she made for one quickly, restraining her sphincter. She turned to close the door, but Newman was right behind her, and she couldn’t delay. She plunked herself down on the seat and looked up to squirm in shame (more shame) as she let the piss go, to see his lewd amusement. He was only a matter of inches away, and he peered at her with relish.
 
“I never thought I’d be able to watch a girl take a piss,” he said, “but then I didn’t think I’d get a chance to see her naked either…. Aren’t you finished yet? How big is your bladder? Anyway, while I’ve got you to myself I can ask you all sorts of things I’ve wondered about. Like, do you have that monthlies thing where you—”
 
“Yes!” she answered, “but—”
 
“When is it?”
 
“It’ll come in a couple of weeks. But—”
 
“Does it hurt?”
 
“Not really,” she said, impatiently. “Not really, not with me. Sometimes – but listen, we have to get back!”
 
“Oh, yes. Well, come out of there.” He grabbed some sheets from the toilet roll and took her round the waist.
 
“Oh no! Please!”
 
It was no use, for he had decided to take on the dirty job of wiping her dry. She couldn’t escape his attentions, and indeed she began to feel that erotic itch as he carefully swabbed away at her vulva. But she felt her water forming, she was sure, and the boy kept on wiping her till the paper was soggy. He looked at her in disgust.
 
“Either you’re pissing yourself all the time, or you—No! By golly, I bet it’s because you get a thrill, don’t you, when I touch you there, like … like that!”
 
He threw down the paper and pushed a finger into the vulva, and she squealed.
 
“Hey! This is it, that they talk about, isn’t it, your cunt sweats when you get excited! And this is … God this it IT!”
 
He’d reached her clitoris, somehow, and knew by the look on her face that this was indeed it, the place to tickle, to send her screaming. She didn’t scream, though, not loudly anyway, and pleased him with a wondering long-drawn out Ooooh, which he interpreted correctly as an ecstatic thankyou for the experience.
 
She was a mite unsteady on her feet as they went back to the art room, and Cox gave her a searching glance when they got there, followed by a stare at the boy that had elements of disapproval and amusement and envy. Newman stared back impudently and got to a seat, and the lesson began, a minor variation on before, since she started off stark naked. She was exhibited and rotated and exhibited and rotated, all to the odd sigh of contentment from the rapt adolescents. The poses Cox demanded were supplemented by some suggested by the boys themselves, and Catherine thought her blushes would never end, they surely grew, as she was sure – oh Christ! – she caught a glimpse of her vulva and could swear those labia were all puffed up and crimson like her face. And oh no! Her fucking water again, Newman’s ‘sweat’ (where had he learned that?) was back, and she couldn’t do a damn thing about it.
 
They broke for a bite of lunch. Catherine had visions of attending nude, St Vincent’s fashion, but they gave her a dressing gown and took her to the staff room, where she was offered sandwiches and coffee, which she devoured gratefully. Cox tried to engage her in conversation, explaining that Desmond had persuaded a rather reluctant school board to allow this unusual event – with safeguards of course. “The girls were rather put out,” he said, “and there was some muttering about equality of opportunity. Well, Desmond was rather dubious but I’m sure he’ll agree to have a young man here on a similar basis. It does take a bit of arranging, as you may guess – classes have to be altered and rescheduled and so forth, for a boy will probably miss two periods with this, but they won’t be the same as others’, you follow? Four joint classes equals eight separate lots to be juggled. A bit of a headache, really, but we’re managing it nicely. So anyway, when we get a boy I think we’ll do it either after hours on a school day, or at the weekend. A Saturday I suppose. Cartwright might not allow it on the Sabbath.”
 
“On the other hand, Harold,” said a rather mousy lady over her glasses, “you’ve seen how many shops and so on stay open on Sundays, in direct contravention of the Sunday Observance Act. Which is venerable and an institution. Elsewhere, at least. It goes back to George the Third. And while nobody has managed to overturn it yet, its days are probably numbered. Still, it is there, to be cited as necessary when it suits us. It’s only because Hereward Grainger made sure he wasn’t inconvenienced.”
 
Cox looked at Catherine and said “Constance here is our historian, so she’ll be right.”
 
“But who was that? Lydia Grainger’s husband?”
 
“No, no,” said the mousy lady, shaking her head with a smile. “That was Henry. No, this would be his grandfather, Hereward Grainger, whose dates are something like 1785 to 1852, Edward’s father by another freethinker, Daphne Brougham, who was an early suffragette, you could say. Edward was Henry’s father. So Hereward, as I say, got the locals, the council and everyone, to obey him and not Parliament. They’ve been powerful – practically omnipotent – here and for miles around, since then. And since it doesn’t interfere too much with life, the locals have grown up with it, taken it for granted. There are always a few who think it’s a shame of course, a sin in fact, but they keep fairly quiet. Besides, I hear that our Chief Constable, Irving Struthers, is a personal friend – actually went to school with Henry, or maybe their fathers got pally at Eton or somewhere, I forget now. So you see there’ll never be any consequences of an infraction, not even one like this. No, Cartwright might not like it, but he had to acquiesce.”
 
