Mrs Grainger's Gift 9

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 9

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Saturday 30^th May

Catherine at the maze; Matthew meets the gardener’s girl; then in town, and bathed by Kate and Betty

“St Mark’s boys are due to visit today, but you’ll miss them. Abigail can manage them very well. We’re going to town,” Mrs Grainger told Matthew, “for several things. There’s a new swimming pool opening, and I thought you might like to practise a length or two – you dive, don’t you?”

“Yes, madam,” he said, wondering how she knew. Had Grace told her, or did she really listen at doors?

“And I also want to go to the store there, Mason’s, to buy some supplies for the Academy, and also for you.”

“Me?”

“Yes, I know you’ve been fretting over your lack of underwear and so forth, so I suggest we buy you an entire outfit off the peg to do for general wear, including the cold weather.” Matthew sighed with relief. Underwear! “We’ll leave about one. Amuse yourself with exploring perhaps and have a snack at noon. Come to the main door at the hour.” She dismissed him, and he resumed his wandering over the property, glad for once that today would not involve any upsetting experiences. The mention of cold weather, though, caused a frown. Surely he wasn’t going to be here till winter time?

He strolled through the garden and sat down on a bench to admire the hollyhocks (his favourite flower) and muse on his life in this extraordinary place. It seemed idyllic, and was truly beautiful in its layout, but like the chatelaine herself had a layer of fear and cruelty underneath, a determination to abuse, to humiliate, and debase. How he and Catherine could last in this harsh environment he didn’t know. She seemed quite fragile, and he hoped with all his heart that Mrs G wouldn’t break her. He determined to get her alone to talk about things, but there wasn’t much opportunity, so far, and he didn’t want to barge into her room at night…. Though he would like to, he admitted. He’d like to go up to her bed, lift the cover, and slide in to where she lay naked. He’d fondle her young breasts, smooth his hand over her belly, reach down to her slit and open it like the door to a treasure cave—.

He realised he had acquired a stiff erection, and all of a sudden, without thinking, he unbuttoned himself and freed his penis to the warm sun. He seized it in an eager hand and began to stroke it, it rising more and more and beginning to throb as he approached orgasm. He closed his eyes and imagined being with Catherine, and panted as he reached the point of ejaculation. He milked his penis till there were no drops left, and with a sigh opened his eyes. “My lord,” said an amused voice to his left, “that was a great display! Are you Matthew, the new boy?”

With a shudder of shame he turned to see a girl of twelve or so laughing at him. This had to be Rachael, the gardener’s daughter, he knew. He stuffed his organ back in his trousers and swallowed. “I – ”

“Yes, you’re the new boy that’s come to the house. What’s your name?”

“M- Matthew. I’m sorry—”

“Don’t be sorry for showing yourself. It was great. I’ve always wondered about a boy’s cock. I’ve only seen my brothers, and they’re very small.” Matthew didn’t know what to say. He looked at his semen, in little puddles on the ground. Would he get into trouble from her father, or Mrs Grainger?

He sighed, then was horrified to hear the young girl say “Do you want to see me? It’s only fair. I’ve seen you, d’you want to see me, my thing?”

She put a hand to the hem of her dress, and he sputtered and said “N-no! I mean, I’m sure it’s pretty, but I don’t want to see it. Not right now. Thank you. I have to go. Goodbye.” He stood up abruptly and walked off, thanking his stars that no one else had witnessed the exchange. God knew what Abigail would have made of it. But he chided himself for being so careless, and decided he’d stick to the roof, or the privacy of his own room, for masturbation. He looked back, to see the girl looking disappointed, holding up her dress to show she wasn’t wearing any knickers. He hastened away, alarmed that he felt another twitch of his penis at the sight of the practically hairless pubis. She had to be just as old as his sister, for God’s sake!

He found his way back to the kitchen and persuaded Mrs Ponsonby to create a sandwich for him and dole out a mug of tea. Then he went upstairs to the second bathroom, whose door opened inwards, and contrived to block the door with a wedge, while he relaxed into an undisturbed shit. He took time to wash his behind thoroughly, dressed, and went down to the front door just before one.

Mrs Grainger was there already, with a few of the girls, and with that short smock in her hand. He looked at her in dismay as she said “Yes, I thought you’d be in your trousers. Here, put this on. Take off those clothes, and put this on.” He thought of complaining but knew it was useless. With yet another blush he undressed, and one of the girls gathered at the door took the clothes to put away upstairs. Naked, he took the woefully short smock and donned it, being eyed all the while by the smirking girls. “Right!” said Mrs Grainger, “get onto the coach.” He looked puzzled, and she clarified. “Get up onto the back of the coach riding on that little shelf. You can hold on to those handles.” She stepped inside and he was left to climb up to where she evidently expected him to ride. He realised that she probably did this so that he would be pretty much visible to all as the coach went by, and made sure his short smock covered him well enough. He hoped the breeze of their travel wouldn’t affect it, and sighed as he sat there and held on as the old carriage lumbered off, to the amused waves of the gathering.

He was cold and tired hanging on to the handles and watching for his smock hem by the time they reached town, and could hardly be bothered to feel shame at any exposure to the townsfolk.They stopped at the door of a large store and made their way to the men’s wear section. It was fairly crowded, and Mrs Grainger demanded service, the supervisor hastening up to her. “I’m afraid all the assistants are busy, madam,” he said. “Perhaps another from the next department will do?”

She smiled thinly and said “Bring me two of your girls from over there. As for a changing room, I can see they’re in use, so why not just use that little platform there. Matthew won’t mind.”

The supervisor blinked and said “Certainly, madam. If you’d care to sit here?”

She settled herself on a nearby chair and indicated to Matthew that he should mount the little riser that stood in the aisle. He did so feeling quite exposed, his short smock, he was conscious, ending just below his buttocks, which showed whenever he moved. Two young women approached and eyed him up and down.

“Is this the gentleman, madam?” asked one.

“Yes, he is. I want him measured for a complete outfit of clothes – underwear, socks, et cetera. We can try everything on here.”

“Here, madam?” asked the younger-looking of the two, who was maybe 18 or so, with an interested smile. “We can do that. Right, measurements.”

Each produced a tape measure and set to work to record a great many of his dimensions, more than they needed, surely, and Matthew began to shake as they began on his legs. One held her hand at his hip bone and reached down to his foot, noting the length of the outside leg. The other did the same on the other side. Then (they grinned at each other, and he winced, and looked desperately at his employer) they repeated the process for the inside leg, discovering as they did his want of underpants.. One after the other they put their hand up to his groin, and he shuddered to feel the cool fist against his scrotum. His penis fluttered and he shut his eyes in despairing shame as they repeated the measurement at the same time “just to be sure”. The sensation of having their two hands cradling his scrotum was almost too much for his nervous penis, which jerked into stiffness, then subsided again. Then he blinked his eyes open when he heard an exclamation from someone, and saw a small crowd had gathered to watch the process, including half a dozen schoolgirls. The assistants went off and soon returned with armfuls of clothing, which they put on the nearby counter. One lifted up a pair of underpants and turned to Matthew, indicating he should lift his feet to step into them. Wearily he did so, and she smiled gaily as she drew them up over his penis, which was trying to stiffen again. She stood back and asked for Mrs Grainger’s opinion. “All right, but let’s try some others,” she said, and Matthew sighed as he saw the embarrassing sequence being repeated several times, as it was, and his penis, being touched and covered and uncovered, was now at least a couple of inches longer. Mrs G added to his mortification by asking about urination, and the girls showed her how easy it was to bring out his penis through the slit provided, which made the beleaguered organ even more swollen, making the demonstration the fourth time through rather more difficult.

The crowd was by now quite sizeable, and Matthew could see the supervisor arguing with the manager, it seemed, over the result of the spectacle. The latter threw up his hands as if to say “Fine! What can I do?” and Matthew realised the Grainger influence was at work. Next one of the girls held up a vest and shirt, and Mrs G said “Yes, you’ll take the smock off now.” He cringed again as his smock was removed, and a murmur arose from the surrounding crowd, along with a few laughs. He could see the schoolgirls were giggling, and he wished the earth would swallow him up. He tried to hide his genitals, of course, but had to move his hands so that the salesgirls could apply the vests and other garments. One vest was tried on his naked torso, then another, and a third, which was accepted. Next, a shirt, then another, and so it went, with several items being tried on until one was settled upon. In between times he stood in the middle of the crowded store, easily seen on the dais, stark naked, his penis trying to rise, and hoping he wouldn’t get a full erection.

He got vest, shirt, underpants, nightshirt, trousers, socks, and shoes, jacket, coat, and scarf. The choice of a hat took longer than he expected, but by then he was back in his smock and his tumescence had died down, and the salacious crowd had departed. Mrs G looked at Matthew thoughtfully. Then a devilish smile appeared on her lips and he knew that something awful would happen. She summoned the girls to her and said “That takes care of his ordinary clothes, and you’ve done very well. But a couple of things, extras, might be useful. To begin with, a swimming costume. Matthew here swims and dives, so we need a costume for that. Show us some.”

The girls looked pleased and went away, and Matthew looked daggers at Mrs G. “Please, madam,” he said tiredly, “we don’t need it—”

“True, Matthew!” she interrupted, “it’s better to swim naked; but one must be prepared, like the Boy Scouts, for all eventualities. Ah, girls, thank you. That seems a goodly selection. Matthew, off with the smock, and we’ll try some on.”

He dropped the smock on the floor and reached for a bathing suit, but he was forestalled by the girls, who brought him down to the floor and directed his feet into the bottom of the suit, holding him by the waist as they did so. Then they drew it up his body, starting his penis into swelling again, which was increased by the gathering of another crowd, mostly of schoolgirls, to witness this unlikely event. They eased the straps over his shoulders and showed him to Mrs Grainger, who hummed and asked for another. So it went – stripped and dressed, stripped and dressed, and his penis trying to assert itself. At length the final suit was taken off, and Mrs G, who actually had no intention of buying one, expressed regret, but maybe there was one other thing the boy might need. “What, madam?” asked one. “An athletic support. A jockstrap,” she replied calmly.

