Mrs Grainger's Gift 13

By Ritchie Moore

(I'll forward it to the author)

* * * * *
This work is intended for ADULTS ONLY. It may contain depictions of sexual activity involving minors. If you are not of a legal age in your locality to view such material or if such material does not appeal to you, do not read further, and do not save this story.
* * * * *

Mrs Grainger’s Gift

Part XIII

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

Saturday 13^th June

The dinner party: unusual songs and stories and a punishment

The guests chatted and joked among themselves, mostly ignoring the staff in their revealing attire, except for the two new faces, or new backsides. Catherine was extra-careful to attend to the company with as much docile submission as possible, and tried to smile as if she were enjoying herself. The talk of the company was a bit startling, not at all what she expected from polite ladies and gentlemen, but she tried not to look shocked, and saw that the other girls treated the whole thing with nonchalance. Evidently Mrs G’s guests were all of a like mind, as carelessly bawdy as she, and as dismissive of the staff as any arrogant aristocrat. They noticed them of course as bearers of wine and dishes, but mostly as furniture, albeit movable and seminude into the bargain. She felt very self-conscious in the revealing dress she had been given, but tried to pretend there was a back to it which merely showed off her pretty form, and not displayed her nakedness to the world. She did notice that Matthew seemed uncomfortable, but he carried it off well; as for herself, she couldn’t resist looking at his bum with admiration, so neat and firm and beautiful…. And then she saw the man called Gregory something, a musician evidently, put his hand to Matthew’s backside as he stood filling a glass. The boy couldn’t move, and continued his task as the man fondled his buttocks, only showing his emotion by panting a little and gaining red in his cheeks.

The meal proceeded, and with drinks appearing an element of raucousness developed—laughter that grew louder and more vulgar, speech that grew more free. Sir Hubert Melville, a middle-aged man with a drinker’s nose, suggested a series of toasts, and insisted on delivering one, as a longish poem praising the vulva. The young members of the party thought this was very amusing, but Catherine was appalled. Melville finished with a flourish:

“The middle finger’s favourite ring,

                          That friction sets on fire;

                        The tuneful bells that always ring

                          When maidenheads expire;

                        The small thatch’d house beneath the hill,

                          Or fountain in Hair Court, sirs,

                        May sportsmen have of game to fill,

                          And huntsmen have good sport, sirs.

“Gentlemen, I give you – Mater Omnium!”

The men drank and cheered, though Isobel Shaw, a thirty-ish good-looking woman with russet hair tied up in a chignon looked disdainful, saying “I suppose someone should reply with a thankyou and a toast to the men under the pseudonym of John Thomas?” This made the youngsters laugh even more, though Catherine couldn’t understand why. Lydia Grainger however suggested that any more should wait till much later, and in the meantime, get on with the meal. Everyone agreed to that, and fell to with enthusiasm.

At last the dessert appeared, greeted with cries of approval from the company, who asked what it was. “It’s a Scotch dish,” said their hostess, “one of cook’s family recipes, called Caledonian Cream. Sugar and eggs and things, I don’t know exactly, but it’s good, isn’t it?”

“Yes, yes,” they cried, and washed it down with more wine. “I don’t know about it being Scottish,” said Mr Barlow, “I think it’s more like Welsh flummery. But it is quite delicious, like the rest of the meal, Lydia, a real repast.”

Gregory Mayne clapped his hands and called on Matthew for more wine, of course seizing the chance to smooth his hand over the boy’s behind, this time daring to finger the anus, bringing another flush and tremble. When he moved away, another of the men, the Sir Hubert who delivered the obscene toast, who was already a little more than drunk, seized Matthew’s arm, and the boy had to stop and listen. “Young fellow! Young … fellow! I do think you have a very fine-looking arse. Has anyone else told you that?”

Matthew’s flush grew deeper, and he stammered “N-no, sir, I—“

“Well they should have. All these girls should have done that. And ladies, don’t you agree? Let’s all say, ‘The boy has a lovely arse’. All together!”

He glared at the company, and with a glance round Abigail started, “The boy—“

“—Has a lovely arse,” continued the others, including the guests, laughing. “Let me feel it,” said the man, “and we can compare it to this girl here,” indicating Jennie, who gave a false smile of tolerance.

Lydia Grainger said “Now, Sir Hubert, enough of that. Let’s finish dinner before we get on to other things. George,” she addressed a portly man opposite, “tell us about that Indian friend of yours.”

“Ah,” said he, “that was quite an experience. But let me have some more of that delicious concoction first.” They scurried to serve him, and he smacked his thick lips with relish, waving his spoon, as he went on. “You must understand,” he said, “that they have other ideas, other ways of reacting to things, over there. Some of it is from their religion, of course. Religions, actually. But in fact I must say that the way they practise their religion is sometimes at variance with their scriptures. Anyway, I was there about thirty years ago, and there was a young man I met in Brahmapoor, in the east of the subcontinent, who invited me to an evening of song and dance, and I went along quite eagerly, for I’d heard some of their music – you couldn’t escape it really – and while it sounded strange to my western ears, I thought I’d enjoy hearing more. So there we were in a rather large room lit by lanterns and smelling of incense. It was a little like a scene, I thought, from the Arabian Nights. We were seated on plump cushions, about thirty of us, I should say, some smoking through a hookah, and I myself with my common old briar. Wine was brought—“

“Wine! Yes!” Sir Hubert thumped the table. Catherine hurried up with the bottle she carried and filled his glass. “Thank you, my dear. You have a pretty arse as well,” putting out his hand and giving her a caress. She swallowed and stammered “Th-thank you, sir.” He gave her left buttock a pinch, and she yelped, but recovered to paste a smile on her face.

George looked humorously at the other and continued, waving to the servants to ply his audience with wine. “It was palm wine, of course, what they call tadi in Marathi, ‘toddy’. Well, you get the general idea. The music was played on a number of instruments, mostly strings, including an odd sort of fiddle, with a strange melancholy sound. Suddenly there was a crash on this big gong they had and a young girl appeared swathed in a voluminous dress. She began to sway to another tune, quite languorously, even hypnotically, and in truth I found myself quite mesmerised by her dance. Supposedly it represented something or other, some tale from their mythology, but I didn’t care about interpreting it, just enjoying it. Then my friend got up and started dancing too. They made a fine couple, their movements interacted, if you follow me, complemented each other, and this went on for quite a few minutes. Then the music changed, became a little brisker, and he took her arm and turned her round, and she began a little whirl. He caught the end of this scarf she wore and it unwound as she turned, more and more, till she was revealed naked but for a few bangles. She put her hands above her head and swayed to the music, and Ali, my friend, swayed too, facing her.

