Mrs Grainger's Gift 18

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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PART XVIII

Monday 22^nd June

More curious books; a visit to the swimming baths; a spanking; solace, and confessions

“This is a queer sort of binding,” said Matthew with a quizzical frown. “It’s got an ornamental bump on the front. And back, too,” he added.

De Groot made an exclamation. “Let me see that,” he said in a strange tone, and took the quarto volume from the boy’s hands. He weighed it in his hands, and ran his fingers over the leather, tracing the bumps and narrowing his eyes. He looked at Matthew with pouting lips, and the boy looked back at him in puzzlement. “What is it?” he asked. “Is it a special kind of binding?”

“Oh yes,” said the Dutchman, nodding his head. “It’s special, all right. This, Matthew, this book is bound in human skin.”

“What! You can’t be serious. It’s an animal, surely.”

De Groot shook his head. “No. Look at that front panel. What does it make you think of?”

He stared at it, and a slow flush came to his cheeks. “To tell the truth,” he said slowly, “it reminds me of a girl’s nipples.”

“Exactly. That’s exactly what they are. The skin from the breasts of a woman. A slave, perhaps. They’ve rarely been found, but they’re heard of sometimes. I’ve heard of a copy of the one volume octavo edition (1793) of Justine et Juliette by the Marquis de Sade being bound in female breasts like this. The Goncourt brothers have a note somewhere about some interns at Clamart, in the south-west of Paris, who were dismissed – in the sixties, this was – for having sent the skin of women to a fellow in the Faubourg Saint-Germain, who specialised in binding obscene books. One of the notorious English collectors of erotica last century boasted of having examples in his library, and he was also mentioned by the Goncourts. His name was Hankey.”

“Hankey!” exclaimed Matthew. “They were talking about him at that party. He was a friend of Henry Grainger’s uncle.”

“I’m not surprised,” said the little bookman. “Let me see, he died about forty years ago, yes, in 1882 if I’m right. He seems to have had an extraordinary collection of erotica, statues and devices like a chastity belt, and a fairly small library of books, but very select. He left most of them to Ashbee, who has an account of him in one of his volumes here. He seems to have left the rest to Lord Houghton, Monckton Milnes.”

“Goodness! So that’s who it is. Look here.” Matthew showed de Groot the annotation he’d found that time about the gynaecology book, and the other laughed briefly and nodded.

“Yes,” he said, “that’ll be the one. Milnes was the tempter, shall I say, who introduced young Swinburne to the Marquis de Sade. Unwillingly, perhaps, but he did anyway. He got most of the flagellation books it seems. They’re now in the British Museum, I think. Anyway, this particular item – on flagellation, is it? No, on Circumcision and so on – is bound in human skin, and just conceivably might have come from the Hankey collection, though it’s rather nondescript. The dates are right. I must say I’m not sure just how many such books are extant, but in a way it’s an obvious choice for the collector of utterly outré books. After all, round about then one could have, could have made, a tobacco pouch from the breast of a squaw.”

Matthew looked at him in horror. “D’you mean,” he said with dry throat, “that people mutilated the Indian women, to make things out of them? Oh, as long as they were dead, maybe—”

The Dutchman looked at him seriously and shook his head. “No, Matthew, my boy, I’ve heard tales about the treatment of the conquered tribes, living as well as dead. They joked about it, even. At least here we’ve just got this one example. At least I hope we have. I saw a small collection in Bruges some time ago which had three items like this, including something bound in the tanned pudendum.”

Matthew frowned. “What? A sort of pudding? What do you mean?”

De Groot smiled sadly at the boy’s ignorance. “Pudendum muliebre,” he said, “meaning ‘woman’s … private parts’, maybe. Pudendum really means ‘what one should be ashamed of.’ Quite frankly, Matthew, the three books had the skin of the breasts, the backside (including the anus, remarkably enough) and the pubic area, with the vulva. It was an extraordinary sight. Inside the owner had detailed how he came by them, and who the woman was – a prostitute at Goa. The former Portuguese possession in the south of India, do you know?”

Matthew spluttered, “G-God, you can’t be serious! N-no-one can do things like that! It must be imitation, somehow! I—”

“No, Matthew, my son,” said the little bookman gravely, “I tell you in all truth that these are just typical artefacts of human cruelty. I’m informed that during the Indian Wars about sixty years ago at a place in the United States an Indian encampment was attacked by soldiers and many killed – including, or even mostly, women and children, who were butchered in obscene ways. The brute who led the massacre was never punished for it. The famous general Custer that you have heard of is said to have done the same a bit later – that was the Battle of Washita, I believe, around 1868. It’s no wonder he and all his men were slaughtered at the Little Big Horn.”

Matthew blinked. “And the … the women ….”

“Yes, Matthew; it was quite the usual custom to take souvenirs from the dead, or the living, as they lay bleeding and dying even – a tobacco pouch made from a squaw’s breast or a brave’s scrotum. Besides the usual scalps, of course. Do you know that that custom was started by the white man? But you cannot be so innocent as not to realise that Homo Sapiens is the one species that preys upon itself. Naturally, one section regards itself as the only truly human race. All others are subhuman, inferior species, to be ignored or crushed at a whim by the only really deserving creatures on the planet. Truly, the Americans saw the Indians as animals, for it was quite legal to shoot them. As for sport. The Canadians I think were (or are) just as bad, just as arrogantly sure of themselves. And the practice of slavery had a lot to do with it. It’s always been so, of course. Remember that the ancient Greeks saw themselves as the only worthwhile nation, grouping all the others into a despised class who couldn’t speak the proper human language (Greek), but just babbled bar-bar-bar; the hated and ridiculed ‘barbarians’. The Russians have the same idea, for they call Germans nemtsy, which literally means ‘the dumb’, that is, they can’t speak Russian. The Canadians who speak English are of course the only ones who matter. Others, such as immigrants from Eastern Europe, are forbidden to use their language, and must become ‘Canadian’ – that is, an English-speaking British monarchist, and the conquered French of course are despised, along with the native tribes. And don’t imagine I’m singling out the British and their cousins. We Dutch have had our cruel imperial ambitions too. Our Verenigde Oostindische Compagnie, the East India Company, was quite careless, if that’s the word, about its possessions. And at the Cape of Good Hope, we Dutch hunted the San tribesmen to extinction. The ‘Bushmen’, you know the term? Just as the British did with the aborigines of Tasmania. It’s all about the rest, the ‘others’, don’t you see? If they are different, they are despised, and if they survive our attentions they’re made, as far as is possible, made to be like us. Of course it’s impossible, they never can be quite as good as us, but we must applaud their efforts to better themselves. It’s an age-old situation, and I see no improvement coming.”

Matthew heaved a deep sigh. “All right, Mr de Groot, I see, and I do understand. ‘Man’s inhumanity to man Makes countless thousands mourn.’ As Robert Burns, the Scottish poet, says. I shouldn’t be surprised. So it’s no wonder Hankey and his like possessed things like that. What will it fetch at the auction, do you think?”

“Hmm, a very good question. I’m not sure how noisily it’ll be bid for, being a bit too specialised, I would say. Still, I predict it’ll go for a nice little sum to a secret bidder in the States. Mind you, by the time the library is sold, if ever! tastes may well have changed. There are fads, you can imagine, in book-hunting and bibliophilic collection, as in other areas. Oh, we’re forgetting! Is it in the catalogue? Look it up under … look at the title.” He held the book up and Matthew was able to identify it: Curiositates Eroticae Physiologiae; or, Tabooed Subjects Freely Treated.

