Mrs Grainger's Gift 3

By Ritchie Moore

(I'll forward it to the author)

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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 3

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Sunday 10^th May

Catherine’s measuring

Catherine had been given a terry cloth robe to wear by Mrs Grainger, but it had been taken from her when she went to bed. Now she lay in her bed naked, reliving the embarrassments of the day before. The interview, the examination of her breasts and vagina, the boy! “Oh, Matthew, Matthew!” she breathed. What a nice boy he was, handsome and kind. And…. Her thoughts wandered inevitably to his body, so straight and beautiful, and his—“Yes,” she said to herself, “let me say it out loud: his cock, his prick, his erection, so proud and red.” She flushed herself as she spoke. Then her thoughts became sober and anxious. How could she possibly look at him now without remembering? And he too must feel the same, mustn’t he? Then she felt again in her imagination his arm round her and his other hand gently wiping at her bum, he showing his arousal by his erection that touched her leg. And what that Abigail had made her say. God, but it was true! She had got some thrill somehow when he held her like that, and even now ….

Her thoughts were interrupted by the door being flung open and one of the girls (she hadn’t got all their names yet) came in to toss the robe on the bed, “Breakfast’s on! Wash, pee, come down. And Mrs G will see you after.”

She put the robe on and went to the bathroom. After her ablutions, she went down to breakfast, expecting Matthew to be there, but he was missing and no-one made a comment. The bell rang and Abigail looked at her and said, “That’ll be for you, Catherine. Good luck.” Wondering what the awful girl meant, she went to the morning room, where she found Mrs Grainger in conversation with a dapper- looking man in his late thirties, she thought, and a boy of about sixteen – good-looking in a sly sort of way, dressed in a white suit.

“Good morning, Catherine,” said Mrs Grainger. “This is Mr Jackson and his boy Martin, his assistant. You’re going to have new clothes, the ones you came in won’t do at all.” Catherine frowned a little and her cheeks gained a faint flush as an awful thought came into her head and she remembered Matthew’s story. “So,” continued her mistress relentlessly, “you’re going to be measured from top to toe. Stand over here. Will that be all right, Mr Jackson? She’s in the full sunlight.”

“That’s excellent, Mrs G,” he replied. “Let me get my gear. Martin?”

His son opened a suitcase and produced a notebook and pencil, and a tape measure. Catherine’s face flamed as she realised what was going to happen.

“Right, Catherine, slip off the robe and stand straight.”

She swallowed and breathed hard, but slowly undid the belt of the robe. Mrs Grainger clapped her hands, saying crossly, “Come, off with it! No nonsense!” Catherine blushed completely as she let the robe slide to the floor. “That’s it. Mr Jackson?”

“Yes. Miss, please stand straight and hold your arms by your sides. Now. Martin, take this down.” He proceeded to take what seemed dozens of measurements, which he dictated to his son, who was eyeing her with obvious satisfaction, and she could see a suggestive bulge in his trousers. The tape was applied to her arms, her shoulders, her chest (spanning her breasts, their tips now pointing up in arousal), and she was told to raise her arms to get the measure across her body, which raised her pretty breasts and elicited a murmur of satisfaction from the ogling boy. Next, her waist, and Catherine could hardly contain herself as the tailor worked calmly down her body. But next he measured from her armpit to her waist, and paused a while. Mrs Grainger meantime was ringing the bell for tea, and looking at the performance with utter composure.

Mr Jackson, whom Catherine now considered a perverted old man, asked for the notebook and pencil, and made some jottings. “Martin,” he said casually, “take over a bit, will you?”

Catherine thought she couldn’t possibly blush any more, but it felt like it as the boy took the tape and measured the narrow width of her thighs, staring with a faint smile directly at her vulva. He called out the figure to his father, and looked up at her to tell her to stand astride so that he could measure her legs. Closing her eyes in desperate shame, she did so, and felt his hand hold the tape to her groin – one would not do of course; his hand went to her other groin, and she shivered as she realised she was beginning to be really aroused. God, if she showed any wetness! Her outside leg was measured from waist to ankle, and then she was told to turn around, and the lascivious boy measured across her buttocks. “I think that’s it, don’t you, father?” “Yes, Martin, we seem to have covered everything.” Martin grinned at the possible pun.

“Wait,” said Mrs G suddenly, “in order to make her underwear, her panties, you need the measure from her waist, or her hip, to her groin. I didn’t see that.”

“By golly, Mrs G. you’re right. Martin—“ But the eager boy was ahead of him. He measured from the right side of her waist to her groin, repeating it on the other side, and then (oh God, she quailed) from the centre of her waist down to the bottom of her pubis, and then—(Christ, she thought, how can he—) the width of her mound, putting his impudent fingers directly on her slit. She saw him shake off moisture, and he looked up at her shocked face with a wide grin. Just then the tea-trolley came in, and the girls gawked at the scene as he repeated the process, measuring from her hips. As a bonus to himself, he measured the few inches from the centre of her vulva to her anus, calling it the “middle distance”, with a sadistic grin on his face.

“That’s fine then, Catherine. Put your robe on and get to your room now.” She gathered up the robe and put it on, not looking at the men. “Off you go!” “Yes, madam”, she mouthed, and escaped to her room, where she burst into tears.

In the morning room, Jackson and Son enjoyed their tea and scones, the young man rendering thanks he’d had the chance to measure the girl so intimately. It wasn’t the first time they’d had the commission from Mrs Grainger, but it was certainly one of the more enjoyable. Their hostess went into details of what she wanted.

“Plain white cloth, Mr Jackson, nice and thin, will do for the shift and blouse. The undergarment should come down to the waist, at least. What do you think? Martin, have you any ideas?”

He perked up at being sought for his opinion and suggested, “I think it should come down to her bottom, the bottom of her trunk I mean. Or the bottom of her behind,” he added with something of a grin, “it comes to the same thing in the end. We’ve got all the measurements –”

“Yes,” she said with a sardonic smile, “you certainly have. That should be fine. And the panties, now, they should be of thin white cotton, with elastic at the waist.”

“Got that, Mrs G. ‘Panties’, ah, that’s a prettier word than ‘knickers’, I think. It’s an American word, isn’t it?”

“Yes, I suppose so. I got the habit while I was over there, as the song says, during the war.” She looked at Martin. “Don’t you think so too, Martin? It’s prettier?”