“I’ll tell you, my friends,” said George, swigging back his glass and perspiring slightly, “she was one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen. A real balhardeira, as the Portuguese would say. She looked to be quite young, by our standards at least, say fourteen or fifteen, but I could be wrong, it’s easy to be mistaken about foreign women. Her breasts were not too large, but certainly developed, and the nipples were sharp, pointing up to the roof. Her waist was small, her hips broad, and she did I suppose approach the ideal of feminine beauty from the Hindu point of view. She reminded me of a statue of Parvati I saw in Delhi…. And her cunny—oh, lord, her cunny, what they call the yoni, bare of course, was thrust forward as her pelvis moved in this most erotic dance. And then she put out her hand to Ali and seized the collar, it seemed, of what he wore – but it was actually much the same – his robe came off, and he was soon as naked as she.”

The company was quiet, hanging on his every word, licking their lips, their eyes sparkling in erotic fascination. Catherine looked at Matthew and saw that he was aroused by this story, and his apron was poked out in front.

“Now Ali, who’d be … what, about twenty or so at the time, as old say as young Marshall there, or my friend Mr Bator here, continued to dance, facing this lubricious spectacle quite seriously and seemingly quite unmoved by her nude beauty. Let’s not be bashful, gentlemen! Even in the presence of these ladies! Admit it, you’d all be agog and upright, wouldn’t you, looking at a sight like that, and you yourself naked as an angel! Yes, young man,” he said, staring at Matthew directly, “we can see you’re moved just hearing about it!” The rest burst out laughing, and poor Matthew blushed again, but didn’t dare try to hide his erection. “Yes, ladies and gentlemen, believe it or not Ali did not have a horn as he matched step for step with this houri. His penis, mind you, was a respectable four inches long or so. And he was actually sweating, as was she, their bodies glittered in the lamplight. He went up very close to her and their bellies seemed to meet, so that they danced as one, and it was an incredible sight, as if Rabelais’ two-backed beast were dancing before us. But then the music changed again, and they seized each other’s arms; and they separated a little so that I now could see that my monastic friend had a horn after all, a mighty erection that Hercules might envy, a grand lingam to please the god Shiva. The pair of them manoeuvred themselves into precisely thought-out positions, or so it seemed to me, and slowly met again, always to the music, remember! – this time uniting their loins. And I mean he slowly – I mean slowly – inserted his phallus into that delicious cunny. It was almost excruciating to watch. I myself had a member as hard as a brick, and I waited impatiently for him to impale her completely, but he took his time, and the music took its time, and I heard a curiously menacing sort of tune on a flute – the music, you see, was telling the story of the legend - and then with a flurry of music he was in her, and thrusting away, his arms round her, her arms round him, all the time moving to the rhythm of the drums and those exotic strings. They sank to the floor after a minute or so, and he completed the act, and the music finished. All the men applauded, and the girl ran out. Ali came back to don his clothes and pulled on his pipe as if nothing had happened. It was one of the strangest evenings of my life.”

The company sighed, and slapped the table in approval.

Matthew was wondering what the night might develop into, if this was the sort of story the guests expected, and Catherine was hating every minute of it – since the men (and some women) kept fondling the servants’ backsides, pinching buttocks, and even sliding a hand between the cheeks to tickle a quim. They looked around them at the company, growing more unrestrained by the minute, and longed for the evening to end. But first the guests, lighting cigars and cigarettes, had to discuss George Whiston’s tale, and reflect on others it brought to mind.

“I say,” said Mr Barlow, “that’s the sort of thing Burton would have liked to see. Sir Richard, I mean. The fellow who went into Mecca dressed as an Arab, and who translated the Arabian Nights and the Kama Sutra. Don’t you think?”

“It certainly seems to have involved a position for intercourse that he didn’t know about,” said the manufacturer, Alexander Horton, who was quite famous for his collection of Orientalia. “I certainly can’t recall anything quite like that.”

“What’s the best position?” asked Daniel Ainsworth, evoking a great gust of laughter from Mr Whiston, and a squeal from Mrs Thorpe.

“Why, you young scamp,” she said, “I know your generation are fond of experimentation, but I’d advise you to stick to the tried and true. There’s no reason to change from the standard man on top, unless you want the woman on top just for variety, or if your back is sore, or something.”

“At the same time, Anna,” said Enid Waterson, “it’s always a little titillating to contemplate different ways to attack a problem. Just as, for instance, Rabelais goes on at great length in the Torcheculatif about what’s the best way to wipe the arse!”

“Ah, the French are the nation for plain speaking on the topic, even though they try to be elegant,” said Cecily Stevens.

“Elegance!” exclaimed Mrs Thorpe. “Have you seen that novel Gamiani, by Alfred de Musset and, reportedly, George Sand? Touted as a story that leaves little to the imagination, but having none of the crude words of the old naïve writers? I find it a bit too elegant. Give me the old authors.”

“Yes,” agreed Miss Stevens, “look at Marguérite de Navarre, who’s better, I think, than Boccaccio. And look at Denis Diderot, for goodness sake. Do you know that bit in Les Bijoux Indiscrets where the hero makes the con speak in half a dozen languages, including English?”

Daniel had a fit of laughing at this, and said “Did you ever hear about the monk in mediaeval times who was put up at a house, in the same room as the baby?”

“I’ve got a feeling,” said Isobel Shaw, “that I have heard it, but anyway—”

“Well,” continued the boy, “the monk is in the wayside inn and the only room has the baby in its crib. So in the middle of the night the monk finds he needs a pee, and he doesn’t know where the privy is, so he looks for the chamber pot under the bed, but he can’t find it in the dark. So he has a good idea – he lifts the baby out of the crib and puts him in his own bed, then pisses in the middle of the baby’s crib. He gets the baby and puts him back and is laughing because the baby will get the blame, and gets to his own bed – where he finds the baby has shat a great turd in it.” They all laughed, some in a condescending kindness, but Daniel basked in the acceptance as a boy of the world, while the inebriated Sir Hubert laughed immoderately, near choking with mirth. Lydia said to the boy that he’d be welcome to revisit, and he grinned at proving himself.

