Mrs Grainger's Gift 5

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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Wednesday 20^th May

The barber and a bath

“Today,” announced Abigail. “the barber is coming. He’ll trim those that need it, and Mrs G will decide that. So immediately after breakfast we’ll line up in the morning room and she’ll select them. We’ll do them there, in the morning room, at about fifteen-minute intervals, so you can expect to be called … you can calculate, I mean, when your turn will come. More or less. But you will be called eventually. All right?” There was a murmur of assent, and when they were finished they assembled in a ragged line in the morning room. Mrs Grainger swept in from her private apartments and surveyed the crowd, dismissing half of them and looking carefully at the rest. She nodded to Abigail and left. The head girl rearranged the little band and counted them off, saying they should be ready to appear when the barber, Mr Reeves, arrived, at ten o’clock, and that she herself would be first in the chair. There were four others (Grace, Norah, Amanda, and Amelia) before Matthew and Catherine, whose hair had been very roughly treated at the orphanage. They were sent off to their duties until called. Matthew had nothing arranged, so he went off to the library again to see if he could find any more titillating pictures, which he intended to take up to his room. He felt a bit guilty at this, having been brought up nicely to consider indulgence in dirty pictures a wicked thing to do, but knew that in this unconventional house the activity would not only be countenanced but encouraged, so his conscience was pretty clear. He pushed away the thought of what his mother would have said.

When he was summoned to the morning room later he found two reclining chairs specially set up for the process, and wondered about the duplication, but saw a plump young man in his early twenties in a white coat wielding a pair of scissors at one, the subject being Amelia, and a young boy of about fourteen waiting at the other, evidently an apprentice. The man introduced himself as Daniel Reeves and the boy as Jack, and he was invited to sit for his own trim, which was going to be just that, leaving his hair longish but neat. The boy quickly got to work and it wasn’t long before he held up a mirror to show Matthew what a good job he was doing. Reeves looked over and made a suggestion, and Jack made some adjustments. Amelia had left by this time, touching her curls delicately, and it was Catherine’s turn. She sat down giving Matthew a smile, and Reeves began combing and snipping. In a little while Mrs Grainger came in, and Reeves stopped and stood aside so that she could look over his handiwork and that of his apprentice. She smiled in a grim sort of way and said “Yes, very good. That’s an improvement on the shearing she got at the orphanage. And are you ready for the rest of it?” Matthew, who had just got up to go, looked questioningly at them and was shocked when Reeves said “Yes, madam. I’ve got the shaving things right here. Jack, are you ready?”

Mrs Grainger said “Hold on, you’ll have to have the robe off. Catherine, take it off and give it to Matthew.”

They both looked at her aghast, but could say nothing as the girl stood up to remove the dressing gown and hand it to her friend, who took it silently and only gave her a pitying glance, blushing to match her blush. She was seated back in her chair, which Reeves elevated by means of a pedal so that her loins were raised to easy access, and he reached over to separate her legs, exposing her pubis with its scanty hair. Matthew remembered Mrs G’s remark at that first interview, and knew his dear one was going to suffer another humiliation. True enough, the young boy brought a bowl of soapsuds and a shaving brush and proceeded to lather the mons and surrounding area rather too liberally, with a little grin as if he enjoyed the task. Oh yes, he certainly was enjoying ogling this girl’s privates, and said to himself that the life of an apprentice wasn’t all bad. Then he stepped back to observe carefully how his master shaved the pubis, and was ready to sponge off the soap (taking his time) when he finished. Then Reeves looked at the girl’s groin and pursed his lips.

Turning to Mrs Grainger, who had observed all this with a tight little smile, he asked “What about the rest of her?” Matthew, who was beside himself with this exhibition, and developing a hard-on to match the one he saw in Jack’s trousers, gasped as he realised what the young man was about – and he not a decade older, he was sure, than either of them.

“Yes,” said Mrs G, “certainly. The whole hog. But while she’s in that position, you should do her armpits.” Catherine meanwhile was lying back, her cheeks crimson, her lips shut but trembling as she waited for more shame.

“Right!” said Reeves. “Miss, put your arms above your head, to expose your armpits. That’s fine. Ah, that shows off her breasts nicely, hey, Jack? Hm! Not much hair there, but we might as well. To balance the pubic shave. All right, Jack, there she is.” The boy applied his soap to the exposed areas and they were quickly denuded of any hair, though Matthew couldn’t see any to start with. Catherine had wriggled all through the process, being tickled with the brush, and the apprentice stood by at the shaving paying little attention to Catherine’s upper half. Matthew felt murderous but couldn’t do a thing. Then Reeves turned his attention to her pubes again. “Now Jack, I wonder if you could lift her legs up so we can get at her bum.”

“I don’t think so, sir,” said the boy, “and I can’t soap her up at the same time.”

“Wait a minute!” said his master. “Look, you, boy, you can do it. Can’t he, Mrs G?”

The lady was amused and said at once “Oh yes, indeed. Matthew, do as Mr Reeves suggests.”

Matthew cringed as he saw what was about to happen – he was going to participate in her humiliation – but had to step forward when commanded to take hold of Catherine’s legs and hold them up in the air behind the knees to raise her bottom from the chair and give access to her buttocks. Catherine’s eyes opened in alarm to look at him, and he could only look back desperately as he held her openly naked to the others. Reeves nodded to Jack, who sprang in with an enthusiastic expression to lather the anal region. Then his master drew the razor again across that practically hairless skin. Catherine shut her eyes again and whimpered softly, shaking her head as if to say Please get it over with! Mrs Grainger as before gazed coolly at the spectacle and thought to herself that this was a most satisfactory business. Both boy and girl were crimson with shame; he had an obvious erection that pushed the thin material of his trousers out, while she showed erect nipples, and were it not for the action at her anus she’d probably show a moist vulva too. Then Reeves was done, and Jack brought his sponge again, putting a hand to her thigh as he slowly wiped the anus, the buttocks, and the exposed vulva, his tongue out between his lips, a lascivious stare on his face. He stepped back, and looked at his master.

“That’s it, then, Mrs G,” said the young man blithely. “There’ll be stubble to deal with, in a little while, so you should check in a few weeks, a month maybe, and we’re always at your service. Here, you’ll need this.” He reached into a bag and produced a jar, handing it to the mistress. “That’s an ointment to deal with itching and so on. It’s good for sore skin of various sorts, very mild and nice, especially on sensitive parts like the privates.”