“It’s here, sir. What’s it about?”

“It’s six essays, on ‘Generation’, ‘Chastity and Modesty’, ‘Marriage’, ‘Circumcision’, ‘Eunuchism’, ‘Hermaphroditism’, and ‘Death’. The author is John Davenport, who has other books on aphrodisiacs and such. It’s very detailed and scholarly, but it’s got lots of misprints. Mind you, it’s his last book, he was nearly blind, and couldn’t correct it too well. The binding one usually sees is half morocco Roxburgh, with gilt tops, but this has been rebound, you see, in a woman’s skin. Quite well, actually, it’s rather artistic.The date is 1875, so it fits as we said. The edition was limited, but the text is not particularly unusual, and it’s the binding that will be of interest. Anyhow, next!”

“There’s a whole lot of books of songs here,” said Matthew. “See, some of them have music, but mostly they’re just the words, it seems. Are they going to be valuable?”

“Actually, Matthew, I believe they will turn a good penny at the auction. When you think about it, such songbooks got so much use that they literally fell to pieces. As did the books of jokes. So when you find such things in fairly good shape, like these – how many are there? My goodness. I think we’re going to rival, and maybe outdo, the British Museum’s Private Case, which has a lot of these. Hey, see this, another wonderfully informative title page!”

He handed the slim volume to the boy, who read out the title with increasing amazement.

“The Blowen’s Cabinet of Choice Songs; A beautiful, bothering, laughter, provoking – I say, it must be a printing mistake. Laughter-provoking, collection of spiflicating, flabbergasting, smutty ditties, now first printed, among which will be found the:– Great Plenipotentiary!! A most outrageously good amatory stave. Oh, Miss Tabitha Tittlecock!!! A slashing smutty ballad. The Magical Carrot or the Parsley Bed. Katty O’More, or the Root! My Mot’s in the Lock! Two famous flash parodies. Roger in all its Glory!!! The Smutty Billy Black! A truly delicious chaunt. The Lost Cow!!! Or, the Bulling Match under the Tree. The Glass Eye! A right down regular rummy ditty, never before printed. The Soft Fart! A capital flash stave. Peggy and the Ball Cock; or thawing the Water Works! Beetroots! Beetroots! My Woman is a Rummy Whore! Going a Nesting! The Essence of Lanky-Doodle!!! The Pego Club! The Height of Impudence, or the T—d – wait a minute, he’s missed out the middle again! How silly, in a bawdy book like this! Anyway, the Turd & the Muffin An out-and-out ditty. The Invisible Tool! The Randy Dinner! The Tremendous Tail! The Butcher’s Boy with a Mot is Gone, &c, &c.”

He laughed and looked at the bookman. “That’s informative, right enough. And it’s interesting because it shows the slang, I suppose it is, of the time. What would that be, anyway?”

The little Dutchman pursed his lips. “The publisher,” he said slowly, “was a man called West, who flourished about a hundred years ago. Besides this and a lot of other booklets he produced some very good prints concerning the theatre. As for slang, you’re correct. Some of that I don’t understand, and you’d be better than I at guessing. ‘Spiflicating’ for instance. I suppose it may mean ‘side-splitting’, hmm? Some of it will be what they call cant, that is special made-up words by the lower class, thieves and so on. That ‘mot’ in those two titles I know means ‘girl’, it’s supposed to be Irish slang, or a word used by Irish gypsies. I imagine the tune of that last song will be, appropriately enough, The Minstrel Boy to the War is Gone, you know it? By Thomas Moore?”

Matthew nodded absently. “Oh,” he said, “can you tell me what ‘pego’ means? I heard someone use it a while ago and I think I can guess—”

The other laughed. “Yes, my boy, it’s slang, though maybe not from the underclass. It means ‘penis’, is that what you thought? As for why, I seem to remember being told it derived from Greek. In the langue d’oc of Southern France, it would mean ‘pitch’, I mean the sticky stuff, whence you get pegou, a troublesome, importunate person who sticks to you. But it may well be Greek, where pege means ‘a spring”, or ‘fountain’. You see the connection?”

“Thank you,” said Matthew. “That sounds right. I say, this ‘Plenipotentiary” goes on for a bit. I suppose it’s a satire on the lustful foreigners, is it?”

“Ah yes!” the bookman answered with a condescending sort of smile, “it’s quite famous I suppose. Written by a chap who produced a lot of songs, of various sorts, called Captain Morris, who was evidently a frequenter of the parties at Carleton House of the Prince of Wales, later George the Fourth. It’ll go to a well-known tune as usual. Imagine it being sung in the Royal presence, with probably some fast ladies attending too! The parties were famously sybaritic and outdid in most respects (including respectability, or its lack) the entertainments of his parents!”

Matthew read, trying to imagine the raffish scene and the jaunty tune the lines demanded.

                                   “A Duchess whose Duke made her ready to puke,

With fumbling and fucking all night, sir,

Being first for the prize, was so pleased with its size,

That she begged for to stroke its big snout, sir.

My stars! cried her Grace, its head’s like a mace,

’Tis as high as the Corsican Fairy;

I’ll make up, please the pigs, for dry bobs and frigs,

With the great Plenipotentiary.”

He paused and said “That has to be pronounced like that, with the accent on the second-last syllable, no? It has a sort of swing to it, and I can see how it might be popular. But there’s all these contemporary references. I mean ‘dry bobs’ and the Fairy….”

De Groot answered kindly. “A ‘dry bob’, Matthew, is when there is no ejaculation. For instance, where the girl manipulates the penis to erection and orgasm, but without emission of seminal fluid. I suppose that might include attempted penetration, or even full penetration, where the actor is not sufficiently developed, as I’m sure happened to you before your masturbation resulted in emission.”

The boy blushed hotly.

“The ‘bob’ is an old word for a dance. As for the Corsican Fairy, now, it seems to say that the head of the penis of the redoubtable visitor was as high as the height of a little lady measuring only three feet high. Her name was Maria Teresia, and she was born in Corsica in the seventeen-forties. She was exhibited as a curiosity all over Europe. I think she died before the Revolution (the French), and then when Napoleon was threatening Britain a little later the term was quite amusingly applied to him, in a satirical song or two. Probably to this tune recommended here, called Shawmbue. That sounds Irish to me.

“My goodness, there’s quite a lot of these. Very few have music though, it’s because the tune was well-known, like a lot of the ballads of the time. And you’ll see the titles are very similar. What do we have here. The Cockchafer, The Cuckold’s Nest, The Flash Chaunter, The Gentleman’s Spicey Songster, The Randy Songster, The Ticklish Minstrel, oh goodness. You see they have a folded plate, coloured, to illustrate one of the flash ditties. And here’s another lot, this time from Dugdale, a competitor of West. The Coal-Hole Companion, The Frisky Songster, The Black Joke—” he stopped, seeing a question on Matthew’s face. “The Joke, are you curious?”

“Yes, sir, though I realise all these awful songs are supposed to be funny.”

“Well,” said the Dutchman accommodatingly, “Let’s see.” He opened the little book to discover the title song, and grinned. “Ah, Matthew, see, from the first words, what it means!”

Matthew read out

                                              “No mortal sure can blame ye man,

                                              Who prompted by Nature will act as he can

                                             Wth a black joke, and belly so white:

“Oh,” he exclaimed, “it has to mean her pubic hair, doesn’t it?”