“That’s almost Chaucerian,” said Dorothy Cavendish. “It deserves to be on the same page as the ‘Summoner’s Tale’.”

“Is that the one about sharing the fart?” asked Michael Brent.

“Yes,” answered Mr Barlow. “He’s our answer to the old French fabliaux, but he’s too vulgar sometimes for your ivory tower old maids. As for that tale—”

“I’ll bet it wasn’t edited to death by that pedant Skeat!” snapped Sir Hubert. “And have you ever looked at those broadside ballads? A lot of them are about embarrassing adventures, and I’ll wager Professor Child of Harvard had some difficulty with them—pretending to edit the ‘English and Scottish Popular Ballads’ and bowdlerising what he could and omitting things wholesale when he couldn’t. Censorship, my friends, is not a good thing at any time.”

“I say, though,” said the lugubrious man called Quentin Small, “there are some in there he seems to have accepted. There’s The Boy and the Mantle, isn’t there, all about cuckolds, and that one about the boy who gets the gift of playing a flute everyone has to dance to, and his beldame mother farts loudly whenever she looks at him.”

“Just the first one, Quentin,” said Gregory Mayne. “The other is I think in the naughty pieces in the Percy Folio. And since Child knew all about it, he deliberately omitted it. So you’re right, Sir Hubert.”

“Of course I’m right,” said the baronet with a touch of asperity. “Censorship. It shouldn’t be allowed.”

“Not even political, Sir Hubert?” broke in Isobel Shaw, with a sardonic look. “Are the lower orders to be free to yell subversive slogans at the aristos? Remember 1789!”

“Come, come,” said Lady Burrows, inserting a Turkish cigarette in a long holder,“there’s a fine line somewhere. Free speech, as Milton argued—up to a reasonable point.”

“And who shall say where that is?” asked Mrs Thorpe. “Young Marshall, now; where would you stop? You’re young enough not to be hidebound by our old-fashioned prejudices.”

“Well, ma’am,” said the twenty-year old, “I think that as long as the ideas and stories and such are written down to be read at leisure, like Boccaccio, anything may be allowed. Even a call for regicide. It’s when it gets out of the book and into the street that it gets difficult.”

“Shades of Mrs Patrick Campbell!” laughed Daniel.

“All right,” said David, “and it’s a reasonable comment she made about homos—sorry, Mr Mayne, but there it is—all I’m saying is that we may read de Sade and Sacher-Masoch for a thrill of pleasure, but were the amusements actually applied wholesale—”

“Yes,” said Gregory, “it’s the wholesaleness, the widespread application, that gives one pause.”

“In other words, Gregory, if it’s we who are realising these acts or beliefs, that’s all right. But if hoi polloi do them—”

“Exactly!” cried Sir Graeme. “Can you imagine, if the brotherhood and sisterhood of the whip and rod embraced everybody? What next?”

“Ah,” said Gregory, “a new millennium, novus ordo seclorum, when all is permitted, when (for instance) the love that dare not speak its name is shouted from the housetops, when the manners of Corydon and Alexis are everyday—”

“Wait a bit,” interrupted Michael, “I thought that Alexis wasn’t willing to give his bum like that, Corydon didn’t get what he wanted – nec quid speraret habebat.”

“My word,” said Sir Hubert, “the boy knows his Virgil! You’re right of course. Listen, Mayne, I don’t know how serious you were being, but there’s no way that much relaxation of our current draconian legislation can ever come about. The Labouchère Amendment is here to stay. Even be broadened. And elsewhere too of course. That German Hirschfeld keeps making noises about Paragraph 175 of their Penal Code, and he won’t succeed either. I’m sorry, but I don’t see our lawmakers—or future lawmakers—countenancing behaviour which at best is viewed as sinful – it’s in Leviticus somewhere, isn’t it, Mr Drayton?”

The clergyman he appealed to nodded as he sipped his wine, “Yes, Sir Hubert, it’s in Leviticus 18, verse 22, also in 20, verse 13.”

“Thank you. Yes, at best sinful, an abomination is the word I think.” Mayne’s expression was stormy, and he opened his mouth. “That’s what Holy Writ calls it, not me! That’s ‘At Best’. But,” continued Melville, “at worst it’s viewed as subversive of the family and hence the state. Look what happened to Greece! Look at the ruins of Rome!”

“Look at the glory that was Greece,” retorted Daniel, “and the grandeur that was Rome! Well put by Poe, by golly! Virgil, Horace, never mind that bore Caesar—and what about him, though? A brother to Mr Mayne, they say! Still, Theocritus, Sappho—“

“Oh yes,” interjected Cicely Stevens, “I know what you’re saying. We mustn’t equate the morals of a past empire with reasons for its end.”

“Yes, and what about an empire which is painfully proper,” asked Alexander Horton, cutting a cigar, “like the one that just died in Germany? If they had a besetting sin, it would be hubris, ambition, or selfishness. Not nice, but not quite vicious. On the other hand, whatever you call it, sin or merely foolishness, they’re well rewarded now.”

“Yes,” said Daniel, “and they are in a parlous way, you know. A lot of political unrest, to say the least. Political factions, that is, vying for power. The Communists have brawls with this ‘National Socialist Workers’ Party’ which disrupts the others’ meetings, for instance. They seemed just a motley mob of thugs, actually.”

“Ah yes,” said Margaret Ainsworth, “you were over there last year, weren’t you. As you say, Mr Horton, they’ve had their come-uppance. ”

“As with the Russian, correct?” said Mr Girvan. “Its most flagrant sin was not moral corruption, but arrogance and pride, which is a deadly sin of course.”

“Ah,” said the clergyman, “it’s the mother of all sins, according to St Augustine.”

Quentin Small drew on his cigarette. “I’m not so sure it was the only sin, though,” he said. “Look at Rasputin! By all accounts he was a really depraved character. With some more of the deadly sins. Like lechery for one thing. And he had some hand in the fall of that empire.”

“Yes,” cried Mr Barlow, “and what about our empire? The Empire, on which the sun (so far) never sets?”