Mrs Grainger weighed it in her hand and turned to Matthew. “For God’s sake, boy, put her down! Or are you pleased to see her like that, eh?” Matthew gulped and released Catherine’s legs, and drew his gaze from her crotch. “Thank you, Mr Reeves,” said Mrs G, “now come with me and we’ll settle up. Matthew, you might as well have this. Put it on her and rub it well in.” She handed the jar to the astonished boy and waited till he took off the lid and got the green ointment on his fingers, then nodded and made to leave. She turned back at the door to watch him put out his trembling hand to Catherine’s groin, looking into her eyes with a mixture of longing and apology, and smiled to herself again. His erection had grown, and her blush had intensified. Oh, it was delightful! She watched while he tentatively smoothed the salve over her pubis, then left in satisfaction.

After the others left he continued to apply the ointment to her newly bare pubic mound, which he had long ached for, and smoothed it into her groin, her mons, round about her dear slit – he of course had an almost painfully hard erection at all this, while she blushed ever deeper, and her vulva reacted mightily, the labia reddening, and becoming full, and she twitching and moaning. He murmured to her, saying almost meaninglessly “Catherine, oh Catherine, I…” Then he realised he’d better prevent itching at her anus as well, and dipped into the jar again. As he put his fingers under her pubis to reach behind it to her anus, she opened her eyes to look at him and their gazes met. Their flushed cheeks grew even redder, and his babbling became a tumbling series of sounds that translated as Forgive me, love. He was reluctant to stop, but had to once the stuff seemed absorbed and he’d no further excuse for touching her there. His employer came in just then to say “All finished? Good. We’ll use that stuff again as necessary. Thank you for your help. Off you go.” She watched him leave, then turned to her victim to say “How now, Catherine?! You may have enjoyed that, having a boy your own age look at you naked, then rub his hand all over your vulva and your bottom as well, no doubt. Matthew probably enjoyed that too. He had quite a sizable erection, poor boy. Were you getting wet down there, as well? Anyway, I’ll leave you to recover your breath. Remember,” she added with a warning look, “we’ll be repeating this in a few weeks’ time, to deal with the resultant stubble, as Mr Reeves says. Something to look forward to. And another application of the ointment from Matthew’s hand. Something else to look forward to. Oh, girl, your blushes!” She swept out with a sardonic smile, and Catherine shivered.

At lunch neither could look the other in the eye, and finished quickly before dashing out to their respective chores. Matthew had none to speak of, except turn up for a maths lesson later, but went back to the morning room where Abigail got him to push the chairs into a cupboard he hadn’t noticed, after which he thought about getting back to his erotica, but was waylaid by Mrs Grainger who suddenly appeared out of her private apartments to ask him when he’d had a bath.

“Just last Friday,” he said.

“You should have another one. Regularly. The girls will be glad to help you.”

“Madam!” he nearly shrieked, “No, no….” She stared . “Ma-Madam, please, I don’t--”

“You don’t what?” said Mrs Grainger in an unpleasant tone.

“It’s – please, madam, I can do it myself….”

She looked at him and thinned her lips. “Why don’t you want the girls to help you?”

He saw she wanted him to say it out loud, and stammered, “I-I’m capable of washing myself, and – and it embarrassed me to have the girls do it.”

She nodded. “Why?”

He looked at her in astonishment. She wanted a shameful admission. “Be-because … they’ll see me naked….”

“Yes, they’ve seen you naked before. Most have, anyway. Maybe we can arrange a different pair.”

He grimaced and said “But … they’ll touch me.” He bit the bullet and blurted out, “They’ll be touching my penis and washing my foreskin and all, and I can’t bear it!”

Mrs Grainger nodded and smiled. “I thought so, but it’s good to hear you say it. Well, this time I won’t insist. However—” He swallowed and looked at her anxiously. “You say you can manage. Very good, but I want the act to be verified. So I’m going to ask one of the girls, maybe two, to inspect you carefully to see you’ve done it. All right. Off you go to the school, and you can bathe tonight.” She dismissed him, open-mouthed and trembling, looking forward in dread to that evening.

He couldn’t concentrate on the lesson that afternoon, and didn’t understand it anyway, but thankfully Mrs Trent didn’t expect anything from him and he was allowed to sit at the back to think of what might be in store. Tea was another awkward meal, and afterwards he finally made it to the library and managed to lose himself in the old travel books, some in languages strange to him, but with delicate coloured engravings he could admire for ages.

At night, after a fitful sort of evening, he was thinking of going to bed when a tap came to the door and Grace and Christina came in. “Well, Matthew, it’s time for your bath, don’t you think?” There was a twinkle in Grace’s eye.

Her companion smiled expectantly and added, “We’re going to run it for you. You should get ready.”

He looked at them desperately. “Please, girls, I can m-manage it myself….”

“Oh, we know that,” said Grace. “Mrs G told us to check you though. See you in a minute.” They went off with grins on their faces to run the bath, and he sat on the bed and shook. Another exhibition, another erection most likely, and he felt his penis twitch in anticipation. But there was no way out of it. Whatever Mrs Grainger wanted done was done, or his family would suffer. Slowly he got up and began to undress, taking off his trousers. He had a small towel, and intended to use it to cover himself till he got in the bath, but Christina came in to pick it up, saying “Come along, Matthew! The water’s nice and hot. Why aren’t you undressed?”

She seized his hand and led him into the bathroom, where Grace knelt by the bathtub testing the water temperature. They looked at him and he reluctantly drew off his shirt and vest, and without looking at them, cupping his genitals in trembling hands, he put his toes into the water. The temperature was agreeable, so he stepped in and quickly sat down, and Grace handed him a bar of soap. He lathered his hands and lifted his feet up to soap them, then his knees. The girls’ eyes followed his movements as he cleaned his chest and sides, reaching round to do his back, at which they commented that it really was difficult to reach, and didn’t he want help? He glared at them and made no reply. Now there was no help for it – he had to wash his middle, so he stood up, his back to the girls, and soaped his behind as thoroughly as he could, anus and all. He rinsed off and took the soap to his perineum and testicles, his penis (now a little stiff) and pubic hair. Again a rinse, and he was done. He looked over his shoulder and muttered “Can I have the towel, please?” Christina handed it to him and he dried his front as well as he could, then (shielding his penis) stepped out.

