September 1984

Charles lived with the veiled threat made by Robert Fellows that he knew Charles' secret, whatever that meant; but Robert didn't bring it up again over the ensuing days and Charles was just too busy to ruminate over it as the days turned into weeks.

Besides the hours he devoted to class and studies, his compulsory extracurricular activities took up most of his spare time. There was rugby training three times a week and Charles had become quite adept at the game and as Robert had predicted became a useful winger. Charles was also a Private in the school cadet corps and paraded one night a week and attended weekend bivouacs once a month.

He was not really interested in marching up and down the square or playing squaddie, it reminded him of a Monty Python sketch in a newly released movie. That said, he became quite a capable member of his platoon and was promised a promotion to Corporal or possibly even Sergeant if he stayed in the corps as a middle houseman when enrolment in the school cadet corps became elective rather than compulsory.

Any spare time Charles had was spent fagging for Robert Fellows, the housemaster of Bridge House, who enjoyed the luxury of a dorm room that resembled a small apartment. Charles was required to keep it clean and tidy, clean the housemaster's shoes and boots, press his clothes and run errands for him.

This left Charles little time to present as Charlotte but she appeared at least twice a week. Because the compulsion was so strong he would sacrifice precious sleep to spend hours dressed as Charlotte in the privacy of his dorm. Lack of sleep led to the occasional faux pas and one day he was close to dozing during a particularly boring lecture when he noticed little half-moons of nailpolish on his cuticles and once when washing his hands after using the lavatory he saw the remains of eyeliner on his lower eyelids in the mirror.

He and William Larkin continued their friendship and although there was little time for socialising, being in the same house meant they were often together at house functions where the lower housemen were used as cheap labour, setting up, serving drinks and cleaning up after, but as the school year progressed the middle and upper housemen let up on them a little and allowed them to participate in house activities. After all they needed to pass on the Bridge House traditions to the next generation of housemen.

Charles found that he and William were alike in not only being small and slender in stature, they often affected the same mannerisms. William spoke with lisp and had rather a high voice, Charles noted that William often seemed to be appraising the older youths during sports and wondered if he might be gay. There was an undercurrent of homosexuality at the school. It was never spoken about but some of the older boys seemed to be on very friendly terms with some of the lower housemen, especially the more epicene.

Robert Fellows continued to bully Charles, issuing him rips for menial or imagined breaches of the rules which caused Charles to work even harder as part of his punishment. The only time he seemed pleased with Charles was when they were on the rugby field. Charles became a prolific try scorer. Being fast, agile and slender he had the ability to outrun his opponents, break tackles, and set up tries.

During a close game against their arch rivals Harrow College, Chelmsford College were down by ten points at halftime and the boys sat in the dressing rooms dejected, catching their breath, guzzling water and eating quartered oranges.

"We have to score first after halftime," Robert growled.

"Pay attention; I have a plan," he stalked up to the blackboard and picked up the chalk.

"Their defence is almost impenetrable but I've noticed they tend to use a blitz rather than a sliding defence to defend their tryline hoping to win the ball in the ruck."

"Ward... I need you to take one for the team," Robert's eyes drilled into Charles.

Charles simply nodded. The opposition forwards were big men and their backs were not that much smaller, the team relied on brute force rather that agility.

"I want you wide on the wing at the twenty-five yard line ready to take the pass. But I don't want you to run full-bore zig zagging past the first line of defence."

This was how Charles had scored two tries in the match already but the opposition had figured out his tactics and effectively shut him down.

"I want you to run down the sideline at three-quarter pace to draw in the defensive line to you in as a pack. You, Steven, will be at outside centre and at the last second Ward will flick you a pass enabling you to run around the pack and score," Robert drew the little circles and crosses on the chalkboard to depict the manoeuvre.

"Those Harrow lads will chew Charles up when they make the tackle," someone at the back of the room mumbled.

"Who said that?" Robert scrutinised the assembled team for the dissenter.

The team remained silent.

The teams took to the field after half-time and as soon as Chelmsford got to Harrow's defensive line they made the play.

Winning the scrum, the fly-half got the ball out to Charles on the wing who slowed his usual lightning speed to a canter which Harrow's defence saw as a weakness they could exploit. Their middle opened up as the defensive line swarmed at him and at the last second Charles threw a pass inside to Steven Belfour-Brown at outside centre. The defence hit Charles like an express train and he felt the wind knocked out him and then an aggregation of pain as fists, shoulders and boots crashed into his body driving him to the ground in a sea of agony.