The two of them suddenly blushed for the first time, and looked at each other, then looked at blushing Matthew and broke into laughter, knowing that the lady would forgive their bawdy amusement. “Yes, madam!” they chorused, and went off giggling.

The boy stared at his cruel mistress and said “No, madam, please! Haven’t we had enough today? You’ve shown me to all those people, and—”

“Yes,” she said, “and now we’re showing some more. Put your hands by your sides and stand straight, you slovenly boy! That’s right. Here come the girls with some jockstraps, and,” she smiled thinly, “I’m sure they’re enjoying this. As is the crowd. See all those young girls? Ah, your penis is finally striving to erect!” It was true, his organ had got quite swollen by now, and protruded from his body nearly at right angles. He whimpered at the spectacle he was making, but had to submit to the girls’ hands as they manoeuvred him into a rather uncomfortable harness for his genitals and demonstrated to Mrs G the usefulness of the design. She didn’t like the first one, so they removed it and inserted his penis and testicles into another, which was even more uncomfortable; when that came off the girls decided to measure him to see if another would be better. One held the end of the tape measure to the root of his organ, among the pubic hair, as the horrid child Charlotte had done, and the other held it along the shaft, tucking it round the glans, and reading off the size quite loudly, “Six inches and three-quarters!” at which the crowd snickered and hooted. This treatment was the last straw, and his penis elevated to be nearly perpendicular, at which the crowd gasped and the girls laughed in delight. The next jockstrap fitted even worse, and it was declared unusable. “Ah well,” said Mrs G, “next time perhaps. Matthew, put your smock on. Girls, many thanks for your patience.” The salesgirls gathered up all the clothes and thanked them profusely, giving the eye to blushing Matthew as they stroked his backside in farewell. Mrs G directed them to send the clothes to the manor, and she was ushered out by a fawning manager as the crowd dispersed talking among themselves.

The old landau still stood outside, probably impeding traffic, but evidently all regulations were rescinded in Mrs Grainger’s favour. They crossed the street and entered a large building that turned out to host a swimming bath. It was crowded inside, and Matthew didn’t see an empty seat. Mrs G, however, was soon accommodated, and she sat in a hastily produced basket chair to look at the proceedings. There were a few speeches from the mayor and other dignitaries, and the populace were invited to enjoy the facilities. Mrs Grainger beckoned to an official and had a word with him, and he came up to Matthew to say “Young man, Mrs Grainger has said you’ll be willing to demonstrate a few dives for us and swim a length or two. But you’ll have to take that smock thing off I’m afraid. Come this way.” He followed in a daze, saying to himself he can’t be serious – surely her influence doesn’t go this far? But it was so, for an announcement was made over the public address system that a young man would demonstrate a number of dives for their entertainment and instruction, and he was left at the start of the first level of diving board. The official looked at him meaningfully, and as in a dream Matthew stripped off his short smock and walked out to the edge of the board and raised his hands. The crowd roared when it saw him, bright with a blush, posing at the tip of the first board. Then he dived into the pool, and they applauded. He came out and brushed water from his eyes, to see the official gesturing to the ladder that led to the next board. He climbed, conscious of all those eyes, and looked down on a sea of faces. He saw with something of a shock that rows and rows of seats were filled with girls, probably from the local school, and he swallowed as he walked out and posed again, this time with a penis that was again trying to raise itself to erection. He quickly dived into the cool water and felt his hardness weaken. Out he came, and went up to the last high board. He stood there, and it seemed there arose a collective sigh of admiration from the crowd, which he knew was focussed on his penis, and he felt it uncurl and stand before them all, This itself drew exclamations out of the audience, and he raised his hands and deliberately did the fanciest dive he knew, eliciting a great roar of applause. He saw the official at the side gesturing, and reluctantly he swam up and down the pool to show off the facility, and show off his body too. He came out to find an eager girl with a large towel who dried him from top to toe while making admiring remarks about him. He just stood there breathing heavily and being glad he’d lost his latest erection. Mrs Grainger came to lead him away through the applauding audience (during which an enterprising photographer snapped his picture) and out to the street, and he flinched as he reached the open air. They crossed the street to the carriage, and Mrs G motioned him to sit up in front beside the driver. She seemed to have forgotten about the smock, and he quailed as he realised he was deliberately being put on naked view for the people. Mrs Grainger told him to wait there while she ordered a few more things, and disappeared into the store. Matthew knew he wasn’t supposed to cover himself, so he sat there nude with another erection beside the gruff driver, who looked sideways at him with disdain and whistled carelessly. In no time another crowd, seemingly of teenage girls, had gathered to gawk, and the scarlet boy sat there with bowed head and clenched fists and heard the laughing comments. About ten minutes later Mrs G came out, the driver quickly dismounted and opened the door for her. She sat down and nodded to him, and he climbed up and whipped up the horses. They proceeded at a slow pace through the town, Matthew quivering up on the box trying not to meet the stares and the laughing faces (as well as the outraged ones) of the townsfolk. All the way home he was shivering in the cool afternoon air and wondering how Mrs Grainger could get away with such a defiance of common decency and the laws about indecent exposure. The driver was no conversationalist, and didn’t even say a word to his employer. At the main door they alighted and several girls came out to meet them, giving gloating looks at Matthew, who was sent upstairs till tea, promised another smock. He sat on his bed, cold and tired and beaten. There was no way, he thought, he could last very long here. But sooner or later, madam had to run out of ideas for his humiliation. Come to that, surely she’d get tired of him and send him home? – But then what about Catherine?

Abigail came in with a smock, to tell him that he’d missed the school visit, but nothing much had happened. Tomorrow being Sunday again, why didn’t he take a nice long lie? He was suspicious of this, but put the doubts out of his head, and looked forward to seeing Catherine at teatime. Unfortunately she didn’t appear, and no-one volunteered information. He decided she probably had another ‘female complaint’, and didn’t press.

That afternoon, however, had been an agonising one for her.

“Now, you are going out there with nothing on, Catherine.”

The girl trembled and looked at Abigail with frightened eyes. “I c-can’t! You can’t ask me to! Please, Abigail, I’ll be—”

“You’ll be stark naked,” said Abigail cruelly, “in front of boys, in the midst of a crowd of boys. There’s about fifty or more, maybe even a hundred boys out there, who’ll be looking at your bare body, eyeing your breasts, admiring your arse, and gloating to see your shaven cunt. This is your forfeit, and you must fulfil it. Or else. Am I going to have to complain about your wilfulness to Mrs G?” Her victim moaned, and her eyes filled with tears. She thought of her friend and spoke his name like a saving mantra. “Matthew….”

“Matthew!” exclaimed her tormentor. “You’d like your handsome hero to come and stop this, wouldn’t you? Well, he’s not here. Mrs G has taken him to town for some things. Besides, what makes you think he wouldn’t approve? He likes seeing you naked. He told me he wanted to feel you up.” Catherine looked at her in dismay. Surely he hadn’t said that, surely he wasn’t like that, just wanting to get a sexual thrill out of her? No, she told herself, he was a normal boy who had a sex drive, and it must arouse him to see her naked, but there was more to it than that. Apart from his instincts and natural urges, he liked her, she knew, and respected her. That gentleness and compassion were just as natural for him, she also knew, and she loved him for that. Loved him! Now she realised the depth of her affection for him.

Abigail was still talking. “That Barham boy isn’t here either – I got the impression he was one of those prigs who’d put a stop to this. God knows where he is. Dawson likewise. No one to stand up for you. Plenty to stand their pricks for you, though! So stop this foolishness. You have no choice. You’re going out there to be stared at by a horde of young boys, some of whom – most of whom I expect – have never had the privilege of ogling a naked girl before. Now listen.”

Catherine was shaking. It had been bad enough at the volley ball game, but here she’d be absolutely naked in front of a lot more boys than before. She was blushing in advance at the very thought of all those lascivious eyes. “Listen!” said Abigail. “You go out, straight across the garden to the maze. You walk round the maze and come back here. What could be easier?”

“But Abigail,” she pleaded, “can’t I cover my….”

“Hah! Your what? Say it, your what? You know the word I mean.”

Catherine swallowed and whispered, “My … cunt.”

“Yes! That’s the word! My, how mealy-mouthed you are! And the answer is … maybe. I think I’ll let you cover your cunt and your breasts as you go. That’s actually better because it draws attention to your nakedness and your embarrassment. And then at the maze, you must drop your hands to your sides and walk round and back totally uncovered.” She paused, with her fist to her mouth, and considered. Then with a semblance of compassion, she continued, “No, maybe the last bit will do. From the entrance back to here. Understand?” Catherine nodded, with a sob. “And,” continued Abigail relentlessly, “remember that obedience means no complaint to Mrs G, no punishment from the orphanage, no backfire on your dear Matthew and his wretched family. Now go.” She opened the door and held out her hand for the robe. With a groan Catherine undid the belt and passed her sole garment to the other girl. She took a deep shuddering breath and stepped out into the sunshine and torment of nearly two hundred eyes.

Her first steps were tentative and slow, and she had gone half a dozen paces before she thought to hide herself. One arm across her breasts, the other hand shielding her groin, she crept out onto the grass, her head lowered. She heard gasps of astonishment and murmurs of pleasure as she walked straight ahead, not looking up till she was halfway across the lawn to the maze. Then she was conscious of the near presence of others, and glanced up to meet the amused stares of the crowd, which now surrounded her. She had to stop and endure their gaze for what seemed an eternity, her blushes spreading over her entire body, it seemed. The hand at her vulva, pressed to her sensitive skin, felt the beginnings of a damp excitement. But she couldn’t be excited, could she? Please, don’t let them see!

