MRS GRAINGER’S
GIFT
Part XXXIV
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Friday
4th September
Catalogue,
French class, and pm another dance class; for Catherine,
a hairless bath with boys. At night, another spank, more Vaseline, but no more.
“Well,
Catherine dear, I’ve a little present for you.”
The
girl looked at her in surprise tempered with suspicion.
“Yes,”
said Abigail kindly, “it’s from France. There was a parcel came yesterday with
a note in French, addressed to Mrs G. I took the liberty of opening it. And
mademoiselle translated it for me. It came from a doctor in Vaulx—”
“Vaulx!
Dr Fauré, yes? What—”
“It’s
a supply of some medical stuff for you and Matthew, evidently. A lotion to
prevent sunburn, for instance, and a big jar of depilatory cream—”
“What!”
Abigail
looked exasperated.
“You
surely know what that is! Getting rid of your body hair. Your armpits, your
pubic mat. Mrs G evidently told Fauré to send this stuff here, to have a supply
on hand for you to use when you got back. I’ve sent her a note about it but she
should be here very shortly anyway. So the point is, you’ll be due for another
shave or something by now, and it works out very nicely. You can combine
application of the cream with a bath, which will be at the bothie again.” She
smiled grimly at her victim.
“Oh
no, please, Abigail! Please! You mean the boys—”
“Yes,
exactly,” her nemesis said triumphantly. “The boys will be very pleased to
smear this ‘Sanz Poyl’ on your pelvis to get rid of that itchy stubble, then
give you a bath. Which others can join in on of course. I’ve arranged it for
one o’clock. All right?”
She
went off, well pleased, leaving Catherine panting in distress, and she thought
about telling Matthew, but she found out from De Groot that he’d been invited
to help at another French lesson.
This
time Justine varied the procedure by having him start off the session dressed,
and take off the various garments as she called it out and wrote the word on
the blackboard. When he was naked, the class were led through the various
anatomical points, which was sufficiently arousing, but he kept a good control
of his emotions and it wasn’t long before he was being dressed. The girls were
asked to find the garment and put it on him, and when he was totally dressed
they reversed the process, winding up naturally with him naked again, allowing
them to fondle his zizi and other
parts, and allowing him finally to come to a gasping orgasm.
At
lunch they managed a sort of conversation, but finished rapidly and went for a
stroll in the garden, where they were able to tell each other what was
happening to them. They both had appointments at the same hour, and agreed to
meet in the gazebo to commiserate when they were let go.
“Hello
again, Matthew! I’m so glad you can join us, you were marvellous last time with
the second year, and now this is the older girls’ class, fifteen-sixteen.
You’ll be nearly sixteen yourself, won’t you?”
He
nodded, but didn’t have time to say much before Roberta Ford clapped her hands
and called the class to order.
“Right
now, girls, pay attention. This is Matthew, most of you have seen him already.”
There
were murmurs and grins, and Matthew began to feel hot.
“Well,
here he is to join the class. He had the introductory ballet practice just
yesterday, so he’s still new to it. So be understanding, please, and accept him
as a fellow pupil. I’ll get the music ready for our pianist. You limber up, and
Matthew, you can put your clothes over there.”
He
flushed to hear the eager suppressed squeals from his audience, who knew what
they were in for, as did he, and he began to sweat as he shed his clothes and
put them in a neat pile on a bench at the side of the room. Shielding his
privates (still behaving), he waited for instruction, while the others tittered
and eyed him. Miss Ford was over by a piano he hadn’t seen before, thumbing
through a pile of music, when a knock came to the door. Matthew cringed at
another observer, which was silly, he knew, but couldn’t help it, and he tried
to hide behind the others, which was even sillier.
“Matthew,
this is Jennifer Davidson, she’s only seventeen but already an accomplished
pianist.”
She
indicated a fair-haired girl with glasses whom he remembered from the concert.
She nodded and said Hello, her eyes focussing on his trembling hands, and her
cheeks getting a faint blush of their own, then sat down at the piano and
looked out at the dancers, studiously avoiding him.
“Right
now! First the barre, then the centre work, and we’ll have something special to
finish with. We have ninety minutes this time, and we’ll use every minute. To
the barre, now. Matthew, in the middle as before. Right hand on the barre,
facing this way. Feet in first position. Right.”
The
lesson went on, with the teacher going through the exercises and walking down
the line to correct the pupils’ stance, feeling their legs and moving their
arms. Matthew’s blushes grew when it came his turn, and as expected he gained
an erection, which Miss Ford tactfully did not comment about. The girls didn’t
mention it either, though they rolled their eyes at each other and gestured
with the head., saving chit-chat for later. After a half hour they were called
to leave the barre and start their “centre work”, which meant that all could
see him and his hard-on either directly or reflected in the mirrors round the
walls. He was placed in the middle of the crowd, and taught the rudiments of
dancing without a support. Here he proved himself at least as agile and capable
of balance as any of the girls, and was complimented. Still, his blushes
wouldn’t go away, and he was woefully conscious of their interested eyes (even
shy Jennifer’s) as he was put through his paces. Then came the last part of the
lesson.
“Matthew,
I know it’s a hard thing to ask of you, but I want you to improvise another
dance to that Debussy music we used before. Jennifer here has agreed to play it
for us in a slightly shortened version, that lasts about six minutes.”
He
looked at her and licked his lips. Six minutes of being the centre of
attention, every one of these mid-teen-agers looking at his naked – naked – body, looking at his penis as it
stood out from his sweaty loins, laughing at his obvious mortification. What
else? She was telling him the story of Nijinski’s choreography.
“So
then he picks up the scarf and plays with it, and laughs, and then lays it down
on that mound of his, stretches out, lies down on it, reaches down to his
groin, and … tenses, flexing his body, in an … orgasm.”
He
looked at her in amazement. Did the dancer really masturbate in front of an
entire theatre? But she’d been there. Even though he’d just simulated the act,
it must have been shocking for the people, even in naughty Paris!
But
wait, wait! Oh God! She was telling him to improvise Nijinsky’s dance, and she
expected him to … no, not simulate. She wanted the real thing. After all, he
was nude to start with.
“Please,
Matthew. It will be tremendous to see you do it.”
Not
knowing how he got into this situation, he nodded, and the class gave a
concerted sigh of relief and anticipation. The girls ranged round the wall,
some sitting, and Jennifer poised her hands over the keys. Miss Ford pointed to
a spot for the faun to lie, and nodded to the pianist.
After
a minute or so she danced past him, or rather walked in a stately way,
imitating the posture of the figures on Greek vases, bearing a chiffon wrap,
which she allowed to fall on the floor, and the faun, who had been prowling
round the stage in a sort of hungry manner, trying to look randy (which was not
hard), picked it up. Matthew was getting into the spirit of the scene, and
tried to pretend he really was a lecherous goat-boy, sniffing the cloth with a
leer as if to find her scent on it, then dancing round, twining the wrap around
his body, till he saw the teacher indicating his lair. Jennifer was looking at
him with shining eyes and nodded to tell him these were the last bars. The
piece was going to end, and so he took a deep breath of the wrap and laid it
down, then knelt upon it, then laid his blushing body on it. All held their
breath as he brought his knees up, slowly uncoiling again and turning over till
his erection was again visible, straining for release – which came in a mighty
rush of orgasmic climax, shooting ejaculate up and out on the wrap, once,
twice, three times, and another weak spurt to end the exhibition, as the piano
fell silent.