Drying his body in front of them gave him more blushes, and there was no way he could avoid their eyes, for they stood on either side of him so that he was exposed no matter how he tried, and they followed his every movement as he dried his legs, his groin, his buttocks, his ballocks and his cock. He was now pretty erect, and his arousal grew as they took his hands and gave him a complete inspection, peering at his backside (and pushing him down to look closely at his arsehole) and then – oh horrors – taking his penis in a warm hand to examine the glans and foreskin. He panted but managed to hold back his bodily reaction – he refused to let himself get anywhere near ejaculation – and the girls pouted in disappointment. After a while they reluctantly agreed he was clean, and left him to pick up his clothes and get back to the relative safety of his room, where he was able finally to release his pent-up sexual energy in a profuse masturbation, kneeling on his bed and thinking again of the anointing of Catherine’s cunt that morning, ejaculating onto sheets of toilet paper he had hidden under his pillow for such a session. As the jets spurted forth, he tried to imagine doing it in front of Catherine. The thought increased his excitement and his penis throbbed anew, sending another gout of semen into the air. He closed his eyes and stroked his member till it was spent and wilting, then wiped himself and took a deep breath. “Catherine!” he murmured. “Catherine, I promise you I’ll ask you to pull me off, and maybe you’ll let me put my finger in you, to bring you to orgasm too. Yes, mutual pleasure! Oh God, let it be so!” He crawled into bed and was soon asleep with a smile on his face.

Meanwhile, in her separate bed, she was reliving those few minutes when he had lovingly touched her mons Veneris, soothingly smoothing the newly naked skin, fingering her bum, blushing all the while. Then she put her hand down and touched herself, and suddenly she was rubbing her impatient fingers over her vulva, opening the lips to find her clitoris – rubbing, panting, and then feeling a hot flush all over (it seemed) her body. And all the time, thinking of Matthew, dear Matthew, naked Matthew, erect Matthew. The two would-be lovers lay not many yards apart, thinking of each other and the other’s nude beauty.

Mrs Grainger withdrew her eye from the spyhole and took a deep breath. Yes, that’s what she’d expected to happen – a bath, an erection, an ejaculation. Still, it was definitely more exciting to watch a girl bring him to orgasm. She nodded to herself and made a mental note to arrange the matter in two or three days. Smiling to herself, she retreated down the passage to the stairs that led to her rooms.

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Thursday 21^st May

The roof – in the sun – nude in the school

The next morning he wandered into the library, telling himself he was just browsing, but he knew what he was after. He found those erotic pictures he’d seen the last time and took some up to his room, stashing them in the wardrobe. Then with one volume and the towel, up to the roof. He looked at the book for a pleasurable while and then on a whim undressed to sunbathe. Pleased with the sun on his bare skin, he wandered over the roof, looking down at the school grounds and getting an erection thinking about it. Thinking also of the erotica, his hand went to his crotch and he started to masturbate. Looking down as a group of girls crossed the lawn, he deliberately wanked himself to orgasm. Oof! Must do this again, he thought. But hey, it’s getting on. He dressed and went back down to lunch.

In the afternoon, he collected his gear and went back up to the roof. This time Abigail spotted him creeping furtively (she thought) upstairs, and followed. She saw him undress and sunbathe, and then was startled to see him playing with his penis. Smiling grimly, she made plans. Naked, he wandered over the roof, warm to his bare feet, and went to the parapet to see if he could spy any of the girls, for he thought it even more exciting to masturbate in sight of them, though they were of course ignorant of his observance. When he got back to his spot, he was aghast to find his clothes gone, the towel gone, the naughty book gone. Abigail had taken them, and grinning to herself locked the door down to his section of the building.

Now he had to get down somehow, and searched about till he found a skylight. This wasn’t very good, but it was the only exit there was; the turrets, that looked promising, were all tightly locked, so he worked to get the skylight open and dropped through. Now he was on the top floor, not of the house, as he’d hoped, but of the school, and classes were in session. He crept along a corridor, fearful of exposure any minute, passing doors behind which he heard girls’ voices, and in one case the swish of a cane and sobs. He was nearly spotted when he came to a toilet, with a girl seated on it having a pee. He hauled back, but had to continue, he couldn’t stay there, so he gathered courage and dashed across the opening, and was relieved when the girl didn’t notice. On again, to the next floor; he was sweating by this time and semi-erect with the excited shame of possible discovery. He was just about to pass another door when it swung open and nearly hit him – he stopped in dismay, but he was concealed behind it as a teacher and pupil emerged. “Go downstairs,” said the teacher, “yes, go downstairs, I’m saying, and out to the stables, and bring back a horseshoe as proof you’ve been there.” The girl babbled tearfully but had to do it. Matthew was curious about this, but all was explained when the teacher, who sounded like Mrs Trent, the maths teacher, reiterated the punishment. “I’m perfectly aware there are some men and boys there. But your penance is to show yourself to them naked. Perhaps you’ll pay attention next time.” She looked after the girl as she walked forlornly down the passage. Matthew could see her naked back, her hands twitching in shame. When she turned a corner, the teacher went in and shut the door. Now Matthew had to follow the girl as she went downstairs nude.

He was worried in case she looked back, but she plodded along with her head down, so he could follow easily, though he couldn’t hurry as he wanted to. Down one flight of stairs, along another corridor, another chorus behind the door, another door concealing a punishment – and sobs and the swish of a cane, muffled screams. The girl flinched as she passed that room, and picked up the pace. Down one flight, and now they were on the ground floor, Matthew looking for an exit to the garden. The girl led the way, and they were into the straight when the bell rang for the end of class. Matthew’s heart hammered as he knew all the girls would be coming out of their classrooms, and he looked around him to hide. He opened a door in a hurry, seeing in his haste that it bore the legend Toilet, and found the lavatories. But he saw in his terror that there were no cubicles he could hide in, just a dozen lavatory bowls and washbasins; there was only one possible place to hide, a cupboard for cleaning materials, and he darted inside, as the door opened and a crowd of girls rushed in for a quick pee. He could see through the crack of the ill-fitting door as a dozen girls sat down on the seats, chattering. One laughed and mentioned “the boy” – the others giggled and discussed him (and his prick) to his mortified hearing.

“Ooh! I liked drawing his prick,” said one, “I wanted to stroke it. I’d like to lick it like a lollypop!”

“Oh really,” said another, looking directly at the crack in the door. Matthew was fearful and shifted slightly in his nervousness, and made a slight creak. The girl dabbed herself with paper, got up from the lavatory seat, pulled up her knickers, and marched over to the cupboard. She opened the door to see the boy cringing in there, and holding it so that it shielded him from the view of the others, said “If he were here, would you do that?” – looking directly with a grin at Matthew, who shivered at the exposure.