A saturnine bookish young man sipped his tea and said “But don’t you think it’s unnecessary, I mean hiring outsiders to pose? I mean no criticism, miss,” he said quickly. “It’s just that we have lots of boys and girls here who could quite cheerfully fill in, especially if they’re paid a few bob.”
 
“I don’t know about that,” said an elderly gentleman from the corner, pointing with his cigarette. “Not everyone would want to pose in the altogether in front of their schoolmates! But hmm, if it were that Saunders girl in IVB, now—!”
 
“Oh, Mr Porter!”
 
“You know better than that, Constance,” said the bookish man, “you know he says these things to provoke you into saying that. He’s an admirer of Marie Lloyd. He’s taught that to his class, d’you know that? I do believe that song was dead till he revived it. But anyway, I didn’t know it was a nude model.” He looked at Catherine, who blushed, and he had his answer. He made a mental note to quiz Cox about this arrangement. Surely a professional model – how old was she, anyway? – didn’t blush!
 
Cox however nodded his head thoughtfully. “We can always see,” he said, “especially with parents. Maybe some incentives like extra marks, a competition with prizes, and even ‘a few bob’ as you say, Greville. I’ll speak to Des about that, and Amy Pringle as well. Yes, it’s a thought.”
 
“It is indeed,” said Mr Porter. “Our classes may get bigger, who knows?”
 
Cox looked at the clock on the wall. “Ah well, there it is,” he said, “class three coming up. You’re ready this time, are you?”
 
“Oh yes,” she said. “I’m fine. Is it going to be just the same?”
 
“Mhmm,” he nodded. “It’s boring maybe for us but it’s incredibly interesting and instructional for the boys. Em, d’you feel like coming, Greville? Just to see what goes on?”
 
Mr Porter raised his head from his cup to interject “What comes off, as well!” He smiled at Catherine, who blushed as she smiled back. Was that a joke at her expense, or a comradely clap on the back? The Greville person stood however and nodded in an offhand way, unwilling to appear too eager. The trio returned to the art room, where the younger man settled in a corner and eyed the boys as they drifted in, and his presence tended to restrict their open lechery, with no winks and surreptitious mutters. All went well, and for some curious reason Catherine had no embarrassing exudation of what Newman called her sweat.
 
That changed in the final hour, when she found herself really sweating in that warm room, and a half-dozen boys she’d seen at that awful party made eyes at her to remind her of that pornographic dance. The postures she adopted, left to her own imagination this time, turned out to be explicitly lewd, and she seemed to invite calamity by grinding her hips into an attitude that thrust her pelvis and its treasures in the rapt faces of adolescence. She could feel the bead of moisture at the end of her pubis, ready to drip off, and blushed anew when it left her and the boys let go their pent breath with a pleased sigh. When Cox called time they stood as one and gave her an ovation that overwhelmed her. Cox smiled and left, and she clambered down to the floor to disappear to Greville’s eyes, into a crowd of teenagers, who were evidently congratulating her and thanking her again for her volunteered time. He shrugged and pushed through the throng to the door, where he turned to see the girl being lifted up by a foursome of boys, one to each limb, while another two ran their hands over her chest and her buttocks. She was well taken care of, then. He went off to the staff room, where he found Porter sitting comfortably smoking the inevitable cigarette, and asked him why he hadn’t come along to the show.
 
“Oh, I suppose I could have, but the boys wouldn’t want to be inhibited by an old fogey! Let youth enjoy youth, and age enjoy memories. What are they doing now?”
 
“I’m not sure, the posing is over, but they’re still there enjoying her body.”
 
Porter coughed. “I’m sure they are. And she?”
 
“I’ve no idea, but I’m sure she can handle it. I must say I’m not sure how tricksy the boys are going to be after this.”
 
“And if there’s another such occasion—”
 
“God only knows.”
 
Porter went out, to see a number of boys stumbling past with vacant looks on their faces. He caught up with the last one and gave an enquiring sound, and the boy, who would be fifteen, turned to him and met his gaze. He breathed deeply and blushed crimson, holding a hand in front of his trousers.
 
“Well?” said Porter.
 
“Oh sir! Mr Porter!”
 
“No, lad, Brough, isn’t it? You’ve not got it. It’s ‘Oh Mr Porter!’’
 
Brough laughed and shook his head. “No, sir, believe me, I need more than that to say what I want to say. That girl … she’s beautiful, every bit of her, and we saw every bit! Oh God … Sir, you’ve no idea!”
 
“Believe me or not, Brough, I have an idea. You’ve finished with her, have you?”
 
Another blush. “Yes, sir. We all did. We all….”
 
Porter narrowed his eyes. Conversationally he said “How often did she come? Have a thrill?”
 
Brough shut his eyes in glorious memory and breathed “Four times. Four fucking times! Oh God—”
 
He remembered whom he was talking to, and bit his lip, looking scared at the old man.
 