He smiled smugly and said “Oh, it is, it is. ‘Knickers’ is a sort of ordinary word, although it sounds sufficiently improper, shall we say? But ‘panties’ is somehow more affectionate? Certainly more intimate!” She laughed.

Ah, she thought, those panties! How Derek admired them, and Philip helped to pull them down! She composed herself and asked “What else?”

“The design of the ‘panties’. How long in the leg they are, and so forth.”

“Ah well, I’m all in favour of them being as brief as possible. As far away as one can get from long bloomers. Besides the desirability of hiding them under the skirt. With shorts, can we call them, the skirt can be short too. We’ll talk about that later. But mainly, make the panties snug and fitting, the legs practically non-existent.” The tailor rapidly made a sketch and showed it to Mrs Grainger, who nodded and said “Exactly! That’s what I mean. Well done.”

“I’ll point out, Mrs G, that the snugger they are, the more they’ll incline to cling to the figure, and indeed cling to her body just there, to outline the shape of her pubis underneath….”

“Oh, that’s a good thought. I’m glad you brought it up. There’s no need to make the front thicker, if that’s what you were thinking, to conceal her body. The same thickness, or thinness actually, as the rest of it, the seat et cetera. Let it cling, let it outline her mons and her cleft. And I have another thought. You might also make a second pair. It’s easy enough to soil them, you know.” Martin gave a snigger. “So we have some leeway there in regard to thickness of the material.”

Jackson drank his tea and considered. “Well, Mrs G,” he said, “it’s either thicker or thinner. And I get the feeling that you’d be happier with the latter.”

Martin chimed in, “We do have a very thin cotton, father, remember, from that warehouse? It’s practically transparent, Mrs G. I think you’d like it.”

She smiled broadly. “Ah, nearly transparent! That’s the thing. Listen: I want three pairs, one like we spoke of before, that one you’ve mentioned, and a third which is not only nearly transparent but utterly so. Can you manage that?”

Jackson nodded amiably. “Mrs G, we’ll guarantee it. For you, we move mountains. Or cloth bales. Let me write that down now.” Martin licked his lips, evidently thinking of the girl in utterly transparent knickers, and Mrs Grainger looked at him sardonically. He really is a loathsome sort of boy, she thought, but he makes a good collaborator in devising embarrassments for young girls….

“Got that. Now the skirt. What did you have in mind?”

“Perhaps I can leave that in your capable hands, Mr Jackson. Perhaps Martin has his own ideas too.”

That young man looked up. “As to colour, I think we should stick with the white or at least a pale colour,” he said. “But there’s lots of possibilities. Even black, you know, which I think is always smart.”

“Yes, Martin, there is that. As to length, I think we’ll make a sort of kilt of it. Right, Mrs G: I’ll get back to you on that. In the meantime we’ll have the other items ready in a couple of days or so, and we can have a fitting. All right?”

“Certainly. And now have some more tea.”

…………………………………………………………………………………………………….

Matthew woke late and stretched himself. Today was a sort of holiday. Mrs Grainger no doubt thought that he might need a bit of recuperation from the experiences of the day before, which he winced to remember. He went to the bathroom and had a pee and a wash, dried off on his little towel, and made his way to the kitchen, where he fried himself a couple of eggs with toast and tea. He ate his meal at a leisurely pace, then went in quest of the library he had found before. Once there he looked for the books he’d seen on his previous visit, and in a far corner he found another collection of pictures that were explicit in their detail of scenes that took his breath away. As he leafed through it he felt his quiescent penis twitch, then grow a little, then gradually enlarge itself to a full erection. He wondered whose book it was—Mrs G’s? Her husband’s? He reflected that he wouldn’t be surprised, since she seemed to enjoy seeing others naked.

A book of coloured etchings of nude women put him in mind of Catherine, and thinking of her awful bowel problems, Matthew found himself needing a shit himself. Going out into the corridor, he found a water closet just nearby. It lacked a door, just as Mrs G had mentioned, but it was a bit urgent, so he took off his towel and sat down. He began all right, but felt there was more to come, and the rest of his faeces refused to be expelled, so he was still sitting there when he heard voices. He recognised the tones of Abigail, and some others that seemed younger. The group came along the corridor towards him and stopped by the library door just to the left of the closet where he sat in some terror of being revealed. “Let’s go in here, girls,” said Abigail, “it’s very interesting, some nice books, pictures and so forth, and you can meet the boy who’s staying with us.”

Matthew’s panic intensified, for a few steps further, and they’d see him. Inevitably, as ill-luck would have it, one of the girls moved a little and caught sight of him. “Look,” she cried, “it’s a boy on the toilet!”

Abigail came to the closet opening and laughed loudly when she saw him. The other girls followed to crowd round and stare at the blushing boy on the toilet seat. Abigail was in her element, presented with this unlooked-for bonus. “Girls,” she said with a careless wave of her hand, “this is Matthew, the boy I was talking about. Matthew, these girls are from the academy next door.” He looked at them and saw that they’d be about twelve or so. “Matthew’s relieving himself,” said Abigail delicately, ignoring one of the troop who muttered quietly “Having a shite!”. “Or have you finished? Wipe your bum then, and come with us.” She looked at him meaningfully, and he took the toilet paper and cleaned himself, the action followed with interest by two dozen mirthful eyes. One of the girls stood forward and picked up his towel. He looked at her in horror, then at Abigail, who laughed coarsely and said “Well, are you coming?”

He swallowed painfully and couldn’t think what to do. Surely Abigail wouldn’t expect him to get up and go with them, naked? God, she probably did! But what would she do if he didn’t? Two of the girls answered the dilemma by coming forward to grab his arms, to raise him from the seat, and they were obviously disappointed to see that his member was decently hidden between his thighs. They could still make him walk out with them, though, and started to pull him, but the first child gave him his towel, and he pulled free to snatch it up and cover his front before he was in their midst. He got his other hand free and managed to gird himself, though conscious of their laughing eyes inspecting his naked bum. Heaving a deep sigh he flushed the toilet and went with them into the library, where Abigail gave them an account of its history and contents.