He scanned the page and found the text gave an account of several visitors to a lady endowed with a “coal black joke”, winding up with the observation that every class was fond of the entertainment.

                                              “The Bishop in his Pontifical Gown,

                                              Wou’d tumble another Susanna down,

                                             For her black Joke and belly so white.

                                              The Lawyer his Clients cause wd quit

                                              To dip his pen in ye bottomless Pit

                                             Of a Coal black Joke and belly so white.”

He smiled at the other and said “Well, I can see what’s what, and I suppose it really means ‘something to have fun over,’ maybe?”

“Most likely. See here, there’s several series of that title, and here’s Captain Morris’s Songster. These are quite desirable, because they perished in their dozens. Actually they were produced in hundreds if not thousands of copies, but as I said they didn’t last too long, being read to bits. So I fancy they will fetch good prices. . Let’s lay them by to be separately listed. All right! Next!”

* * *

Matthew sat nervously in the front of the bus filled with girls of fourteen to fifteen, who chattered around him about nothing in particular, except that they stole glances at him from time to time as if to wonder why he was going along. He himself had no idea, but there was at the back of his mind an awful suspicion that Mrs Grainger had some unpleasant experience waiting for him. In a parcel he carried a special new swim costume which was actually in two parts – the top like a singlet, the bottom like shorts, with a draw string. Abigail had told him it had come from Belgium, and was a new style Mrs G had admired on her friends there. Matthew wondered about these friends, but had to admire the cut of the costume, and was looking forward to wearing it.

When they got to the pool, the girls went to the women’s locker room and he to the men’s, but was shocked to be interrupted before he got into his costume by the arrival of the instructor, a rather pretty brunette, and a few girls from the local high school, who were evidently going to share the session. He held the costume in front of his trembling nudity and wondered how to put it on, but Miss Davenant, not in the slightest put out, told him he had to shower first. He put his cover on a bench and stepped towards the showers as the rest of the contingent straggled in. He cringed to see there was no barrier between the locker room and the showers, so he was quite visible to those who wanted to see him, and of course they all did. There was no point in dawdling, and he quickly finished, to come out covering himself, and look beseechingly at the teacher, who kindly offered him a towel. He dried his body, twisting round in laughable contortions to avoid exposure, trying to ignore the giggles of the girls, who didn’t bother to hide their bawdy amusement at the spectacle. He finished that manoeuvre, and raised his eyes to ask Miss Davenant about the costume, which he’d lost sight of. “Oh yes,” she said cheerfully, taking the towel and handing him the singlet. So with something of a whimper he donned his costume, top first, in front of thirty girls from the high school who were excited to see a naked boy – mostly his bum, of course.

He escaped to the pool side, conscious of his erection maintained behind the front of his swim pants, which seemed rather thin, and he just knew his state would be obvious to all. Miss Davenant proceeded to instruct him in what was to happen. They’d have exercises first – stretching muscles, et cetera, then free style swimming, with a few periods of lessons, tips and so on, during which he might be asked to act as a demonstration model, and a final splash about. “The second hour will be the same, with the next lot of girls, half from the Academy and half from the school again. All right?” He nodded, seeing no bother.

The exercises were easy to follow, and he soon forgot his anxiety about his appearance. He was told he’d be able to lead them the next time. Then into the pool. All went well for a bit but a naughty girl swiam up to him and gently pulled on the string of his swimming pants. He didn’t notice anything at first except the girls were swimming round him a bit more. Then he realised that his pants had crept to his knees, and he frantically tried to save them, but they worked their way off his feet just as Millie decided he should show them all some diving. He made violent shakes of the head, but the teacher insisted. A dreadful memory of his last diving session came to his mind, and he ducked underwater to find his pants. It took a minute or two, but he did find them, and surfaced to see them all looking at him, which made him all thumbs when it came to trying to put them on. Then a couple of girls were told to get him to the diving board, and the next moment they were at his side to pull him along, Millie saying “Don’t be shy, Matthew, I hear you’re a great diver!”

Then they were at the side of the pool and two girls reached down to lift him out, their hands under his armpits, while the other two had their arms round his waist. He was raised up, he mouthing anguished protests, and the ones in the water had the strange (exciting) feeling of their arms gliding over his bare flesh, from his waist past his thighs, over his bum, which was then revealed to everybody when he was lifted out of the pool, to a collective gasp and giggles. They saw his pants clutched in his hand, and understood what had happened. In amused shock they let go of him and he splashed back into the pool, where he managed after a minute to wriggle back into his pants and climb out, blushing furiously.

The girls noticed a slight change in the appearance of his costume – it was somehow a bit less white, and they couldn’t understand it, but soon they realised that the water has made it rather translucent, and the news soon spread round; all eyes were now on him. He meanwhile had no idea what he looked like, and stood up on the first diving board quite proudly, though still conscious of his erection, which he was sure was visible in tantalising outline behind his pants front. He dived, they applauded; he came out, and by God the suit was more see-through. The girls were enjoying this tremendously, and he dived again. By degrees his suit was becoming transparent, and he was quite unconscious of it, merely seeing the delight on the girls’ faces and putting it down to a mixture of admiration for his body and bawdy interest in the outline of his erection.

So he came out after his third dive and walked along the tiles at the pool’s edge, the girls looking up at him, relishing the by now entirely see-through costume. It was as if he was completely naked, and he, conscious of all the eyes, couldn’t help but feel his penis beginning to twitch and throb. Millie meanwhile was as interested in his revelation as any, and knew that this has been carefully engineered by Lydia, and she would be effusive in her gratitude. She started to devise plans to take advantage of the poor boy and exploit his nudity for the amusement of her charges.

“Matthew! Can we start the demonstrations? Show us particular strokes – the crawl, the breast stroke, and the back stroke!” The last of these naturally put him on his back, painfully conscious that his erection was probably showing above the water. Millie by then was by him, supporting his body with her hand on his back, and asked a couple of girls to do the same, studying the motion of his body. Then he came out, and glanced down at himself for the first time. God! He was mortified to death to see that his suit was totally transparent, and covered himself with his hands, and looking beseechingly at the instructor. She shrugged and said “Sorry, Matthew, I can’t do anything about it. You’ll have to carry on.” He looked out at the crowd and stifled a sob as he entered the pool again.

After a while Millie beckoned him out and told him he might as well take the useless things off entirely. With resignation he did so, and stood at the pool’s edge, his hands in the usual places, wondering what he could do now; but the implacable (and secretly amused) Miss Davenant called for more demos, and he stepped with a shudder into the water to be a model again. This time however when it came to the back stroke his erection was free of any confinement, and poked proudly up above the water to be admired by the girls who were on either side, their hands on his back.

All too soon, from the girls’ point of view, the hour was over, and they went off to change. He looked at Millie, who shrugged and said he still had an hour to do the same for the second lot of girls.

“B-but, Miss D-Davenant, p-please, I’m naked!”

“Yes, and it’s too bad, but there’s little point in putting on that costume, so you might as well stay naked.”

“But I’ll be naked in front of everybody!” he moaned.

“I’m sorry, Matthew, but I must insist on your fulfilling your task. The girls will be expecting it. Mrs Grainger will expect it.”

That was the telling phrase. He sat on a bench in despair, shaking to know in advance how embarrassing the hour – a whole hour! – would be.