“That may have been true of Don Carlos,” said Mrs Thorpe, “or whoever Schiller was on about, or the Dutch, and it may be truly said of ours, by Christopher North, wasn’t it? True or not, it will pass away in time, too,” she said simply, “and perhaps will not leave as many traces as those empires. As far as architecture goes, at least. I’ve told you before, Lydia, that this mausoleum of yours is not a very good advertisement for an English aesthetic. I know it’s nice and large and capacious and all that, but only parts of it are acceptable, like the curate’s egg in Punch.”

“Oh, I know,” said her hostess cheerfully, “but it does function pretty well. Besides—”

“Hang it all,” interrupted Sir Hubert, “let’s get on to some entertainment, while you haul out the nuts and fruit. You’ve got that piano there – let’s have a song from Mayne here.”

They looked at the young man, who said “Certainly, certainly. If Lydia here wishes, of course.”

“But naturally,” she said. “We’ve had the piano specially tuned. Let’s have a good saucy song. Does anyone have any suggestions? What about some of those risqué ballads you were mentioning, Sir Hubert? Do you have any of them in your repertoire, Gregory?”

“Perhaps this will do,” he said with a smile, and strummed the keys.

            “I put my hand all on her toe,

              Fair maid is a lily, oh!

            She said to me, Do you want to go?

              Come to me, quietly,

              Do not do me injury,

              Gently Johnny, my jingalo.”

“What’s that? Jingalo?” “Hush, Sir Graeme,” admonished the hostess. “I think,” said Mr Whiston, “it’s like zingaro, meaning gypsy.” The pianist frowned at them and continued.

            “I put my hand all on her knee,

              Fair maid is a lily, oh!

            She said to me, Do you want to see?

              Come to me—”

The others joined in the chorus with intoxicated laughter.

            “I put my hand all on her thigh,

              Fair maid is a lily, oh!

            She said to me, Do you want to try?”

He left the others to carry the burden and showed off on the black notes with a counterpoint melody.

            “I put my hand all on her belly,”

“Oho! Now we’re getting somewhere,” cried Miss Waterson.

            “She said to me, Do you want to fill ’e?”

“Yes, and it’s the right direction,” agreed Miss Shaw, as Mayne played a little interlude and took a breath.

            “I put my hand all on her breast—”

“Hey, wait, Mr Mayne,” broke in Thomas, “You’ve gone too far. What about her waist, that’ll rhyme with ‘the rest’ maybe!”

The others broke into laughter. “I’m sorry, Thomas,” said the pianist, “I know what you mean, but that’s the way I learned it. From a gypsy, as it happens, Mr Whiston. But you’re right about the rhyme,” he said to his young critic.

            “I put my hand all on her breast,

              Fair maid is a lily, oh!

            She said to me, Do you want the rest?”

The others chorused lustily, Sir Hubert waving his wineglass about in bemused intoxication.

“I put my hand all on her head,”

and the company bellowed out the burden, anticipating the last line – “She said, You want my maidenhead.” The end was sung loudly and in four parts, to a tremendous forte bravura conclusion featuring chromatic octaves on the keyboard. They applauded, though Michael Brent, as the youngest and apprentice of all the bawdy mob, had to prove himself by saying “Thomas is maybe right though, surely there’s more verses – what about ‘I put my hand all on her front, She said to me, You want my cunt’?”

The others laughed, the hostess saying “Perhaps, Michael, but I think that’s probably too direct. The people, I mean the common people who make these things up, are I think a bit more reserved, or oblique, in the way they talk about such things, in songs at least.”

“Oh yes,” said Mrs Thorpe, “they call spades spades, ordinarily, but I think they’re more poetic about their poetry. Whereas—”

“Whereas,” broke in Mr Barlow, “the usual stuff one gets in the army or at a boys’ school is replete with direct obscenities.”

“We can bear in mind, though,” said Theodore Merton, the physician, “that such stuff will be produced by educated, or semieducated, men (what about women, though?) who are trying to shock with overuse of the demotic words we all know but generally shun in what they laughingly call polite conversation.”

“And your elegant French,” said Isobel Shaw, “contrive to merely hint, sometimes, using – you’ll appreciate this, Michael – using a rhyme, saying front instead of con.”

“I don’t think that’s terribly clever,” said Alexander Horton, tapping his cigar into a large bronze ashtray. “In fact, I think it’s just another kind of bowdlerisation, hey, Sir Hubert? Personally, I’m not sure I don’t dislike innuendo, and appreciate the ‘bloody shovel’ a lot better. I know you can admire a well-turned phrase like a well-turned ankle, but that said, I’d rather have an open sensuality than a closed, presumed one. We’ve been dreadfully mealy-mouthed for too long. Young Douglas was right with that love not daring to speak its name. Wilde commented quite correctly at the trial. I don’t know about shouting from the roof, Mr Mayne, but these things exist, they’re part of our culture, for better or worse, and cannot be ignored while they fester in dark corners. Bring them out, accept them, tolerate them, and call them their proper names.”

“And that would be what, Mr Horton?” asked Thomas. “Shall we go the whole hog and discuss in our drawing rooms the latest scandal about a schoolmaster fucking his students, or a lesbian couple frigging each other in a box at the opera?” They continued their argument, while Catherine was mortified to hear such talk, and looked at the other servants, who seemed to be taking this in their stride. Matthew was red-faced on his and her account, she knew.

“Here,” said Daniel, “do you want to hear a slutty thing I got in Germany last year? I did a sort of Grand Tour, and learned some good songs. It’s in German of course.”

“No matter,” said Mrs Cavendish, “I know German, and most of us do I think. Sing it anyway. If it’s got a good tune--”

“Oh yes,” said the boy. “It’s all about the landlady of the inn, Frau Wirtin.”

“Oho!” said Cicely Shaw, “like that thing by what’s his name, Uhland is it, about the dead daughter?”

“Yes, Miss Shaw, but it’s not sad. It’s—oh well, here it is.” He began his song in a pleasant tenor, and Mayne picked up the tune quickly, to give an accompaniment that those in the know could admire as a complement to the scatological words.

“Es steht ein Wirtshaus an der Lahn,

Da kehren alle Fuhrleut an.

Frau Wirtin sitzt am Ofen,

die Fuhrleut um den Tisch herum,

die Gäste sind besoffen.”

“Nothing much in that,” sneered Thomas King, “the waggoners sit around the table and the guests are pissed.”

