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A Sissy Saga Ch. 01

By: Snurge



The schoolgirl is wearing a gymslip of such a dark shade of blue it appears almost black. She is bending forward and stretching across a small table that boasts a cover of purple chenille, resting the flattened palms of her hands on the hard surface and pressing one side of her flushed face between them. The back of her skirt as been folded up to her waist and her white cotton knickers have been lowered to mid-thigh. The tutor stands behind her. She is a thin-faced woman in a white blouse and black skirt; hair combed back and fastened behind her head in a severe style. In one hand she wields a well-worn rubber soled plimsoll which she strokes playfully across the girl's naked bottom.

Meagre fingers of gauzy sunlight penetrate the room through tall windows draped with thick serge hangings. Dark portraits gaze down from dim blue flocked-velvet walls upon ponderous Victorian furniture made of mahogany so dark it looks black in the gloomy light. Nearby the even beat of a clock ticking on a carved mantle shelf seems to take on the role of heartbeat to a life-sized terra cotta statue of a Greek Adonis standing adjacent to the bleached oak fireplace. Beyond the window the windswept Yorkshire fells, dun-coloured, bleak and forbidding pose as a backdrop to a garden where winter lingers, moist and cold, the beech trees stripped of leaves and the grass of the lawn standing stiff and dry.

"How many did we say?" asks the woman.

The girl's eyes flicker fearfully. She is eighteen but her eyes are as bright and clear as any less mature juvenile and she is blessed with an exceedingly soft, sensual mouth, dimpled each side. She nervously glances up over one shoulder. "Oh er, please Miss, s-six." 

"Um, you'll need to keep count for me in case I forget. Up on your toes, show me how brave you are."

Taking a step to the side the woman carefully gauges the distance between herself and the girls defenceless posterior, waiting while the unhappy young lady pushes up on her toes to present her nicely rounded target before raising the gym-shoe and bringing it down in a calculated arc.

SMACK! A sharp noise as rubber meets flesh, and the girl utters a choking sob as a swathe of tender skin on the under curve of her unprotected buttocks rapidly turns red.

"I didn't hear you count. You can count, can't you?" the woman remarks icily.

The young buttocks squirm, and then settle. "Y-yes, Miss Hancock. S-sorry. One, Miss."

"Too late, we'll have to start again," the woman's voice snaps with irritation, "Up on your toes - push it out."

CRACK! "Ooouf! One, oooh, ooh!" SMACK! "Aaah, aaah! Two. Ooh , my bum!" The buttocks jerk left to right as if pre-empting the next stroke and already trying to dodge it.

"Oh, do keep still you silly thing." The shoe sizzles through the air to deliver another stinging blow. WALLOP! Feet turn inward as two bare knees almost cave in.

"Oow! Thr-three Miss. Oh, it stings, Miss."

"Of course it hurts a little bit; I'd be wasting my time with you if it didn't."

On the edge of the table a phone trills and with a tut of annoyance the woman reaches out for it and signals the girl to stand. "Don't wander away, I haven't finished with you yet." she remarks coldly as she lifts the handset. A syncopated smile replaces her scowl as she speaks into it.

"Fairyfield Grange, headmistress speaking." 

She listens for a moment then her voice oozes charm. "Yes, of course I remember, I mailed you our prospectus last week. I'm so pleased our academy for young ladies appears to suit your needs..."

Under the watchful, intimidating glare of the woman's stare the girl stands silently at the end of the table squeezing her knees together in an attempt to prevent her knickers from sliding further down her legs. Her mouth contorts as she tries to suppress the raw, sore feeling of her backside and she spends a moment screwing the hem of her skirt around in her fingers before furtively reaching the back of it to ease her discomfort. The movement is instantly challenged. The woman clamps the receiver with her hand and hisses.

"For heavens sake leave yourself alone."

Startled, the girls hands return to where they can be seen, while quite unbidden her knickers slither to the tops of her knees.

"No, no," continued the woman to her caller, "It's vital they attend here directly they are eighteen. I like to have them early. It makes things that much easier and the instruction more permanent. Of course - the new term will begin in May. I prefer new-starters to arrive on the first weekend ... Yes, yes ... I'll look forward to meeting you."

Dropping the telephone back into its cradle the woman stares absently at it for a moment before her eyes flick back to the girl. "Now where were we?" 

The girls mouth quivers and she looks up with large damp eyes. "You've done three, Miss."

Miss Hancock's mouth distorts and she looks rather vague. "Three? Blame it on the interruption but I don't recall giving you three. Never mind. It'll be tidier if we start from the beginning."

The girl seems fit to burst into tears but with a sorrowful expression she shuffles forward to take up her previous position, and her underwear chooses that moment to drop around her ankles.

The woman shoves her forward and the girl utters a stifled protest and struggles briefly beneath the stern hand, but finally submits to being pressed down. Her dress is quickly raised up again, and from knee to waist is revealed a magnificent display of pale, youthful bare flesh of which a naked, rosy behind is the focal point.

Without the encumbrance of underwear to curb her stance the girl's young thighs spread slightly as they meet the edge of the table, and between the legs appears the pendant dangle of a pink scrotum to betray that she is not really female at all.

***

Miriam Hancock's idea of establishing a school blossomed when William visited, an event that brought an end to weeks of prevarication. Shortly before his arrival during his gap-year in 1975 an ancient great-uncle on Miriam's maternal side had died, and being unmarried and childless and without any closer relative, she had been the sole beneficiary in his will. Although the old man left little money she found herself to be the owner of the large, rambling country mansion of Fairyfield Grange. 

The drawback to her seeming good fortune was only realised when she found the house to be a dilapidated monster standing isolated in a swathe of remote and almost featureless Yorkshire moorland, and for some time she'd been at a loss to know what to do for the best.

Jennifer, her daughter, insisted that the most sensible thing would be to sell the property for what she could get and move somewhere smaller, but to Miriam that would have been tantamount to giving up a dream she'd long cherished. Fairyfield was perfect for her. It was the realisation of a fantasy. Given some effort she was certain its decay could be reversed and it could look grand in aspect and magnificent inside. The overwhelming yearning in her heart was more than simple pride; she had a fierce desire to seek some eminence that would blot out her humble origins. 

She had attended a good school when a girl; yet she had too many memories of her mother and father looking awkward and out of place among the well-bred, genteel parents of her fellow pupils. She'd always longed to be genteel too, and ownership of a fine imposing property such as Fairyfield could make it all happen. She just knew it could.

A defunct marriage had settled on her a small regular allowance, but she could not live well with her two children in a house of such monstrous dimensions on a meagre stipend, and the expense of refurbishment precluded the fulfilment of her dream until her nephew arrived.

William's parents lived abroad and his vacations from boarding-school had always been taken with his grandmother in Brighton, but he rebelled at spending his gap-year -- his pause before higher education - with her. Many of his contemporaries, enjoying new found independence and rapt with a sense of adventure had opted for back-packing around Europe at this time but he, pensive and slightly built merely looked forward to ringing the changes with a holiday in the countryside. Since the railway reorganisation of the 1960s no train had been anywhere near Fairyfield Grange, so his aunt met him with her car at the train-station in Castleford. 

He found his aunt not the least bit fluffy pretty or pert, in fact she was rather rangy and tall, but there was an intangible something about her that demanded attention. No gesture, however impatient, seemed to dishevel her, for she was one of those women who looked eternally well groomed, no matter what the circumstance. In racing parlance she had the look of a thoroughbred, a patrician of good breeding and refinement, imperious, distant and demanding of respect.

It took quite some time to drive to her home, but the journey gave him the opportunity to get his first look at the Yorkshire dales. It seemed like an alien landscape in some places showing no evidence of the hand of man, just miles of heather, peat hags and bog pools with black water rippling and tufts of high rushes swaying in an eternal sweeping wind.

It was all so different to the countryside around the school in Middlesex where he had previously lived, and it seemed to auger the start of a wonderful adventure. But on arriving at Fairyfield he found a family of rather odd people in a very odd house. 

Set in private grounds the house itself was a decrepit monument to bygone elegance, a vast three storey structure with a steep roof that his aunt couldn't afford to maintain or repair. Life for her family was confined to a few rooms in one of the wings where they were catered for by a housekeeper called Gloria, a bulbous woman with thick shapeless legs showing beneath the skirt of a shapeless dress.

Then there was Aunt Miriam's daughter, his teenage cousin Jennifer. A quirkish girl if ever there was one. Attractive to look at - a flawless complexion, large gypsy eyes and slim figure - yet unwilling to put any of her charms to work. Her manner was disconcertingly blunt, vain and brittle and her mouth smiled a kind of perpetual insincerity that made him squirm. Initially she ignored him, and he felt oddly glad about that. 

There was no evidence of an uncle or any other man about Aunt Miriam's home. She never mentioned whom her husband had been, so William assumed he must have disappeared long ago - so long ago that his aunt now insisted on being addressed as, Miss Hancock.

William was eighteen years old, still so fresh in form and face he usually found winning friends easy, but it was only the presence of Aunt Miriam's son Archie that saved his vacation from becoming a disaster.

Young men who are attracted to other young men can intuitively identify each other at a single glance - perhaps it stems from the shine in their eyes or maybe it's something about their wistful smiles - whatever it is, so it was with Archie and William. From the moment they met there was a warm affinity between them, and Archie was exactly the companion needed to make a stay at Fairyfield bearable.

Nearly a year older than himself and two inches taller, Archie was a lively and easy going character and he was academically sound too as had been demonstrated by him passing the Examination for Common Entrance to public school. Handsome to look at with honey-coloured skin and dark eyes, he could be moody at times, but his temper was never as cutting as his elder sister's. It never occurred to William that Archie was as much in awe of Jennifer as he was himself.

When his cousin proposed an expedition to explore the vast unused portion of the old mansion William felt a twinge of unease. He knew nothing about old houses, but he'd noticed a mildewy smell in this one whenever he went further than his aunt's apartments, so he was certain they were not meant to provide comfort. The enormity of the place filled him with awe. It was so big and there were no sounds inside, while the smell of wax and dry dust presented a peculiar mustiness that hinted of windows long shuttered and of cloistered, airless rooms.

There was something oppressive about the immense empty entrance hall and the winding corridors that drifted through the house. The chill dark rooms with lofty ceilings and heavy old furniture were secretive places redolent of neglect and gave out an aura of hidden mystery. It could have been haunted. It was certainly a place to be tortured in, incarcerated in, go mad in. Its gaping maw of a front door was obviously designed never to let people escape; a traitors gate, a mouth of hell. When the house had been built he was sure gangs of gnarled hunchbacks would have been installed on the roof to hurl down bucketful's of noxious fluids onto the heads of visitors below. It was that kind of place.

"I don't like walking around this spooky old house," he owned-up after a while.

"What would you rather do?" Archie asked.

"Maybe we should go out in the sunshine," he replied lamely. 

It may have been his nervous hesitance that encouraged Archie to hold his hand, which he loved. When fingertips brushed his own and took a grip a breath caught in his chest. There were things about such a gesture that sometimes made his bones melt. Holding hands was so intimate and said so many things that were difficult to put into words. He gloried in it and it made him feel special.

Archie lead him on down another dingy passageway, then stopped quite abruptly and pushed him gently against a wall, startling him by sliding his hands up each side of his body and pressing them under his arms. William had perfectly pure features, pale roses in his cheeks, dark, long eyelashes, tawny hair and great brown eyes like those of a puppy, and to Archie he really was something special.

"You're gorgeous. Absolute sugar on a stick," he said without being the least bit timid, "I bet you've always been a tease." 

William became anchored to the spot, heart leaping as Archie's incredible admiring eyes aroused nerve endings over his entire body. His soft cheeks developed a crimson tinge and he smiled shyly. "I never tease anyone on purpose."

A breathy gasp escaped his mouth as he felt thumbs stroke the front of his shirt in the vicinity of his nipples, then his cousin casually reached up to trail a finger along his jaw, following the combination of soft texture of youthful curves before suddenly pressing his own body against him. 

Without any other preliminary he began to feast on William's neck, sucking on it like a baby, and William could only whimper helplessly when his cousin's teeth nipped at the white, creamy skin of his throat. 

With his mouth fully employed Archie dragged his fingers over the front of William's shirt, fumbling a little in his own excitement as he pushed it higher and exposed the flat of his stomach. William breathed heavily, but didn't stop the shirt being unbuttoned and it was soon hanging loose. Archie's tongue traced a path along his cousin's collarbone while one hand slued up to stroke a tiny, exposed nipple. William moaned and writhed in a pretence of protest before he pushed himself against the pressure. Eighteen, but with nipples that swelled beautifully to an intimate caress.

"Nice!" Archie whispered as he smoothed a hand down his arm and reached behind to caress the round of his bottom.

"Stop it," William puffed meekly.

"Make me," Archie replied, "You're old enough now to know what you want. If you don't like what I'm doing, make me stop." 

He looked directly into face, and William gazed back at him with starry eyes as he tilted up his mouth. There were no more protests; his mood was one of soaring excitement. Instead he raised his head and inched back, his hands on Archie's shoulders, reluctant to break the link between them. He could feel his cousins breathe on his cheek and it made him feel beautiful. Warm noses touched and their faces drew together gain, and this time their lips met. Instantly, astral violins seemed to be playing the sensual symphony of a first kiss.

William felt Archie sucking at his mouth - strongly - draining the strength out of him and making him feel weak. The body pressing against his bare skin felt sensual, and unconsciously he slid one hand into his handsome cousin's fine auburn hair and wrapped his other arm around his shoulder. He felt perfectly safe and deliciously vulnerable at the same time. Archie's leg went between his own and he found himself riding his thigh. He could feel his cousin's erection poking through his trousers at his belly, almost as if it were trying to penetrate his navel or gouge out his appendix.

Archie clutched William's slight body to his firm chest. "Give in to me," he demanded.

William couldn't answer, he could only gasp aloud and open his mouth wider as his cousin leaned into him. The smoothness of the other young man's lips was rewarded by the eagerness with which their kisses were returned. He was ready to allow Archie every kind of liberty. The two of them rolled their heads to the right and then to the left as they kissed again, exchanging kiss after kiss, each one more passionate than the last. Their breathing became deeper and faster as they both began to caress each others backs, running their hands under their shirts and over each others warm, smooth skin. William's stiff cock throbbed as he allowed his cousin's tongue to press between his lips and enter his mouth, and as it licked over his gums and teeth and ran over his own tongue he felt as if he could easily swoon. 

Archie really wanted to do stuff, he really did, and he wanted to do it too. One could only guess at what would have happened next if Gloria hadn't suddenly come shouting them both in for dinner. 

Aunt Miriam gave them no chance to be together afterwards, but smitten by his cousin's attention William went to bed with excitement straining in his pants and a multitude of wild thoughts churning in his mind. What would happen tomorrow when he and Archie could shroud themselves in the solitude of the moors? He knew that such affairs should have a kind of order to them. First one had to find a girl you liked - he blushed slightly even though he was alone - or a boy. You talked with the person, then dated them, and then asked them to be your boyfriend. And then of course came all the other stuff.

Stroking himself vigorously beneath the bedclothes he dwelt on the possibilities of the 'other stuff'. He knew that wasn't likely to be the order of events with his cousin. Archie would be impatient and want to kiss him again straight away. Mmm, yes. He'd probably pull his shirt open just like he'd done earlier. He'd probably squeeze his chest, kiss his chest. "Ooow!"

Archie was a much more knowing young man than he was. He could sweep a boy like himself right off his feet. If Archie grabbed hold of him and squeezed he'd squeal, and if he started to unbutton his pants he'd say NO. But just like as had happened earlier he wouldn't try to stop him. He'd let gorgeous Archie pull down his trousers, let him play with his cock, touch his bottom. He'd let him DO things. Together they'd play the kind of adult games mothers and fathers were never told about. Mouth on mouth, cock on cock, balls rolling together. 

As his Technicolor imagination and caressing hand brought his penis to the pinnacle of erection he heard movement beyond the bedroom door. Predicting it could only be Archie coming to share a few more intimate hugs and caresses with him he didn't even bother to cover himself properly. The door to his room swung open without even a warning tap and his awful cousin Jennifer strode in to glare down at him.

In alarm he fumbled for words. "Jen... what...?"

She bothered with neither explanation nor apology but at once dragged the sheets that covered him down to expose the tops of his legs. His thighs were smooth but such an indication of immaturity was a contradiction to the swollen, stiffness of the penis blatantly thrusting up and glistening wet at its tip.


A Sissy Saga Ch. 01



"Thought so." she sneered, "Disgusting little fuckwits like you are always full of dirty thoughts and can't leave themselves alone."

"Jennifer, I wasn't..."

"Liar!" The girls gypsy looks and arctic demeanour cut him short. "It was I who told Archie to do what he did earlier. I wanted to confirm you were the drippy kind of pansy I reckoned you to be, and my brother always does as I tell him."

William blushed deep with embarrassment, but before he was able to cover himself again the girl's hand swung down to deliver a sharp slap to his penis with the flat of her fingers. When she backslapped it for good measure he winced in discomfort and the impudent pride of his flesh at once collapsed.

"Fairies such as you always need a lesson or to two in better behaviour," she told him curtly. "Meet me in the garden tomorrow. Come down before breakfast, and don't keep me waiting." Her eyes held him with their stare. "You won't make me wait, will you?" 

With trepidation that bordered on terror he gazed back at her pathetically. "N-no Jennifer. I promise."

A commitment having been extracted the girl at once wheeled about and departed; leaving William shocked, quite bewildered and absolutely spoiled for continuing what he'd begun as a pleasure.

***

Early the following morning he tipped himself from his bed in something of a panic. His sleep had been shallow and constantly ruined by visions of his female cousin's threatening eyes, and although there was little chance of him being late for his appointment with her he wasn't about to trust to luck.

Gathering up a T-shirt and a pair of summer shorts from the back of a chair he shucked them on with preoccupied carelessness before bungling barefoot down the stairs. As he let himself out into the garden at the rear of the house he had no idea of the agenda concerning him that had been agreed by the women the previous evening, and he was innocent of the fact that his early morning foray into the garden provided the opportunity to implement it. 

The sky was bright, the grass was green, and martins sat under the eves of the old house just as they were always accustomed to do in midsummer. The dry warm smell of new mown hay from farms miles away drifted on the early morning air and somewhere in the distance a dog barked. Closer at hand what had once been a vegetable garden was now covered by an ill-maintained lawn. Behind it, by a broken fence stood a sagging glasshouse and several broken cucumber frames grown over with weeds, while nearer huge stems of groundsel poked up through splashes of purple aubrietia and pink saxifrage, and an old rockery boasted nothing more than buttercups and sprouting dog thistles. 

The dew had already dispersed and the grass was warm beneath his bare feet, but such workaday sensations diminished in his mind as he found himself staring at Jennifer. She was exercising with a pair of dumbbells, swinging and swaying lithely as she put herself through what was clearly a regular morning routine, but it was the clothes she wore, or more properly, her scarcity of clothes that stole his breath. She was wearing a bikini of such skimpy proportions he felt stunned, and although he knew it was rude to stare he couldn't take his eyes away from her. 

Jennifer was well made and good looking - good looks seeming to be a Hancock trait. She may have been rather willowy for some peoples taste, but her thighs were gently rounded and her stomach flat, while her small breasts rode high and firm on a rather muscular chest. The suppleness of motion and swathes of bare skin all gave an impression of sinewy fitness that was not unfeminine and was rather shapely.

William had attended a boys-only residential school for as long as he could remember, and a monk-like existence hadn't prepared him for large expanses of exposed female flesh. Feeling guilty, feeling a tremor of terror as his maleness began to respond to a sight he was unable to ignore, his brain desperately scrambled to think what to do next.

"Quite a lovely morning, isn't it." he said quickly, "I think it's going to be a nice day, don't you?"

Jennifer observed him casually, her finely etched features betraying nothing of her thoughts. "I'm not a weather vane," she replied coldly.

He tried to ignore the scorn in her tone, but even so a creepy foreboding assaulted his senses. "I-I've come like you said I should."

One corner of the girl's mouth turned down. "You're leering at me, you disgusting male. Have you never seen a girl in a bikini before?" 

"Oh - um - Only in photographs. I've never seen a real girl in a swimsuit as near as you are."

She propped her hands on her waist in an inherently masculine pose that accentuated her broad shoulders and the imposing strength in her arms, then she manufactured an odd sort of smile and glared at him hard. "Staring is bad manners and boys who stare at me learn to regret doing it. Come here pervert, come closer."

It occurred to William her voice wasn't kind. It oozed acid and her smile was a dangerous one. He suddenly froze, his feet leaden, his heart racing, and his gaze passed over the curves of her near naked body to the short cascade of brown hair that framed a face that was almost stark in the bright morning light. Her eyes flashed up and down and she looked angry. 

His lack of motion roused Jennifer into moving herself. Suddenly fuming, she dumped the dumbbells on the ground and stormed towards him in quick, purposeful strides. "Do you think you can beat me in a fight? Because you're going to get one if you ignore what I say."

She leaned forward, her height putting her head above him and he had to tilt his face up to remain in eye contact.

He gulped. He was old enough to resent being ordered around by a girl, but she was taller than he was and while his own arms were rail-like Jennifer's had the undulating athletic prowess bestowed by regular workouts with her dumbbells. He shook his head. "No, I don't think I could, Jennifer. Please don't be angry."

The girl pulled up short of grabbing him by the hair and merely splayed her fingers against her shapely thighs. She didn't move closer or touch him, yet he felt the breadth and power of her hovering and circling. 

"Well just remember that, and remember that any more slovenly attention to what I say will make me loose my temper and I'll slap your face until you cry." Her eyes then narrowed into a sly glimmer and she inclined away slightly. "Come over to the seat with me." she told him, indicating a sheltered recess between two huge rhododendron bushes at the end of the garden. A splendid beech tree stood there, its branches dipping to the ground to give shade to an ancient sun-bleached garden bench. 

When her cousin inched forward too slowly to please her she grasped his arm and dragged him forcefully. "Don't sit down. The seat is for me and I want you to stand." she told him crisply. 

The girl perched and leaned casually back as if she owned the world, her slender teenage legs stretching ostentatiously in front, the tiny bikini pants emphasising the swell of her hips and her muscular thighs, while the skimpy matching top revealed a tantalising proportion of her young breasts.

William felt utterly out of his depth in her company. She was lovely, yet awesome and frightening, and her steely gaze encouraged his wits to desert him. He half turned and contemplated running away, but she leaned forward, grabbed hold of his wrist and pulled him closer. Protests sprang into his mouth, but her powerful grip made him feel weak and he remained silent. 

"It'll be better for you if you do as I say, I think your beginning to understand that, aren't you?" the girl muttered.

He blanched. "Yes, I understand," he nodded, desperately seeking a way out from the mesmerising spell she had on him. "I'm sorry if I was rude staring at you, and I'm sorry about last night."

"Well said, you're making a good start." Jennifer replied generously. She regarded him up and down for a moment. His eyes were clear, sublime, startlingly blue, generously revealing a hint of the person inside. Lips soft and sensuous, shaped too much like those of a girl. "Bit of a pansy, aren't you?"

William squirmed. "A pansy?"

"It's a term people use. It means you're something of a glitter-boy - rather effeminate." Eventually her gaze settled on the front of his shorts. "Show me your prick!"

He couldn't help but gape in disbelief at the demand and hoped he'd misheard what she'd said.

"Do as I say. Show me your prick, stupid." she repeated, displaying the confidence of one whose authority was indisputable.

William shuddered and whinnied in alarm. "Oh - I mustn't do that. Someone else may see."

"Never mind other people," she replied coldly, "No one can see us from the house, so just pay attention to me. Show it to me. Show me your prick!" 

Trapped by her unremitting insistence William gingerly unbuttoned his fly and reached in to lift out his penis. Shame and Jennifer's chill manner destroyed any excitement he'd previously felt and it hung down the outside of his pants limp and unimpressive.

The girl arrested a thrill and cautioned herself not to hurry. It was more enjoyable if she could spin things out. She had an eighteen year-old young man lewdly showing himself right in front of her, and it would be wasteful not to extend the wonderful sense of lascivious power she had over him. 

"Uph! Just as I thought - you may be a young man, but you can only show a fat white slug when you're not jiggling it." she remarked scornfully. "You're a predictable disappointment. Get the rest out. Move that ridiculous worm out of the way and let me see the hang of your balls."

His testes were nicely dropped and the sight of his pale scrotum hanging out the front of his shorts seemed to pacify her for a moment, unfortunately things didn't remain placid for long. "Get your pants off." she ordered, leaning back to watch him.

William looked at her, horrified. "What are you going to do?" 

Jennifer gave him a measured stare. "Don't ask questions or I'll lose patience with you. You'll suffer a smacked face or a smacked bottom, but be assured you'll know fewer tears if you get your pants off. So get them off, NOW!"

Without even thinking of further protest William hurried to do as she demanded, but as usual Jennifer's hands were quicker than his own and he wriggled uncomfortably as she tugged the garment down his legs. Being manhandled by her suddenly brought a little strength back to his penis, and Jennifer's mouth curled in a wry kind of amusement.

"Hmm. You really are a naughty nancy. You're in need of a smacked bottom. Only disgusting deviants show themselves like that to girls."

"Oh but..." His thoughts skipped about wildly and the blood quickened in his veins. "I'm not a child. You mustn't smack me."

"Don't be so pathetic. Stretch across my lap," Jennifer crooned in a cavernous voice, "At once. Do it now."

The teenager's bare buttocks swivelled skittishly, but despite being hot with shame he lowered himself over her unclad thighs and reached down to support himself with his hands on the ground. Legs straight, bottom clenched, he felt his scrotum and waving penis settle onto the bare warm skin of the girls loins.

"You position yourself so precisely, it makes me suspect you've been over a few people's knees in the past." murmured Jennifer with a mocking smile. 

The sound of her words skittered along his spine and William's face suddenly flushed a deeper colour. "No, no. I promise I haven't, honestly." He protested with as much indignation he felt able to muster.

Unseen by him in his face down pose his cousin dipped her hands into the cups of her bikini top and lifted her teenage breasts into daylight. She had a prefect juvenile bosom, the two soft round orbs sitting high on her chest, smooth and creamy and pink tipped. Her lips became suddenly moist as she caressed them thoughtfully, enjoying the tension she found in the spiking nipples. 

She was pleased that other people thought her handsome and imposing, but she knew her clipped manner and piercing eyes could never be described as pretty. She had a young desirable body though, and it was fine if the males of the species lusted after her flesh, even if she'd not yet met one worthy of touching it. Certainly clumsy oafs like William weren't worthy. Their only purpose was to amuse her, and she found the view of his naked bottom submissively awaiting her attention rather stimulating. 

"Now then cousin, just let me have your hand." His right hand was pulled up behind his back, "And now just let me arrange you ..." Two bare knees slid about beneath his belly and nudged embarrassingly against his penis. He was feeling helpless and ridiculous, but Jennifer held his arm firmly and laughed as she scooped his T-shirt up to his waist. 

Tucking the bikini top under her breasts to accentuate their thrust she paused a moment to roll the tender malleable flesh of the youthful male bottom in her hands. It was small, round and shapely with a smooth creamy texture, and she couldn't resist running her fingers fingertips across the soft flesh and gently pinching it. William didn't resist her insolence so she released the grip on his arm slightly to gauge his reaction. He remained still, so she patted the small, plump cheeks with a modicum of affection. There was a fascination among some people for smacking girl's bottoms, but for her boys bums were just as smackable. They were equally attractive, equally enticing, and just as quick to turn rosy.

Feeling sufficiently aroused she raised one hand in the air while clamping the other over the his hip to hold him in place. "A pretty bum, perfect and white," she observed, "It'll look even prettier with some colour." The raised hand descended and struck William's right buttock soundly. CRACK! 

"Yeow!" The first solid spank took him completely unawares, his bottom shivered beneath its impact and a hot smarting tingle raged on his exposed rear.

"Good boy! Just be a good boy now." Jennifer urged warmly. 

William's round beautiful cheeks bobbed up and down invitingly as she slapped again. "Ooo!" He yelped suddenly as her hand landed on his silky flesh with another brisk CRACK! She gripped his arm to head off any resistance, but he made no effort to struggle so her hand relaxed again and stroked caressingly up his forearm as her other hand patted a few practise shots before lathering the bouncing flesh with a shower of sharp, painful whacks. "Ooouf! And the soft smooth flesh became blotched with red.

"This will teach you to be respectful. You will learn," And the hand arced down to deliver another wallop, the stinging blow so sudden that William kicked up a heel. The girl's arm went up and down rapidly as she increased the tempo. CRACK! On the left buttock, SMACK! On the right, making each mound of the unclad bottom wobble delicately.

Every time seemed to come as a surprise and every subsequent sizzling swat seemed to be as keen as the first. Soon he was struggling and kicking frantically on her lap and trying his uttermost to avoid the unavoidable, his uncontrolled squirming causing his legs to spread open to allow his tormentor a view of his soft scrotum flattened against the top of her leg. 

"Shameless faggot!" Jennifer admonished icily as the flat of her hand bounced up from each impact. SPLAT! On the left. WHACK! On the right. "Dirty little wanker - you will- you will learn!" SMACK! WALLOP! And the once pale bottom cheeks were now a fiery red.

William yelled bawled and finally blubbered, his bum twitching and jerking in an irregular rhythm as the girl concluded the though spanking she'd longed to give it since she'd first viewed its teasing outlines. 

Warm and sated Jennifer stayed her hand at last and tucked away her breasts, only then allowing William to scramble to his feet. His knees scissored as he stood up and his hands clamped to his posterior as he desperately sought to disperse the fierce smarting on the rounds of his buttocks. It wasn't only tears of pain that wet his eyes, there were tears of humiliation too. Spanked on the bum like a baby - by a girl. He couldn't understand why he'd let it happen. Then as he thought to pick up his shorts his cousin compounded his shame by putting her foot on them.

"Go back to the house without your pants," she told him loftily. 

"B-but Gloria and Aunt Miriam may be up by now. I can't ..." The girl reached out and tore a switch from a low hanging bough of the beech tree, then cut it through the air with a mean scything stroke. Her obvious threat immediately galvanised William and he fled, dashing towards the house as fast as he could, his hands desperately trying to ward of the swipes Jennifer levelled at his bare bottom as she pursued him.

Penis swinging beneath the hem of his T-shirt like a clapper on a bell he plunged in through the garden window only to find his greatest dread awaiting him. Aunt Miriam was standing in the conservatory. 

"William! What on earth are you doing running around without any pants?" 

"Jennifer - s-she spanked me in the garden." he blurted out as his face turned as red as his bottom.

"Two sets of cheeks aglow! Quite a picture," his aunt quipped. "I'm afraid I'm not about to give you any sympathy. Young men who allow girls to smack them deserve everything they get."

His dreadful cousin came in behind him. "He leered at me in my swimsuit, mummy, then he took out his disgusting maleness and waved it around. He was so vile I had to punish him." A hard shove in William's back displayed the scorn she felt. "Go and stand in the corner, cry-baby. Keep your feet together and face the wall and don't turn around until you're told."

William felt just brave enough to glance over his shoulder, and he knew right away by Jennifer's fixed expression and the disconcerting disinterest of his aunt that it was hopeless to try and resist. He stumbled away to obey, and stood in the corner facing the wall, sheepish eyes cast down in shame. He didn't see the smug expression playing around his cousin's mouth or the tiny gleam of malicious satisfaction in her eyes as she gazed at her mother. 

"This cutie-pie kicks and squeals like a little girl when he's spanked, mummy. He is suitable, isn't he? He's just right. Do let me use him." 

Miriam replied only with a feint smile. Jennifer had managed him so easily. A calm, persuasive voice heavy with authority and a few well applied smacks from a forceful girl was all it took to subjugate her dear nephew. It would be a wasted opportunity to leave things just like that, and she did like to indulge Jennifer's enthusiasm. 

She seated herself thoughtfully in a chair while her daughter took a moment to rebuke her cousin for trying to haul his shirt down to cover his bottom. "Stop fidgeting. Remove the T-shirt and put your hands on your head." She then turned to her mother and appeared to forgo awaiting any approval. "Gloria's got all the stuff ready. I just need to go and get it."

Miriam's eyes followed her daughter as she left the room, and pride illuminated her face. So thin, she thought to herself, too thin for my liking. But then, she always had been on the lean side so that must be the way she's meant to be. A leggy colt as a child, a racehorse now. 

Even with Jennifer out of the room William didn't chance turning around, but he found the courage to test the only route he could see out from the intolerable situation he found himself. "Aunt Miriam, will you stop Jennifer being horrid to me? I really don't think she should be punishing me like she is."

Miriam Hancock smiled coolly and allowed her gaze to drift over to where he stood. Utterly naked now, she noticed his back was well formed, his buttocks shapely, soft and round and nicely pink. 




A Sissy Saga Ch. 01



Straightening her back she crossed her legs to adopt her usual posture, a posture that was contained and regal. One elegant eyebrow, a darker black than her dark, clubbed hair, arched above her sceptical gaze. There was an imperious quality in the way she held her head, and her eyes glistened with alert attention. "Punish! William. Whatever do you mean, my dear?" She leaned back as if passing a comment on the weather. "You're not being punished. The very idea! No, no. It's just a matter of including you in the routine we practise here. You need to be taught about obedience."

"But aunty, I am being obedient, really I am, but Jennifer's still going to punish me some more, I just know she is."

Miriam contemplated his spanked bottom leisurely. Smooth, round and perfect, enhanced by a delicious deep blush courtesy of Jennifer's hand. Something inside her stirred, and if she, who was pure in heart could feel such a stirring she could imagine how the lustful would react. She could imagine how men without scruples would react to his undraped loveliness. "You're a grown man now, dear, so you should be able to defend yourself against a young lady. On the other hand if you can't do that Jennifer may think you're just being stubborn so perhaps if you shed a few tears you could soften her heart."

William pouted. "She's already made me cry, and it didn't make any difference at all. It's just not fair."

It certainly wasn't fair, and all too soon Jennifer returned to demonstrate just how unfair things could be. She moved up behind him and ran a fingertip down his back to the base of his spine, pleased by the strong reflexive shiver he couldn't control. Without touching him elsewhere she began to finger his buttocks, teasing him with casual careless touches. "Turn around William. I've brought some clothes for you to wear." 

He was suspicious of the sudden sweetness of her voice, it screened her usual acid tone and made him waver. He turned about warily and at once saw the items she'd draped over the arm of an old chesterfield sofa. A short black underslip and a pair of dark nylon stockings - girl's things. 

"Put these on." Her voice snapped like a whiplash as she handed him a pair of tiny thong pants.

Stunned, his jaw dropped. "Oh no, I-I can't put any of that stuff on." 

The girl loomed before him, her face dark with determination and the fingers of her hands clenching and unclenching like claws. "Pardon, William. I think I may have misheard you." 

He shook his head. "But - but - they're girl's pants. I'm a man, I don't wear girl's clothes."

Jennifer's eyes widened maliciously and she grasped his wrist. "That's what I thought you said, and that's exactly the kind of arrogant, haughty male attitude that angers me. You squeal like a little girl and cry like a little girl, so I think you should spend some time dressed like one. Now, put them on."

They were only a few inches apart and she was easily able to reach down and grasp his scrotum, thumb and fingers encircling its root to squeeze and make the testicles bulge.

He winced and tried to break way, but her grip was tenacious and unerringly cruel. "Give in, William. Things will be easier for you if you submit." 

"No, I won't put on girl's clothes," he spluttered defiantly. 

The corners of the girls mouth twitched as she immediately inflicted such a sudden wicked half-twist to his genitals William produced a shrill shriek. 

"You see! You must obey or you'll suffer."

"Aaaah! Okay, yes - yes, okay I'll do it."

Jennifer continued to hold him tight for a moment, using the fingertips of her other hand to lift his chin and enjoy his expression of bewilderment. "That's better," her voice cooed cruelly, "You know you'll have to do it eventually. There's no one to rescue you. No one to help - no one at all. So no more wimpy bleating, right? Mummy prefers daintily frocked nieces to grotty, tiresome nephews, so you're going to spend the rest of the day dressed as a girl."

William's head drooped and he nibbled his lip. "Yes, Jennifer. I'm sorry. Please don't be cross with me again."

At last she released him and he shuffled forward, legs together. He didn't understand anything anymore, he didn't even know what day it was. He was only conscious of Jennifer's voice as she directed him to the sofa. 

Miriam watched without interrupting. Three years of marriage and the birth of two children had passed before she'd realised the male gender were a pack of inferiors who needed to be kept in their place. The practise of forcing young men to dress in girl's clothes as a form of discipline was nothing new and was a natural adjunct to the spanking delivered by a dominant female. Making them put on skirts and panties humiliated them wonderfully, and Jennifer was particularly good at making men do that kind of thing, and since she did it with such aplomb it would have been quite wrong to interfere. 

The panties she encouraged William to step into and assisted in sliding up his legs at that moment were tiny thongs, flimsy teasers that struggled to cover his youthful charms at the front and disappeared into the crevasse of his bottom behind.

His faced reddened as he adjusted them. Oh, they felt unexpectedly nice especially to a sensorily deprived young man such as himself. His balls felt snug and the soft material rubbed them so beautifully. He didn't want it to happen, but his penis was filling with blood. Oh dear, if Jennifer saw... 

Jennifer barked a taunting laugh. "I thought you were a MAN, William. MEN shouldn't get stiffies when trying on girls underwear." She moved close and stroked a hand over his smooth buttocks. "Still, they are a perfect fit and ideal if you're naughty and in need of a knickers-up spanking later on - and I've the perfect outfit to match them."

William remained dumb. The panties and the stroking had made him wiggle, and the wiggling had caused a fattening mushroom to pop out from the sleeve of his foreskin and rub against the inside of the pants. Suddenly he became terrified he'd do a wet orgasm right there where Jennifer and her mother could see. But Jennifer didn't appear to notice and he was so thankful for that he didn't even protest when she clipped a lacy black garter-belt about his waist. 

Mother and daughter observed his legs as he seated himself in full girly mode to pull on the nylon stockings. The legs were uncommonly hairless and quite shapely in a youthful, slender kind of way, and the stockings, though black, were so sheer they allowed the warm tan of his skin to show through. Miriam hoped her daughter had judged things right. Then she noticed how carefully William eased the delicate hose over his feet and how he intuitively pointed his toes to prevent his toenails snagging in the fine mesh. 

Ah, yes she thought, hugging herself. His expression of alarm looked so cute as he stroked the delicate hose up his thighs, and the way he attached the dangling straps of the garter-belt hinted at a predilection that even he wasn't aware of yet. His skimpy pants had the cutest, firmest little bulge she'd seen in ages. He was going to make a lovely niece. 

When a dress was lowered over his head William's head he felt his heart begin to pound anew. His emotions stepped up and he began breathing raggedly as his thoughts whirled. He was being forced to dress up as a girl by females he hardly knew, and the embarrassment he felt was difficult to accept. The dress wasn't really a dress at all, it was really a short underslip with a bodice that sheathed snug against his chest. As Jennifer adjusted the narrow straps that looped over his shoulders he noticed how perfectly the garment fitted in every diminution, as if his measurements were already common knowledge.

The shoes were awkward, not because of there size but because of their style. They were chorus-line shoes with rather high heels and button-over straps; a conundrum to him until Jennifer pushed his hands away and fastened the buckles for him. When he stood up he wobbled precariously and held in a little gasp as the tiny skirt floated down to tickle his thighs. 

"Oh yes!" approved Jennifer, "Quite the sweetest looking little sissy I've viewed in ages."

She grasped him by the waist and cooed softly. "Why, I do believe you've even got hips, darling. I bet you could swing them around as well as any real girl. Will you try for me? Will you try to be a lovely girl for me?" 

"Oh, um - I, er - I-I suppose ... If-if I really have to." 

Jennifer gazed down on him with a light of preponderance in her eyes. Indeed she was the epitome of the harsh martinet. "Oh you really must if you don't want me to think you're a silly girl - a silly, bad girl who needs to go over my lap again. Ensuring you please me is the wisest thing for you today, and the most comfortable course for your pretty bottom too."

Oh dear, despaired William. It was going to be unbearably humiliating when Archie saw him dressed up as a girl.

Miriam Hancock suddenly felt herself fidgeting. Young men were so cute and appealing when they were made to wear girl's clothes. She hated merely being a spectator while Jennifer was so engrossed in dressing William but she drew back from spoiling the perfect display of domination her daughter promoted. Many of her dreams centred on Jennifer. As a young girl she had gravitated naturally to her own way of thinking and had been oddly adept at sharpening her own vague ideas. It was electrifying to watch her these days. She was a doyen of hegemony with a keen understanding of the male brain.

Jennifer loved to lord it over feeble-minded types and make plain her superiority, and naive specimens such as William who were sensitive about anything that threatened their self-image of gender and developing manliness became her natural victims; easy prey to her crass predatory nature. Her greatest delight was to rip their self-esteem to shreds and emasculate them, and she did that by forcing them to dress as girls, making them wear stockings and suspenders and short little frocks. Once they succumbed to her dominance they were doomed. Shame dulled their wits, making them docile and susceptible to even more debasing demands. Eventually they could be reduced to effeminate, mincing girly-things with no thoughts of their own at all.

The process fascinated Miriam, but it could be lengthy, and it was her daughters game and one into which she loathed to encroach. The temptation to do so receded when she heard the tinkle of a bell at the front of the house. 

Drat, she thought. It could only be the woman from the village who'd been pestering to visit ever since she'd moved in. Only uncouth rural people would think to call without prior arrangement on a Sunday. 

She rose to her feet, a co-ordinated movement that blended grace and control as she entwined the fingers of her delicate hands. "I've a guest calling, Jennifer. Try to be discreet with your games until she's gone." 

"Of course. Would you ask Gloria to send me the other one if you see her?" 

*** 

As she made her way through the house towards the front parlour Miriam Hancock dwelt on the problems of remaining the owner of Fairyfield Grange. It was her dream to live there, it was her ambition to enter the ranks of the landed gentry, but the financial requirements required to accomplish such a thing were awesome.

She tried to see the house through the eyes of a prospective buyer, and when she thought about it her uncle's bequest seemed like a millstone rather than a benefit. It wasn't in a good aspect for most people these days, most would balk at the idea of being stuck out on the moors, and few would be able to afford the expense of maintaining a home of such a size either. There were some urgent repairs needed, it needed redecorating throughout, and the garden would be a struggle to put right, so perhaps the best she could hope for was a reasonable price for the land.

Fairyfield Grange had become a sad husk of its original grandeur, and it saddened her when she thought of it. In the past there would have been legions of scurrying staff, crowds of boisterous visitors, gay parties, scandals and tragedies. The walls had so many stories to tell, all of them now covered up in the past and forgotten. Now it was suffering from long term neglect and was a wreck inside, nothing having been done for twenty years except for some patching of wallpaper. Some of the smaller rooms were stuffy and smelled of mildew, so thank goodness for Gloria, for in spite of the mustiness everything was clean and tidy. Gloria was a gem when it came to getting things dusted and arranged neat.

Dorothea Boroclough extended a small, skinny hand to Miriam while critically studying the shabbiness of the parlour in which they stood. The worn Persian carpet, threadbare sofa and rickety lampshades did nothing to impress her, and she sniffed derisively before settling herself delicately into the seat of an armchair without waiting for the customary invitation. 

She was tall and skinny, middle-aged with hair arranged in curls about her ears, and her grey eyes peered at everything through spectacles which were attached to a silver chain around her neck. Her clothes were severely styled and she wore no jewellery except a wedding band. The woman's name was often mentioned in Peasmarsh when Miriam went there. Her late husband had been something in a guilt-edged business, and she herself owned half the property in the village, so she was likely to be a force to be reckoned with. 

"I must apologise for neglecting you, Mrs Hancock," the visitor began. Dorethea always addressed other women formerly, being of the opinion that her family were several cuts above any other in the area. She tried to make that evident from the start by never resorting to first names. First names made for unwanted familiarity. 

"You've been resident here for several weeks now and this is the really the first opportunity I've had to welcome you to the parish. I fully intended to call on you last weekend, but Lady Chance-Barton insisted I attended her garden party. What with that and the Easter festival and gymkhana, and then the Opton point-to-point I've been at my wits end lately to fit everything in."

Miriam smiled wryly. "You clearly lead a hectic life, Mrs Boroclough." 

"Oh, but there's always something I'm being asked to organise. For my sins I'm a member of an old established family in the village, and people expect me to lead the way in everything."

People probably weren't given any choice in the matter, thought Miriam cynically. From the moment the woman had entered the house she'd exuded all the self-satisfied inferences and insincere platitudes of a full-time do-gooder. It was an attitude that declared pompously, 'I'm important, I command a lot of influence, and I know best. I'm a merciless critic of Commons immorality and double standards, and as a self-appointed champion of old family values I'm a fierce advocate of marital fidelity. I don't like bodies much, except when they form committees, but I make a point of knowing everything about everyone in the region.'

Yes, she thought, Mrs Boroclough was a Madam Squeaky-Clean (morning showers and clean pyjamas), and without doubt was going to be a pain in the arse. 

"It must be a blessing for you to be tucked away in secluded retirement, Mrs Hancock," the woman remarked dryly.

Miriam lifted her chin rather imperiously. "I'm not an old lady, and I don't consider myself retired yet - and please, would you call me Miss Hancock?" 

Mrs Boroclough looked stunned. "Forgive me, I understood you to have two delightful children, so I thought..."

Having already assessed her as chief nosey-Parker and head of the local tut-tut brigade Miriam explained quickly, and with some relish. "I was married. Jennifer and Archie were both conceived and born in wedlock, and their father still pays generously towards their upkeep. The prefix of Miss is just a personal preference. To confuse things further, Hancock is my maiden name, although my mother was a Fairyfield prior to her own marriage." She managed a beguiling smile. "Can I offer you tea?"

"Do you have Earl Grey?"

"Er, no. But I buy a good brand from the store in the village." 

Mrs Boroclough shook her head. "Earl Grey is the only infusion my digestion will tolerate I'm afraid." Having put that matter to rest she squared up in her chair. "I understand you held an appointment in Social Services before coming here, Miss Hancock. A noble vocation - so very worthy. It must have given great satisfaction to be in a position where you could provide succour to the less fortunate in society. Unfortunately there's no scope to continue such a career here on the moors. You would have to go into Castleford or Richmond to do that."

"I'm not sure what I'll do yet. There's this house to take into account." 

"Yes, of course, you're stuck with Fairyfield Grange. It's such a monster of a run-down place, isn't it? All those rooms. It would cost the earth to have central heating installed, and without it it'll be hard to sell. What on earth do you intend to do?"

Miriam shrugged. "Uncle Albert never took to the idea of central heating, he preferred to keep the windows open and wear pullovers. Anyway, someone may like the idea of living with the original features and making do with portable fires. That's what I'd do. I'd like to hang on here if I can, you see. I'd like to refurbish the whole property and live here myself. That would be my idea of bliss."

Mrs Boroclough's expression became one of mild incredibility laced with amusement. "Goodness! You'd be taking on a mighty challenge Miss Hancock. My grandfather used to tell me of the wonderful activities staged here years ago; parties, pageants and balls quite on a par with those put on at Chance Hall he said - and he described the gardens as breathtaking in their splendour, but over the past twenty years everything as fallen into ruin. You'd need a veritable treasure chest to do the old place up, and I doubt you could ever revive the status it once enjoyed. It's a shame poor old Albert Fairyfield didn't have the head for managing money or for maintaining such a fine place, poor man."

"He was pretty much helpless towards the end. I took to visiting him in his retirement Care Home."

"There was something of a tragedy at that place I believe."

"Albert got into the habit of vandalising the garden ornaments there, and eventually a stucco flamingo fell on his head."

"Awful."

"Yes, death by concrete flamingo can't have been a nice way to go."

The woman's eyes ranged over the furnishings in the room with an air of disdain. "Your husband - ex-husband, may be generous for the sake of his children, but I doubt he can provide for you to live in decent style here. It's fortunate the Grange still as some - er - reasonably serviceable chairs worth using."

Having concluded her inventory her eyes snapped forward and offered an intense stare. "Look, you're ten miles out from Peasmarsh and rather isolated here, so I'm sure you'd reap some benefit from attending the Women's Guild. It meets in the village hall on Mondays, and for my sins I'm the chairperson, so I can introduce you to Parson Roper - it's always worthwhile having the church on your side when you're new to a district - and I'm sure I can arrange for some of the ladies to help you out over what's bound to be an awkward time." 

Miriam suddenly had a nauseating vision of being given piles of second hand blankets and tins of powdered milk ala Oxfam. Her jaw muscles tightened and she felt an impulsive reply form up in her head. She didn't want to be cross-examined by Mrs Boroclough or one of her committees. She didn't want to be patronised like a wayward orphan. She didn't belong to the wretched woman and had no intention of being influenced by her. Her life was her own, and as far as she was concerned Mrs Boroclough could simply fuck off. 




A Sissy Saga Ch. 01



She thought all that, but didn't say it. She felt obliged to smile sweetly, because an outright refusal would certainly be taken as a snub, and she'd enough problems to contend with without being ostracised by the most influential woman in the area.

She looked at her visitor narrowly. The apparent kindness was deceptive she thought. It screened a swathe of small-minded rustic bigotry and was calculated to make her feel indebted. Proper and preachy and determined to get under her skin like an itch she couldn't reach, she sensed Mrs Boroclough wished to command her spirit and make her docile and sycophantic, just like every other woman who ventured into her company. That didn't suit Miriam Hancock at all.

*** 

William was so bewildered by events that the term 'other one' didn't register in his mind until a few minutes later when the conservatory door opened with a wheezing squeak and a strange girl appeared in its open portal, the fresh glow of her face shining through a delicate mask of immaculately applied make-up. She was young, about his own age, with no visible bosom, with hair swept back and tied with a ribbon. The black satin underslip she wore was identical to his own, short, close fitting at the top and supported by slender straps little wider than spaghetti draped over sloping narrow shoulders. About her neck was fastened a black velvet choker, while from her ears hung tiny pendants of dark quartz.

William's heart skipped a beat and his penis lifted hard against his belly. She was an angel from heaven. Who was she? Then as the girl entered the room a terrible truth suddenly dawned on him.

"Archie!" he gasped. The girl was really his cousin.

"He's called Abigail when he's wearing girls stuff and being a sissy," Jennifer told him in a matter-of-fact way, "An abigail is an old fashioned word for a housemaid - a girl who always does as she's told. Do you think he's pretty?"

William blinked hard, trying to fan away his initial disbelief. "G-gosh, yes. Very pretty."

"Abigail's been trained to use cosmetics, and now I want him to beautify you." The girl gave her feminised brother a measured stare, which Archie returned with a subservient bat of eyelashes. "I'll allow an hour for you to use your girly magic on this creature. I want him looking as sweet as yourself when you're done, and if he's not, you'll take a turn over my knee."

Oh lor! thought William, where on earth was all this going to lead?



A Sissy Saga Ch. 02



When Jennifer went out onto the terrace William was nervous but relieved to be with someone his own age and gender, even if that person had been sissified just like himself. The two eighteen-year-olds regarded each other and their feminine attire silently for a moment before Archie at last broke the tongue-tied awkwardness. 

"Better make a start," he said, "If we loop a cord around your middle it'll give you something of a waist and make your skirt flare out more."

William noticed that his cousin's face was lovely and made-up to feminine perfection, and when he spoke his voice was in keeping with his sweet features. He seemed surprisingly calm about being made to wear a frock and lipstick, but full of doubt and unused to standing in shoes that raised his heels he himself sank down onto the Chesterfield. Frowning and biting his lip, his eyes followed his companion, gazing in wonder at legs sheathed in sheerest black nylon. He couldn't deny Archie looked good in a skirt and stockings, and the raised heels of girl's shoes provided a sort of tension that gave the back of his legs a marvellous shape.

"Well, what do you think?" Archie asked when he returned to tie a velvet strap about his waist and then began brushing his blond locks with an onyx hairbrush. "Do you like the way your outfit feels?"

"No I don't. I hate it," William fumed. "I'm a man and I don't want to wear dresses and girls underwear. Jennifer shouldn't be allowed to make me do it."

Archie unzipped a small red bag full of cosmetics. "Did you tell her that?" 

"Yes, well sort-of, but she's awfully cruel. She nanny-spanked me over her knee in the garden, then nearly pulled my balls off a few minutes ago. Well I mean that's not right is it? She's only a girl."

"You're cute. You're just the type she likes to smack, and exactly the kind she likes to put in a skirt." 

"It's degrading to make boys dress like this. Everyone will think we're weird, and it's all your fault for kissing me yesterday." 

"You liked me kissing you."

"Yes - well, but just look what's happened because of it. You've given Jennifer a chance to be a bully."

"She's always a bully, and she's awfully fierce, isn't she? She says she'll not marry until she finds a rich boy who can beat her in a fight, but she does exercises every day and she's stronger than most boys, so I think the rest of us will have to suffer for quite a while."

"Your mother - Aunt Miriam - she should stop her from being so beastly." 

Archie sighed as he contemplated turning his cousin into an erotic young maiden like himself. Like himself William was beautiful, but in a different way. A degree smaller and softer and rather more camp.

"Mother admires what she does, and sometimes she puts me in a schoolgirl uniform herself when she takes me shopping." He reached out and stroked William's cheek. "Trust me. No one will think you're weird. They'll think you're a cute girl, that's all."

William wasn't reassured. The whole family were crazy. What they were doing was absolutely, totally and utterly wrong. The females were deviants, while Archie accepted things so easily it was unnatural. 

Taking William's chin between his finger and thumb Archie said, "Sit up straight, I have to work on you."

Unaccountably William obeyed, stiffening his back and tilting up his head, aware of an odd sensation as his cousins delicious perfume assailed his senses and their stocking clad knees ribbed together with a whisper of nylon. The insignificant rasping signalled his first nylon-on-nylon experience, and it made something throb.

"You've a lovely complexion so you won't need much make-up," Archie gushed, "Nice features and a good mouth too, and you've eyelashes any real girl would die for. Your lips don't really need lipstick, but Jennifer will expect to see some so we'd better do it right. Shame you don't have pierced ears though."

"I've never been allowed to have my ears pierced."

"Jennifer will tell you all girls' have their ears pierced, but never mind for the moment, when we get around to earrings I think I'll be able to find a pair of clip-ons for you. We'll do your nails first, 'cos they'll need time to dry."

"Nails!"

"Your fingernails you chump, they'll need to be lacquered. What colour do you think? Red is too harsh for you - I think primrose pink like my own. It's a colour people associate with young girls."

William's face darkened like a thundercloud and he gave his industrious cousin a petulant look as he twisted his hands in his lap. "I already look girly in these clothes. Do I really have to have make-up too?" 

"Of course. Come on, you'll look really elegant, and you know you'll have to give in eventually. Jennifer will have you dressed like this for as long as you stay here."

"All the time? Every day?" The thought sent shivers down William's spine and a look of horror developed on his face. What kind of family had he blundered among?

"Certainly all the time. It amuses her to dress you as a sissy and watch you behave like a girl - for a few hours or a few months - for as long as it pleases her. You won't find any of your own clothes upstairs now. The cupboards in your room will have frocks in them. Look, your jolly lucky really, I have to put up with it every time I'm home on holiday." 

William's face reddened and he squeezed his knees together. It seemed he didn't have any choice but to comply with what had been arranged and he needed time to think of a plan to escape the ghastly trap he'd fallen into. And, Oh dear. Why were things becoming stiff?

For the next twenty minutes Archie worked ceaselessly, all the time chattering in an effort to ease his cousin's concerns. He stroked a little lipstick onto his mouth and applied eyeliner to give him what he termed 'a surprised little girl look' then, when the cosmetics had been put away he slipped slender silver bracelets on his wrists and an elegant black velvet choker around his throat, tying it at the back with a bow. 

"Perfect!" he remarked with approval, "You look really cute." To emphasis the compliment he leaned forward and kissed William lightly on the cheek. 

William was overcome by the erotic nature of what was happening. His body tingled and his poor cock was in horrible distress and he feared embarrassing himself by cumming in his pretty pants. Then. Oh no. Archie was reaching under his skirt and touching - feeling!

Archie lifted William's skirt and pondered on the stiff, pretty shape inside a pair of filmy panties, a condition derived from rampant youthful hormones and pure lust. Not bad, he thought as he measured it with his slender fingers. "Better do something about that before you show yourself to Jennifer. She's a stickler for the way a skirt hangs, so it's best not to risk any unsightly lumps and bumps."

William gasped with erotic shock as his cousin reached under the waistband and eased the garment down his erect treasure, whimpering as soft fingers gently squeezed his testicles.

No, not bad at all, thought Archie as he caressed the eighteen-year-olds jewels. He slid his hand down carefully curling it around his scrotum until he held his testes in the centre of his palm. William had two well defined balls within a cute, pink bag and he had a cock that was quite stiff and smooth and deep pink at its tip, a tip already slick with preliminary drools. His right hand slipped around the slim hard shaft and his fingers squeezed gently, teased down the foreskin and pressing the smooth glands through his fist, rubbing the leaking goo over the pee hole with his thumb. Then he eased the pressure and started to stroke.

William trembled and gasped. "Ooh, Archie!" Immediately his pelvis began to rise up, straining and jerking and thrusting with an innate, urgent need. It was all so shameless but so very much needed, and he'd been yearning for such a thing to happen ever since he and his cousin had first met. The more Archie jerked his foreskin the more disinclined he was to object, and Archie was no slouch at understanding his pleasure.

"You like this sort of thing, don't you?"

"Uh, yeh, Archie. I, uh, well yeah, it feels lovely. You do it so nicely." 

"All the girls say that."

William's ears were ringing with the rush of blood to his head and he heard his voice faintly as if it were an echo. He flushed. Did he mean real girls, or was he classing him as a 'girl'?

It was the wrong time for questions and he wasn't about to demand Archie stopped what he was doing. He was soon panting and rolling his head from side to side and rocking his hips.

He gasped, slumping down and opening his legs. "Do it Archie. Stroke my cock. Your hand feels so wonderful. Oh yes. Faster, do it faster." 

His cousin obliged, his words being a spur to the hand working up and down on his rigid shaft. He changed to a full-handed grip and increased the tempo of his strokes to a rapid pounding.

"Ooh, oooh, ooooh!" William's chest heaved and he began to thrust his hips upwards. "Don't stop. Make me do it. Rub me faster and make me cum." 

His cousin's eyes sparkled. "Faster still? Yes of course, if you're ready for it. And a gentle stroke under your balls too. That'll help." 

William bucked sharply. "Oh, yes. Oh Archie I'm cumming now. Oh yes, oooh, mmmmmh!" A single splash of semen-cream leapt from his tense, throbbing stem to be followed by a lazier, warm ooze. It felt wonderful. Stomach clenching he panted and groaned, enjoying wave after sweet wave of rippling pleasure.

Archie had expected a quick finish and he stroked the beautiful lad lovingly, kissing his slender neck as warm cum slicked on his hand. "You shoot stuff beautifully. It's so sexy."

It was a proper reward for William, a youth who'd known so little joy so far that day. His skin glowed when it was over, and he felt not at all guilty. Archie was just the kind of young man he always enjoyed falling in love with. 

Outside on the terrace the trip-trapping of high heels on stone alerted Jennifer to the approach of her two effeminated victims. Archie remained a step behind at a respectful distance, while heart pounding William stood in front of her, knees pressed together, head drooped and hands folded in front. The quite was absolute, and for William the tension almost tangible. The girl observed him with a stern look of appraisal, relishing his embarrassment and circling around behind the pint-size package of beauty that didn't even reach her shoulders.

"All dressed up in skirt and nylons," she simpered in his ear, "Now you really are a naughty boy, aren't you?" The remark was smug and mocking, making a shiver run down William's spine.

"Oh, please don't tease me, Jennifer."

She only grinned and husked into another ear. "Oh, but you are. You're a naughty sissy-boy showing himself off as a luscious little girly nymph. Does it feel sexy? It looks sexy. Do you feel ashamed? Most boys of any age would die of shame." 

He pouted helplessly as she continued her tormenting. "Now you're a wriggly girl we can't call you William anymore, we'll need to think of a girly name. What would you like to be called?"

William blushed for the umpteenth time that morning. With his heart beating hard in his chest so furiously he knew it must be visible his knees nearly gave way under him.

"Come along. Think of a name. I bet you've thought about it before. I bet you've thought about what you'd like to be called if you were a girl. If you can't decide I'll have to give you a name you may not like." 

"I - I sort of like the name, Wendy." he muttered in hushed reluctance. 

"Wendy." Jennifer wobbled her head as she considered it. "Yes, that's quite good enough. It could hardly be mistaken for a man's name. She gripped him firmly by the shoulders and turned him. "Now, remember how you promised to be a lovely girl for me, Wendy. Show me how you can perform in girl's clothes. Walk to the end of the terrace and back again. Don't rush. Keep your head up and lean back slightly from the waist." Launching him like a boat on the river, she added, "Take short strides and place one foot in front of the other as you go."

In the crannies between the slate flags were planted clumps of tyme and aubrietia, and inevitably there were also weeds, but for the most part the terrace patio was level and provided an adequate catwalk. He began to walk, treading measured steps, feeling his hips swaying beneath the hem of his tiny dress and being eerily conscious of the soft elastic tug of suspender straps holding his stockings in place. He'd never been so aware before of putting each foot in a certain place, but it seemed vital that he performed precisely in the way Jennifer had instructed. There was something unworldly about the sensations he felt. There he was, a young man, parading in a short underslip and a pair of daringly skimpy thong pants and submitting to being the play thing of a heartless teenage girl.

At the farthest extent of the patio he paused, backed elegantly to the left, swung his hips around in a faultless Paris-turn, and sashayed back right on cue.

Standing at his sister's side Archie breathed heavily, impressed by such impromptu talent. "Wow. He's a natural isn't he? And such gorgeous legs too."

Jennifer nodded. "Yes, he's rather regal. Keep your arms straight as you walk back," she told William, "Fan out your hands and try a little wiggle - oh yes, lovely, and such a cute, sulky mouth too. You're going to make quite a little princess."

Before William was able to complete his return she signalled for him to stop.

"Go to the kitchen and get me some fruit juice. Gloria knows you're a sissy that I'm making you into a girl, so she won't be surprised to see you dressed like that."

As he obediently went off he noticed Jennifer cruelly twisting her brother's ear.

"There were a couple of things you could have done better Abigail, and of which you need reminding." she said as she hauled him towards one of the basket chairs. There was no doubt in William's mind that his cousin was in for some unduly rough treatment, but he could only feel glad to be away from the bullying girl himself for a while.

His mind became filled with resentment. His situation was ridiculous, but how could he change it? No one was prepared to criticise Jennifer, and he would have preferred staying with his grandmother to suffering anymore of the humiliation she provided. But Aunt Miriam held his allowance and he'd no other money, and her house was in the middle of a wilderness hundreds of miles away from Brighton.

He tottered carefully down the dusky corridors still unsure of himself in his towering high heels, and for the same reason he twice as carefully descended a short flight of steps carpeted in red that led to the kitchen. The house was a confusion. No two rooms appeared to be on the same level. In a small lobby he found himself confronted by a full length wall mirror. It was of another time, the heavy, gilded rococo frame a riot of twisted scrollwork with, at its corners, plump little cherubs bearing oddly knowing expressions.

Alone and unobserved for the first time that morning unbidden, illicit excitement coursed through his veins. Guiltily he cast a look around and shivered, hardly daring to look at his reflection, but eventually the temptation became too strong and he stepped back to view himself. The lobby was unlit and in shadow, so in the mirror his figure stood out against a dark background in stunning detail, and he was shaken to the roots by what he saw. It was absurd, impossible. He was being admired by an adorable young girl with peaches and cream complexion and a luscious little mouth. What nice unblemished skin she had, what lovely shoulders and what a slender waist.

Without being too conceited he knew he was well made and he couldn't help but admire his reflection. Yes, he did look a bit like a girl, he couldn't deny that. His big brown eyes and slender eyebrows did nothing to dismiss the fact, and his stocking clad legs were heart-stoppers. The skimpy black satin underslip he wore as a dress seemed to trickle down over his cool skin accentuating every youthful angle, every dip and sylph-like curve, and emphasising a lissom shape and lovely thighs, while the bodice beneath the swooping neckline hugged him deliciously. As he readjusted his clothes he realised he'd never felt so glittering and attractive. The sensation of nylon and satin caressing his skin made him feel giddy. Lipstick pasted on his mouth, earrings that swung against his neck and the stockings and shoes, all combined with a delicious swirl of the little skirt to summon up feelings of the erotic. His eyelids drooped and his cheeks became suffused with modest blushes as he absorbed a sudden wave of femininity. 

He smiled coyly. "Wow. This is weird. Being dressed like this could make anyone feel a bit girly."

The image he saw was alluring and undeniably erotic, and he couldn't resist the temptation to flirt with himself. A coquettish smile developed on his mouth as his mood changed, and without understanding exactly why he struck up a pose that was intuitively sexual and feminine, one knee slightly bending and a hand lightly poised on a thrusting hip. Acting provocatively for his own amusement he swivelled around gracefully to make his skirt swirl, then teased himself with a shameless pout of a glossy pink mouth. He was suddenly aware of the stir of hormones inside his pants as his penis began to throb and push at the material. Hesitantly - guiltily, he raised the front of the dress and despite the attention he'd received from Archie just a short time ago he slipped a hand down inside his underwear. His penis felt thick and his testicles formed perfect oval mounds of their own.

"Is someone there?" A voice from the kitchen brought him shuddering back to reality, and shivering, he straightened his clothes, turned from the mirror and walked away.

The kitchen was a large place smelling of chopped mint and freshly sliced lemons, full of modern conveniences, but dominated by a huge Aga set in one wall. Laid out on a table were the makings of Sunday lunch: smoked trout, salad, blue cheese and a bowl of cherries.

Gloria was at the sink peeling potatoes. A large person encased in a blue overall coat with short sleeves that accentuated her gargantuan bosom, wide shoulders and plump short forearms shaped like muttons. Tossing a potato into a saucepan the woman stopped mid-bustle and latched her attention onto him, her pale eyes hardly blinking as she surveyed the lovely young sissy, resplendent in his tiny miniskirt and shapely stocking clad legs. 

"Well, ain't you the glamorous thing. You's look sweet. Girls clothes suit you." she observed with a warm smile.

"Jennifer made me dress-up like this. I didn't do it because I wanted to," William bemoaned fitfully.

His distress had no impact. The broad bodied housekeeper displayed no hint of sympathy for his predicament; she just nodded while retaining her smile. "I guessed that a'ready. Jennifer as a talent for makin' lads do things they don't want to do. It's strange how just a few fancy bits an' a little skirt can change 'em. Jennifer allus makes boys wear such skimpy dresses, but I suppose she knows what she wants. It does make you look cute, an' you've got lovely legs. What's your name now you're a girly?"

The woman was outrageous and William felt himself rile, but had to accept he was helpless against her callousness.

"Jennifer said I'm to be called Wendy," he replied sulkily. 

"Umph. Miss Hancock won't reckon that classical, but I suppose it serves the function. "

"Jennifer wants some fruit juice." he said hurriedly, wanting to change the direction of the conversation. 

The woman smirked mysteriously. "Aye, she's fond o' juice is Jennifer." She took a jug of orange juice from the fridge and assembled it along with a glass tumbler on a small silver tray. Plink, plink! To lumps of ice were added before she handed the tray over to him. "Can you get this through the house without spillin' it?" 