Charles lay on the turf under a pile of hard heavy bodies, barely conscious but he smiled when he heard the referee blow his whistle indicating that Steven Belfour-Brown had scored under the posts.

When the melee finally got off him he lay dazed on the ground and his teammates came over to him to see how he had fared. The waterboy came over with the 'magic sponge' and splashed water on his face while two of his teammates dragged him to his feet.

"Great play Charles," Steven Belfour-Brown came over with a wide grin on his face.

The fullback kicked the goal and the team reset for the kick-off. Charles was visibly limping when he took up his position. He lagged in the play, his body battered and bruised and several of his teammates told him to go off the ground injured but he refused.

Chelmsford were about to set up for a lineout at Harrow's twenty-five yard line when Robert Fellows called out to make the play again from the next ruck.

"Fuck off Robert; they'll kill him," Steven Belfour-Brown called out.

"Make the fucking play!" Robert snarled.

Charles took up position wide on the opposite wing and the ball passed through many hands and found him. This time he didn't need to pretend to run at half speed, it was all he could do. The men of the defensive line wanted revenge and were determined to crush him before he could pass.

Charles made the pass a split second before he felt a crushing weight and felt something popping in his shoulder and then he blacked out. He woke up on a stretcher on the sideline and despite being ordered to the infirmary he watched the end of the game. Chelmsford won by six points.

Charles was taken to the infirmary for a full check-up and had to remain overnight for observation for the concussion he had suffered. Most of the team visited him and congratulated him on his courage which had won them the game.

William Larkin visited him that evening bringing chocolates and pop.

"Christ Charles; the whole school is talking about your two tries and the sacrificial runs you made up the wing," William plonked himself down on the edge of the cot.

"The soccer team won two nil too. I saved a penalty," William grinned.

Robert Fellows came into the infirmary the next day and issued Charles a rip for failing to attend the morning dorm inspection.

Charles expected nothing else.

The nurse gave Charles a physical examination the next morning and issued him a chit excusing him from PT, rugby training and cadet parades for five days due to the injuries he had sustained. He was given the morning off to recuperate. Monday morning was a slow day for Charles anyway. After breakfast and dorm inspection he was programmed to attend lectures and then finish the morning with PT which for him usually meant a cross-country run.

He ambled back to his dorm and found the door wide open. Because he had failed to stand outside his dorm and report it for Monday morning inspection the housemaster had opened the door with his master key. He'd found Charles' room immaculate but had flew into a rage and scattered Charles' possessions around the room.

Charles gingerly picked up his chattels and cleaned up the mess. He sat at his desk and sighed, opening a text book to study the lecture he was missing. He flicked through a few pages and then something caught his eye. The doors at the top his wardrobe were ajar. Charles paled and wincing with pain he got out of his seat and locked the door and opened the wardrobe doors wide.

His suitcases had been moved; someone had taken them down and then put them back. He took down the two cases that held his 'civilian clothing' and put them aside and then he took down the case that held Charlotte's things.

The locks had been sprung and he carefully opened it. Lying on top of Charlotte's accoutrements was a rip. Written in Robert Fellows' handwriting were the words: 'As you are excused evening parade you are to report to the Bridge House common room ensuring you are neat and clean as you should have been for this morning's inspection. Bring this suitcase.'

He rummaged through the suitcase but the search was to no avail; his copy of Trans Sexcretary was missing

*****

Charles spent the rest of the day terrified. It was obvious that Robert Fellows knew his secret; he had told him so the night of his house initiation but now he knew for certain, the evidence was damning. William Larkin joined him at lunch and dinner and he was still upbeat about Charles' performance of the rugby field, so were most of his housemates who congratulated him on being instrumental in the win.

Charles could hardly eat, his mind wandered during lectures and he was quiet and withdrawn which William put down to Charles' concussion.

After dinner Charles returned to his dorm, and as instructed, he forewent the cadet parade and used the toilet, took a bath, shaved, ironed a clean shirt and dressed in a clean school uniform. He took down the suitcase that held Charlotte inside it, took a deep breath, and headed for the stairs. If it hadn't been such a cold evening he would likely have been sweating, not so much from the weight of the suitcase but from trepidation. He could hear orders being shouted out on the parade ground by young men playing at soldiers; the commands sounded almost ghostly as they echoed down the stone corridors.