“The house, you may know, was built early last century, and it was really too big for the family. When Mr Grainger died some years ago Mrs G converted half of it into the Academy, but this half is still very big. This is the original library, put together by several generations of the family. There’s a globe you can look at. Help yourself to the books, they’re very interesting and valuable.” As the eleven young girls wandered about the room, she looked at Matthew with a sinister smile. He knew she had something dreadful in mind, but she merely said, “Maybe you can watch them for a bit. Why don’t you stand behind this table here,” indicating the one at the side of the room, about four feet high. He moved to the position, and she called out to her flock, “Girls, Matthew will look after you, and answer questions and so forth. I’m going for a few minutes. Behave.” To Matthew she said “Do whatever they ask you to, will you? Help them.” Then to Matthew’s anguish she snatched the towel from his body and left him gasping. “There he is, girls. And I’m off.”

His first thought was to thank God that the table was tall enough to come to his waist – she had chosen it carefully – but he realised that if a girl approached him from the side, she’d see he was naked. His face grew hot as he saw no way out of his predicament, till Abigail returned. And these twelve- and thirteen-year-olds, he could guess, would be only too eager to ogle his nudity.

The girls examined the books and maps and spun the globe. One, who had noticed Abigail leaving with a towel, put two and two together. She looked at him with a sly smile and came up to the table. Leaning over it she asked him “Are you the same boy my friend Clara saw in the garden, pissing?” He flushed and stammered without thinking, “Y-yes.” She leaned farther over the table, trying to see beyond it, and he flinched at the possibility of her seeing his state. She looked coyly at him and murmured, “I think you haven’t any clothes on. Have you?” He couldn’t think how to answer, but his hesitation gave him away. The little minx grinned widely at him and said “I really think you should show us. Come out and show us your cock.” He stared stupidly at her and was trying to mouth a reply when inevitably another said to him, “Boy, can you reach that top shelf for me?” God, he thought, it’s on the opposite side of the room! I can’t!

He stuttered, feeling his penis beginning to rise, “N-no, I c-can’t do that.”

“Why not? You’re supposed to look after us and help us. I can’t reach that big book up there.” He looked at the girls, all staring at him now, in a hunted way, sensing that this was precisely what Abigail was expecting. But he couldn’t move, and his erection was already full.

“If you don’t come out, we’ll haul you out.” With that she came over and with the other at the table seized his hands across it.

“Please, girls,” he moaned, “I can’t come out, I’m—“

They didn’t listen, but dragged him from his hiding place into the middle of the room. They realised he was nude, though it didn’t come as a surprise to the first girl, and dropped his hands with shrieks of “God! Look, he’s naked!” He was able to cover himself, and blushing deeply, stood in their midst while they looked at him. The girl who had spoken to him recovered first to say “All right, boy. Now get that book for me.” He could have refused but knew that he had to comply—to satisfy them was to satisfy Abigail, and so avoid Mrs G’s displeasure. So he edged to the bookcase, cupping his genitals carefully, and had to raise his hands to grasp the indicated volume. The girls naturally had another fine view of his backside, and murmured comments. He turned round and tried to conceal his erection with the book, and the girl pulled him over to another lower table to put it down. As he bent over another girl, with a bawdy laugh, put out her hand to feel his backside, and he started up. “Put it down, you silly boy!” Another girl put her hand to his other cheek. He dropped the book and covered his groin, still bent over, and felt other hands caressing his behind.. God, he breathed, I can’t stand this! Somehow he found himself on the floor, and a chorus of comments about his body came from the giggling girls—“Ooh, the skin of his arse is so soft! See his arsehole! See, he’s blushing all over!” His protests went unheard, and he quivered under their bawdy hands till, in trying to escape, he turned over. Cries of delight greeted the sight of his rampant penis, and a dozen eager hands were on him. Christ, he sobbed to himself, this can’t be happening! The pert girl who had caused his exposure, whose name evidently was Joanna, had her hand on his penis, and Clara’s friend was holding his scrotum in her hand. Others were tickling his nipples and his belly, while the rest held his arms and legs to enable their friends to get easy access. One dared to put a finger to his anus, and he jerked as she boldly inserted it – yelling “See, I’ve my finger up his bumhole!” As he squirmed beneath their hands, he heard another voice saying “Girls! This won’t do! Let the poor boy up!” Abigail stood there with the towel in her hand, grinning in triumph. She looked down at Matthew as he groggily sat up and belatedly covered his throbbing penis.

“Joanna,” she said, “I’m sorry I interrupted your game, but if you had gone on he’d probably have come all over the carpet.” The girls tittered, and he looked up abjectly and swallowed. “I know,” she continued, “that it’s a bit cruel to leave you up in the air, Matthew, unsatisfied, but really! Were you going to masturbate in front of these young girls?” Here they laughed outright. “That’s another thing to tell Mrs G, I suppose. Yes! Another forfeit.”

“You bitch!” he said, “you made this happen, you wanted it, you stripped me and hoped these little beasts would get to me.” He was near tears. “Please, Abigail, leave me alone, leave Catherine and me alone. What have we done to you?”

“Absolutely nothing, Matthew, and that’s the exciting thing, to bring some anguish to a totally innocent person, who doesn’t deserve it. You’re a fool, of course. Take the towel and go – you’ve missed lunch, so you’ll have to boil another egg. I’ll see these brats back, then I’ll come for you, you’ll be finished guzzling by then maybe, and I’ll look for you by the sundial outside the door here. Come, girls, back home. Wasn’t that visit exciting? Didn’t you learn a lot?”

“Oh yes,” said cheeky Joanna, “we learned that a boy’s bum can be nice and soft—”

“—And that his cock can be quite nice and hard!” added another, to gales of laughter. They left, and he tied his useless towel round his body and went off to the kitchen.

An hour or so later he was sitting on the grass plot surrounding the old sundial outside the library. He had been sadly musing over the motto around the dial, Time is thy friend; lose it not. He did know that time sped by, for his last four or five days seemed to have gone past in a blink; yet by an odd paradox, he had lived an incredible time in that period, a never-ending series of awful exposures, and he wasn’t sure that it wasn’t all a dream. A wet dream, mind you. Which reminded him of Catherine, and he wondered what she was doing. Had she got over her tummy upset? Had Abigail been bothering her?

Just then their nemesis strolled up to the sundial. “Well, Matthew, my handsome,” she said cheerily, “how are you now? Have you got over your meeting with those precious children?”

He snorted. “Those children are hundred-year-old witches, and you know it. Where do they get their dirty ideas from? You, and Mrs Grainger too? She’s another of the same kind, she’s cruel and malicious, no compassion or caring for others. I have to put up with her for my family’s sake, and Catherine is afraid of being punished – I have an idea that her orphanage is a bit severe, more than here even – so we’re stuck….”