“Hey, pretty one, why are you naked?” a boy of about fourteen asked her, his eyes roaming up and down her body. She looked at him pleadingly and stammered, “P-please, let me pass.” “Not till you tell us why you’re naked, and maybe show us some more.” His companions, who had become more numerous during the exchange, gave murmurs of assent.

“Please,” she said, “I have to do this. It’s—”

“It’s a punishment, is it? What the fuck did you do? Piss in the wrong place?” This witticism brought vulgar laughter from the crowd, and one of them, standing immediately behind her, exclaimed “She’s got a really nice bum, don’t you think, fellows?” She squirmed as they laughed, but was glad to see them open up and allow her to go on. By this time the press had become larger and she had to walk through a gauntlet of boys who could admire the picture she presented as she approached, her right arm across her breasts, scarcely hiding her erect nipples, and her left hand at her crotch covering her slit, whose labia were, she knew, growing more full and becoming red—as red perhaps as her cheeks.Those she had passed could look their full on her behind, the rounds of her buttocks twitching in shame, and perhaps (oh god no) catching a glimpse of her puffy vulva between her thighs.

She got to the start of the maze and turned to the right, the crowd opening before her. The boys were still making remarks, as new viewers came in sight, with crude exclamations of delighted surprise. Round she went, circling the maze, which seemed very large, its hedge shielding her in places from the hot sun. She knew she was sweating in the heat, and sweating from her shame, her face burning as she seemed to physically feel the impact of so many eyes.

Eventually she reached the maze entrance again, and saw Abigail in the distance. She had to drop her hands now, and the assembly gave a collective sigh as what she had hidden was now revealed. They saw her smallish breasts, their nipples seeming to strain upwards in their arousal, they saw her shaved pubis with the vulva engorged and seeming to gape in salute to the admiring multitude, betraying her physical reaction with its visible wetness, which a number of her audience noticed and commented on crudely. She paused and clenched her hands by her sides. It wasn’t too far to go.

Now she began the last walk towards the house and sanctuary. Halfway there her gaze, which had been again lowered to the grass beneath her, suddenly met the feet of another boy standing in front of her, his own arousal evident from the way his trousers poked out in front. He made no attempt to hide his erection, and just stood there looking his fill at her nakedness.Then, to a yell of encouragement from his comrades, he put out his hand to her breast. She flinched and stepped back, to feel another boy right behind her, who took advantage of her closeness to put his hand on her left buttock. She squealed and moved forward, which action took her closer to the first boy’s hand, which was able to cup her breast and feel the erect nipple under his palm. Catherine could no longer move; she was surrounded by the crowd, who obviously intended to do more exploring of her trembling body.

She took courage and pushed ahead into the throng, trying to ignore the boys’ eager hands that sought out every surface of her body, or so it seemed. She was sweating copiously as she struggled through their midst, and the moisture helped her slip through their grasp. She was conscious of a great wetness at her shaved vulva, and wondered if she were in fact pissing herself in fright, and would have screamed had she not been out of breath. Then she was close to the edge of the crowd, and was nearly free – Abigail was standing a few yards away contemplating the riot with a devilish gleam in her eyes – when she was seized from behind and one lucky boy put his hand on her wet groin. She moaned as she was held fast while he tentatively inserted his novice fingers into her body. He found her clitoris and played with it, and in his fumbling managed to trigger a massive orgasm in the virgin before him. She yelled out in sexual passion, “Oh God! Oh God! Aahh!” and the crowd were spellbound as they watched her spasm in sexual release. They parted round about her as she sank to her knees, turning bright crimson over much of her body, her pubis pushing out and quivering in an ecstasy that seemed to last for ages. The boys were quite fascinated and watched in a kind of reverent silence till she shuddered and took a deep breath, then began to sob silently. Abigail came and took her by the hand and led her away, smiling in a conspiratorial way at the boys, who could hardly believe the scene they had witnessed and acted in. Once inside the house, Abigail led the fainting girl up to her room and put her on the bed. She looked at her with a sardonic grin and said “I expect you’ll want to rest all by yourself for a while, hmm? Sleep a bit. Later, we’ll run you a bath. You need it after sweating like a pig out there, and dripping with your juice! Yes, you really got excited there, didn’t you? God, to think of all those boys that saw your twat and tits, felt them, and your arse cheeks—all those hands on your private parts!” Catherine moaned softly and curled up into a foetal ball. Abigail looked at the stricken girl and smiled maliciously. It couldn’t have gone better, she thought. Just right. And those randy little bastards acted as she’d known they would. That was that. What next? As she went downstairs she was turning over in her mind what other humiliation she could put the boy to. She wondered how the trip to town had gone.

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Meanwhile, Colin Barham had gone looking for Liza in the hope of some cuddling and a kiss or two. He found her in a corner of the lawn and smiled a hello. She coloured again as she remembered her performance and his washing her body, but swallowed and gave him a shy smile of her own. “Come,” he said, “let’s walk. I want to get to know you, and to tell you about myself. I want us to be friends.”

She looked at him timidly and nodded, and together they began to walk around the perimeter of the lawn. “Aren’t you supposed to be in charge of the boys?” she asked, looking at a crowd of teenagers milling about.

“Oh yes,” he said blithely, “but there’s nothing much they can get up to. I’ll check on them in a little while. Now: tell me about yourself.”

“Well,” she said, “I’m not sure what you want to hear. I’m sixteen years old, and came here to Mrs Grainger’s two years ago when I was fourteen, as a sort of apprentice. My family’s from London originally but settled in Heighsham at the time and we looked around for a job for me. I’m the eldest, my sister is twelve and my brother is eight. So anyway I came here, and it’s been quite interesting in a sort of a way, but I have to tell you it’s hard to bear sometimes.”

“Let me ask you,” he said diffidently, “about that business on the lawn. How did that happen?”

She blushed and said, “Please, Colin, don’t talk about it. Don’t remind me.”

He stopped and took her arm. “Liza, it happened and there’s no avoiding it. I know how you feel, but I’d really like to know, to understand….”

She heaved a sigh and looked round for a private spot, then led him to the maze. “Come in here,” she said, “no-one will bother us.”

“Are you sure?”

“No-one ever comes in here, and if they did, they’d never get to the centre too quickly. I know, and we’ll go there.” She led him with sure steps to the middle of the maze, where a little plot of grass bore a bronze statue of a young girl, nude, throwing out her arms on tiptoe and looking up at the sky. It was well executed and extremely lifelike, and Colin, looking at its groin, remarked on the anatomically accurate portrayal of the vulva. He looked at Liza, who flushed and said “It’s an old statue one of the owners brought back from Italy, I think. It is a bit … ”

“—Revealing? Realistic? But I think it’s beautiful. Oh I know you won’t agree, Liza, but I really think that … part of the body is the most beautiful. Apart from a pretty face I mean. And let me say that I don’t think much of the male equipment. I don’t know how much you’ve seen--”

She flushed again and stammered “No, not a lot, but – oh!” “What?” She looked down at the ground and said “It’s really an ironic sort of payback for my poking fun at a boy…” He looked mystified, and she said “Let’s sit down, and I’ll tell you. Make a clean breast of it.” He smiled, and she laughed and added, “To coin a phrase.”

When they were settled, with his arm round her shoulders and her hand on his chest, leaning up against the base of the statue, she explained some of what had been going on at the house. “This boy Matthew is very shy and modest, so when Mrs Grainger decided to tease him into being naked, we all went along with it. I came upon him in the bathroom having a …” she looked at him doubtfully, “having a shit, and watched him as he cleaned himself. So you see it’s God’s judgement, as my grannie would say, that I had the same sort of experience.”

Colin gazed at her and pursed his lips. “Maybe, but it was a bit extreme! But how did it happen anyway?”

“Well, we were playing cards….”

When he heard about Abigail’s trick he swore and called her some filthy names. “Let me try and assuage some of that torment, for it must have been. Let me hold you, let me kiss you….”

She looked up at him and laughed. “Oh yes! Dear Colin, if anyone can make me feel better about it, you can.” She sank into his embraces and gave herself up to as passionate a kiss as she’d ever imagined.

A little while later she found herself unbuttoning Colin’s shirt, and he at first resisted, but then admitted “It’s fair play, dear Liza. Let me help.” Soon his shirt was off, and then she started on his trouser buttons, not really thinking of what she was doing. He in return found it easy to slip off her smock and her shift to reveal what he had admired before – her breasts, her dear tits, their nipples now pointing out, as if eager to be warmed by his reverent hands. She had his trousers off, and then he had her knickers off, and then – they clung together, mouth to mouth and eye to eye, before they closed their eyes in a swoon of ecstasy.

Her hands went round him to his buttocks, and he groaned in delight, then rolled her of top of him. Looking up into her astonished face, he murmured “Now, now, Liza! Please, please, fuck me!”

His erect penis somehow found its way to her vulva, and she began to move, to ride him like a horse – the bizarre image came to her and she laughed aloud – then cried “Yes! Yes! Fuck me, Colin!” as they pressed their bodies together and met in a grand climax that left them breathless.

In a little while she asked him why he had wanted her to be on top. He answered quite readily, “Because I wanted you to be in charge. I didn’t want to force myself on you, to play the man’s part, who expects the woman to submit. No, Liza, I wanted you to want me so much that you could take the initiative, and you did gloriously. I loved that. I’m looking forward,” he said with a lewd grin, :”to doing it again.”

She looked at him in surprise. “Well,” she said, with a grin of her own, “I won’t mind a bit. But maybe you have to rest, gather your strength?”

“I don’t know,” he said, “but give me a little while. Time to smoke a fag. D’you want one?”

“Yes, why not?” she said. “I don’t smoke very often, but maybe this is an occasion.” They lit up and leaned back in comfortable affection, their naked bodies side by side against the realistic statue, and smiled peacefully.