A Sissy Saga Ch. 02



He nodded solemnly. "Would you open the door for me please?" 

Without warning the housekeeper's broad hand clamped to the seat of his skirt and patted. "'Spect she's put tiny panties on yer - little scraps o' stuff that's hardly worth havin' probably." Immediately her hands shot beneath the hem and in a moment were hauling his pants down. 

William blinked hard and the ice in the jug rattled.

"Thought so. Not worth the bother o' you wearin' 'em," smirked Gloria as she drew the garment down to his ankles and lifted out his feet. There was no compassion in her, and no hint of an apology or regret for stealing his underwear. Stripping him of his miniscule panties seemed nothing more than a prank to the housekeeper: an amusement she could chuckle over for the rest of the morning, but it was a real concern for William. What would Jennifer say when she discovered he'd lost his pants?

Gloria's hand lingered beneath the little skirt for an indecent moment, seeming reluctant to desert the newly uncovered portions of naked anatomy. Her breathing was noticeably rapid and he sensed she wanted to touch and caress the jewels she had unwrapped, but then with a banal schoolgirl titter she at last rose up. "Best not mention it to anyone, m'luv. You'll only get a smack if you do." Gloria told him as she shooed him on his way with a further pat of his bottom. "If yer winky starts to lift up and gets to be a bit of a 'andful, come back here an' I'll sort it out for yer."

He paused in the lobby outside to get a better grip on the tray and regain some composure, then as he began to pick his way back to the terrace he realised with a rush of panic that the shoes he wore and the gait he'd been told to tread was making his skirt flounce prettily and causing his hips to sway. Horror. He was starting to mince like a girl.

What on earth was he doing in that dreadful house full of fierce ghastly women? How could he have allowed himself to be bullied into dressing-up and promenading about as a girl? How dare they insist he traipsed around like a servile parlour maid? His mind filled with resolve. Just one more harsh word from Jennifer or a threat of humiliation from anyone and he'd wreck every room upstairs until he found his own clothes, then he'd walk to Brighton no matter how far away it was. He'd find some policemen and tell them he'd been kidnapped by gangsters and dumped in Yorkshire. They'd take him to his grandmother's home. He was sure that would work. Policemen did things like that.

It was at that moment he met Dorothea Boroclough as she came out from a toilet. She appeared just as startled as he was, and looked him up and down with piercing eyes.

"Good morning young lady, are you Jennifer?"

The hair on the back of William's head stood up with embarrassment as he shook his head, too terrified to speak.

"A friend then. You must be one of Jennifer's young girl friends." 

He felt his knees tremble and he glanced at his sissy painted fingernails. Surely she could see that he was a man wearing girl's clothes. 

"I'm her - I'm her cousin - I'm just visiting," he managed, acutely aware of his lack of underwear and suddenly panicking.

"Ah, yes. That would explain it. I believe I know all the young girls who live locally. I'm pleased to have met you." Before turning to stride away she gave him another long look, disapproving of the shoes and faultless make-up. I expect they're playing games, she decided. Girls enjoy dressing-up outrageously, which was probably all right as long as it was done in the home. Still, it was disturbing to see such a vulnerable looking young thing looking so strikingly sexual. It would have been much healthier for her to be occupied grooming ponies or cuddling guinea-pigs. 

***

When William approached the conservatory the hairs on his head rose up again when a noise like that of hands beating slow applause greeted him. Between each slap he could hear Archie bleating, and intuitively he knew he and Jennifer had returned indoors and the girl was now spanking her brother while seated on the Chesterfield.

Glancing through the door a knot seemed to settle in his belly. By then Archie was sprawled face down on the floor and his sister was standing over him with a foot on his neck. The back of Archie's skirt was flicked up and his tiny pants hauled down around his thighs, and the boy was protesting meekly and ineffectively while his exposed pink buttocks gyrated in a kind of rumba.

Jennifer's eyes flicked up and she noticed William standing immobile in the doorway. "Don't just stand there like a street-corner tart, Wendy dear. Come in and put the tray on the table."

Her patronising attitude should have roused rebellion in him, but the resolve he'd been so sure of only moments before now failed him utterly. Jennifer was alpha-female and merciless, and aware of how dangerous she could be when angry he hesitated to do anything that could upset her. He didn't even dare asking her what Archie had done to warrant a spanking, but blatantly ignoring the jug of juice she told him anyway.

"This silly sissy-brother of mine thought to disagree with me. Cheek like that from a sissy deserves a good spank, don't you think?" 

He felt like running away, to put as much distance between himself and the madhouse of Fairyfield Grange as he could, but instead his feet became rooted to the spot. "Er, well, I suppose so." he heard himself panic in reply.

Jennifer seized on his thoughtless words and grinned smugly at her brother. "There you are Abigail. Wendy agrees you deserved a spank. What do you say to that?"

"Wendy's a bitch," Archie mumbled, climbing to his feet and sniffing indignantly.

His sister's eyes glowed. "Yes, I think you're right Abigail. I think she is a bitch, and you should be allowed to spank her yourself for being so hardhearted."

William paled. She couldn't mean it. Being spanked over her own knees was cringe-making enough. She wouldn't insist he had his bum smacked by another boy, surely."

He and Archie both swallowed hard. Neither had sought such an outcome from a thoughtless exchange of words, and Archie seemed as unhappy about being cast in the role of tormentor as William was of being the victim. He glanced apprehensively at his sister. "It's okay. I was only joking about him being a bitch, and I forgive what he said."

Jennifer shoved him down on the sofa in open contempt, then grabbed William by an arm.

"You can forgive as much as you like Abigail, but you'll do the spanking anyway, because that's what I've decided."

Suddenly William attempted mutiny with a burst of protest that was quite spontaneous.

"Look here, I've had enough of this vile game, and I won't go along with it any longer." He panted at his daring and became immobile again. A kind of disbelief. Shock. Something. Did he sound angry? He stood before her, not meeting her eyes, trying to catch his breath while staring at the floor. 

"Won't?" Jennifer feigned astonishment. "That's a horrid word, and one that's never used in this house."

She gave him no chance to register anything, she raised his chin on the tips of her fingers then struck his face with a stinging blow. With a whine of distress the air left his lungs and he put a hand to his cheek where the smack had landed.

"You're forgetting who you are." The girl's voice was stern, quite imperious, "Best if you remind yourself. Who are you?"

He gulped, and his mind filled with thoughts coming from all directions, swirling around in his dazed mind and twisting and tangling around each other. There was no escape for him. He was trapped. He knew that now. 

Unable to prevent a surge of tears he uttered submissively. "I - I'm Wendy." 

"And what are you?"

He blushed with shame. "I'm a girl."

"Say it again - louder."

"I'm Wendy, and I'm - I'm a girl."

"Yes, of course. You're a sissy-bimbo and you love to wear pretty things. You're tired of being a useless prick of a boy, and you long for girly thrills, don't you?"

Mortified, wanting to die, William stood in front of her, head bowed, feet together, hands clamped in front, his face burning as he nodded agreement. His compliance brought a fleeting smile from Jennifer who immediately grasped him by an ear and forced him to mince around the room, making him repeat over and over that he was a girl.

"Yes, you're a girl. But even squirmy girl's are sometimes naughty, and naughty girls have to be smacked, don't they?" she put to him. 

"Yes, Jennifer," his small voice bleated.

The girl's eyes flashed. "Stop blubbering and lay across Abigail's lap." She then scowled at her brother. "Lay on six good stingers, and don't try to be clever. If I don't think you're doing it well enough you'll get six more yourself." When she saw William hesitating she grabbed hold of him and shoved him down. His inadequate little skirt was hoisted up and he caught a glimpse of her face. She looked amused and extremely wicked. 

"Well, well. Wendy's been careless and lost her panties, which only proves I was right to award her some smacks. The disgraceful little miss deserves a jolly good hot bottom. Wiggle it Wendy. Signal where you need attention." 

William mewed desperately.

"Now, now sexy," Jennifer giggled, but there was derision in her tone. "Stick it out like a good girl." When he still hesitated her hand went between his legs and grabbed his balls, just as she'd done before. "Stick it out and wriggle it like I said."

There was no arguing with her. Only when he complied did she release him. Then ... WALLOP. Although he'd been expecting it the first spank shocked him with its keen sting. His bottom shivered beneath the impact and a hot smarting sensation immediately spread over his buttocks. Desperately he reared up and tried to kick with his legs, but found himself held firmly in place by Jennifer's hand.

Archie's second blow came swinging down. Smack! "Oow -"

"Now, do keep still, Wendy -" Jennifer's voice demanded.

Whack! Splatt! "Ooh, Jennifer. Oow, no -" WALLOP! "Oooch!" THWACK! "OOW!" 

For the second time that morning poor William's bare bottom squirmed under the threshing of squarely applied flat-handed blows, and by the time he'd had his six his buttocks felt like they were boiling. 

"Now take a seat and behave yourself." said Jennifer brusquely. 

Sobbing quietly, William slid himself awkwardly onto the sofa beside Archie, squirming his bottom down to entice the cool leather of the seat to comfort his smarting thighs and buttocks, and inadvertently making his little skirt ripple from side to side until the hem slid upward over glass smooth nylon. He was only too aware he was behaving like a girl to the point of pressing his knees together in a prissy show of modesty that didn't count for anything to those in his company, but he wanted to retain a tiny bit of dignity. He wanted to protest too, but dare not. He knew exactly what reaction that would arouse. 

Jennifer settled into an armchair opposite. Crossing her legs, she grinned with delight, revelling in being in command of two attractive males who offered such abject obedience. The more success she had with her perverse entertainment the more she felt obliged to have, and already other outrageous ideas were forming in her mind. Of the two boys her brother was the more steady and most predictable, but her cute cousin fascinated her the most. He was mercurial, still an enigma, and she wondered just how far he could be pushed.

"My sissy brother is now my sister, and my mother's nephew is now her niece. Goodness, you look almost like twins sitting there together – like Tweedledum and Tweedledee - except they were male of course, and you're both pretty girls. The only niggling difference is - well, one of you is wearing underwear while the other isn't. Let's put that right Wendy. Abigail will let you take her knickers off."

William gaped. "Me - t-take his-her knickers off? I- I ..." Astounded he glanced uncertainly at Archie, but his cousin avoided looking at him and dipped his eyes in acquiescence to his sister's suggestion. The halting, nervous response was what the girl expected from her latest victim, but it was meekly presented and assured her William could be made to comply. 

"Go on. Do it!" she said icily.

Hesitantly, awkwardly, William clambered down onto the floor and knelt between Archie's knees, then passed his hands up over the other boys nylon clad thighs and under the hem of his short skirt. Unresisting, Archie allowed him to reach for his hips and the elastic thongs that held his pants in place, then raised his bottom slightly as they were hurriedly dragged down over his legs.

"Nicely done," Jennifer grinned, "does Abigail have a hard-on?" 

Confused and crimson with emotion, William wriggled. "Gosh, I don't know." Despite his answer he was very well aware of the unsubtle tenting in the front of Archie's skirt.

"Well, hoist up his frock and let's see."

Biting his lip William slowly pushed his cousin's skirt up to his waist, and Archie's genitals stood revealed. His penis, vertical and pulsing slightly, was a large uncut beauty with a long brown foreskin, a monstrously incongruous thing to find between the legs of anyone wearing a skirt, its rosy, bulbous tip half covered by a hood of skin emanating a kind of mature beauty. This magnificence was complimented by testicles that were low-hung and seemed to hold a pair of hen's eggs.

"He has got a hard-on. I thought so!" exclaimed Jennifer, "Abigail is a big-dicked girl and I know he'd love some attention from a friendly hand, so you have permission to milk him."

William swallowed hard. In her determination to shock him she was being disgusting. Even men who did that kind with each other didn't do it in front of girls, but unaccountably, even as he rationalised the matter his fingers reached out and smoothed over gossamer nylon to caress the tower of flesh. It was thicker than a broom handle and was both hot and hard, except for the outside which felt velvety and loose. He measured it with his soft hands, rubbing his fairy-like fingers around its swollen dimensions until Archie moaned. Then he hefted his cousin's massive balls and estimated what a busy sperm factory those spherical treasures must be. He squeezed the wrinkled bag gently and Archie squeaked. He may have had a big cock and balls, but he was all sissy.

Pulse racing, William wrapped his hand around the thick uprisen column; he'd done such things in the past, but never in such weird circumstances. When the penis twitched in his hand as if impatient for some movement he stroked it up and down a few times before peeling down the foreskin on the giant shaft to expose a vent at its tip that seemed to observe him like a myopic eye. Archie sucked in a noisy breath and lay back in obvious rapture. Suddenly Jennifer rose up, her face glowing with raunchy fire, and she knocked his hand away.

"Christ, you're a fumble-handed sissy, and so awkward and slow. Let me show you how it should be done." Archie's whole body jolted as his sister's hand brushed between his thighs and closed around his penis, circling it with fingers and thumb, then with tantalising ease began to slick the soft skin around its tip up and down.

If William thought Archie's penis was big before, he was in awe of how it extended further, and to him it looked like something that should be hung on a horse. 

Archie was soon gasping aloud, but didn't resist when his sister rolled his foreskin right back to fully expose the firm helmet-shape of his cock-head and an inch of sturdy shaft, and with her movements unabating Jennifer drew the sheath of skin up again and began a furious jigging with the full ring of her hand.

"You see Wendy," Jennifer's voice trickled out, "I do know how to pleasure girly-boys when it suits me, but I chose when I want to do it." Her motions quickened until she was yanking her brothers penis in her fist so vigorously she was almost lifting him from his seat, while at the same time the fingers of her other hand slipped under his testicles. Another gasp, and Archie squirmed in shameful ecstasy, head lolling sideways onto his shoulder, eyes glazed, mouth slack.

The sleazy revue was taking place just in front of William's pink face, and suddenly Jennifer turned the watering cock towards him. "Pretty big one, huh!" she smiled, "Abigail gets quite hot and bothered whenever I give his bits a nice sister-wank like this, but I know he'd still enjoy you kissing it." She scooped a hand behind his neck and pulled him forward. "Come on sissy-boy. Do it. Kiss it right on the top."

She pressed him forward and his lips collided with Archie's spongy, fat tip which was beginning to ooze clear sticky fluid. He recoiled, but Jennifer made him go down again, and this time she moved the head of the penis back and forth over his lips to smear them with precum.

"See, it's just like putting on lipstick. Put out your tongue and give it a lick."

She was still pumping her brother's cock at his face when she must have had a second thought, because she shoved William's mouth right down to make it engulf the tip.

"Better still if you give it a suck."

Young William blooped in dismay as she force-fed the bloated plum-end into his mouth.

Archie groaned. "Hey, careful with the teeth!"

"Yes, stupid girl ..." agreed Jennifer, giving William a slap on the back of the head, "... Keep your teeth away from it and grip it with your lips."

Feeling utterly helpless as Archie's solid length of penis-flesh completely filled his mouth William whimpered, but heartless Jennifer paid that no attention and started moving his face up and down to initiate a rhythm her brother soon picked up, thrusting his hips up to meet the other boys mouth each time it bobbed down. Desperately he tried to steady the tempo and make it more manageable, but Jennifer at once resented the interference. 

"Arms by your side, little lady. I'm controlling this." She crouched behind him and placed her hands on either side of his head so she could use the strength in both arms, then continued to plunge his face up and down. 

William realised that to bring the ordeal to an end he needed to practise some enthusiasm, so he resigned himself to the girl's bullying and began to pump energetically with his mouth, then just as he seemed about to inflict a toe-curling sensation on Archie that would guarantee a result his female cousin pulled his hair and hauled his head back.

"Why Wendy, you daring little hussy. You're being quite shameless about trying to get my brother to ejaculate into your mouth, aren't you?" 

"Oh, crikey, no - honestly - I was - wasn't..."

"That kind of thing may be okay for faggots who have a crush on their chums, but it's a too easy finish for anyone I have in training." She smirked at her brother. "Abigail was rather enjoying it, but she's had enough of that kind of treat for the moment. I think she's ready for something else now." Her eyes drifted to William. "Are you ready Wendy? Are you hot for something else too?"

There was something ominous in her query. Ready for what, thought William as dark suspicions crowded into his mind?

A drizzle of baby-oil descended from a bottle held in Jennifer's hand and she massaged the lubricant into Archie's uprisen shaft with such vigour he was soon moaning again. Then she backed away and urged him to get on his feet and strike a pose with his hands on his hips.

Humiliated Archie may have been, but he was proud of his big cock, and his sister's furious jigging had brought it up to optimum size, and it now looked pink, drooling and tasty. His balls dangled low like plums in a bag and were undoubtedly filled with cum-cream.

"Strong young thighs and hung like a stallion. My brother puts on a good show for a sissy boy, doesn't he?" sniggered Jennifer.




A Sissy Saga Ch. 02



William was still crouched on the floor, eyes wide and staring. He'd seen plenty of naked boys in the past, but Archie's glistening oiled member was among the biggest he'd ever seen. For a moment he panicked, but then his cousin stepped forward and lifted him to his feet, and as the great weapon brushed close to his own body he felt oddly excited. Their bellies pressed together, and since Archie had nothing on but his skimpy girl dress William could feel his very large, stiff thing rubbing against him as they embraced. Archie could feel William's too. William hated it when Jennifer forced him to say he was a girl, but he loved it when strong boys held him tight. It always made him feel so wonderfully helpless. But they must have seemed an odd sight, he thought. Two pretty girls with stiff pricks poking up from beneath their skirts.

"What are you going to do?" William croaked.

Before Archie could reply Jennifer intervened. "Stop asking questions. Climb up on the sofa and get on all fours."

He shuddered. He knew all too well what was intended. It wasn't the first time he'd been directed into such a position whilst a thrusting penis hovered nearby, but he'd never done anything like that with a girl watching - with a girl supervising.

Clambering onto his knees, he slumped on his elbows and pressed a cheek into the arm of the Chesterfield, then slowly pushed out his buttocks. "It'll hurt." he complained meekly while his heart raced.

"Don't be such a baby," scoffed Jennifer, and she made him flinch as she drew his buttocks open and dosed in between with more of the baby oil. Clamping a hand hard down on his neck she then signalled her brother, and Archie pressed forward with his hips and gently rubbed his erection in the lubrication. Almost immediately the tip of his penis began to bully William's sphincter muscle, making him groan in trepidation because he suspected that the bullying wouldn't cease until Archie had lodged his entire salami-sized length in his backside. Breathing in desperate gasps he glanced back under Jennifer's restraining arm as he felt the phallus thrusting strongly.

"Archie - Abigail - he - she's going to f-fuck me."

Jennifer's fingers tightened on his neck, holding him down and treating him to a 'do as I say or I'll pull off your balls' look. "That's right. Please her. Let her do it. Show her - show me how good you are at taking it." 

With a sigh Archie took a grip on his hips, slowly but steadily pulling his submissive, soft body onto his erection. It wouldn't fit, William was certain everyone would see that soon. It was too big. "Unnnhhhh!" The drooling cock was in his anus "Eeeekkk!" It was pushing in, stretching him terribly and opening him wide. He groaned, but the insertion of the masterful mushroom didn't hurt as much as he'd feared. Oh, goodness. It was all in.

It was going to happen after all. Archie was going to fuck him and squirt semen into his bowels.

Once the rampant length was completely embedded he felt heat in his belly as the thing began to slide back and forth, moving gently at first, with easy smooth strokes. All in all it wasn't too bad. The movement against his prostate and the feeling of pleasing someone he admired felt rather nice. And he could just about cope with the size of it as long as his cousin moved slowly. But then Archie began to pick up tempo and pump with his hips hard and fast, pushing everything he had into him and making him whimper. 

William pressed the knuckles of one hand against his mouth. "Aaaooowww! He's doing it - he's fucking me!" His lips curled in anguish and his face flushed, while his hair became plastered to one side of his ruddy cheeks as his head rolled on the arm of the couch. He began huffing and puffing, and he let out a series of short pouty grunts as he wrestled with the invader in his backside, trying to relax and just let it happen, even though Archie was by then slamming into him brutally.

"Good girl." Jennifer approved. She was watching the bizarre coupling with ill concealed pleasure, noting with relish how well her young cousin's puckered sphincter had surrendered completely and was luridly dilating wider in an effort to accommodate her brothers shunting thick member more easily. "There! You love it really, don't you? Girls have to learn to do this, and pantywaist sissyboys have to learn too. It's all part of being female." 

"Ooh, b-but it's gross, Jennifer." William snivelled.

"Now Wendy ..." she mocked and leered "... I can see your little bum-hole, and it's doing fine. Just settle down like a well behaved sissy princess and let Abigail's 'Mr Biggie' do what it as to do."

The boy opened his mouth as if to respond, but the only sound he could utter was a moan as Archie made a terrific lunge and sank deep. His cousin was enjoying himself and in a strange way that pleased him too. Tossing his head from side to side he just hoped he wouldn't split. "Jennifer, p-please." 

The girl leaned down close to his ear. "Please what?" she asked in a singsong voice, "Please tell Abigail to do it faster? Please ask him to squirt all his hot sissy-juice into your bum? I don't think he'll forget to do that for a sexy little queen like you.

It was awful but it was true. The harder and deeper Archie plunged his cock the more William's muscles clutched at it and the more he liked it. He didn't want it to stop. His willpower was all used up, and limp and weak he allowed his cousin to do just as he wished, offering himself as an object for lustful pleasure. He was suddenly feeling utterly girlish and deserving to be on the end of a furiously rutting hard-on, and once freed of the weight of denial his hands fluttered with a crazy frenzied motion, while his hips shimmied in rapid spasms in response to the urgency demanded of the big slippery cock moving inside him.

"Oh, my, ooow!" William's lips formed a quivering 'O' as he panted hard, his eyes squeezing tight shut as a familiar burning assailed his insides. 

Archie suddenly gripped him ferociously and his hips arched downwards as he thrust energetically forward, his long fingers clutched about William's waist. An expression of intense pleasure blossomed on his face. His teeth clenched and his face became a mask of rapture. "Gggnnn." he grunted as he shot hot, thick, creamy wads of sperm deep into his cousin's ravaged bottom. 

"Aaa!" William's stomach clutched and his toes exploded. Yammering, twisting about, his hips shuddered furiously. "Oow - yes - ooowww!" 

Afterwards Archie went away to the bathroom to clean himself, leaving William to face Jennifer alone. The visitor's body ached and his anus tingled, but he felt warm inside and wondered if it was the sperm from his cousins hulking balls washing around in his rectum. The orgasm inside him had been titanic in its intensity, but know came feelings of shame for allowing it to happen. The shame overwhelmed the pleasure when he thought of it, but he knew the pleasure would return. It had been another ghastly humiliation for him. It was weird enough to be dressed as a girl and be shagged like a girl by another boy dressed as a girl, but Jennifer was his biggest embarrassment. She had first instigated it and then watched it all happen. Girls weren't supposed to do things like that.

It made him uncomfortable to realise how Jennifer was so adept at reading his mind. She seemed to have the ability to see into his head and read his thoughts. Confident of his attraction to her brother she'd ensured his bum was there for Archie's taking. He was a sure pushover where Archie was concerned of course, but nevertheless, he thought it only right to register a mild protest.

"You shouldn't have made him do that to me, Jennifer. It was unfair. You made Archie rape me."

She laughed, just once. It was not a nice laugh, being neither comforting or friendly. She had no tolerance for the weak or ineffectual, especially when they were males. "Rape you - Bosh! Do you mean you didn't enjoy it? I think you're not being honest. I've noticed the sly little glances you and my brother have shared since the moment you both met, and it was inevitable you'd have each others pants off eventually. It's unlikely his cock was the first one you've experienced, and today probably isn't the first time you've flaunted yourself like a girl either."

William looked sheepish. "Jennifer, that's not true. W - w - when can I have my own clothes back, please?"

Leaning back she considered things for a moment. "Why Wendy dear, you must resign yourself to the way things are. You're wearing your own clothes." 

Archie had removed his dress whilst he'd been away, and on his return he wore only shoes and stockings, the suspender-belt being the only item to break the shapely smooth outlines of his young body. His testicles hung freely and his penis dangled, flaccid, still a monster worthy of admiration, but only remarkable now for its admirable length and the bulbous knob which still lay exposed against the drawn back foreskin. Jennifer hardly spared him a look as he hovered at the side of her chair.

"Go to Wendy. She's waiting for you." she told him dryly. 

William at once noticed something wanton about his cousin's expression as he settled beside him on the Chesterfield once more. He felt he should have said something, but he couldn't break the hold of Archie's gorgeous eyes, or that soft smile with more than a hint of wickedness - where had he learnt to smile like that? - it made someone like himself react like a puppet on a string. Lust may have been sated for the moment, but he still carried a hungry look about him that was accentuated by partly hooded, mascara shadowed eyes and a slightly open mouth. Somehow he knew Archie was going to kiss him.

His tiny nipples throbbed beneath his flimsy dress as his cousin's warm, perfumed body pressed against him. Archie slipped an arm about his waist and satin-soft lips immediately touched his cheek then moved down to his mouth, and William conceded without a word. He was willing to let his wonderful cousin do anything he wished - even in front of Jennifer.

He opened his mouth and whimpered submissively, offering his tongue and tonsils for Abigail's pleasure and not caring if Jennifer was watching or not. He wanted to be seduced, to be stroked and touched and fondled and sweetly persuaded out of his clothes. He wanted to be kissed and licked until his head spun.

Soft, warm glossed lips touched with the heat of need. They were in heaven as they revelled in each others girly fragrance, neither of them caring that his partner was actually male.

Drawn like feathers in a breeze their lips met with ardent passion, their eyes closed and their mouths rolled in unison. Hot and passionate. Tongues in swirling motion. Rubbing and groping. Whimpering and moaning. 

Archie knew how to make a sissy enjoy a good kissing. His soft mouth knew precisely where to smooch and his tongue knew exactly where to lick, and William, now Wendy, was so - co-operative, and - so needy. He clamped himself to him, slowly pumping his tongue in and out of a whimpering pouty mouth, and with his lips forced open William's own tongue started a slimy dance with the flickering, elusive intruder. 

The taste of lipstick permeated his senses. He felt Archie's hand coax down the bodice of his dress and begin to palm his breasts, felt the heat of passion in the fingertips as they pulled and caressed his flesh. As a young man the exposure of a nipple was not usually considered indecent, but his masculinity had diminished a great deal in the past few hours. 

"You fucked me with your big cock," he whispered.

"Yes, I loved doing it," his cousin husked in reply.

"Stop whispering," demanded Jennifer's voice, "You know I don't allow panty-boys to have secrets." She was feeling jubilant in her domination and couldn't resist pressing her thighs together, but she gave no other hint of how sodden the gusset of her underwear had become by just watching the randy antics of her prize queens. It was an apex of pleasure to have two teenage men do their queering in front of her.

William was ready for lots more kissing and he pressed his lips against Archie's - Abigail's mouth. Abigail moaned with pleasure of his own then pushed out the tip of his tongue and slithered it over his cousin's teeth. There had been renewed stirring in William's loins ever since Abigail had joined him, and now the excitement had developed into something his little skirt couldn't hide.

Archie played briefly with the erotic band of white flesh above the tops of William's stockings before sliding his hand beneath the hem of his skirt, and William shuddered. "She - Jennifer - she's watching."

"My sister likes to watch. She wants you to squirt. She wants me to make you do it."

It was disgusting but what did that matter now, thought William. The girl had already been witness to much worse. Archie hugged him a little closer, his fingers finding his stiff penis and encircling it, then sliding its silky foreskin to-and-fro over the sensitive gland. Within moments he was displaying the same kind of upthrusting solid prong Jennifer had dealt with so cruelly the previous evening.

"How does that feel?"

The answer came from the blissful expression on his cousin's face as his eyes became glassy and his head lolled. Nothing seemed to matter anymore to William, who was now Wendy. The punishment, the humiliation and the sissifying all became submerged by the sensations of rapture that emanated from the way he was being handled.

Hugging his cousin tightly Abigail took the initiative. He encircled the other boy's gorgeous young cock with his soft girlish hand and rolled the foreskin back to examine the pink, sensitive head with delicate manicured fingers. Then he started to wank him properly, moving the sleeve of skin up and down over the rim of the gland in a measured rhythm.

Wendy was as horny as he could be. His body quivered and his penis throbbed strongly several times as he attempted to lift up from his seat and thrust his stiff flesh harder into his cousin's hand. By then Abigail was already gently squeezing his ball-bag. Then his head went down to take the jerking penis into his mouth, and Wendy began gasping loudly.

Jennifer watched in fascination as her brothers mouth worked up and down the length of firm flesh from the straining plum shaped tip to the rather pretty testicles at its base. Wendy was an ideal recruit. He was young and cute and his cock made a lovely rampant show when visited by some attention. Patiently she awaited his wet finish. 

"Mmmmmmggg, omigosh! I'm com... mmmmmnnph, mmmmnnnph!" moaned Wendy. 

"Hmph, mmp, moooph, moooph!" responded Abigail - an indecipherable reply, but one which betrayed his acceptance of the spurting in his mouth. Jennifer's latest victim bucked up and down on the couch, but Abigail's mouth held on until he'd finished swallowing.

Having observed the torrid action closely, Jennifer's whole body stiffened like a huge knot as she locked her legs together as tightly as she could, but while her face wrinkled in a spasm of her own secret delight she carefully refrained from making any noise. Girly-boys were banned from knowing anything of her own inner pleasure, and only a tiny quiver of her mouth betrayed the presence of the warm flood in her pants. 

At last Abigail sat up and wiped his mouth. "Ooh, wow - that was more than the first time. It was quite something!"

***

"God, that Boroclough woman is a pain in the neck!" exclaimed Miriiam Hancock a short time later when she returned from the parlour. "She must have sat there for over an hour going on about how important she is." 

It was a moment before she realised Jennifer was alone. "Where are your girly's, darling?"

"I've locked them in their rooms and told them to practise their wiggles, and I've told them at lunchtime you'll expect them to report to you dressed as schoolgirls."

"You had no problem with William then?"

Jennifer made a little noise of amusement that came out like a hiccup. "He's an absolute pussycat when it comes to taking orders. Quite the tame little Miss. Do you think his granny puts him in frocks and knickers when he goes to Brighton?"

Miriam smiled and shrugged, then writhed slightly. Shaking off her blouse she adjusted the straps of her brassier and presented her back to her daughter. "Give my shoulders a little massage, dear. Having to listen to that woman droning away for so long as made me quite tense." 

Obligingly, Jennifer's fingers and thumbs pressed into her mothers flesh, intuitively seeking out the tiny knots of tightened muscle. Miriam relaxed visibly. "Do you know Mrs Boroclough bumped into one of the boys when she went to the loo?"

"Golly no. That must have been William. Did she make a fuss about it?"

"The overbearing old trout took him for a real girl and reckoned he was dressed far too much like a woman of ill-repute. I had to endure twenty minutes of her inflated opinions on raising a family. Her lecturing me for goodness sake. Me who was once responsible for the welfare of scores of wayward, erring teenagers." She gasped slightly at the pressure of her daughter's fingers. "When you mentioned schoolgirls a moment ago, you must have been reading my mind, Jennifer dear. I've come up with an idea, a brilliant idea, and I want you to say 'Yes'."

"Am I allowed to say 'No'?" Jennifer laughed, but her mother wasn't listening.

"Schoolgirls are the answer to the dilemma I'm having with this fusty old house. I've been pondering what to do with it for ages, and now it's as clear as daylight. I'll make it a school for young ladies. Being headmistress of such an academy can be considered a genteel occupation, and fees generated from having resident pupils could prove a reasonable income." 

Jennifer paused in the act of gouging her thumbs into her mothers back and observed her with a look of astonishment. "Oh really, Mummy. That's preposterous. You know nothing about teaching and the house is a shambles. It would need a fortune spent on it before you could open any kind of boarding-school."

Miriam grinned. She was a classic example of an ambitious and clever woman. She had been absorbed by a career until a short time ago, and one of the things that made her successful in her work was an ability to clear her mind and focus her fertile brain on one set of problems at a time. Her life was like a ship, divided into watertight compartments, each sealed from the other, so at that moment she was able to put practicalities to one side and concentrate on the vision in her mind. "There'll be a lot to do of course, but it's a lovely house and quite a bit of land, and if all we lack is a little money I've a whole book full of wealthy well-placed names who owe me favours from the past."

"How sly you are. You never mentioned having lofty connections." 

Miriam simpered tranquilly. "I wouldn't wish to be accused of name dropping, darling, but I'm on more than nodding terms with a good number of influential people, and they all know there's nothing ordinary about me. I couldn't possible go begging to them for day-to-day handouts of course, but for an enterprise with potential I've no qualms about asking them to stand some initial expense. Having served in the Probation Service prior to coming here there's not much I don't know about managing young people, and teaching at the kind of school I envisage won't require a lot of academic background. The humdrum and mundane would be intolerable, so what I intend is a kind of charm school for young men."

Her eyes sparkled. "You've always had contempt and a predilection for bullying young men, so you'll enjoy what I have in mind, Jennifer. It will be an academy dedicated to Strict Mistress Control and Sissy Training for submissive, effeminate male maids and pantywaist she-males. The fools will be forced into being girls. We'll eliminate their masculine traits and induct them into girlhood, then train them as servants and companions before selling them off to people who appreciate such things." 




A Sissy Saga Ch. 02



Jennifer's eyes lit up. "Gosh, what a novel idea - a whole school full of pansies in skirts. I love the notion, but isn't it an immense risk? Putting boys into frocks as only ever been a hobby for me." 

Miriam breathed easily. "I don't intend to wear you out Jennifer, we'll do this properly and employ staff - ladies just as mean as yourself. And there's absolutely no risk. It will surprise you just how easy the pupils can be placed after a course of domestic instruction. There's a clandestine enthusiasm among certain people to decorate their homes with effeminate men, so we'll aim for the top end of the market, slice in above those who make do with au pairs and court the well-placed wealthy families who prefer professionally trained staff. I predict we can initiate quite a trend if a constant supply can be maintained."

Looking at her mother Jennifer's head cocked to one side as she became enthralled by the outrageous proposal. "A whole school full of beautiful young men wiggling around in tiny skirts. Ah, yes! I do love the thought. I say, you will only have pretty ones, won't you? Cuties always inspire such wonderful wickedness in me and they bleat so endearingly when I'm cruel to them."

"Naturally physical appeal will be paramount and will predetermine their suitability, my sweet. After all, I intend them to be a commodity with a high price-tag when I'm done with them."

"Wow! Such an inspired idea deserves much more than just a shoulder rub, Mummy dearest."

Without another word the girl slid her mother's bra up out of the way and closed her hands over her bare breasts, curling her thumbs above the nipples to squeeze gently and make them bulge. Miriam's eyes flickered. She wasn't buxom, but despite being in her thirty-fifth year her breasts retained a pert tension in appearance and were sensitive to being rolled and moulded by skilled hands.

By the door loomed the large figure of Gloria the housekeeper, her plump face was a stony mask, yet her eyes smouldered with a curious fire. "Will yous ladies be needin' any 'elp?" she asked.

Miriam sighed with delight. Stretching and luxuriating like a great cat, she began to relax.



A Sissy Saga Ch. 03



Simon Blanquette went down the stairs quietly hoping to get out of the front door before his mother could confront him, but the woman was alert and had been half-expecting a sly escapade, and he didn't make it.

"Where are you going Simon?" she asked him in the hall. 

Technically an adult he quivered like a child in front of her and offered a soft ingratiating smile. "I said I'd go and see Caroline this evening."

"Caroline!" the woman frothed, "You're going to see a GIRL?"

Simon squirmed slightly where he stood. He was blond with high, well-coloured cheekbones and the kind of dainty build that made him look cute. "I know she bullies me, but she is a sort of friend. And I am eighteen now so I should be allowed to see girls if I want too."

The woman's mouth curved down in a sulk, making the most of her pretence of being hurt. "But Simon this is not the right time to go visiting. Tonight is the last evening we will have together before you go to your next school and we may not see each other again for months. Don't you love your mummy enough to spend time with her?"

Her son gazed down at his shoes. She always demanded utter deference to her wishes and there was no escape. Despite being technically an adult his mother still dominated his life and constantly scolded him as if he were a child. Whenever she did that he could help feeling like a child. "I've given my word to Caroline." he responded meekly.

Brusquely the woman took hold of his sleeve and received no argument when she guided him into the sitting room and closed the door. The room was large and open-plan and generated an air of opulence. The air smelled of furniture polish, there were cream walls hung with abstract paintings, and modern rugs scattered on a shiny oak floor. Two red sofas dominated, flanked by black lacquered furniture, and a copy of 'Sussex Life' lay on a side table. "If you go out and leave me I won't be able to give you the lovely present I've bought for you."

Simon experienced a rather ominous sensation in the pit of his stomach. He couldn't help it. Every time she dragged him into the sitting room in that way his confidence ebbed, just as it used to as a child summoned before the headmistress. But it seemed he wasn't to be given all black marks that evening. "A present. You've got a present for me? What is it?" 

With his blue eyes open wide Simon could be rated as alluring, and the woman's own eyes sparkled as she returned his sudden enthusiasm. "It's the sweetest little outfit ever. Such a snug bodice, and with a delicious flaring short skirt."

Simon felt his heart rise in his mouth and the funny turn in his stomach did a flip-flop as his mother opened the lid of the package she'd previously placed on one of the red sofas. 

The young man blinked. "It - it looks like a school uniform. It looks like a girl's outfit."

"That's exactly what it is. I want you to wear it tomorrow, which means you'll have to play dress-up tonight."

Simon felt an odd sensation in his pants, just like he always did when she offered him a present such as this one. He took the dress from its packaging and held it up against himself, spreading out the hem so that the skirt flared. "I suppose I could call Caroline and tell her I've got toothache or something."

His mother nodded. It was important to make it absolutely clear that she was in charge and that he was expected to do just as she wished. Hers was a feudal ownership and her subjects had no right of appeal. "Do it upstairs. Take the clothes with you and put them on. I want to see how they fit."

Simon hesitated and blushed as was only proper at such a demand, but he quickly recovered and nursing a shy smile he draped the new clothing over his arm, turned, and made his way out to the stairs. When he had gone Mrs Blanquette sat down and thought things over, but was really quite sure in her mind that the plans she had made provided the best solution. 

On attaining the age of twenty-one Simon was due to inherit a huge amount of money and complete control of his late father's estate, which at the moment she held in trust for him. Her most morbid fear was that he would one day develop a streak of independence and sideline her importance. The very fact that he had contemplated sneaking out to visit a girl that night was a dangerous sign and it had to be crushed. That was why she had enrolled him in that school. The woman there was adamant that following a year of tuition in her establishment he would be utterly emasculated and one hundred percent subservient to a mother's wishes.

The school was rather exclusive, and the criteria for acceptance was discriminatory. The height of a student had to be in the range 1.68m and 1.72m, and they had to be fair of face and as thin as a rake. Luckily Simon was five foot six and qualified easily in the other respects.

Feminising him shouldn't be a difficult job for someone with just a modicum of expertise, she thought. Simon was already a sissy in many ways; everyone knew it, even that Caroline girl. She was sure he only went to visit the strumpet because she allowed him to try on some of her clothes. Neither racing cars or aeroplanes had ever engaged her son's attention, in fact when walking out he liked nothing better than to linger at shop windows and moon over girls clothes, shoes, handbags, iridescent containers of eau-de-cologne, clear lavender water and luscious little bottles of 'Evening in Paris'. 

When he reappeared Simon was dressed as she wished in a schoolgirl gymslip over a delicate white blouse. His mother's gaze, slightly mocking now, drifted over him with thoughtful appraisal and lingered like a caress. The bottom hem of the flaring little skirt covered the top two inches of his pale, slender thighs and little else, while beneath it she knew he would be wearing girlish panties and his lovely eighteen-year-old cockie would be fully erect inside them. A new frock always guaranteed to do the full trick for him.

"It seems to fit perfectly. Does it feel comfortable?"

She noticed the quickening of his breath and his reluctance to look her in the eye. He was slightly nervous, slightly excited. He stood by the door smiling coquettishly, the fingers of one hand covering his lips, his new outfit feeling surprisingly strange and light against his skin. "Yes -- yes, thank you." In his transformation his voice was light, immature, almost musical. 

Mrs Blanquette beckoned him further into the room and had him stand in the centre of the floor. Simon was not heavily built and would probably always need someone strong to look after him. By good fortune she was rather strong herself. She stood up and moved towards him as she admired his waif-like beauty. He was willowy, doe-eyed and skittish, his golden hair combed into a line that fringed his brow. He may have been a bogus girl when he dressed-up, but he could be a convincing one. 

"Yes, it really does the job, doesn't it? But you do look pretty," she said in a soft lilt. "You're beautiful, you're feminine, and you're sweet. You're going to please a lot of people when I allow you the freedom." 

His arms remained limp at his sides, and of course she had known from the start he wouldn't resist. She moved closer, put her hands on his shoulders and felt the delicate bones beneath the tunic, saw the flinching pulse in his throat. Suddenly she gave a laugh that came from deep within her throat so it sounded like a chuckle, and a perfect flash of a smile drew him in. His fingers fumbled awkwardly with the folds of his skirt, but at least he remembered to close his mouth and return her smile, even though he felt mildly uncomfortable under her bold, almost menacing stare.

Her hands moved up and down his sides to assess the fit of the main garment, appreciating the shape of the body it contained. He didn't struggle even then, and as she raised his head to appreciate the soap-scrubbed freshness of his skin something passed between them - a look, a flinch of acquiescence. Placing a hand on his head she curled her fingers thorough his hair before taking a firm grip, then with her other hand she caressed his cheek, sliding a finger beneath his chin to tilt it up.

"Tomorrow we'll embellish things with a lacy garter belt. You'll wear sheer black nylons, not passion-killer panty-hose. You have beautiful smooth thighs and you do like to wear stockings, don't you?"

"Well I..."

"You do look good in them. Definitely dark stockings though. Black will make a gorgeous contrast with your creamy skin." She suddenly tutted. "Some of the buttons on the tunic will have to be moved over. Do you remember how to sew on buttons?" 

When he silently nodded she began to unfasten things. "Let's get it off." she said reaching forward, pulling the gymslip from his shoulders and helping him to step out of it. "We have a long way to go tomorrow and we must start off early. You won't have time to sew buttons in the morning, you must do it now."

Simon frowned slightly. "I don't know if I want to go to another school, mummy. Not a residential place. I've never been away from home before."

"Don't be childish Simon; you'll make new friends as quick as winking, see if you don't."

He was wearing very little beneath the schoolgirl outfit, the skin of his body was very pale but with a pinkish hue to it. Gorgeous, the woman thought, he smelled like lavender only sweeter, like a sugar bun just out of the oven. Simon was an angel fallen to earth whose little pantied bottom would be a favourite with men for many years to come.

She continued to smile as his nipples peeped at her, pink and displaying hardly any aureole. She loved that. She loved everything about his girlishness. The tightness of his hips and the way his legs moved, and she loved to observe the shifting shapes in his cotton panties. While they stood together she reached down and smoothed her fingers over the contours of the delicate package inside.

"Oh, you are a naughty girl. That stiff stalk of yours will distract you all evening if nothing is done."

Simon blushed when he noticed the familiar shine in her eyes. His girlish willy-wonker was very stiff and pushing out the front of his pants, and he knew what was going to happen when she looked at him in that way. His eyes became bright with anticipation, and in a moment she was sliding the panties down over his legs and allowing everything to rear up.

"Sit with me on the sofa." Mrs Blanquette cajoled softly, while escorting him with an arm about his waist.

Apprehensively he settled next to her, and gauging the situation calmly his mother put her hand on his knee and caressed his leg and upper thigh before reaching in further. The warmth of his limbs were invigorating, his thighs seemed hot, his skin softer and finer than she'd anticipated. Her hand went in low, beneath the delicate, silky dip of his belly. She allowed herself a second to absorb the shape of his arousal which displayed a pleasingly nice size, then almost casually her fingers flexed around the flesh, and she hesitated. No need to hurry. No need to startle by being too brisk.

Simon gazed at her with big blue eyes, and his own hand moved over to nudge her fingers. "This is naughty." he said. Fortified by such seeming acquiescence she tucked her fingers under the firm flesh and closed her thumb around the top of it, marvelling as her touch defined the sturdy core beneath the pliable silk-like foreskin.

Slowly she wrinkled the skin north and south and noticed the length extend slightly and felt the girth expand a little more. His breath quickened to encourage her so she began stroking in earnest, rolling the soft skin up and down with steady rhythmic movements. Simon's head lolled back, his eyelids drooped and he responded with little gasps. "Uuugh, aah, aaah."

Oh yes, she thought, sissies the world over, she loved to hear them bleating their little squeals of ecstasy when she did this for them, when she was pumping them with passion. Ignoring her previous caution she picked up the pace, hauling down the sheaf of skin to expose the helmet glistening with moisture.

"There! Bet that feels nice, doesn't it? As good as anything that girl Caroline does for you, I'll wager."

The young man clenched his teeth and whinnied. "Mmm, aaah."

So quick and so soon, thought the woman. It was a disappointment in a way. She had expected things to go on for a minute or two before a conclusion, but Simon's excitement was plainly fiercer than she had judged. His breathing suddenly became laboured and he began tensing up almost immediately, his eyelids blinked rapidly and his face contorted. His erection was quite man-sized now and standing up like a gate-post. 

Determined to play a full part in proceedings Mrs Blanquette gripped his gland firmly with the full encirclement of her fingers, then pumped up and down frantically. Within moments his thighs started jerking and shuddering, and then... "Ooh, oooow, aaah, OOOOOWWW, mummy, mummy!"

A heavy glop of translucent cream jumped out from the shiny tip, shooting an inch in the air and swirling crazily for a moment before dropping down to drape the woman's fingers. Then out came more making an even stronger exit, spitting twice the amount and leaping three times the distance before collapsing.

As a rivulet of warm semen flowed over the back of her hand Mrs Blanquette slowed down to squeeze the remaining ooze from the squidgy nozzle before finally relaxing her grip and meeting his dazed blue eyes, all smoky with wonder.

***

The following morning Mrs. Blanquette's car headed north beneath an overcast grey sky that gave no hint of the hot, dry summer that would soon descend upon the entire country. The breeze through the open window wasn't cold though, and birds sang a tuneful chorus in the hedgerows.

A year had passed since Miriam Hancock's mind had spawned the idea of a school, and now her latest recruit sat perched in the passenger seat at his mother's side. Simon Blanquette remained silent for much of the journey that morning, his mind preoccupied with his destination. His face was scrubbed to a shiny cleanliness and glowed with youthful vigour, as did his blue eyes set beneath thick lashes. His fair hair had been styled in a neat page cut, the fringe of which flew about lightly from time to time to highlight an aura of cuteness when caught by the wind. 

The effect was a compliment to the navy-blue serge gymslip his mother had recently purchased in London, a style of smock that had once been the hallmark of a good girl's school, but which was now rapidly loosing favour in all but the most conservative of establishments. He was eighteen, but his new outfit, simple though it was, enhanced his arresting good looks, but equally important was the subtle change in his demeanour it introduced. It was a contrast to the puffy-sleeves and flaring skirts of the dresses he had worn so often in the past, and a reminder of the serious business that lay ahead.

"I wish you weren't going to America, mummy. And I wish I didn't have to go to a new school."

"Don't be silly, darling. Mummy needs to travel so she can make pots of money. The people at your new school will take good care of you whilst I'm away."

Simon had fretted about being taken on a journey dressed as a schoolgirl and was terrified that people would realise he was a boy in a frock, his unease being only partly pacified when his mother told him that all the young men at Fairyfield Grange wore skirts. That would need to be seen to be believed.

They paused at a wayside tea shop and he found himself alone, standing by the car awaiting his mothers return. There his concern almost whipped into hysteria when his brief little skirt billowed in the blustering Yorkshire breeze and a passing gang of roughneck youths wolf-whistled and called out; "That's it, tootsie. Show us yer knickers!" 

They were just like so many others that teased him, but if they got him alone he knew they'd want to kiss him and feel his bottom with their horrible big hands. They alarmed him, but in a strange way pleased him too. They demonstrated how convincing he must appear in a dress and gave him some much needed confidence.

"Shall I go to America one day?" he suddenly asked on a long boring stretch of road.

His mother had then changed gear quite unnecessarily. She would have preferred to have used her humble Uno instead of the large unwieldy Bentley, but appearances were important to her that day. "That's unlikely dear. Why?"

"Daddy once said I'd probably like America. He said I'd like to see cowboys."

"Your dear father said lots of things he didn't mean, Simon. The only cowboys in Manhattan wear grey suits and creepy smiles. Let's just concentrate on your education for the moment."

That year the government was into its stride of creating motorways everywhere, but for much of their own journey they needed to make use of the long established Great North Road. Eventually even that was of no use and they were forced onto a narrow country byway that left behind the featureless flat fields and meandered up into forbidding hills. Within a short while the hedgerows disappeared to be replaced by gaunt, black, dry-stone walls.

At intervals they passed through sleepy grey villages full of stone-slated cottages with smoking chimneys lorded over by small old churches with square towers. Some of the shops in such places were curios, the legends inscribed on their front windows boasting of what lay behind. Black Fat, Weasand and Pig Bag; all varieties of tripe; indescribable food delicacies of the north. 

The quaintness of such places was lost on Mrs Blanquette. She was a career woman of mature years earning a multiple figure salary and was more of a Mayfair lady than a country girl. If pressed to appreciate rural life she much preferred the South of France or Tuscany to the bleak outposts of northern England, and having gone through various lovers and husbands her facility to enjoy quaintness had long ago retired. She spent money lavishly, but never squandered her cash or time on the antiquated and unfashionable.

South of Skipton the Pennine Hills are composed of millstone grit, only good for growing coarse grass and oats and the short-haired sheep that can exist on such things. There, immense high fells stand poised at precarious leaning angles to cast great dark shadows over the moors, and in one or two of the broader isolated dales some of the 'new rich' of the industrial revolution had once built their homes. It was in one such valley, dun-coloured with dusky charcoals and earthy browns, that they eventually found the school.

"That's it. That's Fairyfield Grange." Simon's mother murmured as they topped a ridge. She slowed the car down and pointed along the dale, and together they gazed at a big grey house with high chimneys disgorged plumes of smoke.

Simon felt a knot grow in his stomach. "Looks like a loony-bin to me."

His mother was slightly alarmed too. At first sight it did appear to be an odd looking place. Like an idea from a drunken architect's cranky dream it didn't seem to gel as a single structure and could easily have served as a Dickensian institute for the insane. "Don't be silly," she chided, "One can't judge a book by its cover, or the quality of a house by its exterior." She glanced up at the scudding clouds. "It probably looks rather picturesque when the sun shines."

Following an uneven road along the dale they eventually approached a fence of tall iron railings surrounding private grounds. A title board by a set of great iron gates proclaimed: 'Fairyfield Grange, School of Charm for Young Ladies' and below that, 'Headmistress - M Hancock.' The gates lay open and a circular driveway led directly to the front of the main building, a house crouching like a monster amidst neat yet oddly incongruous gardens.




A Sissy Saga Ch. 03



Rooted long ago as a Jacobean manor, the Grange had been imposing long before being enlarged to an unwieldy extent by the Fairyfield family in the 19th Century. They had been owners of the wool-spinning mills at Opton and Peasmarsh as well as being major shareholders in the lead mines of Castleford, and being extremely affluent but quite bereft of taste they had lavished a great deal of money on gaudy edifices and unnecessary gothic spires. 

The structure may have retained some semblance of balance had not additional wings been thoughtlessly added to it in later years, but now, like the industries that spawned it, it's grandeur had gone, leaving behind a bastardisation of Georgian, Victorian and Edwardian ideas, each of them shabby in their own way, joined at the hip by borders so erratic they could have been designed by a drunken goat. More likely they had been decided by a committee, which, collectively, would have had less wisdom then a goat. The result was a chaotic hodgepodge of diverse tastes competing with each other to offer a facade that lacked proportion or symmetry. Too inexperienced to realise the technical reasons that had caused such a thing, Simon Blanquette only knew it looked ugly.

The car drew up before an impressive front entrance where three stone steps led to a large dark panelled door beneath a porch. His mother climbed out and took him by the hand. "It's a grand place." she said, clearly out of step with her son's thoughts.

She rang the bell, which clanked and clattered deep within the house, on and on, before gradually dying away into silence. Eventually came the trip-trapping of feet and the door swung open to reveal a slim, dark-haired teenage girl.

"Good morning, I'm..." Mrs Blanquette began.

"I've been expecting you," the girl said briskly, "I'm Jennifer, the daughter of the headmistress. Mother told me to watch for you and take you directly to her study when you arrived." She glared at Simon, her face smiling without humour. "And this must be our new boarder." She immediately swivelled round. "Leave your bags in the car, I'll have someone collect them."

Mrs Blanquette surreptitiously scrutinised the girl as she followed. She was tall and in her late teens. Her high breasts swelled against a plain buttoned blouse and her skirt was long and loose and gaily patterned. Long dark hair fell in contrived tangles to her shoulders and her gypsy eyes, set wide above high cheekbones, matched its colour. Hollow cheeks led to a firm gently pointed jaw, and her nose while still feminine, was strong, the nostrils slightly flared. 

Inside, the entrance hall had a lofty ceiling and a floor of polished oak, while a great curving staircase led to an upper floor. An immense stained-glass window blazed with jewelled colours above the main door to cast hues of the spectrum into the cavernous hall below it. Simon shivered unexpectedly. Everything looked alarming, even gruesome in such unearthly light. The girl took them across the hall and tapped on a set of tall mahogany doors at the far end, then Simon and his mother were ushered into the room beyond.

Miss Hancock's study had once been the parlour of the house and the acme of genteel refinement, and while the years had blunted its original grandeur some attempt had been made recently to refurbish it. Renovating an old house to serve as a residential school had been expensive and money was tight, but Miriam Hancock refused to stint on her own apartments. There was an air of quality promoted in the room she viewed as her headquarters, for while she was parsimonious in many small ways she disliked anything shoddy or crude to touch herself. The dark polished floor gleamed around an exquisite Ushak carpet that splashed patterns of tomato red into the centre of the room, while the pastel yellow walls gave the place a sunny, airy feeling, as did the mellow patinas of a handsome Edwardian writing desk.

Two long sofas faced each other across a low walnut table in front of a large fireplace. They were covered with floral chintz in pink, yellow and blue entwined among trailing green vines. On the Pembroke table and on consoles around the walls stood bowls holding fresh hyacinths, jonquils and daffodils, and there was a view through a large sash window out onto a circular lawn.

The headmistress indicated for them to be seated on one of the sofas, while she herself sat opposite, leaning slightly forward. Miriam Hancock was in her mid-thirties, but nearly six feet tall and with the slender figure of a woman ten years younger. Despite her hair, which she wore in a very stern bun, her long, regal face was relatively wrinkle free. Her eyes were emerald green and the gaze shining out from them was one of utter conviction and confidence. It was a gaze Simon found himself fearfully avoiding. The woman's cherry red lips seemed to curve in a rather cruel smile at the sight of his shyness, and in awe of the strange room and new people around him he placed himself excessively close to his mother.

"Did you have a good journey?" Miriam asked.

"Rather irksome I'm afraid," Simon heard his mother confess, "I'd no real idea how deep in the wilds you are. The roads are simply atrocious, and you're at least ten miles out from the nearest village."

"We are an oasis in a desert; a haven isle in a stormy sea," smiled the headmistress, "Compared with the weed-infested world outside Fairyfield Grange is a garden, and the pupils here are flowers within it. Being so isolated can be a nuisance if one is used to convenience of course, but then such a situation means we are rarely disturbed."

Mrs Blanquette craned her neck as she looked about. "You have some lovely objects here. Everywhere you have something to admire - the paintings, the flowers, the furniture..."

Miriam smiled and bowed her head. "I'm so pleased you approve, I do enjoy having beautiful things around me." She fixed a stare on the woman's son. "It's Simon, isn't it?"

"Um, y-yes Miss."

"Do you like being a girl, Simon? Do you enjoy wearing girl's clothes?"

The boy cast a quick apprehensive glance at his mother. He hadn't wanted the woman to speak directly to him. She inspired awe and he didn't know the kind of answers she expected to her questions. He racked his brains, eventually clearing his throat and replying in a shaky voice. "I-I like it a bit. Mummy says I'll get used to it here."

"You certainly shall. Today you will join the other students at Fairyfield on the road to a new and more productive life. You will be subjected to a rigorous programme of feminisation designed to make you the daintiest, sissiest and most beautiful she-male imaginable."

"I'm not a child. I'm eighteen and I'm not gay." Simon announced urgently.

"Of course you're gay. A sissy is a feminised male who adores being admired by handsome men. They're weaker and more sensitive than real females and they always love men, never girls, and while you're here you'll be taught to be a first-class sissy. Do you play games?"

"Erm - I like football."

"Contact sports such as football tends to be a little - erm - loutish for my tastes, but we do have a first-class gymnasium and a fine fitness instructor." In an aside to his mother she remarked, "It's so vital for young people to maintain a healthy body, don't you think? And Mr Hardwick ensures everyone attains and stays in tiptop condition." Returning a good natured smile to Simon she added, "I dare say he'll also stretch to a game of team croquet occasionally. That's a far more acceptable game for a sissy."

The young man looked bewildered, and his mother took the opportunity to interject. "Simon understands about dressing as a girl and being admired for his appearance, but that's as far as he's progressed." She appeared slightly embarrassed and quickly changed the subject. "On the matter of Simon's allowance. I've agreed the amount you advised and arranged its payment into the account recommended on the first of each month."

"A wise decision. Young people can be frivolous with money, and if I can control their use of it there's a better chance of it being spent more thoughtfully. Not that a great deal can be purchased at the school. Matron stocks a few toiletries, but most purchasing is done by my housekeeper. She goes into the village quite frequently, but as instructions to limit the amount of sweets and confectionery brought here." She smiled at Simon. "You're a trim young fellow, and we wouldn't want for you to develop into a horrible fatty with spots and bad teeth."

Returning her gaze to his mother she went on, "Sissies will try to exist on chocolate and cornflakes if left to their own devises, but you'll know from my brochure that at Fairyfield we strive to implement a regime of good diet and healthy exercise." She crooked her finger. "Stand up, Simon. Let me have a proper look at you."

Reluctantly the young man inched forward to the edge of the sofa and climbed to his feet, wishing he were not the centre of such inquisitive attention. The headmistress smiled. "You have a natural stance that will please Mr Hardwick, he being responsible for the development of deportment and figure training. Do a little twirl for me."

He felt his cheeks colour and risked a glance at his mother, but she merely answered with a acquiescing twitch of her hand. Hoping he was doing it right he performed a quick whirl that made his short skirt billow around the tops of his legs.

"Ah, gorgeous!" Miss Hancock approved. "Good thighs and a pert bottom are to be treasured, and you're blessed with both."

"Mother insists that I take care with my appearance."

"It's pleasing to know you're so compliant with her wishes. You must try to maintain the same commitment with your tutors here. Again. Twirl once more, Simon."

"I thought the skirt a mite too short." ventured the mother.

"No, no..." The other woman watched the young man spin, and when his clothes settled she shook her head. "It's exactly right for his height. Short skirts are an aid to elegance since one is required to stoop rather than bend when picking objects from a low level." She offered Simon a good natured grin. "Showing the seat of ones knickers is considered indecorous and meets with disapproval. You look good in nylons, but unfortunately you won't be allowed to wear them immediately. Nylons are a privilege I reserve for second term girls and new-starters must make do with socks." When she smiled there was an implicit challenge that went with the gentle mockery of her voice.

The door opened and there was a rattling of cups on a tray accompanied by an announcement. "Yer tea, Miss Hancock." The voice emanated from an immense dumpling of a woman with shoulders as broad as a beam. Her face was particularly plump with small porcine eyes so pale they seemed almost colourless, and set so close together they looked even smaller than they were.

"Darjeeling." explained Miss Hancock to Mrs Blanquette as the large woman deposited a laden tray on the table between them. "We spoke obliquely of tea during one of our telephone conversations, and I recall you approved of Darjeeling."

"You've a remarkable memory."

She chuckled. "I've a passion for detail, and one must keep ones faculties sharp when dealing with youthful personalities." Whilst arranging a pair of china cups and saucers she looked up at the large woman who had delivered the tea.

"Thank you, Gloria. I'll pour myself, but I'd be grateful if you could take our newcomer up to see matron when you leave." She leaned towards Simon's mother. "I think it less stressful for farewells to be said quickly, don't you?"

The authority in her voice seemed as absolute as any governess and Mrs Blanquette capitulated at once. "Yes, I suppose you're right. Best to get the hard part done with." She gave her son a kiss on the brow and patted his hand. "Go with the lady. I'll return to collect you at the end of the school term. You will be good, won't you?"

"I suppose." The boy muttered half-heartedly.

"You must be good, learn your lessons and behave, dahling. The ladies here will smack you for silliness."

Miriam smiled mildly. "Do you have a pet name for Simon when you put him in frocks?"

"Well, I do have little names for him, but nothing permanent. Sometimes he's Heidi, sometimes Katie, and at other times he's Anne of Green Gables. I take the names from the books I allow him to read."

Her son flustered. "Don't say Simone, Mummy. Everyone will call me Semolina if you say that."

"May I suggest we call him something with less risk of a pudding and of more classical flavour," said Miss Hancock, "I was thinking of the name, Cassandra."

Mrs Blanquette rolled her mouth. "That sounds rather grand, tho' somewhat clumsy and old fashioned. I'd prefer something more modern, like Amanda. When I was a girl I once had a goldfish called Amanda."

Gloria heaved a sigh that rippled her great bosom, eyes peeping out above puffy cheeks roving swiftly over the willowy figure of her new charge. "That's settled then. Come along wi' me, me little beauty."

The hulking woman led Simon out into the dusky entrance hall and together they ascended a flight of stairs that were so unexpectedly steep he had to hold tight onto the polished oak banister and newel posts. On the landing above they entered a corridor that was gloomy and wreathed in amorphous shadows, and where the pieces of ornate Edwardian furniture that punctuated its length were like nebulous shadows. The room to which he was taken was small and crowded with old fashioned furniture.

"Let's get some o' yer togs off," said Gloria, tugging at his shoulder.

His eyes fluttered uncertainly. "Do I have to get undressed?"

"O' course. Matron'll want to have proper look at you, mi dear," she told him, "Y'know - a medical inspection - that's the routine here." Her hand tightened perceivably. "Come on now. Yer mum warned you about misbahavin' an' yer don't want to be smacked so soon after arriving, do you?"

The gymslip was lifted off and the blouse beneath removed, then Gloria gave him a piece of type written text. "Have a study o' the school rules while I go an' find matron." she advised as she went out the door.

Standing in a vest and a pair of waist-high, blue flannel knickers, he gazed glumly at the paper she'd handed him.

Monday - Saturday: Breakfast 7 am. Schoolroom 8 am. Lunch 12 noon. Resting in dormitories 1 pm. Exercise and deportment 2 pm. Domestic practise 4 pm. Supper 6 pm. Lights out 9 pm.

(1) Girls will conduct themselves with decorum at all times. There will be no running in the halls or corridors, and no conversations will take place in those departments until suppertime.

(2) The school timetables must be strictly adhered to and punctuality is expected.

(3) Silence will be maintained at meals unless pupils are addressed by a member of staff.

(4) Sunday is free time and students may walk in the garden if they are smartly dressed and wearing hats. The school uniform is mandatory unless explicit permission is granted for wearing other clothes. No one may go beyond the school grounds unless accompanied by a member of staff.

(5) Correction is applied to pupils who disobey school rules.

From outside somewhere below the window he heard his mother's car start-up and slowly draw away, and he felt utterly desolate. He stood there in the strange room listening until the sound became swallowed in the warmth of the spring morning and receded into silence. She was gone and he was on his own.

He felt no better when a tall skinny woman wearing a white overall-coat and a scowl appeared through the door. She had a brief muttered conversation with Gloria trailing behind, then glared at him hard, cold fisheyes scrutinising him thoughtfully. Young men came in all shapes and sizes, some broad and muscular, others long and gangly, this one was small and fragile and still retained a kind of graceful beauty. 

"It's the start of the summer term. Why are you wearing a full length vest?" Her voice was vinegary and accusing, making him glance down at his singlet guiltily.

"Mummy - my mother dressed me this morning. I suppose..."

"Halter-tops are sufficient for the summer," the woman interrupted peremptorily; "They are on the list of items you were required to bring with you. When you unpack your luggage ensure you get properly dressed."

She squinted down. "Get rid of the stockings and the pants too. White knickers are worn in the summer months here, unless Mr Hardwick requires blue flannel for exercises in the gymnasium." 

At last she seemed to compose herself. "You're Amanda?"

"I'm Simon really..."

The woman's scowl instantly reinstated itself. "That's a boys name and this is a girl's school. Are you Amanda or not?"

His cheeks flushed. "Yes, I am Amanda, Miss - matron."

"A fetching little addition to the others." put in Gloria.

The matron ignored her. Leaning forward she brusquely hiked his vest up under his arms. No hint of undue corpulence, the outline of his ribcage was surmounted by a flat chest and pale nipples, and his abdomen was straight and firm She thumbed the nipples thoughtfully, then pulled a stethoscope from her overall pocket, and having fixed the earpieces she place the other end against his bare chest. A moment of auscultation passed before she seemed satisfied, then she hitched the instrument about her neck and produced a small sterile wooden spatula. "Say, aaa!" she demanded.

As his mouth opened she pressed his head back and used the wood to hold down his tongue whilst she peered into his mouth, curling back his lips with finger and thumb to scrutinise his teeth. Having completed her inspection of his mouth she stooped slightly and pulled down his knickers, using the spatula this time to lift his lolling penis to one side in order to gain an unimpeded view of his testicles.

"Do you play with yourself?"

"Oh... I...oh!"

"Never mind, you almost certainly do, but like most new arrivals you'll be reluctant to admit it. Nevertheless, you should remember that at Fairyfield Grange you should always ask permission from a member of staff before you rub your willy."

She stepped back and observed the young man's near nakedness with an experienced eye. He was handsome, rather thin and small. With each anxious breath his nostrils flared, and if anything his slightly upturned nose, like his ears, were too small, but he well formed and healthy. Miss Hancock was always intuitively faultless in her selection of pupils, choosing them for innate sissy potential as well as for health and beauty. She herself was wasting her time with a prolonged examination.

She glanced at Gloria. "Put Amanda in with the other new arrivals for the moment. I'll assess her again later in the week."

"I's a'ready got a space for her, matron." beamed the big woman.

Clearly the matron hated her decisions being assumed in advance and she offered a frosty smile. "How astute you are, Gloria."

"I's been among young people a long time, matron. I's hopes to have learned a bit."

The matron at last released him, and Simon hurriedly adjusted his underwear. But he didn't dare speak until the woman declared there was nothing else to do and then departed.

"Can I get dressed now, Miss Gloria?" he asked timidly.

The big lady closed the door and stood with legs astride, hands on hips with her face twisted in a dark disingenuous smile. "We'll wait a while 'til your luggage comes up in the hoist. That way you won't get into trouble for being dressed wrong. An' there's no need to call me, Miss. Just plain Gloria will do for me."

Simon pouted and his eyes flashing with indignation. "What that lady did - that was rude."

"Oh, you shouldn't worry about it. Matron's a medical lady, like a doctor. She's allowed to do things like that."