There
was a concerted deep sigh of satisfaction from his audience, and Jennifer
forgot her shyness and started to clap. The others followed suit, all standing
to show their admiration for the extraordinary – unique! – performance. The
teacher came over and raised the boy and handed him the chiffon to clean
himself up.
“Matthew,”
she said solemnly, “that was one of the finest dance or mime routines I’ve ever
seen. Thank you! And girls,” she turned to the teen-agers, “I hope you realise
just what you’ve seen. My only regret is that it wasn’t captured on film. But
we’ve seen it, and by God we’ll remember it!”
They
clapped again, and started to leave for the dressing-room, first however
bestowing kisses on the now relaxed but still blushing performer. Jennifer was
the last to go, and she kissed him on the mouth, her hand straying to his
thigh. “If you ever want me to play for your dancing,” she murmured, “just ask,
and I’ll come running.”
“There
now! You see how everyone enjoyed that? It really was a masterpiece. I insist
on your dancing again very soon. Maybe we can arrange a camera this time!” With
a gay grin Miss Ford kissed him herself and left the sweating boy to think
about a wash, though he merely gathered his clothes and slowly dressed, trying
to remember which of the classes hadn’t made him naked, and which hadn’t made
him ejaculate. It was all running together in his head, all these scenes, all
these experiences, into a great amalgam of stripping and humiliation. Which, oh
thank God, would before too long be coming to an end.
But
he’d be losing Catherine….
When
she got to the bothie she found a large crowd of boys and young (and old) men
gathered outside it, many of whom she’d never seen before, and she learned from
thirteen-year-old Morris that they were from a far corner of the estate, where
they had their own bothie and everything, but were visiting for the day, and
Abigail had promised them a surprise. “Well,” he said, “that’s it – you’re the
surprise! Of course we haven’t told them about you, so it’ll be a real surprise
they’re not expecting.”
She
took a deep sighing breath and prepared to be shamed yet again for a new
audience. She’d forgotten that the estate was quite large, so it was no
surprise for her to find a new lot of oglers from a different part, who
seemingly had maybe heard about her (hadn’t everybody?), but hadn’t had the
pleasure. Yet. It was of course four of the new boys who were delegated to
apply the depilatory, one to each armpit and two to her loins; then the bath,
where they could all join in the jolly game of washing a naked lass, yes naked!
– washing her all over, but especially those (Jesus God, her cunt! Her arse!)
parts one didn’t usually see, let alone touch! They were very eager but not
very expert at the job, though they managed to bring her to a moaning climax at
least once. When she came out of the bath, it was another quartet of admirers
that dried her off, and (of course, egged on by the experienced) felt her up
till she succumbed once more. She was dressed and sent off with a rousing
cheer, and the leader of the new lot thanked Abigail for the entertainment.
Tea-time
found the victims tired and moody, and Abigail sadistically teased them about
lacking a convivial spirit. They bore her attention in silence and soon made
their ways to their respective rooms, where they sat in dejection, each going
over in the head what had happened that day and vicariously shuddering at the
shame of the other. Then the continual fearful thought of what the morrow would
bring, and the day after, and then oh God when we have to leave! We’ll lose
sight of each other! We won’t be able to find out what the other is doing,
where they are, if they’re alive or dead, oh Christ….
So as
he trailed over to the dormitory that evening he could tell himself that this
section of his mortification would be ending too, and momentarily he wondered
what it would be like, not to have a crowd of girls assaulting his arse. But
then, not being able, not having to lie on his bed to be comforted by
Catherine’s hands on that arse. Not to see her at breakfast, not to kiss her
goodnight, not to see her pretty face, her pretty body, not to hold her body
and enter her, not to fuck her ….
The
crowd this evening was more raucous than usual, somehow, and the hands of the
lucky girls (the same dormitory as that first time) were more painful. He was
getting more sensitive maybe? Or had they been practising? Whatever the case,
his erection was admired and his tears were ignored. But there was a difference
this time, for the last girl (a seventeen-year-old who’d lusted after his organ
at the swimming bath) decided to take advantage of his condition and pulled him
over her knees again to deliberately stroke his hard-on to climax. He shot
sperm up into the air, and the assembly gasped and applauded. Putting the
quivering boy into his clothes was dismissed as unnecessary, and he was pushed
out the door with his clothes in his arms, sent on his way by more wallops on
his bruises, to trudge and stumble back to safety and collapse on his bed with
a moan. A little while later Catherine arrived with her balm, and smoothed sad
hands over that wonderful arse. He murmured something like “Love you” before he
fell asleep. She was disappointed to lose his masturbation, but kissed his
cheek and tiptoed away.
Saturday
5th September
Films
and exercises; art class at the high school. News from Paris
“Dulcie!
Miss Jennings!”
The
girl paused as she was going into the dormitory building. “Yes?” she said. “Oh,
it’s you, Miss Hughes!”
“Yes,”
said the other, “and excuse me delaying you, but I thought you should know
about some pictures that have been delivered. They were taken at a fashion show
a while ago, and I thought the girls would be interested.”
“Oh
yes? Where are they?”
“I’ve
put up a lot of them around the school, but this packet is the rest of them.
And this—” she heaved a round tin container, and Dulcie took it.
“What
is it?”
“It’s
a motion picture that was taken at the same time. You should show it to the
girls. You haven’t really used that little kinema Mrs G provided, have you?
Well, try this. I think you may find it entertaining.” She left, and Dulcie
took the things in to the dormitory lounge. A moving picture! That should get
the girls’ minds off their usual gossip and tittering about the Raven boy. It
was true he had a nice body, and seeing him naked gave her a thrill, but … what
about David, then? No, he was even nicer, especially… yes, especially his ...
penis!
* * *
“Well,
Matthew, gird your loins. For a little while. You’ll be ungirding them soon
enough.”
He
stared at Abigail with a sinking heart. Another shame coming up.
“All
right, what the fuck is it this time?” he snarled.
“Ooh!
So rude! You’re not helping your case by being so … belligerent, you stupid
boy. Just for that I’ll step up the heat, the intensity. No leisure to recover
from one exposure to the next! And by God you can get a thrashing every bloody
night as Mrs G intended!”
He
paled and began to stammer. Abigail drew a deep breath.
“Today,” she said deliberately, “you’re going
to the high school, it’s your turn to be the art model. For the girls,
naturally. Catherine was a great success with the boys last time, and now it’s
you. So I think I’ll ask Wilma to take you in the trap. Rawlins will be taking
Catherine to St Vincent’s. Yes, and Wilma will probably be happy to witness the
show herself.”
He
swallowed and remembered the girl as an attractive brunette of seventeen or so
with long legs and a saucy smile. He just knew she’d be as libidinous as any of
the rest of the staff. Jesus, how did she manage to get so many nice-looking
girls, all with what he’d used to call dirty minds? Did she ask suggestive
questions at the interview? Or did Mr Bryden have some say in it? Goodness. It
was possible that he vetted them to begin with, and only passed on those who
showed a measure of … what? Devilment? Oh hell, it didn’t make any difference
now. He started listening to Abigail again.
“Are
you there? Pay attention. You’ll pose for four classes, and come back in the
afternoon. Two-ish I suppose. I do hope you’ll be naked when you do that.”