He met no one, all the junior housemen were on parade and middle and upper housemen were either in their dorms or their house common rooms. Charles approached the Bridge House common room with fear and apprehension.

There was a sign taped to the door: Closed for Council Meeting. He knocked on the door.

"Come," Robert Fellows deep voice beckoned.

Charles opened the door and as it swung open the hinges moaned; almost a vocalisation of the dread he felt.

The common room was empty except for the housemaster, an almost unheard of situation unless there was a House council meeting. The House council was purportedly elected by the House to support the faculty appointed housemaster. The fact that the three current members were Robert's cronies and rugby teammates didn't raise an eyebrow; no one expected a fair election, the housemaster wanted a council who supported and rubber-stamped his every decision. Every House at Chelmsford College was the same.

"Ah, Charles, welcome. Put your little suitcase over there and come sit," Robert's faux friendliness was disconcerting.

He was wearing tracksuit pants and a longsleeved t-shirt, definitely not house attire but who was here to chastise him? He would have been freezing except for the roaring fire behind his ornate, almost throne-like chair.

"Come and sit here and let's have a chat," he pointed to a hard-backed chair set up in front of him.

Charles knees nearly gave way on him as he made his way to the chair; his body still ached from the pounding he had taken on the rugby field. As he sat he once again noted Robert Fellows' chiselled features, his perfectly coiffed hair, a little long with the sweeping fringe that accented his deep blue eyes. He was incredibly handsome and he knew it.

"You did a half decent job on the field yesterday Ward but we're not here to talk about that," Robert said with some finality.

"We're here to talk about this," Robert picked up a VCR tape and turned it over slowly in his fingers.

Charles stomach swooped and if he had eaten any dinner he surely would have bought it up. He just hung his head and remained silent.

"You know it's against College rules to have pornography on campus," he continued to twirl the damning tape in his hands.

Of course every lad in College had a stash of pornography. While cleaning Robert Fellows' room Charles had found a stack of Mayfair and Fiesta magazines and once he had seen the cover of a VHS tape on top of Robert's VCR player titled Naughty Maids depicting a woman dressed as a French maid impaled on a huge phallus. It was an open secret that students hoarded pornography and besides, young men cooped up in a male-only environment needed relief.

Charles just nodded.

"Interesting movie by the way; the House Council found it intriguing too," Robert grinned at him and reached for his cigarettes.

Charles thought he was going to faint.

"Don't worry; we can keep a secret. We have many secrets," Robert lit two cigarettes and handed one to Charles.

Charles seldom smoked but took the offered cigarette and drew deeply on it.

"Funny how us Brits call cigarettes fags... and you're also a fag aren't you? You're my fag," Robert blew on the tip of his cigarette making the red ember glow in the gloom.

"Do you know what fag also means?"

"It is a synonym for tired or exhausted," Charles croaked.

"Now you're just being coy. Our American cousins use the word as slang for something else don't they?"

Charles remained silent and took a puff on his cigarette.

"Anyway; we're disappearing down rabbit holes," Robert smirked.

"My father, Grange Fellows, is a member of Brooks's, which is a gentlemen's club on St James's Street. It is one of the oldest and most exclusive gentlemen's clubs in London."

"But I'm telling you nothing you don't already know because Reginald Ward, your father, is a member of the same club. Isn't that interesting?"

"Do you know that your father and my father are friends Charles? Isn't that a coincidence? Our fathers are friends and we're at the same college and we're friends too... well sort of. You're more my servant than my friend."

Robert placed the video tape on the table and slid it across in front of Charles.

"Your father was in his cups one night at the club and told my father, in strictest confidence of course, that he had found his youngest son dressed up as a girl. Isn't that interesting?"

"No need to answer; the question is rhetorical."

"Anyway... he told my father that he had sent his son to a university college that was very strict and disciplined. It was going to make a man out of him he said. My father, who is usually quite discreet, passed on the little titbit of information to me when I was home at the end of last term... sort of warning me to be on the lookout for a pansy who might need a little manning-up so to speak."

"I thought I'd done a pretty good job too. Your grades are excellent and you are highly regarded by the Cadet Under-Officers, silly chaps playing toy soldiers if you ask me, and you have become a very useful rugby player."

"But then I find that," Robert pointed accusingly at Charles' suitcase.

"I've often wondered what the fascination is with dressing up like a girl. Don't get me wrong; it's a fine English tradition. Dressing up in women's clothing has long been a custom in the theatre, amongst certain effeminate types, and even the odd MP has been known to slip into a pair of knickers and stockings when it takes their fancy."