She sat down, fixed her bulk into one corner of a black horsehair sofa, and then studied the newcomer. His knees looked slightly knobbly and swelled ever so slightly up his thighs to connect with slender muscles that rippled when he moved. He may have been eighteen but his upper body was pretty, small collarbones prominent beneath a slender neck and no noticeable muscular development in a shape that went straight up and down, but interestingly, his chest bulged in tiny delicate mounds beneath the cotton singlet and seemed to inadvertently invite caresses.




A Sissy Saga Ch. 03



"I knows what's the matter wi' you, newcomers is allus the same. You're upset with being left among strangers an' having no friends. Come an' sit on Gloria's lap an' have a cuddle for a bit."

"I-I don't want a cuddle."

The housekeeper stretched her broad neck out from the tight starched white collar that bordered her dress, then inclined her head just slightly as she grabbed his arm and yanked him forcefully down by her side. "O' course you want a cuddle. Young people allus need a cuddle at times like these." She cradled him affectionately against her massive bosom while gazing into his bright blue eyes. "You're sweet looking an' bound to make friends quick, but in the meantime you's just got to relax."

Smiling, she regarded him a moment longer before running her fingers over his shoulders. "There. That's it, settle yerself down. The first day away from home is allus a trial. I's had a lot of experience wi' people like you, so I knows all about it. I was nanny to the headmistress's own kiddies when they were small, an' I helped out when Miss Hancock worked for the Social Services a'fore she came here."

Slowly her hands began to move licentiously over his body, and then her podgy fingers drifted up and down his nylon-clad legs, spiralling inwards towards the apex of his thighs and relentlessly encroaching until they were rolling the plump amoebas shapes in his flannel underwear. A single broad arm encircled him, hugging him with the strength of a bear as he attempted to wriggle away, and he squirmed as he felt her fingers and thumb take a grip and begin an indecent massage, stoking up and down to make his penis stir and tingle.

"You needs to have a nice feelin' so you can forget about all the 'orrirble ones." Gloria murmured as she blatantly drew up the flesh within his pants and pumped it, pulling on his hidden parts and making him blink. Despite his embarrassment his penis was rising up.

"No, Gloria. You mustn't..."

The only response his meek protest received was to feel the woman's fingers accelerate their movements into a frantic, rapid jerking. He could feel her thumb and forefinger boldly massaging the outline of his penis, giving special attention to his knob-end, skinning his prick-hood up and down inside his knickers and making his toes curl from the unrequested infliction of physical pleasure. He couldn't break free from her. The woman may not have been well educated, but if the school she had once attended had awarded an annual prize for Sumo wrestling she would have won it every year.

"You're a bright young thing." Gloria declared, whilst delicately squeezing the shape of his testicles with her stubby fingers. In her experience there wasn't a man alive who didn't like having his balls played with. "Yer a darling thing what enjoys havin' a bit o' fun with his wormy, I reckons. Don't pay too much attention to what matron said about askin' permission. I knows lads your age have to pull on their puddin's whenever the moods on 'em, whether they're in a frock or not. I likes to help out, an' I knows all about giving nice feelin's."

She remained impassive as his moans became rasping and more strident, but her fingers never slowed in their rhythm. Faster and faster she caressed that important part of him, her thumb instinctively finding the most sensitive portion of the anatomy in his pants and rubbing it up and down. Muffled groans spewed from his throat as his chest began to heave.

"No, nooo - please, Gloria." Shaking his head from side to side he groaned, tensed and quivered. His mother had only just left him and already a fat old woman was blatantly rubbing him through his pants. And the awful lady was going to make him do something. He couldn't stop her. She was going to make him do it in his knickers.

And she did. The tingle evolved into an all consuming throb and he felt his flesh judder under her caress, making him crush his face against her neck in a futile attempt to mask the involuntary noises that erupted in his throat as he writhed. "Uhhhh!" It was horrible. Aaaaahhhh. And wonderful. Ohhhhhhh. His cock throbbed and ached, then there was a sudden wet RUSH of pleasure and instant relief as his body jerked, then jerked again.

When a large patch of vacid moisture soaked through onto her fingers Gloria stopped and beamed a smile. "What a wicked angel you are. I knowed yer lovely peg would come up nice and have more to it than matron reckoned. I'll have to keep my eye on you."

***

The following morning, and six miles away Diana, Lady Chance-Barton, with little else to occupy her time, was fuming at a perceived discourtesy, and when in fuming mode she was something even her husband was disinclined to meet in combat.

She was wearing a high-necked silk blouse under a beige suit with a mini-length skirt which showed off her long legs. She looked a succulent item of woman-flesh drawn up against the sitting-room window and Nigel, Lord Chance-Barton wondered how such an elegant girl could bear to look so severe. Then he noticed it was her hair; short, styled with a tight curving wave at the front. It would have taken a hurricane of wind to knock it out of place and it did nothing to soften her face. She was always startlingly attractive and promoted a dimpled sweet lamb smile when the news media were around, but as soon as the cameras had gone her countenance became that of tough mutton.

"That Hancock woman is infuriating." the woman sniped, "She's been in the area for a year and not once as she thought to come and introduce herself to us. Twice I've invited her to a garden party, and each time the insignificant little oik as pleaded she's too busy."

Her husband, Nigel, smiled a humourless smile. He knew his wife enjoyed the limelight and believed herself to be the centre of the known universe. She was forever preoccupied by big social ambitions and she readily detested those that didn't immediately bow and scrape before her. He was plump, bronzed, with clear blue eyes, sharp features and thinning hair, and he was more easy going. He could have been any age between forty and sixty, but in fact he was in his late fifties. The age difference between them was marked, but Diana and he shared common duplicity. She had married him for the status of his title, while he had courted her into it because of her youthful good looks and perpetual Condi Naste appearance.

"I don't suppose she feels the need. And we're not royalty who can demand her tribute, dear; we're a tiny remnant of faded nobility." he offered.

She gave him a tight little smile that travelled nowhere near her eyes, which was a shame, because they were beautiful, the lids long-lashed. She could devour most men with the bat of one lid like a Venus flytrap, but she never owned up to any flaw in her character. She considered that being a fashion icon was a worthy full-time occupation, while adoration and the reverent tugging of forelocks in her presence was a rightful reward for her celebrity.

Her husband suffered a scathing look. "God, what an ineffective man you are, Nigel, what's the point in being a lord if you don't lord it over people a little bit. The hicks in the sticks around here expect it. The name Chance-Barton once filled people with awe in these parts, and we're faded now only because you are incapable of being assertive. People should respect our position in the community."

Her husband didn't reply and tried to hide himself in the pages of The Times, but Diana persisted. "I believe you knew that Hancock woman in the past, didn't you?"

He grunted. "I knew her slightly. She was with the Youth Probation Service in Harrogate some time ago, and I assisted her with some charity work."

"Charity work? I thought I was the only one involved in charities. My agent says they make good PR. What kind of charity was she running?"

"She was working with errant young adults - getting them to engage in a more acceptable and meaningful kind of life. I've not seen her since then and I don't wish to press the matter."

Diana's arrogant chin lifted as she slowly walked around the room, all make-up and beatific smiles, touching things here and there, adjusting them and stopping to view each new juxtaposition. As she moved she paused in front of various mirrors, knowing well enough how beautiful she was but unable to resist the temptation to confirm it repeatedly.

Everyone in the world adored Diana, Lady Chance-Barton. People as faraway as Japan admired her beauty, tried to emulate her chic and attempted to copy her perfection. Everyone in the world except that ignorant peasant who had taken over the Grange anyway. And that bitch would soon discover the danger of being outside the common herd, because Diana was a huntress with sharp teeth, and non-conforming strays were her special prey.

Eventually she went out of the door, a flame of curiosity now burning along with her mood of discontent. Nigel may constantly spurn the idea of influencing things but that was something that she never did, and his reluctance to discuss Miriam Hancock struck her as suspicious. He was hiding something. No, more than that, he was evading the whole subject; therefore she would make some enquiries. She had nothing better to do until the next gala dinner in Leeds and with no other distractions she could buckle down and get on with that kind of thing. The relationship between the woman and her husband could be intriguing.

***

Diana Chance-Barton was not the only woman suffering from discontent that morning. At the rear of Fairyfield Grange Mrs Amos leaned her broom against the wall and stuffed a banister brush into her overall pocket. Fishing about for the wristwatch with a broken strap she kept in the same place she tutted as she checked the time. The watch had stopped, but she knew sweeping the stairs had taken longer than she'd anticipated, and she knew the awful Gloria wouldn't even contemplate paying any overtime money. It was unfair that the back stairs were included in ground floor cleaning; there were three flights of steps all higher than ground level, and although she was expected to clean them she was forbidden from entering any part of the house above.

She's seen the best of her thirties. Mrs Amos was now a misshapen lumpy slattern with a mop of untidy flyaway hair folded up and inadequately pinned behind her head, while the skin of her face was pouched and slack and beginning to wrinkle. She was a selfish and not especially bright woman who was unenthusiastic about work, and who invariably slumped around expending the least amount of energy possible while doing just enough to prevent her losing her job.

Fairyfield Grange was supposed to be a school for girls, she mused, but there was something odd about the place. The pupils were confined to the upper levels during early morning cleaning and were rarely seen, and there was a reluctance by the tutors to talk to other employees, just as if they had a wicked secret they didn't wish to share. She'd heard rumours of course. When Gloria wasn't around the whispered gossip was that the girls weren't really what they seemed. People reckoned they were really boys wearing skirts.

Mrs Amos stroked the front of her thighs. That would be disgusting if it were true. It would be too weird. Such things didn't ought to be allowed.

At that moment there was a rapid clattering of shoes on the stone steps. The stairs at the back of the house were narrow and uncarpeted and sloped up to veer away at right angles, so a moment passed before she saw someone appear; negotiating each turn by sharp swings on the handrail whilst descending. In a hurry to get down the last flight of steps a short, dark blue, gymslip swirled and flounced to display bare legs tanned to a warm honey colour and a brief glimpse of white knickers.

The woman gaped in stupefaction and her sly black eyes narrowed. In the past she'd only ever seen the students at a distance and she relished the chance to satisfy her curiosity about them. When this one screeched to a halt in front of her she didn't try to conceal her inspection, but stare as much as she might she couldn't detect any obvious sign of maleness. She visually scanned the face and took in every detail. Late teens probably. Sensuous lips turned down ever so slightly at the corners, the lower lip full and soft, the upper lip pressing down in a symmetrical curlicue that caused the flattened point to accentuate a small nose with tiny nostrils. The pupil, whatever it was, was pretty and looked like a girl, but it was difficult to make a judgement on superficial scrutiny.

"What are you doin' 'ere? Yer not allowed down the stairs a'fore mid-mornin'." she said gruffly. The young persons eyes were full of surprise, but that didn't prevent a smile that made a show of scrupulously clean teeth and pink gums. Girl-like fingers dabbed at a Swatch strapped to a slender arm. It had a pink dial with white numerals.

"You're the one who shouldn't be here. You should have gone an hour ago."

Mrs Amos threw out her chin and rammed her fists down on broad hips. "Don't you be so cheeky. What's yer name?" she demanded.

"I'm Daisy. I say, have you seen Trudy Jones? I want Gloria to buy me some stuff in the village, but I won't have the dibs if I can't find Trudy."

Pushing beyond the woman's bulky frame Daisy hurried to the door that lay open to the yard outside, only to turn back in frustration. "It's not fair. I think Trudy's hiding from me." Then with a sudden burst of alacrity a pair of large bright eyes gazed up at Mrs Amos from beneath long, lush lashes. "Look here, can you lend me fifty pence?"

The expression was a heart-stopper. It would have drained the balls of a man and even received sympathy from a woman with any sensitivity. But Mrs Amos had no sensitivity. She waddled forward, allowing a lank strand of hair to escape all restriction and hang down the side of her face. "You brazen Miss. Don't you know it's bad manners to beg for money?"

"Trudy owes me fifty pence, so I can pay you back."

"That's beside the point." She took another pace forward, gazing at the long honey-coloured legs, soft and smooth, and the mini-skirt that barely covered the necessary bits. "'Ere, is you a boy or a girl?"

Daisy skipped easily away, skirt billowing as nimble limbs mounted the stairs. "It costs fifty pence to find out."

Such cheek, fumed Mrs Amos. Never heard the likes of it before. A woman her age shouldn't have to put up with it. Anyway, she hadn't got fifty pence with her.

Sharp irritation combined with an unwavering curiosity made her rush forward to pin the slender figure against the stair rail, then as one hand grasped Daisy's arm the other swept under the skirt to clutch at the pants beneath and fumble with shapes that had no place in a real girls underwear. 

(Rub, rub) "I knowed it, I jus' knowed it," she crowed in jubilation, "You's a pantywaist faggot jus' like thought." The young sissy wiggled his perfect bottom desperately, but she held him close as her fingers dipped lower to massage the unambiguous spheres in his teenage ball-bag. "Nice couple o' pearls you's got. An' you'll be fully loaded too, I bet."

Daisy struggled, pushed furiously and burst from her grip, red-faced and indignant, "I'm going to tell someone about you."

"You'll do knowt, else I'll say how you were askin' for money to show yerself. Everyone will believe me, 'cos I'm a lady an' you're just a sissy."

Refusing to be drawn into an argument that didn't make any sense Daisy scampered away rapidly, back up the stairs and out of sight. Shamelessly Mrs Amos gazed upwards to attain the best possible view of his little white pants until the turn in the stairs cut off the view.

"Phoofter!" she mumbled disparagingly. So it was true, she thought when she was once more alone. Here was a big house full of lads all wearing frocks. Disgustin' it was. Not 'xactly decent anyway. Whatever next?

She ran the tip of her tongue across her lips. Chances was there were lots of disgustin' things happening here, all locked away from prying eyes. Chances were them naughty lads had never learnt how to shove their willy's up lasses. Chances were they were all 'on the other bus', as they said in Yorkshire, an' just did wicked things with each other.

She felt heat between her legs and realised she was becoming wet. Shame she couldn't give them powder-puffs the right kind of experience. She moved towards a nearby broom-cupboard, stepped inside and shut the door behind herself. Maybe she could train some of 'em, she pondered. Then maybe she could use two of them at the same time - have two excited sissy-pricks squeezing in her hole together. She'd need to show them queers how to do it of course, but that wasn't a problem. She'd shown dicks of all kinds how to do things in the past.

Amid buckets and dustpans and drums of scouring powder she hitched her skirt about her hips and sent an exploratory finger to find the juicy, firm nodule between her legs, then she sighed with delight as she made it circle.

"Come here me little darlin'." she muttered to the banister brush as she positioned the tip of its handle between the puffy lips of her vagina.

Easing it up into an eager aperture she groaned as she spit herself on lacquered wood which instantly became eccine with her body fluid. For several minutes she crouched in the dark, stabbing the brush handle up and down inside herself, thighs undulating in fits of exquisite sensations as her mind became entirely occupied with images of enormous spurting cocks. 



A Sissy Saga Ch. 04



The highly polished writing table was uncluttered, the only item encroaching its pristine surface being the letter of application Miriam Hancock had received from Emma Twist, the young woman who now sat stiff backed in the chair facing her.

Miss Hancock folded her hands over the pieces of paper and gave the impression of ignoring them as she assessed the candidate. She was smartly dressed and rather good looking. Although not beautiful in the accepted sense of the word, she was so vital she gave the impression of beauty, a vividness of colour contributing to that effect. Her ink-black glossy hair was styled in a coif about her head, coming to a peak above a face so clear and luminous it might have been carved from pale polished marble. The rather elongated visage, with its prominent cheekbones and wide brow were impressive, and there was a hint of restlessness in her chin. Her eyes were her most spectacular feature, large and intelligent and of a cornflower blue so deep they appeared almost violet.

From her application it transpired she was in her early twenties and unmarried, and from her bearing Miriam thought she'd probably been thoughtfully spoilt as a child and was used to having her own way, which wasn't altogether an undesirable quality to find in someone wishing to be a tutor at Fairyfield Grange. "Perhaps I should begin by explaining the concept of this school. It's somewhat unique." she began.

"I know a little about it already." The other woman put in immediately.

Miss Hancock raised her eyebrows. She was power-dressed. In her serge skirt and high-necked white lace blouse with leg-of-mutton sleeves she looked the epitome of the elegant school ma'am.

"Indeed! That's impressive since I never promote what we do here widely."

"It wasn't easy. Everything seemed to be rumour and gossip, and word of your staff vacancy only came by chance conversation."

Miriam nodded. "We're not a mainstream institution or an ostentatious private one, we're rather a special school. What exactly did you learn?"

Emma curled one knee over the other and began to relax. "That you operate a school for boys who you dress as girls and train to be feminine."

The older woman allowed herself a half smile, the lack of denial only serving to confirm what had been said. Her fingers toyed absently with the large cameo broach on the neck of her blouse. "We have nothing to hide. The boys are all of legal age. We're expanding. There are places for thirty-six boarders at Fairyfield and we already have upwards of two dozen, so I need extra help. That's the reason for the vacancy."

For the first time she glanced down briefly at the sheets of paper under her hand. "You're a year out of teacher-training, and experienced in..." She left the question open, awaiting a response.

"I'm currently employed at a school in Leeds," Emma flashed a fierce smile, "It's not proved ideal for me."

Miriam cleared her throat. "Well, I must be frank with you. The object of this establishment is to teach boys lessons of quite a different nature to those offered elsewhere. Apart from a little reading and writing the education here is perfunctory and consists mostly of skills suitable for use in domestic service. I would rather my students could recognise a jam-spoon than solve a problem in trigonometry. The overriding function of the staff I employ is to eradicate their undisciplined boyish traits and establish in them a gentler, more feminine personality. Such work requires a tutor to constantly apply stern correction and frequently impose an element of humiliation."

Emma Twist moved slightly in her seat. It was no different to what she'd expected - no different to what she desired. "I'm quite adaptable and willing to fit in with whatever program you have. Allow me to be frank also.I'm disenchanted with the state education system and the truth is I'm likely to lose my present job soon because of my eagerness to apply corporal punishment. There's no avenue left in most schools these days to instil proper discipline, but I had an idea this school may be different."

Miss Hancock drew back. She sensed a undertone of desperation in the younger woman's voice, and she relished desperate people since they were invariably grateful and loyal. She flashed a challenging glance. "We here do not necessarily conform to the world outside. We're a private institution and have ways of getting around most facile regulations."

"Boys are impudent and wilful and need to be taught respect." One side of Emma Twist's mouth twitched. "The idea of turning them into girls - or at least into sissies - well, that's quite shaking in its audacity and deserving of some support."

Miriam saw no sign of squeamishness in her expression, instead there was a gleam in her eyes that betrayed other things. A flash of light that hinted at cool judgement and implacable tenacity, and yes - excitement incited by an element of cruelty." All in all she seemed to be a grown version of Jennifer; headstrong and a little selfish, but with the potential to develop into a heartless dominatrix.

The headmistress replied with a slightly crooked smile. "Fairyfield Grange promotes the perfection of a sissy gender. Here the pupils are allowed to know they are boys without ever being allowed to be boys. It's a concept that generates a great deal of appeal to some people."

She rose up. "Look, I find myself at an impasse. I'd envisioned a more mature person for the position here, and while academically you're ideal, your inexperience makes me cautious. People pay large fees to send their offspring to me, and in return I must assure them of unremitting commitment from those I employ. During term-time there is no possibility of social activity, and that may prove a frustration to a young person such as yourself."

Her mouth twisted as it moulded additional words. "That doesn't mean I find you unsuitable, Miss Twist. On the contrary, I detect in you a spark that could embellish Fairyfield Grange if it were allowed some rein. Perhaps you'd indulge me. It would be reassuring if you'd agree to undertake a small test."

Emma bridled, resenting the notion that her suitability wasn't obvious, but she kept her voice calm and level, after all, she really did want to work there. "A test? Well, I suppose, if I must." she replied somewhat sourly. "What kind of thing have you in mind?"

The older woman's eyes glowed. "The application of discipline, my dear. Physical punishment is the most effective way of controlling sissies, and I must be sure my tutors are competent in such things."

Emma Twist followed her sullenly out through the door. 'Stupid test!' she chaffed silently, ignoring the fact that she herself had the nature of a bully and got a certain kick from dominating anyone around her weak enough to tolerate her manner. She'd always been forceful with her girlfriends, but young men had been her favourite victims since her time as a student teacher. Despite having cheek and bluster they had such innocent, naive minds, and they were easy to command via a little brutality. Making them cry was a pleasure and humiliating them a joy. And what better humiliation could there be than forcing them to be girls? Why, oh why, couldn't this bitch of a headmistress recognise the dedication she would apply to a post at her school without fooling around?

As she strode into the entrance hall she reassessed the headmistress. She chatted easily and had none of the lisps and drawls affected by the boorish schoolteachers she'd known in the past. Her smile was ready too, but she was certainly an expert at duplicity, because the slightly prim and stately front she presented was certainly a clever facade.

On leaving the study she was confronted by a scene that pushed aside her churlish mood. She'd not seen any students on her arrival, but the departure from the office appeared to coincide with a routine movement within the building and the central stairs that led to the upper floors suddenly became full of schoolgirls.

They descended in orderly procession, two abreast, anxious expressions set on smooth pale faces, each dressed identically in a white blouse with a little Peter Pan collar overlaid with a traditional schoolgirl gymslip. Of course she knew they were all really intensely feminised males, very girlish boys, very delicate young sissies, and there was no pretence regarding their true sex, no clever wigs or padded bras. Their hair was grown long, but uniformly plaited and pinned to the back of their heads. It could have been a scene from any number of public girls' schools of the recent past, the only surprise being the brevity of the skirts which were tailored high up on bare thighs and would have been considered extremely indecent by more righteous people than herself. The space between the high-riding hems and little white ankle socks was all slender legs, youthful bare calves and dimpled knees.

She felt a thrill rise in her, but tried not to make too much of a show. "They're all lovely. One would never guess they were boys from appearances."

"Standards of dress are rigidly enforced and male clothing is absolutely prohibited." came the brisk reply, "Fairyfield girls always dress in skirts, that's a rule, sissies must never wear trousers."

A tiny smile flitted across Emma's face. "I expect they all hate being dressed that way. Such a thing will be abhorrent to their overblown male egos."

Miriam nodded dourly. "Some do arrive as haughty individuals, but we conspire to induct them into a gentler, more feminine frame of mind. Often there are tears when they're first forced to wear a skirt, and sometimes attempts at rebellion before they accept the use of a girls name, which is why firmness and strict discipline are so important. Some upheaval must be expected if they've previously been allowed to develop an overt male image of themselves, but once sissification is imposed they play a girlish role well enough."

At the bottom of the staircase one of the pupils in the lead of the procession broke away and stood, arms akimbo, to watch the others file past. The dark stockings he wore opposed to the white ankle socks of his classmates, together with an intensely watchful expression, lent him an air of authority.

"Movements within the house are enforced as silent periods," Miss Hancock explained, "We have no patience with noisy banter or disorderly conduct. You'll appreciate these boys, like so many others in the world, would descend into savagery were it not for close supervision. Tidiness is a concept alien to them, while their nature is to be idle and they would rarely wash or change their clothes if allowed to please themselves. Such delinquency as no place at Fairyfield. Here we have orderly routines, and each pupil is closely monitored and subject to inspection. Rules are everything, and they must be enforced vigorously."

The crocodile of effeminate young men trailed out through the far door, each member of it walking so delicately there was a noticeable general movement of short skirts swaying saucily across the backs of naked thighs and small, high buttocks. Miss Hancock beckoned to the supervising she-boy. "This is Abigail, the fruit of my own loins, and now my head-girl." she explained.

Emma's gaze moved from the procession of she-boy beauties to the long, black-hosed legs of the lovely Abigail who's perfectly shaped elegance had assumed a feminine stance. 'Crikey! She means it's her son', she thought.

Miss Hancock misinterpreted her expression of amazement and presumed her fascination was directed at the two-pronged leather strap swinging from the sissy-boys waistband. "The head-girl and prefects carry a Scottish tawse as their symbol of authority and may use it to punish the others in trivial matters of discipline, which can be a merciful relief to the tutors." Her eyes turned to the head-girl. "Go and find Poppy and bring her to the staff common-room."

They mounted the stairs in a slow stately manner, Miss Hancock blithely unconcerned with Emma's desire to get on with things. Halfway along the landing they plunged down a dimly lit corridor and found two students standing motionless adjacent to a closed door. Emma noticed their nervousness as they were approached.

"What are you two doing here?" the headmistress asked them curtly.

Clearly in awe of her, each grasped the hem of his tunic and raised it an inch, then bobbed a small curtsy. "Please Miss. Mrs Pardoe told us to wait here, miss." said one of them in a subdued soprano voice.

"She intends to smack you?"

A tinge of regret ruffled the upturned face, the smooth features were ingenuous and vulnerable, and their was a simplicity about them that was sweet and rather innocent. "'Spect so, Miss."

"Why are you to be punished?"

The face of the second pupil swung down to gaze at the floor. "I'm not sure, Miss," said the upturned one, "S'pose we must have been naughty."

"Indeed, I suspect you must have been."

The two women marched on, Emma feeling slightly nonplussed by the words that had been exchanged. "That pair - they didn't appear to know why they were to be punished."

The headmistress scoffed. "Oh, they knew well enough, they just didn't wish to admit it. My pupils are all of an age when their hormones are bubbling, and they spend endless amounts of time thinking about sex. Being isolated from suitable females creates a tendency for them to channel their feelings at each other, and there's a good deal of kissing and touching goes on - and other stuff, too."

Emma Twist raised an eyebrow. "Other stuff?"

Miriam Hancock's nose twitched. "Sex. It's a common enough occurrence among groups of people living together, and sissies tend to be even more sexually active than others in a similar situation. Of course, that doesn't mean we can condone it."

Emma felt her heart beat a little faster. "Oh, certainly not. Naughty sissies should be made to regret their grubby misdeeds."

The headmistress smiled thinly. "When Mrs Pardoe as reprimanded them they'll regret things without doubt."

Swinging left she led the way down another ill-lit passageway, then pausing as if debating something with herself. She then went on. "From time to time - rather often in fact - the rascals here may misbehave in the way a lady is not used to. They can become - um, rather 'prominent' when their pants are taken down."

Emma held back a smirk. "You mean, they get an erection?"

"Quite so! You must ignore such things. The reason for it happening confounds me, but you must treat all such displays with contempt. It's important for their development that they understand it's unwanted in a girl. If you can endure such sights you'll find their... erm,..."

"Erections?"

"... to be a constant reason for discipline. If the dears are desperate to sate themselves they must first seek permission from a member of staff."

"They must ask permission to masturbate?"

"Yes, it's a rule."

The staff common-room lay at the end of the corridor, and nothing within it except the electric light seemed to belong to the present day. The blue flocked walls were dominated by portraits of long deceased gentry flanked by neo-classical prints, beneath which stood so many black horsehair sofas and mahogany whatnots as to make the room a shrine to bad taste. A purple chenille cloth covered a small table laden with bric-a-brac by the window, and there was a potted aspidistra lodged against a life-sized replica of a Greek Adonis in the corner. Emma couldn't help but think both those items would have been more at home out in the garden.

No sooner were they installed than there was a timid knock on the door, and Miss Hancock's rather dour features suddenly brightened. "Ah, that will be Poppy. Now we can get down to business."

At her bidding the door opened, and what appeared to be a young girl entered the room, though Emma was wise enough by then to realise that it was no more than one of the students; a boy dressed as a girl. He bobbed a little curtsy and stood silently just inside the door until the headmistress signalled him to move further into the room. 

"This is Poppy..." she explained, "Poppy as been here quite some time which makes him an ideal subject for any kind of test. Like many of my sissies he was brought to Fairyfield by his mother. Poppy can be a very naughty girl, and she quite rightly sought to have his behaviour modified. She feels that the most effective way is to ensure this with her son is to have him transformed into a sweet, obedient and completely submissive daughter."

Emma regarded the she-boy with a hard stare. He was beautiful, probably no older than eighteen, with hair the colour of ripened wheat that started as a cute fringe across his forehead, and had been grown long enough to be fashioned into two neat plaits that were looped up and pinned behind his head. It was delightfully little-girlish style and complemented by gold studs in his ears, and a schoolgirl uniform.

"Miss Hancock, just what do you expect of me?" she asked quietly.

The headmistress drew close to her. "Trust to your instincts, dear. Punish the sissy-creature in some fashion."

"Punish him - her! Punish him for what reason?"

A wry smile crinkled the older woman's face. "Oh, we have plenty of rules here and he's sure to have infringed some of them today and thought himself clever enough to get away with it. Sissies can be cunning about such things. I applaud a talent for imagination, so invent a reason if you need to. He's probably been masturbating without permission. They all do it. At their age they can't control their sexual impulses, but at Fairyfield they learn that sexual pleasure comes at a price. And it's helpful to have them associate the wonder of an orgasm with the pain of corporal punishment."

She pulled a slightly sour face. "I would mention now that which you may not wish to ask about: to whit, caning. Sever punishment is not required in the management of my students, so I don't tolerate rattans or whips. You'll find they respond quite adequately to a strap, slipper or paddle, or just to the smack of a hand. You're free to use whatever of those methods suits you best."

Emma appraised the girlish boy again. He was standing stock still, feet together, arms pressed into his sides. He was small in stature, a waif of a thing, lightweight enough to stretch across her lap without undue trouble, but his looks were winning ones, and the gentle slope of his shoulders only added to his seeming vulnerability. Everything about him seemed to conspire to soften her heart and undermine her resolve. He encouraged gentle cuddles more than harsh smacks.

Miss Hancock glanced at her wristwatch. "Look, I'll leave you with him for an hour. Poppy can be a little madam and he'll squeal when you spank him, but just 'shush' him firmly if he does. Certainly don't allow him to side-track you." 

Her gaze lifted and she looked Emma full in the face. "You're a handsome woman Miss Twist, and I dare say your looks have often set a male pulse racing in the past, but you must never allow sissies to assert themselves in a male role here, that would be disastrous for their training and ruin your prospects."

When the door closed leaving her alone with the girl-boy Emma grimaced. The last warning was uncalled for. Did the officious headmistress really think she was the kind of woman who fucked with girly-creatures?

She felt suddenly at a loss as her attention became focused on Poppy's androgynous profile, on the soft line of his jaw, the slight upward tilt of his sensuous little mouth and the fluttering eyelashes that graced butter-wouldn't-melt-the -mouth eyes. Lower down the gymslip fitted perfectly, its high-waisted skirt serving to emphasis the boys round smooth thighs. His legs were bare and slender, graced only by little white socks and brown shoes with a broad, slightly raised heels that tipped the pelvis to create a sexy curve in the lower back and give a pleasing shape to his calves and slim ankles.




A Sissy Saga Ch. 04



Such sweet looks. Such innocence. What reason could she invent to punish such an individual?

"Do you know why you're here, Poppy?

There was a breathless quality to the pupils voice as he uttered the first words since his arrival. "When I'm told to come to this room ladies always smack my bum - sorry miss - I mean, bottom, Miss."

"I expect that's because you're naughty. You've probably been naughty today."

She wanted to incite some guilt in him that would dismiss her own uncertainties, but instead she faltered. The soft mouth pouting with apprehension, and the shine in his large appealing eyes aroused maternal instincts that were alien to her nature. She became aware of a tightening in her stomach, a symptom of a growing fear that she may not be up to what that infernal headmistress expected of her. Then, suddenly the precious boy failed to conceal a fleeting slant of mouth and sideways glance that betrayed the talent that had so nearly been her undoing.

Cats eyes! she thought as she reassessed the glow about his face. Yes, there was definitely something feline about Poppy at that moment. She was being tricked. The youthful androgyny was deliberately ruffling her emotions and manipulating her with playacting worthy of a thespian. His versatile smooth face could conjure up an expression to suit any situation, and change with the speed of an express train, and that was probably the ability for which the sly Miss Hancock had selected him.

She took a deep breath and leaned back. No one was going to kid anyone, anymore. "Naughty girls need to be punished, don't they?"

"Yes, miss," Poppy agreed, shuffling his feet, "But I haven't done anything wrong."

"You awoke with an erection this morning, and you played with yourself and did a cummy in your hand without asking permission."

"Oh no - honestly miss, I didn't..."

"Stand still, and don't argue," she said curtly. With a swish of skirt and stockings she turned and moved a token distance away from a delicate situation. This was more like it, the real Emma Twist was back in the driving seat, she thought as a tingle arose in her breasts and heat besieged her lower down. This was why she wanted so desperately to work at Fairyfield Grange, and she was now ready for a little innovation of her own.

She went over to the travel-bag she carried with her and took out an hairbrush, a cheap plastic item, but broad and flat and ideal for her purpose. The back of a hairbrush would be classified as a paddle in Miss Hancock's list of approved tools, and plastic was the perfect material for chastisement. In her experience it provided keener impact than wood or even ivory.

She gripped it in one hand and tapped it into the palm of the other as she returned to the boy, slowly walking around him and ensuring it passed under his vision. "Well, my little lady, it's time to pay the piper."

Poppy gazed at the hairbrush in genuine dismay. "Please don't smack me, Miss. I'll do anything you want if you don't smack me."

His words were evocative and calculated to stir the imagination, and Emma could appreciate how successful they often were. Oh, he was good! Such a gift for diversion deserved a place in some theatre, but she was wise to him now. She pointed with the brush to an horsehair sofa. "Sit down."

Brushing close to him she became aware of an emanating perfume, a fresh floral fragrance of the type so often favoured by young girls. She decided she liked it. It was distinctive, subtly teasing. Whatever it was it stimulated. "Lean back and raise your legs." she told him.

"M-my legs?" The boys voice was almost inaudible.

"Don't give me any trouble or I'll make things twice as hard."

As he eased back and reluctantly brought up his knees the woman leaned forward and grasped beneath them, hauling back until the undersides of his thighs and the seat of his knickers were exposed. "That's it. Stretch your pretty legs up, and don't bring them down until I say so. I'm going to smack the backs of your thighs and your bum cheeks quite sternly, but you'll only get extra if you struggle."

His young bottom swelled firmly inside the tight white pants, but Emma tapped the flat side of the brush against the bare skin around the rim. "Now Poppy, as you're aware misbehaviour will always be met with punishment, and since you've been trying to trick me ever since you came into the room, punishment is what you're going to get."

At last she was able to apply the hairbrush, and she smacked it lightly against the boys bottom.

"This -" smack, smack! "- is the part of anatomy which is, as it were, 'tailor-made' to receive an award for misbehaviour." CRACK! A blow descended onto the fleshy part of his upper thigh. "But other areas can be just as useful."

Holding his legs tight she brought down two more blows, one for each leg, then two more where plumpness showed around the elastic edge of his pants. Poppy squealed and wriggled, but was no match for her strength. Placing the hairbrush down for a moment she dragged the gusset of the undergarment into the furrow of his bottom to expose the fullness of his bare little behind, and then came the staccato cracking sound as the brush once more resumed its task. Splatt! to the left. Smack! to the right Wallop! dead centre, to visit both cheeks at the same time.

The brush made several trips up and down the back of his thighs but paid greatest attention to the base of his buttocks. In fact it visited every inch of the tossing backside, lighting blaze upon blaze on the sissy's bottom cheeks. Pale skin reddened quickly under its tutelage and any thought of stoicism soon vanished.

"Ooow, aah, wheee!" The boy wailed as a rosy hue blossomed on his skin and his small buttocks twitched. The hairbrush swooshed again, a leisurely stroke, but the impact keen enough to make his legs jerk. "Nnnarrr!"

"You deserve it." said Emma Twist coldly.

"I know -B - b - but - OUCH! - my b-bottom's so sore - OWW!"

Nothing he did could ease his plight and his head rolled from side to side to become a tearful vignette of discomfort. Emma patted the crimson bouncing backside and decided to give it a final wallop. WHACK! He jumped sharply, "Ooooch!"

At last she released him, and leaving him sobbing in distress she smiled grimly, delighted at the sight of his half-bared red bottom. She felt better now, and calm enough not to make obvious the excitement she felt inside.

So far, so good. Now the next step. She'd show that fussy headmistress just how good she could be at handling sissy boys. She'd let lose some of the passion she'd been forced to hold in check most of the time elsewhere when she took him across her knees.

The boy sniffed and rubbed his eyes.

"Do you have a handkerchief?"

He groped into the little pocket on the front of his skirt. "Yes. Yes Miss."

"Well wipe away your tears, I haven't finished with you yet." He was a succulent little charmer, she decided. Far better he was in a place like Fairyfield than out in the wide world where unscrupulous men would be forever be trying to coerce him into their beds. It occurred to her he was probably homosexual anyway. He just had to be.

"Are you?" she asked. "Are you queer?"

He feigned surprise. "I-I don't know what you mean, Miss."

"Do you enjoy being admired by men?"

"I like to be admired by everyone."

She tried another tack. "Do you like being a girl?"

His eyes flashed a wary glance. "I'd be in awful trouble here if I said I didn't."

"And so, if I asked you if you were a girl or a boy, what would your answer be?"

He dipped his chin, but continued to look up with cautious eyes. "I suppose - I suppose I'd have to say I was a girl, miss. I'd have to say I'm a girl with a cock - erm - I mean, a girl with a willy, Miss."

"And do you like to stroke your 'willy' against other willy's in the dark of the night?"

His mouth fell open in a gesticulation of horror. "Miss! We're not allowed to do things like that at this school."

Emma tutted. He'd cleverly avoided admitting anything, but just wait until she had him over her lap. Then he wouldn't be able to dodge giving her a straight answer. She'd make him shout it out. 

"You're in for a nanny-spanking before I'm done with you, and for that you'll need less clothes, so get undressed."

The she-boys wet eyes blinked, taken by surprise. "Please miss. I don't think it's right. Only first-termers should get spanked across ladies laps."

She favoured Poppy with an avuncular smile. "And you're not a first-termer?"

His bottom lip protruded and he shook his head. "I've completed two terms here. I'm nearly nineteen."

A protest was to be expected. An over-the-knee bare-bottomed hand-spanking was the most humiliating because it was the most childish, and with an airy roll of her eyes Emma pretended to give the matter some thought before making a pronouncement. "Well, I think it only proper that sissy-creatures should just do as they're told. So you WILL go over my knee."

"Oh - erm, yes miss. But please, miss - ladies never make me take my clothes off, not all of my clothes anyway." he protested mildly.

Emma's lips tightened in a show of irritation. The faggot's repertoire of expressions included an adorable little grimace so charming she felt tempted to softly bite his pretty mouth to punish his insubordination. There was no doubt in her mind that this particular 'schoolgirl' got spanked a lot. Grabbing him by the wrist she pulled up his hand and deliberately bent his fingers back. Gorgeous! He didn't even try to fight her, he simply grimaced with pain.

"I don't know what other ladies do, and I don't care. Get undressed."

Poppy's small shoulders slumped forward in an attitude of submission and he pushed the straps of his gymslip down, brushing away a stray tear before starting to unbutton his blouse. Standing up he shook the garments onto the floor and revealed himself in his underwear - a little halter-top worn high on his chest like a substitute bra, and a pair of hipster pants that clung to him like a dream.

Emma surveyed his body as unobtrusively as she could. Slender and blemishless, with skin so pearly white it was almost translucent. His tummy, flat and sensual, quivered slightly, and she noticed a small gold ring in his pierced bellybutton, while his waist was narrow, accentuating his hips and giving him an element of girlish grace. Only the plump coiled shape in his panties destroyed the illusion of him being a real female.

She rose to her feet and stood close to him, raising the skimpy halter-top just enough for his nipples to peep out beneath, tender sprouting things, the tips pouting upward from pale firm flesh. Men would fight each other to kiss them. A small gasp rushed from his mouth as she gently tugged them with her fingers, but he didn't move away. Could it be that he actually liked having his nipples caressed?

He was a gay-boy without doubt she decided, and a bimbo too. Fully clothed his face was beguiling enough to be taken as a girl, and many of his mannerisms - the way he turned his head, the poses he struck, the expressions he favoured - all hinted at femininity. Stripped down to his underwear there was no doubt to his gender, but little doubt either of his inclinations.

"Miss Hancock is quite right to dress you as a girl. Why should ladies have to put up with clumsy boys in ugly trousers when they can have dainty girls tripping about in revealing short gymslips and bare legs - obedient girls who'll do exactly as they're told? You always do as your told, don't you Poppy?"

The she-boy nodded at once.

"Good! Take your knickers off, there's no point in being modest with me."

The boy wiggled his hips and peeled the pants down over his legs. "My bum's very sore, Miss. You won't spank me very hard, will you?"

Emma watched, in transfixed in fascination, and didn't even bother giving an answer. Only her eyes followed his movements. His thighs were smooth and hairless, his pink balls, no doubt brimming with girlish-goo, hung beneath a remarkable penis. It was immense, fat with a purple tip and dangling almost halfway down to his knees. 

Her own pants were becoming wet, and she felt an odd fluttering inside her stomach. The unrestricted view of his incredible over-endowment was erotic and provoking and she had to resist an urge to grab at it. Another trap she realised as she reinstated her composure. She had been warned. Any indication that she considered him male would ruin everything.

Sitting down once more she pushed up her sleeves, hiked her skirt to reveal bare skin and garter straps above her stocking tops, then patted her thighs. Soft yet stable, they formed more than an adequate platform for the task ahead.

***

Miriam Hancock found herself pacing restlessly across the floor of her parlour-office, her usual self-control and clear judgement under attack. Knowing that a person should remain unpartisan when selecting staff she nevertheless found herself wishing for Miss Twist to succeed. Her school was lacking in intellectual minds, and apart from Jennifer, there was no one she could talk to at the level she craved. From the moment she'd met Emma Twist she'd been attracted by her feisty nature and good looks. She really was an enchanting young woman, and it was refreshing to come across a person so eager to experience the new and unfamiliar - so thirsty to quaff the unique pleasures that Fairyfield Grange could offer.

To distract herself she threw open the door and turned her attention to the wide main entrance hall and the polished banisters and sweeping stairway that comprised its heart. Outside it was a brilliant spring morning, and sunshine filtered through the fanlight over the main door, projecting the colours of the stained glass into the house and making weird patterns of light on the floor. The wood panelled walls and rich mahogany barley sugar balustrades of the stairs lent the scene a kind of regal splendour. How beautiful, she thought. How breathtakingly different it was from just a year ago.

In its heyday the Grange would have been staffed by forty-two people, including fourteen gardeners, and every portion of its interior would have had a skivvy assigned to its upkeep. Now she could only afford three part-time gardeners and a handful of local women to clean the rooms at ground level. Still, she'd overseen a vast improvement on her inheritance and that was reason enough to congratulate herself. Initially the transformation of the decrepit country house into a residential school had seemed a formidable task, but by nature she was an opportunist and totally unafraid of taking chances, and as time passed the easier things had become.

There were numerous well-proportioned rooms on the ground floor, including a huge kitchen at the back. Upstairs were bathrooms and ten bedchambers of varying dimensions, some of which were easy to convert into classrooms, while others served as apartments for staff accommodation. The third floor, under the eaves of the roof, had several attic-rooms that provided adequate if somewhat cramped dormitories for three dozen resident students. Amenities could be extended even further when funds to refurbish the still unused east-wing became available.

She thought of the times before she'd come to Fairyfield, of the boredom, the narrowness of existence and the dearth of anything to inspire her. What marvellous changes her new venture had made to her life, the possibilities for wealth and social position had never been greater. In her fine mansion she felt invulnerable and in control.

Suddenly her attention was drawn to a clicking of heels as a youthful girly-boy, bare legs flashing beneath the short skirt of a gymslip, appeared in the hall, making his way towards the stairs.

"You - come here!" she demanded.

The figure altered his direction at once and made a timid approach. His blond hair was brushed neat and it gleamed, while his face was scrubbed to a pristine shine. He became rooted to the spot in font of her, quaking and swallowing hard, but remembering to curtsy.

"Yes Miss." he said, bobbing.

His hair was honey blond and simply arranged with pink ribbon threaded through the locks, while his petite face was extremely pleasing, its best features being dark eyes, well open and straight gazing. His figure was trim and pleasantly lacking in height. 

"Name?" she snapped.

"A-Amanda, headmistress."

Ah yes, she remembered him then. Amanda was the most well behaved sissy in the school, obedient and sweet and as cute as a button. He was also a victim of skulduggery. Due to inherit a fortune at his coming of age, his reptile of a mother wished to ensure her control of him by having him feminised and trained to serve as a housemaid in his own mansion. She wanted the young man to be a hot little teenage she-male who constantly waved his soft, sissy bottom at men, thinking that if he always had a big cock in his bottom he'd have little interest in pursuing his legal rights. While in a classical frame of mind she'd suggested Cassandra as a name for him, but the mother, being an unread philistine, had preferred instead a lazy pedestrian name. A name she'd once given to a goldfish.

"Why are you out of class, Amanda?"

"Mrs Pardoe excused me to go to the loo, but the one upstairs is crocked - er, broken - it's not working miss."

"Then you should have gone up one floor, not down. You've been at Fairyfield long enough to know the ground floor is out-of-bounds until 10 am."

Amanda woefully glanced at his wristwatch. "Please Miss, it's 11 o'clock."

Miss Hancock riled, angry at being so out of touch and made ridiculous. "Don't be impertinent. It seems you've yet to discover the consequences of being cheeky to a lady."

"Oh, honestly, Miss. I wasn't..."

She knew his response had been made in innocence, but she'd been seeking something to fill her time until Miss Twist had finished with Poppy. And he was a sweet thing. "Get inside my office."

The young sissy stumbled through the door and stood bewildered until nudged towards a nearby carver.

"Kneel up on the chair." the headmistress ordered. She closed the door as he positioned himself, then moved up behind him to raise the back of his skirt and tuck it into its waistband. Amanda peered over his shoulder fearfully as the seat of his knickers went on show.

"Are you going to spank me, Miss?"

"Yes, of course. Maybe then you'll learn not to speak out of turn."

Inserting her thumbs into the waist-elastic of his pants she dragged them down to expose the small bare mounds of his buttocks. Charming! She thought as she watched them judder slightly. Few artists in their prime could reproduce such translucent skin charged with such a delicate hue of pink. Most of all they would be frustrated by that imponderable thing, the virgin bottom, fresh and chaste. So attract. So seductive! So very smackable!

"Please Miss Hancock, I really don't think my mother intended for me to have my pants taken down."

"Nonsense! She gave approval when she brought you here. Are you shy about displaying your bottom? If that's the case something must be done about it." She took a moment to study him. His eyelids had a warm pinkish sheen and the lashes were long and sweeping, and when they fluttered they made him coquette without any conscious effort.

"You're a pretty girl, Amanda. I'll speak to Mr Hardwick and insist he includes you in the aerobics team that will perform on the lawn on Open Day. That means you'll need to attend detention with Mr Hardwick some evenings of course, and on such occasions you'll wear nothing but a tiny posing-pouch. That will certainly cure your silly modesty."

Palming the smooth contours of his bottom speculatively she glanced about for a slipper, then changed her mind. A hand would suffice on this occasion. Yes, intimate contact, skin on skin. Slapping his small unclad behind would be rather lovely.




A Sissy Saga Ch. 04



Without warning her hand lifted, then swooped down to fall with a 'crack'. Amanda whinnied a strangled cry and rocked forward, bottom squeezing together and worming slowly. More blows followed, the chastising hand beating solidly against bare flesh, turning the fair skin pink, then pinker, the clap of each impact being marked by an 'ooh!' an 'aah!' or a 'whaa!' of increasing high pitch. Little by little Amanda's bare little cheeks began to emit a soft glow, and here and there around the tops of his legs blushes appeared where some smacks had ventured low.

She smacked him a dozen times, then stopped, resting her hand on the tremulous bottom before stepping back. Amanda writhed and hugged the back of the chair. His eyes were wet, but his lack of loud shrieks hinted that having his bum smacked wasn't entirely a new experience for him.

"That will do." Miriam told him. Then she stepped forward again as a sudden suspicion formed in her mind. "Wait a minute!" Reaching around to the front of his thighs her fingers nubbed against something the size of a thick cigar - half the length, but just as firm - his uprisen prickie. 

"I don't know what caused this, but we can't have 'that' thing going back into your knickers in 'that' condition." Her fingers took a grip and jinked his flesh, and at once Amanda's eyes flickered. Wincing and squirming his knees drew together and his penis throbbed.

Miriam Hancock winced too. In her younger days she'd been rather adept at handling the male organ, but in more recent times had come to regard the process as increasingly distasteful. And wasn't she being hypocritical in doing such a thing after emphasising with Emma Twist the importance of ignoring such anatomy? Never mind, it couldn't be helped, and anyway her reasons were acetic. She simply couldn't have a sissy leaving her study in an obvious state of arousal.

She concentrated on stroking the tip of Amanda's cock and playing with the foreskin, and Amanda began to rock back and forth, breathing deeply and sensing it was wrong - even for an headmistress - to touch him like that. But although he knew what the shameful result would be, he couldn't stop her, she had the greater strength, and she had authority over him. The woman's warm breath wheezed in his ear and he found himself feeling weak-kneed and leaning heavily in her arms. For a moment he almost embarrassed himself by giving vent to a squeal of delight. The woman's fingers stirred more animation in him than her smacks had done, and this time his soft 'oooh!" noises became more pronounced and extended as he rolled his pelvis to encourage her to rub faster.

"Mm, yes. I think you're used to this, aren't you? Miriam murmured rhetorically as she worked on his delicate sheath of skin. The cutie was a surprise. The more she rubbed his snout the thicker and more solid it became, enticing her to skim her fingers in a blur. "Is this what your mummy does when she's finished spanking you? Does she allow her ladyfriends to watch? Does she sometimes allow them to do it too?"

He didn't answer, he could only clench his teeth as unwanted sensations assailed him. They brought tension to every nerve in his body, making him ache, pulsate and yearn for relief.

"Woo, woo!" Softly uttered the play-noises of a toy train escaped his mouth, slightly strangled in rendition but fierce enough to announce the ejaculation of a fine splash of semen, warm and slick.

The headmistress rubbed him until his loins stopped shivering, then with a frown she stepped away and went in search of a paper tissue to wipe the smear of ooze from her fingers. The wet finish had taken her by surprise and she'd ceased to be an admirer of male ejaculate. Still, he was a good choice for Hardwick's dance team, so delicate and slender. He'd be a real tease wearing a posing pouch and he'd look so sweet everyone would want to sit him on their lap and pet him.

Amanda climbed down from the chair and hung his head. His soft bottom cheeks and smooth loins were sore, tingling and smarting, but there was no unsightly protrusion from his thighs.

"That's much more acceptable. Adjust your clothes Amanda and tuck your rascally nozzle away."

"Yes, Miss."

"Good! Now run along and rejoin your class, and try to be a good girl for the rest of the day."

"Yes, Miss. Thank you, Miss."

***

Once more Miriam's thoughts returned to Emma Twist and the longer she mused about her the more she felt the young woman had the makings of an ideal member of staff, but of cause only a successful show of dominance would determine her actual suitability.

She allowed the agreed hour to pass before going up to the common-room, and what she found there on arrival was far and away beyond her expectations. Poppy was standing with his face pressed against a blank wall, naked but for his shoes and socks, his pert little bottom glowing angry red in contrast to the pale cream tone of the rest of him. Emma Twist stood several paces distant with her arms folded tight beneath the thrust of her blouse,intensely observing the sissy in her charge. She turned to greet Miriam as she entered, nodding but not smiling.

"I felt standing against the wall to be the appropriate place for a freshly spanked girl." she explained.

"Oh yes, I think so without doubt." Miriam agreed, "You appear to have made quite a mark with Poppy."

The younger woman allowed herself to smile politely at the pun. "I've told him to play with himself, but not to ejaculate without permission."

"Amazing, and so coolly done. Your skill would seem to be exceptional."

Curious, the headmistress moved up behind the stationary, naked student and peered over his shoulder, noting how his fingers fluttered hesitantly about his swollen penis. It was too gargantuan to attain a proper erection, she doubted there was enough spare blood in his body to do it, but the swollen pink cock-head glistened with liberal amounts of pre-cum. 

Poppy was clearly at boiling point and on the verge of orgasm. In desperation he risked an upward glance. "Please Miss Hancock, am I allowed to finish? May I do a cum now?"

"I'll leave that decision to your instructor. Miss Twist is your mistress at the moment." glancing at Emma, she asked. "How long as he been like this?"

"The saucy strumpet developed a hard-on the moment he went over my lap, and that earned him a good many extra smacks. However it lead on to an interesting experiment" She gave the boys hair a cruel tug. "Show the headmistress the party-trick you've been practising, Poppy."

At once the effeminate teenager turned to his right and sank to his knees. Opening his mouth his pink tongue flashed around the broad tip of a strap-on cock that had been attached to the loins of the terracotta Adonis, quickly anointing it with spittle so that when he mounted his mouth onto it he could work his face back and forth vigorously.

Miriam Hancock was impressed. "Goodness me! That's astounding submission. And all done in an hour."

Seeking a sign of approval Poppy risked pausing to peep upward, the tip of the replica cock pressing into his mouth and making his cheek bulge.

"That's enough. Get back to the wall." Emma told him crisply, then sensing her future at Fairyfield was assured she smiled in triumph at Miriam. "The past hour as been full of surprises, but it's also been very enlightening. Poppy is a gem."

The headmistress guided her back a few paces. "There's a good deal of the play-actor in him when it comes to facial expressions, I hope you didn't think me too devious in using such talent."

Emma glanced briefly at the quaking figure facing the wall. "Finding my way through his guile only made success more satisfying." She shook her head. "Such an innocent face, yet such an amazing skill at fellatio."

"His mother is a high-class prostitute who took him into the family business, so to speak. When he's at home she rents him out by the hour, so he's probably been in more men's beds that a female whore twice his age.

"She's missing a good income by sending him here."

"The woman's in prison at the moment. You may have read of the scandal in the newspapers."

Emma raised an eyebrow. "Do you mean the call-girl and politician affair? The man was a government minister wasn't he?

"The Minister for Schools and Education. She was blackmailing him rather profitably until the tabloids got hold of the story. That's why Poppy's here. Put into cold-storage as it were, until she's served her sentence. I've twenty-seven students boarding with me at the moment, and each of them have their own intriguing reason for being here, though not all are quite as infamous."

"Blackmail!" pondered Emma. "A vile crime!"

Miss Hancock's mouth twitched minutely. "Yes, absolutely. Leave Poppy here to finish off and I'll give you a tour of your new home."

The two women moved towards the door, but before they went out a soft moan of anguish from Poppy caused Emma to turn and survey the back of his shaking legs. "You may toss yourself off now Poppy, but don't take all day about it, and make sure you clean up afterwards." she told him.

As they left the common-room Miriam indicated another door a short way along the corridor. "Let's have a look in the closet. The pupils tend to call it the 'dungeon' and I have some sympathy with that."

Emma peered over the woman's shoulder as she opened the door to a small room. It was in darkness, but the click of a wall switch lit a single bare bulb in the ceiling to reveal it as windowless, no more than eight meters by twelve, the floor covered with grey linoleum and the painted walls scuffed and dirty. Various items were crammed in storage at one end - a stack of chairs, some boxes and a tall cupboard with a panelled door, while at the other end the naked figure of a young man lay curled on the floor. He was bound, ankles tied together, hands fastened behind his back, and his mouth had been stuffed with a pink ball-gag. He looked sorrowful and pathetic, but the headmistress gave him only a perfunctory glance.

"This is the fate suffered by those who commit serious misconduct at Fairyfield Grange."

"Serious misconduct?" queried Emma.

Miss Hancock pouted thoughtfully as she switched off the light and closed the door. "Refusing to be a girl is serious. Refusing to wear a skirt or answer to a female name are offences which sometimes require brutal attention to obtain the desired result. Sissy life can come as a shock to some people, but everything is about perspective. One persons darkness is another persons light. 'What the caterpillar calls the end of the world, the master calls the butterfly.'" She smiled. "The Chinese philosopher Chuang Tse coined those words for an emperor, but he could have just as well have meant them for Fairyfield Grange." 

"There are other things to bear in mind. " she went on, "For instance, sissies can be fascinated by men, and since men adore pretty boys who wear skirts my girls must be escorted whenever outside the school. I'll not tolerate them frolicking with 'Outsiders' until they've been successfully placed at the end of their training. The only exception to that is if their charms can be used to benefit the school. We must all be prepared to make sacrifices for the sake of the school."



A Sissy Saga Ch. 05



Miriam opened the door and poked her head through the gap into her daughters bedroom. "Sorry to call on you at such short notice darling, but the water boiler's buggered and I have no other choice but to ask Hardwick to go and have a look at it. I've no idea how long he's going to be, so could you take his first session?"

Jennifer roused herself from the book she was reading and sat up. Her ambition was to take a degree in psychology, but she was compelled to hang back from attending university until her mother's school was properly up and running and money became available. Although she had no fixed position in the hierarchy of instruction she had agreed to assist when she was needed, and that morning, feeling bored and trapped in the house like a fly in a jam jar, she was pleased to show just how useful she could be.

A short time later they walked across the outside yard and entered the gymnasium. At one time it had been the coach-house but recently it had undergone an extensive makeover. Miriam complained that it cost as much as all the other internal refurbishments put together. The original stone-flagged floor had been replaced by neat looking parquetry and while much of the equipment inside was second-hand the facilities it could now boast were as good as any top rank school in the land. All the fitness paraphernalia together with an ancient sit-up-and-beg piano that Hardwick used when conducting dancing lessons was pushed to the side, leaving the floor clear for the first period of the day.

"It's deportment training," explained Miriam, "You've done it before so I'm sure it won't give you any trouble."

The students were already in place and Jennifer eyed them speculatively. They stood in a neat line. Six of them. All good girls; fragile fairies as camp as a row of tents; all dressed identically in thigh-length picture frocks the colour of whitewashed peaches. The dresses were the approved garment for deportment training and the whole of each skimpy outfit looked like it weighed less than a ounce. The display of bare skin was extensive, their bodies showed little fat and looked warm and smooth, which belied the toned muscle Hardwick took care to develop in them. All as gay as springtime in Paris, she mused. Androgynous, almost angelic features atop trim bodies that displayed the kind of bare slender legs any real girl would kill for.

Miriam addressed them. "Now my pretties, be still whilst I introduce you to Jennifer. She as graciously agreed to fill in for Mr Hardwick whilst he his engaged in other vital work."

She smiled at her daughter. "They are all in the latest intake and you won't have met them yet." She indicated them with a wide swing of her arm. "Here we have Bambi and Zoë, Lulabelle and Jemima, and on the end, Fifi and Samantha."

Jennifer smiled politely. "They look sweet in their little frocks."

Her mother responded with a sharp nod of her head. "They have accepted their future so there shouldn't be any trouble. It's probably best if I just leave you with them or nothing will ever get done, I need to see if Hardwick as any idea of what he's doing."

There were times when it would seem an advantage to be a hard-faced harridan of forty, and Jennifer guessed this was one of them. These new first-termers didn't know her, so they would be assessing her at that moment, noting her youthfulness and estimating her abilities, and eventually they would think her too young to keep a grip on their behaviour. Young people could play havoc if not checked all the time and they would be reckoning her incapable of maintaining control. Vitally then, she had to put her stamp of authority on things. And it had to be done immediately.

The piano stool was butting against her knee. She waited until her mother had exited the room, then pushed it away with her foot and pointed to an individual on the end of the line. "Go and find me a proper chair."

While he went off to find something from a side room she held the others with her eyes, displaying no hesitancy, no giggles or ingratiating smiles, nothing that could be interpreted as weakness. When she spoke her words were deliberate and unfaltering, indicating utter self-assurance.

"You and I have to come to an understanding," she began, "We all need to know who is in charge here, and you have to know that it's me. I'm not a tutor and at first sight I may seem a slip of a girl whose demands can be easily dodged, but I can tell you I'm not inexperienced when it comes to calling the tune with boys in frocks."

The faces in her small audience drained of colour as the resonance of her voice beat against their ear drums. This girl was going to be no soft touch. Her intonations were of the kind that made dogs tuck their tails between their legs.

Samantha returned with a hefty hard-backed carver and placed it carefully behind her, but Jennifer remained standing as he rejoined the line.

"I'm stronger than any of you, more cunning than all of you." she went on, "I know all your tricks and I know all about the questionable little games you devise when unsupervised. I can be pleasant of beastly, warm or mean, everything depends on your willingness to comply with what I say."

Taking a step forward she glared at them, challenging them, intimidating them. Her greatest thrill was to dominate and she knew exactly how to do it. "Do you enjoy being girls?"

"Er...yes." volunteered Jemima.

"You should say, yes Jennifer. Using my name implies respect and I insist on respect."

She moved sideways and faced Zoë, an item as slender as a reed with a peaches and cream complexion. "Do you enjoy being a girl?"

"Please Jennifer, we're not real girls."

She had been about to move on, but the unexpected reply jarred with her and instead she slowly rounded on him. "Dear me. Here we have a little lady who's so sharp she may cut herself. I know what you are, you stupid, panty-freak, but you all dress like girls and look effeminate. You probably like gentlemen to admire you too. Do you? Do you enjoy being admired, Zoë?"

Zoë's face took on the colour of a turnip. Unable to form a safe answer and smashed by her fierce invective he looked down, contrite, while some of the others in the group sniggered.

"Just as I thought," sneered Jennifer, "You have no shame. You're all as girlish as pink cardigans. PUT YOUR HANDS ON YOUR HEAD - EVERYONE. Anyone else who comes up with a cleverer-than-thou notion had better watch out, because I'm in the mood to put their balls through a laundry mangle."

They all obeyed her without raising any protest. Aware now of her sharp temper and slightly afraid of it they gazed to their fronts and didn't even dare look her in the eye. Jennifer stalked round behind them, sensing their nervousness and enjoying it. Being a resident of Fairyfield was like trying to ignore the lyrics of a catchy song, she mused. One started out telling ones self the words didn't matter, but three lines in and any previous plan was forgotten and one settled into the comforting rhythm of the music. Innocent twinks were totally out of their depth in such a place. Here they became young men of straw who could be led, swayed, bamboozled or bullied, and with the appliance of the correct kind of discipline they settled down in a surprisingly short time.

She reflected on the perversity of the business her mother had established at Fairyfield, and she didn't wonder that it had aroused hostility from all the po-faced women in the district. After all, a sissy school could be construed as a sink of moral corruption and a haven for homosexual depravity. 

Following a few minutes of silence everyone sharpened up perceptively and seemed eager to co-operate, and at last Jennifer seated herself regally in the carver. "Put your hands down by your sides. Show me how far you have progressed under Mr Hardwick's instruction. Form single file and circle the floor, then promenade towards me as if you were a debutante presenting yourself to the Queen."

She watched them intensely as they proceeded around the floor of the gym. It was easy to detect Hardwick's influence. Their way of strutting was based on the pas de bourree, a ballet movement were one foot is swiftly placed in front of another, and was an indication of the man's defunct career as a dance-master. Chorus-girl tap shoes were no real substitute for high heels, she thought, but for the moment they had to suffice. She made a mental note to suggest to her mother that each student should purchase a good pair of high-heel pumps from the monthly allowance their parents gave them.

"Walk towards me, be gracious, toes out, heads up, shoulders down." She sat admiring how they shook their slender hips and wiggled juicily as they turned towards her, just enough to make their meagre rehearsal skirts swirl and make a show of tight panties with plenty of cock-bulge in front.

"That's it. Tummy in, bottom nipped. Dip a little curtsy and swing to the side. That was good Lulabelle, but some of your friends haven't quite got the hang of it yet, so we'll try it again. Around you all go, and remember to swing your hips.

***

When she perched at one end of the sofa in the common-room at lunchtime Miriam Hancock took leisurely stock of the members of staff around her. They were a motley lot, for the most part other peoples rejects, but by some fluke of human chemistry they made her sissy-school work.

On her right sat matron, a tall, scrawny woman with a thin face always displaying a sour expression and looking as if she were perpetually sucking an acid-drop. She'd been Chief Nurse at a fashionable London clinic until accusations of some kind of medical malpractice caused her to seek isolation in the Yorkshire dales. There was no place for a full-time matron at Fairyfield, and she'd been taken on as a secretary, but old habits died hard with her, and she still relished every opportunity to slip on a white coat and play a medical role.

Sitting directly opposite to her Margaret Pardoe drummed the fingers of one hand impatiently against the knuckles of another. She was beyond the flush of youth and appeared plain and faded, but her features were so finely drawn her face seemed attenuated at times. Always dressed in neutral English good taste she was a handsome enough woman, though her head drawn up on a long neck like that of a duck gave her a disconcerting quality of indulgence. She appeared to endure life with laudable little fuss, but was a discouraging person to meet for the first time, seeming always to be smothering resentment at something or other. Maybe that was because she was a lesbian who had acquired a taste for putting her hand inside girls panties, and dealing with sissy-males was ultimately distasteful to her. Thankfully, the constant need to punish them alleviated some of the tension and consoled the hard feminist streak in her nature.

Mrs Pardoe was employed as a tutor despite having never qualified in anything other than some obscure exam in needlework. To her credit she had assisted faithfully when Miriam had been with the probation service in Harrogate, and having suffered some upset with the present administration there she'd been happy enough to serve her again when invited.

Cups and cafetieria rattling on a brass tray announced the presence of Gloria. Fat and shapeless, unrefined and unassuming, but always well organised. She had been nanny to Miriam's own children and had stayed on as housekeeper when that role ended. She had always been a broad-hipped woman and had grown larger with the years. She had a big bust and double chin and was immensely overweight, but gave an impression of physical warmth and richness of body. Now she managed the auxiliary staff on the ground floor with amazing efficiency - brutally some would say, since she was known to have thrown a woman who displeased her down a flight of steps.

If youth and beauty were needed to offset the lack of them in her other staff, Emma Twist had them to spare. She was young and pretty, and the only one in the room with academic training, but beneath her outwardly pleasant exterior brooded a dark kind of heartlessness. She enjoyed the role she'd been given probably more than anyone else there. Her perversity had already lost her a place in mainstream education, but her sadistic tendencies were compensated for in Miriam's eyes by other qualities. In a life without men she had the potential to be an endearing companion from time to time.

Her eyes shifted to the far end of the coffee-table around which everyone had gathered. There Mr Hardwick sprawled nonchalantly in a chair. When not wearing clothes suitable for the gymnasium he preferred to loaf about in an old jacket and trousers graced by slightly scuffed shoes. At forty-four Hardwick still carried the air of a juvenile lead, an impression emphasised by elegant mannerisms that bordered on the effeminate. He was the odd man out in more ways than one. Miriam would have preferred an all-female staff for her school, but Hardwick had fitted her requirements too perfectly when she'd recruited. Despite the premature peppering of greying hair on his temples he was a superb gym-instructor, and having spent many years with the Royal Ballet he was ideal to teach deportment and figure-training, subjects in her curriculum that were dear to her heart.

A special bonus with Hardwick was his lack of interest in anything outside the school, and he obliged by serving as a handyman-janitor in his spare time. He was also a pederast who delighted at being around boys in panties and was the reason he'd been prematurely 'retired' from his previous appointment. That only became a problem when it clashed with Margaret Pardoe's ultra-feminist views, and unsavoury as his appetite may have been to some people she could always be sure he treated the pupils as girls.