Porter smiled and patted him on the shoulder. “There, there, Alan. You’ve been lucky to see and do these things at your wonderful age. Mark them down in the mind to draw out later, much later. Only tell me that the girl is all right? I hope you treated her with some gentleness?”
 
Brough looked up. “Yes, sir. I was one of the last to leave, and when I kissed her she smiled and looked into my eyes and thanked me. Thanked me! I think … oh, I think I’m in love with her!”
 
Porter smiled again and said “All right. Away you go and attend to that inflammation in your trousers.”
 
Brough blushed again and fled. Now, thought Porter, to find the girl and ensure her welfare. See about a ride back to the estate.
 
 
 
 
 
                                                           SUMMERTON
 
28th August ’25
 
Dear Madam:
 
This is to let you know how things are going here, particularly in regard to the children. They came back looking fit and tanned, all over as it turned out, and I immediately put them to work according to the ideas you mentioned last June. Matthew has been a model in the German class, given by that young teacher from Heidelberg. She’s only my age, or a year older, and she was very keen to use the boy as a subject. Of course he got an erection, and that led to an emission, which delighted her and her class. Catherine has been sent to St Vincent’s School again, and I leave it to Mr Bradley to tell you about it. He heard about C’s baths and agreed to let his boys have a turn, so I’m sending her there just for that in a couple of days. There’s also the spankings at the dormitory – another today – and Matthew’s own baths to start up again. I was thinking actually of a weekly ‘stimulation’ at the Academy. Tomorrow, though, he’s going to town to model clothes at Silvio’s. There’ll be a good photographer there to capture the event. You’ll be pleased I think to see her work when you return. You’ll also see the new drawings of the art class (he’ll be there posing on Tuesday), and of course you’ll see the pictures from St V’s boys. A couple of them are really artistic. M also had another nude session with Miss Cramond’s class, and yesterday also C was taken to a party in Robson’s Vale, au naturel, naturally. Today she’s off to be a nude model for the high school boys – that was a good idea you had! – and naturally in accord with the general idea Matthew will follow in a day or two, to please the girls.
 
We’ll start the staff spankings when you return, shall we? And I want to suggest having C exercise (nude of course) outside where everyone can see her. I’m suggesting this to Mr Bradley, that she do this at StV next time.
 
— These orphans seem to have changed somehow. I don’t know what, but they look at each other differently. All I can think of is that they’ve gone to bed together, maybe at Vaulx. That’s all right, though, for they’re still embarrassed as hell to be seen naked by others.
 
Hope you are well. All is in good state here. Send us a wire when you leave.
 
                                                                                  Yours faithfully
 
                                                                                  Abigail Hughes
 
 
 
That night the seventeen-year-old leader of another dormitory preferred to fondle his arse, to the hoots of merriment from her girls, while Matthew quickly grew a rewarding erection and thought he’d come if she continued long enough. But the next spanker made up for this by beating him severely before passing him on. By the time they were finished he was crying silently, recognising a feeling of abject despair. They got him into his clothes and pushed him out the door – to fall flat on his face for a time before he could pick himself up and haltingly shuffle his way back to his floor. Catherine was waiting at the door of his room, and nearly burst into tears when she saw his ravaged face and the way he stumbled on to his bed. In a minute she had stripped him and knelt over his naked backside, which was a fiery colour and evidently exquisitely tender, for he flinched at her first touch. The ointment went on, and he made little soothed sounds that warmed her heart. Again she reminded herself that he was enduring this all for her, and her hands spread the ointment over his lovely arse with tearful care, worshipping his beauty as she tried to make up for his agony.
 
“God,” she whispered, “oh Matthew, I owe you so much! Thank you for this, thank you for bearing this for me. It’s an act of true love. And oh, I love you so! How can I repay you for suffering all this for me? Me? Who am I? A silly girl who’s fallen on hard times, who let you refuse to beat me, who let you be beaten by those ... those fucking bitches next door! I should be beaten instead!”
 
“No, love,” he whispered, “I got you a bath instead….”
 
Her face registered puzzlement. “What?” She shelved the question as she cast about for recompense. “Christ, oh Christ, what can I do?”
 
He smiled. “What you’re doing. That’s another act of love….”
 
“Matthew, you’ll be going away, I know, pretty soon. I’ll probably never see you again. But by God and all the host of heaven, I will never forget you.”
 
He turned over and looked up at her tear-filled eyes. “Love,” he said gently, “oh, love! Please, pull me off. This much you can do for me. Yet another act of love.”
 
He was already tumescent, and with a touch of Vaseline he was soon erect, to be kissed on the throbbing glans by adoring lips, then swiftly brought to a glad climax by her fingers, happy to make him happy, rejoicing in his thankful look as he came, looking into her eyes and shivering in sensual fulfilment.
 




 
 
 
Saturday 29th August
 
Modelling clothes. Bath with the boys
 
 
 
“Well, Catherine,” said Abigail, “we’re back to our regimen. Another bath for you today.”
 