"But then we looked at that tape. It seems that you not only like to slip into a skirt and blouse, slap on the paint and put on a wig, you seem to like a little bit of sodomy," Robert grinned evilly.

"No! I don't! I just use the video for stimulation, just like you look at those women on the tapes in your dorm, dressed in lingerie and being shagged," Charles face turned scarlet as he retaliated.

"Be that as it may. Bring along your little suitcase and follow me. The council wants to see why you are so fascinated with women's clothes," Robert arose from his throne and beckoned Charles to follow.

"Be a good chap and take the sign off the door first will you?"

Charles took the 'closed' sign off the door to the common room and then followed Robert through a door in back partially hidden behind a hinged bookcase. He had never been here before and followed Robert down a gloomy brick corridor and then down an even gloomier stone staircase where they came to a heavy door bound with sturdy old iron fittings. Robert inserted a key into the lock and the tumblers clicked ominously in the silence.

"The House council's inner sanctum," Robert said over his shoulder.

"You should feel privileged to be here; very few housemen ever get invited," he said as he opened the door, ushered Charles inside and then locked the door behind them.

The sanctum looked cavernous with its brick walls and granite flagging. There were no windows but the walls were decorated with the house flag, plaques and rich deep-burgundy and gold brocaded curtains. Expensive and ornate Indian fukari rugs gave relief from the cold stone floor; the furniture consisted of a series of red velour couches and recliners, black marble tables and brass standard lamps that gave the place a feeling of opulence, an open fireplace with a black wrought-iron fire guard and matching toolset commanded one corner.

The other three members of the of house council lay sprawled around the room, a bottle of expensive scotch whisky in a crystal decanter sat on one of the low tables and the council all held drinks in their hands. Steven Belfour-Brown and Wayne Jenkins were engaged in a heated conversation while Brian Nichol read a newspaper. They turned briefly to watch their housemaster enter the room and then went back to their conversation.

Charles had heard of this place but he believed its existence a myth. He was proved wrong.

"Follow me," Robert parted a floor-to-ceiling brocaded curtain and they stopped behind it.

"That's the privy," he pointed at a door that was nowhere near as ornate as the rest of the room.

"When you come out we want to see... what do you call yourself when you're dressed up as a girl?"

"I don't dress up; I become," Charles whispered but there was indignance in his voice.

"I become Charlotte. I transform," Charles bowed his head, embarrassed.

"Well goodbye Charles and hello Charlotte I suppose. Now run along and do what you do and let's see what all the fuss is about shall we?" Robert tapped him affectionately on the shoulder but Charles hated being talked down to like this.

There was some relief when he entered the privy and found that it had been converted into a modern bathroom with black and white tiled walls, a porcelain urinal, a toilet cubicle, a shower and a tiled bench with a sink and stainless steel fittings with a large mirror on the wall behind it. It was the antithesis of the common room and council's inner sanctum, being well lit, contemporary and functional.

Charles hefted his suitcase onto the bench and took a nervous piss. He looked at himself in the mirror and sighed. There was nothing he could do but to start his transformation.

Charlotte had longed to present herself to the outside world but not like this. She knew the other members of the council from rugby. They were bullies just like Robert Fellows and she fully expected to be ridiculed, taunted, teased and likely take a hiding. She would let them deride and beat her if that's what made them feel superior; she would take it all but they couldn't take her dignity.

"Jesus fucking Christ; look at her!" Wayne Jenkins stammered, spilling his drink as he pointed at Charlotte as she entered through the curtain.

Charlotte was dressed in a pencil skirt and satin blouse, stockings and high heels and wore her favourite jet-black wig which was bob-cut with a fringe in front and framed her face and curled under her chin. Her makeup was dramatic: rouge to accentuate her sharp cheekbones, black mascara and eyeliner and blended eyeshadow to emphasise her emerald green eyes and blood-red lipstick to give her lips fullness. She wore matching nailpolish, and had accessorised with ornate costume jewellery.

She had debated with herself as whether to do a half-arsed job and come out looking like 'a bloke in a dress' but she decided to remain true to herself despite what the consequences may be. She also suspected that if she tried to present an amateurish version of herself that Robert would see through the ruse and her punishment would be swift and brutal.

"Get over here!" Robert ordered.