The other girl answered enthusiastically, “Oh yes! He’s got a great cock.”

“Well then,” said the first, “now’s your chance!” and seized Matthew’s arm (he trying to shield his privates) and hauled him out to the startled and outraged gaze of the girls. There were ten of them or so, and evidently it was a free period – or was it a break for lunch?—for they were in no hurry to go. The boaster, who turned out to be Barbara, the girl in the art class who asked about the Apollo Belvedere, was crestfallen to be faced with this, but the rest forced her to go through with it. Two held Matthew’s arms, and others pushed the girl to her knees facing him. He recoiled as she put her hands on his thighs, and squirmed as she started to lick his stiff member to full erection. Then she was tasting his pre-ejaculation, with a startled expression on her face, while he was wondering what he tasted like. Then at the others’ urging she took his glans in her mouth. He of course was both humiliated and excited by this, and was brought to a rapid orgasm. His penis jerked in Barbara’s mouth as he spurted his semen, and she started back, only getting the first mouthful. The come went over her face and bodice, and the others yelled in disgust, or maybe envy. The girls applauded and while she cleaned herself as well as she could they carried him out to the garden, where he stood for a minute, red-faced and panting, before breaking free and running off to their laughter and cat-calls. He found the connecting gate quite soon to the other half of the garden, and heaved a sobbing sigh of relief when he came to the sundial and the library door. Once he got upstairs safely, momentarily wondering where everyone was (at lunch, of course, he told himself), he found his clothes laid out on the bed, and the erotic book open to a particularly explicit engraving. He deduced that Abigail had been at work, and flushed at the realisation that she knew what he’d been looking at, and even (o God no) she’d maybe watched him wanking up there!

At tea he sat silently while the others chattered, and Catherine wondered what had happened – something embarrassing, she was sure of it – and forbore to ask. That evening though she came to his room and he told her some of what had been going on. She suggested visiting the butler and cheering each other up, and he took her hand and they went down together. Bryden was pleased to see them, and plied them with tea and scones and strawberry jam, and they were soon in a happier mood. The talk turned to the coming holidays.

“So you’re going to Provence? That’ll be nice for you,” said Bryden. “I haven’t been there, in the country, I mean, but I hear it’s beautiful. The town of Nice is down there on the coast, and I’ve been there, but … anyway along the coast is Marseille, it’s what they call the Cote d’Azur, and it’s quite a favourite area for the playboys of the western world,” he smiled at himself, “and the girls too, like Lydia Grainger.”

“I’m longing to see it,” said Catherine, “and the local life, and the sun especially….”

“I never did see the property,” said the old man, “so I’m not sure where it is, exactly. Maybe it’s close to Arles, where the painter Vincent van Gogh did a lot of work. Then again a bit north of there is Avignon, where the popes used to be for a while. Alphonse Daudet wrote about that. He had a mill nearby, though I think he never did live there, and he wrote some excellent stories about the country round about. Do you know about him?”

Matthew shrugged, and Catherine frowned thoughtfully and said “That seems to remind me … oh, listen, is there one about the pope’s mule?”

The old man’s face creased in a broad smile. “Yes,” he said, “La mule du pape. It’s a great little story that he may have got from folklore, but anyway I always liked it. It’s about the mule of one of the popes,” he said looking at Matthew, “who stores up her hatred of this young man who ill-treated her, stores it up for seven years while he’s away, then on his return lets fly a kick that scatters him entirely into smoke – all that’s left is the feather of his cap.”

Matthew looked quizzical. “And isn’t Avignon where the bridge is, in the children’s song?” he asked.

“That’s the one,” said Bryden. “I believe you can still see it, the mediaeval bridge I mean, over the Rhône. Some of it, anyway. I expect you’ll be able to visit it, Mrs G should take you round the sights.”

“Oh, I do hope you’ll come with us,” said Catherine.

He laughed. “No, my dear, no, not now. Time was I’d have enjoyed it but not now. Besides, it’s up to madam, you know. She’ll take a couple of maids like she always does to these foreign parts, and she manages well enough. What would I do? She’ll have you too at her beck and call, and she wouldn’t want me doddering about the place. No, I’ll probably be off to one of our own holiday spots like Brighton. That’ll suit me just fine.”

“All right,” said Matthew, “I hope you have a good time. I know I will, with Catherine.” He glanced over at her, and they smiled at each other.

The old man looked at them in a calculating manner, and smiled sadly. “I can see,” he said slowly, “how attached you are to each other. And perhaps you might have some understanding of what it’s like to love someone and have that love returned, in an impossible situation. Maybe you’ll be able to sympathise with those whose love is forbidden….”

Matthew looked him in some shock, but quickly felt compassion, and thought of Elizabeth Huxton and her dark-haired pupil. “Mr Bryden,” he said, “I think I know what you mean, but don’t be ashamed. Love is … love, that’s all.”

Catherine laid her hand on his arm. “Please, Mr Bryden, we’ll understand. Tell us.” He looked at her and drew out a little case from his coat pocket. He opened it up and displayed it to them. It contained a little picture and a lock of golden hair, and they looked up at him with questioning eyes.

“That’s Jamie Hudson,” he said quietly. “He was seventeen years old, with fair hair and blue-green eyes, long lashes, a fine body and a pleasant low voice. Look at him – that’s a lock of his hair – the miniature was painted by his mother a year before we met.” They admired the boy in the picture. If it was a likeness, he had indeed been handsome.

“I met him on holiday in France. Mr Grainger had gone a trip to America, and allowed the staff to take some time off. I had saved up my wages – which were actually quite generous – in the hope sometime of seeing Paris , and maybe the Mediterranean coast. So I had the means, and a whole month of leisure. Mr Edward kept a small skeleton staff of course, to feed the horses, mostly. But the rest of us scattered to the four winds, and I to France. I went to the south coast, to Nice, and it was good to stroll along the Promenade des Anglais, practising my little French, and sitting at the cafés. Anyway, I saw this boy come along the street, and somehow he stood out from the crowd. It’s difficult to explain – immediately, my eyes focussed on him, and all the others on that crowded street were … not invisible, just irrelevant. He filled my vision. I didn’t know who he was, nothing about him – but all of a sudden I knew I had to know. I had to meet him, to learn about him, to know him in as close a way, as intimately, as possible.