Christ! What next?
“I
can imagine you trying to hide your masculinity squatting in the bottom of the
trap and being cheered away by the girls! And all the others on the way back
through town! Hah! A fine sight! Anyway, that’s the idea. In about a half hour
from now. All right? And during the day, you insolent nothing, you can look
forward to a thorough spanking session tonight, and tomorrow night, and the
next! And I’ve a good mind to dig out those paddles Mrs G had at the dinner.
Yes, to save the girls’ hands! That’ll change your mind about rebellion!”
She
stalked off and Matthew slumped his shoulders. He was going to be shamed at the
same time as his lover was being put through her naked paces at St Vincent’s.
And could he survive being thrashed night after night? He regretted his
outburst now, and had the awful realisation that the all-powerful Abigail would
take out her spleen on Catherine as well. He sighed and looked at the clock.
God, if the day were only over!
He
was welcomed by a middle-aged woman who wore thick spectacles through which she
peered at him myopically, then inspected Wilma, and he wondered if she could
see anything at all. She seemed to be in doubt as to who was who, boy or girl,
and settled for addressing the air between them. She introduced herself as Miss
Pringle, and asked them to follow her into a corridor filled with girls, who
stared at him with what looked like awe. They were in fact saying to themselves
that they’d soon be seeing this handsome fellow with nothing on. Naked!
As
they went Miss Pringle explained in a rather loud reedy voice (as if the others
were deaf, or maybe she was deaf herself as well as short-sighted) that this
was a special day for the girls because despite its being Saturday they were
having these classes instead of games. “Next week,” she said, “we will be
having some sports and games, and I’m told you will be coming to take some part
in them.”
As
Wilma made some enthused reply Matthew looked at the teacher with unease. What
the hell did that mean? It could only mean that he would be participating in
something totally naked, it had to be that. For all the girls to gawk at. And
leer at, too! And as sure as death and income tax, his Catherine would be doing
the same thing for the boys at some point. God! Abigail was laughing to herself
and writing to Mrs G about all these prurient things….
Then
they were at the art room, and they met another teacher, this time a balding
man in his forties with a constant smile, which paranoid Matthew saw as
sinister on the one hand and salacious on the other.
“This
is Mr Cox, who will take over. I will return in about an hour.” Then she
remembered Wilma and said in her general direction that after she attended to
her pony she should come to the staff room along the same corridor, and the
girl nodded.
“I’ll come back here myself,” Wilma said with
a smile, “to see how you’re getting on. Or getting off!” She giggled, and
Matthew looked at her sourly. Cox smiled and said that would be good, and
indicated a seat where she could see everything.
“Everything,”
she repeated.
“Yes
indeed,” he said, and his smile seemed to grow wider. Miss Pringle turned and
managed to find the door, and disappeared. Wilma fluttered a hand and disappeared
also. Cox looked at him in apparent glee, and Matthew knew he could expect no
sympathy there, and in fact the man would probably enjoy putting him through this.
The
man, for all his English name, had a strong continental accent which the
ignorant boy thought was French. Who knew? It occurred to him that this chap
who had probably been educated abroad had picked up the accent over there
somewhere – unless of course he was trying to sound sophisticated or something.
Besides, he probably had the French attitude to nudity, surely, a bit blasé and
a bit humorous….
“Right!
Come along, this little platform is where you’ll be posing. I think we’ll start
with ordinary figure drawing – clothed I mean – then shortly do some
near-nudity before total nudity. Ah, here’s the first class.”
A
crowd of girls about thirteen or so began to arrive and were quickly settled at
their easels to look with eager complacency at the boy, who was pushed up to
the dais and arranged in a “Thinker” pose for the girls to draw. Silence fell
on the room as everyone concentrated and Matthew let his gaze fall on a girl
ten feet away. She looked familiar somehow, and after ten minutes, when Cox
called a halt to that picture, it struck him that he’d seen her before in
Mason’s, when he was being stripped by those girl assistants. The realisation
brought a flush to his face, which was answered by a flush on hers as she saw
that he’d made the connection.
Then
another pose, this time dressed in a short tunic, which he was supposed to
change into on the dais itself. This pleased the audience, who followed his
reluctant stripping with interest. In no time at all he was sitting on a stool
hiding his property as Cox gave the garment to one of the girls and told her to
put it on him.
He
shivered, but not from cold in that rather stuffy and overwarm classroom, which
he guessed was kept at a temperature to avoid gooseflesh on the sitter, and
made sure his tumescent penis was hidden behind his thighs. The girl persuaded
him to raise his arms from his lap to insert them in the armholes of the tunic,
and she deliberately gazed down at his groin, with a pout of disappointment at
not seeing what she hoped for.
He
was told to stand up in a pose of welcoming, with open arms, and it was then
that he realised just how short the tunic was, reaching to mid-thigh and
promising a view of his genitals if he moved too much. This realisation made
sure that the excitement of his penis grew, to make it tremble and (oh God no)
threaten to poke out the front of the cloth. He desperately tried to think of
other things….
It
was no use, he couldn’t help himself – he was remembering the girl in Mason’s,
and he looked down at her, seeing her frown of concentration change to open
amusement as she noticed his embarrassed stare. She deliberately smiled in a
coy way at him, and looked directly at his crotch. It was enough to start his
cheeky penis into arousal. But God, no,
please! – Don’t be absurd, you fucking idiot! Isn’t that what’s supposed to
happen? He gazed at the girl in misery and saw her eyes grow big and her
smile grow wide as she beheld a slight motion of that thin cloth, then a
definite push and something awoke and started to make itself evident. Then oh
God! Another girl noticed it, then another, and he could see the information,
the realisation, and the salacious delight spread all about the room.
Once
again, he wished the floor would swallow him to hide him from those laughing
eyes. He was standing there with a standing cock poking out the front of his
tunic, and all the girls, all of them could now see it and titter. He had to
stay like that – the object of rude ogles and the comments of teenaged girls –
trembling and flushing, till Mr Cox called a halt and let him sit down for a
moment. But then it was total nudity time, and Cox came up to yank off the
tunic and arrange him again in the Thinker pose. Matthew remembered how his
erection transformed his pose as the Belvedere Apollo, and it was the same
here. The girls were delighted to have a nude to draw, and Cox, who studiedly
ignored the penis, obliged them by turning the boy in four directions so that
none would miss a sight of that erection.
After
another ten minutes he got Matthew up for a total frontal exposure, and the
girls went wild. Matthew could feel his penis trying to thrust itself into the
faces of the rapt crowd, on all four sides, and it seemed to want to burst with
embarrassment. But then it was over, and the girls applauded the volunteer
model. Cox was pleased and let him sit down. Matthew noticed that Wilma had
returned, and was looking at him with bright eyes. Cox got into conversation
with her as the class filed out, and did not scruple to discuss the session
without a glance at the poor model.
“Yes,”
he said, “it’s very good, I’m very satisfied. The girl last Friday was
excellent also, but the advantage of the boy is that he developed an erection.
You must admit, miss, that a girl may betray her embarrassment in subtle ways,
and it was so with her, to begin with at least, but a boy is not so subtle. His
body betrays him, and whether he wants to or not, there is a chance that he
will visibly show – no, more than that, a very good chance he’ll evince such an
arousal of his senses that the body takes it upon itself to flaunt that naked
member in its rigid obviousness, and there’s little the boy can do about it.”