In came the new girls, and those from the Academy crowed with delight when they saw him – many of them had seen him naked already, and here he was again for their diversion. The town girls were amazed and amused, and when he led them in the exercises they were enthusiastic. He meanwhile had a strong erection that seemed to pulse in shame as he stretched his limbs before them. Then it was free swimming, and again he was asked to show dives and strokes. The girls have a high old time with this, and persuaded their complacent teacher to let them study his muscles at close quarters, how his limbs moved, feeling his body to understand the mechanics. Of course he couldn’t stand this and came in front of them, spilling his sperm on the tiles and shaking in hot embarrassment. They went off in good high humour, asking Miss D if they could repeat the lesson next time. He nearly cried when she said “Oh, why not? I’m glad you enjoyed that. We’ll certainly arrange it, don’t worry!”

In the bus going back the general chatter was all about him of course, and his cheeks flamed as they made no bones about discussing his attributes. And next time?

* * *

Dulcie, blushing again, welcomed him in and led him to the room he imagined as a court, where the jury were empowered to carry out the sentence. The girls in the dorm that won the toss were mostly from the upper forms, and so stronger. Again he was reduced to tears before they had all had a go, and again a compassionate girl cried halt. He stood up and put tentative hands to his tender arse, and looked round at the faces of the spankers and their witnesses. He thought that with very few exceptions they were impassive, staring at his nudity (and another erection) with a mixture of curiosity and blasé indifference.

He hobbled up to his room and then bethought him to go along the corridor to Catherine’s room, holding that magic ointment. She was there writing a letter evidently, and she started and hurriedly thrust the paper in a drawer before she saw who it was.

“Oh, Matthew! You startled me! I thought it was — no, it’s all right. It’s just a sort of diary I’m keeping. Hey, I forgot! You’ve been spanked again, haven’t you? Oh God, and it’s my fault! But have you got the ointment? Oh, you have. Fine. Take off the trousers and let me make it better.”

He bared his bottom and lay down on her bed with a sigh. Again he found great solace in her gentle hands going over his nates, and again had the ridiculous thought that he didn’t mind the punishment because it led to this sweet erotic moment. When she finished he stood up and made himself decent, then looked at her with a smile.

“Thank you, love. And don’t blame yourself for this. Lydia G would have found another excuse to have me paddled.”

“I suppose so. God, I sometimes think she broods away in her special quarters, making fantasies about you or me – or anybody really – getting naked somehow, and being exposed to men or boys, or girls, a public humiliation, and it doesn’t matter how far-fetched her ideas are, she imagines them and gets all hot about them – and probably,” she paused with a flush of her own, “she … frigs herself thinking about it.”

He nodded thoughtfully. “But she’s all alone, Catherine, with no husband, and for all I can see, no lover either. If she feels the need for … sex, gratification, she has to masturbate. But I think she, what’s the term, sublimates her sexual need by steering it into humiliation of others. Yes, that’s what she’s doing. And she taught the technique to Abigail. Look, she doesn’t seem to have any sex needs either.”

They agreed on the probable psychology of it, and sighed. Understanding of the reasons for their situation somehow didn’t make it any easier to bear.

He looked at her and then at the ground. “Listen, Catherine,” he said hesitantly, “I have to tell you.”

She looked at him with raised eyebrows.

“Yes, look, I have to be honest with you. It’s a result of my being naked I suppose….”

She waited, with a dawning disquiet.

He drew a deep breath. “These situations we’re being put in, they … they result in … having sex.”

He looked at the ground again, and couldn’t go on. Catherine caught her breath. This reminded her of how she’d been thinking. She moistened her lips with her tongue and cleared her throat.

“Listen, Matthew,” she said, “we agreed to tell each other about the awful things that they were doing to us. I haven’t told you everything myself. But I want to tell you that being exposed to boys has made me very conscious of my sexuality. Yes, listen, I’ve done some sexual things, and I admit to you that I’ve actually enjoyed them, some of them. But our own relationship has been … proper, between ourselves. All the same,” she continued as he raised his head to look at her somewhat shamefacedly, “I have no call on you – nor you on me. I told myself that you don’t belong to me, and if you want to … do sexual things … with other girls, or even boys! I cannot stand in your way.”

He looked amazed. “Catherine, that’s exactly what I thought, too. I still desire you, as I said, but how can I say no-one else has a right to desire you? And act upon it? If you want another boy to frig you off, or if you want to please him that way, or – or even if you want another boy to fuck you, I can’t say no. You have to be in charge of your own body, and your own desires. And as for me ….”

“Yes, love,” she said. “We can agree to allow each other the freedom of choice, to enjoy the results of our nakedness. Isn’t that what it is? And I know you’re going to tell me you’ve done a few things with other girls. It’s a bit difficult to avoid it, I think. I’ll admit that I’ve learned to enjoy, in a way, my arousal, at the same time as I’m shivering in shame in front of a boy. Though it’s still an almighty embarrassment when it’s a roomful of people. It’s a bit of a paradox. So before you tell me, know that I understand.”

He raised his head to look her in the eye, with a smile. “Let me tell you,” he said, “about the girls who like to see me naked, and take it a bit further….”

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Tuesday 23^rd June

Catherine visits St Vincent’s; Rachael gets her way

Catherine stepped into the closed car and looked enquiringly at Mrs G. “Where are we going?” she asked. “To town?” A little flush came to her cheeks as she recalled her exposure to the crowds in the department store, and she fervently hoped that she wasn’t to be the target of more libidinous eyes.

Mrs Grainger smiled at her. “No, Catherine, we’re going to St Vincent’s school. I’ve an appointment with Mr Bradley, the headmaster, to discuss some curriculum strategy. You might be useful, too.” With that she opened a book and ignored the girl.

Catherine was a little nonplussed. What usefulness could she offer? And that school had uncomfortable memories. She shivered a little as she remembered the cruel nude whippings they’d shown the Academy girls, and then, when they visited back, the horrible show Miss Birkett (or Mrs G) had put on for the randy boys. And she was going back there, surely to see some of the boys who had taken part in her own naked punishment. Her flush returned, and she fidgeted in her seat, trying to cast out her memories, but they kept coming back. That David would undoubtedly be there, and he’d surely talk about her exposure. And why had Mrs G asked about her period being finished? She sank into a miserable silence and closed her eyes, and it was seemingly only a moment till Mrs G cried in her ear “Catherine! Wake up! We’re there!”

She roused herself and groggily stepped out of the car. Mrs G was helped out by Rawlins, who drove the car away round a corner of the building, looking forward to a leisurely smoke. Mr Bradley was at the door to welcome them, and he looked at Catherine with what seemed a very predatory expression. “Welcome, ladies! Come along to my office.” They followed him to a book-lined study, where he pressed a button on his desk to summon a spotty youth. “Foster,” he said imperiously, “fetch tea.” The boy nodded wordlessly and disappeared. “Now, ladies,” said Bradley, rubbing his hands together in a somehow sinister way, “I’m very glad you could come. I’ve been looking forward to this ever since you mentioned it, dear lady,” he said, turning to Lydia, “and I’m pleased to meet young Catherine here.” He stared at her with pleasure, and she sat there disconcerted, not knowing how to respond. She was wearing a pretty frock with a floral pattern of yellows and reds, with a white collar and buttons down the front, black shoes and white ankle socks. She looked demure and virginal, and the Head’s eyes lit up and he licked his thin lips, his fingers twitching in what had to be anticipation.

“Well now,” said Bradley, “I have here all the details about the programme. Some materials I’ve had copied specially for you,” and he grinned with flashing teeth, “with some recent thoughts on what improvements or changes could be made. Mutatis mutandis, you know, circumstances alter cases! Your position is obviously somewhat different.”