“You must realise that I was a bit unsettled by this. I had no idea, before this, that I harboured feelings like that. That I could carnally desire – yes, that’s what it was – another man. One knew of course about such things. The Graingers had quite a big library of erotic books, you’ve seen them, and some of them were quite … graphic in stories of homosexual adventures, or at least vignettes – Fanny Hill, for instance, the Marquis de Sade – and in England we had just had the scandal of the Cleveland Street business, involving post boys and some titled folk – such as an equerry of the Prince of Wales, and the heir presumptive, Prince Albert Victor! It was all hushed up of course, but it did form public opinion, and in a few years we were about to hear of Oscar Wilde and his grand passion for young Queensberry. That, by the way, was really no secret, to those in a position to know, of course. Edward Grainger wasn’t an intimate of Wilde’s, in any sense! But the inner circle, the élite, knew what was going on. Though I must admit his father had reason to be embarrassed by Stead’s article about prostitution, The Maiden Tribute of Modern Babylon. Do you know – of course not. Anyway, there were those things going on, and at that time, and there, in that Nice street, I was overcome by the realisation that I too had these feelings, those unconventional, shocking feelings. And I welcomed them.

“I stood up as the boy neared me, and looked directly at him. He stopped and stared back, as if wondering who I was, if he knew me, or something. I waved a hand at another chair at my little table, and he slowly sat down. He didn’t say anything. I had no idea if he even knew French, let alone English. I summoned the garçon and looked at the boy. He asked for coffee in perfect French. Then he looked at me without expression for a minute, and I looked back in a sort of terror. What was he thinking? Then he smiled, with delicious teeth showing, and brushed back that golden hair, and said, ‘I’m Jamie Hudson.’

“How he knew I was English I never found out. Sufficient to say we sat there and talked for hours, the saucers from the coffee cups piling up on the table, and told each other about our lives. I was much older than he, nearly thirty, but he seemed to have a lot more experience of the world than I. Ultimately we settled the bill and he went with me back to my room. As we walked he reached over and took my hand. That was the most electric moment of my life. We walked along in silence – my heart was too full to let me speak – till we got to that little pension and my little room. And there … we finally made love.”

He looked at the pair and lifted his brows in question. They nodded as if to say Yes, we understand. The old man smiled in a tired way and sighed. “That was the most wonderful summer of my life,” he said simply. “I had found what I thought was true love, a returned passion for my true self.”

Bryden ran his hands through his thinning hair and laughed without humour. “Of course, I had no idea what love was. This was my first experience, and I was like a babe thrown into the deep end of the pool, completely out of my depth, at the mercy of my feelings, my instincts I suppose, without rein or control – all I knew was that this wonderful experience had to go on for ever. It didn’t occur to me to think of consequences. Of how this could fit into my life, my employment, of how it had to affect my future. I simply wasn’t thinking at all, not rationally. In fact, I was as the word is, crazy in love. Jamie stayed with me for a few days, and then we decided to go to Paris. He went to his own place to collect his belongings – he lived by himself, his parents had recently died – then we set off to the capital.

“Ah, my dears! Paris at the time was a grand lively place full of music and poetry and intellectual life. I don’t know what it’s like now, after the war and everything, but then –! It was the time of the painters and dancers, the clubs and cafés and theatres, and it was a great revelation to me. Jamie had been there before, he told me, so he could conduct me round some of the sights. His French was excellent, as I said, so he did most of the talking. We looked in amazement at the Eiffel Tower, which had been built just the year before as a sort of gateway to their exposition. We wandered around Montmartre, admiring the paintings being done there, picked over the books at the bouquinistes on the banks of the Seine, visited the Moulin Rouge dance hall – of course we didn’t recognise any of the people who were becoming famous at the time. I saw one little man with a beard sketching away and drinking that poisonous absinthe, and only much later I realised he must have been Toulouse-Lautrec, the artist. Have you heard of him? No matter.

“That period, only a couple of weeks, was heaven to me. By day we roamed this wonderful old city, with its history laid out all round us, drinking in the sights and the music, and at night I held that wonderful boy in my arms. I thought very little of the future – it was carpe diem, and carpe noctem as well. But inevitably of course I was forced to face reality. It was in a little dive, I suppose you’d call it, a bit lower class than the Moulin, and I was a little drunk. Jamie looked over at a table in the corner and seemed to get a shock. He didn’t look frightened or anything, just surprised and wary. The fellow he was looking at saw us looking at him and beckoned us over. We went over, though why we should have obeyed the summons I can’t tell, and the man invited us to sit down. The name he gave us was Sebastian Raven.”

Matthew drew in his breath. This was the man the butler had spoken of the first time they met. “Yes, lad,” said Bryden. “Him. The ugly bugger I mentioned. Actually he wasn’t all that nasty-looking, it’s just that his teeth were pretty bad and his hair was that unnatural shade of black…. And his manner was … sort of slimy. It’s hard to pin down. Like a combination of Uriah Heep and that Frenchman in Little Dorrit. Do you understand what I mean?”

“Oh, I think so,” said Catherine, “I can just imagine.”

“Well,” continued Bryden, “it turned out that this fellow had been looking for Jamie for some time, traced him to Nice and lost him, and just on a whim had tried Paris, looking in all the disreputable places for the boy, who was evidently wanted urgently by some relative. It annoyed me that a lot of the conversation was conducted in French, which I couldn’t follow too well at fast speed. Besides, it seemed they were using a lot of slang and what they call the green language, la langue verte, a sort of cant or gutter language. When Jamie went off to the pissoir I looked at Raven and said something about him taking Jamie away. He looked at me with a sort of amused contempt and made some remark about our relationship, implying that it had to end right there, for Jamie was going with him. ‘I’m taking him away,’ he said, ‘and you won’t see him again. His uncle wants him, and he’s going, and he’s not coming back. Accept it.’ And then I saw red, literally – a red mist came down over my eyes, believe me, and I lashed out – I was drunk, remember -- and I hit him on the jaw. He fell back and the table went over. Someone grabbed me from behind and I struggled, I was weeping at the thought of losing the boy I loved…. And then Raven came back to hit me in the belly and the chin, and that was that. I lost consciousness. I was out for quite some time, and when I came to I was perched against the wall. Raven and Jamie had disappeared, and a kind witness told me they’d gone long since—and that the boy kissed me before he left. There was nothing to it but to go back to our rooms, which now bore no sign of Jamie, and lie on the bed and weep. I left France the next day and got back to England, and a couple of days later Mr Edward was coming home, and everything was normal. Except for me, with my memories, which I knew would stay with me and colour the rest of my life. One thing I still had – that miniature. He’d showed it to me some days before; I found it in my pocket that night, and Jamie must have put it there before he left, when he kissed me,” the old man’s eyes looked off into a personal distance, “as a sort of fond farewell I suppose. It’s the most precious thing I possess. ”

They looked at him with compassion, and Matthew reached over to take his hand. Catherine rose and kissed him on the cheek. “Thank you for telling us,” she said. “You have loved and lost, and I know how you can see us and understand our joy – and our problems too. Bless you, Mr Bryden.”