She waited for everyone to settle, then began. "The purpose of this meeting is primarily to do with Open Day. You'll recall the last time we met I outlined a proposal to promote our school at the end of this term in a way that would both thank our present sponsors and establish some rapport with new ones. Most of the visitors will be well appointed and affluent, and in my experience wealthy people demand to be humoured and flattered, so we must pull out all the stops to impress." She grinned, "At least until they're all too sozzled or stoned to know any difference. I'd appreciate your thoughts now you've had some time to think about it."

There was a pause. No one felt like being the first to start. Miriam looked towards the housekeeper. "Food, Gloria. Will we be able to feed people?"

"Aye, there's no problem wi' that Miss Hancock. A buffet can be delivered on whatever day you choose. The caterers just need confirmation a week in advance."

"Good! As for wine, one glass of Premier Cru will be sufficient for everyone on arrival, after which they must put up with more mundane things."

"The rooms needed for the displays you intend will need to be redecorated," said Emma Twist, "For the sake of economy I was thinking of extending the student's day and having much of the work done by them."

Mrs Pardoe sneaked a sideways glance at her, and then appealed to the headmistress. "A great deal of time will have to be spent on the costumes you want. I'll need to have my own pupils in compulsory detention until they're finished."

Miriam nodded. "If extra effort is required I see no reason why the girls should not be encouraged to make it. It can only enhance their character." She looked towards the end of the table. "And the aerobic display, Mr Hardwick. Is that in hand?"

The middle-aged man stopped lounging and leaned slightly forward. "In hand of course, headmistress, but with most pupils having to attend unremitting detention I fear for my rehearsal time."

Mrs Pardoe immediately took umbrage, interpreting his remark at a personal swipe at herself. "What kind of time do you need to teach them how to jump about and wriggle around? All you'll really suffer is less time to maul their bodies."

The man's eyes glared at her and just for a moment Miriam feared they would leap at each other in a spitting, tearing rage.

"Enough, Mrs Pardoe, I won't have my meeting turned into a cat-fight." She stared hard, and the other woman stared back with equal ferocity; in the past they'd conspired together in criminal debauchery of the most unacceptable kind, and they knew enough to have each other thrown into jail several times over. The exchange of glances became a duel of wills, and it was Mrs Pardoe who gave way. Instinctively she knew she was no match for Miriam. She had neither the wit or determination to use her knowledge properly, and she lacked the uncanny ability of the headmistress for wriggling out from tight situations.

"Mr Hardwick shall have his dancers," Miriam told her unequivocally, then to the gym-instructor she said, "Make your selection from wherever you wish, but those pupils not included from your own class will report to Mrs Pardoe or Miss Twist to make up their shortfall."

The man squirmed with dissatisfaction. "That will make things dashed complicated on occasions, headmistress."

"If there's a problem you must work it out, Mr Hardwick." she told him without compromise. She then added in a gentler tone. "By the way, we are all pleased to know you had success with the water boiler earlier. Without your efforts the house would have been full of unsavoury body pong by suppertime."

"There's something else that must be worked out," put in Emma, "I calculate we've not enough pupils to perform the number of activities you propose on Open Day. Some of them will need to be used two or three times."

Miriam gave a wan smile. "Then I shall rely on you, Miss Twist, to formulate an action-plan to accommodate that." She glanced from face to face. "Is there anything else?"

"Breasts, headmistress. We should have breasts."

A smile returned to Hardwick's face and everyone gazed at matron who had uttered her first words at the meeting. "Open day would surely be incomplete without one or two boys with proper breasts," she said, "But the oestrogen I dose into their food won't produce anything substantial by the end of term. I doubt any of them will have enough puppy flesh to fill a starter bra."

Matron was keen on breasts, and it was she who administered the hormone cocktails that would eventually make the boys into hot teenage she-males with a talent for waving their soft, round sissy bottoms at men.

"What are you advocating, matron?" asked Miss Hancock.

The other woman gave a rare smile. "In London I had a great deal of experience with breast enhancing surgery, and on several occasions I performed it myself without supervision while the physicians sat in their office-suites totting up fat fees. I know where to obtain the silicon implants, and there's plenty of room in the east wing where ..."

"No, no matron, you're going too far." Miriam interrupted, "Even if such a thing could be made safe my budget for this year couldn't sustain what is certain to be an expensive business." She glanced towards Mr Hardwick, "Surely there must be exercises that will encourage breast development."

"I'll - er - look into the matter." he replied noncommittally.

Matron retreated back into disgruntled silence, and Miriam took another look around. "Anything else before we close the meeting?"

Being the newcomer Emma Twist sought to establish herself by saying something at this stage. "The pupils are hard to settle at night. The rule about asking permission to play with themselves is constantly flouted, they're forever flitting between each others beds, and the prefects not only tolerate it but often join in."

"And what would be your remedy for all this misbehaviour?" Miriam asked.

Emma felt all eyes turn in her direction, and she sat forward in her seat. "Male hormones are the villains here, so the occupants of each dormitory should be paraded after showers each evening and compelled to masturbate to a conclusion under the supervision of a stern overseer."




A Sissy Saga Ch. 05



Mrs Pardoe groaned. "Heaven's sake Emma, don't go suggesting another fucking late night duty for us. Late nights looking after effeminate fuckwits are killing me. You've no idea what they do to my blood pressure."

"It would be a straightforward task that Gloria could do." Emma answered defiantly.

"Why yes," Gloria puffed eagerly. During her time as a nanny she'd developed an enthusiasm for certain unsavoury games. "I's got no objection to settlin' the dear girly-gentlemen of an evenin'. I already inspects 'em sometimes after showers anyway, makin' sure their bum-holes is clean and their winkies as been washed proper." She returned the expressions of slight amazement on the faces gazing at her with an unbending stare. "It's better than standin' around like a churn a'dryin'."

"Gloria can't possibly do it every night," Mrs Pardoe said crossly, "And anyway, such a thing would destroy matron's little sideline in supplying them with oils and lotions."

Matron looked up frostily. "If the dears are determined to do certain things it's as well for them to do them without risking injury. Anyway, the rule about masturbation is impractical. The urge to touch themselves is overpowering in males, and they'll always find some way of doing it without asking permission."

Miriam smiled patiently. Emma Twist was comparatively new at Fairyfield, and in her eagerness to have an impact she'd ignored an important premise. The purpose of the school wasn't simply to turn boys into girls, it was also aimed at turning them into shameless sexpots. After all, none of the clients she was cultivating for future placements would wish to take on a GOOD girl, and turning a blind-eye to lewd dormitory antics and allowing leeway for experiment was vital. Leaving them to their own devises was preferable to bringing in men to teach them. Hardwick was the limit she could tolerate of such people. Of course she would never publicly admit such a thing. That wouldn't be genteel.

"The rule will remain," she said firmly, "An establishment such as ours stands or falls on discipline, and the more rules we have the more chance we have to apply it."

"An intriguing concept, headmistress." murmured Hardwick.

Matron looked puzzled. "It as a certain logic, and I think I understand what you mean."

Miriam, to which nothing sifted through to oblivion, took stock and smiled at Emma. "You've clearly given this matter great thought, and are to be commended for it, but you see what controversy it arouses. When we're able to open the east-wing we'll have additional staff, and perhaps then we'll review the matter, until then I'm going to leave it in abeyance." She took a breath, then looked across at Gloria. "Would you bring the coffee over now?"

***

When the meeting broke up Miriam remained in the common-room sitting alone. From the pocket of her jacket she took a letter, a brief missive written on a piece of pale pink, heraldic-headed notepaper that she had already scanned several times before. It read:

'Dear Miss Hancock. You have made a home and business of Fairyfield for sometime now and it is my regret that we have yet to meet despite the invitations I have offered. Of course I understand just how busy your enterprise must keep you, indeed I am no stranger to a hectic, high-pressure life style myself, but a topic as arisen that I feel needs some intimate discussion. Consequently I have made myself available to visit you Wednesday p.m. Please make no special arrangements and do not inform the press. I'm rather well known and I need a little rest from media attention.'

It was signed modestly, Diana.

She did know of the person who had written it of course, everyone knew of her. Diana, Lady Chance-Barton was forever a feature in the Sunday supplements' and the cheap and cheerful celebrity gossip magazines. Her vanity had no boundaries and she was unequalled in its promotion - naming ships with champagne, offering out public counselling on healthy eating, and pouting sweet affection at underprivileged children whom she almost, but never quite touched.

She mixed with the highest social set of the county - no, not just the county but the entire country, and she was a totem for thousands of mentally inadequate people who needed someone glamorous to coo over. The woman and herself had nothing in common at all. Diana Chance-Barton was more inclined to rub shoulders with statesmen and show business glitterati than people like herself, so why did she wish to see her so urgently?

Carefully she folded the note and slipped it back into its envelope. It was silly to be suspicious. Relations with local people had been strained recently thanks to Mrs Boroclough's antipathy towards the kind of school she had set up. She needed friends now more than ever, and influential people such as Diana should be welcomed.

***

When Emma left the meeting she went along the landing to spend some time alone. At intervals along the second floor corridor recessed mullioned windows looked out onto the gardens, and in one of these she paused. It was a favoured place. It allowed her a view of the gatehouse where Hardwick was accommodated, and sometimes through the window of the gatehouse on a fine summer evening she was able to witness the disreputable gym-teacher porking one of the sissy-boys. Having the only man-dick in an establishment with so many soft, scantily clad bottoms the anally fixated rogue must have thought heaven had come to earth.

Smoking cigarettes had once been anathema to her, but in her year out before university she'd spent some time in Central America and had become accustomed to the recreational use of reefers and cheroots. 'Grass' she only used in her room, but occasionally she enjoyed a small cigar by an open window when there was little chance of being disturbed. She had just touched the cheroot to her lips when her solace was interrupted by a clatter that may have been mice in the walls. Ignoring it she lit her cheroot and turned back towards the window.

The monstrosity of Fairyfield Grange had horrified her when she'd first seen it. It seemed to her the architect had given it a forbidding facade with grotesque, imitation baroque excesses and gothic-like turrets that had no real purpose. She'd disliked the extravagance of its great maw of an entrance, and the ghastly oeil-de-boeuf which ornamented the roof-line. It gave the whole house a menacing many-eyed appearance - as if it were a sentient and hungry thing watching for someone to gobble up.

The place seemed to suit her nevertheless. Once she'd become a member of staff she'd settled in rather comfortably. There were close on thirty 'girls' in residence, most of whom would remain until they had completed two terms and were ready for placement as cock-sucking transvestites, utterly subservient to women and willing to drop their pants for men. They were divided into three groups, each of which revolved between herself, the rather grumpy Mrs Pardoe, and Hardwick in the gym. Lessons ended at 4 p.m., but that was never the end of responsibility. Miss Hancock refused to allow Outsiders above the ground floor, so each afternoon the pupils fastened pinafore smocks over their gymslips and spent the two hours prior to supper cleaning the facilities in the upper storeys. Officially it was known as Domestic Practise, but everyone dubbed it 'shine-time'. It was a function the headmistress maintained was invaluable experience for prospective servants.

Supervision duties seemed endless, though in the evenings the staff were assisted by Miss Hancock's daughter Jennifer, a physically strong girl with a waspish disposition that was Gestapo-like. And of course in the dormitories the head-girl, Abigail, could be relied on to maintain some kind of order when assisted by one or two prefects.

A social life for herself was out of the question, but that hardly seemed to matter. The school operated a plethora of regulations designed to extinguish all independent thought in the pupils, and corporal punishment, thinly disguised by the term 'correction', was the unwanted reward for any poor soul who unwittingly transgressed a rule. Habitually now she herself prowled like a big cat everywhere, eyes bright with expectation, waiting for her prey to commit an error.

Ah yes! It was the prospect of practising 'correction' that had attracted her and now held her fast there. She'd never really pinned down when such behaviour had started with her, although all her girlfriends in college would testify that she was the dominant one; never the spankee - always the spanker. She had taken a year out to visit central America and while there had developed her passion, but at Fairyfield she didn't even have the expense of the can of Coca-Cola that the youthful peasants of Mexico demanded before allowing themselves to be spanked beyond tears.

The drippy sissyboys Miss Hancock accepted for her school really did look like girls externally when put into frocks, and she loved the awe she inspired in so many youthful creatures. In class she was pitiless in smacking their hands and legs and spanking their bottoms, and she'd become a terror to avoid in the corridors. She owned their souls, she could make them do anything. The power she had over so many individuals was an aphrodisiac in every sense of the word, their very helplessness causing her arousal and exciting her imagination. In most places one would be hounded for merely twisting a student's ear - people in general were so politically-correct about such things - but here at Fairyfield there was never any such problem.

She was suddenly startled from her reverie by the noise of the rodent pest. From a cupboard on the landing that had barely enough room to hold a few buckets and brooms emanated first a scratching and then a sharp clatter. She didn't discount that vermin may still have a run of the old house, but that idea soon faded. Neither rats or mice opened doors!

Emma stood very still and watched as the cupboard door inched open and a morbid eye peered out from the tar black interior. Some kind of lark by one of the buildings inmates? If it was someone would soon regret such tomfoolery.

She strode over and wrenched the door wide open forcefully to reveal not a sniggering sissy, but the figure of a small, dishevelled, middle-aged woman wearing a grubby overall and an expression of shock. She had a large, aquiline nose that gave her face the hawkish appearance of a bird of prey, and she looked like she'd been standing there a long time, too long, until she looked like an exhibit in a museum that someone had neglected to dust. Her skin had an indoors pallor and her shapeless brown hair hung around her face like curtains detached from their fastenings. 

Emma instantly thought her ugly. Not just without beauty as some women are, but actively ugly, with a face devoid of make-up or any attempt to use feminine wiles to address the problem. She stared at her, eyes hard and curious, her own expression at first puzzled then angry. "Who the hell are you?"

"Oh, um, 'scuse me miss, I's Mrs Amos, miss. I's one o' the cleaners."

"The cleaning staff went off duty ages ago."

"Yes, I know. But I got lost."

"Lost! How can you be lost, even in a house this size? The stairs are only ten paces away." Her eyes narrowed. "Anyway, cleaning staff are forbidden to come above the ground floor, just what are you up to?"

"I cleans the back stairs miss. I come up for just a minute an' I got lost."

"Rubbish! You're either a spy for someone, or a pervert wishing to peep at young girls in their dormitories - and I don't think you've got brains enough to be a spy."

A sly look flickered in the woman's squinting eyes and she sniggered as if she enjoyed being privy to a dark secret. "Them lasses here - none of 'em's lasses at all, them's all lads wearin' frocks."

Emma Twist's expression hardened. "I think the best thing I can do with you is give you over to Gloria and ask her to sack you and expel you from the grounds."

The threat at once had a sobering effect and knocked away the strange woman's inane smugness. She may not have had much in the way of intelligence, but she could recognise danger looming. "No, dunna do that miss. She's a right brute is Gloria. She chucks folk down the stairs."

Emma nodded. "I've heard some women in the past have lost their footing on the steps whilst in her company."

The two women stood eye to eye, but Emma said nothing more. Instead she reached slowly, with cold deliberation, for the swell of the other woman's cheek. Mrs Amos couldn't see her own cheek, of course, and thought for one crazed moment that she was going to pat her, but she didn't. She didn't slap her either - but then, horribly, she felt fingers dig in and twist her flesh. Although she wasn't insensitive to pain being inflicted, she didn't try to bat a hand or fight back, she merely mewed like a cat would when seeking sympathy.

Emma's voice, syrup and lead, said, "You're a captive of your own curiosity, Mrs Amos. It's either Gloria or myself you must suffer, and I just wonder if you've picked wisely."

Here was an opportunity to dominate in a different realm. Why should her pleasure be reserved for just Fairyfield sissies? The horrible little woman was coarse, dull and witless, and her lack of struggle hinted at abject submission and a facility to put up with abuse. Releasing her grip she spoke sharply. "Put your hands on your head."

The woman reacted to the abrupt command instantly, raising her arms and clasping her fingers in the unkempt thatch of her hair. Encouraged by such dumb obedience Emma became fascinated by just how much humiliation she could inflict before the woman put up some resistance.

She glanced along the landing, and satisfied no one else was about, she swung Mrs Amos about and gave her a push. "We'll go to my room. Come with me."

Mrs Amos heard the no-nonsense in her voice and at once found it more shocking than even the odd, fierce face-pinching she'd just suffered. It was so shocking that she waddled off in the direction indicated like a forlorn and docile prisoner-of-war without a bleep of protest.

The contents of Emma Twists apartment were as brash as she was herself - the furnishings of the living area consisted of an old steamer chair, a round brass table supported by four wooden llamas, an ethnic woven rug in browns and reds, several Guatemalan wall-hangings, and in the centre of the room a very suburban G-plan sofa in screaming mauve. In one corner stood an item she called her 'hurdle', a strange contraption that looked vaguely like a workman's support trestle, but was made of varnished mahogany and had thick padding wrapped around its central span. She had acquired it from a convent on the outskirts of Monterey where the nuns never thought to spare the rod when dealing with young sinners.

She stood Mrs Amos in the middle of the carpet. "Take off your coat." she told her.

Uncertainty flickered in the woman's face as she removed her scruffy overall to reveal a baggy old T-shirt and equally scruffy skirt underneath. Her lack of a bra was evident by the outline of breasts that drooped almost down to her waistline.

"What time are you expected home?"

"Oh, I ... er ... I dunno. Me ole man goes straight down the pub when he finishes work. I hardly ever sees him."

"Let me see your breasts, Mrs Amos."

There was such an expression of chill in the command that the woman made a low, moaning anxious sound as she hesitantly reached for the bottom of her T-shirt. 

"No, don't lift the shirt, you slag. Pull the neck down and hang what you have over the top."

The neckline of the shirt was already distorted and enlarged from overuse and Mrs Amos was able to stretch it even wider, plunging a hand down inside to lift out one lump of flesh and then a second, draping them onto the front of the garment in the fashion of a pair of flabby pendulums. Two grotesque breasts swung down, brown nipples studded onto anaemic lifeless sacks devoid of shape or allure. "Is yer gunna smack me tits, miss?" asked the cleaning-woman, wide eyed.

Emma clicked her tongue in irritation. "Don't try second-guessing what I intend. Take off your skirt."

The woman dithered momentarily, then the skirt dropped down - no stockings, and no pants either.

"Don't you have underwear?" Emma asked as she gazed at the woman's closely cropped bush.

"Y-yes miss, but I don't bother with it much. Not usually miss. Not unless I's goin' to a funeral or a weddin'. I finds knickers a nuisance." She offered a moronic grin. "I trims me minge reg'lar tho'. Blokes like to see where they're going, don't they?"

The attempt at ripe sisterly humour only brought a sour expression to Emma's face. "I wouldn't know. I don't have much time for pleasing men's selfish eccentricities. You on the other hand obviously indulge them quite often, don't you Mrs Amos?"

"I's allus enjoyed a bit o' rumpy-pumpy. I went wi' lots o' lads a'fore I married." the woman volunteered.

"I don't doubt that. How many men have fucked you since your wedding?"

"A few - I don't keep count anymore - forty or fifty maybe. I's a lot choosier these days."

"Your curiosity about the young people in this building, is that part of being choosey?

"They's all shirt-lifters here, miss. I thought maybe I could teach 'em how to shag a lady."

"You appear to lack much in the way of morals," Emma commented dryly, "Are you intimate with women too?"

"Women! Well, I's not shy wi' other lasses, an' I does like some slap'n'tickle wi' em now and then. I 'specially likes doin' things wi' pretty ladies." 

She risked broadening her grin, but Emma sneered and stabbed the air with a minatory finger. "You'll keep your grotty tongue well inside your mouth when you're anywhere near me, you creaky old slapper."

Swinging about, she left Mrs Amos standing three parts naked and went through into her bedroom to take up the travel-bag she kept there, a bag that contained a number of items she found useful. Alone for a moment, the unsavoury nature of what she was becoming enmeshed in clarified. But so what! she snapped at herself truculently, only dull, small minded people need a nice clean life. In Leeds her existence had been blighted by so many self-righteous types who'd tutted over her rejection of a nice life. NICE LIFE! What a vapid phrase; meaningless! In ignorance she'd tried to live it for a year, resigned to fit with a dreary routine whilst trying to curb the sadistic streak in her nature. She had a passion far too big for small minds to understand. Her greatest need was to dominate, and she needed freedom to do it.

On her return the cleaning woman was still in place, motionless and docile, and Emma smiled her satisfaction. In one hand she now clutched what appeared to be a small pink rubber ball threaded through with a black elastic strap, while in the other she carried a coil of rope. Mrs Amos could only offer a vacuous expression and gape, which suited Emma well enough since it enabled her to stuff the rubber ball into her mouth. The woman glugged like an emptying sink as it was fastened in place, and when she looked at Emma sideways, mouth stretched wide and held open by the stopper of rubber, she looked pathetic, like a skittish rabbit cornered by a stoat.

Eyes sparkling, the tutor grasped her left ear and dragged her wincing towards the hurdle. "Press your thighs against the crossbar and lean down, Mrs Amos. Get over it, you old bag - get right down."

Clearly alarmed Mrs Amos prevaricated for a moment, but helped by a brisk shove from behind she slumped over the cross-spar of the trestle, her pallid, flabby bottom rising up as her head went down, the tips of her slack elongated breasts swinging freely and almost trailing on the floor.

Emma took hold of a heavy leather belt that had once been the property of a coal-miner and slapped the seasoned tip of it in the palm of her hand. She rarely used a belt like that on other people, and the only outings it had seen so far were on girls at university when they were drunk following a night on the town. Now however seemed a good time to give it a further trial.




A Sissy Saga Ch. 05



She considered the plump tapered thighs and awesome swell of the rotund bottom pushing towards her and ran a hand over the pale curves to test their pliability, then stepping back she raised her arm. An energetic downward swing brought the belt into abrupt contact with the woman's exposed posterior with a satisfying THWACK! Soft flesh rippled and Mrs Amos uttered a tiny smothered noise as her muscles twitched and a red stripe blossomed across her half-moons.

It was the first of several. SMACK! The second struck her just above the mark of the first - thwack! - the third descending accurately beneath it. WALLOP! The one following caught her square under both buttocks and lifted her onto her toes. The cleaning-woman writhed and kicked her heels, while her bottom cheeks opened and closed spasmodically, but the gag in her mouth would only allow ineffective muffled groans of protest to vocalise.

The crack of leather striking soft flesh resounded with a noise not unlike that of wet fish striking a marble slab, and very soon the patchwork of smarting red blotches on her bared expanses melded together to form a single fiery glow.

Smack, smack, smack! A trio of well aimed blows cracked and popped as they bounced off the slack but resilient rump, making no additional marks, but giving deeper, more intense colour. Now Mrs Amos started to judder, twisting at each burning impact, her hips churning vigorously as she vainly tried to avoid contact.

All the time her backside was being pounded Mrs Amos had blooped and whined behind the rubber-ball in her mouth, but had made no attempt to rise up, and Emma observed a dazed somewhat ridiculous expression on her face when she was finally pulled back onto her feet. She was not tied or restrained in any way. The stupid woman could have made some signal of protest; she could have fought with her or run for the door, but instead she stood still and submissive in the manner of a drooping sack, both hands occupied with cuddling her painful buttocks. With her mouth salivating slightly around the edge of the ball-gag she sniffed sorrowfully, her doleful eyes purposely avoiding a confrontation with Emma's own hard stare.

So, thought Emma, the hideous hag soaks up abuse and was partial to a bit of rough treatment. Let's see just how much she can stand. She stood in front of her and displayed the length of hemp rope. "Since you're not expected anywhere immediately I shall keep you here for a while, Mrs Amos. But if I do that, you must agree to being bound. You don't object to being tied-up, do you?"

The woman seemed too stunned to reply, even if she was able.

"Take off that rag of a shirt and let's have you naked."

Mrs Amos wasn't handsome with her clothes on, and she was even less palatable without them Emma decided. She was small, plump around the belly and wide at the hips, but with scrawny limbs. Laid face down on the ethnic rug she looked a bit like a chicken carcass.

She made no effort to resist when her hands were pulled up behind her back, and Emma quickly tied her wrists together before hauling her feet back until her heels touched her buttocks. With her ankles securely bound to her wrists and completely immobilised she became a mere lump of meat, Gagged and laid on her belly with her limbs folded up behind her she had the appearance of a Sunday roast; indeed a chicken, trussed and ready for the oven. So compliant, so docile, thought Emma. Yes, a definite candidate for something not usually practised at Fairyfield. Mrs Amos would probably submit to being caned.

When Emma picked up the woman's overall from the floor she discovered a banister brush in the wide pocket, and a flash of inspiration flared in her mind. Returning to the helplessly bound figure on the rug she passed a hand under the assortment of straining limbs and spread open two sore buttocks before coolly placing the tip of the brush handle against the crinkle of the woman's anus. A slight push to establish it beyond her sphincter roused a muffled grunt, a noise that became extended to a wail as Emma slowly sheathed the entire length of the handle into her backside, plunging it down until hard bristles touched quivering flesh.

The schoolteacher stood up and looked at her watch. "I have to teach class until 4 o'clock, so you'll have to remain as you are for two or three hours. If the brush is still in place when I return I'll consider using you in future for a few menial tasks, but you'll never, ever, be allowed to touch the sissies. Understand?"

Wild-eyed, red-faced, Mrs Amos made a noise that was unintelligible, but from the determined way her anus clutched the embedded wooden shaft Emma felt nothing more needed to be said.



A Sissy Saga Ch. 06



The following day was Sunday. Margaret Pardoe never resented being duty-tutor on a Sunday, it was the only day of the week without any kind of formal lessons and she was only responsible for overseeing the pantywaists when they strolled outside in the grounds. That said, much of the time she could idle away in the headmistress's study in pretence of monitoring the telephone, and she knew where Miriam Hancock stowed her sherry. On Sundays there were rarely any other staff about, and nothing to spoil the serenity. Not unless it was Church Sunday. Unfortunately it was Church Sunday that day.

On the fourth Sunday in each month, Parson Roper the incumbent of Peasmarsh, came to preside over morning worship, and the first part of the day was irritable bustle as she was compelled to direct parties of students in preparing the entrance hall for the service. When the school assembled later the pupils were paraded for a check-up by the headmistress: clean socks neatly folded down to equal lengths, clean hands and fingernails, shoes polished, gymslips pressed. 

It was also an ideal opportunity for a knicker inspection and even though they were all young men they were required to raise their skirts to prove they were wearing an approved pattern of underwear. Being smartly turned-out on Sundays was important to Miriam Hancock and everything had to be just right. It was a ritual from her own youth she never regretted inflicting on others, and she maintained it imperative to make a good impression on Parson Roper's visits.

Afterwards, acting a role of regal elegance, Miss Hancock entertained the parson to tea before his departure, and Margaret's greatest distaste came with having to accompany her on such occasions. It shouldn't have needed two of them. In most social situations Miriam could command a roomful of people without dominating it, her conversation was clever and broad, light and serious; she could impress anyone usually. But Roper was a creepy character with whom she refused to sit with alone.

"Since we've no means of getting the whole school down to your parish as a group we're always grateful when you can find the time to come out to Fairyfield for our benefit, parson." Miriam said as she led the way into her study. "And we forever admire your skill in conducting morning worship in the confines of the entrance hall."

Her remarks were purely polite conversation. She detested the clergyman, but having lately become out of favour with the formidable Mrs Boroclough when malicious rumours about the nature of her school began to circulate, she was in need of a substantial ally in the local community. She had to have one even if that meant having to indulge a bloated ecclesiastic ego.

Patting both hands over the endomorphic mound of his stomach the parson made a satisfied noise and sank into the corner of a well padded sofa. Small, plump and sleek, he had the pursy mouth and complacent air of one who knows himself to be at home to a pin on any subject.

"Make no mistake Miss Hancock, it's a treat for me to attend. Religious matters are so often neglected by young people these days and it's refreshing to find such an attentive number here." He gazed up and around whimsically. All the downstairs rooms at Fairyfield contained handsome woodwork, fine stucco and imposing ceilings. The original owners had clearly wished to provide themselves with gracious living and impress visitors with their wealth. 

"You've done a marvellous job in restoring the old Grange, and that's a fact. There was much talk when Albert Fairyfield was still alive that he intended to leave the place to the National Trust, and one can only surmise at the ruin it would still be if he'd done that." He swept his arm around in an extravagant gesture. "You've raised it up like a Lazarus. It's becoming quite lovely."

"Uncle Albert had no family of his own, and I'm fortunate he thought so highly of me." Miriam replied, "I've done the best I can with limited resources and tried to restore the original character of the place. Some people insist the mixture of architecture is a misalliance, but I can't agree, I feel the blend of styles hold a certain charm."

"It does have some rather quaint aspects," the parson smiled dourly, "The depiction of the satyr over the gatehouse for example is - er - quite racy, don't y'think? And you'll have seen the corbels round the roof - extremely rude some of 'em. The Fairyfield's who built this place would seem to have been a questionable bunch." He laughed, then looked as though he shouldn't have done. "Not like today, oh dear no! Good thing most people don't usually look upward these days or they'd get quite a shock."

Miriam shuffled uncomfortably. Mr Hardwick was accommodated in the gatehouse and a satyr carved into the wall there seemed oddly apt. Hurriedly she tried to draw the parson to consider other aspects of the building.

"Many of the interior rooms were still in surprising good repair when they were examined, and only the hall and the kitchen needed any real attention. I also found a great deal of rather old but serviceable furniture scattered about."

"All the same it must have cost a tidy sum to make everything right, Miss Hancock"

Miriam screwed her mouth slightly. "I'm told the recipe for success in life is one percent inspiration and ninety-nine percent perspiration, and I've found that to be true. Everything I've accomplished here so far as been done by sheer hard work. However, I'm fortunate in having a number of generous benefactors to help me with the expense, and I've galvanised an obscure quango called 'The Historic Buildings Commission' in hopes they'll provide me with a grant to maintain things."

The parsons eyes rolled to the front of the lids as his thoughts drifted to other things. "You're success is marked by you being able to accommodate so many lovely girls here, Miss Hancock. Lovely, lovely girls."

Miriam turned to Mrs Pardoe, barely able to repress the scowl on her face. She knew exactly the indulgence he was obliquely seeking. "Do go and find a suitable girl to join us Margaret. The parson likes to have one sit with him whilst he takes tea."

Disgruntled, Mrs Pardoe rose up and went to the door. She too was aware of the parsons questionable tastes, and they offended her feminist nature.

Having collected their hats from the dormitories the sissies were by then filing out the main door in dribs and drabs to enjoy the freedom of the garden, and she grabbed the arm of the nearest. "Come with me. You're invited to tea with the headmistress." she snapped at him with some asperity.

Holly Bedlam entered the room looking - and smelling - as fresh as a rose. He curtsied apprehensively, first to Miss Hancock and then to the parson. Sissies were really only obliged to curtsy to ladies, but the parson was an important person and he didn't want to chance doing anything wrong.

The clergyman's piggy eyes slowly widened as they appraised him from head to toe, and he took a shine to Holly at once. He was exquisite and with a figure that was perfect for filling a schoolgirl gymslip; his hair was brushed straight and neat down to the tops of his ears and forming a cute fringe across his brow, while his face presented a dazzling smile and one that emitted such radiance it almost shimmered. His eyes, wide and open were beguiling. 

"Well I never! Lovely, lovely! What's your name, lovely girl?"

"Holly, sir." replied the sissy, somewhat in awe of the people around him.

"Holly," repeated the parson. "A Christmas joy that is now a summer blossom." He uttered a hollow little laugh, tapping his knees with short thick fingers while he pondered. Was this young person in front of him a he or a she? It was hard to tell. There had been some strange gossip in the village but it wasn't difficult for a man and his penis to enjoy looking at a honey such as this one, whatever it was. 

"By! You're a smart thing. Quite the fine young lady. Lovely indeed! Bet you could do with a nice cuddle though, eh? Here, come and sit next to me."

The two women watched dourly as he hauled Holly down beside him, noting the sly way he arranged the student's skirt high up on the tops of his legs, and how he flipped the back of it out to allow possible egress for a roving hand.

The parson's expression became a feral grin. "I believe you're planning to hold something of an Open Day at the end of the school term." he suddenly said to Miriam.

"Yes - I, er - an informal gathering of my clients and sponsors. I fear it will be rather a dull affair." she replied offhand, wishing he hadn't raised the matter, since she didn't want him in any way involved.

Mr Roper drummed his fingers on Holly's bare knees. "Oh but I'd love to attend. Partaking in such events are what keep clergy such as I in touch with people. Of course, my dear lady wife may not be able to come with me. She suffers so abominably with hay-fever throughout the summer, and it would be rather a trial for her." He took a sideways glance at Holly and hugged him. "Lovely!"

Holly Bedlam was an angel fallen to earth, and he didn't mind if the dear thing was a young man. He was a delight, and if let loose in the village men would likely fight for a peek at his panty-covered bottom. The parson's stubby fingers casually moved up from bare knees to thighs, skimming the bottom rim of the ruckled skirt. Holly's head jerked as he felt something slick beneath the back of it.

Gloria burst into the room carrying a tray. "Tea, parson." she announced briskly, "I knows y'partial to Earl Grey, but we ain't got any. We's got Darjeelin' or PG Tips, an' I's made a pot o' each so's you've got a choice."

She took one look at him and Holly together, then swiftly assessed the scowls of the two stony-faced women seated opposite him. Nobodies fool, she left them all to it without saying another word.

"It's a hot day." said the parson to no one in particular. "Even the most precious flowers in the garden get hot on such days as this." His eyes roved over Holly boldly, speculatively. "Depending of course on the amount of shade they have." He thought the figure at his side looked positively glowing. "Are you hot, my dear? Too many clothes on a day such as this will make you feel ill."

His words, innocent superficially, brimmed with innuendo, and the desire to help remove some of Holly's clothes flickered in his eyes. The sissy may have been a young man but he was too naive to grasp the meaning of the sophisticated double-talk and was uncertain of how to reply. Luckily a shake of his head was sufficient.

Miss Hancock tried a diversion. "Your sermon today was most eloquent, parson."

"Indeed," agreed Mrs Pardoe, bristling tartly and not attempting to disguise her irritation. "A twenty minute lesson detailing the debauchery prevalent in Sodom and Gomorra was most apt for a girl's school."

The parson seemed oblivious of her acrimony, paying more attention to the lightweight thing seated beside him than to inflections of speech. 

"Sin and retribution! Such stories have to be told," he declared grandly, "Weakness of the flesh is all too easily accepted as normal these days, and there is a duty to warn young people of the consequences of immorality." His brows knitted and he gazed steadfastly at Holly. He renewed his embrace and the sissy blushed deeply as the man stroked the contours of his face with the back of a finger.

"Who can find a virtuous women for her price is far above rubies." Shifting his eyes towards Miriam he smiled. "Proverbs, chapter 31, verse 10."

The headmistress gazed back unimpressed. "I'm familiar with the quote, parson."

Bloody hypocrite, thought Mrs Pardoe as she surreptitiously observed the man's podgy hands fluttering up and down Holly's thighs in a way that was more flirtatious than avuncular. The students had dubbed him 'Groper Roper', and not without good reason. If priests needed a license she'd have made damn sure he never got his renewed.

With the tea poured Miriam leaned back just in time to see the creepy cleric push his fat lips against the sissy's ear and whisper something that made Holly's breath catch in his throat. He glanced furtively across at the headmistress as if seeking her approval, but he was too much in awe of everyone to speak, and eventually he climbed up and seated himself on the parson's lap. 

Almost at once he began to wriggle, moving with an almost imperceptible rocking of hips and pelvis that was obviously designed to drag the seat of his pants back and forth over the growing lump in the parsons trousers.

Roper put an arm around Holly's shoulders and stroked a fingertip against his neck, feeling the delicate tendons beneath the skin, watching the gentle pulse in his throat. "The duties of a clergyman can often be a great burden," he mumbled, his grey eyes rolling in his head as his chest began to heave.

Miriam raised a plate of Garibaldi's from the tea tray and leaned forward. "Biscuit, parson?"

"Ahr, yes. Lovely, lovely!" the man replied languidly.

Mrs Pardoe derived no pleasure from sitting in the company of such a repugnant man, and stirred her tea so hard it splashed over the rim of her cup. "The, er, girls will be in the garden. I really should show myself outside." she muttered sideways at Miriam.

The headmistress shook her head. "They'll be fine for a while without supervision."

Holly's shunting was unremitting as he applied himself to squirming down and working the crease of his bottom back and forth over the firm uprisen shape in the man's slacks. He'd never done anything like that before, but he was sure he couldn't be doing anything wrong if the parson had asked him to do it.

For a while Roper sat still, stiff, upright and unblinking, his eyebrows making large comical arches, then part way through nibbling a biscuit his mouth became limp and crumbs fell down his chin. He went red in the face and grunted, then took a sharp intake of breath which was followed by a vague slushy noise. He gave a gulp, his eyes seeing nothing even though they protruded like gimlets. "BABYLON!" he eventually exclaimed.

Holly stopped moving abruptly, his mouth fell open and he gazed at Miss Hancock in astonishment, but still without saying anything.

"Parson Roper, are you ill?" Miriam inquired.

"No, no." The man gasped, shaking his head as if trying to clear it of cobwebs. "Just a touch of indigestion, I fear."

"Dear me! I do hope it wasn't caused by the biscuit." murmured Mrs Pardoe sarcastically.

The clergyman sat spluttering, fumbling for his handkerchief and allowing Holly to escape from his lap. As he wiped his face he didn't appear to notice the prominence of the dark moist stain on the front of his trousers.

Mrs Pardoe rose silently and took Holly out through the door, and once in the safety of the hall the teenage pantywaist wriggled his hips to demonstrate some discomfort. 

"Um, ah! The woman grumpily sought for words, transferring her outrage at the clergyman to irritation with the him. "I think you should go and change your underwear before you go into the garden."

When the parson had gone Miss Hancock disappeared to take her customary Sunday afternoon nap and serenity returned. Mrs Pardoe went back into the study, going directly to the French vitrine in the corner, inside of which she knew would be a dark red Venetian glass decanter. Ignoring the crystal Waterford glasses encircling it she removed the stopper and lifted it to her pale cold lips to swig from the bottle.

Things felt a good deal better then. A sense of well being, of euphoria, washed over her as the alcohol permeated her system. Sunlight poured in between the window drapes and there were summer flowers in vases all around. Lovely!

Tucked inside the cabinet she found a notebook, and a glance told her it was really an account book for the management of the monthly allowances the residents received from their parents. Margaret Pardoe was no genius, but it didn't take an intelligent person to realise there was something odd about the entries inside it. Page after page was littered with deductions for additional clothing that were never purchased, treats that were not provided, and fees for extracurricular activities that didn't exist.

When it came to acquiring money Miriam Hancock didn't miss a trick. She was robbing all the effeminate sods in her care of most of their pocket-money.

She raised the decanter again, but this time only a trickle of liquid touched her tongue. She glared in disbelief. It was empty. Despite all the money Miriam Hancock raked in she still couldn't keep the sherry topped up.

***

Upstairs on the third floor the last of the pupils were streaming out from the dormitories after collecting their hats, intent on going down to enjoy the freedom of Sunday in the garden. Holly came in but soon dashed out again, then as Trudy Jones prepared to depart himself he looked Poppy up and down critically.

"Better not wear your hat on the back of your head like that. Mrs Pardoe will think you sloven and give you a smack."

Poppy rolled his lips in exasperation, pulled his straw boater forward and fixed it in the approved prim position on top of his head. "I get fed up with rules sometimes." he grumbled as he made for the door.

"Me too," Trudy told him, following at his elbow. "Say, would you like to come for a walk with me?"

"Can't," replied Poppy with a self-satisfied foxy smile. "I've got a date with Nanette."

"Phooey! Nanette's an alpha-dog," Trudy remarked derisively, "He only wants you for your arse. He'll be into your knickers faster than you can say 'scissors'."

Poppy gave him a cynical sideways glance whilst instinctively making a half turn and bending slightly forward to accentuate his pertly rounded bottom. He then reached behind to flatten his palms on the outline of the gently thrusting cheeks and stroke them lightly. "If that's true it won't be any different than going for a walk with you Trudy Jones, will it?"

Amanda and an elegant houri called Samantha found themselves the last to leave. As they took the final steps to the floor below Samantha darted behind and steered Amanda into the recess of a bowed window, then without explanation he placed an arm across his front to prevent him going any further. "Hi, sweetheart. How's tricks?"

Amanda pulled a face. "Excuse me. I don't think I know you."

"Of course you do. I moved into your dormitory last night."

"What I mean is, we haven't been introduced."

The other sissy grinned. "Introduced? Ooo, lah, lah, mademoiselle, you crack me up. What kind of world do you live in?"

Amanda's face contorted with displeasure. "A very proper one I'll have you know."

"A very rigid and frosty one, that's for certain. You need to let go and hang loose, honey. Okay, I guess I'll just have to introduce myself." 

Stepping back a pace the stranger employed an engaging smile. "Hello, I'm Samantha, most people call me Sammy. What's your name?"

"I'm Amanda. I'm not gay and I shouldn't be here really, but mummy... erm... my beautiful mother is in America looking for her umpteenth rich husband."

Sammy nodded appreciation. "The fellow that keeps me owns a rock'n'roll band. He's on a world tour at the moment, but he wouldn't take me along. Life's a bitch, and so is he. Do you like it here?"

"Um, well, it's a bit of an odd place, isn't it? You know, with everyone having to dress up as girls all the time. But it's better than any of the other places I've been. People in other schools can be frightfully rough."

"I guess that's true," Sammy agreed, "But if you want to enjoy an nice time here you need to be friendly. Do you know what I mean?"

Amanda pondered. He looked at the imploring face in front of him and liked it right away. "Friendly? I don't know about that. What would I have to do?"




A Sissy Saga Ch. 06



Sammy shrugged, causing his narrow shoulders move up and down in a way that was erotic for some reason. "Nothing if you don't want to do it. Just smile at people."

Amanda wrinkled his nose and hung his head, but he did manage a coy smile. "I'm not gay."

"You don't have to be gay, not if you don't want to be." his companion said hurriedly, unable to conceal a trace of disappointment. "But don't knock it until you try it. How about trying a little kiss?" 

Amanda knew that gays sometimes kissed each other, but he refused to think about them. Sammy had an honest open face, and it wouldn't be a trial to kiss his sweet looks. 

"Okay then." he agreed. Placing a hand on each of Sammy's shoulders he drew his lips together and darted them at a flawless cheek where they made a fleeting impact that was light and chaste. "There!" he said, letting him go.

Sammy sighed heavily at such a kiss so sagely administered. "No, no. Not like that. On the lips. You know, like in the movies."

Amanda gaped, horrified. "I'm not really a girl you know."

Sammy took hold of his hands and drew him forward to encourage some intimacy. "You're a sissy and you're dressed like one. Can't you pretend for a while?"

There was a strange thrill attached to the naughtiness being proposed and slowly Amanda relaxed. "Well, I suppose I could give it a try." 

His arms slid around Sammy's neck. His eyelids drooped in an alluring way and his arms slid around Sammy's neck while his moist lips hovered against the other sissy's mouth, inclining first to the right, then to the left.

Sammy chuckled, which Amanda at once found annoying. "Stop laughing. How can I get in the mood for this kind of thing if you laugh?"

"Sorry honey, but you're making such a big deal of it."

"It's the way people do it in the movies, isn't it?"

"Yes, I see what you mean. In that case I won't laugh again. Hold on, it will probably be easier if I kissed you."

Amanda froze as Sammy leaned forward so close he could feel the warmth of his breath on his lips. "Close your eyes." Sammy told him, and he did, not knowing what else to do. His breath jump-started as his new friend leaned heavily against him, tilted is head to the side and nuzzled his soft, pink mouth with his own. 

Tongues touched and slithered together, but just as Amanda was beginning to melt against him Sammy drew back and lowered his lips to his neck, leaving him gasping and panting, his teenage cock now a solid rod in his pants.

When they drew apart Amanda's eyelids fluttered as though someone had just stroked him under the chin with a buttercup. Excitement buzzed in his head and he smiled self-consciously.

Sammy's eyes sparkled too and he held Amanda against his belly while he brushed his lips against the sulky mouth of his new found sissy princess. "Mmmphhhh! I've been wanting to do that since last night. Let's do it again."

They kissed once more, and Amanda even gave his new friend a little more tongue the second time, just as they did in those wicked stories people weren't supposed to read, but did anyway. Mouths open, lips hardly touching at first, the tips of tongues met and slid together juicily. Then they slipped tongues into each others mouths, locked lips and swallowed. 

Sammy was an incredible kisser and Amanda made the most of it by moving his mouth in a circle, tasting the upper and lower lips of Sammy's mouth as it passed from side to side. Then Sammy pressed his hands into Amanda's back he brought his hips up tight against his own.

Amanda squirmed. Ooh, something was reaching under the back of his skirt and touching his bottom. Something that felt like fingers. Whooo! The hair on the back of his neck stood on end, goosebumps rose up all over his body and his penis twitched and extended. 

"You're making me feel sexy." he managed to say at last in a voice that was precious and treacly. but he was still clinging to Sammy and making no objection to the hands that were toying under his skirt and assessing the soft mounds beneath it.

Sammy rolled his pelvis forcefully against him and two pretty schoolgirls with stiff, moist pricks, thighs arching forward, shared a third kiss. This time it stretched out and they stood toe to toe, belly to belly, raising the front of their little skirts so their panty bulges could scrape up and down.

Niether of them had predicted a conclusion when they had started, but now they suddenly groaned softly in girlish rapture as they spurted sticky gook in their panties and slithered the gooey wetness together.

"Ooh, wow! Mrs Pardoe would go wild if she knew what we're doing." husked Amanda dreamily.

"She certainly would!" responded a cold, cutting voice from the bottom of the stairs. It was Mrs Pardoe in person. So engrossed were they in their wicked fun they'd not noticed the sound of her coming up the steps.

Simultaneously two girlish faces blanched with horror, and both Sammy and Amanda frantically stepped away from each other and smoothed the front of their skirts. Such haste was pointless, and even their hurried curtsies had no impact on the lady tutor's stone-like expression. 

She asked no questions, nor did she bother with a reprimand, she just dipped her hands under the back of their skirts in a manner so faultless it must have been endlessly practised, and grabbed the seat of a pair of knickers in each hand. Scissoring with her fingers and thumbs she pulled the garments tight into the crevasse between the two youthful bottoms and yanked fiercely upwards to inflict what some people termed a 'wedgy', the application of which guaranteed extreme discomfort and almost lifted them from the floor.

Gripping one in each hand she held them up on tiptoe and maintained a tenacious hold as she marched each of the distraught youthful things ignominiously off to her room.

The sitting-room of Mrs Pardoe's apartment was a small place with only enough room for a chest of draws, an armchair and a small table, and the walls were bare except for a dozen small framed portraits of young girls. Although it was feminine and light with bowls of roses and lace pillows and chiffon curtains, Amanda and Sammy both felt distinctly ill at ease.

"Disgusting! Acting like queers. How dare you entertain such a sordid arrangement? How dare you practise such vileness whilst I am responsible for your conduct?"

She stood them in the centre of that cramped place, side by side and docile, while loud and raucous she stalked back and forth with a face like a winter's morning, wagging an accusing finger at each of them in turn and giving vent to her foul mood. "I've lost count of the times you girl-things have been warned about pursuing such unacceptable behaviour, but warnings seem to have no effect with some of you. There may be people here who would treat you with leniency, but my name is Pardoe, and Mrs Pardoe never turns a blind eye to acts that go beyond the Pale.

"If sissies fool around in a disgusting way they must be punished - as swiftly as possible. I do not hold with namby-pamby treatments, especially when the urge to sin as probably not yet subsided. Such wanton individuals must have a change of heart, and in my view genuine contrition is only ever attained by a proper process of atonement. Corporal punishment is undoubtedly the best remedy."

Her fierce gaze settle on the one in most awe. "Amanda, isn't it?"

"Yes, Mrs Pardoe."

"You've not been here long, but you're old enough to know right from wrong, and the disgusting display you were a party to in the corridor just now was undoubtedly wrong, wasn't it?"

"Yes miss."

"I'm not a Miss. Address me as Mrs Pardoe." The woman paced one way and then the other whilst gathering her thoughts. "Are you homosexual, Amanda?" Mrs Pardoe rumbled in a cutting accusatory tone.

He looked at her, appalled. "Oh, no. I'm not gay."

"Then why pray, did I find you in a girly embrace with the notorious dyke standing next to you?"

"It was a sort of lark. Just a bit of fun."

"Fun!" The woman's exclamation was contemptuous. "Fun is associated with being amusing, but I'm not laughing. This is an orderly institution committed to the production of well-behaved girls, and we have rules and regulations." She moved up close to him and lifted his chin on the tip of a finger. "Rules and regulations that all good girls are expected to obey. As far as I'm concerned there's no room for being a boy here, queer or not. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, yes miss - Mrs Pardoe." Amanda answered timidly.

"There you are then, that wasn't difficult. But there are always those who step out of line from time to time and they need to be dealt with firmly."

Amanda was fully in expectation of some form of punishment. Some of the other students said Mrs Pardoe sometimes smacked their balls with a measuring-rule, but that was probably just a scare story. Ladies could be cruel and maybe smack naughty pupils on the bottom with a strap or slipper, but they never smacked their balls. Nevertheless her tone of voice was enough to make him jittery.

He stood silent, knees pressed together, hands joined and eyes caste down. He'd been at Fairyfield long enough to realise that being humble was always a wise course, so he remained contrite whist listening to her droning voice. His heart then turned a somersault as he tried to decide whether to look at the woman or remain staring at his shoes. Bravely he chose to raise his head. At his side Sammy looked on the point of tears. If Amanda was too innocent to realise the tutor's true intentions he was under no illusions himself.

The woman suddenly fell silent as she considered them both with a show of tortuous resignation, although for her any sign of regret was a charade. Eventually, like every other effeminate creature at Fairyfield, these two would be sold to a kinky matron or perverted old man who'd relish the chance to lord it over them. They'd be employed as houseboys, or housemaids more likely, since they'd be fully accustomed to being transvestites by then. They would be punished routinely, and would learn that household duties were not the only things required of them. Serves them right, she thought. Despite all their training and trappings they were still males, and men deserved none of her sympathy.

She thrust her hands on her hips. "Pants down!"

Her eyes half closed with menace as she watched them, the insufficiency of Miriam Hancock's sherry only adding venom to the mean streak in her nature, then suddenly she glared in disbelief at the blue flannel pants Amanda was sliding down his thighs.

"What on earth are you wearing as an undergarment?"

"Erm! My mother bought extra blue knicks' and said I should wear them when I could."

"Blue are not worn in the summer." the woman barked as if she'd received a personal insult. "Remove them at once. Get them right off."

Amanda clambered out of his pants flustering, then with a sinking heart he stared in horror at the object featured in all the horror stories he'd been told as Mrs Pardoe as the woman picked it up from the dresser. A plastic measuring-rule, eighteen inches long and a inch and a half wide, and so flexible she could bend it into an arc between her hands.

The woman noticed his face pale as she confronted him, but her attention was quickly settled elsewhere. His prick had a long, tight foreskin which would be rather kissable to some people she thought, although not to her of course. She gazed at his face. At eighteen years of age he was a perfect doll, already a world-class cock stiffener, and without doubt he'd soon be laying on his back ten times a day, taking cock whilst screaming and creaming in sinful ecstasy.

Humph! A young man he may be, but his balls were hardly worthy of her special treatment. But still they must suffer it. They must form the centrepiece of the ritual she habitually followed since only penitential suffering compelled a sinner to acknowledge wrongdoing. 

She slipped the ruler between his legs and tapped his inner thighs. "Wider - spread your legs."

When the nervous Amanda obeyed she lifted his limp caudate penis on the tip of the ruler. "Hold this thing out of the way and push forward with your thighs."

"Ooooh - " he hesitated, but her steely eyes glowered and he read the message they conveyed - no reprieve, no mercy - and reluctantly he obeyed.

The ruler tapped again between his legs as the woman brought it up beneath his scrotum to gauge things. "Such unfortunate anatomy," she murmured as she drew back, "So often it generates pleasure to the male, yet it makes such an obvious choice for chastisement."

Precisely, expertly judged, faultlessly applied, the ruler cut a swift upward arc that struck the underside of his testicles with a meaty slap.

"Yeoow!" Amanda clutched between his legs.

"Again," Mrs Pardoe demanded, "If you can take one you can manage two. Get your hands out of the way."

Helpless, eyes watering, Amanda positioned himself obediently. Whoosh! SMACK! And this time he burst into tears.

Unconcerned with his misery the woman grasped him by an ear and twisted. "I've been lenient with you this time in hopes you'll learn a lesson. Make sure you learn it well. You may go down into the garden now, but I'm confiscating your knickers. You'll not wear any pants at all for the rest of the day. I shall check you from time to time, and if I discover you've disobeyed me you'll receive some more attention from my measuring-stick. Is that clear?"

Amanda nodded, and sniffing dismally pushed down his skirt and scurried tearfully from the room, too upset to remember to say "Thank you, miss," as he passed through the door.

Now the woman turned her attention to the quivering figure of Sammy who stood, skirt raised and pants lowered, with his genitalia on show. There was a quiet moment as ashen faced and subdued he rolled from one foot to the other and looked at the floor.

"I'm in no doubt that you were the instigator of what happened in the corridor, so you'll not get away as lightly as your friend." she told him coldly. "Hold your penis out of the way. Press it up against your belly."

Sammy swallowed hard as he looked at the plastic ruler in the tutor's hand and his mind raced through a thousand jumbled thoughts. "I'm sorry Mrs Pardoe - I really am. I don't know why I did it, I don't really, it just sort of happened. I won't do it again, honestly I won't."

The woman scoffed. "Rubbish! You're as bent as a banana. This isn't the first time I've needed to discipline you for such things, and I doubt it will be the last."

Sammy was less of a problem than Amanda since he was better hung and had testicles big enough to grab hold of, with plump nuts sitting low and pronounced in a fleshy bag. Raising his penis brought them forward enabling her to pass her hand behind his scrotum and close her thumb in a stranglehold about the root of his balls. Such a grip invariably brought a male under control, and if firmly applied ensured they wouldn't dodge about or skip away. It also made a ball-sac bulge and present a nice fat target. At that moment Sammy probably wished he was a real girl and not equipped to accept her cruelty, but he wasn't, to the woman he was a lower form of life than a girl and he had to endure it.

Coolly she raised the testicles up on her fingers and measured the rule against them before lifting it up a few inches. Pausing a moment to configure her stroke she wagged the ruler a couple of times to confirm its pliability, then raised it a little more before sending it down with mean deliberation. There was an audible SPLATT! as plastic impacted on tender flesh. The blow was not heavy, a mere tap calculated to sting like a wasp, but Sammy yelped all the same and did a little dance on the spot. When he tried to jerk away Mrs Pardoe yanked him back by his scrotum.

"Keep still!" she demanded frostily.

"Please! No more, please." he pleaded.

"No more? Why, I wouldn't be doing proper justice to stop with just one." Whap! You're incorrigible, Samantha. Keep still, I said. You've a few more to come yet."

She turned him round and pushed his head between his knees. His bare backside rounded out and spread open to display his anus, but more importantly to Mrs Pardoe the pose made a good show of his testicles, making them thrust back between his thighs as his knees sagged. "Yes! Thought Mrs Pardoe, such an impudent boyish show was certainly worthy of additional attention. Her ruler swung forward again at a slight angle to deliver another sharp stinging swat to the back of his balls - smack! And again - smack!

Sammy was weeping fitfully, and having established his tears were not of the crocodile variety the woman at last drew away and dismissed him from her sight.

Turning into the room she gazed at things more to her taste - the row of portraits on the wall, and the sweet glowing faces of the girls she'd especially favoured from among Miss Hancock's responsibilities in Harrogate; Helen, Suzy, Trixie and all her other dear loves, they all looked back at her with imagined fondness. Miriam Hancock so often called her pupils at Fairyfield 'girls' but they weren't girls. They were pretty and behaved in feminine ways, but they weren't, and teaching boys to be girl substitutes brought her no lasting joy, she longed for the real thing.

She recalled the memory of her REAL girls wistfully, conveniently forgetting that her interest was entirely salacious when in their company. She would have resented any comparison between herself and the obnoxious Mr Hardwick, but couldn't have denied certain similarities. Their prurience may have differed in the gender they admired, but that was all. She liked girls of eighteen or nineteen. There was something about their bodies that really excited her. Oh, how she missed them! They were pure, soft-bodied angels, each of them with a skin that tasted sweet and had a texture that slicked against her mouth like warm cream.

Mrs Pardoe had dumped the male gender following a disastrous marriage which she recognised was a mistake and an mere effort to conform. All that clumsy bedtime groping, pushing and shoving was soulless and grotesque. Males just irritated her and she was much happier in the company of brightly smiling girls.

She'd known a good many in Harrogate; wayward teenage girls involved with drugs and on the verge of prostitution. She'd tried her best to keep them uncontaminated by males. She'd warned them never to take off their knickers to please boys, but some of them did anyway - spreading their legs and letting wicked boys examine their cracks and allowing them to push their despicable pricks into their tender furrows. And of course there were the unspeakable things Miriam Hancock insisted they did with visiting guests. The less said about that the better.

She'd tried so hard to keep her darlings untainted, but so often she'd had to punish them. "Naughty, naughty girls!" she would say, "What ever was you thinking of?" Making them stand close while she lectured them sternly, all the time with a hand up the back of their frocks, making their delicate bottoms wobble with sharp pats and feeling the plumpness of their pussy-mounds snuggled into the gusset of their pants. 

She'd often make them strip down to just their knickers, and she'd stuff a golf-ball in their mouths and make them run on the spot until exhausted. Then she would dole out the real punishment, making them assume the recipient position for a bare-bottomed spanking over her lap with their panties wrapped around their knees.

She never wore underwear herself on those occasions. She believed her girls far too naive to notice her nipples spiking out the front of her blouse, while they were certainly ignorant of the vast amount of wetness generated elsewhere. 

On occasions when she felt especially evil she would turn them onto one side and raise one of their legs, then give them a sharp crack with her plastic ruler square onto their naughty twats. That made them howl, but it was no more than they deserved. Naughty girls who made a ladies nipples go stiff - who made a lady hot and wet - made her shudder - made her pull up her skirt and open her legs. They had to suffer the consequences of bad behaviour, and that included having their faces pulled hard against her femininity and being ordered to lick and lap and push out their tongues.




A Sissy Saga Ch. 06



How unfair it was of Miriam to leave Harrogate and come to this dismal place. To her mind, everything was everyone else's fault, and unfair. She would have stayed at Harrogate if it were possible, but those that took Miss Hancock's place utterly disapproved of any intimacy with the probationers, and suspecting her capacity for it they'd made her life a misery. She'd been glad to leave when Miriam offered her employment at Fairyfield, but it wasn't ideal for a person such as herself.

She went over to the window to gaze down at the figures in the garden. Around the lawns and topiaries a dozen teenage sissies clad in straw hats and schoolgirl gymslips had gathered in groups to enjoy idle conversation while sunning their slender bare legs. Sunday association was popular in the summer and was one of the few times in the week when they were free to chatter and expand friendships or play gentle games, but Mrs Pardoe wasn't fooled by the pastoral nature of the scene. 

Queers! she thought dispassionately. Not true girls, but pathetic, ultra-sissy she-males who would be up to no good whenever they had the chance. She glowered dourly. And yes, more than a few of those reprehensible bitch-boys would need to put on clean knickers before teatime. But it was a hopeless and thankless task to attempt preventing such behaviour. Such vile habits were too rife for her alone to control.

Below the window Amanda was leaning against the wall of the terrace, subdued and quietly trying not to let the breeze play too much mischief with his skirt. Samantha was with him, but lacking his usual boisterousness. They would probably go somewhere soon and have a little cry together. But their tenderised parts would be sore for a while, and they at least were one pair of nancies who were unlikely to indulge in any hanky-panky for the rest of the day.

***

That evening six naked sissies entered Abigail's room. They moved in a mechanical way, in single file, not looking to right or left, and halting only when the leading figure could go no further. Viewed as a group they had a certain uniformity even without their schoolgirl clothes, since their bodies were all mature, smooth and slender. Their cocks were smooth too, some were slightly longer than others, but all were unadorned since pubic hair was not tolerated. 

Each sissy's hairstyle was combed in a fashion approved by the school; grown long enough at the back to be drawn into two plaits which were either pinned behind the head or left to hang loose. Plaits hanging loose were tied off at the ends with small bows of ribbon in the school colour - pink.

Abigail greeted them silently. He was endowed like a man and had the same impulses of men when confronted by sissies. Men loved sissies. 

He was undressed too, but had retained his panties as a mark of his authority, although they clung so tight to his thighs there was little left to the imagination. The hang of his large balls was well defined, and his infamous cock lolled in the front of the garment like a fat python in a hammock. In his hand he gripped the three-pronged leather tawse that pupils of Fairyfield Grange were all too familiar with.

As head-girl he was privileged to have a room of his own, but it was small and the tongue-and-groove ceiling was low as it was everywhere in the attics. It wasn't unpleasant, and for one person alone it was cosy, but that evening with so many there it was slightly claustrophobic. Six visitors standing was its capacity and he had to adjust their line to allow himself to pass between them and the bed which took up most of the space.

Parading naked sissies for punishment in the evening was a practise he often used when he felt randy, and minor infringements of school rules were all that were required for them to attend, His eyes flickered at the new, cute cuddlesome thing standing in the middle of the file - Amanda. Sometimes he would merely invent a reason if he felt keen enough about someone.

Each smooth face in the line carried eyes wide in pathetic apprehension, but none there dared turn them directly towards him. There would be no objections, they would remain docile since his mothers treatment caused them to regress to a juvenile mentality, while protests with him were pointless. The head-girl was judge and jury in the dormitories.

For Abigail all this was a diversion from a previous plan. It had been intended that he should take the examination for entry to Public School, but when his mother had given him the choice of becoming head-girl at Fairyfield he'd chosen to stay. The prospect of having thirty sweet looking girlish students under his sway was far more attractive than the chance of higher education. The only unfortunate part of it had been the need to sideline Wendy at the beginning of term. It was a shame, but lovely as his cousin was, there was no time for him with so many other sissy delights to consider.

He smacked one or two heads as he bullied the assembled sissies into a straight line, then he made a practise swing with the tawse. "Put out your hands. You know how to do it. Arms straight and level, palms turned up."

It was his routine to work along the line, strapping the hands as he went. The pale faced, naked charmers obeyed without decent. Tender, pink hands dutifully offered up, fingers stretched straight and quivering.

Holly! WHACK! "Erk!" The sissy's pretty face contorted as he snatched his hand down to nurse the sudden searing pain of the blow to his hand.

Bambi! SMACK! "Ump!"

Zoë! "Keep your arm straight Zoë. You know it only comes harder in the end if you mess me about." SNIT! "Ooh!"

Amanda! Ah yes, Amanda. A doll-like face. Innocent eyes full of dread, his hand outstretched for its first experience of the head-girl's strap. Amanda was the only one in the latest batch whose body he had not yet experienced, and he intended to put that right. SPLATT! "Aah, ooh!"

Fifi! SWATT! "Gaar!"

Lulabelle! SPLATT! "Ouff!"

Jemima! BLATT! "Umph!"

The whole of the naked line-up was then done with. A tear glistened in one or two eyes as each of the woeful sissies rubbing their punished hands, but Amanda was being staunch and brave.

"Amanda will stay here. The rest of you can go." he said.

Uncertain of why he had been made to stay and still smarting from the ball-bashing Mrs Pardoe had given him earlier, Amanda's teddy-bear eyes narrowed into a worried frown as he clutched his punished hand. Abigail allowed him to remain fretting as he circled around behind and studied his stance. He had a thin figure with shoulder-blades flaring beneath satiny-smooth skin, and a spine that curved down in dimpled symmetry to the attractive, gentle thrust of his youthful buttocks. The head-girl moved up behind him and leaned over to savour the lemony scent of his skin, his hands reaching under Amanda's arms to stroke his belly. He breathed a hot breath into the young man's ear before gliding them up to graze the peaking little nubs of his nipples. "Do you have a girlfriend at Fairyfield, Amanda?"

"NO, I promised my mother I'd be good."

"There's a difference between being a good girl and being a good sissy, darling. Have you ever been to bed with a man?"

Sandra shuffled uncomfortably. "I'm not gay. Before coming here I only ever put on frocks to please mummy and her lady friends They just used to touch me a bit. You know, rub me."

Abigail smiled to himself. A virgin to deal with! Frequently tossed-off, but never penetrated. How nice. "Ladies milked you? Did you like them doing that?"

Amanda give a little pant. He didn't reply, and Abigail sensed he was blushing. His tongue licked into the ear and made the sissy writhe, but then holding him lightly by the waist he planted a delicate kiss in the nape of his neck. "You're quite new here. Sit down with me for a while and let me explain a few things."

Shepherding Amanda over to the bed he sat down at his side, putting an affectionate arm about his shoulders while placing his other hand on his knee. "Your legs make a lovely show beneath a short skirt. You're very pretty in a schoolgirl outfit, but you look even sweeter out of it," he said. He thought Amanda was an exquisite lovebunny in his nakedness. His smooth skin, his soft curves, the gentle rise and fall of his chest made him fill up with lust, and his own member began to expand as he petted the beautiful body. 

Slowly his hand slipped up to stroke the top of the cutie pie's bare legs, delicate fingers moving up from his knee to caress his soft inner thigh. "The most important thing here is to please people. You must be obedient to the tutors - and - you must be obliging to the head-girl occasionally. That's important. The others here are all cream-puff panty-boys as queer as nine-penny coins, and they're at each other all the time. They've left you untouched until now because they know I have the first taste of new candy, but they'll be chasing you like horny hounds when you leave here tonight. If you don't want to be pestered I can protect you, but I'll only do that if you make me happy."

Amanda's eyelashes fluttered. "What do I have to do?"

Abigail drew the huddle of girlish delight closer to him. "Just relax, sweetheart. I'll do the work." He pressed him back gently, his warm hand descending the length of his torso.

The new boy panicked. "Abigail... no. You can't... I'm not gay."

"Not gay?" the head-girl raised himself while his fingers kept exploring. "That's not the message I'm getting down here. Listen sweet thing, it would be best if you forgot about the way people think in the outside world. While you're here the most important thing is to please the head-girl. Okay?"



A Sissy Saga Ch. 07



The following morning Sammy was in Mrs Pardoe's class sewing a plain white collar onto a skimpy black dress. It was a compulsory project. During their first term all sissies had to produce their own parlour maid outfit, and it had to be done by hand because Mrs Pardoe claimed exclusive use of the only sewing-machine in the house. Sewing was one thing he hated with a vengeance, he was all thumbs with a needle and half the time he spent with Mrs Pardoe involved needlework of some kind. 

Also he had a rather delicate problem. All morning he'd been suffering from the extreme walloping he'd received the previous day, but after lunch the discomfort had dissipated and been unaccountably replaced by a hard-on. He hoped it would quickly fade, but it hadn't faded, and by the time he'd joined Mrs Pardoe's class it was tenting out the front of the panties beneath his skirt. The school teacher was mean at the best of times and there was no knowing the direction her temper would take if she discovered such a display of maleness. Mrs Pardoe hated boys being boys so certainly it would make her angry. It may even make her angry enough to use the plastic ruler again.