Charlotte walked over to where Robert lay reclining on the sofa sipping scotch. Despite not wanting to present herself that way her tight skirt and four-inch heels gave her a seductive gait and her hips swung provocatively. She was extremely self-conscious as she stood in front of Robert. She was effectively encircled by the other members of the council lazing on their sofas, watching her intently.

"You would never know would you?" Steven Balfour-Brown looked her up and down.

"It's still a bloke in a dress and I don't want anything to do with it," Brian Nichol sneered.

"Tell the council your name sweetheart," Robert teased.

"My name is Charlotte," she spoke to the ground.

The four youths were amazed at the sound of her voice. Her looks, her mannerisms and the way she walked and talked; she was for all intents and purposes an attractive young woman. The only dissenter was Brian Nichol.

"Don't be shy. Lift your head and pirouette for us; let's see what you've got," Robert said.

Charlotte did as she was told; she raised her head and looked the young men in the eye as she turned around to face them one at a time.

"Come here," Robert beckoned.

The other three lads were amused and content to watch Robert torment Charlotte. One of his favourite pastimes was tormenting Charles and they expected nothing different just because he was wearing a skirt.

"Let me see you up close," Robert rose to his knees on the couch.

Charlotte stepped up so that she was eye to eye with him.

"Closer," he whispered.

Charlotte stepped in closer so that her face was only inches from his.

Robert studied her face. She was beautiful, her skin soft and glowing, defined cheekbones, the dark makeup accentuated her wide green eyes; her lips were full and pouty. He lifted a hand to her face and Charlotte winced in anticipation of a blow but instead Robert stroked her cheek, his fingers softly traced a line down to her mouth where his thumb brushed her slightly parted lips.

Robert smiled at Charlotte and edged forward so that his lips were almost touching hers. He could smell her perfume. He put his hands on her shoulders and moved his fingers slowly down her arms; then he caressed the back of her hands which hung limply at her sides. His hands moved to Charlotte's hips and she inhaled sharply and then even sharper when they moved to her buttocks, tracing the pert globes covered in the tight pencil skirt. His fingers continued their exploration down her thighs, softly caressing where the hem of her skirt touched her knees, lingering on her flesh.

Charlotte was visibly shaking with fear and possibly something else; she had never felt so confused. The sight of her standing before Robert, inches from his body as he slowly and silently explored her with his hands whilst gazing into her eyes was both exotic and erotic. Wayne Jenkins and Steven Belfour-Brown were sporting erections that were clearly visible in the front of their tracksuit pants.

When Robert's hand disappeared under Charlotte's skirt there was an audible gasp from everyone in the room. Charlotte was trembling but she refused to look away from Robert Fellows. If she was going to suffer indignity, she would suffer it proudly; she would not cower before this man.

Robert's fingers traced the backseam of her stocking to the silky dark welt and then followed a garter strap to the leg opening of her Harlow vintage knickers. The fabric felt cool and shimmery as he fondled it between his fingers. The other young men could see Robert's hand outlined through the fabric of Charlotte's tight skirt and they wondered when he was going to stop. He was getting close to putting his hand somewhere that they found both repugnant and excruciatingly arousing.

"Don't do it Rob. You're not some kind of poofter are you?" Brian Nichol called out breaking the spell.

Robert glared at Brian who glowered back at him. Charlotte stood stock still, her eyes lifted to the ceiling.

As an act of defiance Robert continued to explore under Charlotte's skirt. The audience watched in wonder as Robert's fingers grazed the glossy back and side panels of her knickers, lingering on her buttocks and then continuing onto the satin tummy panel.

Charlotte was trembling but she had returned her gaze Robert's face.

"Fuck this! You lot are crazy!" Brian Nichol arose and left the room, slamming the door behind him.

No one else in the room took any notice, they were all mesmerised.

"How do you do it?" Robert whispered.

Charlotte knew exactly what he meant. Why was there no bulge in her panties?

"I can err... I can... I can retract by testes... my balls," Charlotte stammered.

"And I just tape the rest underneath."

It was just bizarre. Charlotte was standing millimetres from a man who despised her but had his hand under her skirt, caressing her knickers while she explained the art of tucking and taping.

"Show us," Wayne Jenkins called out.

"Yeah... show us!" Steven Belfour-Brown followed suit.

"Well Charlotte dear... show them," Robert breathed heavily into her ear.

He took his hand from under her skirt and turned her to face his two chums.