The girl choked back a sob. “Please, Abigail, do we have to? I—”
 
“Well yes we do as it happens. When Mrs G gets here I want her to find everything running just as smoothly as when she left. That includes you pair, with Matthew showing himself at the Academy, and we’ll be getting back to his baths, and also your baths, with the boys here. So I’ve taken it upon myself to get things going, and today you’ll be bathed by four boys. Actually,” she added with a sly smile, “it was Matthew who said you should have a bath.”
 
She looked at the other girl, who shook her head in denial. Matthew couldn’t have said that, could he? She gave a whimper, and Abigail rejoiced to see a shadow of doubt, of betrayal, pass over Catherine’s face.
 
“Yes,” she said, “four boys – two to actually handle you and two witnesses, who’ll be doing it themselves next time. Two of the boys are from the stables, Tom and Mickey , they’re thirteen and twelve respectively, if you want to know, and I bet they’re all anxious to bath a naked girl – they don’t get much chance of it, do they? – and the other two are mechanical apprentices, they’re from the bunkhouse some distance over there,” she waved, “and they’re called, what, Simon and Stanley. They’re fourteen, both of them. So that’s your audience, and they’ve been told to be at the bath room by the stables at one o’clock. So should you. One of the other girls will prepare the bath for you. My,” she said with an insincere smile, “you do have a royal treatment, don’t you? We run your bath, you’re carefully washed by others, and dried, and sent off, without you lifting a hand! Oh, you pampered girl!” Catherine looked at her and grimaced. “And just think,” the other continued, “Mr Bradley wants you to have your bath next week at the school! With some lucky boys attending to you! And a couple of weeks after that, another lot of boys!”
 
 “Please!” she shrieked, “Please, Abigail! It’s, it’s torture! I - I can’t stand it! I —”
 
“I know, dear thing,” said Abigail, “I deeply sympathise. But it’s a brilliant idea on their part. There’s an awful lot of boys over there, and even at the rate of four at a time, if you think about it, it comes to about two years’ worth of baths!” She ignored the sobbing squeal from the girl and went on, “And I’ve been thinking about St Marks. I admit the headmaster seems a bit more straitlaced than Bradley, who really seems something of a pervert, to be honest! But I’m sure there’s a good few boys would appreciate the chance. After all, they liked seeing you naked at the volley ball game, and then again walking round the maze, didn’t they? So maybe we can arrange something there too, or invite a select few over every month maybe for a special bath. Oh yes, there’s always that…. Anyhow, today you know what’s what. One o’clock.” Catherine went listlessly to her room and lay on her bed. In front of her stretched literally years of humiliation, subjected to invasion of her privates – what used to be privates! – by hordes of randy adolescent boys, and oh God! She just knew Matthew would be sent away, and he wouldn’t be there to comfort her. What sort of a future was that? Could she find the courage to end her life? Oh God, she cried to herself, have I come to this? Thinking about killing myself to avoid all those humiliations? And maybe because Matthew will be out of my life, I won’t be able to face things without his love to support me? How have I got to this point? God, please, help me! And oh, she said Matthew suggested the bath! But no, she firmed her lips and looked up at the ceiling. No, somehow I know he did that to save me from something worse. Yes, he did! He said he got me a bath instead of a beating! Oh God how I love him! Her heart grew peaceful, and after a while she slept.
 
When Catherine arrived at the bathhouse at a few minutes to one she found it empty and no bath steaming. For a moment she was so relieved tears came to her eyes. Abigail had relented, she told herself, there’s no bath today. Then she saw two young boys approaching, and she called out “It’s not on, not today. I—” She stopped as she saw them continuing to approach with wide grins on their eager faces. Suddenly she knew with dread that it was going to be worse.
 
“Hey, Catherine!” one of them shouted. “We’re here to take you to the bath.”
 
“Yes,” said the other, as they drew near, “it’s not here, it’s at the bothie! Come along!”
 
Wordlessly, with her heart in her mouth, she let them take her hands to draw her with them away to the bunkhouse, and on the way they told her their names and ages, and confirmed that Simon and Stanley would be joining them for the occasion.
 
She found her voice and quavered “W-why is it at the bothie?”
 
“Why,” answered Mickey, “so’s more people can see you, of course. There’s a bathtub all set up ready, and they’re filling it right now….”
 
--------------------------------------------------------
 
“All right, Matthew,” said Abigail, “today I want you to go into town to Silvio’s, the haberdasher’s, to model clothes.”
 
He frowned. “I don’t understand—”
 
“There’s nothing to understand, for God’s sake,” she said with asperity. “You go to Silvio’s, put on these clothes, get photographed, display them, come back. They may give you a meal, I don’t know. You’ll be back by tea-time I expect. It’s another fine day, so you’ll not need anything other than what you’re wearing. Let’s see – shirt, vest I suppose, trousers, underpants?” She laughed at his expression. “Your jacket, maybe. All right. Be ready for the car at ten thirty. They’re sending a car, and they’ll just sound the horn, Very well. Good luck.”
 