Outside the maze, the boys were talking among themselves about the extraordinary exhibition they’d witnessed, and wondering whether they should tell Mr Dawson about it. No-one knew where he was, though, until he finally surfaced from a little kiosk by the woods, where he’d fallen asleep over a book, he said. He omitted to tell them he’d found it in the library there, and sneaked it away to excite himself with. No-one could find Colin either, and he showed up just in time for the bus, looking tired but pleased somehow. When Dawson looked at him he noticed his expression and smiled to himself. The little bugger had really done it, fucked that Liza girl! Well, good luck to him! He’d tell his friend about that and they’d have a good laugh.

That evening was a quiet one for everybody at the house; Matthew and Catherine dined hastily and kept to their rooms, each trying to forget the awful experiences they’d suffered. Matthew was consoling himself with plans about his library investigations, while Catherine began a long-planned journal of her life in this strange place.

Catherine’s journal

Saturday 30 May 1925

Here I am in a nice room with a comfortable bed in a big house, well fed, warm and not overworked as I was at Mrs Grove’s awful place. I should be happy but of course I’m not. I’m comfortable, but the price madam expects me to pay is high. I’ve lost count of the times I’ve been humiliated by her or her vindictive helper Abigail, made to take off my clothes and be looked at by strangers, mostly men and boys naturally. I used to think I’d die if a boy saw my private parts. Well by this time it’s dozens of boys have seen me and even touched me, and I haven’t died, except that I feel a bit dead inside. Maybe I’m thinking that this is like the life of a whore, and I suppose such a one is dead inside too, dead as far as ordinary affection is, they can’t have the same feelings about sex, I mean, as a virgin, can they? But there it is, I’m a virgin, as Mrs G made me admit, no one has ever fucked me. (It’s a funny sensation to write that word for the first time!) But I’ve been fucked by their eyes, and a few have fucked me with their fingers. I was shocked when I first came here just three weeks ago, by the way madam treated me, but since then it’s grown, got more intense somehow, as if she doesn’t care a bit about my feelings or how I’ll react, she couldn’t care less about me or my shame. I still have that virginal feeling of shame at my exposure, in some ways it’s more intense as well. And the trouble is that every day I’m in dread of being summoned to take off my clothes so a boy can look at me and gloat. I have that feeling of shame but also something else, it’s as if I look forward with a sort of perverse pleasure, or anticipation, to the shameful thing they’ll do to me. I get excited, aroused, my cunt (I may as well use the word) seems to want to show itself, and it gets wet. Actually it’s a lot wetter than it used to be somehow. With one thing and another I’ve had an orgasm a lot more frequently than before. I’ve never made a habit of masturbating regularly or frequently, but here, it’s a different story, for it’s a different world I’ve come to.

But oh God I have met the most wonderful boy I never imagined – his name is Matthew Raven, with black hair and dark eyes and a nice smile, and I think he loves me. His teeth are even and his nose is – I can’t think of a word, but it’s nice too. His body is handsome, and his behind firm, his belly flat and his hips slim, his pubic hair isn’t too much, his ballocks fine, his penis about three inches long when it’s at rest and I’m sure it’s six at least when it’s erect. He isn’t cruel or unkind when it comes to my exposure, he’s just as modest as I am actually and blushes when he’s naked, or even when I’m naked. I think about him all the time, and I confess, dear diary, that I’ve imagined stroking his body, his backside, his cock, until I made him come. The other girls are seeing him naked more often, and they bath him and wash his cock and wank him to make him come, they’ve described it in every detail to the rest of us, and I sometimes wish it were me, but oh God I couldn’t do that, touch him so intimately. We have kissed, a wonderful extraordinary magic minute, that took away some of the pain of being looked at by a crowd of boys and prodded by a doctor. – And I did feel his erection against my body, an amazing feeling. But it had been Matthew’s turn, too, and he had to strip before a gaggle of schoolgirls. So we have this shameful thing in common, they use us as objects to amuse themselves, and I don’t see any way out for either of us. M should be sent back sometime to his real mistress, which makes my heart ache, but for the time being we’re both in the same boat, rudderless, at the mercy of a sadistic woman who rules her little realm with an iron rod and gets pleasure somehow from our anguish. Please God, let us escape. I’ll tell you, diary, I’m not sure whether he exists, but I pray anyway for my delivery and Matthew’s freedom from all his shame….

I don’t know how to tell M about the walk round the maze. I think he would want to hit Abigail for doing that to me. – But he couldn’t, he’s a prisoner like me, his family would suffer. So there we are, shown off in our glory to the opposite sex, and we can’t do anything about it. God help us. – Let me be happy though to have found a boy like Matthew. I have fallen in love with him and I thank God for that. It’s surely enough that I see him most days and enjoy his dear smile. For that I’ll put up with Mrs G and Abigail.

====================================================================-

Summerton

Saturday 30th May

Dear Maude –

Just a swift note to tell you about the coming dinner party planned for two weeks today. On the Sunday, all the staff will be able to have a long lie-in, they’ll need it I’m sure after their efforts in the evening. Of various sorts – you know exactly what I mean. Anyhow, at the moment the guest list stands as follows:

Sir Graeme Childers, the MP, you met him last time, at his 62^nd birthday party. Maybe you’ll recall his liking for stories (and application!) of the rod. Your husband must know him.

Sir Hubert Melville, who’ll be ten years his junior but manages to look ten years older. I know he can never hold his drink but he’s a good conversationalist. A little bird told me he got his baronetcy from Lloyd George for £40,000.

Ethel Burrows, the painter – she has a canvas in the NPG I think. She may bring her latest protégée.

George Whiston, about 60 I’d say, an ex-army major, travelled all over the place and has some good stories.

Gregory Mayne, that homo musician we met at Isobel Shaw’s party last March; he must be 28 I think but (the reverse of Sir Hubert) looks much younger, say 22 or so. A nice-looking young man, and I’ll confess to you, dear Maude, that if it weren’t for his preferences I’d think about him giving me a thrill!

William Barlow, the Liberal politician, who’s rumoured to have rogered half of the young staff at the Houses (Commons and Lords), and has gone through most of his father’s fortune in four years. But I have it on good authority that he’s aiming to make a wealthy marriage quite soon, with a relative (don’t know how close) of Dutch royalty.

Thomas King, his nephew, 19 years old and ready for the world, described as a randy young sod by someone who should know, who says David Marshall, 20, his friend, is even worse. Or better.

Isobel Shaw, the sculptor, who was here last time. At her party we also met that poet Cecily Stevens, who’s just my age. She may be able to bring her niece, or second cousin, I forget what relation it is, a young girl of sixteen I believe. It’ll be interesting to see how she reacts.

Peg Ainsworth, a journalist, only 25 but making a name as rooter-out of scandals. Has a connection with the News of the World paper.

Daniel Ainsworth, her cousin, 17-year-old schoolboy, headed for Sandhurst quite soon, and his schoolmate Michael Brent, just had his 16^th birthday last month. All these young folks are ripe for initiation into our world, and this will be a good first step.

Mrs Anna Thorpe, the novelist; she doesn’t admit to it but I know she’s responsible for several stories of quite outlandish sexual content, quite trashy but full of exquisite torture.

Dorothy Cavendish, that 40ish historian I introduced at Isobel’s party. Studies fascinating things like the droit du seigneur and the princes in the Tower, and is I hear writing a tome on the history of prostitution.

The Irreverend, as he introduces himself, Somerset Drayton, from Bath. He travels quite a bit, in Europe at least, favourite place Venice; like Rolfe, likes young gondoliers. Actually I suspect he goes there to act out the role of Aschenbach – do you know Mann’s story? It was in The Dial last year.

Enid Waterson, a bit younger than I, probably just 30, an attractive lesbian, runs some charity or other.

Alexander Horton, a manufacturer of various things, including, I understand, condoms and special devices. Can tell us all about Chinese sex practices. He related that amusing story of The Fragrant Fart I passed on last time.

Mrs Mildred Barton, a secretary, probably approaching 60, adores Russian culture and art etc but thankfully is not too boring about it. She’ll maybe tell us about an obscene poem called ‘Lucas Mudishchev’ or similar, sounds fascinating.

James Girvan, pharmacist in Heighsham, and his young friend Dr Theodore Merton, who’s half his age (35?) and probably his lover. They were here last time but one and enjoyed themselves hugely, they said, and have been angling to come back ever since.

Chester Baines, the American business man (steel I believe), in the news from his expensive divorce. I’m informed he relishes cocaine, and we’ll be sure to have some available besides the cannabis we usually supply.

Clarissa Fettes, a nice young (25 or so) hotel manager at some loch in Scotland. Friend of Lucy Michaels, met last year.

Jeremiah Cranston, the political journalist, a veteran (septuagenarian I’m sure) digger-out of skeletons.

Valentine Sawyer, Conservative councillor, another disciple of Masoch. You may remember him from last time.

There are a few more I’m trying to snare – perhaps Aleister Crowley, whose Snowdrops book is in the library, and I’d like to have him read some of those awful poems!

All these folks should make for some good conversation to start with and probably some enjoyment of a whipping to end with. I suppose people have come to expect some demonstration of the kind, and if it doesn’t happen naturally, or spontaneously, as it did with that Jewish girl last time, then it can easily be brought about. Abigail knows this and I think I can rely on her. There’s the humiliation too, all of them in those backless aprons, ready to be fondled. My usual staff are used to this by now but the new pair, your Matthew and the Hammond girl, are not, and it’ll be amusing to see how they bear up. However, they have both been subjected to exposure in the middle of a crowded store, and I had Matthew swim naked in public – it was most enjoyable. He also is being the victim of sexual assault by two of our girls, at the bath. It’s most amusing, and indeed arousing, to witness (from my spying vantage point). All in all, I’m very pleased with him, and I thank you again for lending him!