“And vive la différence,” said Lydia laughing. He grinned wider, and Catherine felt a revulsion toward this over-friendly man, who she was sure was imagining her body under her dress. Why should she think that? It was just his whole attitude, a sort of aura of erotic sadism, that he seemed to possess and to communicate in some unspoken way. She gave a small shudder, and looked up as the door opened and the boy came in with a laden tray. He set it down on the Head’s desk and waited. “That’s all right, Foster, go!” The boy turned tail and hurriedly left, carefully closing the door.

Bradley dispensed the tea and chatted to Mrs G in a general sort of way, totally ignoring Catherine. She sipped her tea and tried to follow the conversation, which had moved on to politics, and what did Mrs Grainger think of Mr Baldwin’s latest statement? – but she kept wondering why on earth she had been dragged along. Then the Head looked at a large clock on the wall and exclaimed “Aha! It’s the time to change classes. Where’s Foster?” He pressed the button again and the boy appeared almost immediately, as if he’d been waiting outside the door. “Foster, this is Catherine. Take her to Mr Drysdale.” “Yes, sir!” said the boy, and opened the door, looking at Catherine. She rose in some bewilderment to follow him, and the other two merely looked at her and nodded. So she went with the boy, who didn’t look at her as he convoyed her down stairs and along a corridor, now thronged with pupils, who stared at her curiously.

Foster stopped at a door and knocked. It was opened by a tired-looking man of about fifty in a brown smock, who looked at them and said “Ah, yes! You must be the girl Catherine. Good of you to volunteer. Come in. All right, Foster. Come back in an hour. No, forget that. That’s all, off you go.” Catherine was wondering what she was volunteering for, but with a shock she saw the room filled with boys seated in front of easels and drawing boards. This was an art class, and she suddenly had a terrible premonition about what Mrs G had arranged for her. Drysdale, the art teacher, told her curtly to disrobe and mount the platform in the middle of the room. “You can put your clothes over there”, he said, and indicated a bench at the back. Catherine stared at him in terror. What was this? She was going to be exhibited again, in front of a large boys’ class? “Come, Catherine,” said the teacher. “We’re waiting!” Slowly she went to the bench and sat to take off her shoes and stockings. She looked up to see the boys’ eyes all focussed on her, and her flush came back. Then she sighed and took off her skirt, to a murmur from the class, and she saw some actually licking their lips.

The boys were now ogling Catherine as she removed her camisole and laid it on the bench. A sigh came from the crowd as she bared her breasts, and she sensed a real tension in the room as she put her hands to the waist-band of her brief panties. All stared at her as her cheeks went fiery red and she slowly pushed the knickers down and off. A buzz of comment arose, and Catherine stood up and automatically shielded herself, then wordlessly she padded to the platform, and another pleased sigh went up from the class, who seemed to be aged from fifteen to about seventeen. She noticed the Ransome boy sitting in front, and when he met her eyes he blushed himself, remembering his own exposure. The class gazed at her with relish, and she abandoned all thoughts of shielding herself .

Drysdale came to arrange her in a posture that revealed everything, of course, making her spread her limbs as if in welcome. She held that pose for fifteen minutes, and after allowing her to stretch for a minute the teacher told her to kneel and bend over backwards in an arch, grasping her ankles, which she found exhausting after five minutes. Seeing her difficulty, he made her curl up into a tight little ball for another ten minutes, directing the boys to be sure to try to capture the curves of her buttocks, and notice her sex peeping out there. She hugged herself and trembled, but then she had to sit with legs apart, her hands splayed behind her, thus giving the boys a good eyeful of her shaven groin. They of course relished the chance to make detailed and loving sketches of her vulva, which in that position gaped invitingly; and lastly she was placed to make most of her behind, sticking her rump up in the air as if crawling under a fence, and showing her quim as well as her attractive bum.

Drysdale looked at his watch and called time. He asked for an appreciative round of applause for a willing (he said) subject, and she nodded tiredly and made for her clothes. Just then another boy of fifteen or so came in and told the teacher he was to take the girl – he looked at her and blushed – to Mr Walters’ class. “Right!” said Drysdale. “You won’t need your clothes there either. Leave them here. Off you go.” Catherine stared in horror but swallowed and turned to follow the boy, who was looking at her lasciviously and beckoned her out. Automatically she followed him to the corridor, and he set off rather slowly. She covered herself and came after him, then jumped when the bell sounded and doors opened all along the hall and a myriad of boys poured out.

She quailed as she was surrounded by a horde of boys, all very interested in her condition. She begged her guide to hurry, but he looked at her and smiled. “We’ll get there, miss, don’t worry.” “But for God’s sake, I’m naked!” “So I see,” he said snidely, then took her arm to pull her along, dislodging her hand from her pubis. The approving sounds and chuckles increased in volume to a roar of enthusiasm and laughter, and she felt her blushes radiating heat all over her body. She was dragged through what seemed an enormous crowd of gleeful teenagers, till they dispersed to their own classes, then the boy stopped at another door and knocked.

A voice inside bellowed “Enter!” and he opened the door to usher Catherine in to a large room seating about forty, most seats being already filled. When she entered, a murmur arose from the class, and she heard a few snickers as she stood there, trying to shield her nakedness. The last stragglers arrived to take their places and look at the teacher expectantly. Mr Walters was a cheerful-looking man of about thirty, she thought, who looked at her in some satisfaction and said “Welcome! We’re very pleased at your presence here. I’m glad you’re naked already. Saves time.” She stood blushing and looking at the interested stares of the boys while Walters arranged an easel in front of the class and put up a large coloured picture of a female body. They were in their mid teens, fourteen or fifteen, she thought, and seemingly salivating at the revelation that was to come. And she, she saw with a frisson of horror, was to be the embodiment of that diagram.

He clapped his hands and addressed the boys. “Well now, boys, we’re lucky today to have a living model for you, to demonstrate some facets of the human body. You’ve seen many depictions of the female physiology, but there’s obviously no substitute for the three-dimensional tangible object. This is Catherine, from Mrs Grainger’s Academy." The stares continued, as did her blushes. “Right now!” cried Walters, “come up here. I suggest you stand on this little platform so that all may see you clearly.” She slowly padded to the front and mounted the little dais and stood there trying to hide her breasts and vulva “Can everyone see her well? Right. Miss, hands by your sides.” She obeyed, and a gloating sigh went up from the audience.

“All right, boys, settle down. Take a good look at this young girl. This is the female form that we’ve talked about before. Catherine here is about fifteen, I’d guess, but it’s hard sometimes to estimate age. Her breasts here are not terribly developed, but pleasingly formed, and will be very attractive to handle. I may as well tell you that I’ve found that small breasts, with less fatty tissue in them, are more sensitive to the stimulation of foreplay.” She swallowed and glanced wildly at him. “Here is the pelvic area, bearing the genitalia. She should have a little triangle of pubic hair here,” and he stroked her mount, making her give a little yelp. “That would show the difference between the sexes right there,” he smiled as the class tittered, “in that the ‘escutcheons’ are different, I mean the pattern of the pubic hair. You boys will know the shape of your bush down there – it’ll be rhomboidal or diamond-shaped, going up and down, or sometimes just like a triangle pointing up. The girl’s hair would be triangular, pointing downwards. But Catherine’s mount of Venus is bare, she’s been shaved. There are several reasons for this being done – to treat an infection, or an infestation of pubic lice, perhaps –” the class made disgusted sounds – “or for purely cosmetic reasons, and you must admit it does look very nice.” There were grunts of agreement, and Catherine swallowed and clenched her fists.