He
turned to Matthew. “Boy,” he said. “get that tunic back on and sit down. The
next class will be here any minute and we’ll start immediately with the Rodin
pose.”
He
turned back to Wilma, who was ready to discuss the taboo subject with one
evidently of a like mind.
“I’ve
sometimes wondered about that,” she said. “An art model is supposed to be
beyond that, though, isn’t he? It will happen sometime, even with hardened –
excuse me! – even with experienced long-standing – oh my God, sorry!” she
giggled.
The
teacher, who had never stopped smiling, gave a sort of laughing grunt and
replied “I know what you mean, miss. With someone who isn’t used to posing, of
course, it’s a bit of a different story. For one thing, erection or not, and
whatever the sex, the model is ashamed to be exposed thus, and the result of
embarrassment is a rush of blood to the cheeks. Professionals don’t blush,
they’re way past that as you said. But an amateur reacts as any normal person
does when their nakedness is seen by others. He blushes, and in this boy’s case
it was – is – most attractive, don’t you think so?”
Wilma
agreed wholeheartedly, and said she expected the boy’s blush would just
intensify as the day wore on.
“Oh,
certainly,” the teacher said, “perhaps spreading over his body!”
Wilma
laughed and said she’d look out for that, and the pair of them giggled
together, while Matthew hunched his shoulders and stifled a sob.
;
Cox
looked at him without sympathy and said “I was pleased to be given this chance,
you know. One of our girls, Dinah Foster, in the next class, was speaking to
Matthew here a few days ago and found he’d been posing for classes at the
Grainger Academy, and she was all agog to get him here. Well, Desmond and I
worked it out that he would come now, to balance the sexes, you might say,
after the Hammond girl, who was a great success last week.
“But
as I was saying, it was something of a bon-bouche,
an extra benefit, that he couldn’t prevent an erection. Very few of the girls
have seen an erection, for obvious reasons, though Dinah told our swimming
mistress, Millie Davenport, about a fashion show at Silvio’s in town here where
the boy was made to model clothes, and he developed an erection, which amused
the audience mightily. But we have to get on. Matthew, to the stool.”
The
next hour was just as painful as the last, and Matthew’s penis, which had
become rather quieter, was quickly restored to proud prominence, to the vocal
delight of the girls, whose ages ranged from fifteen up, and included Dinah,
who had suggested his attendance, and stared at him with a pleased grin. She
was further pleased to be commissioned to take photographs after lunch of the
various poses, including several taken very close to his perspiring body.
At
the meal he met several other female teachers, who had come to school out of
curiosity, as they admitted, and he understood, but several of them had brought
along other girls from their classes, who didn’t take art, but were very
interested, oh yes!
And
so it went, with the afternoon sessions just as desperately shame-making as the
others, till Cox left the room, with a wink to the Davenant woman, who had
rolled up just before the end, and she lost no time in getting the boy down to
the floor and allowing him to be attacked by the lucky girls, who swarmed over
him to feel that beautiful flesh at first hand. In a rather short time he, who
had been edging to a sexual release for hours, came in great style and was
cheered by the assembly, hauled out by Wilma, and put into the trap, where he
cowered nakedly all the long way home.
He
got back about two, and couldn’t see anyone around, so went to his room and lay
down, covering himself with the blanket and shuddering. Cox and Davenant had
made it plain that they wanted to see more of him, in every sense, and he
convulsed as he imagined what could develop from this. Catherine and he would
likely be the resident exhibits for all sorts of nude gatherings, and the girls
and boys – and adults too – would be only too pleased to see them writhe in
orgasm … which, God help them, they were coming to expect and enjoy….
“Well
now, Catherine! Today’s another special day. You’re to go to St Vincent’s
again—”
“Oh
no!” squealed Catherine in horror. “You can’t! Please! It was awful—”
“Yes,
I suppose,” said Abigail with a careless smile, “but you’re going again, this
time to do your exercises.” Catherine looked confused. Abigail said patiently
“It’s very simple. You go to St Vincent’s and perform some physical jerks
outside this time. You were in the gymnasium last time, weren’t you?” Catherine
nodded with closed eyes, remembering the shameful horror. “Well, it’s a
beautiful day and you’ll be outside on the football pitch where everyone can
see you. You’ll be naked of course.”
She
trembled and looked abjectly at her tormentor. “H- how long?”
“Oh,
I don’t know,” said Abigail. “That’s up to Mr Bradley. I suppose only an hour
or so.” She grinned as Catherine’s eyes widened. “You’ll maybe be tired after
all that, sweaty and so forth, so I suggested to Mr Bradley that they give you
another bath right there. You’ll probably be finished by noon I suppose. After
lunch they’ll maybe send you home, unless they think of another amusement,
which I hope they’ll do. Mrs G and I made several suggestions. One was that you
would service as many boys as could be fitted into an hour. Or maybe two
hours.” She elaborated. “That is, frigging them off, sucking them off, letting
them spend in your armpit, or maybe, just maybe, in your arse!” Catherine
cringed and let out a sob. “That namby-pamby Ransome boy did you before, right?
Well, you know what it’s like, and I bet you enjoy it too!” Her lip curled and
she looked at Catherine with disdain. “We’re not letting the little buggers
actually fuck you, in the cunt I mean. Not yet anyway. Later, who knows? Maybe
next time? It'll give you something to think about, eh? Anyway, when you get
back you can have a nice lie down. Doesn’t that sound nice?” Catherine
swallowed tiredly and looked at her in despair, saying nothing. What was there
to say?
* * * *
The
football pitch was thronged with boys all agog to see the latest exhibition. As
Catherine looked round she saw quite a few cameras ready to preserve the
exciting scenes for future enjoyment. At the front on one side she saw the
prefects and half a dozen chairs occupied by adults, some teachers and
evidently some distinguished looking gentlemen who included that Sir Bertram,
and the others had to be also members of the board of governors. How could they
allow this? Unless they were as salacious as the boys, and maybe they had heard
she was, as the saying went, no better than she should be.
Four
of the prefects came up and began to undress her. She bore it with a blush, and
covered her pubis with shaking hands, looking out at a seemingly enormous crowd
of noisy teenagers, hooting and yelling encouragement. The head prefect,
Jameson, looked at a list he bore, and told her her first exercise – just to
run round the pitch slowly, “so that the boys can see you.” She set off,
conscious of the bawdy admiration of the crowd, looking into the distance and
trying to forget where she was and her condition. After two circuits she paused
for breath, to be told “Now some headstands!” She remembered the exposure of
the gym and groaned as she provided another eyeful for the boys – and the
attentive governors, who were leaning forward, one applying opera glasses to
see her cunny close up.
She
was invited (or told) to perform half a dozen cartwheels, obviously to show her
bare pubis to the multitude, which she performed with some dexterity, to the
cheers of the audience. She was given a drink to cool her down and then told to
do some jumping callisthenics – “You know, jump up and down, hands above your
head, out to the sides, legs astride. All right? Go!” She did this, conscious
of her breasts jiggling and her cunny seeming to yawn and breathe – she was
sure the lips were growing pink, and could feel the drops of vaginal moisture
gathering at her thighs, to mingle with her sweat.