He knew just a few moments alone in the toilet and a brisk rub with his hand would solve the problem, but the moody tutor had made that impossible. He'd already swallowed his pride and put his hand in the air like a schoolgirl to ask teacher for permission to go for a pee, but she'd refused to allow him to leave the room, and she'd made him push his knickers down to his knees and flick his skirt out at the back in case he felt compelled to wet himself before midmorning break. She warned him that if he did have an accident he'd get six with her slipper and an hour of cleaning detention after supper, and just to prove how nasty she was she'd made every other sissy in her class adjust their clothing in the same way, which hadn't endeared Sammy to any of them. Both Zoë and Holly Bedlam had given him a look that was thunderous.

The classroom was large, but contained only ten tables for the pupils and the tutor's high desk perched on a dais in front of a blackboard. The whole place smelt of chalk dust and polished wood, while the high ceiling and small windows gave it a nineteenth century ambience. Periodically Mrs Pardoe called a halt while she explained something. She habitually explained things a stage at a time because she didn't trust sissies to remember much, and her students were compelled to sit motionless with their arms folded whilst she talked.

Good gracious, how had it come to this? He was eighteen years old. They were all eighteen; all adults. They were men, but they were dressed as schoolgirls and compelled to behave like schoolgirls. On his arrival he had thought about objecting to such a ridiculous idea, but when he noticed the rough treatment some of the more stroppy people got when they protested he decided it was best to go along with it. It was weird how when one was dressed like a schoolgirl and treated like a schoolgirl one eventually began to feel like one.

That morning Sammy half-wished he was a girl because girls didn't have stiff dicks they needed to hide. He wanted to cross his legs to hide the obstinate stalk thrusting from his loins, but the underwear wrapped around his knees didn't allow him to do that, and as time passed he became increasingly concerned. From the high stool behind her desk the schoolmistress could observe everything, and he knew it was only a matter of time before she deduced he was guilty of more than bad toilet timing.

Then something unforeseen appeared to give him a chance. The hushed silence of the room was shattered by a bobbin of cotton rolling from a tabletop and striking the floor. The noise was minute, a mere plop, but it was enough to warrant the attention of Mrs Pardoe, who watched the reel skid across the linoleum with vindictive eyes. Because she was feeling bored she'd been waiting for a reason to assert her authority, and it seemed that some unfortunate carelessness had provided her with one. Her voice, so quiet and yet so sudden, made everyone jump.

"Yours I think, Jemima." she murmured thinly, her overly calm manner projecting the kind of threat everyone knew well.

The culprits face paled. "M-me, miss?"

"Who else would I be talking to, idiot?" The woman responded testily. "Come and collect it, and you can also collect a smack for your inattention."

"Oh -" reluctantly Jemima rose up and reached down to hoist his knickers, but Mrs Pardoe, peering out from beneath her eyebrows, told him to leave them draped around his legs and hobble forward. After all, she reasoned while extracting an old plimsoll from a recess in her desk, she would only have to pull them down again.

Jemima was a pretty, but Sammy thought him a snooty bitch because he'd recently rejected a bedtime invite. He wouldn't have minded watching him get a wallop, but his own predicament was his main concern at that moment, and in a desperate attempt at salvation he risked humiliation a second time and thrust his arm in the air, hoping that the distraction with the cotton reel would be his ally.

"Please, Mrs Pardoe..."

The woman scowled in irritation at him, aware he'd pestered her previously, but this time she relented. "Go now, and be quick, and be prepared for some smacks when you return. I'll not tolerate my lessons being ruined by silly sissies who lack personal organisation."

He pulled his pants up surreptitiously while she was concentrating on Jemima, then hurried outside. Smacks with a strap or a plimsoll would hurt, but they were preferable to the risk of the ghastly measuring-rule whacking his balls again.

Once away from the classroom Sammy was confident his problem was solved, but at the end of the landing he saw Jennifer hovering by the door of the loo, and he remembered that on Mondays she always did a 'shine' inspection for her mother and paid particular attention to the cleanliness of the toilets. He dared not go near her in his present condition, so he plunging down the steps to the floor below.

The ground floor was out-of-bounds at that time of day, but with the toilets within range he made a sudden dash before coming to an abrupt halt. Marching towards him, dark nylons flashing beneath a short skirt, was Abigail.

The head-girl observed him keenly. "You should be with Mrs Pardoe. What are you doing out of class?"

Sammy flinched. No one could ever ignore the menace of the double-tongued leather strap that always swung from Abigail's waist band. "I'm not doing anything wrong, I promise I'm not." he replied softly.

Abigail pursed his lips. "There we differ in opinion. I think otherwise."

"M-Mrs Pardoe allowed me to go to the toilet. She's going to smack me when I go back." Sammy muttered in a desperate small voice. He hoped the mention of smacks would deter Abigail from punishing him too, but it didn't work.

"I expect she is, but she won't be aware of you going out-of-bounds, so put out your hand."

Sammy's shoulders sagged. It was unfair, he'd done nothing really bad, but Abigail was going to strap his hand anyway, just because he had the authority to do it. Frantically he tried to think of something, a mitigating reason, anything that would help him avoid whatever Abigail planned. Explaining about the stiffness inside his pants was pointless. Abigail would strap his hands all the same, and then go off to have a laugh about it with the prefects.

Whilst he dithered the head-girl grabbed his wrist and pulled his arm up level with his shoulder. "Hold it out - keep your hand flat."

Sammy's face drained of colour, but he knew he had no choice. Disobeying the head-girl would only lead to a spell in the dungeon with prefects coming to smack his bum every hour, so he gave in and watched passively as, slowly, as if savouring the delay, Abigail unclipped the evil looking tawse from his waist and measured the tip against the palm of his outstretched hand.

The first blow when it came was delivered with great precision and stung like a flame. Abigail never missed and never dulled the effect by overshooting the mark, and he knew exactly the right moment to flick his wrist and make the twin-thongs strike with the optimum sting. The tip of the straps lashed down and hit the centre of Sammy's hand with a vicious, sizzling swipe that made him whinny like a horse. His knees buckled and he bobbed up and down as he shoved the seared hand beneath his opposite arm to give it comfort. Then he noticed Abigail smiling icily.

"Other hand." said the head-girl.

Sammy's mouth contorted in horror. A two-hander! Now that really was unfair.

When it was all done Sammy was allowed to go on his way, but not to the toilet on the ground floor. He was turned about and sent packing back up the stairs. He had a little cry on the steps. Well the strap hurt, and he was a sissy schoolgirl so he was a allowed to have a weep whilst nursing his hot, throbbing hands. He resented Abigail's bullying. He was hateful, and he was only head-girl because he was the oldest pupil and his mother was the headmistress - and because he was better at lessons than anyone else - and because he knew how to boss people about - and because he was always smart and shiny - and because he'd got a big cock.

He gave the second floor a miss and took to climbing the steep and narrow steps that led to the dormitories on the attic floor at the top of the house.

Amanda was already there. It was the first time he'd been left in charge of a dormitory during one of Jennifer's Monday 'shine' inspections and he was pacing the landing nervously. Behind him the room he was responsible for was Spartan in its austerity. The pale yellow walls were unadorned, and apart from the heavy plum coloured drapes on the windows, which were too short and didn't meet in the centre, the place was cheerless; a mere space to accommodate half a dozen single beds and a few tall cupboards that held clothing and a few personal items. The floor was bare linoleum, and the ceiling, punctuated by dark wooden beams, started low then swept steeply up to accentuate its proximity to the roof of the house.

The previous evening had been a 'shine-time' in preparation for the inspection. The floor had been swept and polished, then buffed until it gleamed, every horizontal surface had been scoured clean of dust and every scuff mark on the paint work had been sponged away. That morning everyone had risen early. The blankets and sheet on each bed were folded and piled at one end to make counting easy, while on the bare mattress a mass of prescribed items had been laid out in a precise arrangement. A brimmed straw hat lay at the head of the bed, while a pile of blue gym-knickers and a pile of white summer ones occupied the foot. Other things lay in between. Toiletries, including a clean comb, spotless toothbrush and pristine shaving kit laid open to show it was complete, little socks displayed neatly in pairs, and gym shoes, their soles scrubbed to remove any trace of dirt. There was also a small white training bra with diminutive cups that no one knew a use for.

Everything had to be impeccable and in its right place, and the cupboard doors had to be left open wide to prove the neatness of everything inside. To prevent pupils from making good any deficiencies by pilfering from other

rooms a 'dormitory-girl' remained behind to accompany Jennifer, and to secure things after her visit. Miss Hancock was obsessed by 'cleanliness and order' and if her daughter spotted as much as a fleck of dust or ball of

lint anywhere she adjudged it an affront to her mother and would return that evening to punish the pupil responsible.

More importantly for Amanda, she would punish the dormitory-girl on the spot for the laxity she perceived in not detecting the fault, so he'd just spent the past half-hour sweeping and polishing everything a second time. When Sammy suddenly appeared he greeted him with something akin to horror. "What are you doing here?"

Sammy raised his skirt and made a show of the shape bowing out the front of his pants. "Got to get rid of this. Jennifer's inspecting the loo's, so the dorm' seems the only safe place to do it at the moment."

"You can't do anything like that here, I've just spent ages tidying up." fumed Amanda, "You're bound to make a mess, and you know how eagle-eyed Jennifer is on an inspection."

Sammy pushed forcefully past him. "Don't be a fuckwit. I won't make that much of a mess, and just a couple of minutes with my handkerchief is all I need." he said crossly.

Amanda paced frantically back and forth outside the door whilst Sammy stood inside and got busy with his hand. A few moments went by, and then Amanda 's face paled in alarm as he detected the sound of footfalls coming up the stairs. "Oh, no...!" he cried, putting both hands to his face and dashing inside, "She's coming up the stairs and she'll be here any second. Have you finished yet?"

Sammy leaned back against the wall and groaned hopelessly as his hand flashed up and down on his exposed erection. "No I haven't. I'm ready to do it, but I just can't jerk."

Amanda stared horrified at the watering bulb of Sammy's cock, then in a panic to solve the problem that threatened him he knocked Sammy's hand away and grasped hold of it himself.

"Yes, that's what I need - I need a fresh hand." Sammy gasped as Amanda's fingers jigged wildly. "Oooh, yes, stroke my balls too. I'm gunna do it now - I'm gunna do it ..."

"Where's your handkerchief?" Amanda demanded.

"Oh, I don't know - I've dropped it somewhere - ooh, oh, OOOH!"

Jennifer entered the dormitory in her accustomed authoritative manner, with a short black strap hanging prominently on her belt. For a moment she stood by the door, staring at the two boy-girls and half smiling as they each bobbed a curtsy. Then she moved forward, striding across the floor with leisurely decisive steps, her head up and her hard eyes searching the room for errors - anything that seemed neglected or out of place. Adept at minute scrutiny and able to detect the tiniest imperfection and the smallest hint of sloppy application, her reputation for faultfinding was fearsome.

Sammy and Amanda stood side by side feigning innocence, but fidgeting nervously as she halted and regarded them with suspicion. She was always suspicious when she found a pair of sissies secluded away together. They couldn't seem to keep their hands off each other, which was forbidden unless they were being directed and controlled by a female. Her petulant tone and thunderous frown told of herdissatisfaction. "Samantha! Amanda Which of you is the dormitory-girl?"

Flustered, Amanda bobbed a second quite unnecessary curtsy. "I am, Jennifer."

Her eyes narrowed and moved to Sammy. "And why are you here?"

He swallowed hard. "Prep, Jennifer. I forgot to take my prep-book to class after lunch."

"Forgetfulness! No doubt Mrs Pardoe will have something to say about that."

He nodded vigorously. "She's going to spank me."

Jennifer's thin smile returned. Young men in gymslips looked so endearing, she thought, and having to wear girls clothes made them so respectful - so polite - so wonderfully humble. Their helplessness thrilled her, their dumb acquiescence was meat in her gravy and she relished every chance she had to make them squirm.

Glaring, she lifted the strap from her belt and coiled it like a sinuous black snake. It was a longer version of a prefects tawse, designed more for lashing at buttocks than for smacking hands, and with the room passed as okay she was now turned her attention to inspecting the bodies of those found in it. "Pants down. Let me see your pricks." she demanded bluntly.

To many such an instruction would have been unacceptable, but Amanda and Sammy had been at Fairyfield long enough to know not to question her. In unison they reached beneath their skirts and dragged their knickers down to mid-thigh, then they raised their gymslips to reveal two sets of male genitals dangling in innocence between smooth hairless thighs. If they had been up to something reprehensible they'd been clever about disguising the fact.

Jennifer paused a moment to enjoy the little show anyway. Not because either of them stirred any lust in her, but because she knew just how ghastly it made them feel to be made to pose like that - in a skirt - with knickers

lowered - on the orders of a girl.

In fact Sammy and Amanda were beyond thinking of the daughter of the headmistress as a girl. She was a figure of authority with a strap, that was all.

She circled behind them, grabbing Sammy by the wrist and twisting his arm up his back. "What have you been up to?"

"N-nothing, Jennifer." he spluttered desperately. 

After a moment she released his arm and confronted them again. "Both of you, down on the floor. Kow-tow!" she snapped. Docile and amenable, Amanda at once fell to his knees and dipped his forehead to the floor, but Sammy hesitated. This was too much. He may be dressed up like a schoolgirl but he had pride. He was a man and he refused to submit to such indignity. 

Jennifer stepped nearer and took a firm grip of his hair. "Do you have something to say or are you deaf? If you're refusing to do as I wish I expect an explanation." Sammy noticed the hardness of her mouth and the fire in her eyes, and he sensed the strength of both her attitude and physique as her fingers tightened until they were practically pulling his hair out at the roots. Right away his sullen defiance melted. "S-sorry." he muttered weakly. When the girl pushed down on his head he sank to the floor and there took up the same posture of his timid, more obedient companion.

Immediately Jennifer placed a foot lightly on the back of his neck. "Are you sure you've done nothing wrong?"

"Honest Jennifer, honest." he mumbled. 

She transferred her foot across to Amanda's slender neck. "And you, you're not feeling guilty and have nothing to confess?"

"N-no, Jennifer."

Her foot pressed down a little harder. "Are you sure?"

"I've just been looking after the room, Jennifer." came the girlish squeaky reply.

Drawing away she circled around their huddled forms and flicked up the back of their skirts to inspect their naked posteriors. Nothing untoward, but with their pants around their knees and their bare buttocks so defenceless they made a remarkably pretty sight. It was little wonder so many men found such things irresistible. Convinced that some mischief had passed between them, she considered putting the strap across their backsides anyway even if it meant concocting a reason, but she then reconsidered. Best to reserve the strap for proven offences, she thought.

***

"Phew! We were lucky to get away with just a smack on the legs," Sammy remarked to Amanda afterwards as they made their way down the stairs. "And thanks for what you did back there. I'd have been a dead duck if you hadn't been so quick to stick my knob in your mouth."

His companion gave him a frosty look as he paused to stroke some comfort into the sore red marks on the back of his thighs. "I didn't enjoy doing it. I only did it to keep myself out of trouble, you beast. I've never swallowed

sperm before, and you kept squirting and squirting."

"It didn't taste bad, did it?"

"You've probably poisoned me. Miss Twist says it's acid."

Sammy sighed and put on a lofty expression. "Silly dope! She said its made of sugar and chloride and citric acid - citric acid is what's in oranges, and no one dies from eating oranges." He tugged on the other boys sleeve. "I overheard matron telling Miss Hancock that food with a strong taste can affect the flavour of cum. That's why we have such awful dinners I think. She's experimenting. Miss Hancock wants sissy spunk to taste nice."

Slipping an arm around Amanda's waist he drew him close. "I say, don't be angry with me. I'll make it up to you later."




A Sissy Saga Ch. 07



His friend snorted his contempt. "Just how do you expect to do that?"

Sammy nuzzled his face with his nose. "Come over to my bed after lights-out and I'll let you use me like a girl. I'm a good fuck. Everyone says so." He kissed him, slipping his she-boy tongue into his little friends hungry mouth. It was no surprise that the sissy-boys lovestick quickly became all hard and drippy.

Amanda pushed himself away. "Here you clot, you'd better stay away from me for a while. I don't want the same problem you've just had."

Partly angered, partly fearful, he dashed off ahead, leaving Sammy to make his way alone. Sammy thought about returning to the classroom, but then he decide to have quick peep in the dungeon to see if anyone was inside. He glanced at his watch. He'd been away long enough already, but Mrs Pardoe was going to spank him anyway so a few more minutes wouldn't make much difference.

This time he made his way down the steps even more warily, wanting to avoid meeting anyone at all on this journey. When the closet came within range he raced towards it and peeped cautiously through the door into the darkness. "Hello! Is anyone in the calaboose today?"

Finding the wall switch he added light, and yes, there was someone in the dungeon. It was Poppy Popperwell, naked except for stockings and a lacy black garter-belt.

Sammy stared, unable to take the scene in quickly. Poppy had been immobilised whilst standing, his arms raised above his head and tied at the wrists with a rope coming down from the ceiling. Pulled up onto his toes he

looked like a marionette hung up in a toy cupboard, and to add to his indignity his mouth had been forced open and a hard rubber ball had been strapped between his teeth.

"Wow! What have you been up to?" Sammy murmured. He observed Poppy's face, noticing his wide tawny brown eyes and how his lips formed a full circle around the grotesque ball-gag. Then his gaze wandered. Poppy had a pleasing body that courted admiration, and to top it all he had a tremendous erection sticking out beneath his belly. Poppy Popperwell owned the biggest dick in the house, bigger than Abigail's, but he made no real use of it. He was a constant bottom; always the bride and never the bridegroom. Sometimes it was difficult to know when he'd got a hard-on, because his prick was so long and weighty it never rose up more than a few degrees and it was never exactly stiff either, it was rather bendy like a garden hose. But at that moment anyone could tell it was randy. 

"Crumbs, Poppy. Jennifer will wallop your arse black and blue if she finds you like that."

Unable to reply only Poppy's desperate eyes said everything about the turmoil he was feeling. He rolled his hips and shifted his weight from one foot to the other, making his penis shudder slightly, but not altering his awful predicament in any way.

Sammy was not unused to seeing attractive young men decked out in stockings and suspenders, the prefects wore them all the time, it was Poppy's helpless erection that fascinated him. It was long and meaty and it seemed veinless. He approached it appreciatively and curled his fingers around the uprisen shaft to appraise the tension in the swollen flesh, making the helpless she-boy moan as his hand caressed and drew down the foreskin to expose the smooth domed helmet at its tip.

Smiling crookedly he took his hand away and circled behind the dangling figure to view the shapely curves of his bottom. "Mmm!" Poppy had a slender waist, slightly flared hips and a lovely girlish bum, and Sammy couldn't hold in a sigh of approval has he palmed the tender buttocks. Everyone knew Poppy was a femme-boy . He was fucked several times every week by various people, and was capable of taking on a queue of three or four without suffering any distress. Sammy didn't lack for confidence, and a smile touched his lips as he brushed the hem of his tunic thoughtfully.

"I've heard you're a super shag, and I'd try you out myself if I hadn't just been emptied." He circling round to view Poppy's erection once more. "I suppose I shouldn't leave you like that. No one should get whacks just for having a boner." he muttered.

Again he took hold of the sissy-boy cock and dragged down the foreskin, this time making Poppy's pee-hole open and close and ooze forth a dribble of pre-cum. To Sammy the sight was miasmic. Enticing. "Mmm! Want me to help?" he asked, "I don't think it would take me long to make you go pop, Poppy. You're already leaking loads of girly goo."

Poppy moaned hopelessly behind his rubber ball-gag, returning Sammy's observation with a look of wild need and absolute acceptance. He owned an effeminate masterpiece, and Sammy reckoned it deserved something more than just a quick hand-job, so without being too concerned about what he was doing he dipped his face down and kissed the wet tip of the prick right on the pee-lips, dabbing up the leaking secretion with his tongue before slumping down further, lapping at the epithelial mushroom and instinctively rolling his tongue around under the oh-so-sensitive collar. Holding the shaft with both hands he decided to see how much of that pale salami he could manage. Naughtily he moved his lips back and forth on the pulsing meat before taking the entire smooth head into his mouth.

The bulbous tip felt like a hard-boiled egg in his mouth, a fat savoury confection that pressed down on his tongue and up against the roof of his mouth while constantly leaking juicy protein. Clamping his lips around the firm stem of flesh just beneath the lower rim of the knob-end, he locked-on and began to suck, his mouth moving up and down while his head twisted a little with each motion to move the foreskin about in a corkscrew fashion. Simultaneously the palm of his hand curled under Poppy's balls to joggle them up and down. After a moment or two he raised his head and gazed up at the other boys face.

"DO get a move on, Poppy," he urged whilst masturbating him energetically. "I'm only doing this as a favour, and I can't stay all day."

"Mmmo- oph!" Poppy shook and grunted. His lips thinned as they moulded obscenely around the black rubber and he couldn't speak, but his soft brown eyes widened as he desperately arched his thighs forward to urge a finish.

Resolutely Sammy again took the cock into his mouth and bobbed his face up and down, and for a few moments more the penis shunted back and forth along the length of his tongue. Then Poppy shuddered and moaned behind his gag in such a noisy fashion he stimulated Sammy to close his lips tightly around the base of the head. He felt the plum of the prick becoming firmer in his mouth as a continuous stream of plaintiff muffled groans squeezed out from the other boys immobilised mouth.

Heart pounding Sammy hollowed his cheeks and sucked, eyes rolling under their lids. Mmmm! Better than a dummy-teat, any day. Even though he knew what was about to happen it took him by surprise, as it always did. The prick in his mouth began to twitch, then Poppy's whole body went rigid for a timeless beat before his spasming began.

"Ummmm!" It was Sammy's turn to moan then as a flood of syrupy goo leapt forward to fill his mouth. His head jolted, but he hung on with his lips, breathing noisily through his nose while Poppy's erection pulsed and jerked.

When Poppy's body sagged and stopped moving he drew back. He'd done such things enough times in the past to be beyond being revolted and spitting everything out, and at least with Poppy matron had been right about the flavour. The femme-boy's cum tasted fresh and creamy with perhaps just a hint of spice - cinnamon maybe - not at all unpleasant, and really quite nice enough to swallow.

***

Some time later Miss Hancock sat at her desk and didn't look up when her daughter brought Poppy into the study. Instead she pretended to be writing in a thick ledger.

Jennifer closed the door and frog-marched the limp-wristed sissy across the carpet, pulling him to a halt immediately in front of the desk. He was still attired as he had been in the closet-room upstairs, just stockings and shoes, but since an element of decorum had seemed appropriate when being interviewed by the headmistress he'd been allowed to put on a pair of little panties in a rather futile attempt to hide the coiled serpent between his legs. He stood before her desk meekly, his hands unbound but clasped behind his back, his head bowed. The ball-gag had been left in place to make it clear he wasn't required to speak.

Miss Hancock looked up at last, and seeing the elfin youth so scantily clad seemed to surprise her at first, but she quickly recovered. "How long as he been in the closet, Jennifer?"

Her daughter placed her hands on her hips and glared at the miscreant with hostile appraisal. "Four hours," she said acidly, "But he deserves twenty-four."

The sun blazed in between the curtains, striking the back of Poppy's head, making his hair glow like a halo, which was as near to divinity he was ever likely to get. The headmistress thrust back in her chair, spreading her fingers each side of the book in front of her. "I'm not pleased, Poppy. You've proved yourself a deceitful and sly girl, and Gloria informs me you're guilty of gross misconduct."

Poppy had always been a nightmare to deal with. He wasn't obstreperous, he was just... hair-brained and ultimately too nice, and inexplicably he was incapable of displaying the slightest amount of guilt for anything he did wrong. It was pointless being angry with him because his habitual response was to blink and offer a kicked puppy look, while any verbal abuse simply winged over his head.

She turned a page of the book on the desk with the point of a delicate finger while her eyes continued to study the smooth contours of his body. The sight of him aroused her in a strange indefinable way, which was remarkable for anything of a male gender, but of course she couldn't possibly admit to it. A stern glare and an air of detachment masked her interest as she considered his near nakedness carefully - his trim shape, his dainty stance, his elegant smoothly plaited hair and his tiny pale nipples standing slightly proud of the peerless skin of his chest - all enhanced by an expression of helplessness in his doe-like eyes. Goodness, he could turn on the charm without even trying. Even after spending an afternoon in the closet he could still present himself as a juicy, girlish morsel. Ah yes! That was the attraction. He oozed femininity. 

She cleared her throat. "Gloria tells me that she took you along with her this morning to Larkin's store to carry parcels, and while there you slipped away into the back yard in the company of some spotty-faced store assistant. She tells me that when she found you, you were enjoined in a most immodest embrace, your chest was bare and the youth was - erm - 'plumping' your breasts with his hand."

It was a constant problem and one that would always be with her. As her sissy creations developed their feminine traits they became increasingly interested in men - especially well-hung men. Two terms of matron's hormone treatment had given Poppy a semblance of small breasts and they were enchanting, so it was no wonder the lout in the village had been tempted to make something of them. Men were always keen to handle sissies, and she had no ethical reason for depriving her sissies of their company, even of letting men fuck them, but if she were to achieve her aim of attaining some standing in the local community she couldn't be seen to be operating a whorehouse. Her girlies had each other - and Hardwick, and that would have to do until they were placed with someone in the outside world.

Her eyes scanned the pages of the book as she paused. Finally she said. "Your behaviour today was irrational and inexcusable, there is no other way of describing it." The book snapped shut. "You've been here over two terms now and your mother agrees that I should find a suitable placement for you. To that end I'm going to withdraw you from the main school. You will spend two days of assessment in my own apartments, after which you will be employed as I deem appropriate until a placement is made."

She glanced at her daughter. "None of this means Poppy can play fast and loose with school discipline, Jennifer. Return him to the closet. He's to remain there until supper time."

The moment Jennifer and Poppy had gone a stir of noise erupted from behind a vanity screen of Arras tapestry at the side of the room, and Miriam turned her head. Lounging at the side of what had previously been a barrier, cigarette dangling from bee-stung lips and watching from heavily fringed green eyes, was a stunningly, sun-tanned woman.

"I must apologise for hiding you away Lady Diana, but you descended on me unexpectedly, and I'd already sent for the Poppy prior to your arrival. Dear Jennifer is an impetuous and wilful girl, and she would have likely burst in on us." She indicated her guest graciously towards a chair. "Please sit down."

The visitor stepped lightly across the room and seated herself. "I know I said I'd visit Wednesday afternoon in my letter to you, but when I consulted my diary at the weekend it became clear Monday was far more convenient for me. Don't concern yourself about offending me, my dear, being tucked away enabled me to gain an interesting insight into the way your school functions."

Diana, Lady Chance-Barton was twenty-nine and carried herself lightly. Svelte, cultivated, utterly self-assured, she was a paradyn of the social set who always dressed to maintain her celebrity image. Magnificent emerald earrings were visible below her stylish coiffeur and a matching brooch glittered on the lapel of a fashionable silver-grey wool-crepe suit trimmed with sable that was an unquestionable product of Yves St Laurent. Her fine outfit was setoff by equally fine strings of faultless pearls that cascaded about her slender neck.

"You're be wise to be cautious, however," Lady Diana continued, "Not everyone is as broad-minded as myself, and there are people who claim a scandalous situation as been created at Fairyfield."

The expression of the headmistress took on a slight pique. "You mean Mrs Boroclough and her gossipmonger cronies of the Women's Guild?"

The elegant visitor smiled vaguely and peeped out from beneath her dark bobbed hair like a well tended marmoset. "Try not to think too harshly of them Miss Hancock. People who never venture far from their rural roots are bound to be alarmed by the cross-dressing that's so rife here. Despite the care you take in limiting access to your students it's quite obvious to the more astute that you put young men into dresses."

"Surely, Lady Diana, if that is the arrangement here it's a matter between my students, their families and the school. It may be unorthodox for young men to wear gymslips, but I'm not aware of any draconian legislation that decrees exactly how people should dress."

"You clearly take great care in thinking things through Miss Hancock, but I knew that anyway. As a member of the first family in the immediate area I consider it my duty to be concerned with everyone's business, and I know just about everything you do here. Don't let that alarm you, I've been an admirer of yours ever since you began your - erm - enterprise. What you do doesn't interest me greatly, but I've been impressed by the vigour you've shown in putting things into practise."

She reached into her handbag and took out a gold cigarette case and opened it slowly. "Unfortunately, rumour as it that you're providing some sort of charm-school for effeminate boys, and if that were true your agenda would certainly be questionable."

Miriam permitted herself a smirk. "My pupils are destined to be social companions and servants for genteel people, and I believe they should be groomed to be as decorous and genteel as those who will employ them. I see nothing questionable in that. Nil nisi optimum 'Nothing but the best' is the motto of Fairyfield."

Diana's face became expressionless and her voice matter-of-fact. "Nothing's worth doing if nobody wants it, and by the number of coded advertisements I see in the Tatler magazine each month seeking transvestite maids you'll have an eager clientele awaiting your first prodigy - erm - or should that be protégée? Young girls are all well and good, but in households with randy husbands and grown rakes for sons they rarely last a few months before falling pregnant. Young girls are as fashionable as spats these days."

She dowsed her cigarette and leaned forward. "Look, it's pointless denying anything with me, I have spies everywhere and I know exactly what you're up to. You're creating sissies - turning young men into girlish things that you'll eventually sell to degenerate men and women. That limp-wristed flibbertigibbet that was just in here was a good specimen, obviously as queer as a red lemon - a sweet body though, and dressed right he'll easily pass as a girl, but in whatever way he's used he'll never make babies." She leaned back again. "Are all your pupils the same. Are they all woofter's?"

"Some have a tendency for homosexuality before they come here and that can't be changed, while the others sometimes participate in a way that's common in all cloistered communities. "

"It's no doubt desirable. Being accustomed to bedroom frolicking must make them easier to train as girls." Lady Diana commented airily. "Have any of your - um - 'maids' graduated yet?"

Taken aback by the creeping vehemence in her visitor's manner Miriam shook her head. Diana was a member of an old, prestigious county family and her support would undoubtedly be beneficial, but there was something rather clipped and antagonistic about her tone of voice at that moment that was disquieting. It was sharp, almost threatening, and she certainly seemed aware of the real purpose of her school. She felt a slight sinking sensation in her stomach that was repugnant to such a proud woman as herself.

"Things are slow to start in this kind of enterprise. Young people have many rough edges to be shorn away and they need to be trained. They'll remain here for two terms, but everything is on schedule. I'll be ready to place my first pupil quite soon and the momentum will increase from then on. I'll likely be seeking placements for a dozen and a half every year in the future."

Diana's chin jerked upwards and her perfect nostrils flared briefly. "A bit like a sausage factory, eh?" She offered a curious smile that held no humour. Self-satisfied in her status, high-minded in her opinions, she was patronising and clearly thought the school ma'am gauche and inferior. "Since their guardians won't have the slightest idea of their real value I dare say you'll take a good commission when you eventually sell them on. What will it be? Fifty percent of sale price, or more?"

Miriam drew back slightly and her voice became mildly indignant. "Why, your Ladyship makes me sound quite rapacious, and I'm certainly not that."

Diana ignored her inflection. Noting with satisfaction how she had taken the wind from the sails of the self-appointed headmistress she decided to come to the point of her visit. It was time to peg the woman in her place and let her know who ruled the roost in this part of Yorkshire. Placing another cigarette between her glossy painted lips she clicked a lighter and blew out a cloud of blue smoke. "You're blackmailing my husband Miss Hancock, and I want it to stop."

Miriam smiled benignly. "Blackmail! Goodness gracious, Lord Chance-Barton as made some generous donations to help re-establish this old house as a place fit to use, but every penny was given voluntarily. I'm certain his Lordship would never accuse me of blackmail."

The other woman exhaled another jet of smoke and then levered herself forward in the manner of a praying mantis. "Don't you dare play me for an half-wit. Lord Chance-Barton as given you several large sums of money under duress. My husband as the misfortune of being too dull to manage his affairs properly, but I'm a different matter. I'll not put up with a person like you having dominion over any part of what belongs to me. I'm aware of the discreet visits his Lordship made to your premises in Harrogate when you were a probation officer. I won't dwell on the seedy business that was conducted there, but I know you had no small part in arranging matters, and lately you've sought to remind him of his previous lack of good judgement and turn it to your advantage." Her eyes suddenly glared out from her head as hard as marbles. "I won't have it! I won't put up with it, do you hear?"




A Sissy Saga Ch. 07



In a show of vexation she stubbed her recently ignited cigarette into the saucer of a nearby coffee cup and gave a diva-ish toss of her head. "Don't get too fond of putting on fine airs Miss Hancock. The people around here quite rightly expect their neighbours to conform to the decencies of society. What you're doing here superficially may be no more than controversial, even if it is unethical and unacceptable to many, but the hidden premise you work to is clearly beyond the law. I'm an A-list celebrity and people take notice of what I say. If you refuse to do as I wish I'll use the influence I have with the authorities to close you down."

For an uneasy moment Miriam Hancock made no reply. She refused to let the other woman see beneath her tranquil veneer, and a curious silence hung between them until she regained some composure. Calmly she tried to hold her ground, her voice betraying nothing of her rising anger. "Be assured, Lady Diana, that now Fairyfield is on its feet no further donations will be required."

Lady Diana stood up, abruptly unfolding her long, graceful shape from her chair. Now there was a slight suggestion of triumph on her lips. "Good." she said with all the gusto of someone praising a puppy for urinating in the right place. For a moment Miriam thought she was going to pat her on the head and give her a biscuit. 

"It's settled then. I've no personal objection to the odd - um - formula you have for young people's education, although it's unlikely you'll ever turn it into a lucrative business. However," she went on in her sticky upmarket voice, "by the fluke of the capital LOANED to you by my husband we appear to be in a partnership of some kind, so I'll discuss the matter of shared profits with my lawyers. If things go bottom-up for you in the future I'll have my money back from the sale of your property."

Miriam closed the door firmly when the woman departed, then crossed to the cabinet where she always secluded a carafe of dry sherry. Pouring herself a large measure she returned to her chair and sat down, leaning back to reflect upon what had just passed. Her face was grim now there were no witness's, and anger boiled inside her. Of all the men she'd provided for in Harrogate Lord Chance-Barton had been among the most degenerate, yet none of the others had protested half as much as he had when asked for a contribution to set-up Fairyfield Grange. Now his bitch of a wife was kicking up on his behalf.

She refused to allow the woman's threats to weigh on her mind too much. She'd always been aware that her ambition would tempt people to rile against her and there'd be a need to contend with snidely arrogant, pompous, destroyers of reputations. First Mrs Boroclough and her self-righteous associates at the Women's Guild, and now Lady Diana. She was surrounded by assassins of a duplicitous kind, all ready to launch merciless attacks whenever it suited their own purpose.

Just a hint that she was weak enough to submit to Lady Diana's demands would encourage her sponsors to seek ways of wriggling out from their own commitment, and that would ruin everything, so she was pleased she'd had the foresight to maintain a precise record of things she'd organised for people in the past. She had a book full of names, dates and sordid details of everything that had happened in Harrogate, and if things took a turn for the worse she had plenty of influential old clients to call on who'd be given no choice but to lend their support, or go down with her.

***

Poppy was returned to the closet, and with his wrists bound and hoisted over his head once more he'd been left standing in the dark to think over the incident that had caused him to be put there. His legs ached, his arms ached and his bottom felt numb, so thinking about other things was a way of escape.

The week previous Gloria had taken him to Peasmarsh when she went to place an order with Larkin at the general store, it being her custom to take along someone to carry parcels she may collect. The shop-girls had become used to gymslip-clad schoolgirls accompanying staff from the Grange and no longer stared at them over the tills, but it wasn't unusual for men to stare at Poppy when he was in the store.

The sissies of Fairyfield Grange eventually settled down to wearing skirts when they discovered all the students around them wore them too, but some still became sensitive and embarrassed when taken to the village. Poppy never suffered from embarrassment. After all, he was gorgeous whether dressed as a boy or a girl, and he looked good in a frock. Even in a dowdy gymslip he could look provocative. He always smiled and put on a wiggle when in the village - not blatant or exaggerated, but just girlishly delightful to watch - as the large number of gawking men around him always proved.

Last week had been the first time he'd seen old man Larkin's new store assistant, Judd. The youth had been standing at the rear of the shop with his thumbs hooked into the waistband of his jeans, a garment so tight fitting it seemed moulded to his body and needed no help from the thrust of his hips to emphasis his most interesting aspects. He was a slim, tanned, outdoorsy kind of male who looked twenty-ish and owned a body like the Adonis he's seen in the common room, with strong facial features topped with a mop of unruly hair, and a great big manly bulge in the front of his pants.

At once Poppy had been smitten and spellbound, and when he noticed Judd observing his entire body up and down with lazy sweeps of his eyes his heart had beat fierce enough to burst. Judd clearly thought he looked sexy and wanted him. And Poppy wanted him to want him.

Students from Fairyfield were never allowed out without a chaperone, never taken into crowds if crowds could be avoided, and absolutely forbidden to mix with 'Outsiders', so an affair seemed utterly out of the question. But

in his daydreams Poppy sometimes entertained the idea of amorous relationships with people not connected with school life, and he'd become obsessed with making the same trip again the following week in hopes of seeing Judd again.

That morning somehow he'd managed it, and since he was a second-termer he was allowed to wear stockings, which was important because he was sure nylons made him look more glamorous. Once in the vicinity of Judd he'd flirted outrageously with him until the youth was circling like a wolf on the prowl. Then later whilst Gloria was discussing the competing merits of porridge oats and cornflakes with the shop owner, Judd had sidled up and slipped an arm around his waist. "Nice lookin' you are. What's yer name?"


The young sissy had suffered a confusion which was heady. Judd was much taller than he was and he loved the way his strong hand had scooped him close. "I'm Poppy, and I'm nearly nineteen." his small voice had gushed in

reply. 

The shop-assistant had taken a cautionary look around and then leaned down to whisper in his ear, using the same moment to nuzzle a hot mouth against his cheek and send shudders of delight down his neck and spine. "That still ain't very old. You's such a dear little thing you probably needs someone big and strong t' look after you."

Poppy's face had tilted up and he'd responded with a swivel of his hips and one of his practised expressions; wide innocent eyes and a soft, slightly pouting mouth. "Yes, I expect I do need someone strong to take care of me."

Judd had given him a little squeeze. "I's been watchin' you a lot Poppy, and I likes what I sees. But maybe you don't fancy me."

"I don't dislike you." he'd answered hurriedly, presenting an alluring smile that showed his perfect teeth.

"Well, I's got a few things I's got a mind to try wi' a pretty lass."

"You have? I can't imagine what. But you're so big and manly, and I'm only a helpless little girl. You could do anything with me and I couldn't stop you."

Judd had then grinned. "Well, if you's come into the backyard with me, we'll see."

That was it! Gloria had found them just the way she'd said. Judd had taken him outside and started whispering lovey-dovey things, and had kissed him on the mouth until his knees felt weak. He'd been such a yummy kisser it had been impossible to remain calm, especially when he'd trailed his tongue down his neck and nipped lightly with his teeth. Nor was it possible to control the hands that stroked the seat of his pants under his skirt and then moved up to expose his chest and squeeze - pulling on his breasts like he probably pulled on the tits of young girls.

He'd felt the huge size of virile thing straining in the youth's pants. It had been heavenly and had made his nipples swell had feel hot and tender, but Judd hadn't had a chance to do anything more. Gloria's interruption had spoiled any chance of that.

Judd was so manly, and he wasn't. Judd could have held him down and made him do all kinds of naughty things, because he was quite grown-up and not the sort to put up with nonsense from a silly girly such as himself. Judd had called him a girl and he wondered if the youth realised the adorable schoolgirl he was fumbling with was really a boy in a skirt. If he'd had no objection to that and been happy to shag a backside Poppy would have provided his own without a quibble. Poppy loved being used as a girl and if Judd had undressed him he'd have gone down on his back and spread his legs like a girl, and he'd have whimpered and moaned like a girl all the time Judd was stuffing him.

It had been spiteful of Gloria to split on him to the headmistress, especially so since after hanging him up in the closet she'd come at him like a man-o-war under sail with her great melon-sized breasts billowing in his face. Without the least bit of wooing she'd slipped down his panties, got hold of his willy and drawn it forward between his suspenders and stocking tops. 

He'd not made a fuss about her wanking him off. That was mainly because years of experience made her so good at milking spunk from a cock. The housekeeper, fat, massive and deadpan, had yanked on him with a full handed grip whilst massaging his bum-hole with the fingers of her other hand, and she'd made him sag against her and moan and sigh, and made him cum and cum and cum.



A Sissy Saga Ch. 08



In the gymnasium a practise was in progress. "One, and two, and three and four," Hardwick's voice brayed above the tinny jink, jink, jink of an elderly piano. 

Ten students arranged in a double row of five were dancing to the beat as he called it. It was part of Hardwick's routine. Groups of them came to him daily, either for dance, deportment or gymnastics, disciplines both he and the headmistress considered imperative for developing grace and elegance in young people. Hardwick's entire adult life had revolved around the Terpsichorean arts, and he insisted that when pupils came to him they dressed as near as possible to emulate the students of the School of Ballet he had long served. Tight, shape hugging navy blue knickers and sleeveless white singlet's were the order of the day, and invariably each of his lessons began with a session of ecarte and echappe at the barre. That afternoon because of the practise their feet were clad in chorus-line shoes with block heels. 

"One and two, and three and four." Obediently they repeated the steps dictated as the counting continued, but then Trudy Jones stumbled and nearly bumped into Bambi, who dug an elbow into his arm.

The man at the piano shouted. "Trudy, if you intend to dance, let me entreat you to keep time with the music and not race half a beat ahead." 

Doggedly Trudy went on repeating the sequence of steps as they were called out. Ball change, heel down, toe down, ankle flick, tap, kick; ball change, heel down - right foot, left foot, right foot again. He wanted to be anywhere but in the gymnasium at that moment with his feet and ankles aching, and shoes that seemed as heavy as coal-miners boots.

Hardwick continued playing regardless and added a vocal rendition to the melody. "Come and meet those dancing feet. On the avenue I'm taking you to. Forty-second Street..." The headmistress had tasked him with providing an aerobics display for Open Day, but an old-pro like himself could offer something better than mere aerobics. He couldn't lay on ballet, years of practise were needed to get that right, but he was determined to put on a first-rate dance routine of some kind.

"Heads!" he ranted keenly, "On the fourth step all heads must swing sharp to the right - snap them round - and back again. Get it together for goodness sake. No, no, no, Holly. Do not gallop, you are not a horse. Move like a bird - a feather - lightly."

Trudy groaned inwardly and concentrated on his own practise; ball, change, heel down, toe down. Dancing lessons usually consisted of ballroom or jive and he resented Hardwick's recent fixation with formation tap. He turned his head slightly to look at his companions and at once Hardwick bawled out. "Keep your eyes to the front, and get rid of those Friday faces, all of you. You must never stop smiling. You must always appear to enjoy your dancing or no one else will enjoy it either." 

His fingers fluttered along the piano keys and his voice rippled once more. "Little 'nifties' from the Fifties, innocent and sweet. Sexy ladies from the Eighties, who were indiscreet..."

Trudy staggered sideways and barged into Bambi, and the entire front rank nearly went over like a row of dominos.

Hardwick mumbled something under his breath and banged his hands down hard on the piano. "That's enough of that for today. Run to the wall - and back!" he screeched. His voice sent everyone racing to the side of the gymnasium to touch the wall and then hurtle back to their starting place in the centre of the floor. Exercise didn't matter. Anything that broke the tyranny of dance practise was welcome.

"Stand still!" he bellowed. "And now adjust your dress."

Without a word each of his students pushed his singlet up beneath his armpits and rolled his knickers down onto his hips until they resembled skimpy bikini briefs - tight little pants holding precariously onto the contours of small, cute bottoms.

Apart from his work young men of their age were Hardwick's only interest in life, and one of the indulgences he allowed himself was the freedom to observe their bodies. Despite matron regularly dosing them with hormones they were not yet curvaceous in a feminine way, but their slight stature lent them lissom delicacy, while the absence of adipose tissue allowed smooth flesh structured around delicate bones and muscle to present an enticing effect. He often congratulated himself on how fortunate he was to have employment that combined work and personal interests so closely.

"Running on the spot - begin! Up, up, up!" They were the last batch for that day, and at such times when the mood was with him he enjoyed viewing plenty of bare skin as he meandered between their open ranks.

"Knees up higher, Holly. Keep your arms by your side, Zoë!" Adjusting their clothes he explained to his students, gave their hot bodies much needed ventilation, but none of them fell for that line. They knew he was a perv' and liked to ogle them, and yet in the vanity that resulted from constant sissification some of them quite enjoyed his lascivious inspection and delighted in teasing him by pushing out their chests and wickedly showing off their tiny pale nipples whenever he passed near.

"Up, up, up - annnnd stop! Trudy stay here, the rest of the class is dismissed."

With a veritable whoosh and scampering of feet the bulk of his pupils dashed off like so many clod-hopping woodland-nymphs. Usually Hardwick would have followed them to the showers to watch as the water washed over their slender forms and around their cocks, but that day he turned to the pensive young man left behind.

Trudy slouched with his weight on one foot, the pose accentuating the swell of the opposing hip. The dark fringe of his hair was long, but it didn't hide the despondent expression in his downcast eyes as he stared blankly at the tutors gym-shoes.

What a stunner! thought Hardwick. Slim with nice legs and a narrow waist, and with his pants still slung low and his vest draped across the top of his chest, he was quite as attractive as any novice at the School of Ballet. Rather willowy, but a handsome fellow all the same. Nice dense hair, black, cut neat and brushed smart. He had a nice face too, with twinkling eyes and a sensuous mouth. His cheeks were flushed, the rosy tinge not solely a product of vigorous exercise. Wow! He was a beauty! As good as a girl. Better than a girl! Just licking his face would make some men jack-off in their trousers.

His shoe tapped ominously against the floor and he put on a suitably severe expression. "I've not been impressed with you today, Trudy. You were lackadaisical in our figure training session and most unsatisfactory in the dance. I'm quite in a mood to send you off to a prefect for a strapping."

"Oh!" the boy murmured guardedly. He'd not been aware of doing anything other than he'd been told, and his enthusiasm had been equal to that of everyone else.

Surreptitiously the man took every opportunity to steal a glance at the tantalising shape in the front of Trudy's skimpy pants. Perhaps the lad was too innocent to know his penis could attract such attention, but knowing Trudy as well as he did, he doubted it. "Do you want to be punished?"

"No sir."

"Well, it would be wrong to let you off scot-free. What other solution is there?"

Trudy then understood. He was no stranger to the wily antics of the gym-teacher. He knew that Hardwick was playing out a charade, and a lack of approbation was one of the ploys he used when he felt in the mood to amuse himself and incite a student into a commitment. He wondered why the cranky old twit couldn't just say he was feeling horny. After all, a young man such as himself may look angelic, but it wasn't as if he was virginal and unused to being stuffed with randy cock. Aware that he had been chosen as Hardwick's 'sissy of the day' and knowing his body mesmerised the man, he put on an act of his own, one of thoughtfulness, and his hands turned out as if in supplication. "I could stay here for a while with you, sir."

Mr Hardwick smiled at once. "Ah, yes. Well, if you're in a mind to oblige we can make do with that."

He slipped an arm about the sissy-boys waist and allowed his hand to drop onto the rounds of his small bottom to savour the warmth that permeated the flannel knickers, then in a casual fashion he guided him into the gym-store, then through an adjoining door into his room in the gatehouse where he lived. "You were rather clumsy with the dancing today, Trudy." he remarked.

"I'm feeling a bit stiff, Mr Hardwick."

The man nodded wisely. "I see. Well you're in the right place for a remedy. I'm rather good at dealing with stiffness."

Hardwick's accommodation was spartan bachelor pad, consisting of just a small table a couple of chairs and a bed, but unlike most bachelor pads it was conspicuously tidy. Trudy picked up a magazine that lay on the bed. It was entitled 'Hung 'n' Hard', and the front cover depicted a naked young man in an obvious state of sexual arousal. It was an item of stimulation Hardwick had conveniently 'forgotten' to tidy away.

The man drew up behind him and viewed the magazine over his shoulder. "I see you've found my catalogue of male art poses. Some of the young fellows in it are really good looking, aren't they?" He beamed as he assisted Trudy turning the pages. "Most of them seem to be excited about something, don't they? Look at that one! A battering-ram - he could knock down a door with what he's got, couldn't he?"

Under no elusion as to why he'd been brought to the man's room, Trudy smirked as the gym-teacher's arms encircled his chest, a little utterance of modesty serving to heighten the excitement being stirred. "They're probably thinking about having sex with a nice looking fellow, Mr Hardwick. Maybe they're thinking about pussyboys."

The pantywaist eased back against Hardwick's chest and glanced up, then immediately dipped his eyes, which created an illusion of him being slightly shy. An illusion he knew intoxicated men. Hardwick brought his chin back up with the tip of a finger and observed that while the eyes remained languid the boys mouth was poised half-open and ready. The magazine was unnecessary now. No more titillation was required with Trudy. The seduced had become a seducer.

How nice, Hardwick thought. His eyes were beautiful, the lashes so long, his face so girlish. There were no pretensions with Trudy, he was a saucy little pillow-biter ready for sex at the drop of a hat. He'd had him in his bed several times in the past and knew him to be a first-class shag - a sissy conversant with all the delights of fucking. What joy to have him alone and fondle him until he opened his mouth and clung on with that delirious urgency that meant surrender. Soon he would make himself available, shaking with desire and yearning for the fucking to begin. 

There were so many just like him at Fairyfield Grange. They all needed cock, and so few of them got as much as they needed. No doubt they practised various things with each other and that was better than nothing of course, but to find real release for their urges they needed to be fucked by a man, and he was the only one available. And right at that moment he was just in the mood to pork the effeminate young doll he held in his arms.

Trudy didn't think quite along those lines, but he didn't mind giving the man some lurid thrills. Hardwick may have been a tired old geezer and his prick less than the leviathan snout his conceit thought it to be, but spending a couple of hours with him was better that doing the two hours of 'shine' before supper that everyone else would have to do.

Hardwick's hands stroked up and down the students lithe, lean body a few times before lifting the singlet off over his head. He didn't know too much about women, but he knew that just like women sissy-boys enjoyed a bit of foreplay. They needed to be warmed up, excited and aroused. He liked them to be impatient and hot for cock when the time came. He liked them to want it. His face descended and their mouths rolled together squeezing and sucking. When the gym-teacher thrust out his tongue he found Trudy's own pink, wet tongue already flicking forth to slide juicily around it and make him quiver.

While his mouth sampled the youths lips his fingers scurried over his torso like a creature of the night, stroking the fine skin, exploring the belly and the chest, causing Trudy to arch his body and make the teats of his tiny nipples rise up. The hot teenage body felt so fragile in his embrace. What would those sanctimonious doyennes of respectably at the School of Ballet think if they could see him at that moment, lapping the bare flesh of such a succulent student with far more abandon than they were ever likely to show with their own spouses?

Pressing down he nuzzled the young mans chest with his mouth, marvelling at the satin-like sheen of his breasts with their prominent, sensitive nipples. Relishing everything, he anointed the bare flesh with saliva, kissing neck and chest and then slithering his tongue over the nipples before sucking on each of the delicate morsels. Trudy started and twitched and quaked with pleasure. In the midst of his debauchery the man pressed forward with his thighs to let the young queen feel the shape of his rearing cock.

"Oh sir, ooh!" Trudy's face contorted, "Mr Hardwick, your prick's so big. It's a monster." That was pure flattery and not particularly true, but he knew from experience that such comments always put the old duffer in a good humour, which didn't do anyone any harm.

"Am I distressing you? Should I stop?"

"No!" Trudy was certain about that. "It's okay, I like what you're doing. Go on sir, I feel bonky and I want to screw." 

Smiling with delight Hardwick immediately led him to the bed. All was ready for the best session of the day, he thought, and dear young Trudy would soon know the pleasure of his formidable length. Over at the house the women would notice an absence from Domestic Practise and would enquire, "Where's Trudy?" On being told, "He's with Mr Hardwick." they would scowl a little, but nothing more would be said.

***

Poppy was gazing out through one of the windows on the second floor landing watching one of the old gardeners pottering about among the flower-beds below. That year the summer was particularly dry and fierce, so the gardeners took it in turns to come back in the evenings to water things when the heat of the day was receding. The garden looked lovely. Poppy liked pretty things and he liked flowers that were ostentatious and showy, and there were lots of them in bloom at the moment. 

Leaning forward with his elbows on the sill he began to hum snatches of a little tune whilst wagging his bottom from side to side, the rim of his white knickers showing just a fraction beneath the hem of his gymslip with each rhythmic bounce. "Mary, Mary, quite contrary, how does your garden grow...?" he crooned softly.

Perhaps Miss Hancock could find a placement for him with someone who owned a flower shop, he pondered wistfully. He knew that he'd always be a bum-fucked sissy bimbo, but he'd like to do something with flowers in his spare time.

He was so preoccupied he didn't hear Jennifer coming along the landing in her rubber soled 'catch-em-with-their-pants-down' shoes, but she noticed at once how the satin sheen of his bare thighs slipped into the soft and slightly plumped out swell concealed in the peep of white knickers. Little wonder he was such a well-used fuck-puppet if he draped himself around like that all the time, she thought.

"... with silver bells and cockle shells, and ..."

"Here you are!" Jennifer suddenly hissed in his unsuspecting ear.

He turned, saw the daggers-look in her eyes and pressed a hand to his mouth in horror. "Oh goodness! I was supposed to report to you tonight after supper, wasn't I? And I forgot."

The girl snarled. "It's because you're such a stupid featherhead I've had to come and find you." Her face contorted with reigned-in anger, then her open hand swept up and struck him smartly on the back of the head.

"Ouch!" Poppy winced, then suddenly paled as she waved a balled fist in front of his face.

"If mummy wasn't so keen to have you in prime condition I'd give you lumps, you brainless worm. Come with me now. You're due for two days of assessment with the headmistress."

"But Jennifer, I haven't got anything ready. My toothbrush and things..."

The girl ground her teeth in exasperation, and gripping his arm she ripped him away from the window. "If you need anything I'll have it brought to you, but I'm in no mood to stand around whilst a nancy-boy like you dithers about packing his handbag."

Holding onto him with buzz-saw determination she whisked him quickly along the corridor to a door marked 'private' that lead off to the left. As she shepherded him down a passageway carpeted in much grander style than any of the others he was in no doubt he was being taken to Miss Hancock's family apartment in the west-wing. The prospect unnerved him No one else had been to the west-wing - except Abigail and Wendy of course, because of family ties, but even they never went there during term-time.

He was taken to a bedroom that was such a chaotic muddle it would have caused an uproar if it had been a pupil's dormitory. The floor was strewn with an agglomerate mass of clothing; dresses and blouses, trousers, skirts and snaking hose, and the whole place looked so untidy he was about to make a caustic remark until he realised it was Jennifer's own room, and of course criticising anything of hers was extremely unwise.

For a moment Jennifer stood clasping and unclasping her hands, staring unseeing at the detritus around her. "Bathe." she rasped at him, then leaving him to run a bath she went to the big free-standing cupboard on the landing to collect a towel, a bar of soap and some gardenia bath oil. When she returned she found Poppy already naked and stepping into the bath.

She sucked in a breath and paused in the doorway to watch for a moment. She enjoyed viewing his nakedness. He was cruelly beautiful; an angel fallen to earth, his pink, slender figure on a par with the prettiest of girls and capable of filling a slimline dress to perfection. And that unnatural enormous dick of his which he never used. Such a gorgeous tease. His girlish bottom would be a popular toy with men for years to come, and while he had only meagre signs of breasts his skin had a smooth creamy texture and his legs displayed the attractive contours of a centrefold female. The sight made her suddenly enthusiastic for what she'd previously seen as a chore on behalf of her mother.

Mystified by events Poppy bathed himself thoroughly, then climbed out and allowed himself to be towelled and powdered all over. He was a little embarrassed by Jennifer's close attention, but what could he do?

Jennifer gave him nylon stockings and a garter-belt and sat him on the bed to put them on. While he was busy she sat behind him and breathed in his fragrance. Sissy's all smell so sweet, she thought idly, and they all got stiff and drippy in the arms of a man or those of a strong girl.

She passed her hands under his arms so she could fondle his chest, scrapping the tip of her fingernails over his stiffening nipples and cooing when he gave a little pant and rolled his head backwards.

"You like that, do you? You enjoy having your titties pulled about, do you?" She smirked as she gently squeezed his breasts and massaged his nipples until they stood out proud. "Matron said she'd recently increased the oestrogen she doses you all with, and it seems to have had some success with you. I bet you'll soon have real breasts - little soft muffins pushing out on either side of your chest for the other boys to play with. You'll like that, won't you? I think you're ripe for an additional little piece of femininity."




A Sissy Saga Ch. 08



He balked at the little-girl training bra she offered to him, a delicate lacy thing with a pretty pink bow affixed between the shallow cups.

"I don't really have a reason to wear this kind of thing yet." he protested meekly as she threaded his arms through the straps. But he didn't struggle. He knew the slightest sign of resistance would only cause in him to be stretched across her lap, and Jennifer could be quite pitiless when she spanked a boys bum.

The girl scowled. "Don't bother straining your peanut-sized brain thinking about it, deary. Weakling dyed-in-the-wool girly-freaks like you need to have decisions made for them, and I've decided you're to wear a bra. It'll create a nice effect." She clamped it onto the front of him and fastened it at the back. "There! You look like you have breasts, and that will make you feel like you have them."

The sissy-boy wriggled and squirmed as he snuggled his chest into the diminutive cups, and then his mammoth cock began to extend full and solid, just as he had when he'd first arrived at Fairyfield Grange and been compelled to constantly wear a skirt. His arousal then had been so persistent that he'd been made to endure an elastic band around the base of his penis to restrict the flow of engorging blood until he became accustomed to his gymslip.

Jennifer's remedy this time was less sophisticated. She deflated the offending anatomy with just a couple of sharp taps with a pencil, then covered the drooping item with a pair of G-string panties.

Pulling Poppy to his feet she threw on his shoulders a red nightie, hated it, pulled it off and kicked it across the room, then settled for putting him in a sumptuous chiffon peignoir of baby-doll proportions the bottom of which fluttered about high on his thighs. Slipping his hands through the armholes she eased the filmy jacket around his shoulders. It was periwinkle blue with an enticing silk tie beneath the bosom, and was clearly designed to splay open at the front and reveal the wearers panties.

She tied the silk bow at the front and watched as the delicate, diaphanous material settled against his skin, knowing how thrilling it was for boys to feel dainty and girly and be forced by women to wear short skirts and skimpy dresses. Almost immediately Poppy's tiny panties bulged, and she knew the sissy faggot had developed another erection.

Jennifer cursed under her breath, but this time she chose to try and ignore it and sat him in front of a dresser covered with Limerick lace and a swathe of cosmetics. When she began to apply varnish to his fingernails Poppy offered to do it himself, but she just scoffed. "You're too much of a fusspot. You'd take an entire weekend just to pack a purse."

Whilst the nails were drying some use was made of a Coty box and swansdown power-puff, then lipstick, a lively cherry-red, was creamed onto his mouth, and his eyelashes were masked with mascara. "Keep still!" she snapped, dragging a comb painfully across his scalp. "I'm trying to transform you, you moron, and I can't do it properly if you keep jigging about. Turn your head."

She examined him carefully. "I wanted to make you tres 1930s debutante, all sultry and debonair, but your face is too soft and round, so I'll have to settle for just making you neat."

"What are you doing all this for, Jennifer?" Poppy asked, ensuring his voice was sufficiently subdued and respectful.

"It's time for an important sissy training session, and you need to be dressed correctly." Jennifer explained abruptly.

The boy used his natural coquetry and acted big-eyed and little-girl-lost. "I still don't understand." he said in a voice that was purposely cute and sweet.

His mentor gave him a vexed look to let him know he was being tiresome. "It doesn't matter if you understand or not, because I understand. Don't try pretending you don't you don't enjoy being dressed-up. Just look at your panties with a hard cock in them. You're a creampuff and you love wearing pretty things, so empty your puerile little brain of silly male thoughts and just do as you're told."

"But, why? Where am I going?"

Jennifer lifted her eyes as if appealing to heaven. "Why do all the fairies in this place ask so many fucking questions?"

Crestfallen, Poppy put a finger to his mouth and thoughtlessly contemplated sucking it, at which Jennifer grabbed his hand and delivered a sharp smack to his wrist. "I've just lacquered your nails, you effeminate cretin. Sit still. You're going to see my mother in her bedroom, that's why I'm taking so much trouble with you."

She gave the risen shape in his pants a cruel scrape with her pink-tipped fingernails and made him squirm. "Mmm, yes! Little Poppy loves being a girl, don't you? Mummy's taken a fancy to you since you made yourself so prominent chasing after that ghastly creep Judd."

A misty look entered Poppy's eyes. "I loved Judd." he murmured in a beatific voice.

"Tosh! You don't 'love' anyone. You flirt with everyone and fall for any creep with a hard-on. Judd as the brains of a hamster, he couldn't even pull the clothes off you without getting caught."

Poppy pouted. "I'm not a prick-teaser, Jennifer."

"No," the girl agreed, "You're more of a prick-pleaser I'd say. You like men, but you're not strong enough to be a man yourself, so you have to take cock up your little sissy arse."

She knew he wasn't alone in his homosexual interests. The entire school was composed of effeminate panty-boys only slightly less shameless than he was. They were all full of girlish mannerisms; wafting hands, cheeky smiles and light skipping steps, and no harsh words were needed to compel them to hold hands when taken out on nature walks. The use of cosmetics was banned during school time, but they usually risked a hint of perfume, and early in the day each of them would exude a delicate floral fragrance. 

They were always clean and neatly dressed too, which was in itself uncommon among young men, and while such a thing was demanded of them by her mother she fancied there were other reasons why they spent so much time bathing and tidying their hair. They did it for each other, because they wished to seem alluring and desirable to their classmates and dormitory friends.

They always looked so endearing and blameless - angelic almost - but she knew there was unlikely to be a virgin arse among them. Quite apart from the depravity of old Hardwick she knew from questioning Abigail and the prefects that when lights-out was imposed in the dormitories at the end of day the emasculated little bitches were at each other like cats. Cock-sucking and mutual masturbation was rife, and anal sex commonplace. They were absolutely without morals when the mood gripped them.

She had no use for their contemptible pricks herself, but she was perversely turned-on by watching queers perform, and just the thought of them doing things together made the lips of her proud young pussy pout against the stretched tightness of her panties. It didn't matter if they were full-blown homosexuals or had merely been conditioned to it by being deprived of the companionship of suitable girls, such bad boys needed constant correction.

She pulled up his hands to examine Poppy's lacquered nails. "Nice fingers, do you ever wear rings?"

"I do when I'm allowed."

"I think I've got some that will fit you. Only dress stuff, not real silver, but good enough for a girl's first date."

She had plenty of rings; enough to provide one or more to each of his slender fingers, and Poppy beamed at being decked-out with so many baubles. Because she was preparing him for her mother Jennifer took inordinate trouble garnishing him further. She screwed onto his ears the prettiest earrings she possessed; two teardrops of opaque jade that seemed imbued with an animation of their own and shimmered when Poppy made the slightest turn of his head. And finally shoes, silver sling-backs with heels so high the youthful princess was practically on tiptoe and felt in danger of toppling forward when she made him stand up.

Being swathed in perfume and effeminate attire excited Poppy. The gentle tug of the flimsy baby-doll on his shoulders and the soft fabric caressing his belly saturated him in femininity, and as he posed for Jennifer's inspection he gripped the hem of his diaphanous negligee at either side and slowly rotated, a pantyboy in girly-land, seeming oblivious to the tenting of his pants. "Does it look okay?" he asked, "It feels nice."

***

Jennifer accompanied him hand in hand along a passageway, if not quite like a girlfriend then at least like a big girl caring for a smaller sister who was simpering and squirming about. Earrings swung against Poppy's neck and bangles slid along his forearms, and he was in exactly the right frame of mind for being cared for and adored.

"Will I have to see your mum - I mean, will I have to see Miss Hancock, alone?" he asked.

The girl gave the prodigious sigh of a person relieving themselves of a burden as they approached a door at the end of the corridor. "You're not a six-year-old, even if you enjoy acting like one sometimes. Be a bit grown-up about this for goodness sake. I'm leaving you here. Just knock at the door and await permission to enter."

Left alone, Poppy tapped lightly on the door before him with some trepidation, and listened for a response. The voice that bid him enter was matter-of-fact and not altogether reassuring in its tone.

Miriam Hancock's bedroom had a high flung ceiling and mullioned windows looped with heavy crimson curtains. Modern cupboards lined one wall while a chaise longue upholstered in red satin together with an old fashioned chair stood by a walnut spinet that had been converted into a dressing table. With its western aspect and pine panelled walls the room made a gracious setting for the antique four-poster bed with spiralled mahogany pillars that had dominance. The main house had been built in the 1830s, but the bed predated everything around it by a hundred years, and Miss Hancock maintained that it came from the original manor. Everything in the room declared opulence and its occupants appreciation of fine things.

Poppy entered tentatively, pausing just inside the door, eyes aflutter. The headmistress stood as a dark silhouette against the far window and didn't move for a moment, even when the soft click of the door told her it had closed. Then she swung about, hands thrust deep into the big pockets of a white bath robe, her eyes glittering.

She was a woman so tempered in her movements that at times she appeared to do everything in slow motion, and that was the effect she gave as she glided towards him at that moment. The image she presented was one he'd never seen before. Her rich brown hair was pinned up in swirls as usual, but her fine arched eyebrows had been darkened to emphasis the fairness of her skin and her lips seemed unusually sensual. It was also the first time he's seen her so close to being undressed. Her robe was pulled open at the top and he could see the cleft between her breasts, and he suspected there were few clothes beneath the coat.

Blinking rapidly, he stood transfixed, fingers clutching nervously at his chiffon peignoir and only relaxing to flourish the hem in the expected curtsy before pulling the fragile fabric close to his body.

As she moved towards him Miss Hancock observed the doe-eyed sissy shrewdly. Stockings and suspenders looked wildly incongruous when worn with a negligee, but Jennifer always did have a taste for the dramatic and loved dressing up boys as French tarts. That night Poppy's figure was displayed to perfection by the way her daughter had adorned it. Still only eighteen-years-old his face was delicate and dimpling and extraordinarily pretty, and with eyelashes fluttering and hair shining he was the image of a sweet girl on the verge of womanhood. Then she caught a glimpse of the tumid thrust in the front of his panties as his inappropriate big dick strained forward and a slight smile turned the corners of her mouth. Sweet, but not so innocent, she thought. Poppy had a reputation for being easily stimulated by frilly things.

"Jennifer's dressed you in a stunning fashion, Poppy. So beautiful, so sweet. You wouldn't be out of place in a sultan's seraglio and it's just unfortunate I've yet to cultivate any contacts that serve the orient. Did Jennifer explain why she'd dressed you like this and brought you here?"

"She did tell me," the she-boy admitted, "but I didn't understand most of it. And she made me wear a bra, and I don't understand why she did that either."

Miriam paused to consider the not quite unconscious turn-away of the boys head. He had charming dark eyes, at once sparkling and shadowy, a pert nose and an impetuous mouth that lent a touch of naivety to his manner. It contrasted amusingly with what she knew of him, but of course she knew he had a talent for laying-on expressions.