Abigail looked at him with what might have been sympathy, though he knew better. “So it’s your family you’re protecting? And you’ve got to accept your lot here lest it get back and hurt your family? That’s interesting. So if I get you in trouble with Mrs G, your folks will suffer…. And so,” she concluded, “you’ve got a real reason to do exactly as I say, haven’t you? Thank you for telling me that,” she added, as a look of horror crossed his face. “Yes, so we can be honest with each other. I’m going to subject you and your beloved to some trials, and you’ll have to bear them in silence. I wonder what I can do next?”

Matthew bit his lip as he saw he had played into her hands. God, now he’d dropped dear Catherine in the shite. Dear Catherine! Why did he think of her like that? Christ, was Abigail right, he was in love with her, did he desire her, did he really want to fuck her? And with that question came the answer: yes. The realisation made him flush, and he felt his penis start to stiffen. But he had to try to put the thought away. For one thing, she would never think of it, and she was a virgin, and they hardly knew each other (two days!), and … and oh God, he wanted her! To feel her breasts, her bum and her mound, stroke her slit, her cunt, oh God….

Abigail broke into his chaotic thoughts. “Yes,” she said in a musing tone, “I’ve just had an interesting idea. We’ll see how it develops. For now, you are going to go straight through the garden, in a straight line from here, aiming for that folly that you see poking above the maple trees over there. Do you see it?” He nodded, wondering what the purpose was. “When you get there, stay there until I come and collect you.” “All right,” he said, still puzzled. “And the main thing is, you are going to leave that towel here, and you mustn’t hide your prick.” He swallowed, thinking Of course, she’d have to add that. But it couldn’t be too bad, could it? She looked at him and held out her hand. With a sigh he removed the towel and gave it to her, not caring that she saw him nude for the umpteenth time. “Off you go.” He started walking towards the distant cupola, rather enjoying the feel of the sun on his bare skin. He strolled along a path bordered by tall foxgloves and hollyhocks, and could admire the ordered beauty of the garden. To go in a straight line, he saw, he would have to leave the path and go (carefully) through a flower bed and into a little grove of yews. He was afraid however to deviate from the line, thinking he had to follow Abigail’s instructions to the letter.

After a minute he realised the folly had to be much farther away than it had seemed, and the grounds of the house must really be quite large. It was probably an actual estate, covering acres and acres. Now he was in a part where the grass was untrimmed and the flowers were wild; next a fence had to be climbed by a stile; now he was wading across a stream, presumably the same one the little minx Charlotte Miller had frolicked in. On he went, and like a desert mirage the cupola never seemed to get nearer. Suddenly he found himself on a beaten track that seemed to lead to habitation, and he slowed as he saw a few houses before him. Still, he gritted his teeth and marched as quickly as he could down what he saw now was a village street. An urchin stood outside one of the cottages and shouted something. Soon he was joined by what seemed a host of children, boys and girls, who looked at the spectacle and laughed.

He didn’t get an erection till a couple of girls of about sixteen came to see what the fuss was about. They shrieked with laughter, holding on to each other and pointing their derision. When his penis rose in answer, they shrieked some more, which attracted more of a crowd. By the time he left the village behind he estimated about a hundred had gathered to pour scorn on him, and his face was red as fire. But there was the folly, not far in front of him. It was really more like a gazebo, he thought, only more elaborate. He hastened towards it as a haven, and was just mounting the steps when he saw what he was walking into.

The young women who were meeting there, by kind permission of Mrs G, were girls from the next little town, allowed space for practising dancing for an intended concert in a month’s time. Their ages ranged from 16 to 21, their leader being Annabel, 20, who was a cousin of Abigail, who thus knew of the arrangement, and so knew what she was sending Matthew into. The boy stopped before he entered, hearing voices in a chant, clapping hands and padding feet, and carefully peeped in to see a crowd of young women in a ring dancing round to their own music. He realised the trap and hid behind a bush nearby, hoping Abigail would come soon, but then saw that she’d expect him to be inside, and so there was really no escape. If he put it off, there was a chance Abigail would come and find him skulking outside and so disobeying her command, and so incurring her penalties. So he was forced to continue, hoping fervently that she’d come very soon to release him from what threatened to be another shameful experience.

He went in, and covered himself before they saw him. They shrieked of course, and stared as he stood there, trying to explain why he was there naked. Annabel knew all about him and told the others he was the new boy at Mrs G’s. “Why don’t we use him, make him join in?” The crowd agreed with enthusiasm, and grabbed his arms to pull him into the throng. Soon he was a part of the ring, exposed to all, manifestly erect, manifestly ashamed, blushing like fury before a new audience. When the girls took a rest, Annabel looked meaningfully at him and made a heavy suggestion that he do a solo dance for them, saying she was impressed with the way he moved. He swallowed and saw he’d have to obey, and so had to improvise a sort of ballet dance for them, being told to move slowly and sinuously, like a serpent, like a faun, like a lover – the ideas coming fast, the girls eying him tastily, and egging him on.

This is what Abigail saw when she arrived – young Matthew with crimson cheeks and a strong erection moving languorously with eyes shut in the centre of an enthralled throng of young women. Her plan couldn’t have gone better. She rescued him (to cries of protest) and took him in the back of the little buggy she had ridden in off by a different road, a highway – he cowering in the back till ordered to stand up and hold on to the side (so displaying himself to any witnesses). He was driven along the road to another village, with another crowd to laugh and jeer at him – then back to the estate entrance. Once in he scampered up to his room, hurrying in case he met anyone. Abigail followed slowly to return his towel and a smock -- slightly longer, so he was pleased -- and comment on his performance.

“I’ll have to tell Mrs G all about this,” she said. “She’ll be very interested. I can tell her you dance nicely, and she should put your talent to use. It’s a pity we couldn’t show you off at a public concert,” she said with a malicious grin, and he cringed at the very thought. “No, we can’t do it for the general public unfortunately. No matter how immune Mrs G is to public opinion. Oh well. You’re due to be sent back in a month, maybe?” He nodded. “I think so.” “So perhaps you can have a last appearance at a special exhibition before the public concert. How’s that?”

He shivered. “No really, Abigail, please don’t let it happen. You don’t know what it was like to be dancing all naked in the middle of a crowd of girls!”