Another
tour of the pitch, and she was exhausted. Then to her horror she saw them
bringing a tub which a chain of boys proceeded to fill with water that was
surely only warm by the time the pails were carried out to the grass. “Yes,”
said the prefect in charge, “in you get.”
Like
an automaton she stepped in and another half dozen lucky boys attacked her
nakedness with soap. Once more they made sure the crowd could see her nudity, and
were just about to fondle her behind for the second time when she cried out
desperately “Please! Wait! I need – oh God, I need to pee!”
They
laughed and helped her out, and she looked about for cover, but of course there
was none.
“Come
on, girl!” said one, “we’ve been waiting for this! That drink took a long time
to go through you!”
She
realised it was deliberately set up to embarrass her still further, and her shoulders
slumped in resignation. Two boys held her arms, and she had no recourse but to
submit, parting her legs to allow her urine to gush down to the ground, to the
noisy delight of all.
Then
into the bath again, and this time they were able to finish the task, managing
to bring her to orgasm without much trouble. A rinse, a dry – and then they
carried her over to the audience and released her to them, to be passed over
their heads from boy to boy right round the pitch, everyone taking his time to
smooth a hand over the burning skin. After a while Jameson rescued her and led
her, still nude, back to the school and the Hall, which rapidly filled with
boys, still gawking and grinning at her bare blushes. She was seated at the top
table and tried to ignore everything around her, but the boys meanwhile had
evidently decided to drop all pretence of gentlemanly behaviour, and began
telling jokes that varied from the suggestive to the scrofulously obscene. They
varied the programme (all intended to reduce her to teary blushes) with
limericks, and she was amazed at the uses to which Edward Lear’s innocent
verses could be put.
“Hey,
did you hear this one?
There
was a young fellow called Tuckingham,
Who stood on a bridge at Buckingham,
Watching the stunts
Of the cunts in the punts
And the tricks of the pricks that were
fucking ’em!”
This
gem produced a howl of delight, and Catherine ruefully admitted to herself that
she thought the rhymes were quite clever. But this was followed by some more
verses that merely made her flesh creep. One young fellow told a lengthy story
about a Great Magic Penis that was created by the Court Wizard specially for
the Princess, that was summoned by the words “Magic Penis, my cunt!” – and the
mighty Magic Penis appeared to fuck the waiting girl. But the ladies in waiting
wanted to try it, and the last one to do so lost her nerve and ran down the
corridor, to be stopped by the Palace Chamberlain, who asked what was going on,
why was she running around all naked? The girl said “It’s the Magic Penis,
sir!” and he didn’t believe her, and said “Magic Penis, my arse! – Ooh, ooh!”
This
was received with glee, and they cast about for a topper, but she wasn’t
listening; she just winced and closed her eyes. Here she sat at the head table,
naked and dejected, the cynosure of all eyes, feeling a wetness at her vulva
that betrayed her arousal. God, she
thought, am I enjoying this shame?! Am I
really an exhibitionist? I want them to see me, feel me, frig me off? Oh God,
what’s happened to me? And what about next time? Am I looking forward to it,
then, am I really looking forward to the bath, the invasion of my vulva, being
fucked in the arse and fingered till I come in front of a crowd – oh God!
Again, and again, and again! Oh, Christ, there’s something else planned this
afternoon, I just know it, I’ll be sucking off a dozen boys, they’ll be
ejaculating into my armpits? For fuck’s sake! And probably Bradley’ll let them
fuck me in the arse! Oh, for dear Nicholas, to do that! He liked me, he didn’t
want to do it, but he did it so gently, with … love, actually. But it won’t be
him, it’ll be other little bastards. For Christ’s sake, I’ll be in some state
when I get back! – Oh no! Please, no! She stared out at the middle of the
room where they were clearing a space, and realised with a suffocating feeling
of dread that they were positioning a sort of cot there and piling towels on
it, placing a big jar of what had to be Vaseline by its side.
Then
she felt her neighbour’s hand on her thigh. She quivered but couldn’t move,
while he slid his fingers into her groin and attained her moist vulva. He
looked at her impudently and leaned over. “You like it, don’t you, you tart!”
And he was at her clitoris, rubbing the little piece till she once more moaned
and convulsed in orgasm. “Yes,” said her tormentor, “you like that, don’t you?
You’re going to have a fine time this afternoon!”
She
looked at him and swallowed, not bothering to correct his impression that she
was an easy girl who relished exposure and violation. Another boy was sliding
his hand up and down her bare back, tenderly putting his fingers into the cleft
of her arse, and probably intending a lot more, but stopped as a prefect rose
and tinkled a spoon on a cup and called for attention.
“Right!”
he said, grinning at his fellows all round the room. “This is what you’re all
waiting for. Catherine over there is going to take us all in hand, or mouth, or
arse, or wherever—”
There
was a roar that drowned him out. He held up his hands and waited till the lascivious
boys settled down.
“Yes,”
he said, “she’s going to help us have a good time. So, Catherine, down you go
to that little divan thing, make yourself comfy, and get ready to do your
stuff. You know what’s expected. The boys are going to line up, … but you’ll
see. Down you go.”
As if
propelled by a Svengali she rose and walked down from the stage, the boys
parting before her with salacious grins, to find herself at a low bed covered
in a sheet, with a couple of cushions on it, where she was told to lie down.
She sat on the bed and looked around at the throng, who were making a great
noise of anticipation. The prefect’s voice cut through it: “Let’s have Shitless
to start the ball rolling!”
Shitless!
Isn’t that they had called poor Nicholas? Oh God, he was to be the first of the
many! Surely he hadn’t wanted—no, he was another victim, for there he was being
dragged through the room, there he was being forcibly stripped, there he was
practically crying, oh God poor boy! Her heart went out to him. And what was he
supposed to do? Why, they made it plain. He wasn’t allowed to fuck her, even in
the arse, but she could toss him off, couldn’t she? She knew how to do it,
didn’t she? Yes, she knew. Nicholas stood in front of her, trembling in his nakedness,
his erection mostly hidden behind his hands, till he was smacked across his
behind with a cane (a cane! Oh, that must have hurt!) and he was made to stand
with his hands on the nape of his neck and show his erection to the girl, who
looked him in the eye with sympathy, then looked at that hot penis with
admiration. Then back up to his eyes, and smile.
“Get
going!” the prefect yelled, and she took the jar of Vaseline. It was big, they
told her, because it was going to do for as many as could use it in the next
hour and a half. She shivered and put out of her head all save the nude figure
of dear Nicholas, desperately shamed before her and all his schoolfellows, dear
Nicholas who had desired her again. And here he was at her mercy – no that
wasn’t right. Here he was naked and desirous again. She could admire him with
her hands, salve his embarrassment with the jelly, bring him to a wanted climax
and pull him off till he came, till he enjoyed the sexual release, till he
gratified his hunger.
And
so it was—he made little moaning sounds as she applied the Vaseline to every
bit of that hard-on, looking at her and blushing brightly when he caught her
eye. Then came the stroking and pulling, both tender and strong, and he working
his thighs in response, thrusting into her hands, thrusting, till he gave a
great yell and uttered her name as he exploded in a tremendous ejaculation. She
kept at him, stroking his member, till he’d evidently exhausted himself. Then,
as his shoulders sagged and he heard the incredible din of the boys, she took
him by the shoulders and kissed him full on the mouth. His eyes widened and he
tried to say something (What? A thank you, maybe, or a declaration of love?),
but she merely breathed in his ear what she’d said that last time: “I’m glad it
was you, Nicholas.”