Since her meeting with Lady Diana she had been preoccupied by the threat the woman posed to her and she needed to relax, and at that moment Poppy was her ideal person to relax with. Slipping an arm about his narrow shoulders she steered him towards the four-poster. "The thing is Poppy, you can't remain at Fairyfield for ever and I'm bound to sell you soon. You will be employed by a person of good standing as a houseboy or upstairs-maid, or perhaps as a personal dresser or companion. Whatever role you're given you're certain to be used in a recreational way too. That being the case, there is a need to assess you."

Poppy blinked hard. If what Jennifer had said was a mystery to him, her mothers explanation was just as unfathomable. "Recre-what, miss?"

A smile touched Miriam's face. The so-called assessment was a frivolous excuse of her own devising. She had become keenly aware of his sexuality that morning when he'd been brought before her in little more than stockings and a garter-belt trimmed with lace. She'd felt aroused by his near nakedness, and when aroused Miriam could be consumed by passion that raged like an inferno. For months such things could lay dormant until some small inexplicable thing awakened them; the glimpse of a bare thigh, a pretty smile not meant for herself, an inadvertent glance or a satisfactory conclusion to an aspect of business. Reasons were varied and unpredictable, but whatever they were when the passion came there was no peace until it was sated. In sexual matters she much preferred the company of other women, but now and again she had the urge to spin off at a tangent and try something new, and Poppy was an ideal subject for innovation.

She seated herself on the edge of the bed and smiled affectionately as she brought one hand up to touch his cheek, the gesture tender. "Recreation, Poppy. Recreation as many facets," she explained pulling him down to sit at her side. "Sex for instance is useful in procreation, but it can also be pleasurable play. You know about sex, don't you?"

He smiled weakly in return and gazed down at his hands. "A little bit, miss."

"More than a little bit I think. Your dormitory friends are forever wanting to sample you are they not?"

"They're wicked, miss."

"Yes, wicked indeed, but you're very tempting, and I don't doubt you taste as delicious as you look." Her hand dropped to the bow on his negligee and dissolved it with a deft tug of her fingers. What she was contemplating was outrageous. She knew what she intended was immoral and unnatural, but she didn't care.

Poppy stifled a gasp. Looking up he became conscious of desire in the face of the headmistress, saw the sensuality in her partially open lips and heard her quickening breath. He'd seen such expressions on men in the past when they looked at him, but this was different, she was a woman.

Her eyes studied him, then she kissed his eyelids, his cheeks and his chin before moving to his mouth where two blends of scented rouge mashed together. Slowly, almost lazily, she rolled her mouth against his lips.

"Ooooww, Miss Hancock!" he twittered. Poppy was promiscuous and he was a manipulator, but he had nothing in his repertoire with which to counter the amorous attention of the headmistress. Alarmed, he meekly tried to resist, but only succeeded in falling backwards on the bedcovers where his petite torso undulated like a snake. His heart beat so much he thought it may explode as she lay down beside him and stroked the negligee away from his shoulders.

As she disrobed him she dictated her injunctions. "Keep still. Don't move. You think you know why you are here, but you haven't any idea. You may think I want you to give it to me, but you would be wrong because I'm going to take it from you. Take it, do you understand?" 

"You have a young man's body, yet you constantly manage to flaunt it in the manner of a girl." Unimpeded by any need for modesty she reached low to brush the skin of his belly, then blatantly caressed the hard-on tenting in his panties to make his cock thicken under the pass of her pearly fingernails. "You like that, don't you? Does it feel good? Is this what you like the boys to do when they entice you into a cosy corner?" 

Her eyes burned into his, her voice had become honey-coated sex, and before he could respond she kissed him again, her mouth crushing his own in the ferocity of passion while her tongue filled his gasping mouth. Then her mouth glided down over his throat and around his neck and he became aware of her fingers moving up his back. The woman's excitement had become strangely contagious. A pulse beat in his slender white neck and his chest rose and fell rapidly. He was breathless, almost panting, and his throat felt tight as the hook-and-eye fastening of his bra was released. "N-no please. Oh miss, you mus - mus ..."

How delightful, Miriam mused. The boy who had expressed such distaste at being made to wear a bra was now like a virgin little girl on her first date, pleading for her not to remove it. Off it came anyway. The skimpy garment went limp and she scooped it away from his chest to reveal two lovely girlish nipples. Pink and puffy and begging for kisses. 

Dominated by the larger physique and greater strength of the headmistress and unable to control what was happening young Poppy groaned in capitulation and pushed his chest up to meet her avid mouth as it attacked his body, his hands clamping onto the back of her head as she feasted on him.

Intent on tonguing and suckling his boy-nipples, Miriam pulled the flesh forward and made the pale pink teats pointy before taking each into her mouth in their turn, drawing in her cheeks to make the swollen glands balloon and tugging at the tender buds with her teeth. In the midst of sucking on his breasts Miriam tucked a thumb beneath the elasticised string of his tiny pants and eased them down over his thighs. His penis, long and swollen, lolled against his thigh, but she shoved it aside to concentrate on stripping off his knickers.

Finally, having enjoyed some gratuitous foreplay she took hold of Poppy's hand and pulled it down to press at her robe where it concealed her groin, and the contours of what lay beneath caused his arm to jolt as if he'd received an electric shock.

"Keep your hand still for a moment," she told him, "Feel the shape down there. Do you know what it is?"

He did know. Confused, he could only gasp, embarrassment mixed with wonder. Miriam shook his hand away and slowly stood up, and the elegance that she'd taken care to nurture so carefully over the years lost none of its attraction as she removed her robe. Her body was statuesque and firm, clad only in a black basque that made a show of two exquisite breasts with peek-a-boo nipples. Beneath her pinched-in waist fine hips curved round to accentuate the additional accessory she'd installed at the vee of her thighs. There, looking ominously businesslike jutted a well proportioned replica penis sculptured in realistically veined pink latex. It was affixed to her closely cropped Mons Venus in such a way it almost seemed part of her anatomy, the illusion only betrayed by the buckles and black leather straps of the supporting harness. Rearing up potent and full of promise it showed itself to be enhanced by a heavily laden scrotum, only a polythene sack, but a thing that swung perversely against the soft white flesh of her thighs like a party balloon half full of water.




A Sissy Saga Ch. 08



Poppy had seen countless erections before and the cock sprouting out from the loins of Miss Hancock was impressive. It made her seem even more authoritative then normal, and awesome too - powerful and utterly in command.

Miriam usually held her emotions under tight restraint, but exposing herself in such a shameless way excited some wanton behaviour, and she shook her hips to made the prosthetic shudder. In no more than a few seconds the demure headmistress of Fairyfield Grange had taken on the attributes of a randy stallion, and a certain expectation shone in her eyes as she contemplated the petite, lissom young man spread before her. Eyes misted over, lips slightly agape, he looked tantalisingly like a real girl waiting to be ravaged. Certainly he had a remarkable cock and handsome balls, but she chose to ignore them completely.

"Spread your legs nice and wide." she told the awe-struck she-boy. "I know sissies need lots and lots of sex, and since I'm sensitive as to how females mystify you I intend to make love to you like a man."

Poppy shivered and gazed at her in dumb disbelief. Her - the headmistress! A woman. She was going to make love to him ... she was going to fuck him.

Miss Hancock bypassed his amazed expression. Twin vices caught his ankles. Big hands. Her hands. Long, strong fingers and supple palms, lifting his slender, smooth legs up and pushing them back around his ears to a level that caused the dimple between his buttocks to give a show. Being hairless and smooth such a position allowed an unrestricted view of his anal ring clenched in apprehension, and after first drenching her extension with baby-oil she then dosed a good deal onto Poppy's tense little bum-hole.

"Right! All ready?" Miriam muttered in a sibilant hissing voice, "Stay on your back and spread your knees - let me get in between them."

Breathing hard, stomach taut, Poppy gazed between his splayed thighs like an anxious girl, then he flinched as the headmistress loomed over him and something cool and hard furrowed indecently between his buttocks, screwing about and searching for a way in. "Unh!" He groaned and his eyes opened their widest as he felt the thing find its target and press forward. "Miss - Miss Hancock, ladies shouldn't do this to boys." he wheezed helplessly.

Her reply was hot and treacly. "But you're not a boy, you're a girl, Poppy." She pushed with her thighs and felt a slight give in his ring, and when she maintained the pressure his tight little buttonhole gave way and she was able to force the head of her cock beyond his sphincter.

"Wooow!"

"There we are! You see, you are a girl aren't you Poppy. Admit it."

Poppy's whole body quivered and contracted, and then ... jerk ... jerk ... a panting, 'oooh, oooh, aaah! and a sob. "Yes, miss. Yes, I'm am a girl."

She grasped the soft curves of his bottom, rotating them so they created a warm intimate friction, then the spearing tip of her apparatus bullied further forward, making Poppy moan as the bulbous head and thick shaft stretched him and a familiar sting assailed his insides. The gate once breached offered no more impediment, hands clawing the bedcovers, he accepted everything given, gripping the hefty lance with his anal muscles and squirming against it. Jubilantly the headmistress dug her fingers into his soft flesh and humped the clinging anus to make it slid down the length of her cock, leaning slightly back to watch the tight ring squeeze along the shaft.. Then she went down on him, ramming him energetically and enjoying his little moans.

"Oh, miss - ooh, Miss Hancock, ooh. It's big - it's too big."

"Don't be so melodramatic. I suspect its size is rather modest when compared with some of the men who've used you in the past.." Skewering him another inch she licked her lips. "That's it, let me do it. Let me fuck you like men fuck you."

"Ooorrrommmh!" Poppy's voice rattled rather than gurgled in his throat as he twisted, rolling his head back on the pillow and pointing his chin upwards. Miriam knew him to be a play-actor, and whilst steeped in confusion and yielding in her embrace she suspected his little utterances of protest were no more than the inane ramblings of a girl surrendering to a new lover.

She held him steady, lowered her hips further and squeezed more of her plastic cock into his pliant backside, contorting her whole body with delight as the strap-on glided forward and sank in up to its balls. When she was certain his rectum was packed full she pushed herself up slightly and began to fuck him gently, gyrated her hips slowly to make the thick dildo stretch his helpless boy-pussy in every direction. The sissy gave a little buck with each in and out, intensely aware of Miss Hancock's strong thighs pressing between his legs, and even more aware of the pitiless dimensions of the thing she was causing the burning feeling inside his greased bum-hole his initial show of distress became increasingly vocal.

"Oh - h - h!! Miss Hancock! Oh - h - hh! You're killing me - you - are - killing me! Ah - hh - Oh! Oh! Oh!"

Poised directly over him Miriam used the expertise she'd gained from encounters with innumerable young women, supporting her upper body on her elbows and undulating her thighs in a supple easy motion to ensure her cock moved smoothly back and forth in his anal tract. Her ample breasts all but spilt out from her basque as she pressed them against his chest, but having established a rhythm she had become negligent of such things. Her face became a mask of rapture as her hips arched back and forth to skewer him forcefully, harder and faster with each stab, going right up until her facsimile scrotum was slapping against his conquered bottom like the ball-bags of a randy stud.

Lost beneath her and trapped by her all-encompassing physique Poppy clutched desperately at her hips, and without actually planning to found himself worming his bottom in response to her movements. His mind seemed to melt. The plastic thing had started to touch a mysterious erogenous place inside him that he'd once been told about, but had forgotten the name of, and was beginning to provide a lovely feeling that made him want to please. - made him want to do whatever the headmistress wanted to do. Oozing and shimmering with her he found himself groaning as he lifted his body to bounce in tempo with the relentless beat of the phallus moving piston-like in his fully compliant rosette.

"That's it, darling," encouraged Miriam, "Wrap your legs around my waist, move your cute little bum and hump with teacher." She settled down on him, moulding herself against his smaller frame. Because she was taller her chin nested on the top of his head all she was aware of was the sensation of Poppy's face and cheeks pressing into her neck and the roll of his bottom pinned in place by the short, intense strokes of the object in his anus.

"Oomph!" Poppy whimpered as his bottom repeatedly rocked in clasping waves, slavishly pursuing the woman's wild thrusting. "Oh, miss... You want... I want... I want to be your girl..."

Miriam sucked in her breath. "I know you do, and tonight you are my girl. Get ready for when teacher shoots." With each forceful push of her thighs the base of the apparatus pressed against her to send tentacles of lustful sensation to wrap about the tiny bud between her legs. She was fucking a beautiful boy-arse and could feel what she was doing. She could feel it through the inanimate object that connected them, and combined with the psychological thrill generated by the unacceptable act she was engaged in it was beginning to make her quake. As she fucked him harder and harder she became breathless. The tingle and throb in her clitoris was no longer under her control and her pussy-flesh began to palpitate.

"Aiieeee!" She squealed softly, her body jerking and trembling against his. "Here you go, sweet thing. Take it... ooooh... lovely... take it... All up in you. Let me fill you with cock-cream..."

As she orgasmed one hand reached down to squeeze her facsimile testicles and send a streams of facsimile cum along the shaft of her appliance, hosing into him far more copiously than any man could, pumping spurt after spurt of replica semen into his jerking body... using him... making him her whore... filling him up... filling his sissy-arse with spunk.

Her fingers squeezed ceaselessly for a short while, massaging her improvised ball-bag until its entire contents had poured into the clutching tissue that still clung diligently to her sliding penis, squeezing quickly until the bag was empty. Movement didn't cease until Miriam was exhausted, and Poppy was fully fucked.

Afterwards, when they had thrown off the lassitude that follows heady fornication, Miriam eased out her cock and rolled away. She then slumped content, looking at Poppy with her dark shadowy eyes. "Your big willy is still erect, dear thing, so you may milk it whilst I cuddle you. But make sure you don't get any of your sticky spermies on me."

***

Hardwick awoke as he always did, early. Six thirty in the morning. The curtains were drawn, but not completely, and through the gap between them the morning air flowed in, fresh and invigorating. It was light, and the sky was clear in promise of another fine summer day, so for a moment he lay drowsy and relaxed, steeped in the pleasure he had known the evening before.

He ran his fingers through his own taupe locks which he always parted on the wrong side, then reached out and touched the body beside him just as he would have touched a piece of porcelain or sculpture, just for the pleasure of feeling the shape and texture beneath his fingers. His light caress didn't disturb the sissy, and when he withdrew his hand he still slept.

The gym-teacher was generally a contented man, which surprised many people. He'd once held a critical post at the Royal School of Ballet until a fall from grace left him with no option but to settle for work as a fitneess-instructor-sometimes-handy-man at an obscure school in the Yorkshire dales. But lower status hadn't made him bitter. He was a man of simple tastes and defined interests, and he found everything he desired at Fairyfield Grange. He appreciated the beauty of young men who dressed as girls, and his new place of work was full of them. 

Hardwick had long ago developed a fatherly demeanour and fancied all his pupils adored him. He believed he had the kind of looks young lads found irresistible - dark seductive eyes, a strong sensuous face and lean body - and he flattered himself they shared with him the kind of relationship that imitated the erastes and eromenos of ancient Greece, one that was affectionate, trusting and pure. In London he'd always made a point of tucking them into bed and kissing their foreheads in the evenings. They were always so placid and content after a good milking, and once they'd had his dick up their backsides they couldn't get enough.

Overconfidence had been his downfall. The administration at the School of Ballet usually turned a blind eye to a bit of discreet man-on-man frolicking, but when he was discovered taking photographs of a class of male novices he'd dressed in tutu's, bad tempers had flared and he'd been told to go.

The ousting had been tough and had ended a way of life. Denied the use of his old haunts he'd had to roam far and wide in a quest for co-operative young men of the quality he was accustomed to, and it had often proved a frustrating business. 

He found the regime at Fairyfield to be the answer to a prayer and a blessing to his pocket too. Miss Hancock laid great store in retaining youthful beauty by regular exercise. She wanted her students trained in girlish bodily expression and to appeal to the eye in every possible way, and she wished for them to be physically fit without appearing too muscular. Smooth slender limbs and a narrow torso was the ideal to strive for, she'd said, since apparent helplessness was part of a sissy's charm. He'd convinced her that an ex-dancemaster such as himself was exactly what was required. He was adept at all kinds of gym work, and nothing could equal ballet routines for maintaining suppleness of limbs and developing elegance and poise. And the dear things would have dancing lessons - not ballet, but country dance, some ballroom and a little jive - all most suitable activities for young ladies.

Everyone must think he had the best job in the world, but it wasn't always easy. Being a trainer of sissies sounded glamorous and there were some perks - so many of the gender-benders needed a regular visit from a cock - but it could be hard for a man alone. 

Sometimes he thought he was the only one who did anything useful at that school. Teaching the babydolls how to please men was his responsibility. The women faddled around instructing in fashion, cosmetics and elocution, but it took more than that to produce a first-rate pussyboy. It took plenty of evening commitment, lots of cock, and galleons of cum. Yes, and it was vital to keep emptying them of all the spermy juices that made them manly.

He couldn't understand Miss Hancock's attitude. Despite being determined to make a profit from the pretty things in her trust she had so little imagination. Sissies needed men to fuck them regularly, and there were too many for him to manage alone. She could so easily combine that vital requirement with earning a sound additional income. In the past he had visited a number of 'meatracks' that discreetly provided sweet looking lads, and he knew some men would pay exorbitant fees to make use of the real good lookers. He knew the headmistress gave certain people access to the beauties at Fairyfield Grange, but unaccountably when he'd suggested opening the school to a wider clientele she'd told him she 'left the running of brothels to others'.

He moved closer to his young companion and eased him onto his side before drawing back the covers to study the pale bare buttocks. Reaching out he spread them with his hands to reveal the slightly pink whorl between. Clenched in sleep it displayed no trace of the pleasure it had given the previous evening. At last the mans drowsiness departed and became replaced by restless energy. He wet his fingers with spittle and gently rubbed the exposed anus in a circular caress. The she-boy stirred and moaned sleepily, and Hardwick felt a twinge of pleasure as his penis thickened. Almost casually he reached for the container of oil on his bedside table and drizzled a copious amount of the clear lubricant onto it. He preferred oil to patent jellies or creams, since it never cluttered him with residue.

As he massaged himself with his finely manicured fingers he admired himself. He was nicely endowed, and although he prided himself he'd never stooped to the vanity of measuring his erection he was confident it was nearer to eight inches than it was to seven. Just how a young sissy's tender rosebud could manage to accept such a monster amazed him, but just a few hours previously the one in his bed had taken it's length and girth admirably. He'd buggered him almost constantly for several hours and ejaculated into him copiously three times.

Caressing the tense anal bud once more, he transferred to it the surplus oil from his fingers, and at last the boy stirred and sleepily opened his eyes. "Just one last time, then we'll have to get ready for breakfast." Hardwick told him.

He moved forward to press the head of his tool between the slender buttocks and heard a sharp intake of breath as he pushed against the resistance of the lads sphincter. Pushing harder he felt a slight give in the ring, then slowly the tip of his cock breached the anal portal. The sissy stifled a cry as the widest part of his cock-head entered to enjoy some delightful peristalsis as waves of involuntary muscle contracted and pushed around it.

"Here we go then!" Hardwick murmured. He always maintained sissy- lads sparked better during the day if they started out freshly fucked and with a bum full of warm cum

***

Mornings were a rush in the dormitories, which was a distaste to Wendy who wasn't a natural early riser, and unlike the others he had to sit on the edge of his bed and take care putting on his stockings.

It had been a hot night and promised to be a hot day, and it would have been so much easier to just pull on a pair of socks. Hurrying too quickly could create a tear in the fine denier mesh and his aunt detested any hint of slovenly appearance in her pupils. She certainly wouldn't tolerate untidiness of any kind in one of her prefects.

Stretching each item of hose over his hand in turn he rolled them into weightless rings of nylon before reaching down to slide in his toes and smoothing each stocking up high on his thighs. Attaching the clips of his suspender-straps to the top of them at the front he then he stood up and reached behind to stretch each remaining suspender down across his buttocks until he could affix them to the dark welts at the back. Tights would have been easier to put on, but his aunt abhorred them, thinking them grotesquely unglamorous things for a girl to wear under her skirt, and she ridiculed self-supporting stockings as useless since they never self-supported efficiently.

With a rush of vanity he rubbed his knees together to hear the stockings rib together. Nylons may have been a nuisance early in the morning, but they did sheath a boys legs tight and give them a nice shape, and they were ideal for emphasising pretty ankles. Even on hot days they were preferable to the bare legs and little ankle socks endured by the first-termers.

Standing up he took a gymslip from its hanger and lifted it over his head, sliding it down until the shoulder straps settled comfortably over the blouse he'd put on earlier. Making a slight adjustment to the drape of his skirt he then tied the accompanying sash about his waist. The small curvature of his hips was immediately accentuated as the hem of the box-pleated skirt rode high on his thighs.

He stared at his reflection in a wall mirror, turning this way and that. With a little skirt swirling about his thighs he was pleased with what he saw - yes, he did have good legs, and the nylons gave them graceful, attractive lines. He smiled. He thought the dark blue smock and white blouse presented a bright fresh picture, and for an eighteen-year-old young man with a nice, round, inviting bottom he looked rather fetching in a schoolgirl uniform.

Picking up a two-pronged leather tawse he clipped it onto his waist sash. There were times he felt fed-up with life at Fairyfield Grange, but when he thought about it there had been little radical change in his routine since William became Wendy. He'd had no settled home for ages, so when his parents agreed for him to remain at Fairyfield instead of going to his grandmother in Brighton he wasn't particularly upset. Being dressed and treated as a girl had been a shock at first, but since he wasn't academically minded the unchallenging curriculum suited him well.

Being compelled to be a girl was a new experience, but he'd always been precocious in the way he moved, and at his previous school he'd carried himself so lightly the older boys would often wolf-whistle as he walked by. Not being robust he had learned to seek their association to avoid bullies; providing favours in exchange for their protection. He glanced at his wristwatch and suddenly Brighton faded into unreality; forgotten dreams that had never been real. Fairyfield Grange was reality now.

He hurried out onto the landing and walked along to the casement overlooking the kitchen yard to chase away the clutter of students who always congregated there when Larkin's van delivered groceries. At exactly seven-forty-five on alternate days Ned Larkin's van arrived in the yard below with Judd sitting in the passenger seat. Judd was a teenage hunk and everyone's flavour of the month, and the van was already there.




A Sissy Saga Ch. 08



"No sign of Abigail yet." observed one of those watching breathlessly. He noticed that some of them were flagrantly reaching under their skirts and rubbing themselves as they contemplated the young man in the van.

"Stop that at once. Adjust you clothes and go to your rooms." Wendy ordered. He'd been appointed a prefect in recognition of being a founder pupil, and probably because his aunt was the headmistress, but he'd never got on with being a figure of authority and left the punishment of students to others whenever he could. It was a flaw the first-termers sometimes took advantage of, and they'd often tested him to the limit.

The voyeurs avidly watching Judd sluggishly obeyed his dress instruction, but hardly stirred away from the window. Isolated from the outside world and living in circumstances that conditioned them to be girls they had acquired a girlish enthusiasm for idolising anything that wore trousers. In particular they shared an infatuation for the muscular youth old Larkin brought with him to offload the groceries. They could predict his routine to perfection. While the old man went into the kitchen for a cup of tea Judd always remained in the van until Abigail came along to provide a brew more to his liking. When the head-girl arrived, all flirting and fluttering, they would go off together to the old scullery at the end of the yard - just to have tea, Abigail said. 

Wendy felt a good deal of bitterness toward Abigail. His cousin had become aloof when his mother had nominated him as head-girl at the start of term. Praise and admiration had gone to his head and his appointment had given him arrogance that was quite unpleasant. He was rude with almost everyone and he'd left his oldest, most trusted friends behind. Wendy had been left behind, ignored and forgotten, the relationship they'd once shared now in tatters.

In charitable moment Wendy sought comfort in halcyon memories. There had been pleasant times in the past, times of thrills during a summer when Abigail and he had sauntered around the gardens in a wonderfully mannequin-like way, carrying parasols and wearing sun-hats with enormous brims while swinging their hips beneath tiny summer frocks. At Christmas there had been kisses under the mistletoe and promises to stay true forever, and while he never expected himself to be Abigail's only lover he had hoped he would remain his most permanent one. He wasn't a man any more, he was a sissy and he needed to be fucked. And oh, yes, sex with Abigail had been sublime and as thrilling as he could wish for; fierce and tender, outrageous at times, but always adventurous.

That was all dust now. Abigail now never sought his company for anything.

He looked at the other boys around him at that moment with searching curiosity. They were all screeching pantywaists like himself and he'd shared sexual intimacy with all of them at some time, but they never fully compensated for the loss of his truelove. 

"Judd's such a scrumptious hunk," murmured Jemima, "I'd drop my pants for him any time."

Having recently been inside Jemima's pants himself Wendy knew he wasn't being altogether frivolous. He was an eager little queer who'd shamelessly impale his backside on any cock that came near him.

"Bet he's got a dick like a hockey-stick when it's up." said Holly wriggling girlishly nearby.

Jemima grinned. "Wow, a hockey-stick! That'd make anyone's eyes water." And he contemplated the idea with spread hands caressing the rounds of his bottom.

The other sissies chuckled, and Wendy didn't doubt their sissy cocks were quivering inside their panties. He stared down at the van. He guarded an admiration for Judd himself that he'd not expressed to anyone else, and he wasn't about to share it with this bunch of tittering trouser-watchers.

"Go back to your rooms and wait for the lesson bell. Move now or I'll line the lot of you up and strap your hands right here." This time he added thunder to his voice and the others reluctantly began to back away.

At that moment Daisy came bounding along the corridor in a lather of urgency. "Abigail's fallen down the stairs." he wailed.

"His he badly hurt?" asked Wendy.

Daisy flapped his hands and gazed at him with wide anxious eyes. "I dunno, I didn't find out. Look, I'm just a first-termer, I need someone to tell me what to do."

Wendy gave him a furious glance. "Go and find matron or tell one of the tutors, you twerp. I'll go and have a look at Abigail."

He went along the corridor with the group of curious first-termers dogging his heels and found Abigail sitting halfway down the back steps nursing an ankle.

"You've got everyone worried. Are you okay?" Wendy asked in genuine concern.

"No, I'm fucking not okay," fumed the head-girl, "I slipped and twisted something, and it fuckin'-well hurts."

A single astute observation told Wendy the reason. Instead of wearing sensible court shoes with block heels with his nylons he'd found from somewhere a pair of chic black things with tall, narrow spindles at the back. No doubt he'd been intent on impressing Judd with them and had hurried too quickly on the steps.

"Can you get up? Can you stand on one foot?" he asked.

"No, I bloody can't. I told you I'm hurting."

A bittersweet smile played around Wendy's mouth and there was a gleam of malicious satisfaction in his eyes. Judd would be sitting outside in the van wondering why Abigail hadn't shown up. Maybe he'd go to the old scullery in search of him. That being a possibility he could think of better things to do than be nursemaid to Abigail when he was in such a crabby mood.

He gazed at the group who had followed in hopes of seeing blood and broken bones. "There's nothing I can do. You lot stay here with Abigail until one of the ladies arrive." he told them as he pushed beyond Abigail and went down the stairs.

Generally pupils weren't allowed below the second floor until midmorning, but he used his privilege as a prefect to scurry down to the door that led out into the cobbled yard. The coach-house was now the gym and the old stables were now garages or workshops. The scullery was beyond them behind an ancient wooden door set in lichen covered walls of York stone. Larkin's van with Judd still seated inside stood in the yard, and rather than let Judd or anyone else see where he was bound he didn't go outside. Instead he took a route by way of a warren of flagstoned storerooms and entered the scullery through the back of a disused pantry.

The place was empty, only used as a kind of tea room by the gardeners who were already busy with their chores. It was dingy inside, only the morning sunlight lit the room to cast shadows across the white plaster walls and the ancient girandles that in earlier times had supported candles and rushlights.

He found a clean mug and a kettle plugged into a solitary wall socket and stood shaking. He was being wicked, but would Judd come and make it all worthwhile?

He'd just made the tea when he turned and saw the figure of the youth standing in the doorway - tall and slim with dark hair, long and thick in texture. Coming forward Judd ran his fingers through the tumbling locks and flicked them away from his eyes.

"Ahr, well now, I was expectin' to find Abigail here, but here's a nice enough soul who'd not deprive a workin' lad a brew." He wiped his face with his sleeve and pushed the door shut behind him.

"Abigail's had a small accident, so - so I've come instead." Wendy explained, feeling his legs tremble as he placed the steaming mug down on a dust encrusted table. He regarded Judd keenly from where he stood, and as the youth reached out for the tea he felt himself blushing unexpectedly. He saw in the grocer's assistant everything he admired, his shirt stretched tautly across his broad shoulders and forearms, muscles rippling beneath the fabric. When he leaned forward to pick up the mug his shirt flapped open to reveal a glimpse of a bare chest.

Wendy accentuated a feminine manner and put on a sweet girlish voice. "It's a grand morning outside."

"Aye, it is a grand mornin'." replied Judd, "It's going to be a hot one. It's hot already."

"There's a breeze getting up; it may be windy later, but it'll still be hot."

"Aye - Sorry to hear about Abby. You's Wendy, ain't you?" The mention of his name startled Wendy and he felt suddenly tongue-tied. Judd gave a canny wink and a nod of his head. "Abigail's a fine pal, but I keep my eyes 'n' ears open. I likes to know who's about."

Wendy's own eyes followed the village lad as he moved out into the centre of the room and his excitement throbbed as his muted gaze detected the unmistakable bulge in the front of his trousers. He didn't seem to be wearing underwear, and a long thick shape was well defined.

"Penny for your thoughts." said Judd, watching him.

Wendy's heart missed a beat and he guiltily dragged his eyes away from the tantalising shape and stared at the floor. He knew exactly the kind of act he needed to put on to please a youth like him: submissive, shy, cute and girlish. "Oh - nothing." he murmured faintly.

A smile played about Judd's lips as he took a pace nearer to lift his chin with a fingertip and looked down into his face, his light brown eyes reflecting unmistakable interest. Wendy felt strangely uncomfortable, but he shook with the pleasure of having such a brawny youth standing so close and paying so much attention to him.

"This is a good drop-o-tea you've made." Judd remarked, then he added with an earthy rasp. "You's a winsome lass and' no mistake, Wendy. I's been watchin' you on 'un off for a while lately. You's got a nice cute shape to you, an' a sweet little waggle on yer backside when you move. I reckons you's a girl who as all kinds o' talents."

Wendy glanced up and blushed coyly, eyes wide, lashes fluttering, mouth slightly open in a sensuous expression of mock surprise. "You're teasing. Don't be silly." It was a gentle rebuke accompanied by a beam of pleasure.

Judd stood closer. A bit too close. Close enough for Wendy to smell the scent of work on him. "I'd like to meet you some evenin'. Somewhere where we can be alone." Judd rumbled.

Wendy saw the desire in his face, recognised the lust in his partially open mouth and quickening breath. Standing there in front of all that was almost electric. He'd like to have reached out and touched him, but electricity could be dangerous. "I can't get away from here. The tutors are very strict, I could never ..."

The youth took a step back as if weighing his thoughts. It was only a moments aberration. Judd then came on again, loomed over him and pressed even closer. His body was firm and warm and his arms were about Wendy's slim girlish waist and squeezing him before he realised what was happening. He was overcome by the erotic force of the village boys embrace and simply clung to him while trying to quieten his racing pulse. The strength and warmth from Judd's hands mocked any attempt to ignore them, his body tingled and he feared doing an unplanned cum in his pretty panties. He wanted Judd to take him. He wanted him to command him and possess him.

Judd's lips brushed his cheek like a feather, then kissed him gently on the mouth. Wendy was frightened and fearful, but as his own penis begin to stir in his knickers as his face flushed with excitement. His breath quickened as he felt the heavy beat of his heart against the older boys chest. Judd's mouth went down on his own, one arm snaking around him and hold him tight while the hand of the other rose up to cup the back of his head. He kissed with more passion this time. His lips were firm - on his mouth, on his neck, on the curve of his throat, and Wendy couldn't help but revel in such adoration. In a place of shared delights between sissies Wendy had found himself a man and he was in love again.

With complete confidence Judd took one of the she-boys hands and placed it on the front of his trousers, and Wendy jolted as he felt the hard dagger leaping inside. Judd smirked. "I noticed how you were lookin' at me trouser-snake. What do yer reckon to it then?"

There was no going back. The village lad pulled his young lover onto tiptoe and rocked him from side to side as he pressed the arousal in his trousers against his belly. Wendy panted, quite happy to be the weak little girl. "Crikey Judd, we're being naughty. I'll be in awful trouble if someone sees us."

"I'll come back later tonight on me bike an' get into the east-wing. Nobody lives there, so no one will know if you join me."

Wendy sighed, aware of the hands fluttering over him, smoothing and exploring and feeling everywhere. He was more in love at that moment than he had been for months.

"I'll expect you then," Judd half-stated, half asked.

"Okay, yes I'll meet you later." Wendy agreed breathlessly, and he shivered as Judd's rough hands lingered around the hem of his skirt before slipping under to palm his smooth, pliable buttocks.

"That's what I wanted to hear, an' if you're gonna be my girl tonight you won't deprive me of something to be going on with, will yer?" His strong hands rose up and began to heave down on Wendy's shoulders, making the younger man's knees buckle, and he kept pushing until he was kneeling on the floor and looking hot and bothered.

Wendy watched with bated breath as the visitor eagerly unbuttoned the front of his trousers and dug one hand deep into his fly. Judd was a beast. What was he going to do? Goodness it was exciting!

The teenager had to dig and tug, but in no more than a few seconds he'd pulled his throbbing penis out. "We's got a few minutes afore ol' Larkin needs me, so try gettin' yer tonsils around this. A sweet thing like you should be able to manage that easy enough."

It came as no surprise to Wendy that such a teenage hunk had such a good tool between his legs. The thing looked as big as he remembered Abigail's to be, a long column of stiff flesh with a thick prominent vein traversing a tremendous truncheon of firm flesh, the foreskin already drawn back to reveal the flared ridge and a smooth-looking helmet shaped tip. It was so solid looking, so huge, so demanding. "Big enough for you?" Judd asked, his grin wide and hot.

Wendy didn't know what else to do, so he nodded his head, batted his eyes and giggled like a real schoolgirl while staring in girlish fascination at how the gland curved up to display the slit in the flaring cock-head. Judd took a step closer with his erection sticking out in front of him and wagging obscenely.

"Go on, honey-bun - have a taste - take it!" Judd urged, his voice edged with raw with need as he guided Wendy's face towards his crotch.

Wendy hung back no longer. He stroked the cock with his mouth, kissed it and flicked his tongue against the purple head before closing his mouth about its hot dimensions. As he rolled his mouth around to savour the size of it Judd gasped an exclamation of delight.

"Hah! You's got a good mouth on yer me little flower, I can tell straight away you's not new to this kind o' thing." He grabbed hold of the head bobbing in front of his thighs and steadied it, then made Wendy's lips glide right down to his balls. "We ain't got too long, so keep still a minute while I fucks yer face."

He pumped furiously back and forth for a short while pushing his cock to the fullest limits of the obliging she-boys mouth and using the clinging lips as an aid to masturbation. He shook when his orgasm finally erupted, unloading fiercely, almost making Wendy choke with the vast flood of hot, syrup-like semen that suddenly leapt into his throat, but he held his cock in the sissies churning mouth and made him take it all - made him gulp it down just as a good girl should. 



A Sissy Saga Ch. 09



Miriam Hancock arose in the morning alone but feeling joyous and revitalised. But when her early toilet had been done her smile faded, and she frowned. On the dressing table lay the fat envelope she'd received that morning from the lawyers employed by Lady Diana. It enclosed a letter that was dreadfully succinct.

'... Our client as brought to our attention that her husband, Lord Chance-Barton, provided you with a substantial loan of money some time ago. Since no written agreement was made you mistakenly believed this loan to be a gift, however, we are instructed that this was never meant to be the case. Lady Diana regrets the misinterpretation and makes clear that it was not entirely your fault. She trusts you implicitly and without reservation, but to forestall any future misunderstanding she feels the loan should be now made formal, with the usual rates of interest applying. We therefore request that you sign and return to us the enclosed documentation ratifying this arrangement. Your co-operation in expediting this matter swiftly would be... blah, blah, blah, tum-ti- tum-ti-tum ...'

It was a message of doom as far as she was concerned. The last thing in the world she needed at that stage in developing Fairyfield Grange was to be shackled by a large debt, and the amount quoted was very large.

She'd read the letter intensely, weighing every word, searching for some clause that may have been fudged enough to allow her some hope of wriggling out from its consequences. Of course it was hopeless. Every condition was meticulously constructed and absolutely watertight.

She'd not signed anything yet. To sanction the debt would strip away her independence and make her a vassal to the aristocratic bitch-woman, but not to sign was certain to enrage Lady Diana and put the future of her school in jeopardy. It would also destroy any hope for the life of gentility she nursed. Who could she call-on for assistance if the matter were taken to law?

Initially she'd thought to seek some support from her sponsors, but she'd revised that idea and now hated it. They were a gutless load of mealy-mouthed wimps when reminded of the things she had arranged for them in Harrogate, and if she herself could scare them so easily their jittery nerves would undoubtedly crack under the kind of pressure Lady Diana could lay-on. She couldn't rely on any of them, and as for appealing directly to Lord Chance-Barton himself to take her side, of that she despaired. He had as much backbone as a blancmange when confronted by his wife, and while raising no objections to his perverse pastimes Diana overruled him in everything that encroached on her own interests.

There was something about Lady Diana that was deeply unlikeable, and she kept trying to think who she reminded her of. Various memories stirred and the image of Miss Cromwell, the headmistress of her first prep-school loomed. 'Ah, Miriam,' the woman had announced, having called her into her office one morning after assembly. 'I imagine they do things rather differently where you - er - come from, but here a cross draped about the neck is intended to draw attention to ones faith, not to ones bosom. There is an excellent underwear department at British Home Stores; kindly avail yourself of it.' Miss Cromwell herself clearly did; her own bra could have withstood a siege.

Then there was the lady chairperson of the Roundtree Hill Conservative Party. It was just after Miriam had married and when her husband declared an interest in becoming a Member of Parliament. That meant herself having to undergo scrutiny. The chairperson had expressed a wish to meet the young wife of their proposed parliamentary candidate, so Miriam Hancock had duly worn powder-blue and invited her to tea.

'It was refreshing...' the woman had said (she meant depressing), to have a wife with the common touch to accompany 'their' candidate on the hustings, especially one who dressed so elegantly ( she meant her skirt was disgustingly short, but no more than could be expected from a girl with a working-class background). And no doubt the Hancock family would soon be blessed with offspring - 'their' party was of course the party of family values ( in other words, start breeding Tories), and children are such invaluable anchors to a busy political life (they keep all the trollops at home changing nappies). Lady Diana was one of those creatures - a hybrid of women whose knives were sheathed in a smile. Selfish in her sinecure life she was intent on making Miriam Hancock a mere employee who she could dump if things went tits up.

Men were equally as disappointing, her failed marriage having confirmed her poor opinion of them long ago. The only positive thing to come out of the brief union with her husband had been her daughter - of course her son, too - but mostly Jennifer, every bit a mothers girl, who appeared to have inherited her own dominant streak and probably applied it even more stridently than she did herself. She never tolerated nonsense from anyone. Yes, in addition to everything else there was a certain amount of family pride teed up in being able to say no to Lady Diana - but, how could she do it without risking ruin? How? How to do it?

Showing little concern for the violation he'd suffered the previous evening Poppy presented himself in the sitting room at four minutes to eight the following morning. His encounter with Miss Hancock had been slightly traumatic at the time because it had been unexpected, but he was irrepressible and rather well experienced and always bounced back bright and shiny. There was no one else there, and since he lacked any instructions he turned his attention to arranging carnations in a vase, his nimble fingers snapping off the excess stems and pulling away unnecessary leaves.

When Jennifer joined him she was fascinated to see just how unruffled he was by his recent experience. He was dressed in a pale blue pinafore dress that had been left out for him, and it made him look like the Alice in a Lewis Carroll story. He'd scrubbed his teeth until they sparkled, and his hair shone like an autumn halo around his quiet face. There was something else too. There was the same rosy glow about him she'd sometimes noticed in girls after they'd been well and truly shagged.

Unspeaking for a moment she observed the talent the sissy showed in dealing with things of the earth, how daintily and how exquisitely he handled flowers until he'd created an arrangement of splendour. He'd placed the carnations in a vase of the best white china, bulbous at the bottom and slender at the top, and they formed a perfect bouquet.

"That's impressive. It appears you have an aptitude for something after all." she murmured tartly.

Poppy smiled. "You have to think about colours and textures with flowers. It's what's called 'harmony'."

When Miriam joined them she smiled at her daughter. "Be a love and find Poppy a few suitable chores, darling. We're supposed to be assessing his domestic skills as well as his - er - other talents."

She appeared slightly preoccupied, and Jennifer regarded her with suspicion. "It's out of character for you to delegate that kind of thing. Do you have something else to do?"

Her mother smiled. "I intend to have an evening out with Emma, and I'll need most of the day to make arrangements."

Jennifer suddenly looked agitated. As a younger girl she would have stamped her foot, but now she only frowned and paced the floor while glaring at the sissy. "Really mummy! You know very well I've already made plans to visit Monica Braithwaite in the village later. We can't both go out and leave this silly cock-in-a-frock alone in the house. He's not got the sense of a prawn."

Miriam remained unconcerned. "Poppy will be fine for a few hours by himself if he's given something to do, and he'll need to make preparations. I want him to practise some formal housemaid duties when Emma and I return. And I want you to go and see Monica. I want you to ask her to do a favour for me."

"A favour? That could be difficult. You banned her from the grounds recently so you're not her flavour of the month at the moment."

"Nevertheless I want you to ask her. Promise her something. Tell her there will be a lavish reward in return for assisting me."

Miriam returned to her bedroom with a vague smile still lingering about her mouth. She felt no guilt about awarding herself a night out. The past year had been busy and such treats were rare.

"You don't look bad for it though." she told herself in the mirror. A smile wreathed her face, but all the same there was a faint shadow beneath her eyes. "All right," she admitted, pulling a wry face, "I won't deny it. Good food and wine and some time alone with Emma Twist will be a tonic that will do you wonders," she winked at herself, "And there's no knowing where such an evening can lead."

Sighing, she plucked the pins from her hair and allowed it to spill down over her shoulders. Thick and rich, its warm russet colour seemed to infuse with her pale features. Bending her head forward she dug her fingers into the tangled mass, running her hands its entire length, then flicking it upwards so that it settled against her head. It felt good.

Annoyed by the unforeseen ripple in her own plans Miriam's daughter took her spite out on the unfortunate she-boy left in her care. "Stop your stupid 'harmonising' and do something useful, you effeminate little prick. Go and scrub the kitchen floor. Do it on your hands and knees. Servants must learn to do things themselves before being allowed any aids to idleness. After that you can do some dusting and polishing, and then park yourself against the wall until I'm ready to make an inspection."

***

Monica Briathwaite lived in the village of Peasmarsh with her mother. Their cottage was small, comprising two rooms downstairs, with the kitchen and bathroom built into a lean-to at the back. The narrow staircase was hidden behind a door in the wall and wound its way up to two small bedrooms above. Of the downstairs rooms, one had a small table and some chairs while the diminutive sitting-room seemed crowded with an armchair-and-sofa set and a polished veneer sideboard. There was also the lustre of china in a glass-fronted cabinet and a porcelain Staffordshire dog sitting each side of the fireplace. 

"Does yer want a cigarette?" asked Rita, perching on the arm of her mothers sofa, oblivious of her shoes kicking against the upholstery.

"You know I don't smoke." replied Jennifer.

"Course you don't. I keep forgetting. Bloody 'ell, I couldn't go without a fag now an' then meself." She picked a crumpled packet from her skirt pocket and drew out a cigarette. "How's things up at the Grange?"

Jennifer bent her head. "Just routine. That's what schools are about; you know, meals, lessons and bedtime. Not much else happens." Monica Braithwaite was a little on the plump side, not spare and lean like Jennifer, and despite being two years older than her visitor she was far less astute and quick witted. Nevertheless she was popular with the village lads who enjoyed her easy nature and the easy route they found between her legs, and popular with Jennifer too, who appreciated the way she unashamedly accepted an occasional girly romp. Jennifer thought her rather overblown, but then anyone not stick-insect thin was overblown to her

Monica lit-up, reclined dramatically on the sofa and languidly turned her head. With a slightly peeved expression spoiling her mouth she sighed and blew a plume of smoke towards the ceiling. "I don't know anything about what 'appens at schools anymore - not since your mam stopped me from 'elping out at weekends."

There was acrimony in her tone, and almost at once a stumbling block had been raised. Monica had been barred from part-time assisting at Fairyfield Grange months ago, how would she react when she learned Jennifer's mother wished a favour?

"You were a little over enthusiastic Monica. You were only supposed to supervise the first-termers in the garden, you weren't supposed to gather them all together for a wanking competition. That encroached on the school rules and you knew that."

Dissatisfaction reverted to a crooked smile as Monica recalled events. "There was always a lovely bloom on their faces when I got 'em to play with 'emselves. Some of 'em could pump up real whoppers."

She drew on her cigarette again as he eyes sought out Lulabelle, the ashen faced she-boy Jennifer had brought with her who had been parked in a corner of the room and told to keep quite. He'd be quite good looking when he filled out, she thought, but he still had a lad's extreme thinness at the moment, with bony wrists protruding from the cuffs of his blouse.

Jennifer thought it could be helpful to lay on a bit of blatant flattery. "You're an exceptional sort of girl Monica. Mummy was very impressed by the way you kept quiet about things you'd seen at the Grange. Most other girls would have been spiteful and blabbed all kinds of horrid stories."

Monica flicked her cigarette at an ashtray, pleased with the words of appreciation, just as the adroit visitor intended her to be. "I keeps me mouth stitched. That's why I gets work with people like Lady Chance-Barton. What I did at the Grange wurn't like a real job that I get paid for, I only did it because I liked it. Shame I couldn't have done it longer though, I never got a chance to smack the bums o' any of them cross-dressed cuties while I was there."

Suddenly the eyes of both girls searched out Lulabelle again. He was eighteen, but like all the 'girls' at Fairyfield constant badgering made him behave younger. Discouraged from thinking for himself, he like the rest relied on females to tell him what to do. Ostensibly he had accompanied Jennifer merely to carry parcels, but that day he was also there to serve an ulterior purpose.

"You can spank Lulabelle if you like." Jennifer offered.

Alarmed, the she-boy spoke for the first time since entering the house. It was just a meek, "Oh, Jennifer!", not designed to be challenging, but the daughter of the headmistress bristled anyway.

"Shut-up pervert, no one told you to speak. Put your thumb in your mouth."

"As he - she - Lula, been naughty lately?" inquired Monica, smiling thoughtfully.

"Gracious, he doesn't need to be naughty. Even before he came to the Grange he'd allow girls to pull him into the bushes and smack his bum for no reason whatever. Sometimes they'd even sit on his face and force him to suck the gusset of their knickers."

"Please Jennifer, that's not true." Lulabelle suddenly blurted out indignantly. Jennifer at once turned and swung the flat of her hand at the side of his head. "That's your second warning, you effeminate wanker. Anymore talking out of turn will earn you the strap when we return to the Grange."

Returning to Monica she laid on a beguiling smile. "I promised to get some chrome buttons for Margaret Pardoe whilst I'm in the village, so I'll need to be sharp to catch the haberdashers before they close."

Monica smirked. "If you're thinkin' o' going on the chase after that snooty Polly Clagget who works there, don't waste yer time. Her mam watches her like a hawk, and the stuck-up floozy don't give anything to lads, never mind lasses."

"Why Monica, even when my intentions are pure you always reckon me to be on the prowl. Look I need to be quick, so can I leave Lulabelle here for a while?"

Monica rolled her tongue in her mouth while casting an unwholesome glance at the pretty boy - his sweet face - his short skirt and bare legs. "Leave 'im here? Why o' course, but I thought you brought 'im to carry for you."

"Creatures like him are a nuisance when a girl's in a hurry, they get distracted and wander off all the time to sissy about in front of men. Personally I think they should have a collar and leash when taken out on excursions, but mummy won't allow it." Monica wasn't observant enough to notice the glint in Jennifer's eyes, but Jennifer was astute enough to know the village girl would need some buttering-up before she'd agree to do a favour, and allowing her access to a cute, puny sissy angel such as Lulabelle was an ideal for that.

Lulabelle felt some relief that Jennifer had left him behind. She wasn't at all pleasant to be with, and he'd had enough of having his ears cuffed, but as soon as she'd gone through the door Monica wheeled about and latched her eyes onto him, making him feel uncertain of her own motives for allowing him to stay. He gazed at her, an ingénue of half open lips and a soulful expression.

"You didn't belief what Jennifer said about me, did you Monica? I mean, those girls that used to grab me and spank me in the bushes - they MADE me suck their knickers."

"Dearie me! Such naughty girls. Fancy 'em taking advantage of a sweet prettypants like you. It's just too bad of 'em."

Taking hold of him she sat him down beside herself on the sofa, and pressed her lips hard against his unsuspecting mouth, making him shudder as she kissed him deeply and used her tongue. When she drew back her mouth flashed a smile that was not reflected in her eyes, instead there was a glint of something seen in the gaze of a predator regarding its prey as she observed the smooth thighs protruding from beneath his all too short skirt. Ignoring the she-boys alarm she laid him down on his back and quickly had his knickers down to his knees.

"Wow! I can see the outline of a nice knob-end under the skin of yer willy. She squeezed close up against his legs and reached out, making the boy utter a mild squawk as her fingers took hold of his prick and began to jiggle it.

"Oh no, aah! You mustn't..."

"Dunna make a fuss sweetie, else I'll have to smack yer bummy like Jennifer says I'm allowed to do. Let's have a proper look at you, let me slide the skin back while I cuddle yer balls. "Mm yes! You's got a sturdy thing, nice knob - nice an' red and smooth. Shall I rub yer pretty cock for you? You like to 'ave it rubbed, don't you? I want to see it grow, and I want to watch it squirt."

Things do change quickly, she mused. Earlier in the year she'd been taken on to oversee the first-termers on a Sunday; to shepherd them about and stop them getting into mischief whist roaming the grounds of the school. For her it had been a pleasant occupation, if an unpaid one, but then she'd developed a liking for gathering half a dozen of the sissy lambs together behind the beech hedge to give them lessons in tongue-kissing. After demonstrating how it should be done with each of them she'd then encouraged them to practise among themselves, and she'd told them just how much nicer it would feel if they wanked each other whilst they did it. Unfortunately, stuffy old Miss Hancock hadn't appreciated what she'd done and she'd sacked her.

Lulabelle's cock had swollen the moment she'd wrapped her hand around it and started to roll his silky foreskin up and down over his dewy knob-end. He was soon twisting his head from side to side and groaning frantically. "You mustn't rub me like that," he protested, but Monica merely smiled whilst increasing the speed of her caressing, stroking beneath his plump balls as she pumped his cock.

"It's too pretty to leave alone," she replied heatedly, "It gets stiff quick too, don't it? It's as stiff as a broom 'andle, an' it's all hot an' meaty."

Lulabelle's eyes grew large and round. "Monica - Monica - you're going to make me - going to make me..."

"Yer knob's gettin' slick an' shiny. Does that mean yer gunna blow? Is ya gunna do a big wet-one for Monica? Try yer best, 'cos Monica likes to see lots of goo flying when she yanks on a cock."

He manipulations were expertly applied, and the she-boy unsuccessfully tried to stifle his moans as his stiff flesh twitched. "Oooh-oh - OOOH! - and abruptly a splash of grey-white ejaculate leapt from his firm red tip to loop over the girls fingers.




A Sissy Saga Ch. 09



"That's it!" encouraged Monica, pumping energetically, "That were a nice one. And another - wow, yes - you don't 'alf chuck it out when you gets going."

When she moved away to wipe her hand Lucy might have believed that an end had come to his indecent ordeal, but Monica had other ideas. Hitching up her skirt she swung a leg over to straggle him, and the sissy looked up to see the gusset of her panties suspended above his face. They were stretched wide and displayed a prominent wet patch were the juice of her excitement was seeping through, and he knew immediately without being told, what he had to do. Girls always wanted the same thing when they sat on his face.

Sticking out his tongue he swirled its snaking tip around the centre of the warm damp stain, causing Monica to hover for a moment to enjoy the flickering effect before she settled down. Her panties descended to squash against his mouth, and Lucy drew a deep breath, passively opened his lips and started to suck.

***

"Jennifer don't! Jennifer please, you mustn't!" Polly Clagget's voice of protest was small and faint as she struggled without effect to break Jennifer's embrace. With rhythmic continuity her little utterings corresponded precisely with each wriggle and squirm of her body as she first pulled away, then backed up against the girl behind her.

Such an easy catch, thought Jennifer happily as she squeezed the pert young breasts that only moments before she'd pulled out from the front of Polly's blouse. Polly Clagget had the reputation of being a prissy young lady, but despite the noise she was making at that moment her protestations were half-hearted and she wasn't trying too hard to escape. Jennifer had pulled the tits out from her blouse the first time they'd met, and was now well acquainted with her meek demonstrations of unwillingness. They served for nothing but to salve the girls own feelings of guilt. Polly loved being mauled, it just horrified her to admit it.

The haberdasher's shop owned by Polly's mother was small and crammed to the rafters with bolts of fabric, shanks of wool and racks of coloured cotton. All the walls, including the one behind the counter were shelved out, while the floor space too was being used for storage and barely allowed enough room for customers to pass from the front to the rear. There were no customers but Jennifer at that moment, she having put the 'closed' notice on the door and locked it.

At eighteen Polly Clagget was modest and pretty and the epitome of every mothers wish. Always sensibly dressed, kind to children, industrious in the home and tireless in the workplace. Everyone agreed that when the right man came along she would prove herself to be a credit to the community as a dutiful wife and outstanding mother. But during a single brief meeting the previous week the girl from Fairyfield had recognised certain elements in Polly that had been common with some girl's she had known at boarding school. They were insignificant things mostly, just a particular nuance in a shy smile and a little quiver when their hands touched, but put together they were enough to tell Jennifer everything about Polly that all the others missed.

"Nice huh?" Jennifer grinned, rolling soft malleable breast flesh in her hands, before lifting it up and gently pulling it.

Polly whined a breathless reply. "Jennifer, you know you shouldn't do this, you're making me a bad girl."

"Oh, but you are a bad girl Polly. I know you have passions bubbling inside you that you don't let other people see, but I see them, and you know what I do with bad girls, don't you?" Polly blushed frantically as Jennifer heaved her forward against the shop counter and pushed her across it. Biting her lip she felt the back of her skirt raised to reveal her attractive young bottom and the panties that seemed rather inadequate to uphold the reputation of a modest girl.

Thwack! "OUCH!" She yelped as Jennifer's hand slapped her rear.

"Hold still," Jennifer demanded, pressing a hand into the middle of her back and making her bared breasts squash down onto the countertop. "Bad girls need smacks. Girls who have naughty thoughts have to be punished, and I know you have lots of naughty thoughts."

Thwack! "OUCH! S-sorry." Her victims voice wobbled. "Sorry Jennifer."

"Quite right. Bad girls have to learn how to behave. That's important."

Thwack! "Oow! Yes Jennifer."

Jennifer practised considerable thought whilst issuing a spanking. If her smacks were too light it made the likes of Monica Braithwaite roll about in fits of giggles, while given too hard just about everyone became hysterical with pain. With her mothers sissies she applied something in between whilst assuming the role of a stern matron; a series of stinging slaps that were keen enough to induce shame, indignation and perhaps a few sorrowful tears, but which also delivered a delicious, indefinable sense of naughtiness. Since Polly appeared to respond well to being bullied and bossed about she thought that to be the most appropriate treatment for her too.

Slipping a finger beneath the elastic of the girls pants she slid it around the curve of one cheek. "Lift up Polly dear. Lift up for Jennifer and let her take your pants down."

Panting slightly the girl eased the weight off her legs and allowed her tormentors fingers to slid under her tummy and pull the underwear down over her thighs. She may have thought her treatment insufferable, but she made no attempt to stop it. There was nothing wishy-washy about Jennifer. She demanded respect.

Thwack, thwack! "Ow!"

More spanks impacted onto a rump that was now utterly naked and Polly couldn't hold back her yelps. She cried out not because of the pain, but because of the wicked pleasure of it all. The pain was a fleeting thing that only shocked for a moment, but it brought with it an insidious burning sensation that lingered to arouse desires she'd always tried to keep in check.

Jennifer took the opportunity presented by the girls helpless wriggling to peep under the back of her thighs and observe the charms snuggled between her legs. Audaciously she reached out to caress things, and to worm a fingertip around the site of an aroused clitoris. "Gah, oh, oooh!" Polly responded only with moans, and when Jennifer's finger became buried in the mouth of her soft vagina the hot fluid of the girls excitement welled up around them.

"Humph! Despite your goody-two-shoes image I bet you're a hot little raver whenever you get a length of prick up there." said Jennifer.

"I - I don't let boys do that. I've promised mummy I'll be good."

Jennifer pulled a face. "Still the sweet prim virgin eh. But you could get around that. There's more than one way to enjoy cock, some girls even prefer it." She stroked a finger between the cheeks of Polly's bottom and probed meaningfully at her anus. "I've got the equipment at home to give you a sample if you fancy it. A small vibrator at first, then..."

Polly shivered in horror, pressed her knees together and clenched her bottom. "Oh god! No I couldn't. Not up my bum. Oh god, no!"

Jennifer's tummy rippled with pleasure at the girls desperate expression. Such coyness was a delight and she was enjoying teasing her. "But Polly dear, girls who wish to keep an unsullied pussy should offer something, that's only polite. I can get hold of a plastic cock that that'll squirt cum into you..."

"No, no. Please Jennifer. Please don't talk dirty like that."

Jennifer's eyes became hooded with fierce desire as she hauled the distraught Polly away from the counter. "It's not important. I can make do with something else for the time being. Kneel down in front of me."

Polly flustered uncertainly. "Kneel down! I-I don't understand."

Jennifer gripped her shoulders and pushed her down, then raised her own skirt to give her some hint of what was expected. Dragging the gusset of her pants to one side she grabbed Polly by the hair and pulled her head between her legs, inching forward until her glistening pussy was poised directly over her upturned face.

"Eat me Polly. Make me cum with your mouth and tongue or I'll spank you until you cry."

The girl swallowed hard. She had no idea what to do even with her eyes open, but she let her instincts guide her, and when she found Jennifer's clitoris she latched onto it and lapped avidly, letting the tender pleasure bean throb against her tongue whilst scooping up the warm juice that flooded out from the slit of her vagina. It was the first time she'd tasted intimate girl flesh and feminine secretions, but the spanking and mistreatment had aroused her to a high pitch. That she had never been with a girl before was unimportant, what she was now doing was so erotic - so naughty.

Almost unaware of her hands, she reached down between her own thighs and her fingers began to whirl madly around the sensitive nub of tissue that had stiffened and now protruded from its tiny refuge at the entrance of her own vagina. "Hmmmmph, glummmm!"

"You learn quickly," Jennifer remarked shakily as she crammed down on her mouth, "But remember to let me cum first. A good girl should always see to me properly before jerking herself off."

***

Poppy Popperwell managed to view most things that happened to him as romantic adventure. Work called for an organised mind, and that was a monumental problem for someone like Poppy who's thoughts tended to drift into daydreaming so easily. He was not yet nineteen years old and somehow fantasies and real life didn't seem at odds with each other. Even punishment he regarded fatalistically (though he wouldn't have known the meaning of the word), and providing it wasn't too brutal if could lend a certain rosy glow to the amorous feelings that constantly stirred inside him.

That day hadn't been too bad. Jennifer had scolded him and pulled his hair and smacked his ears several times for what she called inadequate effort, but she'd only made him cry once. 

Jennifer had then gone to the village and hadn't yet returned, and it had been Miss Hancock herself who had taken him upstairs and shown him the outfit she wanted him to wear later that evening.

When she departed he found himself to be the sole occupant of the west-wing, and seeking a change from perpetual cleaning he went back up to the guest room and viewed the dress laying across the bed. It was the same one he'd recently finished in needlework class, a black parlour-maid outfit with short sleeves and a flouncy little skirt. Everyone else completed such set-piece work during their first term, but he had needed two terms to finish it. Mrs Pardoe rated him a slapdash, mediocre seamstress but it was a good result achieved after a great deal of verbal abuse and ill treatment, so he regarded it with a certain amount of pride. There were nylons too, sheer, dark and seamless, and a pair of skimpy black panties, and shoes; a pair of patent leather sling-backs with gorgeous spindly high-heels.

He scrubbed his face with cold water and a flannel until it shone with rosy freshness and was ready for make up, then he brushed his hair back and refastened the plaits behind his head before putting on his new uniform. First the stockings. Hmm, heavenly. He pointed his pretty toes skywards as he smoothed them down his legs, then fastened on the narrow black garter belt, oblivious of how the straps of the belt dangled to frame his penis and testicles.

Next came the pretty, pretty panties, and finally the dress. The waist fitted perfectly and the skirt clung to his hips before falling to an immodestly short hemline in swirling ruches around the tops of his lovely thighs. The colour of the dress was as dowdy as his gymslip, but a white linen collar and cuffs relieved the black as did the tiny frilled organdie apron that he tied about his slender waist.

He examined himself in the mirror, turning and wiggling this way and that to admire his sylph-like reflection and looking as pleased as punch. The clothes enhanced his natural arresting good looks, bringing his girlish features into focus. The combination of black and white was crisp and clean, and the stockings and shoes made him feel mature and professional. A smile made his eyes sparkle, while two bewitching dimples formed on his cheeks which gave his face an appearance of immense sweetness.

"You'll do," he said, hands on hips and twirling about.

It occurred to him that he did look pretty. No wonder men were always falling in love with him, and some women too; women like Miss Hancock. His admirers, and there were many, thought him placid. They marvelled at his mild temperament and basked in his good nature whilst coaxing him into their beds, but what they took as serenity and lack of intolerance was in fact a managed preference. He loathed scenes of emotional turmoil and believed it far more worthwhile to spend time enjoying 'nice' things.

He had always been fair of face and attractive. He'd grown up amid people with glittering eyes telling him how gorgeous he was, and he'd come to distinguish between innocent fawning and wolfish observation. Men he understood, they praised him constantly and always got a hard-on if he pranced around and waggled his bum a little bit. What a beauty! What a body! What a gorgeous little bottom! They marvelled. He'd taken his pants off to please quite a lot of them in the past, so he knew had a certain kind of power over most men in the world, but women were an odd lot, he thought. He could never tell what women were thinking. 

"Oh conkers!" he sighed as he felt his willy rising up and the front of his pants pressing outwards. Just like when he'd put on his first ever lipstick nice new frocks so often made him horny, and Miss Hancock would go wild if she saw him like that. She'd be livid too if she found his brand new panties all wet and cummy.

He patted the tenting gently. "Naughty cock!" Never mind, there was plenty of time to make things right, and he knew the best remedy for making things lay down for a while. Doing it whilst wearing stockings and suspenders would be especially nice, but he decided it best to remove the dress. He didn't want to get it creased with all the squirming he was going to do, and he certainly didn't want to risk it being splashed with any of the gooey stuff queuing up for release in his precious girly ball-bags.

There! He thought some time later. With a polishing cloth in one hand and a tin of beeswax in the other he surveyed the end to his work. He wanted to make a good impression so he'd polished everything in sight, the curtains were neatly drawn and the whole room looked sparkling and bright. He straightened a few dented cushions and looked around. Everything was in order. The lighting was subdued and drinks were waiting, so after checking the clock he paused to look at himself in a mirror; touching his hair and rearranging the collar of his parlour-maid outfit. He looked fine and dandy, and he wore the dress with the kind of confidence that made him seem soft and girlish and someone accustomed to being looked at and admired. There were pearls in his earlobes, and the discerning touch of make-up on his cheeks was pearly too.

After a while he heard the car, then footsteps, and finally the door opened. He curtsied elegantly, first for Miss Hancock and then for Miss Twist, and noticed Emma beam as she observed him. "What a sexy looking cutie."

She was sexy herself, thought Poppy, she looked lithe and chic in her tight fitting Katherine Hammet jeans and turtleneck cashmere sweater. Miss Hancock was decidedly suave as always, dressed in slim-line black trousers and a lovely aubergine jacket adorned with a white pearl necklace. Everything looked perfect on her, but Miss Twist's youthfulness gave her the edge in attraction.

Confident that he had chilled the wine to the correct degree he took hold of the bottle and eased out the cork with a gentle screwing motion so as not to excite the contents into excessive effervescence. A faint plop! And he was able to pour.

Emma Twist sank down into the corner of the sofa and curled her feet up beside her as she considered the perpendicular lines of bubbles rising up in the glass flute that was offered to her. "Gosh, real champagne!"

Miriam perched herself in the armchair across the hearth and raised her own glass. "We've enjoyed a glorious evening and I don't intend to ruin it by offering you carbonated glop. Cheers!"

They drank, and feeling at ease and relaxed, began to talk. "It must be quite a change in lifestyle for you Emma, Leeds to darkest Yorkshire."

"Yes," the other woman admitted, turning her glass in her hand, "Cities are impossible. You can't park in them or drive in them, in fact you can't get anywhere without sweated effort. Anyway, I'm not cut out for teaching a dreary syllabus in an urban school, and since I've a natural inclination to be firm with people this is probably the best place for me."

Their eyes met and held, and interpreting some subtle signal Miriam moved across to settle on the sofa next to her, sliding an arm around the younger woman's shoulder and drawing her forward until her head lay on the warm bulk of her chest. The word sensual sprang to mind when she was with her. Where other women were concerned Miriam had a connoisseurs palate and an artists demeanour, and she savoured every texture and taste, both rich and mild.

The day had been wonderful. Earlier Emma and herself had made love for an hour, kissing each others bodies, lapping at each others sex, using fingers and tongues and finally enjoying a volcanic orgasm during a pussy on pussy joust. In the evening they'd taken a table by a crackling open fire in the new bistro on the Castleford Road, and as one of the owners was American they'd enjoyed a delicious supper of New England fare; creamy fish chowder and hot corn bread with lashings of butter, chicken pot pie with green peas and candied sweet potatoes, then apple pie and home-made ice-cream. Now heady from wine and still aglow from Emma's previous attention Miriam was as content as she could be. Or she would have been had it not been for recurring thoughts of Diana Chance-Barton and her lawyer's letter. 

Emma smoothed hair from Miriam's cheek, then placing a finger beneath her chin she turned her face upwards and kissed her on the mouth. She was such a busy-head all the time - a cold fish - it was hard to believe she could be such a wonderful lover. She ran her fingers along her bare arm. "Why, your skin is so white, pure, pure white. I've never really noticed before."

Miriam didn't flinch, even though her arm tingled under her touch, she just gave a little laugh. "My mother used to scold me for taking too much colour in the sunshine. She said her own mother used a parasol in the moonlight even when she lived alone."

Emma laughed too as her fingers stroked, her voice soft and caressing. "Beautiful!" she breathed as she lurched against her.

Poppy tactfully hovered against the wall, hands clasped in front, knees pressed together in the stance of a well behaved girl, ready to produce more drink if required but not daring to intrude otherwise. He remained a silent witness to everything. Two women canoodling so intimately made an odd sight, but it didn't stir him at all. Women were odd creatures.