The old man gazed at them calmly. “It’s been good to tell you young folk about it. As you may guess, I’ve kept that bottled up for years. It was the reason I started drinking in earnest, though it was never a problem with my work or anything. And there were one or two benefits. I decided later to learn French properly, with the daft idea of looking for Jamie all over France, when I got more holidays. Of course I never did scour the country, though I got a fair knowledge of the language from a book or two. And that helped with learning a bit of Italian.”

“Oh, Mr Bryden,” said Matthew suddenly, “do you know a book called Contes Drolatiques?” Catherine looked at him in surprise. “It isn’t what you think, Catherine, it’s not rude, it’s –”

“It’s a book by Balzac,” said Bryden chuckling, and he corrected Matthew’s almost obscene pronunciation. “It means quite simply ‘Droll Stories’, and it’s a collection of tales of olden times, quite different from the usual up-to-date social stories he wrote. They imitate the tales of Rabelais, or Marguérite de Navarre, another old writer -- quite risqué, as they say, most of them. Why do you ask?”

“Oh, I found a copy in the library here, but I couldn’t read it.”

“Well, young Raven, you might find an English version in there, it’s an amazing collection. Still,” he cleared his throat, “I don’t really think I should encourage young folk to read things like that. It might give you ideas.” Matthew didn’t believe he was serious, and he was sure he had a twinkle in his eye as he bade them goodnight. ===============================================================

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Friday 22^nd May

The Garden Party

When Matthew asked about Catherine at breakfast, Jessica told him she wasn’t feeling well. “It’s a pity, for Mrs G is hosting a garden party this afternoon,” she said. “She’s invited a lot of her friends and their children. They’re all women, as it happens, single or widowed. It’s a sort of sorority, you might say. Anyway, it promises to be quite an affair. Abigail will be in charge I expect.”

“What do we do?”

“Serve tea and lemonade, carry round plates of biscuits and cucumber sandwiches sort of thing. We help with the children too.”

“Children?”

“Oh yes, I think there were about twenty or so last time she gave one. A couple of years ago, just after I got here. We ran races, sang songs, and Mrs G had hired a conjurer to do tricks. It was quite fun, really, I enjoyed it.” Matthew could hardly credit his employer doing something so ordinary and sociable, and looked his incredulity. Jessica understood and looked at him in amusement. “You don’t believe, me, do you? Just wait, you’ll see. Abigail will be giving us our instructions at lunch time.”

“Matthew,” said Mrs Grainger later that morning, “I’m not satisfied that you’re really cleaning yourself. I know that Grace and Jessica looked you over well last time--”

Matthew flushed and said “Madam, I did clean … all over, surely they told you!”

“Yes,” she replied, “but still it’s a bit unsatisfactory. I’ve decided,” she paused meaningfully, “that one or two girls will help you from now on.”

He reddened and began to moan, “Madam, please! You know I hate it!”

“Yes, Matthew,” she said, “but that is my wish. If there’s any bother, or I feel it’s not well done, then it shall be done every evening.”

He looked at her in desperation. The girls would handle him every night! God, how could he bear this? He swallowed and had to say “Yes, madam,” in submission.

“I think a bath at nine o’clock tonight will do,” she said. “And if it doesn’t, then a bath at nine every evening will be done, by a couple of girls. It doesn’t matter who, they should actually all take turns.”

He screwed up his eyes and felt tears starting. “Please, please, madam,” he said in a low trembling voice, “please don’t do this to me….” His words fell on deaf ears. She rose and left him standing in dejection. There was no way out, and he saw another humiliation coming. Yes, he was definitely here for one purpose – to amuse the staff and pupils with his blushing nakedness. He thought he’d never get over the embarrassment, and then wondered why he wasn’t getting used to it. But there were some things one couldn’t get used to, like a randy girl handling your cock till it grew stiff and straight and erect and throbbing – God, he’d better stop it or he’d get hard just thinking about it.

Matthew spent the rest of the morning up on the roof, taking care not to be aroused too much by his books, and certainly not disrobing. He was beginning to drowse in the sun (promising to shine all day for the party) when he heard someone’s voice. He looked up to search, but could see no one, and decided to track it down stealthily. He crept over the roof till he neared the half that covered the academy, and heard it again, but couldn’t make out the words. It was a girl’s voice, from the academy obviously, speaking some foreign language. She was answered by another, more familiar voice – he’d heard her quoting Latin to the class. He stopped and went no further, knowing without looking that it was Miss Huxton and Eithne, and guessed that the language was Greek, the language of Sappho. The voices stopped, and he heard the unmistakable sound of a kiss. Holding his breath, he crept quietly back to his books and gathered everything up. He couldn’t stay there to embarrass them. But he wondered as he went downstairs how they had got there, for he hadn’t seen another entrance to the roof, and determined to solve that question after he’d got the garden party over with. He was quite looking forward to it, he realised, though he did have a faint premonition about Abigail’s involvement.

Abigail gave her instructions to the assembled staff (seven girls and Matthew) in some detail, and all was fairly straightforward. Matthew was to wear his smock, which surprised him, and the others their pretty maid uniforms. Tea was going to be brewed by Mrs Ponsonby and ferried out to the lawn by Jessica and Emily, plates of sandwiches and biscuits of various sorts would be prepared by Georgina and Gertrude, and wheeled out by Amanda and Mabel. Matthew was to make sure the children were attended to, and Christina was to look after the conjurer when he came. Abigail would be omnipresent to answer any questions and deal with emergencies. All was clear? All was clear.

Matthew asked her as he was going up to change into his smock why he was supposed to do it, and she gave an enigmatic smile and no answer. When he asked about Catherine, she said in a bored way “Oh, she’s in bed with a belly-ache. To be precise, Matthew, I’m sure you want to know, she’s having a bit of trouble with her period.”

“Oh!” he exclaimed, “but she said they were all right—”

“Did she though? My, you have got personal! Anyway, today she’s got a headache and a cunt-ache and everything and is confined to bed, so she won’t be there to see what goes on.” As she said that she smiled again, and left Matthew looking after her in puzzlement.