Walters went back to her breasts, palpating them, and teasing the nipples, showing the class how excited they became; then he turned his attention to her pubis. He gave a very detailed account of the genital physiology, then, pointing out how well one could see the cleft of the vulva without the distraction of pubic hair, startled her by opening her vulvar lips to show the interior (“Here’s the opening of her urethra, where she urinates. Here’s the vaginal opening, leading to the womb. Up here is her clitoris, remember that? It’s the particular part that will bring her to orgasm”) and making her feel faint. She was remembering the medical exam and lecture, but this was worse.There were several times as many boys this time, and they were all eying her privates with lust. They tittered when Walters pointed out the lack of a hymen, and he reproved their hilarity.

The teacher seemed to come to an end, and Catherine began to heave a sob of relief, but her torment was not over. One by one the boys were called to the front to examine her body personally, to scrutinise her breasts, to feel their roundness and stroke their points, then to learn at first hand the form of her vulva and its contents. After a mere half-dozen of these examinations she was beginning to pant. After another six or so she was nearly frantic. The boys were inserting a finger into the vagina, they were tickling the clitoris with curiosity, and she feared she’d be excited to orgasm. She swallowed and somehow found the strength to resist the siren call of masturbation. When the last boy had had his fun she breathed in relief.

“Right, lads,” said Walters jovially, “I hope that was sufficiently instructive for you. Those are the secret parts of womanhood, which you may expect to see and handle when you are with the woman of your heart.” The bell rang, and the boys were invited to applaud the girl’s participation. They filed out, and she came down from the dais, wondering in a sudden panic about her clothes, but Walters said “No! You’re not finished yet. There’s another two classes to come.”

“What!” she shrieked, “Oh no, you can’t—”

“Oh yes, miss,” he said sharply. “Didn’t they explain that? You’re the living model for all three sex education classes today.” She nearly burst into tears, but knew it would do no good, and sat down listlessly on a bench. Then the new class entered noisily, seemingly composed of sixteen-year-olds, who gawked at her and grinned lewdly. She was called to the front and introduced, and the description and exploration continued.

At the end of the teacher’s lecture, before he could call up the first gloating teenager, she suddenly felt a need to urinate, rather as she had in the store (and she blushed redder as she recalled that awful exhibition). She plucked at the teacher’s sleeve, and he turned to ask “What?” rather peevishly. “Please,” she murmured, “I … I need to … pee.” “What? Pee?” he said loudly, and the class hooted with laughter. Casting modesty to the winds, she cried “Yes, I have to pee!” Walters looked at her and said “We’ve no facilities for girls here. There’s a lavatory on this floor but it’s far away. I’m not sure you should run about naked, anyway. Hold on.” She had her hands at her vulva by now, and squirmed as the pressure on her sphincter grew, and the boys laughed openly at the sight. The teacher appeared from a cupboard bearing a little tin bath. “Here! This is all I have handy. Use this. You’ll have to do it here, but that’s fine, it’ll be very instructive for the class.”

The boys hooted again enthusiastically as the scarlet girl bestrode the bath and relaxed her sphincter, loosing a desperate stream of urine and nearly fainting with her shame. Walters delegated one delighted youth to dry her vulva with some tissue paper, and once the bath was removed they proceeded to the digital examination of the blushing girl’s “secret parts”. Catherine all too rapidly came to where she had been before, approaching a plateau of heat, her labia growing pink and engorged, as the boys noticed. By the time the thirtieth boy had stroked her clitoris she could no longer stay her reaction, and she groaned a great “God! God!” as she came, her body writhing in sexual release. Walters of course lost no time in lecturing the interested boys about the phenomenon, mentally congratulating himself for this windfall, and when the girl quieted down he continued with the last few handlers.

The class left, chattering gleefully, and Walters let Catherine sit down for a few minutes. Then the room filled again, and she saw her new audience was younger, probably thirteen to fourteen-year-olds. They gazed at her and grinned, and she wearily got up to stand on the dais again. She found this time she could distance herself from what was happening, and it was fine as long as she kept her eyes lowered to the ground. However the instant she raised her eyes to meet the lecherous stares of the young boys her blush grew and her cunny (oh God no) began to tingle.

Walters was gentle when he was handling her, but the boys had to be instructed to be so, and she was feeling rather sensitive down there, so was pleased to hear him tell them that one should not be rough in handling a quim. They laughed at his vernacular, and he smiled and said “You, Carstairs, come here.” A good-looking lad of fourteen came up. Walters said “I want you to handle her again, this time using this,” He handed the boy a jar of petroleum jelly, and Catherine gave a start, remembering the pessary show with Francis and Jeremy.

The boy took the jar and looked at the teacher, who patiently said “Put some on your fingers, Carstairs, and then smooth it on her vulva.” He got a little amount on his fingers and looked at her crotch, getting a little flush of his own, then looked her in the eye and put a hand to her hip. The other he put to her vulva and slowly smeared the jelly on and round. Then he inserted a finger into her and began to lubricate the interior, pushing a finger into her vagina and then coating her erect clitoris. Catherine was trying not to react, but this was impossible. Again she found herself on the crest of orgasm, mouthing a moan as she came with force, shuddering and clenching her fists, looking at the intent class and blushing, blushing in a mixture of shame and excitement. Carstairs stood back and wiped his hands on a rag, gazing at her in what must be disbelief at what he’d produced. Walters clapped him on the back and said “Well done! See, boys, this is the orgasm you’ve heard about. You can produce this effect on your girl quite easily – but you must be gentle. You saw Carstairs being quite slow and gentle in the way he put his fingers in and gradually excited the clitoris. No rough stuff. That’s quite counter-productive, actually. You want to have a good experience when you’re with your girl, and some of that entails making sure she has a good experience. Any questions?”

There were one or two, but mostly the class seemed in a daze after what they’d done and seen, and so they were dismissed a little early, some of them trying not too successfully to hide their erections. Walters thanked Catherine and told her to go back to the other classroom for her clothes. “Where did you leave them? The Art Room? Well, you’ll have to go back there.”

She quailed and stammered “B- but I don’t know where it is! And I’m … I’m naked!”

“Yes, but that’s where your clothes are, evidently. Come out here.” He opened the door and looked up and down the corridor. A boy her own age was approaching, and the teacher called “Henderson! Here.” The boy came up, looking at the bare girl in astonishment. “Take Catherine here to the Art Room.” “Y-yes, sir!” he stammered, looking directly at her breasts, then shifting to her crotch. Catherine saw a sudden bulge in his trousers, and belatedly covered her own nakedness, which seemed to make him even more aroused, and she wondered how painful it must be for him to have an erection confined in his trousers. He put his hand casually in front of his fly, and said only “Come with me.” He led the way along the corridor, not looking at her, then he cleared his throat and asked “Why are you … naked?” She muttered “It’s a long story. Mrs Grainger made me model for the art class and then for the … sex class.” He licked his lips and only said “Oh, of course.” Then the bell rang and the corridor filled with boys.