He
gave her a look of adoration, or so it seemed, and might have tried to vocalise
his feelings, but stopped as a teacher burst into the room with flapping gown
and stared around. He rushed up to the divan as the raucous boys fell quiet,
and he looked at the tableau with distaste. He pushed Nicholas away and looked
down at her and said “Miss, please come with me. Mr Bradley has something to
tell you.” She rose in bewilderment and followed him out, grateful for her
rescue, pursued by an ovation from the crowd.
The
teacher didn’t answer her questions as they went to the head’s study, where he
knocked and left her and went off with a sneer and a shrug, probably despising
her for her moral carelessness. She went in to find Bradley standing by his
fireplace. He turned to her with a strange wolfish expression, taking in her
nakedness with a licking of lips and bright eyes that seemed to devour her. His
gaze roamed over her breasts, her vulva, and his hands seemed to itch to fondle
her charms. She bore this inspection with weary disgust, and closed her eyes to
avoid the sight of his unashamed lust. Then she felt his hands on her bare
shoulders, and shivered. Her body trembled unceasingly as she felt his caress
glide down her arms, cup her breasts, smooth thumbs over the erectile nipples,
and proceed down across her panting belly to the crotch. Then he put his hands
on her hips to run fingers down her thighs, then round to the back to squeeze
the buttocks. He squatted down and reached between her legs to her sensitive
perineum, and then to her anus, then seemed to sigh and returned to her slit.
He was just as excitable as any of his boys, and was breathing hard by this
time, as was she. In went his fingers, and the rubbing of her clitoris began.
“Ah,
Catherine,” he murmured, speaking for the first time, “I’ve been thinking of
this for quite some while. Now however I must seize the chance. There! Do you
feel that, does your cunt revel in the sensation?” She was pushing against his
fingers as if to force the matter, and came with a loud groan.
She
felt tears on her cheek as he withdrew and smelt his fingers with a salacious
nod, then showed her her clothes. “I’m sending you back to Summerton,” he said
with a strange sadness, “and perhaps … but no matter. The car awaits you
downstairs. Thank you and goodbye.”
He
left her to dress, and she went down in some bewilderment. On the way home she
didn’t nap as usual, just trying to forget but going over all the
mortification, though she’d enjoyed masturbating Nicholas, and knew he’d
enjoyed it too. But then, what about more exhibition to come? She’d probably be
posing for them on the ninth, maybe; or was that a bath? Maybe both? And they’d
get back to the delayed “servicing”, wouldn’t they? She was losing count of the
humiliations. When would they tire of her nakedness? But she knew they never
would. And there would always be a new generation of boys coming in. Oh God….
Abigail
answered the phone. “Hello! Oh, is that you, Mr Montmorency? Is there—”
He
interrupted her. “Abigail, I have terrible news. Mrs Grainger’s dead.”
“What?
What d’you mean, dead? She’s in France—”
“Yes,
and she’s died there. Listen, I’ve had a phone call from the police. The Sureté
in Paris got on to them, to tell them about it and trace her representatives. I
don’t know very much about it, except it seems her friend Mr Bauvais – do you
know about him?”
“Oh
yes,” she said, “I met him last time. What about him?”
“Well,”
said Montmorency, “I don’t know the details, but he seems to have killed her.”
“Oh
my God! How—what—”
“I’m
sorry, I don’t know. Listen, a police inspector is coming to tell us all about
it. I’m coming over there, and we can meet in the main house, in the drawing
room, all right? I’ve arranged it for three o’clock. Can you do that?”
“Yes,
that’s fine. I’ll stifle my curiosity till I see you. Him.”
“Fine,
see you then.”
She
hung up the phone and stared into space. Lydia was dead! That slimy fellow
Bauvais had killed her! But – what did this do to the estate? What about the
school? What about the orphans? Christ, this threw everything into disarray.
She chewed her lip. All right, first things – phone Bradley, get the girl sent
back right away. Matthew should be coming back shortly, that should be all
right. Get all the facts from the police, tell the staff. Ah, yes, phone Barry.
Then…. Wait though. Till Montmorency showed up, she had some time to take a
look at Lydia’s rooms, didn’t she? Among other things, there was that beautiful
pendant….
Catherine
came in the front door and started as Abigail appeared suddenly from the
morning room holding a leather bag. Her nemesis looked startled herself, and
coloured for some reason. Catherine looked at her silently and made for the stairs.
Abigail cleared her throat and said “Ha, Catherine … back. Yes. Did you have a
good time? Er, you’re off to lie down like I said? Right. Off you go. Off you
go.”
Catherine
looked at her in puzzlement. “What were you doing?” she asked.
Abigail
flushed violently. “It’s no business of yours. Off you go!”
“All
right,” said the other wearily, and dragged herself up to bed, where she lay
quietly sobbing for a while till she fell asleep.
Chief
Inspector Bennett looked grave. “Well sir, miss, these are the bald facts as
conveyed by the Paris police. Mrs Grainger was living in Paris with a Raoul
Bauvais. She’d sent her servants to her estate at Vaulx in Provence, and was
evidently seeing a doctor in Paris. Bauvais, who has a record of drugs and
violence, managed to take some bad drugs, which sent him paranoid. He attacked
Mrs Grainger, then ran off. A visitor to a neighbour heard her scream and
raised the alarm, and she was taken to hospital. Bauvais was found and
questioned about this, and was arrested. Mrs Grainger later died of her
injuries, late on Wednesday evening. Loss of blood, and all that. Trauma.
“So
now Bauvais is charged with murder, and her body is being sent back to England
for burial. At least, it was, but we’ve spoken just a short while ago to her
lawyer, a Mr Barry. He says according to her will, she wants to be buried in
France, so it’s now on its way back to Paris, where she’ll rest in a cemetery
devoted to English burials. Her effects, though, are being sent back, they’ll
arrive fairly shortly. You two are the people in charge of the estate and the
school, aren’t you? It’ll be up to you to deal with the interim administration
of the estate. Mr Barry will be along to read the will, as far as it applies to
this property, and he’ll explain things a little more. What more can I tell
you?”
They
looked at him in silence, each turning over in a devastated mind the act and
its consequences, and what their own position had to be – changed, very
changed!
“Well,”
said the bailiff, rubbing his nose, “I suppose I’ll get back to the office and
look at the books. Everything is in fair shape, for it’s not long at all since
we had a check on the balance sheet and so forth. Barry should be pleased. I’ll
leave it to Miss Hughes here to inform the staff and the Academy people. And in
the meantime we’ll just have to keep going as usual, eh?”
“Exactly,
sir,” said Bennett. “I see no reason why anyone here should be affected, apart
from the obvious! We’ll keep you, or perhaps Mr Barry, that would be better,
we’ll inform him of any developments. Here’s a list of relevant phone numbers,
and addresses, just in case. As for the funeral, or memorial service I suppose,
can I leave that up to you? Along with Barry, that is. Hmm? Right. In that case
I’ll be off. Oh, speaking of the funeral, I understand Colonel Struthers, the
Chief Constable, was a friend of the lady. He’d insist I’m sure on coming.
Perhaps you can work out the invitation list. Barry will know. All right, Miss Hughes,
Mr Montmorency, goodbye.”