She went off with a disturbing grin on her face. Matthew had an awful feeling that something embarrassing was planned for him, but couldn’t see what he could do about it, and lay on his bed uneasily till rousted out by a couple of girls, Jill and Dora, who took off all the linen, finding under the pillows a quantity of toilet paper. He coloured as they looked at him with lewd grins, Dora saying “Oho, Matthew! What’s this for? You’re having a go, aren’t you, frigging off in bed? Naughty naughty!” He couldn’t say anything, and bit his lip as they laughed and went off with the bedding.
 
He heard a toot downstairs and picked up his jacket and went down to where a startlingly red sports car hummed in the driveway, driven by a middle-aged man in goggles who gestured him in and took off in a shower of dust. Matthew couldn’t converse over the sound of the engine, and just settled back. In town the car stopped at a fashionable-looking shop front labelled somewhat discreetly “Silvio. Fine clothes for the discerning.” A woman of about sixty bustled out and took charge of him, leading him into a stylish interior and through to a back room. “Here you are,” she said, “take a seat. Michelle will be here soon to attend to you. Now excuse me, I’m off.” She went out and Matthew sat down in some bewilderment.
 
Five minutes later a girl in her late twenties, he thought, entered and looked at him appraisingly. “Yes,” she said, “I think you’ll do! I’m Michelle Rostand. And you are?”
 
“I’m Matthew Raven,” he said hesitantly.
 
“Fine! Well, let’s get you ready. D’you see these clothes hanging there?” He turned to see several racks laden with garments of various sorts. “You’ll be modelling some of them, and being photographed next door.” She indicated another door at the back. “For now, though, you can just take off your outer clothes. Jacket, trousers. Fine. I’ll be back shortly.”
 
He reluctantly took off his jacket and undid the trouser buttons, then sat down to take off his shoes and ease his trousers off over his stockinged feet. Once again he was in his underwear, and a tremble of foreboding went through him. The door opened and two girls of about sixteen came in and looked at him with pleased smiles. “Right, Matthew,” said one. “I’m Cynthia and this is Paulette. We’re to get you into your costume. Stand up here, would you?” He rose and was positioned in the centre of the room to see himself looking diffident and wary in a tall mirror. Cynthia took down a hanger with jacket and waistcoat, and Paulette produced a pair of striped trousers.
 
“Do you know my size?” he asked in wonderment.
 
“Oh yes,” said Paulette, “Mrs Grainger supplied all your measurements through her assistant. I think they came from a tailor she knows.” He subsided and let them dress him, adding a stylish tie and a polished pair of shoes of two colours. He didn’t like the figure he cut but submitted. Then he was led through the other door to be faced with bright lights that dazzled him so that he had no idea of the size of the room or who (or how many) were there, but a babble of conversation arose on his appearance. Michelle’s voice came over a microphone explaining who he was and what he was wearing, and Cynthia muttered “Walk forward naturally, twenty feet, pause, turn and come back.” He obeyed, blinking, and a scattering of applause was heard. When he got back to the door he was whisked inside and the clothes deftly removed. Another set was installed, and he was pushed out again. This went on for five minutes, and then he gave a yelp as the girls took off his shirt and vest. “What’s the matter?” asked Paulette. “We have to show another set of underwear.”
 
He bit his lip and made no further comment as they put him in a ruffled shirt and then took off his underpants to apply some rather skimpy drawers. They did this in a very matter of fact way, so he didn’t feel assaulted as he expected he would. This outfit elicited a lot more comment, and a few giggles from the audience, which he was able to make out very hazily behind the bright lights. After this the girls gave him some different underpants and another vest, and sent him out. The next item however was a set of combinations, and he squirmed as he was stripped naked and got into the garment, which didn’t do too much to hide his body. Paulette said “Now this has buttons in the back, feel them? When you get to the end of your walk, twenty feet or so, undo the buttons before you walk back.” He went out into the lights and a great buzz of excitement greeted him, along with more giggles. He walked slowly to the end, feeling his penis react to its near exhibition (But I can’t get a hard-on now, for God’s sake!), then felt round to undo the buttons. He felt a bit cooler at his bum, and realised with a shock he’d just undone the back flap that covered his behind, and was removable to make shitting easier. He braced himself and turned round, then forced himself to walk back, displaying his arse for all to see—and of course the crowd noise grew greater as they giggled and applauded.
 
Cynthia received him with a smile. “Very good, Matthew! Now off with that and we’ll do a nightshirt.” He sighed and let them strip him, hoping his penis would behave, but it had a mind of its own of course, and was certainly trying to rise. He didn’t have time to think, however, and was thrust out in a nightshirt that came down to his ankles, which was evidently something of a disappointment. The next item was another such, but much smaller, coming down to his knees. The applause picked up, and he hoped it wasn’t because his penis was trying to poke out the cloth. The next piece was a very short nightshirt that just covered his buttocks and no more, and he protested this time. “Girls! I can’t wear this! It’s not long—” Paulette frowned. “It’s a style we want to show. Now get out there. Walk slowly so that they can see it at their leisure.”
 