“No,” she said with a smirk, “I don’t. But oh yes, you do. You tremble, don’t you, at the thought? And when you’re naked in front of girls that young, it brings the blood to your cheeks, doesn’t it? It excites your prick, doesn’t it? You get a shameful erection. All those eyes, all on your erect cock, making it throb and pulse, starting to get its own wetness, and maybe even get to the point of spending the spunk in a display for the girls!”

“S-stop it!” he stammered, “yes it does, but I can’t help it, it’s not in my control….”

“No,” she replied, “but maybe it’s in my control.” With that ominous statement she left him.

At tea he tried to talk to Catherine, who was looking very subdued, but she seemed to be avoiding him, and he thought she was embarrassed by their experience the night before. The rest of the crowd were quite lively, and after the little meal suggested some card games – for money? But he and one or two others, including Catherine, had nothing to bet with, and someone suggested his smock, and raucous laughter ensued. He naturally was dismayed by the suggestion, but reason prevailed for the nonce and Abigail suggested forfeits, that is, the loser would have a forfeit to pay sometime in the future, and the winner could call it in at any time. The girls went for this, though they knew she had a malicious streak and could (would) cause them some misery. Matthew knew that if he lost to the head girl he would be in deeper trouble than he was already, and was thankful to hold his own, and losing just one game to Amelia, who promised to think about the forfeit and get it in the future. She looked at Matthew and licked her lips with a bawdy smile, and he had an awful premonition that she would try to engineer a situation where he would once again be made to ejaculate. Catherine and Liza lost to Abigail, and they both went pale at the contemplation of some horrible task. But they got to bed at a reasonable hour and in a reasonable humour, and at length Catherine looked at Matthew as they said goodnight and pressed his hand.

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Monday 11^th May

At the Academy –

“Ah. Matthew,” said Mrs Grainger, “there you are. This morning I’m going to take you over to see the Academy.”

Matthew nodded and looked interested. He’d been wondering about the place ever since his adventures with the lecherous 12-year-olds.

“Right then, come along.” She led him from the morning room through another door into what had to be her private apartments, and from there into a corridor in what proved to be the ground floor of the school. They finally wound up in a spacious lounge with comfortable seats all around, where several women were gathered. They stood up when their employer entered, and came forward as she introduced them.

“Ladies, this young man is Matthew Raven, our new guest next door, and I want him to see the Academy and what we do here. Matthew, meet the staff, most of them, anyway. This is our head, Miss Birkett.” A stout woman of about forty, he guessed, offered her hand with a smile.

“How d’ye do?” she said in a genteel sort of Northern English accent. “I’m the head, but I have my specialities too, cookery and sewing. Naturally I think they’re the most important things for young ladies to be trained in!”

“Now, Jane, let’s not get into that debate again! Matthew, let’s see, oh well, ignoring seniority and all, this is our art mistress, Gertrude Thorburn, another northerner – she’s from Durham.”

“And proud of it!” said an attractive redhead in her early thirties. “That’s arts and crafts, drawing, painting, and the history of course. I suppose it’s another traditional sort of subject for young ladies to pursue. My colleagues here teach more utilitarian things.”

“Such as Mathematics,” said Miss Birkett, “taught by Mrs Trent here, she’s from Westmoreland, and Science, from Miss Derwent, from Leicester.” An intense looking woman in her late twenties shook his hand and informed him that her science included everything from Physics to Biology, with elementary Astronomy and Anatomy thrown in. Matthew was impressed, and as the introductions went on began to see the scope of Mrs Grainger’s ambitions. She seemed to have assembled quite a talented group of fairly young and enthusiastic teachers under her aegis, and he was wishing he was more educated himself.

As if reading his mind (and Mrs Grainger seemed to have that talent) she struck her hands together and said as if the idea had just struck her, “Ladies! I think Matthew would enjoy sitting in on some of your classes! What do you think?” Naturally her employees thought it was a great idea, and some discussion ensued. It was finally agreed that he could attend one class a day, or even two, depending on the teachers’ own schedules, beginning with Miss Thorburn’s drawing class the next day, Tuesday. Then the Physical Education class of the sports mistress and Vice-Principal, Miss Cramond, a tough-looking no-nonsense person in her mid-thirties, from Ayrshire, who seemed to accept the new pupil with reluctance. Thursday would be French, with Mademoiselle Maury, a nice-looking woman of 24, perhaps, with neat close-cropped brown hair, who hailed from Nice. Her first name, she told Matthew, was Justine, which seemed to have significance for Mrs G, who gave her a sardonic glance and passed on to Roberta Ford (late twenties, a lissome blonde), instructor in dance, which included ballet and “character dances”. Matthew was invited to join the class on Friday, and thought it would be interesting. Then he had the sudden thought that Abigail might have told Mrs Grainger about her cousin’s troupe in the gazebo, and felt the stirrings of unease. Saturday was to be a game of croquet with the twelve-year-olds (and he hoped they didn’t include Joanna’s library mob) , and Sunday would be a holiday. The next week would take in English and History and Music, and they’d see what else they could come up with. All this sounded more or less innocuous, but Matthew had the nagging suspicion that Mrs G had some other intentions. Still, he’d have to go through with it anyway, and agreed to all the plans.

Next he was shown over the school, and learned where he’d be going the next few days. The building, being the other half of the main house, was rambling and rather confusing, but evidently mainly consisted of offices and meeting rooms on the ground floor, with kitchen and maintenance (boiler room, laundry, generator) in the basement. The other floors had a multitude of classrooms, with a toilet on each floor (featuring a dozen lavatory bowls, in the open) up to the attics, which like the ones he’d already seen were used for storage of all kinds of stuff – books, equipment, and so on. He was told that the building he saw out of a window was the dormitory, with its own kitchen and facilities, and a bare expanse of earth further away was a sports field that was being developed. The whole complex was quite impressive, and he told Mrs Grainger so. She smirked with satisfaction, and said she hoped he’d enjoy sitting in on the classes. “There’s several teachers you haven’t met yet, like Elizabeth Huxton, who’s from Cornwall. She’s twenty-four, and an accomplished scholar in Classics. Then there’s Miss Briggs, who does Geography and Sociology, which includes some Political Science and elementary Anthropology. And there’s Miss Barnes, from Oxford. I mean, she’s a graduate. She teaches History and German. You know some German, don’t you?”

“Y-yes,” he said, wondering again how she knew these things. “I’m not very good, I tried to teach myself out of a book.”