“It gets better, don’t worry, that’s just setting the scene.” said Daniel.

       “Frau Wirtin hat auch einen Arzt,

       der Opernmelodien farzt.

       Da ist er Virtuose,

       doch wenn er Wagner blasen soll,

       dann geht es in die Hose.”

“That’s better! I like that! A virtuoso farter, but when he does Wagner he shits in his trousers.”

“Thanks for the translation, Thomas!” exclaimed Alexander Horton . “Notice how each verse is using a noun or whatever, varied from verse to verse, and it’ll end up with some obscene meaning. Carry on, boy!” Daniel grinned and continued.

      “Frau Wirtin hatte auch ’nen Onkel

      der bumste nur bei Sterngefonkel.

            Er fragte seine Nichte:

            ‘Willst Du noch länger Jungfrau sein?’

Sie sagte: ‘Ich verzichte’.”

Thomas translated roughly for Michael’s benefit: “The landlady has an uncle who fucks only by starlight. He asked his niece, ‘Do you want to be a virgin any longer?’ and she said ‘I renounce it.’”

The company by this time had caught the tune and were humming along, some with wide grins on their faces, including the priest, or cleric anyway, addressed as Mr Drayton, which bothered Matthew for some silly reason. Why a clergyman should be exempt from partaking in such ribaldry he couldn’t see, but all the same…! The song drew to a roared out conclusion, and Mayne ended with a flourish, incorporating some of the German national anthem, to the ironical cheers of the assembly.

“There’s not much story in that,” said Mrs Cavendish, “but it is jolly. And it lends itself to additions and improvisations, a lot more than the Jingalo song, which is restricted by its obvious pattern. Things like saying the landlady had more and more outrageous possessions and relatives and so on. Maybe your friends will enjoy your repertoire when you get to Sandhurst, Daniel! But perhaps we can have something in English – from one of these other young folks?” She waved her hand at the servants, who looked at each other in dismay.

“Matthew!” said Mrs Grainger suddenly. “You can sing, can’t you? I’ve heard you. And you were singing songs at the camp. What songs do you know?”

He flushed and stammered, “M-Madam, I don’t know any … songs your friends will like….”

“I suppose he means risqué things. How innocent he is! No matter. Lydia, let him sing some nice sentimental piece to vary the mood before we get back to the interesting things.”

“All right, Dot,” said Mrs Grainger. “Matthew, whatever you like.”

He looked at the pianist. “Mr Mayne, do you know Thomas Moore’s ‘The Young—’”

“—‘May Moon’! Yes, dear boy,” said Mayne with enthusiasm, strumming the keyboard. “How about this key?” Matthew listened to the florid introduction and looked over at Catherine as he began Moore’s delicately anacreontic song.

            “The young May moon is beaming, love,

            And the glow-worm’s lamp is gleaming, love.

            Then how sweet to rove through Morna’s grove

            While the drowsy world is dreaming, love!

            Then awake, the heavens are bright, my dear!

            ’Tis never too late for delight, my dear,

            And the best of all ways to lengthen our days

            Is to steal a few hours from the night, my dear!”

The others, being familiar with the old Irish tune, hummed along and waved their glasses. When the boy finished, there was a roar of approval and a slapping of the table, and Catherine looked over at him and mouthed a thank you. But that was a relative oasis, or an eye in the storm which was just waiting to happen. Gregory Mayne’s eyes were full of tears, and he looked at Matthew with a longing expression. The boy retired to the side and picked up the wine bottle, hoping to be forgotten again, and so it was for a good while. The conversation veered back and forth, with indecent anecdotes being bandied about and various guests trying to outdo each other (it seemed to Matthew) in topping each other’s bawdy quotations and references to books and poems that seemed to describe the most outlandish and obscene goings-on. And these were educated people, aristocrats, the best sort in England, his betters!

More songs were sung, of increasing salaciousness, and the group was growing quite rowdy. Matthew noticed that from time to time a guest (sometimes two) would exit through the green baize door at the back of the room, often with one of the girls, and he wondered what was going on, but didn’t have time for dwelling on it, being summoned to replenish glasses and suffer someone’s exploring hand on his arse or reaching through to tickle his ballocks. They had now reached the coffee and brandy stage of the gargantuan meal, and some guests were looking replete, or even bloated, while at least one was slumped dozing in his chair.

Then David Marshall buttonholed Matthew and breathed alcohol in his face as he asked “Have you seen Thomas?”

Matthew looked at him and said in bewilderment “No sir, you mean Mr King?”

“Of course, you fool,” said David rudely. “Barlow’s nephew. Did you see where he went?”

“No sir,” said Matthew, “but I’ll look.” He went round the table and peered through a bit of a haze of tobacco smoke (and something else which was sweeter and cloying) and looked under the table. There he was surprised to see Clarissa Fettes, the 25-year-old Scottish hotelier, nestling in the arms of Chester Baines, the American business man, who had to be in his fifties. He had one arm round her shoulders, and the other cupping her breast, while she had her hand at her own crotch where her dress was rucked up. They glared at him, and he withdrew hastily. Out of curiosity he went up to the green baize door and eased it open, half-wondering why it wasn’t locked. He peeked in to see one of the girls, Pat, an eighteen-year-old redhead with a pleasant Irish brogue, locked in an embrace with the missing Thomas King, who was naked, as was she. Her discarded apron hung over a chair, and his clothes were scattered on a bench; the pair of them were heaving in passion on a thick rug that covered the floor. Matthew stared, never having seen the sight before (in the flesh) of a boy fucking a girl, and watched till they both reached orgasm and exclaimed aloud, then sank on each other’s breast. Pat opened her eyes and saw him gaping, and coloured. Her partner didn’t notice, so Matthew laid a finger on his lips and edged out of the doorway, making his way back to where Marshall sat, sullenly drawing on a cigarette. “Mr Marshall, excuse me,” he said timidly, “but your friend went into the other room, through that door—”

“Oh did he?” the young man said almost savagely. “All right.” He rose and strode off down the room and Matthew followed at a distance, curious as to what would happen. Was Marshall jealous? Jealous of whom? Didn’t he like the idea of his friend doing something with someone else? Perhaps he wanted to do it himself? Anyway, there he was opening the door and barging through. Matthew heard a squeal, from Pat, no doubt, and a roared oath from King, then the door slammed shut.