Charlotte took the hem of her skirt in her fingers and began to pull the garment up her thighs. It was tight but the kick-pleat allowed a bit of give and she was able to shimmy the skirt slowly up her legs. The shimmy added to the provocativeness of the act, almost like she was performing a striptease.

"Oh I love a girl in stockings," Wayne Jenkins whispered.

All eyes were fixated on Charlotte as she disclosed her eight denier, ultra-bare, flesh-toned nylon stockings. She struggled with the hem of her skirt until the darker shadow welt appeared and then the coffee-coloured gauzy top welt where the garters were attached. The men gasped as her skirt continued to rise until Charlotte had it rucked around her waist exposing the peach coloured high-rise, high-cut, knickers.

Charlotte stood indignantly holding her skirt up, trembling but contemptuous, despite the single tear that ran down her cheek.

All three of the men were fully erect at the sight of the beautiful woman lifting her skirt to show them her underwear. Not one of them thought of Charles, all they could see was Charlotte.

"Can I pull my skirt down now?" she breathed softly.

"You may," Robert broke the tension.

"And would you like a drink Charlotte?" he asked almost affably.

Charlotte pulled down and straightened her skirt and as she did do she did not want to admit to herself that she had become slightly tumescent whilst she was being ogled and degraded. She would not be that girl.

"Come, sit here," Robert patted the cushion beside him.

Wayne and Steven crowded in, pulling their chairs close to where Charlotte sat stiffly upright on the edge of the seat next to Robert. She held her glass in both hands and sipped the pungent liquor.

Robert leaned out and picked up a remote control off the low table in front of him. The cord snaked across the floor to a lowboy television stand on which was perched a colour TV and VCR. The picture was frozen on the screen, distorted by fuzzy horizontal lines. He pressed the play button.

"So what's your favourite part of the video? Is it that?" Robert pointed to the television.

The sound was muted and on the screen and the 'secretary' was on her knees fellating the businessman who was standing, guiding her head with his hands as she bobbed up and down in his crotch. The shot was taken from behind the secretary and although you couldn't actually see any flesh, it was obvious what was happening.

Charlotte blushed.

"I told you; I just watch it for stimulation, I don't actually do anything like that," she whispered and lowered her head again.

Robert turned sideways and lifted Charlotte's face and as she turned to him she could see the bulge in the front of his tracksuit. She wasn't stupid and had seen that Wayne Jenkins and Steven Belfour-Brown were also tumescent. This was a bizarre situation for her; she was used to cleaning Robert's dorm or fagging for him or running around the rugby field with all three of them throwing passes or making tackles. Now they were ogling her like she was some kind strumpet they had paid to amuse them.

Robert studied her face again.

"I can't believe how beautiful and feminine you are," he sighed.

Charlotte didn't think she could blush any redder than she already had but she did, she flushed a deep crimson.

"What do you think your father would do if he knew that Charlotte still existed and was traipsing around the hallowed halls of his alma mater?" his face turned from amiable to villainous in an instant and Charlotte's face became pale.

"I'm not traipsing around the halls! I confine myself to my dorm; you're the one who forced me here!" Charlotte quipped.

"True enough but what would he think?" Robert countered.

Wayne and Steven were enjoying watching Charlotte squirm. As much as they found her delightful, the wicked streak in them shone through. It made it more titillating knowing that this woman was here against her will. Neither of them thought of her as Charles any longer; she was just Charlotte, the sexy coquette who was currently at their mercy.

"How would he find out?" Charlotte snapped back.

"What if say... an upper houseman whose father was friendly with Reginald Ward was to tell his father, who then passed the information on."

"Men can be very indiscreet in their cups," he chuckled.

"I take it this going somewhere? You've had me at your mercy every day since I arrived but now you have me entirely under your control. I'm no idiot Robert," the desperation in Charlotte's voice was tangible.

"Then get on your knees. Time to take one for the team," Robert's voice was thick despite his attempt at humour.

"Hey Robert, don't you think we've gone far enough?" Steven Balfour-Brown was having second thoughts.

"Your choice Steven, you can leave any time you want," Robert said without taking his eyes off Charlotte who had gotten on her knees in front of him.

Neither Steven nor Wayne moved. Instead they leaned forward in expectation.

Charlotte guessed what was coming. She had hoped that someday she might be able to do this with a nice man who desired and respected her; who treated her like a proper lady but it was not to be. She resigned herself to her fate. What was the saying her mother sometimes said jokingly: 'just lie back and think of England', except she wouldn't be lying; she would be on her knees instead. Somewhere deep in her psyche she wondered if her mother had ever done what she was about to; she supposed most women did, it was the eighties after all.