As for the Academy, it continues to be successful, and the girls have much enjoyed Matthew’s presence in their classes, sometimes in attractive déshabillé! It won’t be too long now till the end of term, and I’m thinking of giving the boy pride of place (you may imagine how) in our concert, at least in the prelim, the dress rehearsal, to which the straitlaced public are not invited.

This year I think we’ll be going to France for the summer. Switzerland was fine last year but I’m considering Provence this time. We bought a very nice place a few years ago near a little village called Vaulx, as I think I told you, and it would be good to go back. With excursions to Paris of course, to the Arts Exposition – with the Eiffel Tower all lit up, quite a sight I hear. Etc etc. – I say, would you mind if I took the boy with us? I think he’d like that, and the poor dear would probably appreciate a respite from his harassment. What do you think?

As always, please inform his people that he’s getting on nicely and sends his love.

And as usual all my best to you and yours.

Love

Lydia

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

That evening Matthew was “helped” with great enthusiasm by Kate and Betty, eighteen and seventeen years old, from the school staff. They washed him with efficiency and watched his ejaculation with interest, comparing his performance to those they had witnessed from their own swains; then dried him very very carefully and put him into his new nightshirt and then to bed gently, patting his red cheek and smiling at him, telling him he was just as good, if not better, than their own clumsy lovers. He thought about thanking them for the compliment, but just closed his eyes and muttered a goodnight.

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

Sunday 31^st May

Visit of St Vincent’s boys; Matthew pleases Rachael; to town for supplies and an adventure

“Colin, dear boy! A word.”

The boy stopped and turned to the rector. “What is it, sir?”

The head smiled and said “Nothing terribly important, but I’ve had a request from Lydia Grainger over there at Summerton for a young man of aesthetic good taste to pass judgement on some question of fashion, I believe. She mentioned you specifically, and I thought I’d ask you to fill the bill. Along with a friend of like mind. Could you see your way to doing that?”

“I don’t know why not, sir, and I think my friend Francis, Masterman that is, would be glad to help.”

“Excellent. Then I’ll telephone Mrs Grainger and arrange a date. Perhaps the pair of you can make a day of it. Going and coming, after all, takes a few hours as we know. You could set off early in the morning and return in the early evening. All right?”

“Yes sir, that would be fine.”

So it was arranged. Colin couldn’t believe his luck. He’d have another chance to meet with Liza! He’d get this fashion thing over and done with in a jiffy, and then have another canoodle with the dear girl. He thought back to the extraordinary tryst in the centre of the maze, and his penis twitched to a mild stiffness. God, he’d love to fuck her again! So here was his chance. What about Francis, though? Maybe he’d find a twat of his own? Why not? He was just as randy as the next boy, after all. All right; he’d look forward to a jolly interesting day.

“Yes, Rector, that sounds excellent. I’ve also got hold of two boys from St Vincent’s, perhaps they’ll balance the opinions of your pair. So all we need to settle is the day.”

“It’ll be a Saturday or Sunday I suppose, don’t you think? So as not to interrupt the week’s instruction?”

“Of course, Rector. It’s not too short notice, is it, to say this Saturday coming, the 6th of June next?”

“Admirable, Mrs Grainger. It’s settled then. Goodbye.”

She hung up and considered what would happen. The boys would arrive from St Mark’s, the one who had come before with the visiting boys who had been treated (said Abigail) to a devastating exhibition by Catherine, an eighteen-year-old, and a crony of his called, what was it, Francis Masterman, aged but seventeen. They’d come at about ten or so, and the pair from the rival school at eleven, they expected. That would be David Laidlaw, who again had visited before to see that grand exposure of the recalcitrant girls, where he’d seen Catherine naked and probably had the opportunity to fondle her bottom. She was sure he was eager to come back, just in case there were to be further revelations. Little did he know! And his friend, Andrew Petrie, yes, that was it, just turning eighteen it seemed. Well: they would be given an early luncheon around noon, along with the other guests, Jackson and Son (oh, she despised that oily son of his! But the pair were excellent craftsmen in cloth), and those friends, sixteen and eighteen years old, just the right ages to derive a thrill from inspecting (quite closely) a young girl of fifteen in undress. That would happen after luncheon, for several hours, until Jackson had all the details and decisions had been made. Eight pairs of eyes, perhaps eight opinions, but she herself would have the casting vote. A thought crossed her mind and she made a note to remember to have an electric fan handy in order to provide a strong breeze that would simulate wind, to see what it did to a light material skirt – under which, she smiled to recall, the girl would be wearing no knickers.

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

Matthew strolled along a path in the large garden by the house, reliving his embarrassments at the school. He stopped with more embarrassment when he came face to face with young Rachael, the gardener’s twelve-year-old daughter. He hoped she’d forgotten how they met and she saw him tossing off, but of course she hadn’t. “Oh hullo!” she said with a beaming smile. “Matthew! I do wish you’d let me see you again.” He flushed and stammered some sort of reply, and she continued “But you wouldn’t look at me. Why don’t you want to see me?”

He swallowed and said “Rachael, please, I – I’m not snubbing you, I’m sure your … thing is very pretty, but I don’t think your father would like it if he knew you showed it to me.”

She looked a bit puzzled, but said “He won’t know. And why would he be angry anyhow?” She put her hands to the bottom of her dress and raised it, looking him in the eyes. “Tell me you like it, please.”

He looked automatically at her crotch, where a small patch of pubic hair surrounded a little vulva, and he licked his lips, thinking he should get it over with, and said “It – it’s very nice. It really is. I … like it, it’s … it’s very pretty.”

He had put out his hand to point to it, but somehow she moved and he managed to touch that pretty spot. He recoiled, but she grinned and said “You want to touch it? Please stroke it. I like that.” His eyes widened and he looked around, and casting discretion aside, he tentatively began to stroke her little vulva, while she closed her eyes with a beatific expression. Matthew found his fingers entering her, and couldn’t help himself from continuing to move inside her, as he had learned to do with Charlotte. Rachael began to squirm and moan, and he thought about stopping, but she said in a sort of groan “Don’t stop, Matthew! Please, please!” Then all of a sudden she stiffened, then relaxed, and smiled at him. “Oh Matthew!” she said, “Thank you, that was wonderful. I thought you’d like it. Eddie thought it was nice too.”

He stared at her. “You – you showed it to Eddie, the garage boy, isn’t he?”

“Yes,” she said complacently. “And Morris, daddy’s helper.” His eyes grew big. “And Mickey, he liked it too.”

“Oh God,” he said, “you’ve been showing yourself to all those boys. But….”

“But listen” she said, “you’re the only one I let touch me. You’re special. Listen, I asked Eddie about his cock, and he showed me it and let me stroke it. And he spat out your white stuff, and it was a great show. But listen, it’s not as good as your one. You’re the best!”

He shivered to know he won the prize in the wanking stakes, but said thank you, and passed on, leaving her looking after him with a pleased expression. He wasn’t really surprised at her behaviour, and tried to shrug it off. Still, the picture of her immature vulva came back to him, and unthinkingly he dwelt on it, feeling again that moist cavity and the eager trigger of her heat. His rebel penis started to harden ever so slightly. All right, he told himself savagely, it was attractive, I liked stroking it, I’d like to fuck it, all right? Why pretend otherwise? But oh God, what’s happening to me here in this sexual madhouse? I wasn’t this randy before, was I? Christ, though, why not give in, enjoy it, indulge my lust, hey? Oh, forget it if you can. What’s the programme for today? What mortification has Mrs G devised, eh? Those bloody schoolboys are supposed to come, and I’m sure she’s got something awful planned, I just know it. What will Catherine be doing?

He found out soon enough what his own movements were to be, being sent to town to collect some materials from a few shops. “On a Sunday?” he asked. “Why yes,” said Abigail, “why not? I know it’s a holiday here like anywhere else but Mrs G gets a dispensation,” she savoured the word, “because she is a Grainger. So the shops are open for her, and anyone else of course. You are going in Ted Harrison’s lorry to carry things, it shouldn’t take too long I suppose, but you’ll miss the boys’ visit I’m afraid. You’ll be leaving by noon. That gets you there well after church is out, it looks better,” she said with a cynical grin. “And back in the mid-afternoon I suppose. All right? Look at you books till then.”

Two buses drove up to the Academy driveway and parked, tooting their horns. A horde of blazered boys poured out and were quickly marshalled by prefects as Miss Birkett appeared at the door to welcome the visitors graciously. She shook hands with Mr Bradley and David Laidlaw, the head prefect, and introduced them to the head girl of the Academy, Dulcie Jennings, and Abigail Hughes, head of staff. “Dulcie will show you over the school,” she said, “then we’ll have tea, and after that we’ll have a special presentation.”

Catherine had been wondering what the “special presentation” was, but had an awful feeling it was a reciprocal sort of show in return for the display of nudity they’d seen at the boys’ school. She asked Abigail, who laughed and said “Of course! These little bastards are just itching to see what we can come up with to repay Mr Bradley for that fine show we had there – caning on the bare arse! And showing their pricks! My, it was great!” Catherine looked at her disgustedly. “But the boys, how they must have felt! It must have been awful for them! Especially….” “Oh, you mean that last one, Ramsay, Ransome, whatever – yes! He went bright red and came in the midst of a crowd of girls. God,” she grinned, “I bet it cured him of answering back!” Catherine sighed. “But what are we going to do then? Show the girls naked, and switch their … bottoms?” “I expect so,” said Abigail carelessly. “It does seem a bit tame, though. Still, Mrs G may have something up her sleeve. Let’s wait and see.”

The boys were treated to tea and buns, and David came up to Catherine. “Hello again,” he said cheerfully. “How are things in Gruesome Grange?”

She stared. “It’s all right,” he said, “sorry if it bothers you, but that’s what the lads call the Academy.”