It was an awful repeat of the previous experience. The boys were in a hurry to go to their next class, but for the few minutes of the interval she was stared at by sniggering youths of several years, and she was almost faint. How could she still be blushing, after all that exposure? How could she still have that flutter in her cunt? She caught her breath as she spoke the obscenity to herself, and stumbled after Henderson, who was hurrying along in his own embarrassment. Then they were alone in the corridor, and she sobbed in relief as he stopped at a door and knocked. Drysdale opened the door and said “Oh, it’s you. Your clothes I suppose. Well, they’re not here. They’ve been taken down to the office. Henderson, can you take her?” She looked at him aghast, and the boy said “Yes, sir, but I’m supposed to be at the football field right now, for the next half hour actually—” “Well, boy,” said the teacher with a trace of asperity, “why don’t you take her along, and then go to the office?” And he slammed the door. Henderson looked at Catherine, and quickly looked away. “You’ll have … to come with me then, miss, Catherine. I’m sorry. It’s this way.” He started back along the corridor, and Catherine trotted after him, still shielding her privates, to ask “But where are we going? Did you say half an hour? What—” “I’m sorry,” he said haltingly, “but I have to do this little job first. You’ll have to stay with me. You’ll get lost otherwise, and you don’t want to wander around in the nude, do you? So please, it’ll only be half an hour. Come along.”

She followed him along the corridor, thankful that all the boys were in class. Henderson turned left at a junction to enter a passageway lined with glass windows that connected two buildings. She looked down to see the ground three stories below, and felt even more exposed. Then they were in the other building, evidently a modern annexe. Here the doors were half wood, half glass pane, and as they went along Catherine could see the teachers and their classes. Thanking her stars that none looked out to see her, she crept along after the boy to another junction. Ashe said “Oh no!” when she saw that from here the classrooms were glassed in -- from four feet up, the wall was an array of glass panes. The boy accelerated his pace, and she ran up to just behind him, crouching as much as she could. Of course one of the classes happened to be facing the corridor, and she could see the amazed glee as she darted past. She crouched down still farther, and was practically on the floor when they came to a stair and the boy led her down three flights and outside.

“Where are we going? God, I’m out in the open, naked! Please—” “We’re going to the football field,” he said, “over there,” pointing, “and I just have to fix a goalpost and help with marking the field, then I’ll take you to the office. It’s really not far.” She trotted after him, hoping no-one was looking out of windows, and shortly they were at the field, where another boy was trying to shift a goal net and sweating. He looked up to swear at Henderson, but just exclaimed “Christ!” when he saw the girl. “No,” said Henderson, “don’t ask. Just let’s get on with it. I’ve got to get her to the office before the classes come out.” Catherine’s heart missed a beat as she envisioned another jostling crowd of boys around her nudity. She stood back and let them get on with their chore, and saw that Henderson was hurrying, for which she mentally thanked him. But then she shuddered as she saw a whole crowd of boys approach in football togs, When they saw her their shorts took no time in showing their interest, and they surrounded her with grins. She cowered again, her hands as her shield, and moaned “Please, boys! Leave me alone!” “Oh no,” said the evident captain of the team, “we can’t do that. Here.” He seized her in a hug and clasped her naked body to his lightly clad one. She immediately felt his erection through the thin material of his shorts, and her blush went deeper. His arms were round her back, but the sly youth pushed them lower to clasp the rounds of her behind, and he grinned and exclaimed “Hey! Your arse is so smooth! Chaps, I tell you, she’s a real peach! Try her!” So saying, he fondled her cheeks and passed her on to another boy. She screamed in horrified shame as she was passed from one to the next, some smoothing their hands over her arse and some over her mons, and then again and again. They were at her breasts, tickling the erect nipples, and at her perineum, attacking or saluting her cunt and her bumhole, as they told her, as being very pretty indeed. But Henderson waded in and tore her away from them, telling the bawdy team she had an appointment, and they let her go.

He left his friend to pack up their equipment and she was escorted away to the main building. When they got to the door marked “Office”, the boy raised his hand to knock, but it flew open and a bald little man emerged and turned to lock the door. Catherine gave a moan of despair, and Henderson quickly said “Mr Quarles, Catherine here—” The man interrupted. “I’ll be back in ten minutes”, then hobbled away with a curious gait. The boy looked after him and laughed. “I’ll bet you he’s caught short again, and he’s off to the lav. I’m sorry, but we’ll have to stay here. Mind you, classes will be out soon—” Just then the bell rang, and the hall in which they stood was soon filled with boys. Catherine was quick to cover herself again and crouched back against the locked office door. She looked at a sea of faces, all agog with wonder and lechery. She muttered to Henderson “Why don’t they leave?” He shrugged and said “It’s the end of classes. In a bit it’ll be tea-time. For now, though, they’ve time to take you in.” He leaned back against the wall and smirked.

Catherine could do nothing but cower at the door and keep her hands strategically placed. That on her vulva could feel the wetness of arousal, and she closed her eyes, afraid to catch the gaze of any of this randy mob, who buzzed with comment as they ogled her. Then another voice was raised. “What the fuck is going on – oh!” She opened her eyes to see David and his crony Andrew standing there. Henderson roused himself to tell them her trouble, and they laughed. “Well, Catherine,” said David, “I don’t think we can help you. Old Queery Quarles may have trouble in the loo, and we can’t get in without him. So relax.”

“Relax!” she screamed. “For God’s sake, David, I’m naked in a boys’ school, and—”

“All right. Why don’t you calm down?” he said with an insincere smile, and took her elbow. His friend took her other arm, and her camouflage was gone. She gave a shriek as her breasts and vulva were revealed, and a cheer went up from the throng as she squirmed in hot shame.

“Please, boys, please—”

“Keep her like that!” yelled one of the crowd. “We like it!” They hooted and jeered, and she closed her eyes again in abject misery. Another lout cried “Turn her round, Laidlaw! Let’s see her arse!” “Always happy to oblige,” he replied affably. “Andrew?” Together they turned her round and after a suitable space for admiration of her pretty backside, they walked her up and down in the midst of the bright-eyed rabble, eliciting more rude comments, then they took her back to her wall and held her there, still the naked cynosure of teenage lust, while they stroked her thighs and behind with one hand, maintaining the grasp of the other.

It seemed an age of laughter and crude remarks till the crowd quieted and dispersed, and the boys released her arms. She realised the teacher had returned, and looked at him gratefully. “Right, miss,” he said gruffly, “sorry for the delay. Come in. Thank you, Henderson, Laidlaw, Petrie! You may go.” They left with regret and Catherine went into the office where her clothes lay on a chair.

She quickly dressed and thanked Quarles, who said “Oh, you’ll have to go up to the Head’s room. D’you know where it is?” He showed her where to go and retired to his den.

Catherine tapped on the study door and Bradley grunted “Enter!” She found the pair drinking more tea and admiring some drawings, which she blushed to see were products of her art class session. “I must say, Catherine,” said Mrs G, “you do have a nice body that lends itself to an art drawing. Mr Bradley, what do you think?”

He moistened his lips and agreed fulsomely. “Yes, miss, you are very well formed. The boys have captured you very well. I’m sure they enjoyed the session. Yes.” His eyes went to a drawing he held in his hand. Catherine saw it was an excellent rendition of her last pose, where her bum was raised and showing her anus plainly, her perineum, and just below that the puffy lips of her vulva. Her face went scarlet as she met his eyes. “Yes! Ransome may be an awkward customer to deal with, but he does wield a sensitive pencil. Yes, I do think, dear Lydia,” he said (and the familiarity was not lost on the girl) “that today has been a very successful visit, worthy of repetition. Don’t you?”