"I say Rob; you're not really going to make her do it are you?" Steven whispered.

"I'm not going to make her do anything. She can get up off her knees and walk out of here any time she wants to. She can even use the bogs to clean off her makeup and change before she leaves," Robert said, dry-mouthed.

"But if I do leave I suppose your father and my father are going to meet at Brooks's and have a conversation that will ruin my life?" Charlotte looked up at him.

"That's possible Charlotte. Anything's possible," Robert said dryly.

"I thought so," she leaned forward and her delicate fingers tipped with blood-red fingernails hooked into the waistband of Robert's tracksuit.

He eased himself up a little to assist as Charlotte pulled his tracksuit down. It bunched around his knees. His cock stood proud. It was rock-hard, long and slim with blue veins pulsing through the almost transparent silky skin. The pink glans was almost pretty, a single bead of silvery pre-ejaculate oozed from the tip.

Charlotte put her middle finger on the viscous bubble and collected it; then she enfolded Robert's cock in her fingers, delicately working them down the shaft.

Robert groaned and leaned back on the sofa but his eyes remained locked on the pretty young girl stroking his phallus.

Wayne Jenkins and Steven Belfour-Brown were transfixed watching the gorgeous lady dressed so provocatively with her heavy makeup, nylon stockings and high heels masturbate their friend. It was just like the pornos they liked to watch where three men used one pretty woman for their pleasure. They looked at each other and glared. They both wanted to be next.

For Charlotte, taking Robert's cock in her hand was not really that unpleasant. She had enacted out these scenes in her mind many times. She was the Sexcretary and an unnamed faceless man was her boss. She was compelled to pleasure him but she really wanted to anyway, she didn't need to be forced.

That was her fantasy. This was not.

Although taking a man's cock in her hand did not nauseate her; she still felt belittled and disgraced. She thought again about what her mother said about thinking of England and decided it would be best if she got this over with as quickly as possible.

Charlotte softly stroked Robert's hard flesh making him moan with desire. She gripped it a little tighter and increased the pace using the little droplets of pre-seminal fluid leaking from the eye of his cock to lubricate the substantial organ. She bought her other hand into play and softly cupped his scrotum, gently squeezing and caressing it, making Robert writhe a little on the couch.

Fleetingly she thought how easy it would be to crush his testes and bend his phallus and make him scream but the three men would take retribution so it was easier to capitulate.

She worked on Robert's cock expertly, bringing him closer and closer to extremis. It wasn't difficult; she had a penis of her own and she knew how to manipulate it to achieve the greatest satisfaction.

Robert suddenly shifted and he sat up and leaned over her. She knew what was coming and when he put his hands on her head and guided her face down into his crotch she offered no resistance. Instead she opened her lips and took him into her mouth.

Charlotte had seen enough pornography to know what to do. She took Robert's shaft in her hand and worked on his glans with her tongue, slavering at the organ as it began to throb. She continued to gently squeeze his scrotum and she made sure she looked up at him and kept eye contact while her red lips and velvety tongue worked the head of his penis.

Robert looked down on the gorgeous woman, her exotic face framed by the jet black hair, her dark smoky eye makeup and brilliant green eyes looking up at him seductively as she used her blood-red lips and soft tongue to stimulate his phallus; but he could also see her renitence, she was not doing this voluntarily. She was his captive and that somehow made it even more pleasurable.

Licking and sucking Robert's cock was not as repulsive as she thought it would be; under different circumstances she probably would have been delighted to fellate the handsome young man but he was ruining her dream of what it would be like the first time. She was supposed to be with a considerate lover, not some arrogant bully who thought that she was no better than the dirt beneath his feet.

She felt Robert's cock begin to pulse and sensed his orgasm approaching. Robert tried to push his cock all the way into her mouth but she resisted. She worked the shaft with her hand and caressed his scrotal sac and pursed her lips around the head of his cock and lapped at his fraenulum with the tip of her tongue.

Robert gripped her head tighter and she was rewarded with a mouthful of steaming semen. Freshets of the creamy issue gushed from his penis in long sustained spurts, filling her mouth to the extent that it ran from the corners and down her chin. Runnels of the glutinous spunk dripped down onto her lap soaking into her skirt and stockings.

Wayne Jenkins and Steven Belfour-Brown were captivated by Charlotte's performance. They both had their cocks out and had been stroking them to full tumescence watching the pretty girl as she was forced to suck their friend's cock.