An hour later the guests were arriving and being greeted by a gracious Mrs Grainger, and the staff were busy getting ready to serve them. Matthew was introduced as the children’s manager, and the mothers looked him over with approval, some gazing too interestedly at the hem of his smock. He was pleased to be wearing it, though, for it was yet another fine day and he knew he’d have been too warm in his other clothes. The children aged from ten to fourteen and a half, as they individually informed him, and wandered about until he corralled them at one end of the lawn and offered them lemonade and sandwiches. There they sat down and after a while one began singing an interminable round which they were mightily pleased with but which was driving him mad, so he went off to get some more lemonade. After he delivered it the girls, who had begun a new song (Ten Green Bottles), let him go to help their mothers, whose company included five or six older daughters, his own age and up. He was kept busy for the next little while, fetching and carrying, and was able to catch some leisure when the conjuror arrived, to the joyous shouts of the children. He didn’t stay to watch – he left that to Christina – and went into the house to have a pee. To his chagrin the first lavatory he came to had an occupant, a stout lady who glared at him. The next was empty but he was forestalled by a couple of the fourteen-year-olds, who saucily invited him to join them. He flushed and shook his head in amazement, wondering how serious they were, but as he stood there one yanked down her knickers and sat down, and he heard the gush of urine, as she raised her eyes to look deliberately into his. Her companion laughed, but he reddened and hurried away to find his own relief. After another confrontation with a blushing girl of eleven or so who was evidently in the middle of a shit he gave up and went outside again to find a bush, and made his way into some shrubbery on the other side of the building. Sheltered from the crowd by dozens of yards and dozens of trees he raised his smock and had a satisfying pee against a stump.

* * * * * * *

He was carrying an empty box to the side when he tripped over something and fell to the ground with an oath. Abigail appeared at his side and took an arm to help him up, and there was a tearing sound. He looked at himself in dismay to see that she’d trod on his smock and caused it to tear as she raised him, and at once he knew she had caused the whole thing. No wonder he had had to change his clothes – this was supposed to happen. She looked at him and said “Oh dear! Your smock’s all torn, what a pity. Mrs G won’t like that.”

She walked away with a satisfied expression, and he wondered what to do. The tear went up the right side nearly to his armpit, creating a chlamys effect, and he was fearful of it revealing a lot of his body, but he had to keep going, and held the garment together with his hand while he went back to where he’d been, and tried to work out how he could continue to serve the crowd like this. Mrs G however caught sight of him and beckoned him over, looking at the ruined smock with what seemed a mixture of ill-humour and pleased anticipation. “However that happened,” she said, “it won’t do. It’ll have to be carefully sewn. Where’s Christina? Oh, with the conjuror still, I suppose. Amanda then. Ah, there you are!” The girl looked round and gave an exclamation at seeing his state. “Amanda, take that and have it repaired as soon as possible.”

Matthew looked from one to the other in panic. “M-Madam,” he stuttered, “you don’t … you can’t --”

“Boy! Get it off and give it to Amanda. Now!” Silently he drew off the torn garment and handed it to the girl, who took it with a grinning glance at his loins and disappeared into the house. He stood in the midst of the crowd, his hands over his crotch, and couldn’t believe what was happening. How could she expose him like this? The servants were one thing, but this host of women was another. And there suddenly he saw the older girls standing in a group, with hands to their mouths, laughing at his discomfiture.

Mrs Grainger looked at his blushing cheeks and smiled grimly. Yes, exactly as intended. “Well, boy, you’re ashamed? It’s your own fault. You’ll have to bear it. Take another jug of lemonade over to the children there, and see if there’s anything else they want. Perhaps they want a game. Off you go!”

He looked at her in disbelief but saw she was in earnest, and went over to pick up the jug, which he held before him as he passed through the crowd, causing laughter and comments, some quite lewd. He had to go by the sixteen-year-olds, who joined him and walked along, casting glances at his organ, which wanted to erect, and making jokes. He passed Christina, walking with an older man in a flashy cape, who looked at him in astonishment and shrugged as if to declare this apparition was nothing to do with him. Then he was in the crowd of younger children, all girls of ten to fourteen or so, who giggled as he stood there, scarlet.

“Yes,” they chorused, “lemonade! Pour it out for us.” He did so, inevitably exposing his genitals, and immediately felt the traitor twitch violently. God, no! he thought, I can’t have an erection here, please! But then, he realised, that was very probably exactly what Mrs G and Abigail wanted. He put the empty jug down and asked haltingly if they wanted anything else.

All eyes were on his hands covering his penis, trying to rebel and get stiff, and one pert girl of about thirteen said “Why don’t we have a game? You can help us. What’s your name?”

“M-Matthew,” he stammered.

“All right, Matthew, what game do you want to play?”

He had no preference, and wanted to be out of there, but one of the older girls said “Why not have a wrestling match?” Matthew cringed as he foresaw what this might entail, but he could say nothing as they agreed to form four teams to see which could score most points against him. For of course he, being a boy and stronger than they, had the advantage, so he would play solo against their combined strength.

He stood there, sheltering his genitals, while they surrounded him and devised their strategy. One girl began it by flinging her arms round his waist and pulling him forward. She’d imprisoned his arms by doing this (his hands covering his groin) so he couldn’t fend off the others. One put her hands up from behind to grasp his chest, while another was at his feet trying to upset him, another at the side managing to put her hands on his behind. Together they managed to make him stagger, and the other teams gave encouraging cries. The combined strength was more than his own and he soon landed on his bum with a yell. They yelled in return and pinned him down, looking in triumph at the rest. The sixteen-year-old who had suggested the game (called Lucy by her friends) laughed and said “That took about two minutes. See if you can beat that!”

Team number two came forward and pulled him up, dislodging his protective hands and immediately seizing as many limbs as they could. He twisted and turned, his blushes bright red, his erection now blatant to all. One girl’s arm across his body crossed his penis, which began to throb alarmingly. It took less than the first time to get him down and spread-eagled, his penis pointing up in the air, to the admiration of the crowd. Lucy pronounced Team Two the winner of that bout – and explained to all that teams Three and Four would compete, then the winners would have a final. They agreed enthusiastically, and the third lot began their assault just as Abigail strolled up to watch with amusement.