The next little while he spent ladling out more wine and the occasional brandy. Heavens, he thought, how much can they drink? Most of them by this time were showing its effects, and the crowd could now be described as pretty merry with drink, though some showed signs of being quarrelsome, and Mrs G had to separate some couples diplomatically. Matthew noted with some surprised disapproval that the ladies were just as intoxicated as the men, and one of them, the little sixteen-year-old Diana Fairfax, was smoking a cigarette with that odd aroma and looking into space with a big smile on her face. He knew with a shock that she was getting drunk on the cannabis he’d heard about. They were in the middle of another song, evidently an Italian comic ditty about a gondolier, which Mr Drayton seemed to find outrageously amusing, when Pat appeared again, looking very flushed, with the two boys behind her. They were joking with each other and seemed the best of pals, and somehow Matthew got the impression that they’d both fucked the girl, even at the same time maybe. The thought brought a flush to his own cheeks, and he hurriedly turned to offer yet more wine to Mrs Thorpe, the novelist, who lifted the glass without a glance at him and held it out while continuing a bawdy conversation with Mr Cranston the political journalist about some awful treatment doled out to an innocent respectable female by a group of degenerate aristos in a book by the Marquis de Sade. His supposition however was confirmed when the boys broke into an obscene ditty with the chorus line “Two holes are better than one”, at which Pat was covered with confusion and went off to the other side of the table. He saw with some curiosity that Mrs Grainger also went a bit red when she overheard them, though she also smiled, and he got the startling idea that the very same had happened to her at one time.

And then the inevitable happened. Catherine was so startled by Sir Graeme’s hand seeking her vulva that she gave a little cry and dropped her bottle of wine on to the table, splashing the old roué and his neighbour Mrs Cavendish. “Buggery!” swore the elderly M.P., and there was an immediate hush. Catherine stood frozen in fear, and the other servants looked at each other expectantly.

Lydia rose, saying “I might have known you’d show you’re inept, a clumsy careless girl.”

Catherine’s eyes filled with tears, saying “M-Madam, I—”

“Don’t interrupt me!” Lydia raised her voice, “You will not treat my guests this way! You will be taught to be careful! And the others will see the lesson!” Catherine began to shake – she remembered Jessica’s tale – while Jessica looked at her mistress and knew that she was glad the opportunity had arisen, for her friends expected something like this. She looked at Catherine, now pale and near tears, and felt a mixture of pity and relief that at least it wasn’t she who was to be punished. Matthew meanwhile looked at the scene and saw that something dreadful was to happen – and his Catherine was at the centre.

“Well,” said Lydia, “what’s it to be? A paddling, or what?”

The others chorused some ideas. Many had been waiting for this, and gleefully suggested several punishments – “Paddling and what!” “Yes, Lydia, and what about a dildo?” “Suppose we all put our hand in –” “Get her to piss in that bowl—” “—And drink it!”

“Well, at least we can start. Catherine, get up on the table.” The terrified girl clambered up onto the table, which Abigail and Mabel hastened to clear, with a help on her bare backside from young Daniel and Michael, who seized the heaven-sent opportunity to thoroughly finger her vulva, She wound up on hands and knees, and Mrs Grainger said “Stay there, like that. Now the paddles. Or shall it be the whip, or the cane, perhaps?”

“Don’t you have a riding crop, Lydia?”

“No, what about a birch? Sir Norbert Fulham did well with it that time, remember!”

“If it’s a question of which instrument will give more pain, or which marks the body more—”

“Oh, the pain, the pain!” cried Sir Graeme.

Lydia was lifting a couple of paddles in her hands when Matthew could not contain himself, and shouted “No!”

There was another hush, and all eyes turned to him. Lydia’s eyes widened, and she hissed “What!”

Matthew trembled but said bravely, “Madam, please forgive her, she meant no harm—“

His mistress gave a brutal sort of laugh, and said “Matthew, you don’t understand at all. You’re defying me over this girl? Very well. Get up on the table.” The others gave exclamations of approval, and Jessica looked up to catch Catherine’s eye and nodded. The other realised that Matthew had put himself on the line for her, all to no avail. They would both be punished. Abigail, meanwhile, was cruelly amused and regarded the scene cynically as Matthew got up on the table himself and stood looking at Catherine on all fours.

“Lydia,” said Mr Barlow, “why don’t you strip off that dress she has and give us all a little sight…?”

“Yes,” chimed in Thomas, “and let David and me have a little thrill….”

“As well as young Daniel and Michael,” added Margaret Ainsworth, “I bet they haven’t even seen a naked cunt yet!” The boys concerned were practically dancing with glee at this.

Matthew looked down at Mrs G and tried again. “Please don’t do this to Catherine….”

“That’s enough!” she shouted, but he took his courage in both hands and cried, “But it’s not fair! It wasn’t her fault! That old gentleman tried to put his finger in her—”

Lydia was white with rage. “Silence! You wretched boy! Sir Graeme is a guest here, and you—.” She turned to the youngest boy, Michael Brent, and said “You, Michael. Why don’t you get the honour of unveiling her? Nice and slowly perhaps. As Mr Whiston would tell you, the slower the better!” He grinned with delight and anticipation and got up on the table himself. He already had an evident hard-on, which grew a bit bigger as he pulled the girl’s head up till she was sitting on her haunches.Taking the band at her neck that held up the bodice, he undid it and pulled it away from her chest. The other guests sighed with pleasure at the sight of her breasts, their nipples now going hard and erect. He pulled the dress from her body with deliberate slowness, and her blush mounted as she felt the cloth leave her. Michael licked his lips and told her “Stand up.” She obeyed, and he went round to undo the ties that secured the dress at the back, and came forward again to peel away the garment completely, rendering her naked and vulnerable to them all.

As he descended to the floor there was a chorus of “Well done, lad!” and similar compliments from the crowd, who feasted their eyes on the young girl’s nudity as she closed her eyes in shame and Matthew, who had been forced to witness this, was fuming with anger at her exposure to this salacious mob, but reacted automatically to the sight of her bare cunny, and could not help his strong erection. Miss Shaw drew attention to it and said “Well, what about that one? Let’s have a girl to do the honours. What about young Diana here?”

They looked at the girl but shook their heads, seeing her befuddled state. “Wait,” said Lady Burrows, pointing to the nude Catherine, “why not get her to do it? Something tells me she’s not used to a standing penis!”