Out he went, hotly conscious of his bare legs and surely the bare roundness of his bum. As for his penis, it was trying to rise, and if it did he’d be sure to be utterly exposed. The audience was making quite a noise by this time, and it increased as he got to the twenty-foot mark, to turn and show his buttocks. Back he went to a round of applause and drew a deep breath. There was no let up yet however. He was put into a suit of pyjamas, which the audience seemed to like; then another, whose jacket hung down to his thighs. The girls drew the trousers up to his waist and tightened the cord at the top. “Now Matthew, demonstrate the cord by untying it at the far end and stepping out of the trousers, pick them up and then come back.”
 
He swallowed and started to say something but knew it was fruitless. He walked slowly down the platform and paused, then untied the knot on the drawstring and let the trousers fall. This of course produced a little roar of approval from the unseen audience, and he bent down to pick them up, knowing by the reaction that he was displaying his behind again. Then a slow walk back and nods of approval from the girls. “All right, Matthew,” said Paulette, taking off his jacket, “a little rest now. If you want to put something on, use that dressing gown.” She indicated a woolly sort of robe which when he donned it only came down (of course, he might have expected it) to his mid-thigh.
 
Michelle came in, all smiles. “It’s going very well, girls! Matthew, you’re doing well too. The audience like you. Do you want to meet them? Or wait till we’re finished, perhaps? Come on, they do want to meet you.” He didn’t feel like it but allowed her to pull him through another door where he was disconcerted to find a large number of young women and girls, and not a man in sight. He realised the unseen audience of young femininity had enjoyed seeing his bare skin, and coloured. The crowd turned and murmured greetings to him, some daring to wink in what he interpreted as a very salacious manner. He was handed a drink and sipped it nervously while trying to be as unnoticeable as possible, not saying anything but smiling in a strained way at his admirers and very conscious of his nakedness under the dressing gown.
 
All too soon he was called away to the second half of the show, Michelle reassuring those who asked her that photographs would be available later. “This won’t take as long, Matthew,” she said. “Girls, he’s all yours.” Paulette came up with a grin to take off his robe and he almost made a move to cover himself, but he knew it was in vain. Cynthia produced another pair of pyjamas, and they drew up the bottoms as before and tied the cord. Then they put on the top, and repeated the instructions. Out he went to a loud welcome, and looked out at them. Now he knew who they were, he could see hazily past the lights to what he thought were bawdy grins on the girls’ faces. And then he knew what was supposed to happen. Down he walked, his penis twitching to warn him, and he paused after his twenty feet. His hands went to the cord and he undid the knot with trembling fingers. The bottoms slid to the ground, and the crowd gasped and shrieked as they saw that the top only reached his waist. He stood for a moment frozen, and his penis finally rose to salute the girls. Then he bent to pick up the bottoms, turned, and walked in a daze back to the door, followed by a storm of applause.    
 
Cynthia grinned at him. “Great, Matthew! You’re tremendous! Now we’ve broken the ice. Here.” She whipped off the pyjama top and put him in a flannel dressing gown, left open to show his erection as he strode along the walkway; he was to let it slip from his shoulders and finally from his body entirely, and the striptease effect pleased the girls mightily, Then a short shirt that came down to the top of the pubic hair. The walk down the platform seemed very long, and the noise from the eager girls nearly drowned out the voice of Michelle describing the skimpy garment. The next two shirts were no longer, and his penis was rock hard, pointing out at the crowd. Next was a vest, which only came down to his navel, and he was wondering how far they could go. He was surprised to be poked into a sort of bag which held his balls and prick, announced by Michelle as a “genital pouch” which was suitable wear for artistic posing. Paulette had coached him before this, and he obligingly flexed his muscles and did some slow exercises. Then, of course, he had to show them how easy it was to remove it, and the penis, which had been chafing in its confinement, sprang out as if in relief, to another oohing from the young audience. After that he modelled a series of belts, round his bare waist, and a silk scarf or two, which hung down to his thighs but parted, of course, to show his constant erection. Then Michelle announced the end of the show, and another wild row of applause broke out. He retreated to the changing room, where Cynthia put the scarf away and kissed him. “Very well done! You’re great!” Paulette added her congratulations, and Michelle took him by the hand to take him into the reception room. He stumbled after her in panic, and found himself in the midst of a crowd of girls whom he now could see ranged from thirteen or so to the mid-twenties. They were very keen to shake his hand and tell him how much they enjoyed the show.
 
“Yes,” said a fifteen-year-old, “a real show. Everything you’ve got! The girls at school will want to hear about this.” She leaned close to his ear as she put a hand on his quivering waist, and said “You’ve a very nice prick, you know. And it stands there so tall and sturdy!”
 