The
bailiff looked at Abigail. “Frankly, girl,” he said, “I’m not sure about a
guest list. Mrs G had a lot of acquaintances, from Struthers down, though a lot
of them were … hmmph, a peculiar lot, don’t you know? Actually,” he said
frowning, “I’m not at all sure she’d care – she wouldn’t want much fuss.
Certainly not a solemn church affair, though she knew a couple of bishops.
We’ll ask Barry, yes? All right. I leave it to you to break the news to the
rest. Goodbye for now.”
A
little later, after informing Miss Birkett and her deputy, Miss Cramond (which
left them anxious and speechless), she looked at the expectant faces of the
staff crowded into the dining room. They were quiet, shuffling feet and
clearing throats, knowing something was up. She spoke loudly to the back of the
room.
“People,
I have some news that will probably shock you. There’s no easy way to do this,
so I’m just going to tell you – Mrs Grainger is dead.”
There
was a concerted gasp, and a few little screams. Then a hubbub broke out.
Abigail waited till they were quiet again and continued, “Mr Montmorency the
bailiff and I have just been informed by the police that Mrs Grainger died in
hospital in Paris on Wednesday evening. The circumstances aren’t all that
clear, just accept the fact that she’s dead. The body is being buried in
France. Mr Barry, the family lawyer, will be coming to talk about the will, and
I suppose she’ll have left some provision for the staff, and the school too.
That’s about all I can say. When I know more, I’ll tell you. For now, go about
your activities as usual. I know there’ll be changes, there’s bound to be, but
for now, carry on as you were. That’s all.”
Matthew
caught up with Abigail. “Listen, Abigail! This makes an awful difference in
what’s going on.”
She
eyed him sardonically. “Yes, of course,” she said, “and I suppose you feel
you’re rid of a great big burden, no? Well, enjoy the feeling while it lasts. I
may as well tell you I’m disappointed. No more baths, no more spankings,
there’s nothing for you to do here. So we’ll send you back to Crossley. Away
from Catherine.”
She
watched as realisation swept over him. “Oh no—”
“Oh,
yes!” she said with a malicious smirk, “you’ll be sent away, she’ll be sent
back to Mrs Grove, and you’ll never see each other again.”
His
eyes filled with tears. “Oh no, no! We’ve just found each other! We—” She cut
him off and stalked away. Well, it had been fun, anyway! Now where was the
girl?
“Well,
Catherine,” said Abigail, “I suppose this means the end of your baths and your
visits to Bradley’s dump, hmm? Pity. We were just getting into the swing of
things. Were you looking forward to the prospect of a hundred boys fucking you
in the arse, eh? And ultimately a whole class of sex education devoted to you
being fucked in the cunt a dozen times or so? Oh well. So anyway, your beloved
will be going back to the Crossleys, there’s nothing to keep him here. And
you’ll be going back to Mrs Grove’s fine establishment in darkest Cumberland.”
She smiled cruelly at Catherine’s expression of dismay. “I wonder how the pair
of you will fit in, going back to your places? Can you forget your life here,
your experiences? God, but you’ll have some stories to tell your fellows in
your dormitory, won’t you? I’m not sure they’ll believe you, though. And
Matthew, going back to the fold at Crossley, M.P. – I wonder,” she said, “how
he’ll fit in, take up his old life. Will he be restless, d’you think? Miss his
nightly frig? His regular beatings? Miss your naked charms? I can see him
tossing off like the devil…. But then,” she grinned malevolently, “so will you.
I bet you you’ll feel yourself every night, thinking about Matthew, won’t you,
and missing the boys bathing you and all that.” She looked at Catherine, who
had gone red with shame and anger, and noticed her eyes were filling with
tears.
“God!”
the girl breathed, “How can you … oh, I know,” she said despondently, “it’s the
end of our relationship, it has to be. But please don’t rub salt in the wound,
Abigail! I don’t know, I don’t know what the fuck we’re going to do.”
The
older girl guffawed at her vulgarity, and merely said “That’s life, isn’t it?
Some good, some bad, some unbearable. We’ll know a bit better when the lawyer
comes. I’m assuming he’ll be telling us what’s to happen to the household. Off
you go and mope, clean the windows, and we’ll see you at tea.”
Well, she reflected, the Academy girls will have finished looking at that film by now. I
wonder what they made of it? The pity is there won’t be any more of that. Ah
well…. But wait a minute! Why does this have to mean the end of their
exposures? I don’t have to send Catherine back till I like! And Matthew’s time
is short, but until then, he’s still under threat of spoiling his family’s comfort,
isn’t he, till I say so? All it needs is my letter to Crossley saying how
disappointed Lydia was in his performance, so we’re sending him back in
disgrace. Yes! He’s still vulnerable! They’re both still vulnerable! The
performance isn’t over!
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
“Catherine, love,” he said, “I know one should
respect the dead, and all that, but I find it hard to be really sorry for her
death. I don’t know about you, but I at least am relieved that now she’s gone,
that hold over us is gone, and Abigail, for instance, has no power either. All
those things she was threatening us with are vanished now. That bastard Bradley
can’t do any more to you. There’s no more cruelties…. It does bother me that if
we’d known of her death earlier, we’d have been spared those last torments,
your bath….”
She
looked at him gravely. “That was a bit of bad luck I suppose. Yes,” she said,
“our nemesis is gone, but there’s still a fly in our ointment. I mean Mrs
Crossley. She’ll ask for you back now, won’t she? And I’ll be sent back to Mrs
Grove in Cumberland. Oh,” she cried, “the unhappy thing is that that country is
so wild and beautiful! I wouldn’t mind living there at all! But that woman with
her spitefulness and … inhumanity, she’ll make it hell for me again!”
He
put his arms round her. “But for now, love, for now, we have a respite. We can
make love now without fear. And that will allow us to forget for a while the
situation we’re still in. Let’s make love, Catherine, let me fuck you till you
sing.”
She
looked at him with a radiant smile and began to undress. He quickly cast off
his few garments and then they were once again joined in tight close joy,
kissing, kissing, and murmuring meaningless nothings. Then they were on his bed
and caressing, fondling, smoothing tender hands over tender skin, finding the
favourite spots and tickling, rubbing, exciting all the excitable regions of
the loved one’s anatomy. This time she rode him, looking down at his flushed
face and shining eyes and his adorable grin as he cried to her “Fuck me,
Catherine! Fuck me! Let me give you all of my cock in your incredible cunt!”
She laughed aloud, and seized him to pull him into her, moving steadily in that
most astounding of motions, rapidly bouncing up and down on his grand erection,
till they came again at the same time and cried out in ecstatic abandon.
Sunday
6th September
An
apology, a realisation, an eager quartet
There
was a timid knock at the library door, and Matthew turned to find the head
girl, Dulcie, standing there looking embarrassed. “What is it?” he asked
absently, his head full of bibliographical terms and salacious pictures.
“Matthew,”
she said, “they said you were here. I just wanted to come and tell you … that
I’m sorry about things….”
He
looked at her and blinked. “Oh, do you mean the spanks and the feeling me up—”
She
nodded rapidly. “Listen, Matthew, I was never in favour of it. I know I managed
them, but I really wanted out of there. I felt for you in your shame, but I had
to go through with it. Mrs Grainger was in charge. Please say you understand.
Please say you forgive me.”