“What was that?”

“Oh, it’s a great big thing called Cassell’s Popular Educator. It’s quite old, about 1850 or something, and it has lessons on all sorts of things. There’s only one volume that my father picked up in a bookshop. He paid half-a-crown for it!” Her eyebrows went up. “It was difficult, though, to get the right pronunciation, all by myself.”

“Well, we’ll see how you get on in that class, you’ll find it interesting. As all the classes, I hope. Miss Thorburn is expecting you tomorrow then.” With a curious twist of her lips she nodded to him and escorted him through to the main house.

At lunch (soup and sausages) he told the girls about the plan, and they thought it was a good idea. “Mrs G is very proud of the school,” said Liza, “and evidently some of her pupils have won prizes. She hasn’t been going long, but they say it’s a great success. The teachers I mean, and the newspapers. It was an idea of the master, Mr Grainger, and Mrs G got it going after the war when everything settled down. She only had about twenty girls to start with, but it grew, and then they did some building—”

“A great deal of building,” said Norah. “I mean, think about it – dividing the main house here, then getting somewhere for the pupils to stay, the dormitory, fitting up the gymnasium, the extra kitchen, all that. The teachers – most of them have little cottages on the estate, so all that needed doing was a few repairs. But now they’re doing some more.”

“Yes,” chimed in Grace, “Mrs G is going to make a big sports field over there,” she waved vaguely, “with seats all round for spectators. She was talking about this to a friend a while ago, and I heard.”

“Listened, you mean,” said Amelia, with a sneer.

“All right,” riposted Grace, “ who doesn’t listen at doors, then? I’m not the one that sneaks around and tattles.”

“Who is it that does, then?” asked Mabel hotly. “Somebody bloody does. Mrs G isn’t psychic, is she?”

“Maybe she is,” said Amanda, fearfully. “She always knows. I bet she knows we’re talking about her now.” She looked round at the walls, and Matthew couldn’t help but say facetiously, “If she doesn’t demean herself by listening at keyholes, maybe she has one of those, what-do-you-call-ems, a sort of machine that lets her hear whatever’s said all over, a whole lot of condenser microphones maybe.” He smiled, but no-one else did. Amanda shivered. “I wouldn’t be at all surprised,” she muttered. They finished the meal in silence.

In the afternoon he did more exploring, this time going next door and heading for the proposed site of the sports field. It was already there, in a sense, nicely levelled, but not much turf, and he looked around and tried to imagine tiers of seats all around. A start had been made on some building at the side, presumably going to be changing rooms, showers, and so forth, and perhaps a place to dispense lemonade and snacks. On the way back he passed a modern-looking two-story building that looked uncomfortably like a barracks, and knew this had to be the girls’ dormitory. As he stood examining it the front door flew open and a thin grey-haired woman in a grey dress like a sack came out who looked at him and screamed “Boy! Off you go! Go away! You can’t stay here! Go!” Matthew gazed in astonishment, and mumbled something as he hurried away, thinking that she must be the concierge who was charged with protecting the girls from attacks by roving boys. Then he wondered about the interior of the place, how the beds were arranged, and how it looked when the girls were in bed, or … undressing for bed. God, why was he thinking so much like that these days? He couldn’t help it. It seemed the entire place had a sort of sexual charge about it, an undercurrent of sexiness, of … the erotic.

After tea he sneaked some books out of the library and spent a pleasant evening reading an account of travels in the United States: Travels through North and South Carolina, Georgia, East and West Florida, the Cherokee Country, the Extensive Territories of the Muscogulges or Creek Confederacy, and the Country of the Chactaws. Containing an Account of the Soil and Natural Productions of Those Regions; Together with Observations on the Manners of the Indians. He smiled at the long descriptive title. Written by a William Bartram, and published in 1791 (good Lord), in Philadelphia. There was an impressive frontispiece, coloured evidently by hand, showing the king of the Siminole Indians, and several engraved plates of plants and animals. Matthew skimmed over lists of plants with long Latin names and towns and so forth, but lingered over poetical flights of prose scattered throughout the volume.

How happily situated is this retired spot of earth! What an Elysium it is! Where the wandering Siminole, the naked red warrior, roams at large, and after the vigorous chase retires from the scorching heat of the meridian sun. Here he reclines, and reposes under the odoriferous shades of Zanthoxylon, his verdant couch guarded by the Deity; Liberty, and the Muses, inspiring him with wisdom and valour, whilst the balmy zephyrs fan him to sleep.

No doubt about it, old Bartram seemed to have enjoyed his travels, and he took great care to describe all sorts of plants and things, which probably were new to Europe at the time, just at the same time as the American War of Independence.

Oh, it would be good to travel about, go to some exotic countries, Africa, Australia, Japan …. But that’s impossible. A silly dream. He would have to brace himself and try to bear his confinement at Summerton, along with cruel Abigail and crueler Lydia Grainger.… But oh, there’s also the lovely Catherine! He acknowledged to himself that he wanted to kiss her, to fondle her, to feel her intimate places, even to (yes!) fuck her. Be honest. She would never let me get close, of course, but I can imagine, can’t I? All right, you randy sod, we can take care of that tonight in bed. I’ll get lots of bum paper handy. Right….

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Tuesday 12^th May

Drawing Class

Matthew got to the art room on the second floor of the school just after lunch, and admired the view from the large open windows, which let in the necessary light for artists. When he asked about where he would sit, he was upset to find he would be the subject. At once he started to tremble, remembering what he went through with young Hilary; but Miss Thorburn welcomed him and set him up nicely on a pedestal, and said they’d have one minute poses first, then a couple of longer ones, with rests and stretches in between. Thus far all right. After twenty minutes she suggested he might want to pose in a costume, producing a toga sort of thing, and he felt he should be acquiescent, so agreed. He went behind a screen and doffed his nice suit, and donned this classical robe, which turned out to be a chlamys, and woefully revealing. It fastened at the right shoulder and the hip, which meant that his side was mostly uncovered. When he peeped out he was taken to the platform and put into what Miss Thorburn called a classical pose, as if he were addressing the folk in the agora.