The others gave a chorus of affirmation, and Peg Ainsworth was delegated to direct the process. “Come forward, girl.” she said sharply. “Now get behind the boy and undo the ties at his waist. While you’re there, run your hands over his bum – that’s it, feel the cheeks, oh, you’re blushing rosy red – and so is he – his prick is getting bigger! Now face him, and put your arms round his neck to undo the ties there.” Catherine looked into Matthew’s eyes as she did so and a glance of understanding passed between them. “Now,” continued Miss Ainsworth, “holding the apron at the top, draw it—slowly—down his body, so, until you meet that erection of his—now down, over his organ, yes! See, everyone, it really has grown! Now girl, show you like it—you do like it, don’t you? Nod your head. Nod your head and say ‘I like his naked prick.’ Go on.”

Catherine was kneeling in front of the boy she admired, her hands at his thighs and her gaze on his erection. She swallowed a sob and said weakly, “I like his naked prick.”

“Louder! Shout it out!”

She drew a breath and looked up at Matthew, to cry defiantly “I like his naked prick!” A chorus of laughter and applause greeted this.

“All right,” said Peg, “put the apron away and kiss his tool.” The girl gasped and made as if to turn away, but the crowd would not be satisfied till she obeyed. “Take his haunches in your hands, lean forward, and kiss that red tool he’s offering you. Go on!” Gingerly she put her hands out to take hold of his dear body – now sweating and trembling itself – and put her lips to the glans. Matthew shuddered, and his hands clenched at his sides. Everyone roared in approval, and the pair on the table hung their heads in weary shame.

Catherine licked her lips, and Daniel noticed. “See!” he cried, “she’s licking her lips, she’s tasting his juice!”

Sir Hubert laughed uproariously. “People, we should get her to gamahuche him, no?”

Michael looked puzzled, and the old man laughed again. “I mean, you young novice, stimulate him with the tongue! With a boy, it’s called ‘fellatio’! She should suck him off. Ever done that? Ever had it done? No, I suppose not.”

“Mrs Grainger,” said the sixteen-year-old, “is there any chance—“

“Actually, that’s not a bad idea,” replied his hostess.

Matthew and Catherine looked at each other in horror, but the elderly M.P. broke in, “But what’s to be done with them now?” he complained. “We haven’t seen them flogged yet.”

“I’m not sure, Sir Graeme, that’ll do—let’s see….”

Gregory Mayne started up to protest, saying “Oh, whatever you do, don’t use the whip or the cane on them. Especially the boy. He sang so beautifully. And as Sir Hubert said, he has a lovely arse. So has she. Don’t let’s spoil it, for God’s sake. You know what a cane or whip can do.”

“Yes,” said Sir Graeme, “and I’ve seen boys’ arses cut to ribbons at school, but you recover, you know, however long it takes….”

“That reminds me, Sir Graeme,” said David Marshall, “did you ever run across something by Swinburne, the poet, about a boy’s flogging at school?”

“It’s in a little collection called The Whippingham Papers, David,” said his hostess, “and it’s in our library here. Along with a lot of other stuff you’d be interested in, I think.”

“I say,” said Mr Barlow, “your library. Do you happen to have any issues of that marvellous periodical, The Pearl? I had a glimpse of it twenty years ago, when I was young Thomas’s age, here. I thought it a jolly exciting thing at the time….”

“Yes, William,” she replied, “I think we have a complete run. And some similar magazines. Besides French magazines. Actually I’m quite proud of the library, it’s rather comprehensive in a way.”

George Whiston raised his head and asked with interest, “What about Forberg’s De Figuris Veneris? Any classics?”

“Good Lord, George, I can’t remember all of it. I wouldn’t be surprised, though. Henry felt he’d made a pretty complete collection, adding to what his uncle left him, and he evidently was quite a scholar of erotica, an acquaintance of Hankey and Ashbee. But can we get back—”

“I should think so,” muttered someone else, and Isobel Shaw broke in, “I suggest you put them together somehow….”

“Ha! Like Ali and the houri!” cried Tarrant.

“No, no,” said Lydia impatiently. “I want her to be a virgin a little longer. Catherine! Stand straight, put your legs apart. Matthew, stand behind her.”

As they nervously positioned themselves, Matthew’s hands on Catherine’s shoulders, Barlow said, “Haha! I see, you want him to bugger her! A great idea!” The young pair froze in shock, and a look of despair came over Matthew’s red face. How could he do this? If they didn’t obey, even worse might follow….

Lydia pursed her lips as the others thumped the table and voiced general approval of the idea, but finally said “No, I think not. Something like it, however. Matthew, you have your erection still.”

“He’s never lost it!” cried Dot Cavendish.

“Well now, place yourself so that your member fits underneath her bum, along the perineum. You know what that is?”

“Yes, madam,” he mumbled, and did as he was asked. When Catherine felt his erect penis under her she gave a little moan. He meanwhile was panting and feared he would explode.

“Now,” Lydia said, “Catherine, close your legs.” The rest hooted with mirth as they realised that the boy’s cock was imprisoned there, in delicious closeness to the girl’s bum and quim. Lydia continued, “Matthew, put your arms round her body to grasp her breasts. There – I can see how erect the nipples are. Do you see them, everybody? Up in the air, Mr Whiston, eh? Hug her closely. Right, now. Who hasn’t had a chance … Cicely!”

The 31-year-old laughed and said “Ooh, I think I could bring myself to it. I know what you’re after, Lydia. Where are those paddles?”

Matthew breathed in Catherine’s ear, “Catherine, please be brave, whatever they do to us….”

She turned her head to whisper, “They’re going to beat you, aren’t they?”

“I suppose so, and they probably expect you to cry.”

“Matthew,” she answered, “before it starts … let me say this … I love having your … cock there….”

As if she’d heard the whisper through all the hullaballoo, Cicely cried “Boy! Say, ‘I love having my hands on her tits!’” Matthew pressed his palms on her breasts as if to reassure her and spoke the words. “And you, girl! Say, ‘I love the feel of his prick under my arse!’” Catherine obeyed, ending with something like a sob.

“God, see how they’re both sweating! And she’s so wet at the cunt,” said Daniel, “that it’s running down her leg –”

“As if she was pissing!” added Thomas, not to be outdone in lubricity.