At that moment Emma Twist seemed to be more beautiful than any woman had the right to be to Miriam. Her heart started to beat furiously and her head began to spin. Suddenly she wanted to take the younger woman in her arms and mutter soft, endearing things in her ear. She looked askance at her, aware of the sudden tension building between them.

Emma reached out to stroke her face with the back of her fingers. "God, you're pretty. Those cheekbones - gorgeous! And you've such incredible skin - so smooth, like a child's. You're beautiful, Miriam. Anyone could easily love you. I could love you." Her hand slid up Miriam's throat, touching her ear, then tracing her lips. "Loneliness is a terrible thing," she whispered, "But, we needn't ever be lonely. I could love you, oh, so easily."




A Sissy Saga Ch. 09



Her voice was low and velvety and wonderfully sexy, thought Miriam as a ruttish ripple of excitement rippled through her loins. Her mouth parted hungrily in a small, nervous smile. "Emma - Really! You're drunk."

The other woman's eyes were darker suddenly, prickling with impatience, almost crackling with sensuous, horny thoughts. "Maybe I am drunk, but that doesn't change the way I feel, it just loosens my tongue. You were planning to seduce me again tonight, weren't you?"

Miriam stiffened. "Yes, but - but you're seducing me."

The other woman ignored her faint protest and leaned forward to press her mouth into her hair, marvelling at the wonderful abundance of perfumed tresses swirling about her face. Her mouth brushed Miriam's cheek like a snowflake, and then she took one of her hands and gently squeezed it, while her other hand roamed down her throat to the point of her breasts.

As things heated up Poppy still didn't move. He'd been told frequently that the role of a servant was to remain discreetly in the background and observe without making judgements or displays of emotion, whilst being ever ready to attend to an employers needs. Employers ignored servants much of the time, and certainly neither Miss Hancock or Miss Twist seemed to see him at that moment. He wasn't there. He was wallpaper.

Miriam responded to her friends caress, melding to her body, eyes closing as the soft fullness of two pairs of barely covered breasts rubbed fiercely together. Her mouth locked onto Emma's, lips churning, demanding, wanting, raising desire. The impulsive kiss seemed like a raunchy dream. A sexual encounter always seemed to feed a glow to her skin that was more usual to women ten years younger than she was, and at that moment Miriam felt radiant and young, with a glow that burned in her body like a kind of fire.

"What do your other lovers do to you, darling?" she murmured as her fingers picked at buttons and pulled Emma's blouse open. "Do they touch you here?" she asked as two breasts were bared and spread out, seeming enormous against the delicacy of her naked frame. Cupping the weight of them in her hands she lifted them, kneading and rotating the peachy orbs for a while before lifting out her own swollen breasts and rolling them against her own naked bosom.

Heart pounding, Miriam became submerged in the closeness of skin and smoothness of contact. Nipple to nipple, belly to belly mouth to mouth, women's bodies together, pleasing, enjoying, the dreamlike pleasure sweeping away all the niggling worries of the day. The sexual frustration that had been building up inside Miriam all day now had a focal point. Her hand travelled down Emma's tummy, fingers slipping between inner thighs, searching and probing. "Do they touch you - Mmmm! There! I've been wanting to do that all evening."

Feeling slightly squiffy with drink Emma giggled. "It's about time, I've been waiting for you to do it."

"I was afraid that once you were away from here and in the outside world you'd saunter off with some good looking man." Miriam whispered, "You have beauty and intelligence - you could seduce a man with no more effort than a smile, a glance."

Emma spluttered. "To hell with blokes. I don't have enough time for them and I can do without any of their romantic drivel. They're invariably selfish bastards without any imagination, and I much prefer to spend my time with someone like you."

Miriam cheered up immediately. "Oh, I do like you. Only you could make my own frailties sound so positive. Let's celebrate with a brandy."

Immediately Poppy moved stiffly forward to place down two balloon glasses, then he took the brandy decanter from the sideboard. As he leaned over to pour double-finger measures Emma Twist noticed how he used the same priestly gestures of a girl, same ceremonious droop of the wrist, the same grave concentration. Totally emasculated and with his head bent at an angle of subservience he reminded her of a lovable, faithful spaniel, passive, like some soft-eyed dog waiting to be taken for a run. Instinctively her hand strayed up the back of his skirt to enjoy the satin skin of bare flesh spilling out from his tiny panties. A wicked finger stroked the crevasse between his buttocks, and shocked by the unexpected Poppy's hand shook. The decanter jarred against a glass to send a slop of golden liquid splashing onto the table.

Miss Hancock admonished him sharply. "Stupid girl! Go and get a cloth."

"I rather think it was my fault," offered Emma, "I did goose the girlie-thing without warning."

The headmistress glared at Poppy frostily. "He shouldn't have been taken by surprise. Serving girls must be prepared for such things in a busy household, and the scatterbrain leaned forward instead of stooping, which only increases the chance of it happening." When Poppy returned with a cloth Miriam snatched it from his hand. "Go and stand against the wall, nincompoop!" she told him in plain bad temper as she mopped the puddle herself.

Emma noticed the pinched look in the face of the headmistress. The snappiness was a symptom of an underlying problem and had appeared intermittently throughout the evening, and was unusual for a woman who never volunteered a sign of being ruffled. Everything had been a treat so far, but Miriam was less than her buoyant self and appeared to have something pressing on her mind. Now and then she would fall into a deep silence with her hands clasped tight together, one palm working into the other as though she were desperately trying to grind something between them. She had never been like that before, one minute laughing and the next looking crushed with worry.

She stared at her, not wishing to be nosy but riddled with curiosity she waited patiently, but finally felt compelled to ask. "Is there something troubling you?"

Miriam thrust out her chin. "I'm fine." she replied stoically.

"Well, if there is something, you know what they say. A trouble shared is a trouble halved."

Miriam Hancock's eyes flashed. "The key to success in business is discipline, dedication, concentration and patience. There's no place for soft hearts. One must never allow emotions to get in the way. Never show weakness, never lose face." She appeared to be lecturing herself, and on finishing her diatribe she sagged. "Oh damn the woman! That infuriating bitch Diana Chance-Barton believes she as her boot on my neck."

Miriam was no weakling, Emma knew that well enough. Generally she was able to make all her problems sound maddeningly pragmatic. She was a formidable character, resilient and indomitable, but there, just for a moment, perhaps encouraged by overindulgence in alcohol, she had allowed her armour to slip and given a glimpse of the mortal behind it. "Oh dear, you've allowed the woman to upset you."

Miriam grimaced. "I've run out of strychnine so I'll put ground glass in her tea the next time she calls. If Fairyfield Grange proves a failure as a school she'll take the premises from under my feet as payment for debt, and if it succeeds she's likely to impose herself as a silent, unproductive partner who'll skim the cream from any profit I make. I can't have that, I can't have her strutting about like Catherine the Great, robbing me and setting herself up as a dictator. I need to curb her impudent mouth and clip her aristocratic wings before things go any further."

Emma leaned back. Miriam's notion of a brandy would have snapped the neck of a St Bernard, so she sipped it gingerly. "Local tittle-tattle says she maintains a lodge on the edge of the family estate where she entertains her boyfriends. A local girl tidies up for her there on occasions - I believe Jennifer will know who I mean."

Miriam nodded. "That will be Monica Briathwaite - and the gossip is true, a procession of different men patronise the lodge at weekends."

"That could be the key to solving everything, and you only need find a way to turn it. Perhaps a little blackmail would do the trick."

Miss Hancock gave an emphatic shake of her head. "It's not enough. Everyone, including her husband, already knows of her extramarital affairs, and infidelity is so prevalent these days it's almost fashionable, it hardly makes people turn their heads. I must pin something more repugnant than that on her."

"Perhaps she enjoys some other deviation you can exploit."

"She'd be more susceptible to pressure if she were a some kind of pervert, but she seems as straight as a beam. She likes men and lots of them, but always one at a time."

Emma sipped her drink thoughtfully, then stretched along the sofa, devoid of complexity or neurosis, happy to be just what she was - an epitome of efficiency. "Well, if needs be we can manufacture something to discredit her. Give me a day to think and I'll come up with something to make her wave a white flag."

Miriam's mouth at once spread in a wide grin and she replied in a voice that was as crisp and even as the snow of King Wenceslas. "Exactly the sort of response I expected from you Emma, and precisely the kind of offer I need. Actually I've already a scheme in mind, but there would be advantages in having an ally to assist me."

"I see that. And anyway, it would be better if you avoided a direct link with anything underhand, you're a lady now, and ladies don't have to know how things are done. They supervise, but they don't participate."

"You'll find there are rewards for taking my side." Turning her head Miriam beckoned Poppy forward from the side of the room. "Go upstairs and remove your dress and your pants, then stand outside the guest room until Miss Twist joins you."

As the sissy shimmied away Emma chewed on her bottom lip, unexpectedly besieged by a sense of embarrassment linked to a feeling of high excitement. "Wow, Miriam! Are you giving me the chance to shag his arse?"

Miriam smiled benignly. "You like him I think, and I don't blame you. Thin, but sugar sweet. Nice bum. WILD eyes - and he fucks just like a girl. You've proved yourself faithful enough to be allowed beyond the mundane, and as long as you use him as a man would, why not? If you're prepared to assist me in the matter of Lady Diana you deserve a treat."

"That kind of thing isn't usually my cup of tea, although with Poppy I will admit to have given it some thought. I wasn't sure what your attitude would be to such a thing."

"When placed in the outside world attractive young men in short skirts will constantly be used in wicked ways, and since they're shameless about frolicking with each other and Hardwick abuses them all the time anyway, one can't be blame oneself for wishing to dally with an arse like Poppy's now and then. Indeed, why should dirty old men have all the best fun? As long as the dear stay on the receiving end of things there'll be no harm done to his girliness."

Suddenly heady with wrongful thoughts the younger woman stirred. She knew she should be disgusted with herself for getting hot about such a thing, it was a perversion she'd never practised before, but ever since she'd first met Poppy in the common-room she'd been beset by curiosity. She'd observed him many times as he made his way along the corridors, noting how his beguiling bottom rolled provocatively beneath his flouncing short gymslip, making itself known and simply begging for some extra-special attention.

"He's a darling." she murmured almost shyly. "I - er, I'll need to get something from my room."

Miriam Hancock was years past being shy about anything and she gave Emma's hand a slight squeeze. "Use one of mine. I've a lovely squirty thing with balls that can be loaded with replica semen."

Poppy checked his watch while he waited outside the door of the guest bedroom. Time was irrelevant, but for a moment it gave him something to do. He'd been sent to Fairyfield Grange while his mother served a term of imprisonment for something or other, and he'd learnt to be content just doing as he was told whilst acting out the role of an empty-headed bimbo. Appearances were more important to him than intellect, and everyone acknowledged he was a golden delight, beautiful to look at, with honey coloured skin and long dark lashes over bright eyes. He was fond of asking questions, but lazy about forming answers into something logical, being eternally preoccupied with enjoying life.

The wristwatch was one of the few items he was wearing. He was stripped down to his stockings and a meagre black lace garter-belt - and shoes of course, he still wore the high-heeled shoes - and the earrings and the gold ring in his bellybutton, but that was all. He wasn't unduly uncomfortable. Being the son of a high-class prostitute he was quite familiar with depravity, and when his leaning towards homosexuality became obvious his mother had started renting him out to those of her clients who expressed an interest. She hadn't even drawn back when some of them asked her to dress him in girls clothes. He didn't mind that. He didn't mind dressing like a girl and going with men. Men appreciated him, they said he was gorgeous, and they said he was as tight as a duck and no matter how often he was used the muscles in his bum always snapped back like elastic.

After some time Miss Twist appeared on the landing looking slightly tipsy and aglow with excitement. She paused at the top of the stairs in the manner of a panther surveying a helpless fawn in a field; hungry and predatory, eyes bright and alert, red mouth slightly agape. Poppy looked lovely, she thought. A pretty face as smooth as an apple and with a darling little mouth that had lips sweetly defined and just a tiny bit pouty - irresistible and tailor-made for kissing. And those eyes - he had eyes that could be wide and disarmingly innocent one minute, and yet narrow and scintillating at the mere turn of his head. In the absence of men his little tricks and pretences were usually reserved for other sissies, but he'd sometimes try them on women if he though he could gain some indulgence.

His expression on seeing her was one of alarm. He returned her stare, becoming aghast as vague suspicions in the back of his mind became confirmed in reality. Emma had retained her cashmere sweater, but she'd removed her jeans to reveal bare legs and an enormous thrusting prosthetic strapped in place at the apex of her thighs. Just like the one Miss Hancock had used on him the previous night it was moulded to resemble a male member in the highest state of arousal, displaying veins as thick as ropes and a domed tip worthy of a battering ram. At its base, swinging heavily between her legs quivered a representation of bloated testicles.

Poppy's ability for spontaneity deserted him and he stood as if paralysed. He was aware of the school teachers eyes running over him, scrutinising his shape and faultless complexion, but all he could do was swallow hard and it was a moment before he realised he was being spoken to. "P-pardon!"

Miss Twist gazed down at him, making a show of being patient. "I said, you look ravishing Poppy."

"Oh, I see! Thank you miss," he replied in his best little girl voice, suddenly feeling special, "Thank you very much."

She studied his body and his outlandish, long penis at rest on the cushion of his testicles, then forsaking any further preliminaries she leaned down and kissed his forehead and his face, taking his sexy, pouty lips in her mouth and biting them softly while her hands caressed his bare chest, tracing the shape of his breasts and strumming his small nipples. So warm and smooth, just like a girl. "You're a very pretty girl Poppy."

He blushed. A beautiful woman was flattering him! His cock twitched and he felt his body glow from nipples to kneecaps and he immediately felt fragile, sensitive and tingly hot. As she jerked his proud little teats between her fingers he began to twist and turn. Eyes closed, lips parting and swelling, his previously inactive penis suddenly becoming full blown and heaving out from his thighs.

Miss Twist ignored the obvious sign of male arousal and gave his breasts one last friendly squeeze before clamping her hands around his neck and shoulders, calming him and easing the tension from his body before allowing her palms to slid down his back. The sissy youth was lithe and lightweight and she needed little effort to scoop him up and fasten her mouth onto his thrusting chest.

"Ooh, miss!" Poppy sighed as she sucked on his nipples, savouring them for a moment before leaving them glistening with saliva. His head rolled back, but she held him firmly while cupping his balls in her hand and bobbing them up and down. When she spoke her voice trickled out like warm syrup.

"You're going to be my sissy girl tonight. I'm going to fuck you. You'll like that, won't you?"

"Oh, I, um! I dunno miss."

"I know you will. You're a sexy little witch who enjoys teasing everyone with a pretty bum, so I know you'll like it. But I want you to ask for it. I want to hear you say, FUCK ME."

Her demand was depraved enough to make even Poppy blush, but there was no way he could avoid a reply. Pupils at Fairyfield were never allowed choices. Shamefaced he turned his eyes down to the floor. "Oh - er - f- fuck me, miss."

"What's that? I could hardly hear what you said. Say it again, louder this time, and say, PLEASE."

He risked an apprehensive glance at the facsimile penis jutting arrogantly from between her strong thighs, noting how the overfilled polythene ball-bag was making a slaver of opaque fluid exude from its tip. "Please miss. PLEASE fuck my arse, miss."

The corners of Emma Twist's mouth turned up in an expression of immense satisfaction and her hot breath fanned against his ear. "Yes, of course, and you'll want my girl cock-cream too, won't you? You'll want me to fill your bum with it."

"Yes miss. Stuff me miss, I'm your panty-toy cum-queen tonight."

Without another word the woman wrapped her hand around the she-boys smooth, stiff cock and towed him through the bedroom door.

***

Wendy was familiar enough with the layout of the house to be able to get into the east-wing without any trouble. There was just a short corridor and a door with a notice pinned to it prohibiting anyone going beyond, but the door was never locked. The whereabouts of the key had never been discovered and his aunt had repeatedly put off the idea of securing the door permanently. But if going 'out of bounds' didn't make him nervous the purpose of his little trip made him decidedly so. Associations with Outsiders were utterly banned, and goodness only knew what Aunt Miriam would do with him if she discovered he was seeking to meet Judd, a boy from the village, so he kept even his breathing soft and tried not to make a noise. Somewhere in the house a clock chimed midnight. Everything was still, but he kept a wary eye out for Gloria who was known to sometimes roam the dormitory corridors until the early hours and could pop up in the most unexpected places. Meeting her would ruin everything since she invariably masturbated anyone she found out of bed.

Wearing just a bathrobe and slippers he stepped through the door into the dingy corridor beyond, sissying along quickly at first with the aid of a small pocket torch, but slowing down as he progressed. He was excited about his date with Judd. He was gaga over the naughty bad boy. That gigolo was a man, and the thought of taking a bottomful of cock from such a beautiful, strong-thighed lover made his testicles stir.

The east-wing was bigger than he remembered from his excursions of the past, the walls reached up to a high ceiling open to the rafters, and a labyrinth of forbidding passageways snaked about between dark rooms matted in cobwebs which were eerily illuminated by cold moonlight coming through undraped windows. He wasn't frightened, he just felt a certain anxiety about the place.

He wrinkled his nose against the damp musty smell that pervaded everything. Outside the summer night was still and serene except for the faint whirring of insects, but the black shadows inside the building created an atmosphere of brooding expectancy. His heart began to flutter as he realised he didn't know exactly where Judd may be among all those rooms, but at the top of a set of stairs he paused to glance over the balustrade and then heard a noise below. That's it, he thought. Judd would have entered through a window on the ground floor, so he had to go downstairs to find him.




A Sissy Saga Ch. 09



With his back pressed hard against the wooden panelling of the walls he gingerly he descended, then came another noise, a sharp bang this time loud enough to make him leap, and then Judd's voice, ill tempered and impatient. "Get down 'ere Wendy. This place is so full o' junk I'll do meself an injury in a minute." 

When he reached the bottom of the stairs Judd greeted him with a wry face and took a firm grip on his hand. "You're a sight for sore eyes an' that's a fact. I's been blunderin' around this place for ages."

Wendy flushed. "I should have told you, there's a couple of small rooms upstairs where the electric lights still work."

Judd shook his head. "No, that'll not do. I's not going any further than I have to. Come this way, I's already found a nice cosy spot fer us."

The youth led him into a room where the moonlight streamed in so bright there was no need for a lamp. It had once been a washroom. In one corner stood a pot sink cracked with age, and against the far wall a bathtub which had once been very handsome but was now discoloured and faded. Judd guided him across the floor to where he'd thoughtfully draped a blanket.

Tingling in anticipation Wendy settled down, then as the youth's curious eyes surveyed him he felt a twinge of anxiety. "You do know I'm not a real girl, don't you Judd?"

The village lad offered a crooked smile and lightly ran a finger down his arm. "I's been wi' Abigail often enough to know there's summat odd about this place, an' Abby's dick's too big to stay hidden long. It's not a worry. Findin' a cock an' balls under a skirt's a right good turn-on f'me."

"Do you fuck Abigail, Judd?"

"Course I does. Abby's a sexy little girl who loves to please men and who likes a length up him as much as any of you. But he's got an important position here an' don't like the idea o' any of them at the school gettin' atop of him. He likes sturdy fella's from outside, like me, to do that."

Wendy nodded. "I can understand that. I don't let the first-termers do me either, not unless they've got something really worthwhile to offer. Have you got anything worthwhile Judd?" Judd was already half undressed and he quickly removed the rest of his clothes, and Wendy suddenly felt hot as he saw the fearsome size of the arousal rising up from the pad of hair between his loins.

The young man kissed him immediately, and their lips met and parted only to meet again more lustfully. Wendy's hands worked on the bulging muscles in Judd's back for a moment while the teenager massaged and kneaded the sissy's soft bottom. Then Wendy felt Judd's breath on his neck and the youth's fingers, softly drawing lazy circles, seemed to become a permanent fixture on his skin.

"Everyone thinks you're Abigail's boyfriend." Wendy told him with a touch of envy catching in his voice.

"Maybe I am in a way, but I's a wicked sort an' I likes to sow me oats all over the place. " He gave Wendy a squeeze. "That's why I's wi' you now, in't it? I can't leave beautiful things alone."

"Do you really think I'm beautiful?"

Judd's hand stopped stroking for a second, then started again. "A course I does. You's a luscious little pretty-pants. You an' Abigail once 'ad a thing about each other, din't yer?"

"Yes, but he doesn't like me anymore, so I don't like him." Wendy replied sulkily, "That's why I'm such an easy lay for you."

Judd groaned as his companion's hand reached out in a way that was well practised. It was soon grasping his penis and stroking his hardness from flaring cock-head to bushy root.

Drawing Wendy forward he pulled open his bathrobe to view his nipples before pressing them against his manly chest, and at last they French kissed, the force of Judd's passion bending Wendy's head back while his fat tongue slid straight into his young sissy-lovers mouth to lick the insides of his cheeks. Ecstatically they sucked each others tongues and swallowed each others saliva, both of them feeling slightly dizzy and breathless when they relaxed their embrace.

"Oowph!" Wendy gasped as the youth touched his bare breasts, running his fingers over each one lightly, gently pinching and pulling each of the pouting nipples between forefinger and thumb and rolling them about. Wendy began to feel weak as wave after wave of pleasure ran through his body and down to the cock that lay stiff and aching between his legs.

Aware of what his caresses had conjured up, Judd's hands slid over his chest and went beneath the bathrobe, peeling it away to enable a lustful examination of the youthful body beneath. "Mmm! You's a sweet wee plaything, an' no mistake." Judd murmured, kissing him heatedly, thrusting his tongue into his mouth again and pulling his nakedness close.

Impressed by the exquisitely proportioned and petite shape his observation lasted no more than a moment before his mouth descended to tease the youngsters swelling nipples once more, moving his mouth from side to side with the delicacy of a butterfly, seducing the teats to protuberance before kissing them properly, and then suckling on one and then the other. He moved down to the sissy midriff, his smooth flat stomach, his tongue flicking hither and thither, before moving down further.

The she-boy tensed and relaxed with each shock impact, and as the tongue fluttered around his thighs he gave a soft moan as his foreskin was slicked back and its irreverent tip slipped eel-like against the eye of his penis.

"Oooh, oow - I'm not as big as Abigail." Wendy admitted apprehensively.

The village lad turned his head and grinned up at him. "I's not worried about that. I brought you here to screw you." He sat up and offered a penetrating stare. "I expects all the little ladies here like a good length o' todger up their arse reg'lar. Is you a good fuck?"

The younger boy pressed urgently against his chest. "I'll try to be a good fuck for you, Judd."

The youth looked down at the penis he was teasing. "Yer stiff middle wicket will 'ave to wait fer it's pleasure 'til I's had some of me own." he said, rising up to swing his own cock in front of Wendy's face. The she-boy at once swirled the tip of his tongue around its bulbous tip, then settled his mouth around the thick stem, sucking strongly as he nodded his head back and forth.

Judd was more excited than he'd anticipated and only a few moments passed before he groaned. "Ooow! Now 'old on yer scallywag. I's got things t'do afore I jerks me load. Turn over an' let's have a look at yer arse."

Wendy swung sideways and Judd grinned as he observed his bare backside. Both knew the time for conversation was over and they each understood the reason they'd agreed to meet in such a gloomy isolated place. They rose to their knees, Wendy's head falling forward as he rested on all fours, while Judd positioned himself in a crouch behind him with hands gripping his hips. "Perfec'! Spread them pretty buns so I can see where I'm going."

The youth was fully prepared. He produced a tube of KY and scooped a large portion of jelly onto his finger before applying it directly into the his latest love's anal orifice. It felt cool and pleasant, and Wendy enjoyed it for its own sake as much as for the finger spreading it inside him as far as it could go. Then he felt the head of the youth's engorged, eager penis slip between the cheeks of his backside and start to butt impatiently against his anus.

Arching his back Judd thrust hard forward, jack-knifing at the waist and grunting as his prick forced a route beyond meagre resistance and became sheathed in the body heat of the compliant sissy.

"Wwwooo! Oh, aah, yesss!" Wendy mewled and groaned as he became impaled, finding initial discomfort rapidly displaced by pleasure as the warm shaft pressed into him, forcing itself deep and filling the innermost recesses of his effeminate body with masculine stiffness.

"I was scared you might not want to shag a boy." he mumbled as he tightened his muscles around the thick piece of meat inside him.

Judd gave a raunchy laugh. "Me prick's got no conscience when it stands up, an' I'll shag anything I can get it into. I don't care if it's just a hole in a wall."

With his shaft all the way in and his balls resting against Wendy's crease he paused for a moment and slowly drew back before beginning a piston-like motion with his pelvis. Wendy's passage was well lubricated now, and as the head of his lovers cock burrowed smoothly inside he rolled his hips from side to side to establish a good sheath for it. The sissy squealed with joy. He was being fucked by a wonderful hetero boy who had taken complete control of him and was using him as a girl. The mere act of dominance was an aphrodisiac and he began thrusting back to invite deeper penetration, his moans increasing as Judd's penis moved in his bowels, firm and hard, going so deep that it seemed to scald the inside of his belly. It stabbed like a knife, but it brought pain without anguish - a glorious sensation for someone like himself.

Judd didn't get on well with hard work but he was no slouch at any kind of business that gave him pleasure, and he delivered stroke after stroke in a frantic, urgent rhythm. He was making the sissy stretch, holding him down and making him squirm in coils of pleasure.

"Oh, oh, oh!" Past caring about making noise Wendy wailed softly as he felt the irreverent shaft sliding in and out of his body, forceful and merciless, providing stab after mighty stab and only changing the motions into circling, screwing oscillations from time to time. Then the village youth paused with his length buried up to his pubes in Wendy's narrow tunnel, groaning himself as the lads anal muscles relentlessly squeezed the entire length of his cock. "Hey! You's a tight little ferret an' no mistake. I'm gunna have to keep a good hold on you." he husked.

Moonlight filtered through the undraped windows to fall across their bodies, two youthful white forms clinging together, static in unison, enraptured by the intimacy of their coupling. Humped against Judd's commanding thighs Wendy felt utterly without strength. With his hole stretched wide with cock he simply allowed himself to be used. It seemed slightly disgusting, but at the same time he liked it. Judd was treating him like a girl, and he liked that too. Raising his bottom a little he felt a familiar boiling heat inside that signified he was completely occupied and totally impaled. Things were as they should be when he had a big cock all the way up his backside. "Now then, darlin'..." whispered Judd, "Open yer hole for yer man... yer feel so good, so hot and tight..."

His words made Wendy feel good too and he started to moan again when Judd resumed his humping, then reach beneath Wendy's belly with one hand to do nice things to the very hard cock he found there. "Oh Judd - oh Judd ..."

"Ah yes! Give yerself like a girly - take it all the way. Good girl... Take yer man's cock... make him cum deep inside."

The young man's cock was long as well as thick, and again Wendy felt pain along with the pleasure, but such discomfort seemed to enhance the experience. "I want to be tight for you Judd," he gagged, "I want you to enjoy yourself... Ooooh... and I want you to squirt in my arse."

"I knows yer do sweetheart. That's what girls are for... to take cum from men. Get ready for a big load in yer pussy."

With the triumphant roar of a rutting animal the grocer's assistant gave a vigorous thrust and released his pent-up burden of hot semen, pumping his young lover over and over and coating the inside of Wendy's love tunnel with spurt after spurt from his throbbing hose... Filling him with juice... making his hole wet and sticky... pumping three... four ... five big shots into him... his sissy, his girl.

***

The following evening at the precise time that had been arranged, Emma Twist brought her car to a halt a short distance away from the small dwelling where lady Diana Chance-Barton customarily entertained her boyfriends. Switching off the headlights she turned to look at the two passengers in the back seat; Lulabelle wearing a bathrobe and Mrs Amos wrapped in an old raincoat. Beauty and the beast sat side by side she thought, and Mrs Amos wasn't the beauty.

That morning began like many others for Emma Twist. School routine was much the same every day at Fairyfield Grange and consisted of classroom lessons of a basic nature, just as Miriam Hancock had indicated. 

Since the sissies were destined for service with wealthy families she herself had to do some rapid research in higher etiquette in order to instruct it. Heedless of the fact they were being groomed to be sexual toys the headmistress insisted they needed to understand that all real pleasure was eschewed in favour of the 'right' thing and the 'wrong' thing. They would doubtless be employed by quality people, so - 'When drinking tea the little finger HAD to be BENT. Straight out was a sign of an atrocious upbringing. So was pronouncing 'garage' to rhyme with marriage. It had to rhyme with MENAGE. The head must never be touched in public, nor the nose, no matter how great the itch. Elbows must NEVER rest on the dining table...' It went on and on... how to shake hands with a loose wrist, curtseying to superior women, batting eyelashes and tossing the head coyly, even moving about and sitting down. All had to be seen done in an elegant girlish way.

That morning she had been conducting lessons in 'personal maid service'; how to dress a lady, how to attach her stockings to a garter- belt, how to care for latex skirts and gloves and how to assist a mistress with her bra. She had also tutored in how to polish a lady's nails and polish her boots and shoes and touched on many other things so essential to an aspiring page-boy or sissy-maid.

Swinging her eyes towards the building she watched for movement, and seeing none she glanced at her wristwatch. The day had been scorching hot and the evening was humid, so she wasn't in the frame of mind to sit about waiting. "We're on time, where the devil is that girl?" she seethed irritably. 

A few moments passed, her patience ran out completely and she climbed from the car in the mood to make a commando attack. "Come on you two, we'll go in as we originally planned."

The house was half hidden behind a willow tree, built in the style of a cottage with red-tiled gables, and having leaded windows and a door with a decorative lantern above. The door was slightly ajar. Entering cautiously and crossing the inside lobby Emma risked peeking into some of the rooms, and it was while pushing at an internal door that she encountered the flustering figure of Monica Braithwaite.

"Is everything okay Monica?"

The girl looked agitated and alarmed. "I did what Jennifer said an' put that stuff in her ladyship's tea, Miss Twist. Bloody knocked her out it as. Crikey! I hopes I's not killed her."

Emma brushed her aside. "Stop fussing girl. It was only a sedative, a little chloral hydrate, nothing to worry about. Matron is quite used to dealing out such things. Is anyone else about?"

"No, her ladyship's latest gennelman fella' left ages ago." replied Monica, quaking with nervousness. "I's done what Jennifer said, an' now I don't want no more to do wi' it."

"Wait outside then, but don't wander off. I'll need you to tidy up and secure things when we're finished."

Mrs Amos nodded at the girl, and Monica responded with, "'Lo, Auntie Flo'." Typically rural, thought Emma. Everybody related to everybody else.

Peering through the door she viewed a neat little room holding a broad pine dresser and a large bed with a coat-of-arms on the headboard. Lady Diana was laying naked and spread-eagled on top of the bedcovers, motionless apart from the steady rise and fall of her chest.

The corners of Emma's mouth turned up in approval as she observed the hairless thighs and puffed-out lips of the aristocratic vagina. "She depilates - that makes for good clear pictures." she murmured to herself.

She strode boldly forward with Mrs Amos and Lulabelle following gingerly behind, then swinging a travel-bag from her shoulder she unzipped it and delved inside. A moment later her hand drew out a large strap-on plastic penis. "Take off your coat Mrs Amos and buckle this thing on."

The woman grasped the stout shaft in her hand and ran her fingers up and down its length, her lips thrusting out in appreciation as she did so. "Is I gunna have to shag her ladyship's cunt, miss?"

The remark brought a look of disgust to Emma's face. "Certainly not, you depraved old crone. We're here to discredit her, not rape her. Just a few pictures of you wearing that thing and stroking it against her in a few intimate places will be sufficient for our purpose." She thrust forward aggressively to emphasis things. " Do only as I tell you Mrs Amos. I am not at home to Mr Fuck-Up tonight, do you understand?" 

Ignoring the unconcealed disappointment in the other woman's face she turned to Lulabelle. "You get your clothes off. Give yourself a hard-on and be quick about it or I'll have your balls hanging from my car keys."

From the travel-bag she then took the camera she'd borrowed from Mr Hardwick. A self-loading thing with an integral flash and automatic focus and light meter. The top of its range and only needing someone to point it and press a button to produce a quality photograph. She smiled sardonically at the unconscious figure on the bed. "Now milady, be sure to put on a good show for me."



A Sissy Saga Ch. 10



"Disgusting!" exclaimed Miriam Hancock lightly as she examined the photographs Emma Twist handed her. It had taken Hardwick most of the day to produce the prints, but they were well worth waiting for. The headmistress went through them as if shuffling cards, and having glimpsed each one viewed them a second time, more slowly and with greater concentration. "Disgusting but marvellous. Exactly the kind of thing I need. Who is that grotesque old hag wearing the strap-on?"

Emma didn't need to look. "She's a local slattern with no scruples. Don't worry about her saying anything, I have complete control of her."

Matron moved behind Miriam and peered at the photographs over her shoulder. "Are you sure Diana didn't know what was happening? She looks fully awake in some of these pictures."

Emma smiled. "She does look lively and alert, doesn't she? But she was full of the barbiturate you provided and totally unconscious the whole time."

"Then how...?"

"You know what a poseur she is, always getting her photographs in the Conde Naste type magazines. Hardwick is a dab-hand at photography, so I got him to superimpose some magazine images onto a few of the close-ups to jolly the scenes up. That may be a bit cheeky, but the coat-of-arms on the bed-head is real enough and you know how people love to think the worse. Everyone but herself will take it that she is revelling in the worse kind of gutter-slut orgy."

Matron shook her head. "You're playing a dangerous game. Diana could have you thrown into jail if she knew about them."

Miriam's face tightened. "The photographs are vile enough to deter her from legal action. She may be innocent to everything, but she couldn't endure the ignominy of having to present such things as evidence in a court-of-law. Even though they're fiction they would taint her precious public image more than she could bear, and without doubt copies of them would soon filter through to be published in some scurrilous pornographic magazine somewhere. In fact I would arrange that matter myself."

"They'll go into a bank vault for the time being. The only copies I will send out for the moment will be to the lady herself, under confidential cover and with a brief note telling her to call off her lawyers and keep her nose out of other peoples business. She'll realise who the message is from, and what it means."

A sudden look of concern crossed her face as she scanned the pictures a third time. "That dreadful crone is stretching Diana wide enough to park a car. It looks extremely gynaecological and rather vulgar, I trust she wasn't injured in any way."

"Of course not, unless you consider Lulabelle's generous string of semen across her nostrils to be bodily harm."

Miriam slipped the photographs into a large manila envelope and handed it to matron. They represented something more than simple triumph over an adversary, they stood for security of status and the sanctity of her beloved house. To everyone else a house was just a building, a thing with four walls, a roof and a door, but to Miriam Hancock Fairyfield Grange symbolised something ethereal that was far removed from the mundane.

"Right now there are things of more direct importance," the headmistress rumbled, "The Historic Buildings Commission are refusing to list the Grange as a top grade historical site, the bastards, so no money in grants from them, and the Inland Revenue are questioning my accounts. Unfortunately both are departments I have no influence with."

A skill for spending money came to Miriam Hancock as easily as swimming came to a fish, but acquiring enough of it always seemed to be a problem.

"Compose a letter to all parents and guardians, matron," she suddenly said in a flurry of passion. "Explain that the cost of pony-trekking and boating have risen sharply, and if they wish their young people to continue benefiting from such weekend activities their monthly allowance must be increased by - erm, twenty pounds." She sighed heavily, oblivious to the fiction she'd just improvised. "Money, money. Everything is expense."

The financial burden of operating her school always preyed on Miriam Hancock's mind, and along with major headaches she had to contend with a constant rash of smaller ones. "There is more bad news," matron replied, "Our stock of oestrogen has all but run out and our usual supplier refuses to provide any more."

The headmistress accepted that news calmly. "I foresaw this may happen soon, so I've already taken steps to rectify things. At least with this matter I can be reasonably optimistic."

"I hope you haven't called me out on a wild goose chase Miss Hancock," Doctor Arkwright huffed grumpily when Miriam greeted him an hour later. "I'm a busy man and I've enough sick people in the village to see without trailing about making house-calls to places ten miles out."

Looking suitably stressed Miriam led the way up the stairs. "I employ a wonderful matron who excels in dealing with skinned knuckles and sprained ankles, but she's helplessness when it comes to infections. She'd convinced Fifi may have contracted chickenpox, and since that is contagious I rejected the idea of taking her into Peasmarsh. Instead isolated her in my guest room. That was sensible, wasn't it? After all I do have a duty of care to the young people under my hand as well as concern for the community at large."

She took the doctor up to a room on the second floor landing, and the man peered round the door at the young person sitting up in the bed inside. A girl. It was Fifi. He wore only a lace-frilled bed jacket closed at the front by a single tie of ribbon. "Do you have a rash anywhere?" he asked briskly.

Fifi shook his head. The doctor went across and thumbed each of his eyes wide and glared into them, then pulling his mouth open he peered down into his throat. Not trying to hide the fact he was irritated and that his examination was cursory, he turned and took a couple of items from the bag he carried with him, then pushed a thermometer under Fifi's tongue.

Annoyed at having to conduct a house call he may have been, but he considered himself a connoisseur of girls and Fifi's collar-bone and neck were extremely elegant, while she had the kind of face that could keep a man awake at night. But such appreciation held no value when he came to considering the woman standing behind him.

Withdrawing the thermometer he checked its reading and a twinge of frustration coloured his voice. "This is preposterous Miss Hancock, just what kind of matron do you employ? There's absolutely no indication of illness here. I've rarely examined a more robust, healthy young lady."

Miriam feigned surprise together with a tad of helplessness. She knew men liked to see that in a woman. "But Fifi was complaining of aching bones. Isn't that a symptom of fever?"

Arkwright snorted and pulled Fifi's bed jacket open to reveal a stomach that was delectably flat and with a cute indented navel. The narrow chest was also flat except for two small nipples which seemed impishly prominent. Her skin was creamy, flawless and sleek, while her hips flared ever so slightly to create a gentle curve. A perfect creature, the doctor thought, well proportioned and bathed in a delicious aroma. Not a specific perfume, but a clean fragrance with the faint scent of freesias.

His fingers brushed up under her armpits to check the lymph-glands, then trailed down the shape of her sides towards her hips, probing the soft flesh as he went like a blind man reading Braille. "Is that uncomfortable?"

Fifi shook his head.

His fingers flitted across the smooth stomach before moving up to visit the ribs. "Do you feel any pain here?"

"No."

It was a body without equal, a harmony of muscle, bone and tendon without an ounce of unnecessary fat. Realisation then began to dawn on him. Beneath the coiled tension of the girl's sleek body there was something amiss. There was something about her, something different. The set of the ribs and the hips - something.

His pulse raced. Breathless, stunned, he turned the bedcover down and stepped back to appraise the girl from head to toe. Such slender legs. A narrow waist, but the shape of the pelvis was wrong. The pants - thong pants of the type worn by girls - were pointed at the front as if the nylon material were dragging across the tip of something inside. It startled him and excited him too.

"This - young lady - this young lady isn't a young lady." he slowly blurted out.

The man's characteristic hesitation snagged Miriam's full attention and looking helpless no longer she squared up to him in a sudden show of strength. "You're right of course, Dr Arkwright. And that leads me into seeking your assistance in a related matter. Matron is treating the entire school with certain medications - you know - hormones - but she's finding it increasingly difficult to obtain them in the amounts she requires. The pharmaceutics industry is so touchy these days about supplying things without the authority of a registered medical practitioner."

It was the doctors turn to look amazed. He looked horrified. "You don't know what you are saying, madam. Do you expect me to collude with you in some kind of diabolic scheme of your own devising? I'm a professional man of principal. The very idea is ridiculous, even grotesque."

Miriam did know what she was saying. The chickenpox was just a story to get him into a situation where she herself could feel at ease and where there was no chance of interruption. There were other doctors she could call on in the event of real sickness, but she was taking a calculated risk with Arkwright. He was the only one with a reputation for medical misconduct and sexual perversity. Nothing had ever been proven against him, but since the stories persisted some of them were probably true. If so it was a weakness, and in Miriam's mind such weakness should be used for the benefit of her school.

She walked past him towards the door. It irked her to sacrifice one of her girls to an Outsider, but the needs of Fairyfield Grange took precedence over individuals. "Please think about it Doctor Arkwright. There are special rewards for people who co-operate with me. Perhaps you'd like to examine Fifi again. She's quite often a naughty girl and today she's primed to allow a modicum of indiscretion. I'll go down stairs and leave you alone to get on with it, but please pop in and say goodbye before you leave."

Arkwright tried to remain cool and detached as the door closed. Staying cool was a prerequisite for a medical man, but still... Another flicker of irritation ran through his mind. Who did that obnoxious woman think she was, inviting him to make a further examination? What was going on? And 'indiscretion.' just what did she mean by that?

He licked his lips and breathed through his mouth as he studied the luscious form stretched out on the bed. His heart lurched, or was that just his glands reacting? Of course he knew exactly what she meant. She meant the youthful beauty had been forewarned to expect some lascivious sexual attention. 

Most of his misconduct in the past had been with female patients, and like many men he made a big show of lusting after big-titted females, but there were times when something happened to men like himself. Sometimes women faded from his menu of carnal desires and his dick thickened at the sight of a slim-hipped young lad. Married men, fathers, and yes even doctors could on occasions yearn to unzip and ram their dicks into a fuckable male backside.

He turned towards Fifi, seeking the source of the delicate floral scent that drifted from his skin. Fifi had a promiscuous talent and he had taken up an inviting pose, bed jacket thrown back to reveal dainty, bare curves. When he breathed he inhaled deeply to make his undraped chest expand. 

Temptation had the best of Dr Arkwright. Fifi was a beautiful thing of no more than eighteen summers. Irresistible to his mind because he was a sucker for a beautiful boy dressed as a girl. The opportunity he now had was too good to pass up. Sliding his hands up and down the sissy's body he began a second tour, caressing and stroking the pantywaists wondrous hips before moving up to his exposed chest to toy with his nipples.

Fifi's eyes became fixed on the doctor, blatantly teasing, piercing blue eyes that should have been innocent, but weren't. Languidly his tongue slid across the front of his teeth only to stop at the corner of his mouth, and there a lingering, delicate moist tip of pink protruded slightly.

Arkwright groaned. He had barely started and yet he suddenly needed to turn away in desperation to extract his penis from the front of his trousers. It was as stiff as a broom handle and already drooling.

Blast! He was going to boil-over in a second, he knew he was, he could sense it. And that without even having a peep inside the fruitcakes pants. It was unfair. What chance was there to enjoy so much lusciousness properly in a single fleeting visit?

The solution suddenly became clear. Of course. The headmistress wanted a favour of him, so he would comply and take a favour in return. All he had to do was tell her that his initial diagnosis had been too hurried and had been faulty. Fifi's condition was rather more severe than he had first thought and he'd need to make several more visits, maybe even stay overnight to ensure the sweet thing had the best attention a doctor could provide. She'd know precisely what he was really saying, she excelled in such double-talk herself. Yes, yes. There was no need to rush, there would be plenty of time for everything.

With a smile he turned again. "Open your mouth sweetness, this won't take long." he said, holding the base of his swollen penis with one hand and guiding Fifi's head towards it with the other.

The sissy's eyelashes fluttered cutely. "Doctor, you're using such a big thermometer this time."

"It's a special treatment," Arkwright told him, "You require some medicine, and since I'm likely to dispense it in a rather large dose on this occasion it's best if you take it orally." He gazed down at the sissy's shining face. "Do you understand?"

Fifi did understand. Miss Hancock had told him what to expect and he was ready to be a good girl and take on the deluge of sticky goo about to leap from the doctors stout, drooling meat.

***

Sunlight blazed through the tall window in Jennifer Hancock's room to glorify it's drabness and disorder. The carpet and curtains were chestnut brown, the walls and paintwork grey. On one side of the room stood shelves stuffed with books and magazines piled in disarray, while on the other, garnished with coffee stains, stood a radio cassette player and a heap of music cassettes.

The bed was still rumpled and unmade from her previous nights sleep even though it was five-o-clock in the afternoon, and discarded clothing and undergarments lay in piles on the floor. Clothing also draped the chair in the corner and gave an impression of utter unconcern with the mundane aspects of life such as tidiness. The only decorations favoured appeared to be several posters on the walls that depicted beautiful young women with cruel eyes and contemptuous smiles.

Like many teenagers Jennifer showed no concern about living amid disorganisation and mess, and only when her clean clothes became entirely mixed with soiled laundry did she feel a need to sort out the shambles. It was an annoyance, but it caused her no real effort, for she saw no point in exerting herself doing chores whilst there were so many precious sissies in the building who could do things for her, and a short walk along the second floor landing always produced what she needed.

Indeed, late afternoon was the part of the day when the house entered into its Domestic Practice or 'shine-time' routine. When she reached it some half dozen effeminate residents were ranged along the landing, engaged in sweeping and polishing under the supervision of Margaret Pardoe, who maintained the sombre expression of a Russian gulag-guard.

She paused in front of Zoë, who was busy with a broom and who was affecting a pleasing feminine swing to his hips. His arms were slender and girlish, and no wiles of powder or paint were needed with him. His cheeks held the natural blush of a rose and his lips were deep red on their own account.

"YOU, come here." she barked. He gawked at her, not sure of who she was addressing.

"I mean you, you stupid pansy - come with me." Impatiently she stormed over, grabbed him by an ear. "I've a special task for this one." she explained to a sullen Mrs Pardoe as she dragged him away.

Her choice wasn't as ad-hoc as it seemed. She'd chosen Zoë, an individual who was habitually neat and tidy about everything, and who would require only minimal direction to make order out of chaos. Ignoring his look of horror when faced with the state of her room, she put him to work, then reclined on the unmade bed where she could read a magazine and still be available for advice on where to put things.

She rarely punished a sissy for any other reason than self- indulgence anymore, or because they were morons who couldn't follow instructions properly. Once they'd experienced her capricious nature they never argued or questioned too much, and although they sometimes whimpered or sulked they certainly never defied her. Doing as she said was always the most comfortable way of dealing with Jennifer. Sometimes their abject submission made her feel sexy. She became intoxicated by it. Their squirming hesitation and indecision made her feel powerful, and it reaffirmed her belief that they could never be her equal.

She knew that in the opinion of some people she should be at least entertaining a boyfriend, or even better, be deeply involved with a husband and children like some of her contemporaries' from school already were. But in Harrogate she had seen a couple of her former classmates heaving huge double pushchairs up and down the shopping precinct, and it had horrified her. 

Despite being sexually aware for a number of years she was still a virgin in the sense she'd never copulated with a man. Right from the start she'd been determined that no male who couldn't beat her in a fight would be allowed to fuck her, but by her nineteenth year she was still waiting for him to appear. She had always been physically strong, and she maintained her fitness with habitual gym-work. Being seen to be so capable frightened men away, but she had no emotional need of them, and her biggest thrill came from dominating their puerile minds whenever she had the chance.

On a small bookshelf she horded several publications on human psychology, a subject she intended to study at university. At the moment she was single-minded in private study. She did not rate herself an academic, or an intellectual, but felt no need to compensate for that by sheer slog either. She had an intuitive sense for what people were thinking and what motivated their actions.

Zoë was extremely efficient. Half an hour to tidy up. Fifteen minutes with a vacuum-cleaner and another fifteen with duster and polish and her room took on an ambience of wholesomeness. Everything was in perfect order, the clothing sorted; clean in the closet, dirty in a bag for the wash, shoes reassembled in pairs and laid tidily in the bottom of a cupboard.

Jennifer found herself glancing up at him, watching him longer and longer each time. There was something enchanting about the precise, fussy way he did things, quickly tucking, folding and smoothing. There was definitely something erotic about him too. His slender bare legs were a focal point that introduced a trim figure that wore a skirt well. And he was a tease when he leaned forward, the little skirt repeatedly sliding up the back of his thighs, promising a glimpse of underwear and a show of glabrous bum cheeks, but never quite doing so.




A Sissy Saga Ch. 10



She was most comfortable when wearing few clothes, and at that moment she wore her blouse open at the neck and no bra. She could feel the points of her nipples moving against fine cotton, and she couldn't resist squeezing her thighs together, covertly bringing tension to her muscles and applying pressure to the moist slit and small throbbing nodule between her legs. There was something incredibly sexy about being so utterly in command of a pretty boy in a gymslip. Watching him gave her pleasure, but he wasn't allowed to know it.

Sitting up she looked around the room and noted how the previous shambles had been converted into meticulous neatness. "Your skill is impressive, Zoë." she told him in a low, velvety voice.

"I like to see things tidy." he answered.

Jennifer beckoned him towards her, then ran her fingers along the bottom hem of his brief skirt to enjoy having her hand in close proximity with his thighs. "When were you last punished?"

"Miss Twist punished me last night."

"Why did she need to punish you?"

"We were dancing. Sammy, Bambi, Holly and I. Just dancing, and she caught us."

"I don't recall dancing being against the rules. Mr Hardwick teaches dance. Were you doing country-dancing or jive, or were you practising his latest tap-dance routine?"

"Holly Bedlam had a disco-cassette."

"Disco music." Jennifer frowned, "All jumping about and twisting around to noises without rhythm. Yes, Miss Twist is a bit stodgy about things like that, and she'd probably think that sort of music quite unsuitable for nice young ladies."

"She said it was inelegant and she confiscated Holly's cassette. Then she slippered everyone's bottom."

"On the bare?"

"Yes, knickers down and over that horrid hurdle in her room."

Jennifer contemplated that for a moment, four darling girlie-boy fuckwits going over Emma Twist's hurdle one after the other, heads right down, bare bottoms pushed high and balls huddled between thighs. She tapped her fingers against her teeth, thoughtfully admiring Zoë's shining eyes, his peach coloured skin, his neatly combed hair and slender waist. His figure was finely honed, graceful and girly and his features blemishless, and she found it impossible to resist the chance to amuse herself with the sweet queen.

"Show me how you danced."

Zoë looked rather startled. He sensed her eyes running over him, making him feel like an object in a display case. He hung his head and tried to keep his voice neutral. "Oh, but I'm not really very good."

"Nonsense. I think you're being modest. Look here. I've some disco-music on my player, and Miss Twist won't confiscate that."

She slotted a cassette onto the player and watched as Zoë hesitated and then began to sway his head with the music. Knowing that Jennifer's temper was fragile and her smiles mere subterfuge, he dared not refuse her urging, and slowly he started to bop. Awkward at first, he was far from being a disappointment, but he lacked the vitality and spontaneity Jennifer wanted. Among his peers, with the sissies he hugged and kissed constantly she reckoned he probably sparkled, but in front of her, a girl, he was inhibited and mechanical. His expression said it all. His face was strained with embarrassment instead of naughty pouts and suggestive smiles. 

Then slowly he began to relax and make the most of the confines of the room, weaving with the drumbeat, swaying his hips and rotating his pelvis, gesticulating with hands and arms whilst skipping about. Despite his earlier reservations he was suddenly moving exquisitely, and although his unconscious undulations had no specific form each had clearly been perfectly choreographed by practised repetition in the past. His movements became ever more fluid and synchronised, and his short skirt swirled around the tops of his thighs with seeming abandon, but ingeniously, infuriatingly, still excluded the slightest peep at his underwear.

Languidly, Jennifer shifted her position on the bed and crossed her legs. The sissy-poppet looked so sweet and vulnerable, so suitable for some other little game. She switched the music off while her eyes lingered on him. His poised stance was a sinuous curve, a flowing line. With an easy stretch she swapped the track on the player to music of a slow beat that matched the fall of pitch in her voice.

"You disco-dance wonderfully Zoë. You're a natural mover and a stunning beauty. You could become a fashion model."

Zoë's long black lashes fluttered against his rosy cheeks and he squirmed with pleasure.

"Tell you what," Jennifer said, "Why not do a little striptease for me."

Zoë immediately blushed. "S-striptease?"

"Yes, let me see you get your kit off. I bet you put on a show for the other squeaky-creatures in your dormitory sometimes, so you shouldn't find it hard to do the same for me."

The sissy's blush deepened. He stood very straight, with his hands behind his back and his head turned downward at a slight handle. Jennifer's eyes were roving all over him. How sissies behaved in the dormitories was one thing, but he'd feel very uncomfortable performing in front of her. 

She sat up on the side of her bed, her expression threatening. "I'm waiting for a response, Zoë. Are you trying to piss me off, or have aliens stolen your balls?"

With a tentative initial twirl he started to move his hips in a subdued bump-and-grind as he unfastened the loosely knotted waist band on his gymslip, then pushed the smock from one shoulder, and then the other before gathering the garment in his fists and sliding it down over his hips.

Jennifer hugged herself. He had a straight up and down figure without a hint of girlish hips, but his supple gyrations were suggestive enough without such attributes and his body glowed seductively in the light from the window. Oh, yes. He'd command a good audience of queers in the dormitories. A whole roomful of sissy cocks would throb and stand to attention. The most sensual feelings began to roll over herself too. It felt so wonderfully decadent, the inversion of roles so forbidden, to be commanding a young man in such a way and making him perform.

"Take your time. Be unhurried and graceful. Peel things off with a dainty flow, and try not to look so anxious. You're supposed to be teasing so you should have a naughty sparkle in your eyes."

Zoë couldn't sparkle, he was far too embarrassed for that. The removal of his blouse left him half naked; shoes and socks, a skimpy halter-top high on his chest, and panties - white knickers that clung snug to his hips and made a show of the gibbous shapes inside them. Despite his shyness the shameless act of disrobing had begun to excite him, and the front of his tiny pants bowed forward.

He took the halter-top off over his head with crossed arms, tugging the tight material past his ears before gazing at his mentor with concern. "Must I take off my pants too?"

Jennifer stared at the soft creamy skin of his slender abdomen. He looked so delightfully uncertain as his nervous hands stroked slowly up and down his belly and hips. "Yes, of course your panties too. Surely you're not shy about showing me your willy, are you? I've seen it plenty of times before."

"Yes, yes I know. But - but stripteasing is different, it makes me feel sort of odd." Zoë's eyes dipped to the floor and he fumbled gingerly with his pants, sliding the palms of his hands down his hips and beneath the elastic, easing the clinging garment down to allow just a brief glimpse of his stiff boner, before whirling about to uncover a superb bare bottom.

At last, thought Jennifer. The elusive bum finally revealed.

Stepping out from his pants the pink blush on the sissy-boys cheeks blossomed anew as his penis hardened quickly. His heart was pumping strongly and it was only natural under the circumstances that a lot of blood would flow there. It swelled and lengthened, thickened and bounced up solid and full of tension. It had a nice broad tip, and being entirely hairless seemed to emphasis its size and shape, a shape that assumed a slight upward curve that for Jennifer was aesthetically pleasing. His testes were quite large too and hung low with their fullness.

Zoë's hands fluttered in an impulse to hide it all, but in the end he left everything exposed. He knew Jennifer would only demand it anyway.

Other girls - and plenty of women - would have found the temptation to make use of his exquisite little fuck-toy overwhelming, but Jennifer scorned the very idea. She sought her thrills in obscure and deviant ways. She stood, and then walked over to stand behind him. His body was as smooth as a billiard ball, his penis and testicles showing slightly pink when observed against the uniform creamy hue of his nakedness. His upraised cock was circumcised and displayed a handsome broad tip, and she could almost feel the tension in the straining sinews of the thrusting shaft.

"You ARE a bad boy. Both a bad boy and a naughty girl. Fancy showing your randy sissy-stick to a lady!"

Zoë's head drooped as he sensed her scrutiny. Bless him, thought Jennifer cynically and rather gleefully. He probably didn't turn a hair when being ogled by the queens in his room, he probably loved it, but being inspected by a girl was something completely different. He, like most of the unambiguous fruitcakes at Fairyfield Grange had been denied contact with real girls for years, and such creatures were inevitably shy and modest sheep when facing an aggressive one in an intimate situation. 

She gave in to a mood of the moment, put out her tongue and licked his ears... "Oh!" ...clamping her hands firmly onto his breasts, she then laid a gentle bite into the surface of his smooth, alabaster neck - no vampire sucking, just sharp teeth making his delicate soft skin dimple. It was a kind of statement. It was a grip mother animals used to manipulate their young, and it reaffirmed to the creature that she was the boss.

"Oh, oh!"

Aroused now, Jennifer ran her hands up and down his narrow back and smoothed them down over his thin waist, making the sissy-creampuff redden again as her fingers explored his buttocks and the insides of his slender thighs. Few situations could be more intimate than the one they were engaged in, and Jennifer emphasised that by gazing blatantly at his erection. "You're a saucy little honey with your pants off, aren't you? Do you know about birds and bees yet, or do you only know about being a limp-wristed tranny-queer?"

Zoë lowered his eyes and tears of despair began to well up. At that moment he was a picture of submissiveness, a state of mind that only encouraged Jennifer to smirk before she continued. "Of course, you're a pillow-biting cock-lover. Real girls wouldn't want anything to do with a mincing she-thing like you. If dressing you like a doll didn't amuse them, they'd be likely to scratch out your eyes for being so pretty. It's probably best if you stay as you are. Just settle for being a pantywaist, man-loving faggot."

Zoë winced. The maleness in him had been replaced by a simpering ultra-sissy whose sole purpose was to serve without question. Yet even as he considered his dreadful fate his penis throbbed.

It didn't go unobserved. "You can't put your panties back on with your girly-prick sticking out like that." Jennifer told him. "You're going to have to play with yourself and empty it."

"Do you really think I should? Do I have to?"

He was embarrassed all afresh. With others of his own ilk he'd be at ease, but when told to masturbate before a girl he was out of his depth, nervous and ashamed. How lovely, thought Jennifer. His coy glances and fevered blushes were enough to stir her interest at once, but instead of laying on threats and forcing him to do it she amused herself with gentle admonitions and subtle, persuasive badgering, pretending empathy, hinting at sympathy, while all the time making him bend to her will.

"Oh dear! Are you shy, Zoë? Am I being awful?" She purred the questions in a soft cadence, barely managing to hide the underlying mockery in her voice. "I understand. Never mind. You need to get over such silliness. Sissy-boys like you will always have to do naughty things to please girls. You have to learn to do as they tell you, and without arguing, or they'll hurt you. They'll pinch you and tease you. They'll spank your little bottom and smack your balls, and they'll make you cry."

She drew back slightly, then added in a tone that for the first time veiled a threat. "I want to see you give your willy a good rub, but of course you must ask my permission before you start."

Zoë trembled. "I don't really want to do anything like that. Can't I just get dressed?"

"No you can't. You'll do as I wish," Jennifer replied sharply, "Now, ask me."

The boys pretty mouth twisted and he prevaricated for a moment, then he lowered his eyes and squeezed out the request demanded. "May - may I play with myself, Jennifer?"

The girl's eyes shone with mischief. "Play with yourself? What a cute phrase. I bet you're not half so coy with language when you're with you're playmates. Speak plain and say what you mean."

Intimidated beyond delicacy, Zoë took a deep breath. "Oh, erm. Please Jennifer. Please may I have a wank?"

"That's better. Much better. And of course you may. I'll sit with you. You must learn what it's like to have your wanks supervised by girls."

She guided him across to the bed, then sitting him down on the edge she seated herself at his side, sliding an arm around his shoulders and using her other hand to stroke and knead his chest. "Now then Zoë darling, make a start. Get working on your stiff, wicked wand."

The she-boy began at once, slowly pumping with his hand, then stealing a brief pause before continuing with more sustained movements.

Jennifer loved forcing boys to perform in front of her like that. It embarrassed them terribly, and it never failed to strip away their pride and destroy their dignity. She observed Zoë closer than ever at that moment and saw his eyes shimmer in a familiar glaze of rapture as his hand gripped into a fist around his stem and began strumming wildly up and down. Ah yes! The head of his prick was reddish pink with an open pee-hole that was already drooling sticky stuff, and next would come the expression of dazed uncertainty and the breathless little gasps as it filled out and became fully extended. Then she'd hear the cacophony of his shameful sissy ecstasy as he became reduced to moaning and rubbing himself like billy-oh.

"That's it. That's nice. But do it faster." The girl urged him with the urgency of her own voice. Fully in command she pushed his knees apart in order to watch the bounce of his scrotum as it responded to the fervent yanking of his cock.

"Faster, faster! Give it a good workout, Yes, that's it. Rub-a-dub. It looks so swollen and stiff. Does it feel nice when your hand jerks it like that? Umm! Do you let the other sissies play with it sometimes? Do you ask them to suck it? I think they'd be beastly not to treat it nice."

The sissy-boy's lips, partially open, became contracted by a voluptuous agony, and with eyes now half closed, he seemed near to swooning. Despite his previous reluctance he had excited himself to a high pitch. Jennifer smiled and rubbed his belly. "I bet you're thinking about a boy kissing you and rubbing your stiff cock, aren't you Zoë dear? But that only confirms that you're a pantywaist sissy faggot."

"Oh - oh - oh - Jennifer, I-I ..."

"I know what you're trying to say. It's such a big, stiff thing now, isn't it? And you can't stop rubbing it, can you? It feels too nice, doesn't it? You couldn't stop rubbing it even if you wanted to, so go ahead and cum like sissies do."

She watched his face contorting, saw his hand pounding, listened to his bleating moans of distress. It became obvious his climax was upon him. The pleasure was so intense even she being there couldn't ruin it.

"Ah, oh, oooh!" He slumped against her, pushing his cheek against her bosom whilst his mouth disgorged irrepressible noises of bliss. "Oh Jennifer. Ooooh, ooow!" His shimmering eyes fluttered and he gasped with endured pain as milky semen exuded over his hand in fierce, unstoppable splutters.

Jennifer cradled him and quietly observed each squirt of his viscose seed. It made up a rather reasonable amount, rather impressive, but typically she sought to increase his embarrassment by exaggeration. "Mmm, my oh my! You are a spunky little madam, aren't you? Such a lot! Such a big load to get rid of, you naughty girly-wanker. Don't dare stop until you've got it all out."

Zoë couldn't stop. Even when cream leapt up and puddled in his navel his fingers didn't stop moving immediately. They wouldn't cease their squeezing and pulling until the delicious ache in his solid stem had been worked out too.

"You are a disgusting sissy," Jennifer chastised playfully. "Fancy allowing a girl to watch while you make your willy pump out all that stuff."

She thrust a paper tissue in his hand. "Wipe up the mess. You're probably feeling ashamed, and quite right too. But I'll help you to get rid of your guilt by giving you a nanny-spank over my lap." The teasing light of humour that had danced in her eyes had now disappeared. She stood up and swung about to push him down across the bed.

"First though, I'll start by giving your legs a few slaps - inside the tops of your thighs where the flesh is tender. It'll sting I expect, and it'll make you weepy again, but I won't be cross with you if you cry. It's normal for young men being girly to shed a few tears at times like these."

***

The abrupt, unexpected jangle of the telephone startled Parson Roper, the hollow acoustics of the church vestry making its alarm particularly unpleasant. Although it was unseemly for a man of the cloth he couldn't restrain himself from uttering a profanity under his breath as he reached over from his seat to lift the receiver. "Roper - Parson Roper."

The high-octane voice of Mrs Boroclough blazed away at him from somewhere in the distance. "Parson, I'm sitting at home brooding about that awful Hancock woman. It really is intolerable that after so long she's still allowed to operate that frightful so-called school of hers within the parish of Peasmarsh."

Roper smiled wanly. "Dear Mrs Boroclough, I'm certain we've had this conversation before, and you must get out of the habit of taking the troubles of the world upon your shoulders. Is it the form of dress worn by the students that troubles you?"

"Certainly the school uniforms are a concern. It's improper, not to say indecent to have young men dressed in a style more appropriate for girls practically swanning around on our doorsteps. What does the wretched woman think she's doing? Does she really believe we're all so dim as to believe they really are girls?"

"I doubt anyone is in danger from them, Mrs Boroclough. Miss Hancock seems more concerned with keeping a low profile and avoiding confrontation. If she's infringed the law-of-the-land I'm sure she would not be allowed to continue. Clearly the people who provide her with students have taken a radical step away from tradition, but we can't pillory them for just wishing to pursue a different way of life to our own."

"Parson you're infuriating. You should be condemning her from the pulpit and lambasting her at every turn. You should be leading our fight against her insidious mockery of standards, instead of which you practically condone it. I'm utterly frustrated - even Lady Diana refuses to get involved. I really fail to understand the apathy that grips everyone about this business. I and the ladies of the Women's Guild seem to be the only sane people around."

"Do try to be charitable, Mrs Boroclough. Times change and I'd be thought a fuddy-duddy of a priest if I didn't make some effort to change with them. People have freedom these days to experiment with unorthodox ways of life. If your concern is that Fairyfield Grange is not fulfilling its purported role as a school it would be better to draw the matter to the attention of the Board of Education."




A Sissy Saga Ch. 10



"Parson, you're on the verge of being insolent. Don't forget who you're talking to."

Roper bit his lip. The woman was very wealthy and very strong in the community, and he was in debt to her for more than just money.

There was a pause, then a caustic conclusion from her. "I can't thank you for anything you've said, parson. You're a hypocrite and you've not been the least bit helpful or reassuring. But you may be certain I won't let the matter rest here. I'll speak with the chair of the Education Committee at County Hall."

When an abrupt click on the other end of the line indicated the call was over Roper replaced the handset and drummed his fingers on top of it in annoyance for a moment.

"Was that my grandmother?" asked the young man with him.

Unerringly, Roper's gaze sought and found the person who had spoken, a gorgeous male specimen with dark, tousled hair, striking blue eyes and with the kind of lean, honed body that was ideal for sin. He was dressed casually in an Oxford shirt, jeans and loafers with no socks.

He cleared his throat. "Yes, Alistair, but it was not about anything that concerns you." He stood up and appraised his visitor. He was only inches away from him, so close he could feel the warm of his body, could smell the scent of his woodsy aftershave. A tremor of desire ran down his body and melted into his loins. Alistair was a memory from the past come back to haunt him. He was like wine. A rare vintage with a perfect chambre. It struck him how big he was, how tall and how colossal and awe inspiring the bulge in the front of his jeans was. Just standing near enough to touch the young man made his blood run hot and his own groin tighten in awareness. He liked Alistair. He'd always liked him, liked him in the way a man hungers for a treasure he as never possessed, and right at that moment he had to check that his tongue wasn't hanging out with lust. 

"You've grown, my boy. You've shot up considerably from when we last saw each other, and you're you look so mature and strong. Lovely, lovely. Your mother tells me you are now attending the College of Agriculture, but I must admit to being in the same vein as the Duke of Wellington when he said agriculture was something he knew absolutely nothing about."

"It's a college of horticulture, not agriculture." Alistair told him. "Agriculture is about cultivating the land while horticulture is more to do with actually growing things. I intend to specialise in fruit, flowers and ornamental shrubs. I just thought to pop in and say hello while I'm at home. I've left some arum lilies outside. I thought they may brighten up the chancel."

The parson offered a treacly smile. "I missed - everyone missed your voice in leading the choir when you were taken away to attend boarding-school. As a lad you had such a pure voice, oscine - almost angelic - like crystal-clear water tumbling over pebbles in a mountain stream. Your rendition of the Mendelssohn anthem as never been equalled."

The young man grinned as he made for the door. "'Fraid I croak like a bullfrog now. I'll probably see you on Sunday, parson."