“There are some famous pictures of the chlamys being worn by gods and young men,” said she, “particularly perhaps the wonderful statue of Apollo in the Vatican, called the Belvedere Apollo. It’s a classical statue that has been much admired, and imitated by Canova, a famous Italian sculptor, in his statue of Perseus. I have a picture of it here somewhere.” She directed her charges to start drawing and began to rummage in the bookshelves. Eventually she found some photographs and passed them to the girls. “There’s the chlamys worn by messengers and the like, young men mostly. It’s a young man’s dress, at least when it’s all the garment there is.” She continued to search, and eventually found a photograph of the Belvedere statue. “But Miss Thorburn,” said one of the girls, “these pictures show the thing has a brooch or something at the shoulder, but this one the boy’s wearing has another at the side.” “Yes, Cynthia,” said the teacher patiently, “but draw this first.”

Matthew grew a little disturbed at this exchange, but held his peace. Miss Thorburn next had him thrust his right leg forward and gesture with his right hand, so exposing most of his right side to the pupils. He began to feel the stirrings of his penis, ever ready to betray him, and hoped the lesson would soon be over. “Time’s up for that one,” cried the teacher. “Now, Cynthia. I suppose I can deal with your complaint.” She reached up and undid the clasp at Matthew’s side, and he gasped as he felt the material swing across his body, still obscuring him but exposing his entire right side, and promising to reveal all. “There now, is that all right? More authentic? Matthew, stand up straight. Turn to the left. Now, girls, see what you can make of his profile there. Fifteen minutes.”

It was a very long quarter of an hour, for Matthew, blushing under their interested eyes, was sure that some of them could see his penis, whch was beginning to twitch in earnest. He couldn’t get an erection now! He bore the examination until the time was declared up, and another girl suddenly said “Miss Thorburn, this Apollo picture shows him with the cloak thrown over his left arm….”

Matthew remembered in horror the picture she was speaking of. But please, please, don’t let the teacher do anything…. “Yes, of course, Barbara,” said Miss Thorburn. “Hold still, Matthew.” With that she came up to the platform, seized the bottom of the cloak, and drew it up over his left shoulder. “Put your arm out,” she instructed, and arranged the cloth over his extended arm, creating a semblance of the famous sculpture. There was one difference: the Vatican Apollo had no erection. Matthew however reacted to his nude revelation as he feared, and he rose in a shock of embarrassment, naked before an entire class of girls his own age. There was an appreciative gasp from the audience, and they set to drawing in earnest. Matthew closed his eyes in despair, and winced as he heard the comments of the teacher and pupils. “Try to get the proportions right, Betty! Those testicles are too big! The boy isn’t as well endowed as that. What, Charmian?” “Are we supposed to draw the veins in his….” “If you mean his penis, of course. Draw what you see. Now turn round, Matthew, that’s it, so that the girls can sketch your back. Right. Let’s see what you make of the curves of his behind – they’re nice and tight, aren’t they? Good work, Roberta, you’ve got the natal cleft beautifully. Another fifteen minutes should do it, then our model can rest.”

When the bell rang for the end of the lesson, he was allowed to limp down from the platform and find his clothes. The girl called Barbara asked the teacher curiously, “By the way, what does ‘Belvedere’ mean?” Miss Thorburn answered with something of a smile, “It means ‘A beautiful view’.” The girls laughed and went off, some giggling and looking amusedly at him, repeating “A beautiful view, indeed!” and as he struggled into his vest and shirt the teacher came up to congratulate him on an excellent session.

“We’re very grateful to you, Matthew,” she said, “for agreeing to model for us. As you may imagine, such opportunities rarely come. The girls enjoyed that, and I do hope, and I’m sure they hope, that you’ll come back.” He made some sort of reply and escaped. On the way back to the house he concluded bleakly that Mrs G or perhaps Abigail had told the teacher he was volunteering to model. But why had she deliberately made him naked, in front of a whole class of girls? She must have seen that he was embarrassed. It could only be because she, like Mrs Grainger, enjoyed his humiliation. Unless of course Mrs G had told her to…. And what about tomorrow? Suddenly his heart skipped a beat as he wondered what could happen in the gymnastics class, whose teacher didn’t seem to like him to start with.

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Wednesday 13^th May

Gym Class; Catherine’s fitting

He was escorted to the small gymnasium by Jessica, who led him into a changing room and indicated what looked like one of the household smocks. “You’re supposed to change into that,” she said with an amused look. “It’s what they all wear for their exercises, evidently. You’d better hurry up, I believe they’re all in there already and Miss Cramond, I hear, isn’t very patient. So go on. I’m off. Rather you than me.”

With those enigmatic words she left, and he hurriedly shed his clothes and donned the smock. It was of course too small for him, and he remembered with unease the episode with Charlotte. But he had to continue. He pushed open the door and was greeted with a scowl from the teacher and inquisitive looks from the class – twenty-odd girls of sixteen or so.

“I’m glad you’re finally here, Raven,” she said in some ill humour. “I have to tell you you’ll be treated exactly like any other student in the class. All right?”

“Y-yes, miss, I understand,” he stuttered.

“Very well then. A series of warm-ups first. Since you don’t know the routine for this you’d better stand at the back and merely follow what the rest of them do. Fine. Stand straight, hands by sides. Jumps….”

She took them through a series of exercises, then called out “Ropes!” Immediately the girls formed up in a line under a rope that hung from the ceiling, and he joined on at the end. One by one they climbed up the rope, hand over hand, clutching it with their feet in between hauls. As he looked up he realised with a start that the girls, with no underwear, were displaying their bums and everything else. Some looked at him with dislike, and he knew they were upset because they would be showing their privates to him, but they dared not refuse. He on the other hand could see that he’d soon be in the same position, showing his balls to the crowd. His turn came, and he tried to refuse, but Miss Cramond was adamant. She was carrying a switch by this time, and had no hesitation in flicking it across his behind. Up he went, gritting his teeth, knowing that the rest of them were getting an excellent view of his privates. It was tit for tat of course, but that didn’t make it easier to bear. The next exercise featured the vault, which he was actually good at; but the one after that was a headstand.

One by one the girls put their hand down on the mat and kicked their legs in the air. Their smocks slipped down their bodies as far as the navel, showing their bellies, their bums and their vulvas. Matthew would have enjoyed the sight but for his dread that his turn would come. Miss Cramond looked at him. “Come, boy! Your turn! No favourites!” He knelt and put his hands on the mat, and kicked up, only to fall on his back. The smock rode up and he strove to cover himself. The teacher however cried “Again! Until you get it right!” He tried again, his legs failing and surely giving the girls a good view, but again failed. The third time Miss Cramond had two girls stand beside him, who seized his legs as he kicked and held him upright. This time he managed to stay in that position, conscious of the smock at his chest level and the nakedness of the rest of his body, and how his penis swung down. “Let him down, girls. Boy, try again.” He needed help another two times before he managed it on his own. By that time he was rosy red from shame as well as the blood rushing to his head.