He smiled weakly at her and made to move on, but of course he couldn’t escape another encounter with another girl who licked lascivious lips and shook his hand, gazing meanwhile at his erect member. He was in a daze and was hardly conscious of what was happening around him, though he knew, or imagined, that several hands made free with his genitals, and finally escaped to the other room to be dressed in the robe once more and led through the crowded main showroom of the store to a small room with table and chairs and a coffee pot. Here he was offered sandwiches and a drink, which he ate in a kind of trance. Paulette and Cynthia shared the coffee and chatted away as if nothing unusual was going on. Matthew plucked up courage to ask about the arrangement of the show.
 
“Oh,” said Cynthia, “Mrs Grainger arranged it a while ago. She said she had a boy who’d be an excellent model for all kinds of wear, including underwear, and that we could make it as daring as we wanted. So Michelle put together this show, and the audience was specially invited. The schoolgirls particularly. They liked it, you could see.” He nodded wearily.
 
“So anyway,” said Paulette, “are you ready for the second show?”
 
He stared in dismay. “Again?”
 
“Of course,” she said. “There’s lots more we can do. This is the second house, you might say. Different girls, some different costumes. Finished? Oh, do you want a pee? Or a shit? We’ve plenty time, really. Come through here.”
 
They led him to a small bathroom where he peed and then sat down to take a shit, wondering for the umpteenth time at how much influence and power Mrs G wielded. Then he had second thoughts about soiling the robe, so he shrugged it off and prepared to defecate.
 
He was just getting comfortable when the door opened and Cynthia came in, talking to two girls who followed her. “I’m sorry, but we won’t have time, so you’ll have to do it here, now. Matthew, sit up. These girls are going to interview you for the school paper.”
 
He stared at them aghast and gave a whimper. He’d dropped his protection of the inadequate dressing gown, now he was obviously naked, having a shit, oh God! And these two girls, who looked about sixteen, and certainly not much older than he, wanted to interview him!
 
One of them, a nice-looking blonde with bobbed hair, looked at him on the pan and grinned. “It’s all right,” she said to Cynthia, “we don’t mind. It’s all in the way of experience! Hello, Matthew! I’m Dinah, and this is Joyce.” The other girl, with straight red hair and glasses, looked at him and turned as red as her hair. She mumbled a greeting and sat down quickly, opening a notebook and getting a pencil ready.
 
“Right!” said Cynthia, “I’ll leave you to it. You’ve got about fifteen minutes I think, then we’ll be getting him ready for the second showing. All right, Matthew, be nice. I realise it’s a bit unusual, but still….” She left them and he closed his eyes in horrified amazement. He couldn’t do a thing about this invasion of privacy, and Christ! he was to continue his shit in their presence? He wondered about reaching for the dressing gown, but feared he’d reveal more of himself, and knew he had acquired another erection.
 
“Well now, Matthew!” Dinah sat down and looked at him eagerly. “You’re from Mrs Grainger’s Academy, aren’t you?”
 
He heaved a tremulous sigh and answered through dry lips, “Well no, actually, I’m just a servant in the main house there, though I’ve … I’ve visited the school ….” He tailed off and winced as a short fart escaped him. The girls laughed, though Joyce seemed to get redder, and scribbled something, not looking at him.
 
“Tell us, though: how old you are, and where you’re from.”
 
He gave them some particulars, and writhed as his colon released a couple of turds. They plopped into the water, and Dinah made no effort to hide a bawdy grin. “All right, now tell us about the Academy, and what connection you have with it.” Her eyes dropped from his to his bare thighs, and the boy could see her intense interest, and how she was waiting for more signs of his defecation. He stammered out some information, dropping the fact of his posing for the art class, and Joyce looked up at him and wetted her lips, to stammer herself, “N-n-nude?”
 
His own blush intensified, and she had her answer. Dinah grinned a bit more and said gleefully “Hey! I do wish we could get you at our school! A life model, yes, just the thing! Like that girl yesterday of course that the boys were talking about!! I must remember to do some lobbying for you!”
 
The prospect brought on another nervous fart, and a deposit in the pan. The girls didn’t try to conceal their naughty amusement, and continued to interrogate him, till Dinah looked at him and said “Finished? Well we’d better be going.”
 
“Oh,” said the other, blushing some more. “What about the picture?”
 
“Ah,” said Dinah, “I was forgetting.” She produced a camera and aimed it at him, saying “Come on, say Cheese!”
 
He looked at her in horror and somehow managed to control his expression, just as a last turd plopped into the water, and the snapshot was taken. “Hey!” said the girl, “that’ll be a great picture for the paper! Don’t worry, Matthew, we won’t be able to get you all in there, with a bare arse on the lav! But we’ll have copies for our own rooms, oh yes!” The pair of them giggled merrily, and giggled again as he released his sphincter and urinated, as he always did after a shit, and he should have expected it. The piss splashed into the bowl, and he blushed a bit deeper, remembering the Joyce anecdote. The girl that time evidently had no over-modest feelings, but he—!
 
Cynthia came in to say “Finished?” in her turn, and he nodded, then gritted his teeth to be told “All right then, wipe yourself nicely.”
 
