Anonymous - The Secret Chronicles of Henry Dashwood, Vol. 1

So, when he held up his hand to quell the little buzz of excitement that went round the classroom, we fell silent immediately and he continued: 'The Mayor of Ashford is coming to the school this afternoon to discuss our participation in the forthcoming ceremonies next month which will accompany the granting of the freedom of the town to Mr. Alfred Austin, our local distinguished man of letters who was created Poet Laureate three years ago. I have been asked to join in the discussion in the headmaster's study. 'I'm sure you will be dreadfully disappointed to miss a double-period of French,' he added dryly and then he himself joined in the laughter which broke out at his words. 'Well, the weather is dry and less chilly than we might have expected at this time of year, so Mr. Hare has kindly agreed to referee a game of football in which you can all take part. Um, I appoint Nugent-Bull and Harvill as the two captains and I suggest that the boys sitting on my left make up one side and those on my right the other. Billy Goodall raised his hand and said: 'Sir, there are twenty-three of us in this class, so someone won't get a game.'

'That can be me sir. Mrs. Dickerson has told me I should rest my leg,' I said, for whilst I love playing footer, my shin is still bruised from the encounter with Beddinghurst College and I want to be fully fit for our next big match against St Lionel's in a fortnight's time. Mr. Hutchinson nodded and said: 'Yes, of course, Dashwood, that works out splendidly. I will think of something less strenuous to keep you occupied. Right, now will everyone else please file out quietly to your studies, collect your football kit and go straight down to Fletcher's Fields where Mr. Hare awaits you.' 'Bad luck, old man,' said George as he stood up and gathered up his books under his arm. 'See you in the study after the game.' After my form mates had left the room, Mr. Hutchinson said to me: 'Dashwood, I understand from Mr. Reynolds that you are showing some real talent as a water-colourist. If the art room is free this afternoon, you could do far worse than paint a small picture for the classroom wall – though I would have no objections if perhaps you would prefer to sit on the touchline at Fletcher's Fields and sketch some of your chums in action. I am content to leave the choice to you.' “Thank you, sir, but I'll pass up the idea of sketching a football scene. Frankly, I find that humans and animals are far harder to draw than still-life subjects,' I remarked as I collected my books together in a pile and then followed him outside. 'Well practice makes perfect, you know,' replied Mr. Hutchinson, as he glanced at his pocket-watch. 'I must be on my way or I'll be late – don't forget to show me the result of your artistic endeavours after assembly tomorrow morning.' 'Of course sir,' I called out as he hurried down the corridor. However, I was in no rush and took my time in sauntering across to my study and from there up the stairs to the art room. This is small in size, but being situated on a corner of the second floor of the building, has the benefit of excellent natural light which pours in through the enlarged windows, constructed on two adjoining walls. Few schools such as ours can boast any facilities for budding artists, but Dr Muttley is an enlightened educator who insists that the Albion Academy should offer the widest possible curriculum to broaden the minds of its students. Any artistic capabilities I possess, have certainly blossomed from the skills of the excellent teacher engaged by Dr Muttley, Mr. Michael Reynolds R.A., a critically acclaimed, young Kentish artist whose home and studio are only a few miles away near Wye. I rather enjoy our weekly hour-long period on Tuesday afternoons with Mr. Reynolds who infects us with his enthusiasm for good paintings and especially for the works of Dante, Gabriel Rossetti and the Pre-Raphaelites. Mr. Reynolds usually works in his own studio on Monday afternoons so I did not expect to see him after I had climbed up the two flights of stairs and carelessly swung open the door of the art room. However, on this particular Monday afternoon, Mr. Reynolds had chosen to work here, at school and he was engaged in a nude study of Louisa, one of our scullery maids, who was standing in front of him, leaning forward with her hands resting upon the back of an upright, wooden chair. Louisa let out a frightened little scream and Mr. Reynolds growled out angrily: 'What the blue blazes are you doing up here, Dash wood? I don't teach your class on Mondays.' I expressed my apologies for the interruption and hastily explained to him that Mr. Hutchinson had proposed that I spend the afternoon in the art room. His brow cleared, and, with perhaps a somewhat cavalier disregard for Louisa's feelings, he invited me to set up a board and easel and begin making a charcoal sketch of the pretty girl who was standing there, wearing not a stitch of clothing, no more than a couple of yards away from me. 'Thank you, sir, er, so long as that meets with Louisa's approval,' I said, hesitantly. But Mr. Reynolds waved away my concern. 'Tush, she doesn't mind at all, do you my poppet?' he grunted and, to my astonishment, he gave her bare bottom a friendly slap. 'After all, you don't have to do anything extra for your ten shillings an hour modelling fee. Simply keep standing there and look beautiful, a very easy task for such a pretty girl.' 'Flattery will get you nowhere,' she replied pertly. She smiled at me, with no apparent concern that I was unable to prevent myself from ogling her luscious, naked body. 'So, you would like to sketch me, Master Henry? Do you think I will make a suitable subject?' she teased. I gulped hard as I looked with awe at the brazen girl, who cannot have been more than seventeen years old, although she was tall for her age. She was blessed with long tresses of light, auburn hair, slightly golden in tint, and a very pretty face with deep brown eyes, set off by long, dark eyelashes, a full mouth with rich, pouting, cherry lips and a brilliant set of pearly-white teeth. And what magnificent, proud young breasts Louisa possessed, so round and firm, and what a lovely whiteness of belly contrasted by the glistening silky, reddish hair between her thighs. The idea of flaunting her naked charms before me must have appealed to her for the rise and fall of her delectable, bared breasts showed her breathing to have quickened. I noticed that her nostrils flared out slightly when she smoothed her hands across her pussey hair before placing them back on the chair in front of her.

I set up my easel and looked hard at Louisa's enticing curves, wondering how best I could capture her sensual charms. After a while she sighed and pouted: 'Come on, you two slowcoaches, why it's an insult that you still have your clothes on! Michael, aren't you going to make love to me like you always do before you start work in earnest? Surely you're not too shy to fuck in front of Master Henry.'

Mr. Reynolds laid down his brush and palette as he grinned at the cheeky girl and said in a genial voice: 'Louisa, I am well rebuked and offer my humble apologies. Dashwood, would you please be a good fellow and kindly help Louisa pull out the mattress from the wall-cupboard on your right whilst I get undressed?' 'Of course, sir, it will be my pleasure,' I stuttered. I watched the art master sit down, remove his shoes and socks, slip off his jacket and unbuckle his belt. He wriggled out of his trousers and drawers and stood up, his body covered solely by a flapping, blue shirt which he proceeded to unbutton before sliding it off his shoulders. His thickening prick was dangling down, but when he flexed his muscles, his shaft started to rise and his foreskin snapped back to reveal the wide, purple helmet of his knob. Louisa and I pulled the small mattress, which was covered by a clean, if rumpled, white sheet, into the centre of the room. As we passed by Mr. Reynolds, Louisa clasped her fingers around his stiff cock, rubbing her hand up and down the hard, fleshy bar.