She laughed and said “A good name for it, actually. But we get along all right.” Mentally she kicked herself for saying things were fine, when they were far from it. She studied David as he sipped his tea and looked benevolently at his companions tucking in to scones and teacakes. He was a tall dark-haired boy with hazel eyes and a snub nose with freckles scattered over his pleasant face. He wore his hair quite long, but it didn’t give him a feminine appearance. His perfect teeth showed when he grinned, as he did now, to say “We’re looking forward to Miss Birkett‘s presentation, whatever it is. Can you tell me?”

She shook her head and had to admit ignorance. “The school is separate from the house,” she said, “I’m sorry.”

“It won’t have anything to do with chastising naked bums, will it?” he asked in amusement. “To pay us back for titillating you lot last time?”

Catherine flushed. “I don’t know,” she mumbled. “To tell the truth, I hope not. The poor boys, poor Ransome—”

“Ransome!” he snorted, “Handsome Ransome, the berk! I might have known he’d shoot his come like that. He pissed all over the block once, and I heard he shat himself likewise. He’s what my father would call a muff.”

Catherine looked at him appalled. “The poor boy! He was nervous, he couldn’t help—”

“Oh all right,” he looked at her seriously. “I admit Bradley went a bit far. Still, I have an idea Lady G is quite prepared to do something like that. To be honest, she has a bit of a reputation, you know. Word does get out. What about that chap who was exhibited at a garden party recently, hmm? Naked, absolutedly bare bottom!”

As he continued to talk, Catherine’s heart missed a beat. She knew it must have been Matthew, and she moaned to herself. How could he have borne it? He hadn’t said anything out of embarrassment, and she probably had better not mention it to him. David was still talking, but he stopped and looked at her. “You’re a bit pale,” he said. “Are you all right?”

“Yes,” she said with a sigh, “it’s nothing. You were saying—”

“Actually I was wondering if you saw the exhibition, or if you knew who it was. Hey!” he added as a blush mounted to her cheeks, “was it that young chap you were with at the school? Yes, by gosh, I bet it was! Who is he?”

Her flush deepened as she stumbled to reply. “Hi— his name is – is Matthew Raven,” she said, “he – he’s fifteen years old, he’s one of the servants here, he—”

“All right,” said David, “is he here? I’d like to meet him.”

She gulped and said “I’m not sure where he is. He sometimes works at the Academy, and sometimes in the kitchen, and he may have been sent to Heighsham for an errand, I don’t know.”

“Fair enough,” said the boy, “I’ll see him when I see him. I’ll be back. But first, we’ll be seeing your girls…. It’ll be a jolly sight on a boring Sunday. I hope they said their prayers this morning!” His face broke into a lecherous grin, and he walked away.

The boys were arranged on the lawn in two deep ranks, on either side of a strip of grass six feet wide or so. A whistle blew, and a group of girls appeared from the house swathed in large bath-towels. Their faces were red, and their walk was hesitant as they came forth to stand at one end of the lines of the boys, who stared at them curiously. Then at another whistle they dropped their towels and were revealed nude to the bawdy gaze of the teenagers, who murmured among themselves, some sniggering, some just silently admiring. The girls had all put their hands to their crotches and shielded their breasts as well as they could, their gaze lowered and their cheeks blushing furiously. At another whistle they began to walk between the grinning lines, now displaying their naked behinds, which caused comments from the boys, some quite loud and salacious. The girls continued to walk slowly to the end of the lines, then stopped and turned. There was another blast on the whistle, and they dropped their hands to reveal their nakedness. The boys at their end whooped in pleasure, and the exposed teens began to run back to the start. They ran back and forth between the lines, the boys cheering them as they displayed themselves, till another whistle brought them to a halt and they formed a line of their own, this time bending down to grasp their ankles, feet astride, this time showing their bums and, quite plainly, their anuses and vulvas. The boys were giving delighted exclamations, but their excitement grew when Miss Cramond’s stentorian voice announced that all the boys were invited to spank the girls on the bare posterior.

Catherine couldn’t believe Mrs Grainger would do this to her pupils, even though they’d earned some punishment. She looked about and spied her just coming out to the lawn, and rushed up to her. “Madam,” she cried, “don’t allow this, this display, it’s—”

Mrs G looked at her coolly. “You don’t want me to do this? Catherine, haven’t you learned yet? Take off your clothes.”

“What?” She stared at her cruel employer.

“Don’t ever cross me, Catherine. Strip, and get on the end of the line.” Catherine had no way out. With a sob she started to undress, and the boys near her, who were getting into formation to take advantage of the girls’ line, looked at her and cheered her on. She pushed her way through them to bend down at the end of the line, and waited in dread.

“All right, boys! Go!” yelled Miss Cramond, and the punishment began. The boys went along the line of bare bums, smacking them lustily, while the girls gave muted squeals. A succession of hands landed on Catherine’s behind, and a few caresses too. Half of the boys were attacking the buttocks quite forcefully, while others were content to smooth their hands over the cheeks. The boys went round behind the girls’ line and the exercise was repeated, and this time some mischievous boys dared to obviously stroke the bum in an erotic way, and even put their eager hands to the vulva. The girls were almost fainting by now, some quietly screaming at their manual rape.

Catherine was treated the same way, and one boy pushed his hand into her moist vulva and yelled in conquest. “I know you!” he said, “You’re the slut who played volleyball naked!” The next boy shouted in glee, and wasted no time in putting his finger in. As the line of boys came along to her end, they crowded round her and paid their attentions in concert, some stroking her back, some her belly, some reaching in to fondle her breasts. She lost her footing as she jerked away and fell over to land on her back, and they surrounded her to gloat and finger every part of her, or so it seemed. She knew she was going to be roused to orgasm, but couldn’t prevent it, and lay there as the salacious horde titillated her erogenous zones till she came in a great rush of heat, her vulva throbbing and her fists clenching in ecstasy. When it was over, they left her, and turned to the other girls, who endured more slaps and pinches and questing fingers, till the whistle blew again and Miss Birkett announced an end of the entertainment. The girls ran off in tears and blushes, and Catherine picked herself up.

David came up with an armful of her clothes, and waited while she dressed herself, not looking at him or the other grinning boys around her. “Well,” he said, “that was a presentation and a half! I’m damn pleased to have been here. So you’re the girl who played volleyball in the nude, eh? That must have been something to see. But now we’ve all seen you, and felt you too. If it’s any consolation, you needn’t ever be ashamed of your body. It’s fine, shapely, beautiful even. Smooth skin. I like it that you’ve shaved your twat there. Why did you do it?”

She looked at him and felt ridiculous to be talking to him about her body, but answered “It wasn’t my idea.”

He frowned in what may have been sympathy, and merely said “All right. Anyway, for what it’s worth, we all vote you the best, the prettiest face, the prettiest tits, the prettiest arse and the prettiest cunt.”

Catherine didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. “Maybe I should thank you and your boys for the compliment,” she said with a tremor in her voice. “Perhaps you can go back and tell young Ransome that the balance sheet is fixed now. Let me tell you, David, I felt for him at that punishment. Maybe you can ask him to feel for me.” He was silent, and watched her walk into the house, then turned to gather his charges for the return. Mr Bradley, walking with Mrs Grainger, was smiling in a predatory way and congratulating her on a most interesting visit.

“We’ll have to do this again, dear lady,” he said, “and indeed could we not arrange a reciprocal series of visits every few months or so?”

“A very good idea, Mr B,” she said. “I’ll telephone you about this. I know end of term is coming, but it’s as well to arrange next year’s programme in advance. All right?”

“Indeed,” he said, and held out his hand. They shook on it, and she was excited at the prospect of a series of such entertainments throughout the year.

The buses pulled away, the boys yelling and waving from the windows, and Catherine watched from the porch. She shook her head in amazement at how Mrs G could ring the changes on her punishments and how she could influence others like Mr Bradley to accept her behaviour and even imitate it. Her staff had to accept what went on, and collaborate with her, of course, but all the same—! She wondered where Matthew was. She hadn’t seen him all day, and all of a sudden had the terrible idea that he had been subjected to another humiliation himself. She felt the need of some consolation, and instead of going to tea she sought out Mr Bryden.

When she tapped on his door she heard music, and after a moment he opened his door and welcomed her in. He was in his shirtsleeves, evidently polishing his boots while listening to his gramophone. “Do you listen to music much? No, I suppose you haven’t the time. But I have the leisure of retirement, and the means to indulge my musical taste.” He looked at his gramophone fondly. “It’s a good companion, this,” he said, “along with my books and papers. I send to town every few weeks or so for a record or two – Mrs G is good at getting things sent – so over the years I’ve got me a nice little collection. You are musical, aren’t you? Play the piano, yes. Well, you’ll appreciate some of this. Listen, this is Dame Clara Butt. She’s singing an aria from an opera called Samson and Delilah. Out of the Bible, you know, the Book of Judges? By the French composer Camille Saint-Saens, about fifty years ago. The aria is called ‘Softly awakes my heart,’ from Act Two. She’s singing to Samson, telling him how much she loves him, and she’s actually trying to get his secret, the secret of his miraculous strength, you see.”

“You’re very quiet, Catherine,” he remarked a little later.

She looked at him and smiled in a sad way. “Yes, Mr Bryden, I suppose I am. Maybe I’ll tell you why sometime. But not today. Play me some more music, please. It helps to heal things….”

He looked at her seriously, but didn’t take it any further. He laid his shiny boots aside, and sifted through his records. “I like these,” he said, “better than trying to hear music broadcast by the wireless company, fiddling with whiskers and so on. I must say, unless they improve their machinery I won’t be bothering much with it. I really doubt that there’s much future in it. Meanwhile here’s my music, and I’m in charge of the concert. Tell me what you like. I suppose on the piano you learned little pieces like a Chopin prelude, maybe?”