This time the girls seemed to have decided to bring him down from behind; one grabbed his shoulders, one his waist, and two others took a thigh each, one hand on a buttock. The shifting and moving caused their hands to wander over his bare body, and the others could notice his erect penis twitch as it was brought to excitement. Down he went, and all looked at his penis in satisfaction. Team Four helped the poor boy up and looked at him not hiding his erection any more. Lucy said “Right. Next!” The remaining four eyed him up and darted forward, aiming at his groin. He retreated in panic, but they soon were around him and deliberately putting their hands on his backside and upper thighs. He couldn’t fend them off and was soon brought to his knees and hence to his back. Again they all admired his erection, and Lucy voiced her approval. “He’s got a nice cock, hasn’t he?” There were murmurs of approval, and she continued, “Well, Team Four won that by a nose. Or maybe we can say by a cock!” They all laughed, and Matthew, who was covering himself again, was beginning to feel desperate about the end of this torment.

“Right!” said Lucy, “let’s have Team Two again.” They hauled him up and were all over him again, this time rubbing hands over his body, which unnerved him enough that he lost his footing and fell on his face. They quickly turned him over, and while two held his shoulders and one his feet, the fourth playfully fingered his erection. He nearly cried out, and prayed not to react, and his penis did listen, merely throbbing again in threat. Lucy got the last foursome in action and it was a repeat performance. Soon Matthew was spread-eagled in erection, and the fourth team was pronounced the winner.

“What’s the prize? asked an eager fourteen-year-old.

“Why,” said Lucy, in consultation with her friends, “what but this?” and she calmly walked over to where the boy lay breathless. She knelt down and took a gentle hold of his erection. “This!” She pulled gently on the member, bringing the foreskin to cover the tip, then brought it back. Matthew was stammering meaninglessly by this time, and closed his eyes. Then he heard an excited cheer and felt what seemed a myriad hands on his body. He was stroked all over – his nipples, his belly, his thighs, his scrotum, his prick. It was not long before he came magnificently.

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“Mind you,” said Abigail, “it wasn’t really fair, madam. Poor Matthew was jolly worn out with wrestling six times. And then when he came, he practically passed out. He crept away into the bushes over there and he’s probably still hiding. Resting. So I took pains to congratulate Lucy on a good ploy, and to commend the team that won. They said it was the best bit of the afternoon.”

“You did well, Abigail, thank you,” said her employer. “I think we’ll let the boy recover by himself, he’ll make his own way to his room. If he doesn’t turn up for tea, no matter. But make sure he gets a replacement for his smock. And we need to choose two helpers for a bath tonight. Now I’m off to say farewell to the guests. Yes,” she repeated, “a most successful garden party. I’m very pleased.”

At tea he thought of talking to Catherine but she looked very troubled and left quickly with “a headache”. Matthew gave her an encouraging smile, and she smiled weakly in return, grateful for his sympathy. Just before the others split up Abigail produced a deck of cards and shuffled it. The others looked at this with grins, and Matthew wondered what game she wanted. She spread the cards in an arc face down on the table and said to the others, “Each of you, pick a card. Not you, Matthew.” Matthew expected conjuring tricks, but that was hardly like Abigail. “Now show your cards,” she ordered, and looked them over. “Ace is high,” she said, “but … no aces. There’s no king, but a jack and two queens. All right, the queens win. Mabel, Phyllis, it’s you two tonight.” Turning to Matthew, she smiled lewdly and said “They’re going to help you with your bath tonight. Are you looking forward to it?" He flushed and stammered, while the others all tittered, and Abigail asked the lucky chosen the same question. They laughed outright and said yes, of course. They’d be very happy to help. Matthew left them to their hilarity and went up to his room to fret in dread of nine o’clock.

At a quarter to nine a tap at the door interrupted his bleak mood and Mabel came in to remind him (as if he could forget!) about his bath. “The water’s being run, Matthew, and we’re getting it nice and hot – just right, actually – and plenty of soap, and a couple of big fluffy towels. You can undress here. Get ready, and come along.” She left him with a pleased grin of anticipation, and he swallowed and began slowly to strip for the ordeal.

He went along with leaden steps to the bathroom, neglecting to hide his genitals, but with a mounting flush, and stepped into the room among clouds of steam. The pair looked the red-faced boy with appreciation. He really was handsome, they agreed, and Mabel said in downright admiration, “Matthew, you’ve a great body, you really have. And that cock of yours especially.” He at once put his hands to his crotch and his flush grew deeper.

“Come along,” said Phyllis, “into the bath with you.” He shuffled forward and stood irresolute by the rim.

“Let us help,” said Mabel, and she took him by the elbow, with the other hand on his behind. He shuddered and started to mouth an objection, but of course in vain. Phyllis took his other arm and put her hand under his thigh, and together they helped him into the tub, where he stood in misery. The girls looked at each other and grinned, and each took a bar of soap to lather their hands before laying them on his quaking shoulders.

Together they soaped his back and arms, then turned him round to do his chest and belly, seemingly avoiding looking at his groin. Then they sponged him clean of soap and pushed him down to sit, then raised his legs and feet for their soaping. Next they told him to shut his eyes, and liberally soaped his head. When that was rinsed they hauled him up and looked at him with open lust in their eyes. “Now, Matthew,” said Phyllis, “for the piece of resistance! This is the most important bit. Mabel, do that side, I’ll do this.” She lathered her hands again and placed them on his left hip, rubbing from the waist to his knee, while Mabel did the same on the right side. They worked to his back, then made him turn round, and together soaped his buttocks. Each in turn put her hand to the cleft and lathered his anus and perineum, and by this time he had finally achieved erection. He was avoiding their eyes, but he couldn’t avoid their hands as they turned him round again to attack his genitals. Phyllis fondled his scrotum, and Mabel put her hand to his erection. Together they soaped him and drew back the foreskin to soap the glans, now red and proud and beginning to throb. The boy couldn’t help moving his pelvis in response to their strokes, and he knew his orgasm was coming soon. They looked in his blushing face with delighted smiles, and put one hand to his arse, Phyllis inserting a soapy finger in past the sphincter to wiggle about and stimulate the prostate. Their other hands continued to stroke the pulsing penis, till Matthew cried out and came with a great gout of sperm, and the girls too cried in exultation to see their handiwork.

They brought him out and dried him, then led him back to his room and put him in bed. “You should sleep now, Matthew,” said Phyllis, “you’ll be all shagged out!” They laughed as they left, putting out the light. The exhausted boy lay for quite a while before he dropped off to sleep, wondering whether Mrs G would agree he’d been thoroughly washed. If she didn’t….

His employer nodded to herself and smiled thinly as she went down to her own apartments. It was really preferable to bathe him every night. Yes….

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(The End)