She
looked down at the ground and bit her lip. He took a deep breath. “Well,” he
said, “I do realise who was paying the piper. And I may as well tell you that I
understand your feelings. I do, for I had mixed feelings myself. I bet you got
some thrill or other out of it, didn’t you? At the same time as you felt sorry
for me. All right. I do forgive you. Thank you for telling me. Listen, how are
they taking it at the Academy?”
She
looked directly at him and shrugged. “We’re upset, but to tell the truth I
don’t think we’re all that sorry. The school regime was quite severe, you know.
Even the teachers were afraid of Mrs Grainger. Now there’s a sort of relief to
be felt, everyone breathing a bit easier, and looking a bit happier even. This
last year will be a lot different, I’m sure.” She smiled at a secret thought.
“Do you know what’ll happen to the school, though?”
He
shrugged. “I suppose it’ll be sold,” he said, “maybe to your head, Miss
Birkett? I do hope it doesn’t just fall apart. It’ll interrupt your school
year, and things. Are you still head girl? I’d have thought you’d have left….”
“Yes,”
she said, “last year was my headship, you might say, but I’m staying on another
year for a sort of pre-university session, and I’m still head girl. Um … I
don’t suppose,” she said, “we’ll be able to come over to this bit, to the gardens?
To walk about, in the wood maybe?”
She
seemed to have something in mind, but he merely said “I don’t see why not.
You’d need to ask Abigail, I suppose. She’s managing things de facto now.”
“Oh
yes,” she said, and nodded. “Well, thank you, Matthew. Goodbye.” She went away
with squared shoulders as if to undertake some burdensome task, and Matthew
looked after her in perplexity. All right, back to the books.
In
the mid-afternoon, Catherine came to Matthew looking very troubled. She soon
explained why: Abigail had had second thoughts, and she still had the upper
hand.
“Oh
God,” he said, “that’s only too right! I’m sure Mrs Crossley will accept
whatever Abigail tells her! So, oh Lord! This means we’re still going to be
abused for God knows how long! You, I just know Abigail will keep going at you
and send you back to Bradley’s den, to be … oh Christ, didn’t you say they were
talking about … about sodomising you, and fucking you! Oh, no!”
“But
lovey,” she said, “you have to accept everything until you’re home again and
settled, she can’t harm you or your family then. But till then, yes you’re just
as at risk as before. Lydia’s death took away one of the props, but the other
is still there. Oh Matthew, let’s make love! We may not have much chance of it.”
She threw her arms round him and near sobbed into his chest, “Fuck me, my only
love, till I sing!”
He smiled sadly and stroked her hair.
“Yes, Catherine, I will. We’ll enjoy every moment we can, now. Every single
one.”
After
supper, at which Abigail had told them as much as she knew about how Lydia had
died (to their wide-eyed horror), she beckoned to Matthew, and when he faced
her she smiled in a sly sort of way and said “Has Catherine told you? Yes, it’s
that nothing much has changed. Maude Crossley knows me and has no reason to
doubt me. And if I tell her you’ve been naughty she’ll undoubtedly do something
about your family.”
He
gritted his teeth. “All right, Abigail, you win. For a while. Only, please
don’t take out your … displeasure on Catherine. Above all, I implore you,
please, please don’t send her back to Bradley’s. It’s torture for her. I’m here
if you want someone to torment. I promise to put up with whatever you have in
mind, only leave Catherine alone. Please.”
She
snickered and looked at him appraisingly. “Really? Well, it so happens I was
just deciding you need another bath.”
He
shuddered.
“Oh
yes, another bath. Maybe we’ll quiet down on the spanking, but a bath always
goes down well. All right! Tonight, a couple – no, why not four students, eh?
After all you will be going off in a few weeks, won’t you? Maude Crossley will
want you back. Till then, it’s baths and classes. So tonight, a posse of eager
teen-aged maidens will be encouraged to get you clean and healthy and pure too,
by milking all the nasty boy stuff out of you!” She whooped with laughter and
almost pranced away.
So it
was that four giggling girls of the mid-teens came to his room and told him
they’d love to undress him.
“We’ve
heard all about you,” said one, unable to control her mirth. “Only Juliet
here,” she pointed to an attractive girl with dark pigtails and a smile already
bawdy, “has seen you at the spanking, and we three were away on a visit at that
demonstration or whatever they called it….”
“Stimulation….”
muttered Matthew with a flush.
“Yes!
And it was, evidently! So anyway, we should introduce ourselves. I’m Rose
Wetherby, I’m fifteen years old.”
He
looked at her shyly, to admire her fair hair bobbed in the current fashion and
her piercing blue eyes. Azure, he
thought. Really beautiful. Why are all
these girls so pretty?
“Mildred
Stanley, I’m fourteen,” giggled the next, her short curls of a slightly darker
blonde hue.
“Gillian Williams, fifteen,” said the next, a
petite brunette, who looked at him in what seemed like awe.
The
fourth, of the dark pigtails, widened her smile to say “Juliet Cromwell,
fifteen. You’re fifteen too, aren’t you?”
“Y-yes,”
he stammered. “Look, I—”
“Oh,
we’re looking! And we’ll look some more! But to business. You just stand there,
we’ll do all the work. Rose, you take his shirt off.”
Between
them they managed to undress him quickly, though to Matthew the process seemed
long drawn out, and he covered his genitals with shaking hands, giving a moan
of distress that made them giggle louder.
“Hey,
Matthew!” Rose stood back to eye him up and down. “The others were right. All
the girls talk about you, you know. And they describe you as a jolly
nice-looking boy with all the muscles in the right places.”
“Not
that he’s so muscular,” said Juliet, running her hand down his arm. “But he’s
nicely made. You’re strong-looking, Matthew, and I’d like to see you exercise.
I like that tanned skin. Miss Cramond’s classes were full of it. The spanking,
and the stimulation, didn’t do you justice. Mildred, you’re youngest, what do
you think?”
“I
think … he’s … very nice,” said she, beginning to get a flush of her own.
“He’s
nice all over,” said Gillian, “and his skin looks soft and smooth. Like a baby’s—”
“Bum!”
said the others together. Gillian laughed in a pleased acknowledgement of her
free naughtiness, and spoke the word as she put out her hand to touch the
rounds of his backside, to make him flinch, to smooth her hand over that smooth
skin, which caused a shudder and a soft moan again, at which they all burst
into laughter. Then they were all on him to touch, to caress, to fondle, to
stroke, all over indeed. He was strongly erect by now, and those who hadn’t
seen the phenomenon were entranced. Duty called, however, and they reluctantly
got him into the bath, to set about lathering up his smooth (and clean, really)
skin.
It
didn’t take long before they had him clean, if that was the purpose, and not
much longer before he bucked his body and poured out his seed. They didn’t stop
there however, but continued their ministrations till he bucked again, mouthing
agonised protest at the same time as relishing the delicious climax. There they
stopped, and helped him out to dry off that incredible skin, so smooth! So
strong! So bare!
He
was a little surprised that they didn’t try again for a hat-trick of spending,
but didn’t complain as he was escorted back to his bed and ushered into his
nightgown. They left him with kisses, and he took a deep breath to wonder just
how many of these appalling – wonderful – occasions he was due for. Which reminded
him that the days he could come inside Catherine were getting few. That thought
induced an overpowering grief, and he surrendered to it and cried himself to
sleep.
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