She smiled in reminiscence. “Yes, that’s the sort of thing. ‘La la la la la lah—’ You know it?”

“Yes,” he said in pleasure. “It’s his short Prelude number seven, in A Major. I have a record of that very one. Wait a bit.” He ran his hand over the rack of discs and picked one out. “Here it is. It’s played by Michael Zadora. Polish, I believe, though born in America, a pupil of Busoni. Sit back and enjoy.”

He looked at her as she sat with a serious look on her face, and was startled to see a tear at her eyelid. The dear girl was of course remembering happier days. When the record finished he gazed at her and said “There’s a line in Dante, you know him? That says, how does it go, ‘nessun maggior dolore che ricordarsi del tempo felice nella miseria.’ It’s where Francesca da Rimini tells the poet how she and her friend are in the Inferno. It means ‘There’s no greater pain than remembering happy times in the midst of sorrow.’ You’re thinking of how you used to play that on your uncle’s piano.”

“That’s right,” she said. “And Dante had it right, marvellous man! Hey, Mr Bryden, please, tell me you’ll play us some music every time we come, I mean, I hope you’ll let us visit you a lot. This is like a haven to us, it’s a port in a storm.” Her eyes filled. “I can’t tell you how much this means, away from all that, what they do to us, and Matthew especially, dear Matthew—” She burst into tears, and reached out for him. He held her to his breast and patted her back, not sure how to comfort her, while she cried out her anguish at the day’s humiliation, and all the other awful experiences in this awful place.

After a while she dried her eyes on a big handkerchief he produced and apologised for breaking down, and he frowned and shrugged it off, not wishing to embarrass her further. He put on a little concert of his favourite music, and offered her tea and biscuits, and soon she was in a contented mood. She kissed him and left him flushed with pleasure, looking forward to many such meetings with the lovebirds. He thanked whatever gods might be that he’d found such friendship in the autumn of his days, and a thought occurred to him about about what the future might hold for them. What might he be able to do for them? He’d been putting it off too long. He went to his ancient teak desk, and smiled as he remembered Lewis Carroll’s riddle, “Why is a Raven like a writing desk?” He got out his papers and began to draught a letter.

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

Ted Harrison was a dark older man, maybe in the mid-thirties, with a little moustache, who lived on the estate in the bunkhouse, and looked at Matthew affably as the boy climbed into the lorry, and introduced himself. They roared off and for a while sat in companionable silence while Matthew looked out at the countyside, reflecting that he really should try to explore a bit, for this whole area of England was new to him.

“D’you want a cigarette, young’un?”

Harrison looked at Matthew, who wished the older man would pay more attention to the road. “I don’t ... oh what the hell. Why not. Yes, please.” Harrison took a hand off the wheel to search in a pocket, and Matthew gritted his teeth as the lorry swerved, then righted itself to lumber along in the middle of the road. The cigarettes were produced and with more manoeuvring lit, after which the boy settled down to draw on his cigarette and relax. His companion began to chat in a random sort of way, telling about his work and his family, and what he did in the war, and when he ran out of steam he asked Matthew about himself. The boy told him about his family, his mother’s death, the books he had read, the few films he had seen, and a little of his life at Summerton. He’d just started on an account of the library when the lorry ran straight off the road and into the ditch.

“Fuck me!” snarled Harrison, “I was listening to you. Now what the fuck’ll we do?” He glared at Matthew, implying it was his fault.

“Well,” said the boy, somewhat shaken, “we can get a tow maybe, if another lorry comes….”

Harrison cursed again and finally said “You can walk into town. It’s only a few miles from here. Get a garage to send a tow. I’ll wait here and maybe someone’ll come by with a rope or whatever. If we miss each other, we can meet at Reynolds in town, all right? Off you go.” Matthew looked at him and shrugged. Then he set off to the town, while Harrison lit another cigarette and repeated “Fuck, fuck!” to himself.

As he walked Matthew wondered what was going on at the school. The boys from St Vincent’s must have arrived by now, he thought. I wonder what they’ll do? With something of an uneasy chill he remembered the visit to the boys’ school, and it struck him that Mrs G must have some sort of entertainment for them, entertainment of a nasty nature, too….

An hour later he was in town, looking for a garage that offered towing facilities, and it wasn’t long before he was on his way back to the accident, where Harrison was still smoking but had stopped cursing. He was sitting on the grass verge looking bored, and got up when Rowley’s Garage Truck arrived. The lorry was soon rescued, and it again wasn’t long before they were in town being told it would take some time, at least a couple of hours, before their damaged vehicle would be fixed. Harrison spat and said he was off to the pub next door. Matthew could do as he liked. Left on his own, he didn’t know what to do, being unfamiliar with the town, and was casting about to see where he could go, thinking the library for instance would be shut on a Sunday, when a hand touched his elbow and he turned to see a girl who looked rather familiar. He frowned, trying to place her. She was a cheery-looking girl with chestnut hair, and looked at him with amusement.

“You don’t remember me, do you? That’s not very polite. But I remember you.”

He still couldn’t place her, but then another girl joined her to say “Hey, Jill, I found that— oh!” She looked at Matthew, and blushed as she laughed.

“Oh God,” the boy stammered, “it’s you from the store!”

“I bet you didn’t recognise us out of those awful dresses they make us wear,” said the first. “But we recognise you, in or out of your clothes!” They laughed merrily, while he blushed to remember how they had measured his penis.

“You look at a loose end,” said the other. “If you’re doing nothing for a bit, come with us. We’re going to the park for an hour. Where’s your mistress, by the way?”

He finally found his voice and told them his situation, and they introduced themselves as Doris and Jill, both sixteen years old, living next door to each other and best friends. “You’re called Matthew, aren’t you?” asked Doris. “Well, shall we go to the park or not? Come along, it’s a fine day. And you can tell us about yourself.” He yielded and accompanied them down the street, and began to tell them something of his history. They asked probing questions about Mrs G’s behaviour, and were very interested to learn about her hobby of exposing him and others to naked ridicule.

“Oh Matthew,” said Jill, “it must be awful for you, but,” and she grinned lewdly, “it’s so enjoyable for others! We relished serving her yesterday. We’ve never done anything like that before. And I doubt we’ll get another chance.”

Doris nodded, with a glance at his red face. “Still, I do hope Mrs Grainger comes back just to pick up a few knick-knacks, or handkerchiefs, or something. You got a nightshirt, though it’s not too long. But what about pyjamas? That was an oversight.”

“Oh yes,” said Jill. “You should suggest that to her, Matthew.”

He looked painfully at the ground. “Oh, don’t take it to heart,” she went on. “I know it was embarrassing for you, but let me tell you, we both agreed you have a fine-looking body. And Louise, the other girl, she came over to see you, and she said the same.”

Matthew sighed and muttered something about it not helping. A third girl joined them just then, and was introduced as Louise, his other admirer, who was, they told him, enjoying her seventeenth birthday. She looked at him with amusement, and he looked at her with a flush. Then they were at the entrance to the park, an extensive island of green in the middle of the town. There was a tiny lake in the centre, and in that a small islet with some undergrowth. “Hey!” said Doris, “let’s get one of the punts and go over to the island. Sit in the sun, open our Thermos.”

“Yes, Matthew,” said Jill, “we have tea!”

“And I’ve got some biscuits,” added Louise. “A little party!”

“Yes! And Matthew can punt us up.”

He protested he had never done it, but they said he’d soon get the hang of it, so eventually he was poling the shallow boat towards the islet and feeling quite capable. The others chattered to themselves inconsequentially, and he was free to think about what could be happening at the school. Something shameful and nasty, no doubt. All of a sudden he thought about Catherine – what was happening to her? Could she be involved somehow in one of Mrs G’s terrible scenarios? His hands slipped on the pole, and he grabbed at it as it was about to float away, but he leaned too far and fell into the water with a gasp. The girls looked at him as he struggled to the surface and took hold of the pole with one hand and the side of the punt with the other. Doris said “Oh dear, Matthew, can you push us the rest of the way?” Shaking water from his eyes he grunted and did that, managing to beach the punt and then scrambling out of the water.

They looked at him and frowned, and Louise said “Listen, you’ll have to get out of those clothes.” He stared at her dumbly, and the others agreed. He retreated to the bushes that covered the little island but they followed him, Doris saying “Don’t be silly. Take them off and let them dry. For goodness’ sake, we’ve seen you already!”

He mouthed a protest, but they were on him and starting to remove the sodden garments. Soon he was naked, and covering his groin, staring helplessly at the three young girls who were still overly interested in his covered parts, for all their nonchalant familiarity with them.

He glanced back at the park, where no-one seemed to have noticed anything, thank God! Louise said “We’ll hang your clothes up and in this sun they’ll dry in a short while. All right? And for now, come sit beside us. Come on, don’t be shy!” The other two seized his arms and made him sit down beside them. He put his hands out behind him and yelled suddenly.

“What’s the matter?” asked Louise.

“Ow!” he cried, “it’s a fire someone’s made – the embers—”

“My God,” said Jill, “it’s true! It’s an old fire, but not so old either, the ashes are hot!” Matthew was struggling to his feet, wincing with pain in his hands, and slipped back, to jump up again with a howl, ‘My God,” said Doris, “he’s burned his bum!” She stamped on the embers to kill them, while he moaned and waved his hands in the air. “What can we do?” asked Louise. “Hey Matthew, sorry, but—”

“I think we should get him to the clinic over there,” said Jill. “Get some salve on his burns.” She looked at him sympathetically. “Come on, we should hurry.”