“But maybe she is,” commented Michael, “that can’t all be her juice, can it?” He looked up at her and caught her eye. Catherine looked down at him, and he blushed himself and looked away in what had to be shame at what was happening. Cicely positioned herself carefully behind the pair and took aim. Whack! She hit Matthew’s buttocks viciously, and he gave a muffled yell of pain, as his loins jerked forward. He felt his penis move between Catherine’s thighs, and realised what was supposed to happen. Whack! He kept his lips closed and only gave an agonised grunt as the young woman applied the paddle again. Whack! Whack! Whack!

Catherine could hear his groans and felt so keenly for him that she began to cry silently, the tears running down her face and splashing on his bare arms and hands that tightened their grasp of her breasts as he flinched from the blows. Her lips formed his name over and over, this wonderful boy who was bearing all this for her, and she spoke it aloud so he could hear. His penis was urged forward as his buttocks were assailed, and stimulated by the friction against her skin, and ultimately it had had enough – he erupted in a stream of semen that spurted out below her vulva, making it seem as if she were ejaculating, as Mrs Thorpe remarked with a laugh. Cicely stopped her beating after a while when she saw the boy was utterly drained. The two sank to their knees and Matthew rested his head on Catherine’s shoulder, murmuring her name in his turn. The rest of the company applauded.

“A fine show, Lydia!” said Sir Graeme. “A fine show, by God! Now, if one of the young ladies….”

“Of course,” smirked his hostess. “Abigail, see to Sir Graeme, will you?”

Abigail raised her eyes in a weary way but smiled at the lecherous aristocrat, saying “Come this way, Sir Graeme, if you please?” They exited through the green baize door and the others breathed sighs of relief at not being chosen to help the old roué’s perversion.

A soothing lotion was produced from her reticule by the fiftyish secretary, Mrs Barton, and applied to Matthew’s buttocks, though Mrs Grainger tried to dissuade her. “No, Lydia,” she insisted, “the poor boy is in terrible shape, and his darling bum needs attention!” Lydia gave a sardonic smile and capitulated. She might have expected such a reaction, especially from Gregory Mayne, who looked at the process with envious hunger in his eyes. The others fell to discussing the merits and demerits of intercrural intercourse. Daniel meanwhile pointed out that nothing much had happened to the girl as yet, but his hostess said “Perhaps we should let them both recover before having some more fun.” He was disappointed, but subsided, though his erection didn’t, and Lydia mercifully delegated Jennie to give him solace.

With a smirk she led him behind a Japanese screen in a corner, decorated with beautiful pillow-book pictures, and looked at him mischievously. “Daniel,” she said, “I can see you’re in pain down there. Can I rub it better?” He looked at her with delight and quickly undid his trousers to show an erection of some dimensions. She grabbed it and began to stroke the eager organ, pulling back the foreskin and rimming the head with a finger and then a nail, putting her hand to the underside of the prick and tickling him so that he yelped and shivered. Soon he was on the crest of his orgasm, and as she watched him come she compared him and his endowment to the boy they’d just finished tormenting. No, she shook her head, there was really no contest. He meanwhile was glorying in being wanked off by a fifteen-year-old girl, and came profusely, she catching the come in a napkin carefully laid there previously just for such an occasion.

The pair had been got down from the table and the girl seized by Barlow, who decided that she should be washed clean of traces of sperm, just in case, he said, hooting with laughter, she was impregnated by the boy’s emission. He grabbed a glass of wine and poured it over her loins, then wiped at her shrinking delta with a napkin, till he lost his balance and fell in an undignified heap, being rescued by Gregory Mayne and installed again in his chair.

The party continued, the children serving totally nude. More stories were told, the guests grew more inebriated, and Lady Burrows was emboldened to seize Catherine and plant a wet kiss on her lips, exclaiming “My dear! I must paint you! You’re delicious!” The girl stood still with fright, and wondered what was to come, but the artist was content with saying “You’re really pretty, child.”

“Yes she is, I said so,” cried Sir Hubert, “didn’t I? Here, let me kiss her too.” He took hold of her and slobbered his salute, rubbing his hands over her shoulders. Then she was passed on to a succession of embraces from all the company, some, like Gregory, content to kiss, some, like David, fondling her breasts, one (Isobel Shaw) putting her hand to the bare vulva, and Mrs Grainger herself tweaking the nipples cruelly. Catherine bore all this stoically, telling herself that her dear Matthew had suffered more for her sake. He had to stand by and witness this and say nothing.

Sir Graeme was brought back by Abigail, both looking exhausted, and the party went on. From time to time a serving girl would be directed to attend in a special way to a guest, sometimes behind the baize door, sometimes behind one of the screens in the corners. It was there that Michael was introduced to fellatio, being sucked off by Mabel, who though inexpert was able to do a creditable job, and the boy knew no better, being excited at the thought of a girl his own age servicing him like this. He came with a great groan and spewed his semen into her mouth, she managing to swallow a deal of it but the rest splashing on her face and apron. She had to continue serving the table in that condition, and Catherine couldn’t look at her. She herself seemed a little dazed by it all but was none the worse, and probably a bit better than the girls who accompanied the guests who chose the invigorating whip. Inevitably a pair simply went behind a screen and did not trouble to hide their activity from the rest of the company, their moans of pleasure sounding loud to the others’ amusement. In another corner Gregory Mayne and Phyllis, the seventeen-year-old who had laughed at Matthew’s nude torment on the stairs that time, were locked in congress, and thrashed about so much that the screen came down to reveal him behind her, grasping her waist and thrusting himself into her anus, she grinning in a desperate sort of way and panting with evident pleasure as she was sodomised. Matthew looked at the scene and felt sick, then looked around at the rest of the orgy and couldn’t believe he was a part of this picture that harked back to the worst excesses of the degenerate Roman emperors. But he thanked God that Catherine wasn’t being attacked, and that the pleasuring of the guests was left to the experienced other girls, who seemed to bear the business with resignation and mostly with their own enjoyment. Abigail got him to help her restore the screen, and Phyllis looked up to blush in her turn, while Mayne still clutched her and held her body to his. The boy heaved a thankful sigh that he himself hadn’t been tampered with – yet! He would need to be careful though, and oh God, if someone tried to fuck him, how could he escape?

(End of File)