She waited while he did this, and the two reporters were very interested to see the act; they had probably never seen someone else do this, and certainly not a boy! Matthew carried out the cleaning of his arse with a shudder, and looked up shamefacedly as the awful girl took another two shots, then managed to mouth a farewell to the girls as they departed, chuckling to themselves and thanking him and Cynthia for a very interesting interview.
 
He finished and washed up, then cringed as the door opened again and Cynthia came in to upset him with a command to show her his bum.
 
“What?”
 
“Yes, of course,” she said, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. “You’re going out there naked, and so we’ve got to be sure you’re clean down below. We should have done it before, but especially now you’ve had a shit. Come, bend over.” He clenched his teeth and obliged. Paulette showed up just then, and they studied his backside with care, Paulette parting the cheeks to see more minutely the state of his anus. He was getting red again by this time, but controlled himself and swallowed sadly. Mrs G commands, we must obey…. Just to be sure, Cynthia drew a damp cloth over his anus, and he was pronounced clean.
 
The second set of costumes was very like the first, only this time he knew what he was in for. In addition, the girls didn’t bother with dressing him in a suit; they started off with the combinations. Michelle spoke in the microphone in a rather matter-of-fact way, but he could detect an undercurrent of sexual excitement in her voice. Or was his fervid imagination going overboard?
 
“This is what the Americans call a ‘Union Suit’,” she said, “and we call it ‘combinations’. You see it’s fastened with buttons down the front to the groin. Matthew, show them.” He drew a deep breath and began to undo the buttons, and the crowd, who seemed to be of the same size and make-up as before, began to giggle. He reached the last, which gave a tantalising promise of his pubic hair, then turned to undo the buttons on the back as Michelle told them what the flap was for. They hooted with amusement, and Matthew began to get hot.
 
Next he was put into a shirt and drawers as before, with several variations in design, and then the nightshirts. The longest drew groans from the audience, and the second, to his knees, drew sighs and a few titters of anticipation. The third, which just covered his buttocks and no more, was received with applause and a cheer or two. By now the crowd knew what was in store for them, and let him know they were eager for it. Of course, he had an erection by now, and the girls were making audible comments. He was not only hot, he was blushing as he went down the walkway in those pyjamas. He fumbled with the cord at his waist, and shut his eyes as he dropped the bottoms to the floor. A concerted “Ooh!” came from the audience, who clapped their appreciation and giggled. He turned and bent down to pick up the garment, showing his arse to them and earning another sound of delight. Back in the room he was given the dressing gown, then those short shirts to model, and his penis was again rock hard as he faced the girls. He could now somehow make out their faces quite easily and they all seemed to have a delighted grin of bawdy amusement. Michelle reminded them that the photographer, who was out there somewhere in their midst, was taking a pictorial record of the event, and copies would be available very shortly. This news naturally pleased the crowd, and they applauded. Next came a couple of short vests, then that genital pouch, and the baring of the balls, and a second pouch this time, made of a fine mesh that left nothing at all to the imagination. All to a continuous accompaniment of claps and cheers and giggles. Then they put him out with accessories, leaving him naked of course – belts and scarves and hats and gloves; and lastly they merely sent him out entirely nude, instructed to do more exercises and show off his muscles – a headstand (which he managed nicely), during which he was told to open his legs, and a squat.
 
The applause was thunderous, and he was sent back to take several bows. When he got back to the safety of the changing room the girls congratulated him again, and again Michelle whisked him into the other room to meet his admirers. It was the same as before – the beetroot red boy being the centre of attention of about a hundred young girls, who asked the photographer, a girl herself of twenty-odd called Rosalynd, to take pictures of them with the nude model. Some of them had no hesitation in putting an arm round his body to rest the hand on his trembling thigh; one was bold enough to put her warm palm on his abdomen, her fingers on his pubic hair. This prompted the next to put her hand lower still, and soon there was a succession of explicit photos showing a grinning girl cradling his balls and holding his prick, which ultimately began to show its wet signs of arousal. Rosalynd took up her motion picture camera to film the scene – covering his body from top to toe, focussing on his bum and his balls, and capturing his face as the other girls set about fondling him, passing their hands over his warm skin and ultimately making him come with violent jets of his seed erupting from his abused cock.
 
The crowd greeted the display with cries of delight, and ordered copies of the film, while Matthew closed his eyes and groaned in anguish at knowing his nudity and ejaculation would be being gloated over by the girls and their friends (and their friends’ friends!) for the foreseeable future. He remembered the pornographic moving pictures that Morelli had made, and saw that this one would be similarly exhibited, amateur though it was, to an English audience of girls. Girls, for God’s sake! Then he was released to be put into his own clothes (the girls taking their chance to stroke his naked skin) and ushered out to where the goggled driver waited to take him home.
 
He stumbled upstairs to his room and sat down with his head in his hands. Schoolgirls, he thought, promised lots of photographs of my bare cock and arse! To be passed around the school – the local one, I suppose. Soon there won’t be a girl below thirty who hasn’t seen my privates. God help me…. He realised he was crying, and lay back and closed his eyes in despair.
 
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