Before he knew what was happening they were in the punt, and just about to shove off, when he screamed “My clothes! For God’s sake—”

“Oh, sorry,” said Doris. She ran back to retrieve the sodden garments and piled them at one end of the punt, then seized the pole and began to propel them towards the other side of the little lake. Matthew tried to sit down but got up again with a grimace. “No, Matthew, sorry,” said Doris, “sit down, you’ll have to, otherwise we’ll capsize! Put your hands in the water.” Gritting his teeth he gingerly eased himself to a seat, and the other three looked at him sympathetically, Jill saying with a sort of a smile that he didn’t present such a sight for others that way. This reminded him he was naked, and he made to cover himself, but his hands were too sore, and he sat in misery till they reached the other shore. “Wait, Matthew,” said Jill, going into her capacious bag. “I’m sure I packed it … here, you’d better use this.” She produced a towel and offered it to him. He wondered why she hadn’t thought of it before, but said nothing as he took it and tried to knot it round his waist.

Seeing his difficulty Jill took the ends and made some kind of knot to keep it up, her hands feeling warm on his cool skin. “There you are! Now come, there’s a little medical clinic thing here,” said Doris, leading the way to a small office building close to the shore. They entered a crowded waiting room, and everyone looked at the scantily-clad boy, who blushed anew at the attention, and he was very conscious of his nakedness under the towel. Doris made a beeline for a little window behind which sat a girl in her twenties, who eyed the boy with raised eyebrows. Told of the accident, she said she’d get the doctor to look at him very soon, and they thanked her. It was only a couple of minutes before they were ushered in to a little room next door and a harassed middle-aged man was looking at his hands. “Right,” he said, “a bit of dressing for a day, and you’ll be fine.” He quickly applied an aromatic ointment to the sore hands and bound them in bandages. Then he whisked off the towel, glancing at the girls, and inspected the burned bottom. “Oh, not much to bother with,” he said disparagingly. “Another bit of ointment – what?”

The receptionist put her head round the door, giving the scene an interested look as she said “Doctor, emergency! Mrs Tait—”

He frowned in exasperation. “All right, Hilda,” he said in a grumble, “I’ll be there. Look, girls, take this and put it on. I’ve no time. He’ll be fine. Out you go. You can put the salve on outside.” He gave a tube of ointment to Louise, and they blinked and went out through the waiting room, Matthew mouthing a protest at another exposure, wincing when a child said “Look, mummy, that boy has nothing on!” When they were out they looked at him and said “Well, you heard the doctor. Bend over and we’ll put it on.”

He looked at them and sighed, then turned to put his hands on a bench, but yelped as they met the hard wood. “Goodness,” said Doris, “maybe I can hold you steady while Louise puts on the ointment.” He nodded wearily, then shivered as she put her hands on his waist, looking down of course at his penis, which began to twitch as soon as Louise’s hands smoothed their way over his buttocks.

She had hardly begun when a few girls came up to the tableau and asked what was going on. Two of them were friends of Doris, who introduced them to the others, and to Matthew, who was still leaning over displaying his arse, and they all made admiring noises, with a few giggles. Doris chided them for lack of sympathy, and one said she was totally sympathetic, and was willing to tend that nice bum herself. Matthew squealed as she proceeded to smooth on some more ointment, but he couldn’t do much about it. Louise put on the towel again, and they all went back to the punt, where the other girls said farewell with grins and Matthew sighed and wondered what other embarrassments he could endure. It was amazing how Mrs Grainger seemed to be able to conjure up mortifications for him from a distance, like a witch spinning spells….

On the other shore the towel slipped off again and Jill knotted it, this time at the back, which managed to reveal his bum to the world. He realised this after a minute and had to walk through the town like that, enduring snickers from passers-by. Back at the garage, Jill retrieved the towel with a “Sorry” look, and the girls left him naked, departing with smiles and waves and hopes of seeing him again. After fifteen minutes of skulking in the corners of the garage Matthew was relieved to see Harrison come back, who threw the damp clothes into the back of the lorry and looked at the boy in disbelief.

“I don’t know what you’re playing at, but it makes no differ to me,” he said. “You can’t carry things in your hands, but you can still support parcels and things on your arms, so come on, we’re going to pick up some stuff for Mrs G.”

He led the cringing boy to a nearby store, where the salesgirls were both shocked and amused to see a nude boy in their midst, and dawdled over supplying the goods to Harrison. Matthew got a pile of parcels to bear on his extended arms, which meant he had no way of concealing himself, and the girls crowded to the door to see him off. The parcels were deposited in the back of the lorry, and Matthew was glad to be finished, thanking Harrison when he courteously opened the door to the cabin. He was halfway in when two girls appeared suddenly to greet the driver and ask for a lift to the village. They looked at the boy and laughed unashamedly as he was hauled out and made to stand while they got in and waited for him to join them. He had to allow them to take his arms to pull him in and onto their laps, then winced as he sat down. They asked what the matter was, and why the hell was he naked anyway?

As the lorry pulled into the street he explained shortly, but when they heard about the ointment the girl he was sitting on yelled “Wait! Wait! Stop!” Harrison stopped the vehicle in the gutter and snarled “What now?”

“He’s got ointment on his arse!” she shrieked. “My dress! He’s messing my dress!”

Harrison reached over and opened the door. “Right,” he said. “Out. Let’s get things arranged. And you’re not getting my lorry in a mess either.”

They pushed the protesting boy out the door and began to put the cabin to rights to accommodate a greasy bum, as they said, while he stood in the street naked as a needle, his own needle trembling in its openness to the traffic. He was beginning to attract attention when they hauled him in again, to be placed on an old blanket over the knees of both girls. There he sat, breathing hard and trembling as the lorry moved off and the girls – oh God! – began to amuse themselves by stroking his thighs. He was getting a good erection by the time the lorry stopped again, and he moaned in distress when Harrison told him to get out again.

It was a repetition of the first errand: he was taken into another store, and amused the serving girls there with his shocking stiff penis, which one of them managed to brush against accidentally, which almost made him come – and God, he couldn’t ejaculate in the shop! Then they loaded his arms with merchandise and giggled as they sent him out with a smack or two on his bare behind. The goods went into the back of the lorry and he was welcomed into the cabin again, and again was subjected to strokes from the naughty hands of the girls, who kept up the shaming business till the boy was sure he’d come there in the cabin, which he was sure Harrison would not find amusing.

Just then the vehicle stopped again and he was pushed out, to stand in the road while the girls disembarked and kissed him farewell, not neglecting to rub their palms over his bum and his penis. “God!” said one, “that was good! We saw you walking by the village that time, but I never thought I’d get to feel you! You’ve got a great prick there!” Her companion agreed, and he climbed back in silently to sit and sigh for the last part of his journey. At the front door of the manor Harrison opened the door again and let him out, looking at him with doubtful eyes and saying “I don’t know what you can do now but I’m off. There’s your clothes.”

With that he revved up and drove off, leaving Matthew at a door he couldn’t open, sensing the need for a bathroom and realising he’d have to pee where he was somehow. At that moment a girl’s shape appeared in the evening gloom to exclaim in amusement over his condition. She turned out to be Hilary, the artist, and she laughed as she greeted him, asking what he was up to.

“Please,” he said, “I have to get in, I can’t use my hands—” and showed his bandages. “But I need a—”

“Hello, hello!” came another voice, another girl, who was introduced to the quaking boy as Beverley Atkins, a friend and fellow-artist. She was a petite girl of about seventeen with bobbed russet hair, who looked at him with a surprised grin as he began to dance in his need.

“Please!” he said, “let me in! I have to pee!”

“Oh goodness,” Hilary laughed, “we must fix that!” She opened the door and the two girls hurried him through to the morning room and tapped on the door of Lydia’s room. She peeped out and was told of the situation. “Good heavens,” she said with false sympathy. “Bring the poor boy in.”

They took him through to her bathroom, and he moaned as they stood him at the lavatory and held his penis to allow him to pee, then dabbing him dry. Lydia meanwhile was asking Mabel to dry and iron the damp clothes, and said that with those bandages he wouldn’t be able to dress too well, so he’d probably be in a smock for a day. “You see how useful they are, Matthew? Though I can see difficulties….” He explained his condition and his trouble and she looked at him critically. “Right, girls, he’s had something on his burns but it’s absorbed by now. I think we can soothe his behind, don’t you? We have a pleasant cream that might be efficacious.”

Mabel came quickly with the cream and was dismissed to deal with the clothes. The girls lathered their hands with the balm and set about rubbing his tender buttocks, he being stretched out on a couch. After a while Beverley, who had been making pleased sounds all along, suddenly looked closely at him and said “My God, Hilary, he’s getting a real hard-on there!” Lydia told him to stand up, and he showed an attractive erection to them all. He didn’t try to shield himself, and just looked at their amusement and bit his lip. Mrs Grainger grunted an “Oh!” and said to the girls that they should attend to it. They were not loath to turn their hands on his penis, while he had to stand in weary shame and allow another invasion. In a minute or two he was gasping and mumbling unintelligibly, and Lydia threw a towel at the girls which they skilfully used to collect his sperm, shot forth in a long emission, to their gleeful eyes.

After this he was understandably tired, and was sent to bed, the girls helping him climb wearily up the stairs, and drawing back the sheets. They stood with arms round each other to watch him slide in between the cool sheets and close his eyes in exhaustion, then covered him up, smiled at each other and kissed. “He’s a beautiful boy,” said Beverley. “You’re right, Hilary. Those drawings do him justice, but in the flesh – in the bare flesh – he’s very attractive. Nearly as attractive as you.” Hilary laughed and led the way downstairs to the bed that awaited them.

Matthew lay there, his brain in a fog. It had been a very long day, and he didn’t take long to fall asleep quite deeply. Some time later Catherine came in to say goodnight, but found he was dead to the world. She smiled and kissed him gently, and he muttered something under his breath which might have been her name. “See you tomorrow, love,” she whispered, and left in a wonder about what his adventures had been – she was sure they were adventures, and she knew she’d be told, as she would have to tell him about her awful time that afternoon. They each had their torments and their accidents …. But they had each other, at least!.

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