Robert sighed as the last of his issue dribbled from his cock and then he pushed Charlotte's face away from his groin. Before she could recover Steven Belfour-Brown leapt off his couch and gripped Charlotte's head in his hands and turned her to face him. He prodded at her mouth with his throbbing organ which looked almost ready to explode.

And it did. He pushed his cock into Charlotte's mouth just as he orgasmed, filling her abused mouth with viscous musky liquid which she had no choice but to swallow. Steven howled with pleasure as Charlotte used her tongue on him to elicit the last of his issue, wanting to get it over with. Steven pulled his phallus from her mouth and smiled down at her just as Wayne Jenkins who was standing beside her sprayed ropes of scalding semen over her face and hair.

Freshets of the searing slippery secretions spattered in her hair, in her eyes and mouth. Her face was covered with congealing ejaculate. It glistened in the lamplight, even with her makeup smeared and her face glazed with drying semen she still looked beautiful; like a perfect painting that had been scoured by the final brushstroke.

Charlotte refused to bow her head as the three men stood over her, their cocks still dripping droplets of their issue onto the granite floor.

"Go fix your face and come back here," Robert panted, his heart still racing from the tremendous orgasm.

Steven offered his hand to help her to her feet but Charlotte refused it and struggled to stand on her high heels. She stumbled and fell against Robert Fellows who held her to him briefly. For a fleeting second she thought she saw compassion in his deep blue eyes but he eased her out of his embrace, turned her around and patted her buttocks, sending her on her way.

Charlotte staggered into the privy and stood before the mirror and looked at herself.

"Oh god I'm so sorry," she cried as she hoisted her skirt and freed the throbbing erection from her knickers.

She barely touched her cock as she ejaculated onto the tiled floor having to grip the bench to prevent herself from collapsing as the most intense orgasm she had ever experienced wracked her body. The shame she felt could not suppress the absolute bliss she experienced as she remembered her mouth being filled with milky spunk as Robert's cock erupted. It was deplorable but it was the most exciting thing that she had ever experienced.

Charlotte staggered to the toilet cubicle and ripped a handful of tissues from the dispenser and dabbed at her diminishing erection, then at her skirt and stocking tops where gobbets of the three men's semen clung to the fabric. She went back to the sink and dabbed at her hair and then filled the sink with warm soapy water and thoroughly washed her face.

She looked at herself with disgust. How could she be so aroused by what those men had just done to her. She had no time for self-derision; she hated the look of her face sans-makeup and went to work with her cosmetics.

When she returned to the inner sanctum the lads had gone back to lazing on the couches, drinking whisky and joking.

"Ah there you are Charlotte. Now be a good girl and pick up that newspaper," Robert put down his drink and fiddled in a bag on the floor beside his sofa.

"That's the girl now hold it up under your chin."

"Say cheese," he joked as he snapped half a dozen pictures of her with his Canon F-1.

"I always like hard evidence rather than rumour and innuendo; don't you?"

Charlotte didn't reply. She knew what Robert Fellows had done. He now had the pictures to prove that Charles was still playing dressup. He could corroborate his accusations if needed.

"We've finished with you for tonight. Please tell Charles I'll see him bright and early tomorrow and for him to bring his school timetable," Robert turned away from her and resumed his conversation with his friends.

Charlotte went back into the privy and stripped, removed her makeup and took a long hot shower.

Charles emerged from the privy half an hour later dressed in his school uniform but no one paid him any attention as he let himself out and skulked down the dim corridor and ascended the stone steps to the Bridge House common room. A few heads turned his way as he silently made his way through the small crowd and out the door. Brian Nichol watched him intently and when Charles left the common room he swung open the hinged bookcase taking out his key to the inner sanctum as he descended the steps.

William Larkin had also watched Charles walk through the common room dejected. He followed his friend outside.

"Charles? Charles? Are you ok?" he called after him.

"I'm fine William I just want to go to bed," Charles called out without stopping.

Charles came to the staircase and began the ascent to his dorm.

He lay in his bed and tried to sleep but he couldn't. He kept reliving what had happened to Charlotte in the inner sanctum. He took the silk stocking out of the drawer and draped it over his pulsating erection and found release, as he ejaculated he imagined the three cocks ejaculating over Charlotte's face and in her mouth.

He cursed himself for it but he soon fell into a dreamless asleep.

To be continued