“Oh yes, Julius,” Mrs G replied. “I don’t see that it can happen terribly often but there’s nothing to prevent it. Once a month, maybe?”

Bradley smiled toothsomely. “Indeed, indeed. There’s many more classes to be given the chance. When they see these,” he continued, gesturing to the sheaf of drawings, “they’ll all want to participate. A female model comes along rarely, after all!”

Catherine clutched her hands to her bosom and croaked “But you don’t mean I’ve got to do it again! Oh no, please!”

She was near tears, but Mrs G said “Come, Catherine! We both think your attendance at the classes was interesting and instructive for the boys, who don’t get the chance to draw a female nude, and particularly the sex classes. Mr Walters was most appreciative, and he did hint that he’d like to see you back.”

Catherine dropped her face in her hands, moaning “No, no, please….”

Mr Bradley lifted an eyebrow at Lydia, who nodded at him and rose. “Come, Catherine. That’s enough for today. Goodbye, Julius, and thank you again for those sexual instruction notes. We’ll be back quite soon, I think.” They shook hands, and a boy was summoned to lead them outside to where Rawlins waited in the Daimler.

On the way home Catherine sat frozen in fright at the contemplation of another day like this. She shuddered as she went over in her mind all she had had to suffer at St Vincent’s. Ogled and felt up, ogled and felt up, brought shamefully to public orgasm – twice – and her “secret parts” to be on view to all the boys who weren’t lucky to get a front seat. God, she thought, this is what dear Matthew has to put up with at those lessons. I just know I won’t be able to endure it, any more of this, if the bitch really wants – of course she does. She likes to think of me naked in front of boys, particularly, them handling me. Drawing’s bad enough, but they put their fingers in me! Carstairs was gentle, but for God’s sake, to think of that exploration every month! I bet you she’ll have some more ideas about “My day”, more things to shame me. And the boys will look forward to my arrival, they’ll know that at some point they’ll see my tits and my cunt. That’ll keep them in line. If they misbehave, they get the birch, naked; and if they behave they get to see me. Oh God….

                                                                       **

Matthew gloomily ambled along a garden path, enjoying the good weather but dreading the spanking he was sure was due that evening, and wondering how Catherine was getting on at her visit to that school. Abigail had been quite mysterious about it, as well as nonchalant, and the boy had an uneasy feeling that the excursion was more than a polite tea party. Then he realised he had company.

“Hello!” said Rachael, putting out her hand. He took it and greeted her with a smile. He felt quite at ease with her, somehow, and supposed it was because of their shared exposure, something like what existed between him and Catherine. Then he found she was leading him along a side path to what seemed to be a garden hut, and he went along with curiosity, wondering what she wanted to show him. Inside, she turned to him and said with an expectant look, “Here we are! Nobody comes here. So we can play.”

He looked at her with a frown of dismay. Surely, surely, she didn’t mean—? But of course she did. “Come on, Matthew!” she said, “please. You know I like it, and I like you as well.”

He sighed and thought he might as well appease her, and nodded. This time she quickly undressed, and stood before him totally nude. He looked at her with appreciation, comparing her immature body to those first-year croquet players, who were no older than she, and had to smile. Her breasts had just begun to show promise, and her delta was only endowed with a few wisps of pubic hair. “Yes,” he said, “you are pretty. You have a nice body. What—”

He stopped as she moved towards him and put her hands to his fly. He was struck speechless with astonishment – and then he shrugged and told himself turnabout was fair play. In a minute they were both naked, and she was hugging him in delight. His hands found themselves roaming over her limbs, so young and lithe and smooth! – and her back, her backside (Oh yes, Matthew, touch me there! Ooh, it’s nice!), while she was able to investigate his body with interest, and muttered some compliments.

He found himself kissing her, and his erection pressed against her thighs, and between them –!

She was looking into his eyes with a great question. He looked back at her in terror and shook his head.Yes, he’d wanted to get this far, and farther, but she was twelve! And she was a virgin! And she’d cry and bleed like Chloe!

Rachael looked straight at him and said breathlessly, “It’s all right, Matthew, you won’t hurt me. Giles told me about this high thing I’ve got, and I was touching it, and it broke.”

He stared at her in amazement. “You broke your hymen? But it’ll have been sore – didn’t it hurt? Didn’t you bleed?”

“Oh yes,” she said matter-of-factly, “but mummy put some stuff on it and it got better. So you won’t hurt me!”

She tightened her grasp on him, and moved her body so that his eager penis was easily guided by her cool hand to her vulva. With another wriggle she managed to make the purple head of his penis nudge in a fraction of an inch, and he couldn’t help himself any further. With a groan he slid into that virgin vagina just a little way, and she tensed, then relaxed.

“It feels funny!” she gasped, “but it’s nice!”

“Christ,” he moaned, “Rachael, I’m going to fuck you! I can’t—“

She reached up and kissed him quiet, then pressed her nakedness against him, and he thrust into her with something like a sob. Once in, he moved back and forth, putting his finger in also to excite the clitoris, and had the satisfaction of seeing her close her eyes in ecstasy as he himself came to a tremendous orgasm.

They lay in each other’s arms for quite a while, and then she disengaged herself and put her dress on. He lay there still, listening to the continued thudding of his heart, and wondering what the hell he could do about this. He’d taken her virginity! Her parents would kill him. Mrs Grainger would be forced to send him away. Oh God—

She was looking at him affectionately. “Oh Matthew,” she said, “I’m glad you did that. I’m glad it was you.”

“But Rachael,” he said, “I know it was nice, and I’m glad you enjoyed that, and I’m glad you picked me, but I’m sorry—”

“Don’t be sorry, silly!” she laughed. “Oh, I am pleased you did that. But don’t worry, it’ll be our secret. I won’t tell anybody. It’ll just be between you and me. Oh, you do have a nice body, Matthew! You’re beautiful, really, and your cock is so fine! Thank you for putting it in me, thank you for making me … come, is that it?”

He nodded, and had to smile at her innocent pleasure. But he vowed not to let her entice him into another fuck, no matter how rewarding the experience might be for her and (let’s be honest) him.

* * *

Tea that afternoon was a quiet affair, for the girls seemed tired with their chores and were disinclined to chatter. Matthew looked at Catherine and saw in her face a sort of fearful resignation, and resolved to quiz her about her experience at the school. He was positive it had been unpleasant for her. He also thought he should confess more of his sexual adventures to her, including his latest conquest of Rachael, who hadn’t even reached her teens, for God’s sake, and he had taken her virginity! His memory went over every second of that experience, and he felt his penis start to react. Yes, all right! He’d enjoyed it, from start to finish, holding her naked body in his arms, passing his hands over that smooth tender skin, letting himself cover her immature budding breasts with a palm beginning to sweat, skidding down her body, over her bum, between her thighs, then his ardent cock attempting her virtue—oh God, the sweetness of her pliable young body! The incredible feel of the virgin vagina! His cheeks began to burn as he realised his penis was erect once more, and he gazed at Catherine with a tremor of guilt. But she was oblivious, evidently going over in her mind some awful thing she’d experienced at that school, and she ate her little meal in a daze of abstraction and left rather soon. Matthew was left to think about his own exposure, and couldn’t get it out of his mind.

In no time at all the hour of his spanking was nigh, and he wearily trudged over to the dormitory, wondering again where the shadowy concierge was. His torment was soon over, and he was pushed out again into the evening to stagger back to his sanctuary, where his angel of mercy waited for him with the healing ointment on her healing hands.

(End of File)