Next they paired off, one holding the other’s ankles as the other lay back and, with hands joined behind the neck, did press-ups. This inevitably meant that the short smock rode up the body and exposed the crotch. It happened that the class had even numbers, and Matthew was the odd man out, so he didn’t get a chance to hold a girl’s ankles as she showed him her vulva, but he was rewarded by the sight of two series of ten girls’ nudity displayed to his lecherous eyes. His gleeful excitement was short-lived, however. Miss Cramond got them on their feet and in a line, then told him to lie down. He saw with a shock that he was going to be doing the same exercise all by himself, his ankles held by a succession of girls, all gazing with vengeful satisfaction at his nakedness. By the time they had all had their turn, he bending up and down ten times each, his smock was well above his waist and his penis was twitching and trying to harden. It took all of his will power to maintain a level of calm, but he knew he’d get fully erect if this went on. Miss Cramond got into a bad temper with one of the girls, seized her and lifted her smock to show the rest her bare backside, then gave her six brutal strokes with the switch. Matthew was horrified, but didn’t dare say anything. It was no good, of course. On the lookout for another excuse for her discipline, she resented the way he looked at her and took hold of his arm. “Stand right there, boy! Lift your smock!” He did so, looking round at the attentive smirks of the girls and going redder, if possible, than before. “Bend over! Spread the legs!” She whipped him across the bare buttocks and drew a yelp of pain, and the girls looked at the spectacle with indifferent callousness. Miss Cramond gave him only three strokes, perhaps holding back because of his guest status, but it hurt just the same.

At the end of the hour he was sweating, and hoping for a shower or something. The girls trooped out and he was directed to the shower room, told brusquely to take off the smock and put it in the wash bin. He was too tired to argue and when he got there it was packed with naked girls, who shrieked and covered themselves. The teacher looked in and said “Wash, everybody! The boy first.” With that she glared at Matthew, who now suffered the indignity of washing all over while being ogled by two dozen nude girls. His penis, which had survived all those embarrassing exercises, now decided to surrender, and he showed a massive erection, which drew gasps and little cries from the class. Out he came and dried himself in front of them, then walked out back to the changing room, where he wearily regained his clothes. His ears were still burning when he made his way to his room and sat on the bed in trembling despair. Maybe, just maybe, he thought, today was a good day for Catherine. I hope she’s all right.

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Catherine was summoned to the morning room, and stopped at the door, her heart in her mouth. Mr Jackson sat there with his sly son, carrying a parcel. Mrs Grainger said brightly, “Ah Catherine, there you are. This will be a fitting. Stand over here and take off your robe.”

As if in a dream she obeyed, not looking at the men, who were taking their time to unwrap the package as they looked at her.

“First the shift. Now raise your arms, miss, put your hands in the sleeve holes, that’s it, over the head.” Martin took the hem of the thin garment and pulled it down her body as she closed her eyes and shuddered slightly. They looked at her critically.

“Yes,” said Mrs Grainger thoughtfully, “it covers the essentials, mostly. I don’t want it any longer than that. I do like the way it comes to just beneath her pubis. Don’t you? Martin, what do you think?”

Catherine quivered as she heard them discussing her body, and that young boy especially! “I think it’s just right, Mrs G,” he said, licking his lips, “it reminds you that there’s more under the shift, and it’s quite … titillating.” He looked at her for approval of his candour.

Mrs Grainger laughed. “A very good point, my boy.”

“And, besides,” he added, “when she raises her arms, the shift rises just sufficiently to expose her.”

“Yes, you’re right. Raise your arms above your head.” This was addressed to the blushing girl, who obediently put them up and the others stared down at her bared pubis.

“You see?” said the boy, licking his lips again.

“Oh yes,” said Mrs Grainger. “Exactly. Turn round.” Catherine turned to show her back. “And it also just comes to below the buttocks. Well done. That’s exactly what I had in mind. All right, can we see the panties now?”

The knickers were produced, and Martin placed her feet in them and drew them up her legs to her waist, looking at her vulva on the way. Mrs Grainger felt the hems of the leg holes, and plucked the elastic. “It seems a bit too snug, don’t you think?”

“Not really, Mrs G,” said the boy quickly. “There’s room –” and he put his hand in at the back, wiggling his fingers against her backside and making her squirm. The obnoxious boy then inserted his hand in the front, and she could not hold back a gasp. He looked up at her, and then at Mrs Grainger, saying “There’s quite a bit of room there, you see?”

“Excellent, of course,” said his hostess with an amused look. She glanced at Catherine, who was ready to swoon. “Now! The blouse, please.” This produced no problems either, and the tailor was complimented on the craftsmanship.

“Now as to the other knickers, now that we’re settled on this pair, I’ll be able to reproduce them in any cloth very quickly, so I’ll bring them with the skirt next time, is that all right?”

“Certainly, certainly.” She looked at the girl. Did she have a tear at her eye? “Very well. Catherine, take them off carefully, and put your robe on. You may take them up to your room, but you won’t be wearing them yet. So put them by in your chest of drawers. Off you go.” Catherine went upstairs in a daze, and tried to forget the feel of those fingers on her backside and her mons. Instead, she tried to drive them out by remembering the kind fingers of Matthew as he wiped her bum that time. She had no doubt that he was sexually aroused by that, and she’d felt his hard erection, as cruel Abigail had made her say, but there was no malice in his desire, she knew. And he did desire her, didn’t he? She sighed and couldn’t begin to work out what they could do. She laid her clothes away and sat miserably on her bed for a while, then brightened at the thought of seeing her Matthew soon. Her Matthew? Was he hers, really? And was she perhaps his?

At tea they both sat in their own islands of misery while the others chattered around them. They looked at each other, then quickly looked away, each wondering how to tell the other about the day’s torments. Each also wondered about the feelings of attraction that they realised they had. Why should they? They had seen each other naked, they had seen the other’s arousal, they each desired the other, somehow. But they were only fifteen, each knew that, and somehow a consummation of desire couldn’t be possible. Each ached for some indefinable release, and each knew it was a fantasy.

(The End)