Roper's sixteen stone sagged back into his chair as he watched Alistair depart, and then his thoughts veered back to what Mrs Boroclough had said earlier. What was she getting all hot under the collar for? He saw himself as a sensualist, a sexual epicure, and getting all hysterical over a few young men cavorting about in gymslips seemed ridiculous. A lot of people enjoyed observing boys dressed up as girls, they liked to watch pretty sissy-things in skirts pouting and preening. It worked well if the young men were attractive, and Miss Hancock's clutch of effeminates were good enough to have kept himself guessing for a while.

He'd check out Marks and Spencer's the next time he was in Leeds and see what they had in stock for trendy young girls, and maybe Alistair would oblige him by wearing nylons and revealing thong-pants. He fondled the bulge in his trousers that had persisted throughout the young man's visit. No, that was a wrong idea. Alistair was too tall and brawny to look good dressed up like that, and he was perhaps lost to him forever now. Not at all like the drippy and fragile girlish things Miss Hancock had in training. It was a shame Mrs Boroclough became so upset over trivial things. Just how many people really knew what was happening at the Grange? Who else apart from Mrs Boroclough and her po-faced gang of acolytes really cared?

The vestry door opened and Mrs Amos appeared waving a feather duster and dragging behind her a vacuum-cleaner. "I's seen the lad going. Is it alright to do in here now?"

"Well..." Roper began.

"I allus let's you finish what you have to do before I comes in here. That's only right and proper of course, but you hangs about so late sometimes I don't get done meself."

The parson didn't respond. To disguise his salacious thoughts he scooped up a book laying on the table in front of him and flicked it open. 'The Dissolution of the English Monasteries' was a tome large enough to hide in and give some distraction from the ache that still lingered in his trousers. He'd hardly focused before an element of modern-day curiosity caused his head to rise. "You have employment at Fairyfield Grange, don't you, Mrs Amos?"

The woman released her grip on the vacuum-cleaner and it dropped with a clatter to the floor. "I does cleanin' like I does here. Morning's there an' evening's 'ere for you."

"Have you ever been disturbed by anything you've seen there? Does anything upset you when you visit?"

"Only that 'orrible woman Gloria what says I's skivin' if I stops to catch me breath."

"Nothing odd about the students? Nothing - unusual?"

Her eyes narrowed slyly. "I's not allowed anything to do wi' 'em, parson. Folk like me ain't allowed anywhere near." She gave a nearby shelf a desultory flick with the feather duster. "Where's Mrs Roper then? Gone to visit her mum again as she?"

Roper nodded. "The health of my wife's mother is a tragically fragile thing."

"Shame. It'll be a worry fer Mrs Roper, an' it must be a burden for you too, parson. I knows how a gennelman needs to be fussed by a woman, an' you'll be missing that."

The parson observed her with some apprehension. He'd known Mrs Amos long enough to recognise the meaning at the heart of her words, and he couldn't help but quake as she walked around the side of his table. As he turned to meet her he inadvertently made a display of the excitement that persisted in his trousers and the woman noticed it at once.

"I's already locked the door, parson." she breathed as she clambered down before him and became installed between his legs. "That lad jus' now - he didn't stay long, so you'll probably need something done I 'spect."

Roper swelled up like a great toad, unsettled by her intrusive nature and slightly intimidated by her brashness. "Mrs Amos, I don't think..."

"Oh dunna worry parson, it's a real treat for me too."

Her hands went straight down to his trousers and an agonising moment was endured as her fingers wrestled with some obstinate buttons. But finally his fly burst open and she fumbled to release his rigid penis. The swollen purple head of the thick peg sprang forth, its eye already leaking in anticipation. "Mrs Amos, this is lust. That which you contemplate is a Deadly Sin."

"Who sez so?"

"Who said so? Why, I believe Thomas Aquinas said so."

The woman gave a contemptuous toss of her head. "Bloody politicians, allus trying to spoil peoples fun." She didn't wait for directions in any way. She reached for the lolling erection and swung it up to lap its juicy tip, then slid her tongue under the corona of the bloated knob-end before sheathing the clergyman's entire length in her mouth.

Puffing heavily Parson Roper rolled back while the woman made noises in her throat like that of a thirsty labourer guzzling on a bottle of beer. Mrs Amos wasn't at all good looking, he thought, she was rather ugly really, but he'd allowed her to do little things like this for him in the past because along with her enthusiasm her lips had a surprisingly deft touch that was extremely enjoyable. 

He panted as her wilful tongue writhed and laved at the tip of his sturdy thrusting column, wet mouth dipping, moist lips dragging up and down, urging him to spill the essence of his excitement. If he closed his eyes he could imagine Alistair making a meal of him like that, and that wasn't at all bad. No, it wasn't bad at all. Mrs Amos was good with her mouth, and however strongly he ejaculated she never pulled away or even flinched, and since much of her own satisfaction seemed to come from the pleasure she provided she was disappointed if the quantity of his emission was anything but enormous. 



A Sissy Saga Ch. 11



"Your financial accounting is abysmal, Miss Hancock." said the man from the Department of Inland Revenue. "Some of the necessary records are incomplete and others are totally missing. How can you hope to complete a Tax Return for your business without appropriate qualifying evidence?"

Miriam Hancock eyed him with some malevolence as he poked the documents in front of him with a bony finger. Horace Weevil was a tall, thin man, who despite the long spell of fine weather was wearing an expensive looking coat with a heavy fur collar, over which peeped dark shifty eyes and a small, thin moustache. She thought he looked like a minor gangster.

Since they were alone in her parlour-office she didn't hold back from seeming a little helpless. "My business is just getting on its feet. Both I and my secretary have practically no experience with business-tax, and obviously the accountants I employ have proved quite useless at correcting our innocent errors."

"Innocent?" The man's smile was almost a sneer. After qualifying as a chartered accountant he'd spent fifteen years with the Inland Revenue, most of it on Special Investigation teams looking into tax-abuse scams. This particular case was a doddle. The woman had tried cheating her returns in a blatant, amateur way. "You've made dodgy declarations all over the place, Miss Hancock, and that looks more like a deliberate attempt to defraud the Inland Revenue of it's legitimate tithe than an act of innocence."

"The errors were never intentional, and I'm prepared to do whatever it takes to correct them, Mr Weevil."

The visitor grimaced and tugged at a badly knotted tie that had the colour of gravy. Long fingers complimented his lean features which were not improved by greasy brown hair parted on the left and scooped behind his ears. 

After a further glance at the papers in front of him he placed his elbows on the desk, pressed his fingertips together and inclined his head. "My job is not to make personal visits to assist people - but on this occasion we could perhaps come to an arrangement, Miss Hancock."

"An arrangement, what do you mean?"

He leaned forward slightly, drawing her in towards him as if about to let her into a great secret. "You run a unique institution - lots of beguiling young men wearing skirts. Well - um - I could repair the damage you have committed to paper and vouch for everything as acceptable, but such a favour would require a favour in return."

Miriam was in no way obtuse about his requirements, nor was she inexperienced in making such deals. She said she would need a few minutes to deploy some people and if he wished to smoke while he waited would he do that outside her office.

Horace went into the main hall, took a cigar from his pocket, pondered about it, then put it away again. There was no one in the hall at that moment to look at, but he'd heard about this place from that perv' Arkwright who lived in the village. Arkwright had said the place was teeming with effeminate homosexual talent, and he'd recently had a fine old romp with one of the residents.

They were probably all the same here, Horace thought. All gagging for it. Gagging for a tall, lean, horny guy like himself to give them a good sordid memory. He'd never been with a man before, much less with one who wore a frock, but why disqualify himself from trying it? Horace Weevil and his sensibilities could be accused of many things but lack of direction wasn't one of them. When opportunity offered, he took it, especially if it was connected with something he'd always been curious about.

After a moment he took a leisurely stroll down a passage that led to the kitchen, bidding his time and in no great hurry now. Trying out his randy dick in an effeminate lady-lad was one of his fantasies, and there was plenty of scope for any amount of that kind of sexual deviance here.

He looked through an open door. The kitchen was fitted with an ancient black gas stove and was furnished with heavy, dark wood pieces. But it wasn't gloomy; it glowed bright with multi-coloured fabrics. Red and blue crocheted covers lay over the chairs and summery yellow and green check curtains framed the window and screened the doorless recess that was used as a pantry. 

The stove was spotless with its brass rail and knobs shining like burnished gold, and standing in front of it on a piece of seagrass matting was Poppy. He was alone, a delicate and lithe five foot six youthful male dressed up girly. Over the top of his skimpy dress he was wearing a long, plastic blue bib-apron emblazoned with a huge white teddy bear and the words I'M CUDDLY, while his hands were swathed in a pair of oversized pink rubber gloves.

Horace hung back a bit. He'd never propositioned a man before, but this one was a real good-looker. Sweet, nice legs, long and sexy. After taking a peep behind to make sure no one was following his hand rubbed the front of his trousers, stroking his penis for luck. "Hullo, who are you." he enquired.

"I'm Poppy." replied the effeminate, "I'm doing kitchen duty and helping the cook to make dinner. It's just porridge with toast and jam in the mornings and bread and cheese for lunch. Dinner is the only cooked meal we have here." His eyes dipped. "I do washing pots and cleaning mostly, but sometimes I'm allowed to peel potatoes." 

"I see. Is that part of the training you do here?"

"I've finished my training and I'm doing this while I wait for a placement. Miss Hancock says I might go to live with a sultan."

Horace smirked. "And what's on the menu today?"

"We have minced beef in the larder, so we can do meat and potatoes, or meat with spaghetti, or we can have pie or burgers." As he spoke a single bloated rubber-clad finger flicked from side to side in front of him in the graceful, precise movements of a windscreen-wiper on an automobile. "Minced beef is very versatile. We can do lots of things with it."

Horace moved across the kitchen towards him. "You're obviously very talented."

Poppy's mouth curved into a poor-little-me smile while his sparkling eyes teased from beneath fluttering lashes. "Most people think I'm stupid. But I'm not."

"Course you ain't. Bet you've got all sorts of talents. I expect you've got a good talent for pleasing men. Have you been with many men?"

The she-boy looked at him suspiciously. "A few."

"A few? I think you're being modest. I reckon you to be a little honey when you're in the mood. Are you in the mood now?"

Poppy had no misconceptions about himself. He was a fully fledged pansy-faggot and a push-over for a kindly, soft-spoken gentleman who wooed and courted him with nice words. He'd let a nice man shove a cock up his bum in a jiffy, but he didn't like to be taken by storm. He didn't like the stranger's creepy-crawly looks or his creepy-crawly attitude. He smelt strongly of violets, which was sort of nice, but he sensed he wasn't intent on being nice. He took a pace back and raised on an air of condescension. "No, I'm not in the mood at the moment." 

Horace grabbed his arm and pulled him close. Putting a hand under the apron he squeezed a small breast through the thin fabric of the dress beneath. "Come on, loosen up mi' little filly. I ain't exactly repulsive, am I?"

Poppy winced and his heels went click-clack as he stepped from the matting onto the flagstoned floor. "No, you're not very repulsive. You're just... you know... unpleasant. Just sort of a little bit repulsive."

The man glared. "Ha! You're a cheeky minx, you are. I'll forgive you, but you'll do what I want or else I'll have you an' Miss Hancock both out on the street. She owes me a favour, y'see, and you're it."

Poppy repressed a shudder as the man leaned forward and belched stale cigar-breath into his face. He could tell by the gleam in his eyes he was going to take whatever he wanted.

"No need to be coy wi'me." Horace leered as his other hand yanked up Poppy's skirt, "A chap as needs. You don't mind, do you? You're a breathtaking piece of meat that's probably had more pricks than a pincushion already. We need to get better acquainted. No need to tell anyone. Mum's the word, eh?" he pulled at the hem of the dress. "We'll have this rag off for a start."

Spindly-legged spiders seemed to suddenly crawl over Poppy's skin and his face went porcelain-pale. "Oh -- um -- er -- I'm not free. Y-you have to pay me first."

Horace paused. "Pay you? Are you on the game?" His voice registered confusion and disappointment. The bitch-boy wore frocks and was as queer as a lead shilling, but he hadn't countered on him being a professional dick-pleaser.

Poppy looked him in the eye. "I may be a tranny but I still like to spend money." He held out his hand. "Ten pounds, please."

The man's jaw dropped. "Ten quid?"

"Yes. The men down at the clinic pay me that. They give me fifteen if I let them shaft me bareback."

"Clinic? What clinic?"

"The VD clinic in Peasmarsh. It's the only clinic I know around here."

The reply caused a rather stranded expression to appear on Horace Weevil's face, as if he didn't know quite how to take it. His complexion became the colour of chewing gum and he opened his mouth, then closed it again, cancelling anything he could have said. 

Hurriedly he retreated into the passage outside the kitchen to vent a string of colourful oaths. VD clinic? The pervert was lying, wasn't he? Yes, of course he was lying -- wasn't he? It didn't matter if he was lying or not, the faggots reluctance and his reference to clap-clinics and knob-rot had killed all the amour he had for that particular Missy. He felt slightly cheated and reached in his pocket for the cigar that may offer some consolation.

"There you are, Mr Weevil. I wish you wouldn't wander around, I've had to search for you." 

The woman who confronted him was slightly boss-eyed and built like a large onion. "Oh, and you are...?"

"I's Gloria, Miss Hancock's housekeeper. Miss Hancock as put someone in the staff common-room for you. Come wi' me and I'll show you where it is."

***

Disconsolate, Wendy seated himself on a lumpy horsehair sofa in the staff common-room. It had been ages since he'd been punished like this, being a prefect had secured him from such things, but now punishment had returned, and it was his passion for Judd that had been his undoing. He'd always dreaded his clandestine meeting with the village youth in the east wing would come to his aunts notice, because she had an uncanny knack of learning about everything that happened at Fairyfield Grange. 

He had dark suspicions about Abigail. He was sure Abigail hadn't been asleep when he'd paused to put on some lipstick before leaving the dormitory that night. Perhaps the lipstick he'd put on, or perhaps the look of eagerness on his face had alerted Abigail to what he was doing, and he couldn't get the idea out of his head that his previous great love had betrayed him.

He had entertained an Outsider, so that morning his status as a prefect had been revoked and he'd been soundly strapped. His aunt had spared him the ignominy of being stripped and bound and thrust into the dungeon only if he agreed to entertain a visiting guest in the common-room - a guest who would want to play a 'game' with him. A sex game. A bottle of baby-oil standing on a side table explained just about everything.

He glanced towards the door as the sound of shuffling shoes approached beyond it, and he felt nervous. It was hard to say want kind of nervous, but it was mostly to do with meeting a strange man for the first time and being required to have sex with him immediately. It would have been prostitution if he'd been paid to do it, but he was expected to perform free and gratis.

The figure that entered the room was no gorgeous Prince Charming, it was that of a scrawny man with a pencil-line moustache, and he had prominent cheekbones that made his face look hollow and cadaverous. His jaw was pointy too, and his eyes were narrow squints. It wasn't a man, it was a rat, thought Wendy.

Face twitching, the visitor closed the door and stood directly in front of it, legs astride, hands clasped behind his back whilst studying the pseudo-schoolgirl with a morose expression. "So, you're Wendy."

Wendy felt a flush on his cheeks as he rose to greet him. "Yes sir."

The rat-faced man's eyes continued to look at him a while longer. There was a kind of reined-in excitement about him, and even though he noted Wendy's indecently short schoolgirl skirt he didn't mention it, he just ran the tip of his tongue across his lips and stood there for what seemed ages. The common-room was a kind of ancient parlour, all Victorian folderol's and a preponderance of overstuffed furniture, and perhaps he was checking that no one else was hiding in the corners.

Wendy hoped he wasn't blushing even though he knew he was. Then he suddenly got the idea that the visitor was blushing too. The man looked awkward and embarrassed, and he was probably hesitating because he'd never had sex with a man before. Eventually the stranger took a large red spotted kerchief from his pocket and wiped his face. "You're a pretty - er - girl." he murmured at last.

Wendy did what seemed appropriate and squirmed sweetly at the flattery. "Thank you, sir."

"Yes, very pretty, but also very naughty." the man said.

Blue eyes stared back at him in all innocence. "I don't know what you mean, sir."

The visitor had decided it would be rather appropriate and good fun to put on the air of a schoolmaster with someone wearing a gymslip. He moved closer. "I've received disconcerting reports about you," he declared, trying to inject some solemnity into his voice - trying to invoke a stern tone of authority but not quite succeeding. "I've been told you're a naughty boy Wendy, one that dresses up as a pouting schoolgirl to tease men. That's clearly true isn't it? And wicked girly-boys who do that kind of disgusting thing have to be punished. Oh, yes, they have to have their naughty bottoms smacked, and it as to be done on their bare. They have to take their knickers off."

Wendy wiggled his bottom nervously, imagining his pants felt somewhat tighter as he anticipated what was about to happen. Spankings hurt, but like many sissies he found them curiously erotic. Still, the way the man looked at him made him feel a twinge of unease. It occurred to him the visitor was even more nervous than he was himself and was likely to give him a real good tanning to fortify his excitement. He didn't like nervous men, they were unpredictable and sort of creepy.

Nevertheless he would be expected to put on a good show, so he huddled his bum-cheeks in his hands. "Oh sir, I-I don't think - I mean - oh please sir..."

"Please! Please what?"

"Please don't make me take my pants off, sir."

"And why not pray? Dirty little madams like you deserve whatever they get. Now get them down, d'you hear?"

"But sir..."

"This instant Wendy - I shan't tell you again."

Wendy knew he'd pushed his luck as far as was wise. Rat-face was warming up to the school teacher play-role and any more arguments could get him more than a spanking from the man's hand - he could get the strap, or even the cane, he just knew it.

Fumbling beneath his skirt he nudged his pants from his hips and pushed them down his thighs. The stranger held his gymslip up at the back and flicked his hand up under the plumpness of his bum as his smooth round cheeks spilled out over the elastic, then as he hopped on one foot to step out from his underwear the garment became snagged in the buckle of his shoe - "Oh, ouch!" - and he teetered unsteadily on his toes as the man took the opportunity to fondle him.

Now the man had his hands on his bare backside he seemed reluctant to relinquish it. "I reckon I'll sit down and have you over my knee - that's the best way to smack a naughty girl, ain't it? Knickers off and over the knee."

With no more ado he settled on the sofa, his strong fingers grabbing at the she-boys tightened bottom as he pulled him down across his lap. Wendy could feel his belly rubbing against the man's thigh, rubbing against something else too. But if his body lay docile his mind was racing, and he was unable to stop thinking about what was to come. His skirt had been scooped up his back and offered no protection, and his penis, which dangled between the man's knees, had started to thicken as a large exploratory hand caressed the smooth contours of his backside.

"Now then my naughty panty-boy, just let me have your hand -" His right hand was hauled behind his back - "and now let me rearrange you -" Instead of holding in place with a firm hand on his back like most people, the man reached underneath and took a full handed grip on his penis, blatantly wrinkling back the foreskin as he did so.

(Rub, rub) "Sir!"

"Yes, I know my dear, I know," replied the rat-faced man's sympathetic voice, "It's not quite what you expected and must be rather a shock..." A broad hand patted his bum-cheeks "...but never mind, you'll soon get used to the idea."

(Rub, rub) The hand jinked his flesh again, while the other became raised in the air before being swung down with relish. Splatt! On a helpless bottom.

"Ooow, sir!" The first solid spank took Wendy unawares. His bottom quivered with its impact and a hot smarting sensation spread fiercely over his punished flesh. He reared up and tried to kick his legs, but found himself firmly anchored in place by the hand gripping his penis.

Smack! On the left buttock, making the flesh judder anew. "Ugh!"

(Rub, rub) "Keep still, naughty girl!" the man scolded, stroking the smarting buttocks, feeling the heat, feeling the lovely crease that separated them.

Whack, splatt! "Oooh, Christ! Oww, sir..."

Rat-face spanked him soundly, alternating the strikes between each lovely reddened cheek and making them both shake, making Wendy's whole body bounce frantically on his lap. As he got into his stride the sound of the hand impacting on bare skin rolled around the room like the slow applause of invisible admirers congratulating him on his efforts.

Wendy could do no more than squeal softly, pain and shock mixing with heady excitement as each blow now came accompanied by a jerk on his penis Each time the contact clapped an octave higher, and so did the resulting cry of confusion. He felt like he almost wants the next slap because it would bring another squeeze on his cock.

Whack! On his right bottom-cheek to intensify its smarting. "Aaaah!" His small buttocks clenched and bobbed from side to side as he tried to make them even smaller and less of a target, but their wholesome rosy glow appeared to be a magnet to the man's hand.

(Rub, rub) His swollen penis was beginning to throb and the man's soft, sweaty hand was rubbing up and down the shaft. Up and down, slow strokes alternating with rapid jiggling. "Does my smacking hurt? It's no more than you deserve if it does."

He tried to wriggle sideways, but whenever he did that the man's hand paused in the shunting of his foreskin and tightened around his penis to haul him back into place. Incredibly, despite the discomfort of such rough handling he felt aroused.

Splatt! "Disgraceful girl!" Crack! "Dirty teasing panty-boy - got a hard-on now eh!"

"Ooooow, eeeeh!"

Wallop! "...I'll make you sorry -" Smack, smack! - "Disgusting fairy princess!" - smackerty-smack!

Then, suddenly he's not hitting anymore, but a hand is still rubbing his penis. Rat-face had made it so stiff and sensitive it was all that he could do to keep from pushing down into his hand. His bum-cheeks were clenching and unclenching all by themselves, and he was pushing his hips up and down - he just couldn't help it - there was such erotic pressure down there, in his cock and behind his balls. Suddenly the unseen hand was jerking him furiously, milking him like a cow.




A Sissy Saga Ch. 11



(Rub, rub) "Wicked slut!"

"Aah, ooh!" In spite of everything Wendy's breathing became laboured and erratic, but not wishing to confess the excitement boiling up inside him he shivered for a few more moments on the brink of embarrassing himself with squeals of delight, then suddenly he gave in.

"Ooooh, mmmm, ooow!" Beneath him there was a soft, rapid 'splatter, pat, splat' on the carpet as his penis twitched and powerful, previously pent-up jets of semen shot downwards between the man's legs. For a moment he lay slumped and disorientated over the trousered lap as the relief of cumming left him stranded on a peak of ecstasy.

Smack, smack, smack! Rat-fat was smacking again. "Bad girl. Fuckin' fairy!" Crack, smack, whack! "Now, don't do it again!"

At last the punishment ended. Tears streamed down Wendy's trembling cheeks as the man turned him onto his feet and pulled him forward by the hand. Caught up in emotion he automatically threw his arms around the man's neck and laid his head on his shoulder. "Oh, please sir, don't be cruel to me anymore. I promise to be good if you don't hurt me again."

Rat-face licked his lips and leaned forward to kiss his neck and suck his earlobe, then the man's open mouth slobbered against his face, captured his upper lip while his tongue prised a way into his mouth. A taste of stale tobacco assaulted the she-boys taste buds as the man licked down to his tonsils.

Even as Wendy choked rat-face couldn't resist touching that beautiful bottom once more. Easing Wendy's skirt up to his waist he caressed the tender cheeks, his strong palms flexing as he edged the she-boy's neat youthful body close enough to press the hardened lump in his trousers into the softness of his belly. "Do you like being a girl, Wendy?"

"Yes sir."

"Do you know that means you're a sissy?"

"Yes sir."

"Sissies aren't real men, are they?"

"No sir."

"No, and because they're not real men they should act as girls when men are around, shouldn't they?"

"Yes."

Taking a deep breath the man turned him and pushed him over the padded arm of the sofa. He slumped forward, whimpering, sobbing, belly down, burning bottom pushed up, skirt bunched around his waist.

Then came the sound - a sound he remembered well. ZIIIPPPP! It was the noise of a trouser fly being unfastened.

It was to be expected. A man can't spank a sissy without fucking him afterwards. The natural conclusion to disciplining sissies was to pump their pretty bottoms full of fresh cum. In spite of his humiliation and the discomfort he'd suffered Wendy felt a flush of hot excitement. He wanted to be desired and lusted after, and miserable as the day had been for him so far there was the possibility of a brief interlude of pleasure if he were fucked by a decent length of randy man-meat

He undertook the position of a sissy in submission; head down, bottom pushed up, knees well apart so that the man could play with his balls whilst contemplating his sissy anus in surrender. Surely a view no man worth the name could ignore.

The man pressed against him, broad thighs screwing on his buttocks, cock probing against his backside but not having much success. That he was a novice at anal sex became apparent when he tried to mount Wendy without lubrication. "Keep still yer little tart!" he rumbled in exasperation.

Wendy squealed at the dry jarring force pushing at his anal bud, and he waved frantically at the bottle of baby-oil on the side table. He was a faggot who wore a short skirt and he loved the idea of pleasing a strong male and being subservient to a big cock, but this man was falling short on expertise.

"Use that sir, you need to use some of that."

With his buttocks spread open Wendy's anus formed a delicate pouting roundel and the man quickly splashed oil onto it, making sure with his fingers plenty pooled around the tight looking buttonhole. 

Wendy felt the unmistakable prod of man-dick. "That's it sir. Do it!" he panted as he felt the bulbous glands slip against his anticipating pucker. He was prepared to be a good fuck, but the man seemed to be in a hurry, or in a panic. Suddenly it was becoming a fiasco. Rat-face couldn't push in more than an inch of his penis. He was probably feeling guilty about what he was doing, longing to find out what it felt like to shag a lad in the arse, but too nervous to take his time and do it properly.

A few rapid movements and a sudden gasp confirmed his suspicions. The visitor's rodent-like face grimaced and he ejaculated almost at once in the crack of his bottom without making any substantial penetration.

"There! S-see if that don't teach yer to behave, yer - yer little whore." the man stuttered with uneasy bluster as he hurriedly fastened up his trousers.

He departed shamefaced and hot with guilt, and without any apology for his disappointing performance. Then Gloria came in.

"Crikey Gloria, what an awful character that man was. He didn't have a clue about what to do."

The housekeeper nodded in sympathy. "That one weren't nuthin' special. He wus just an inspector from the Inland Revenue who'd come to check on Miss Hancock's tax returns. 'Spect you were part of a deal they agreed on."

Wendy slipped forlornly back into his panties. "Can I go now?"

"No, m'dear, you've to wait here a bit longer. There's another visitor just arrived, an' this one's a lordship."

"A lordship?"

"Aye, a Peer o' the Realm, an' one o' Miss Hancock's oldest clients. He wants a pair, so Jennifer's had to go off an' find someone to join you."

Wendy's shoulders slumped, making him a picture of despondency. "I don't want anymore first-timers, and I don't feel like being spanked anymore."

Gloria shook her head and wagged a good deal of flesh. "Bless yu heart dear, it ain't the end o' the world, is it? I knows you've had an awful time of it lately, but it's best you do as your told an' don't go lookin' for trouble. Anyway, this lordship's experienced an' he don't do much by way o' spankin'."

A few minutes after Gloria had departed Sammy came through the door. Wendy regarded him with contempt. There was little difference in their ages, but like older teenagers everywhere he reckoned those younger than himself were inferior.

"Who's visiting?" asked Sammy.

Wendy observed him gloomily. "Gloria says we've to entertain a high stickler, a peer."

The other sissy shrugged his shoulders. "The only pier I know is the one at Blackpool."

"Not that kind of pier, you soppy tart. This one's a lord who lives in a castle with a deer park, and he as a villa on the coast at Morecambe Bay."

"I like the seaside," Sammy murmured wistfully, completely failing to grasp what had been said. "I 'specially like Blackpool. There's a smashing funfair on the beach there, so I like Blackpool most of all."

Inured with a sense of mischief that seemed impervious to the sternest discipline Sammy strode across the room and grinned at the statue of the Adonis. "He ain't got much of a trouser-snake, as he?"

From the bottom of the handkerchief pocket in the front of his skirt he extracted a crumb of blackboard chalk and quickly made a sketch on the statues belly. "That's more like it." he said, standing back to admire his work.

Wendy was aghast at the crude illustration of a penis and testicles Sammy had scrawled onto the figure. "Cut that out you chump." he snapped.

The loss of Wendy's prefect status hadn't escaped Sammy's notice, the news had raced around the school at midmorning, so he just smirked. "Oh, pooh! What do I do? Shake in my shoes and have babies?"

The insolence stirred up enough anger in Wendy to make him want to lash out, but before he had a chance the door opened and Miss Hancock's second guest entered.

What was revealed was an elderly man of medium height with pleasant if somewhat ruddy worn features, partially bald, but with beetled-brow and hanks of grey hair sticking out from above his ears. He wore a Savile Row suit that was beautifully styled and unerringly cut, the only thing compromising his image of quintessential elegance being the ominous bulge in the front of his trousers.

The two sissies flushed, looked at each other, and then looked sheepishly at the man. The visitor smiled thinly, staring first at Wendy who lowered his eyes, then at Sammy. His voice, like his appearance, was sophisticated and confident. "Name?"

"Sam - Samantha, sir."

"And your friends name?"

"M-my name's Wendy, sir."

The man's smile became a grin, the thin lips separating to display eburnean teeth so perfect they were probably dentures. First he studied Sammy, then shifted his gaze back to Wendy. "Hmm!" he murmured, nodding his head. Two of them, and a pretty duo indeed. A pair so temptingly fuckable that it was impossible to hide the rising shape in the leg of his trousers. Miss Hancock had done him proud as usual.

It was Nigel, Lord Chance-Barton's first visit to Miriam Hancock's new premises and he found the way she dressed the young men intriguing; a novel idea to have them play at schoolgirls, quite titillating - quite stimulating. He scrutinised them carefully; she'd given him two good-lookers and he wondered if he'd used them before in Harrogate. He decided he hadn't, he'd used all the best one's there and these two were fresh items.

He'd called in at Fairyfield on pure impulse whilst passing, just to pay his respects to Miss Hancock and to let her know that his wife was all right about the money he'd donated to her school. She'd been determined to kick up a stink about it at one time but something seemed to have happened recently. She refused to confide in him deeply, but he got the idea someone had concocted a load of ghastly lies about her and was threatening to release them to the news media. Abruptly she'd enjoyed a change of heart about the donations and said they didn't matter.

He'd hesitated, as a gentleman should, when Miriam offered him a brief dalliance with one of her boarders in a display of gratitude - he'd really only meant to have a look around - but then he thought, why not? He was packing a good deal of unrequited pork in his pants that day, so he said he'd rather like to try two together. Just as he'd done sometimes in Harrogate.

His vision suddenly focused on the terracotta statue and the crude illustration chalked on it. Wendy cringed as he heard him draw a noisy breath, while Sammy couldn't prevent himself from smirking.

His Lordship's smile at once became stony as his gaze turned on the younger of the two. "Can you tell me what you find so amusing? Who's responsible for that abomination?" he demanded.

The words were softly spoken but were charged with enough energy to make Sammy's face drain, and he instantly panicked. "Not me sir. Wendy must have done it."

Wendy's face expressed absolute horror at the lie, but before he could utter a word of denial the man laughed.

"Um, no more than I'd expect from a pansy-boy who wears such a disgracefully short skirt." Glancing at the Adonis again he caressed the front of his trousers thoughtfully. "So, it's anatomy lessons you want today, is it girl's? And you have an interest in male genitalia."

With no more ado he unbuttoned his trouser-fly and levered out his penis; a thick, turgescent length of stiff flesh with a broad, well defined helmet. Both sissies paled. It was a measure larger than Mr Hardwick's and neither could remember a man with such a big hairy thing leaking goo like that one.

"Do you know what this is?"

Sammy nodded. "It's a prick, sir."

"Yes," he agreed, sliding his fingers up and down, "And what is it used for?"

"For fucking girls." Wendy replied bravely.

"Sometimes for fucking boys." added Sammy.

For a moment they both looked at the huge cock and contemplated the places it would visit, but Nigel Chance-Barton didn't need to think about that, he already knew where it was going.

He reached down and drew Sammy forward, putting an arm around him and pressing him close as if cuddling a favourite relation. Despite being years older than his wife he still fancied himself as a youngish roué‚ with appeal to both genders. He was a cultured man, an art connoisseur, a collector of rare first editions and a devotee of drama and music. He could ride and shoot like a gentleman of his status was expected to do, and he was Master of the Hunt in the area where his ancestral home was located. He liked to present the persona of the Lord of the Manor and a country gentleman, but many saw him merely as an ageing Lothario who had married one of the most admired women on the social scene only to find he couldn't keep pace with her hectic style of life.

His Lordship was fatalistic about that. He knew his pretty wife had amorous affairs, but he never made a fuss about her unfaithfulness as long as he was allowed to pursue his own sexual peccadilloes. He still enjoyed sowing wild oats of his own, and he had a particular penchant for young fellows like Sammy and Wendy.

"Lift the balls from my trousers," he told Sammy, "then play with my prick."

Sammy set-to without any hesitation, lifting out the man's fat testicles and cupping them in his hand, and then grasping hold of the rearing penis in order to slick the foreskin back and forth. He'd done such things plenty of times in the past and was beyond being shy about it. The ageing aristocrat peered at Wendy. "Show me what a clever girl you are. I like pretty girls to suck my cock, can you do that?"

Without a word Wendy climbed down onto his knees and examined the swaying member jerking in Sammy's hand. It seemed colossal, with swollen veins showing everywhere and a thick cord of sinew running the length of it under surface.

Strangely, even though this man was far more gross in his requirements that the first one he'd been with, Wendy felt much more relaxed with him. This one knew exactly what he wanted, and wasn't the least bit nervous, so he was quite at ease as he examined the man's shaft and ran a featherlight finger along a thick blue vein. Finally he leaned forward and swirled his tongue ostentatiously beneath the fat, bulbous tip, watching intently as the whole vast projection throbbed.

"Ahh! That's it, naughty girly-thing, that's the way. Now take it in your mouth and suck."

A novice would have paused, but Wendy merely drew back slightly before running his delicate mouth over the sticky tip of the man's thick member, steadying the swollen head with his fingertips to prevent its wild twitching as he ran the point of his tongue around the rim prior to engulfing it with his mouth.

He felt the solid texture of hot flesh slide between his teeth, pushing down his tongue and squeezing against the roof of his mouth, and fearful of gagging if he allowed it to press too far his lips thinned and sealed around the weighty shaft. At last in control he salivated to create lubrication, then began to slide his face back and forth.

The cock had looked enormous when wagged in front of his face, but it seemed even more massive lodged in his mouth, and he could only imagine what it would feel like being forced up his bum-hole. Somehow just sucking it seemed the most comfortable option at that moment, so he sucked industriously, cheeks hollowing, jaw rolling, his eyes stealing upward glances at the man's flushed face.

The decadent old Peer met his gaze with a smile, pleased at the sight of the sissy's soft lips giving such rapt attention to his thick, veiny cock, and all the time Wendy sucked Sammy continued caressing between the man's legs, rolling his testes in his ball-bag and jigging his shaft. "That's it. Work everything up and down - mmmm - you're a natural cocksucker."

Then Sammy stood on tiptoe to kiss him and give him a delicious sissy tongue.

How pleasant, thought his Lordship. It had been an age since anyone had served him quite so well. What wonderful sensations a well-practised hand and mouth provided. These two were artists, and if he'd been granted the means to invent paradise he would have decreed it to consist of slim fingers jerking his foreskin while soft pink lips slurped on his knob. Very quickly his parameters of bliss began to change. "Get down beside your friend," he told Sammy, "I want you to taste my dick too."

Wendy became aware of Sammy settling beside him, and then felt his smooth cheek nuzzling against his own. Giving the end of his Lordship's penis a parting lick he offered it to the other sissy's mouth and for a moment worked the cock with his hand. Sammy took a moment to assess things, passing a wet tongue around the domed spongy tip before stuffing it into his stretched open, golopious mouth.

Being sucked-off by two hot mouths working in unison almost caused Lord Chance-Barton to ejaculate on the spot, but he managed to remind himself he was only sampling the appetiser of a feast. "Take off your clothes my dears." he told them.

He removed his own trousers whilst they were undressing, looking them over with appreciative eyes as he did so. Two sissy-cocks were revealed at an attractive level of half-hardness, bouncing sexily as the youthful queens moved around. Both had a slightly fatter appendage than he had expected and with the merest of caresses their foreskins retracted and they became fully erect.

Their bodies enticed him beyond words. Slender and serpentine, their skin white and soft, their bellies indented by the prettiest of navels, their nipples rose-petal pink, exactly like girls. They were obviously going to be able to provide the same tight, squirmy pleasure of girls. They each promised a good fuck.

Hands by their sides, heads tilted up, blushing deliciously, they watched his eyes rove over their sumptuous bodies. He told them they could keep their shoes and socks on. Having girls naked but for just shoes and socks pleased him in a fetish kind of way, and Wendy and Samantha were sort of girls, just as pretty anyway.

Removing his own shoes and briefs he displayed his manliness, his body still vigorous, nowhere showing the emaciation or meagreness of age. Certainly no weakness in the capable structure of his swollen cock. He was prodigiously equipped and still at full erection. He was immensely proud of his sexual prowess, oblivious of his age and advancing alopecia and deliciously mindful of his corpulent, vertical member, his every nerve was at a tense pitch.

Two to enjoy, both simpering little sissies created for the pleasure of men. A pair of pretty angels with mouths and bottoms eager for cock, each delicately scented in a way that seemed customary at Fairyfield Grange. A flush of excitement stained his face all the way up to his receding hairline. "Get up on the couch." he told them.

Moving forward, breathing in and swelling his chest, he placed his hands on Sammy's hips and turned him around to enjoy a view of his rear, a slender image with a shapely bum worthy of everything he was going to give it. He stroked the smooth contours and made the girl-boy giggle prettily, then crouching down slightly as he probed with the tip of his penis.

A deluge of clear oil flooded the dainty rosette, then the man took his erection in his hand and began to worm its bloated tip forward. He'd never been randier than at that moment and was able to bully the anal ring and force it to expand and give accommodation. Sammy squawked as his anus was made to stretch, and stretch some more, and he clutched the back of the sofa as his rectal pucker flattened against the huge bulbous tip of the man's insistent cock. While his belly undulated in spasms, his lips drew back in voluptuous agony as his backside was prised open.

"Oh, ooooh sir! It's - it's - oooh, sir!" The rosette blossomed and its rim slowly indented inwards, becoming oddly concave as his Lordship inserted a mighty length of his thick wand into the helpless girly-bottom in a single motion.




A Sissy Saga Ch. 11



"Owm ga-ga-ga!" Sammy spluttered, quivering as he flexed back in response to the vehement force heaving into him. "Ooooh, uuughhh!" A look of profound astonishment crossed his face, his brown eyes flying wide open while his jaw sagged.

The man gave Sammy a couple more hot, stiff inches and the little doll squealed as his anal his muscles contracted around it. Then he paused for a moment to allow the sissy to relax before pushing the rest of his endowment all the way in. It was an ordeal that required all Sammy's sissy experience, but he managed it.

His lordship slewed back slightly, then heaved forward with an energetic push to embed himself once more. Only then did he seem satisfied and pause to restore some composure before starting to work his stalk in and out of the helplessly speared anus.

Being in close proximity allowed Wendy to see every bulging vein in the mighty aristocratic cock as it flashed back and forth, Sammy was being extremely well fucked and he became strangely enthralled by viewing such a fine glistening member in such rampant action - and the balls - those huge balls - bouncing as they swung back and forth. He was hardly surprised when without warning his Lordship's youthful lover suddenly groaned and ejaculated a dollop of sissygoo up the back of the sofa.

Sammy uttered a gasp of immense relief as the man extracted his member, then Nigel Chance-Barton turned and pointed his huge red helmet in Wendy's direction. "Your turn now, my dear," he said, "Kneel up and push out your arse."

Wendy's heart leapt. He felt so hot and vulnerable when the man climbed up behind him and spread his buttocks with his big hands, but his fears of the man's size were partially allayed as a finger unexpectedly pressed against his clenched bum-hole. The sensation it generated was like an exploding firework, making him gasp and instantly wilt.

The finger withdrew and was instantly replaced by a broad knob-end stroking his anus, and he knew them man's thick member was about to make a visit. His lordship moved forward, pulling on the pantyboys bottom until he found the right angle, then he pushed his big mushroom in. Wendy's sphincter was oiled and loose, but even so the mammoth thing then impaled him with such vigour he wondered about the good sense of yearning for the attention of a big, strong cock.

Lord Chance-Barton squared up and gripped sissy hips as his cock plunged forward, pressing into the whorl of his anus and prodding the tense barrier of his sphincter. For a moment Wendy's rectal muscles made a futile attempt to reject the invader, but then his body opened up and allowed it to surge up to sear his insides and completely occupy his anal tract.

Sliding deep into the heat and tightness of his body his lordship only paused briefly to allow him to become accustomed to his thickness, then closing his eyes to savour the sensations of fucking, his hands clasped Wendy's hips and he began shafting him hard and strong. Wendy felt totally emasculated. Completely at the mercy of a strong man who was rutting with him and using him for pleasure - just how true pantyboys long to be used. He loved it. Not just the physical thing, but also the sense of submission and enforced girlishness it promoted.

Lord Chance-Barton eased back, extracting most of his length, but when he was almost out he shoved back in, his craggy face grimacing as he began a slow in and out movement that made Wendy's stomach tighten. His cock was in its tightest, happiest home. Every nerve ending was experiencing wonderful friction and he knew he was in charge.

He sagged against Wendy's back, perspiring freely, but with his anal pounding relentlessly sustained. Wendy clenched his teeth at each lung. The man knew how to make him want to slide up and down on his titanic cock, knew just how to make a sissy squeal in wonder. Bracing himself against the sofa to meet each frantic inward thrust his cries became a wail and a red mist swam before his eyes. The man's cock was jerking and screwing about inside, making him shudder and writhe out of control.

They couldn't have looked hotter. As the two of them moved closer together, big thighs slapping against a compact bare bottom, eyes closed and breathing hard. "Is that okay?"

Wendy began stroking his own dick hard and fast. "Huh, huh!" It was no lie. It really felt good to have that cock ramming him so deep, and he was anticipating the loud gasps and faster, more vigorous strokes that would come when the man ejaculated. He knew that soon the in and out sliding of thick meat would increase in speed, and he wanted to feel the hot throbbing that would indicate the man was shooting-off into his bowels.

There was always something profound about that joyous few seconds of mindless jigging and straining before a prick sent a deluge of manly seed into the deepest recesses of his rectum. It was the ultimate salute to any young man whose body had given pleasure to cock.

His Lordship had ideas other than a standard finish. He shoved away, causing Wendy to whimper and complain as his still-hard cock slithered out with a 'plop'.

He arranged for Sammy and Wendy to sit side by side on the sofa, to hug each other and press their cheeks together. Then quite deliberately he began to masturbate. Two effeminate young men who's faces were flushed and still slightly bewildered from being freshly fucked, gazed up at his monstrous cock and flashing hand, each knowing very well the result that would soon transpire.

"Oh!" His Lordship moaned. His throat constricted and his body stiffened while his face distorted in a mix of agony and joy. "Aww. Phwoor!" he groaned as a thick rope of juice jetted out. The furious pumping of his hand made it swirl in an expanding loop before it broke free to splatter in a wide arc across each sissy's expectant, upturned face, then the rapid jigging of his hand caused him to unload additional cords of cream which hardly appeared like semen at all, but something more akin to streams of thick white batter.

Sammy gasped as it struck him, and a good portion of the second delivery, which had a more liquid quality and splashed like a wave, ended up in his mouth, then he and Wendy both whimpered as a swirling rope of cream dropped over the tips of their upturned noses. The Chance-Barton capacity was copious, and spurt three and four hosed out in a low trajectory to complete the job of coating both their faces. With the tip of his cock Nigel, Lord Chance-Barton smeared the mess around, taking perverse joy in painting them with glutinous protein.

Thoroughly sated the man didn't hang around, and when he'd departed Sammy and Wendy sat wiping the strands of translucent discharge from their faces with their handkerchiefs. "Phew!" gasped Sammy breathlessly, "That lordy-fella' had a prick like a rhino's horn, and it jerked-off like a garden hose."

"When you've cleaned your face, clean off the back of the sofa, you tart, "Wendy told him irritably, "And get that stupid drawing off the statue too."

Sammy rose up and gave him a sullen look of resentment as he licked his fingers and gave the chalk marks on the Adonis a half-hearted rub. "You're not a bossy-boots prefect anymore Wendy. You've got no right to order me around and tell me to do things."

Wendy's temper boiled. "No right, eh? No right maybe, but I'm bigger than you, little pansy-weed, so I've got might on my side." He lunged out and grabbed Sammy by an arm and the more delicate youth winced in expectation of an imminent rain of blows. "Don't hit me - please don't."

"You deserve a thump for all the cheek I've had to suffer from you today."

Sammy pouted and took a sly peep at his companions penis. "No, don't bash me. I'll suck you off if you promise not to hurt me."

Wendy paused and glanced down at his genitals. None of the frantic sexual activity he'd been employed in so far that day had ended with a particularly pleasant conclusion, and he decided he deserved a reward.

"I'll swallow." Sammy enticed.

"Okay, but you'd better make it good."

"Oh I will, I will," Sammy promised, at once sliding down onto his knees, "I've got medals for doing this."



A Sissy Saga Ch. 12



Poppy returned to the dormitory much earlier than had been planned. Most of the students at the Grange were in special detention and occupied in doing things in preparation for Open Day, but he was no longer a proper pupil and for a while that afternoon he was a free agent.

He was feeling active and restless, but he arrived to find the room occupied by the sole figure of Abigail seated at a table, and while knowing Abigail wasn't always the most pleasant company he nonetheless gravitated towards him.

Abigail leaned back in his chair tapping his teeth with the tip of a pencil whilst morosely staring into space. Poppy hovered solicitously, noting the swathes of note paper strewn across the tabletop. "What do you want?" Abigail snapped, gathering his wits and glowering.

Poppy rolled from one foot to the other and tried a disarming expression. "What are you doing?"

"Something for Miss Twist," the head-girl replied sourly, "It's a work schedule for everyone to follow on Open Day and it's not easy to work out, so don't come bothering me." He leaned forward like an old man hunched over a stamp collection, then he suddenly glanced up suspiciously. "You're supposed to be working in the kitchen, what are you doing here?"

Poppy shrugged his shoulders and unshrugged them. "The cook said she was sick of listening to me talk rubbish all the time. She told me to fuck-off and go back to do the washing-up later."

He wandered away but couldn't keep still. He went to the door then returned and sat on his bed, then decided to take a bath. There was a rudimentary shower-room along the landing, but the plumbing had broken and was awaiting attention. Next door to it was a bathroom and lavvy together that seemed to be a remnant of the past. The bath stood on legs, and the taps were copper, while the lavatory cistern had a chain with a handle which had 'pull' written on it.

Sinking lazily into the tub he found comfort in the sweet aroma of rose-petal soap as the silky water lapped over him. When he swung a leg up and pointed his toes he couldn't help but admire the sight. His feet were girlish and pretty, with cute toes that would take polish and make men want to kiss and suck them. 

As lather spread across the surface to accumulate in pyramids of suds he reached forward to clutch the pink soap in his slender hands. It was hard to his touch. Hard and slippery, and when he stroked it against his chest he noticed how puffy and pouty his nipples were. Men were likely to fight to kiss them when they put on a show like that.

Dipping into the water he rubbed his flat tummy and the small gold ring that adorned his bellybutton and allowed his thoughts to drift. Like a lucky few who were favoured by nature he had an innocence about him that projected a protective envelope to seal him into his own sunny climate. His eyes transmitted a vivacious sparkle when he smiled and he was incurably optimistic. Even being employed as a kitchen-help for a while didn't dampen his outlook. He wasn't good at lots of things but he reckoned he was good at cleaning. When he did the sink he got into all the corners and didn't miss out the scuzzy bit around the overflow or ignore the underside of the taps.

In addition to his heart-wrenching beauty Poppy had an engaging personality and he liked pleasing people. He'd had sex with more men than anyone else he knew, and because of that some people called him a slut. What they didn't realise was that when he did have sex, even if it was just giving a blow job to the nice young man who delivered the minced beef, he did it to please them. He planned to do nice things for nice men until he fell off the planet.

Men had always given him lots of attention, and with childlike conceit he'd basked in their flattery and learned how to pose around in ways that encouraged it.

That's why Mr Hardwick used him as a photo-model so often. He was a pantywaist who knew instinctively how to position his figure and how to compose appropriate expressions. He could portray a sleazy tart if required, or act the naughty lad with mischievous, heavy-lidded come hither eyes. Alternatively, he could take on the guise of a sunny-faced, innocent virgin who seemed completely unaware of the sexuality oozing from him.

He enjoyed doing it. He enjoyed thinking about the hundreds of men who would look at those photographs and how they'd all drool over every aspect of his body - how they'd all do cummies while imagining doing things with him. Men loved sissies. They loved pretty girls with cute cocks and delicate pink balls.

He paused. He'd got his hand on something hard beneath the water, and it wasn't the soap this time. More like a deadly torpedo.

Mr Hardwick always started off with him wearing a few clothes, but they never stayed on for long. He said men wanted to see want was inside a sissy's pants, and he took the kind of pictures that showed them. He was always full of praise for Poppy's enormous dangle, he said he had a prick like the clapper on a cathedral bell.

Towards the end of a session Hardwick would ask him to work up a boner, and usually the randy old geezer would offer to help him do it. That always meant there would be a hot time afterwards when the camera was put away, but he didn't mind that. Mellow middle-aged men like Hardwick could be quite passionate, and they were sort of grateful if a pretty boy allowed them a fuck.

Sometimes things worked out different. Hardwick became excited quickly on occasions and he'd do a gooey blast in his trousers halfway through a session. Then he'd say he didn't wish to do anything else. That was fine for him of course, but disappointing for a sissy who had been primed for having a hot and vigorous length visit him.

He'd developed quite an oversized snorkel between his legs by that time just thinking about things, and it passed through his mind to please himself right there in the bath, but then he decided he wasn't going to settle for something so bland. 

When he returned to the dormitory he brushed his hair, and fresh from the bath he swathed a towel across his bed and lay down to let his thoughts drift again. He enjoyed being a member of a non-testosterone gender and to be sent to a place full of sissy-boys who adored him was unbelievable good fortune. Shame there were none in the room at the moment.

His shiny gold tresses were pulled back into a chignon. Everybody like Poppy and he accepted that with the equanimity of the beautiful. Toying with his own nipples he imagined himself wearing a tiny pink bikini and laying on a sun-heated tropical beach far away. Around him sat a dozen muscular teenage boys, all gorgeous and all wanting him. With their pants tenting out they would be vying for his attention and waiting for him to say who should kiss him, who should suck his tits and who should shag him first.

Rising up he walked to the mirror, allowed the towel to fall away and looked at himself. He knew he was cute and he liked to admire his delicate feminine beauty. His smooth skin and rounded face did give him a kind of girlish appearance, and his greeny-blue eyes which he liked to describe as emerald or sapphire reinforced the illusion. When he looked down at his slender body, his abdomen, though firm and flat still revealed a mannequins waist. 

Yes, he had a big cock of course and without clothes there was no doubt he was a young man, but the reflection didn't do justice to his mindset or the urges he revelled in. He was beautiful, sexy and desirable, and he loved playing the role of a girl probably more than any other sissy in the school. He was becoming girlier every day and he loved all the attention that brought him - he especially loved all the cock that came with it.

He went to his locker and quickly put on the peignoir he had been allowed to keep after his night with Miss Hancock. It clung to him more like a gossamer cloud than a garment, and still emitted an intoxicating perfume. He slipped on a pair of skimpy panties too, then looked in the mirror again. Now he looked like he felt, dressed to the nines, feminine and frisky. The bath had given a rosy glow to his skin and his eyes sparkled, but it was a inner heat that now possessed him.

Settling once more on the bed he hugged his knees and again glanced at Abigail. At the far end of the room the head-girl was still poised over papers, silent unless groaning in exasperation on finding an error in his work.

Poppy pouted thoughtfully. He knew only too well of the gigantic prick Abigail had in his pants, and it could provide exactly the kind of attention a boy's arse needed if he was in a girly frame of mind.

Feeling like a screen goddess he slipped from his bed and sissied down the room towards him. He smiled warmly, the gentle drift of the short night-dress against his skin setting his senses aglow.

Abigail glared. "What do you want now?"

"Oh, I was just thinking that perhaps I could help you."

"Fat chance!" Abigail sneered, "You're unpredictable and chaotic. You've got windmills in your head and you'll be nothing but a nuisance. Goodness only knows what you'll do when you leave this place."

Poppy remained oblivious of the harsh words. "Miss Hancock - your mum - she says I may go into a sultan's harem." He stared at the notes on the table. "I say, maybe I can surprise you. I know masses of stuff about lots of things actually."

In truth he didn't understand anything he saw nor did he really care tuppence for it anyway, he was merely intent on making Abigail aware of the pretty peignoir and the skimpy panties beneath it that barely covered his bottom.

An absent-minded movement caused the little fluttering negligee to swirl, and a pile of written notes were dragged from the tabletop to fall in a heap on the floor.

"Christ! - " Abigail shook his head in disbelief, " - I can't understand how you can be so clumsy."

Poppy quickly stooped down to gather the paper up. "Golly, sorry Abigail. I don't know what happened."

The head-girl swivelled his chair outwards and angrily grabbed one of Poppy's wrists. "I don't know why you thought to annoy me but you're going to rue ever coming near this table, you faggot."

Poppy's face paled. "W-what are you going to do?"

"Get over my knees." Abigail demanded.

"B-but Abigail, you're not allowed to spank me. Not on the bottom."

Abigail gave a forceful tug that dragged him halfway down across his lap. "Don't tell me what I can or can't do." Poppy at once submitted and lowered his body, and Abigail yanked up the negligee to find little powder-blue panties that were a girly-tease. Infuriated, his hand went down flat and sharp. WHAP!

"Ahwoo! Abigail, don't, please!" twitted Poppy.

WHAP! again, and the young sissy's soft creamy bottom began to blush around the outline of his pants.

"How long have you been at Fairyfield?" demanded Abigail.

"Two - two terms."

"Long enough to know that over-the-knee punishment is always given on the bare bottom. Is that right?"

"Y-yes, Abigail."

"Are you sure? How is it given?"

"On the bare b-bottom, Abigail."

"Right! Which means what?"

"Er - I - don't know."

WHACK! Poppy's bum swerved wildly as Abigail's hand smacked down again. "It means you should take your pants down," - SMACK! - "that's what it means."

Hurriedly Poppy raised his hips and wriggled his pants beyond his buttocks. WALLOP! "Ooch!" WHACK! "OWW!"

Poppy's bottom trembled under the smacking. His pretty bum bobbed up and down helplessly and he pressed his thighs together and rocked side to side as the bared flesh, and the tops of his legs further down started to pinken to a soft, even glow.

SMACK! Abigail struck him slightly harder, and told him what a good girl he was for taking it so well, but he had to be punished for being so clumsy. 

"Yes, b-but - OUCH! - my b-bottom's so sore - OWW!"

The senior sissy refused to relent and Poppy's rump suffered a stream of sharp, smarting blows, each stinging impact qualified by a succinct reprimand. CRACK! "Naughty bottom for being so sissy-pretty." WHACK! Naughty bottom for being so saucy." SMACK! "Naughty bum for being a girly tease."

Poppy's quiet gasps of torment became very audible moans. WALLOP! "Naughty cutie for showing it off." continued Abigail. SPLATT! Naughty girl for making men look." BLATT! "Naughty girl for letting men see it." TWAK! "Naughty queen for letting them fuck it."

Poor Poppy's tender bottom jerked, juddered and writhed again and again as its skin became hotter and turned a deeper red. Then he found himself being toppled from Abigail's lap to sprawl on the floor. He felt rather sorry for himself but was surprisingly undamaged. The punishment had been only a little more severe than a lovers spanking, delivering just enough twang with each swat to make him wriggle. Just enough harshness to stir a boys blood and leave him panting. Just enough pain to make a sissy humble and obedient.

Gazing up he wondered what would follow, and he was just in time to see Abigail hooking his thumbs into his own panties and pushing them down. His eyes glowed as Abigail's fully erect cock leapt into view and bounced up and down, while his heavy cum-laden balls swung between his legs. The head-girl's huge cock was sticking straight up and displaying bulging veins on the underside of its shaft. It was bell-topped and big with the durability of an iron bar, and it was demanding attention.

Mesmerised by the monolith before him Poppy cooed in admiration. Confident and proud to know it was his own proximity that had caused it to rear up, his discomfort was instantly forgotten. "Wow, what a chopper!"

"Christ Poppy, you say the same imbecile things every time."

Without rising from his knees Poppy crawled between his legs. He wanted to suck that sissy monster and swallow all its sissy cream. "But it IS a whopper Abigail. It goes all the way up your belly. It's a lovely meaty thing as big as the Eiffel tower. Even Hard-dick-Hardwick hasn't got one as big as yours." He always believed it did no harm to stroke a sissy's ego as well as his stiff meat.

Abigail was well aware that Poppy's own penis was a match for his own, but while the faggot never used his for anything more than hand-games his own was the property of an alpha-bitch. He grabbed the back of Poppy's head and pulled him towards his crotch leaving him in no doubt as to exactly what was expected. 

Wide eyed, heart fluttering Poppy's trembling fingers took hold of the straining flesh and began to slide his fingers up and down the handsome tower of flesh. Half covering and then uncovering the mushroom shaped tip he worked a sheath of foreskin up and down whilst simultaneously playing with the head-girls huge ball sack. Slowly he turned his face upward and let his tongue flirt beneath the rim of the swollen head where he knew males were most sensitive, then he licked up all the way to the gland at the tip.

"Umph!" He grunted. He was excited himself and couldn't resist stroking his own stiffening willy at the same time. He loved sucking dick. Abigail's magnificent rammer was leaking and throbbing, and he eased a little of the tension by smearing the pre-cum onto Poppy's beautiful rosy cheeks. That encouraged the more subservient sissy to lean forward and take the whole fat, pink knob into his sweet mouth and begin to suck it and lick it in a circular motion.

He sucked eagerly, easing his lips down the vertical pole as far as he could without choking and then bringing them back to the knob. Mmmm. Abigail's pre-goo tasted no different to anyone else's, but it was nice. Pushing down again he flattened his tongue and pushed the weighty meat against the roof of his mouth before drawing on it with his lips. In response the head-girl bucked his thighs and forced a massive length to the back of the sissy's mouth.

Mm! Poppy loved that! He swallowed hard and tried to take the point beyond the back of his throat. It wasn't easy and the size of it made him gag, but once he remembered to relax his muscles the big sausage went down smoothly. Then by breathing through his nose he was able to undulate his throat like a caterpillar, as up and down, up and down, went his sucking mouth on the head-sissies enormous doodle. Abigail began groaning, so he knew he was doing it right.

"Hold on!" Abigail suddenly said. "You've a nice talent harem-boy and I love fucking down inside your neck, but I don't want to shoot right away." He eased Poppy away and rose to his feet. Lifting the fragile pleasure-giver with him he then turned him about and bit softly into the back of his neck in the manner of a tomcat subduing its mate. Poppy certainly meowed like a cat but his eyes shone in secret triumph, since he'd elicited exactly the kind of response he'd set out to achieve. When Abigail whirled him around again he was more than ready for the hot mouth that slushed against his own.

"Okay, you randy prick-teaser," Abigail husked, "I'm ready to play the kind of game you want. Get on the bed and wait for me - but get rid of that stupid nightie first."

***

Wendy entered the dormitory to hear the metal springs of a bed squeaking noisily, and then he saw the head-girl working his hips back and forth, madly pumping his big cock in and out of Poppy's minuscule bottom with boundless energy. Abigail and Poppy were engaged in a full-heated fuck. 

It wasn't an uncommon sight to view such things in a sissy bedroom. Privacy was unknown in the dormitories, but as a rule most other residents waited until later in the evening before seeking out passion. In his arrogance Abigail frequently never sought either privacy or decorum. 

He leaned against the door and stood still for a moment, envy simmering inside like a volcano ready to erupt. With fists clutching the bedcovers Poppy was stretched on his belly beneath Abigail, legs splayed, a pillow stuffed under his thighs, while Abigail lay on top of him, straggling his buttocks. Fully dressed apart from a lack of underwear Abigail's skirt was hoisted up and his massive balls-bags were slapping onto Poppy's helpless girly bottom as his hips heaved and plunged his super-sized shaft easily in and out of his companions sissy-boy pussy.

Muscles rigid, face taut and totally at the mercy of the head-girl's more mature sissy lust Poppy was squeaking like a girl and whimpering unintelligible noises through clenched teeth.. Abigail's slippery, turbulent penis was moving ever faster, disappearing and reappearing in rapid shunts as he tensed up to make a grand finish. 

Somehow Wendy held in the anger of jealousy he felt inside. "Er, sorry to intrude, Abigail, but Miss Twist wants to see you tout de suite, She wants to know how far you've got with the work you're doing for her."

He was aware Abigail was susceptible to interruptions and he could have delayed giving the message for a minute or two, but he deliberately decided not to do that. Intimacy with Abigail in the past had made him familiar with some of his peculiarities. He knew that a message requiring an immediate response could soak up his thoughts and possibly kill his ardour, and knowing that he took malicious delight in disturbing his cousin's smug complacency. It was a horrible trick. A fiendish thing to do. But there weren't many other ways he could deal out vengeance for being ignored.

The squeak of the bedsprings subsided and then ceased. "That's put me right off." Abigail fumed.

Detaching himself from Poppy he rolled away and reached for his pants. "I hate being rushed, so you're going to have to wait until I get back." he told the gasping pantyboy.

Even after witnessing Abigail enmeshed in such carnal intimacy with another Wendy longed to rekindle their relationship. He sat on the end of a bed further down the room, his mind crowded with confusion. He'd tried to hate Abigail, but could only think about being with him, how wonderful he was, the way his lips curved and turned up in a little crease that demanded to be kissed. He wanted to declare his affection, but knew it was pointless, so he remained silent.




A Sissy Saga Ch. 12



Abigail seemed about to storm away. No smile. Not even a sideways glance in his direction. But then something made him pause and turn his head.

"Sorry to hear about all the trouble you've had lately. I know you believe it was me who split on you to my mother about you going with Judd, but I promise you I never said a word."

Wendy remained grim faced. "Oh really. Who else could it have been?"

Abigail's face cracked a patient smile. "I happen to know that Judd isn't the macho-man everyone thinks he is. He's old man Larkin's bottom. Larkin gave him a thrashing and made him tell who he'd been with that night, then the mean old fella told my mother about it out of pure spite. Believe me or don't believe me, but that's how it is."

Wendy did believe him at once, and was so utterly relieved and comforted by the explanation. Abigail had never been a tickle-tattle in the past, so it had to be true. 

Without giving any other concession Abigail walked out of the room, and amid the sudden silence Wendy gazed at Poppy who remained on the bed further along. The sissy-princess was like an exquisite effigy with a wholesome tint in his cheeks, beautiful in his nakedness, fresh and radiant and filled with a vitality that was sensual. Quite the wrong person to be angry with. Poppy showed love that was fiery and frantic, but to him it was like a ship that passed in the night. Passion with Abigail had stirred in his breasts and made his nipples tighten, but the pure lines of his face were virgin-like and his eyes were innocent.

Wendy felt no bitterness toward him. He was forever sweet and friendly - little more than a mischievous hob-goblin really, and he admired Poppy's unflappable tranquillity and his ability to cocoon himself from the kind of emotions that tortured people like himself. How nice to have a nature like his. If he had disappointments or hard knocks he didn't seem to feel them much. He was always smiling and he never took any of his sexual partners seriously. Flighty he may be, but he was never fooled by the illusions of a relationship. His only consideration was to extract pleasure from a situation before it faded.

As he watched, Poppy rolled onto his back and pushed himself up on his elbows, quite unashamed of his nudity and unconcerned that his enormous penis was noticeably turgid and moist. "Wendeee, d'yu wanna toss me off?" The sissy's voice carried a musical lilt and his playful eyes, his shameless smirk, his wondrous bare body, all tantalised. 

Sulkily Wendy shook his head. "No, I don't."

"Wanna watch while I do it for myself?"

"No."

A few moments of silence followed, before Poppy bleated again. "Wendeee, I'm feeling neglected. Come and sit with me."

Wendy wasn't fooled by the sissy's precious little girl voice. He knew Poppy well enough to know he wasn't being invited to a platonic get together. But then he thought, what the hell, why not?

He rose up and went down the room to join him. Although Poppy's good looks gave him vanity they never made him unapproachable. "Sorry I had to be a killjoy just now with you and Abigail."

The other boy regarded him with an unconcerned smile. "You could have managed it better. You could have waited 'til Abigail had finished. He was really going strong and he only needed another minute." He squirmed suggestively on the bed covers, then added, "I say, your folks live in Arabland, don't they?"

"They live in the Gulf States, I suppose they're Arab lands."

"Arabs have sultan's, don't they?"

"No, not usually. More often they have sheikhs."

"I bet sheikhs are like sultans. I bet they have great big harems of pretty sissy-boys."

Wendy sat down on the edge of the bed and stroked Poppy's flushed cheek with one hand while the other caressed his she-boy breasts, squeezing the nipples between his fingers until they grew firm. At once Poppy's lips parted as he looped his arms around his neck and drew him down. Showing not the least hint of guilt at betraying Abigail they shared a warm, lingering sissy-kiss.

Open-mouthed, jaws shunting in unison, their tongues stroked against each others teeth and gums before rolling together in a wet, sexy joust. Poppy's mouth tasted good, clean and pampered.

Nipples next, thought Wendy. Poppy was not quite flat-chested and he had a slight plumpness in the region of his nipples. Wendy pushed him down and pressed against him, kissing his neck, then his upper chest, then trailing kisses to his left nipple. It was delightfully puffy, slightly pink and extraordinarily beautiful, and the erect little teat had the texture of a pencil-eraser. When his mouth closed down on it and he sucked Poppy whimpered with pleasure.

There was no reason for it but sexual gratification, and perhaps for Wendy a small way of spiting Abigail for the neglect he felt. After feasting on both sissy nipples he rose up and kissed Poppy's forehead and his face, then took his lips in his mouth and kissed and bit them softly while his hands stroked up and down the boy's naked body, running his hands everywhere as if exploring the structure of muscles and bones beneath the skin. The flesh was warm, the texture of skin like satin, and the taste of him was of honey-soaked roses. No wonder Poppy was such a favourite with everyone, he was gorgeous.

Eventually his hand ventured down onto Poppy's coltish thighs and encircled his penis and he teased him under his balls before touching the stiffened cock; a huge bone wrapped in silk around which his fingers curled neatly.

"You smell nice. Just like a flower. Like a whole bunch of flowers." he murmured in his ear.

The sissy kissed him ardently, this time taking his face in his hands and crushing his lips hard against his own, while his tongue traced inside his mouth to slither and probe. When he drew back Poppy was breathing hard through his nose. "Get your pants off Wendy. You can't have proper fun with your knickers on."

Wendy's pants did quickly come off, then they enjoyed another lengthy kiss whilst pumping the satiny soft skin on each others hot sissy joysticks. The bedstead shook and clanked as they rolled back and forth, mouths joined in voluptuous jousting, kissing biting and licking. Wendy was rarely forceful or aggressive, but despite that it was Poppy who accepted the female role. It always came naturally to him. He relished the fondling and nipple sucking of a partner and rarely objected when a person on top wanted more.

A faint, rather coquettish smile flickered on his mouth and his eyelids fluttered. Marvellously warm and compliant, he coiled against Wendy and sighed salaciously. "Poppy wants cock. He wants fucky-fucky."

With his penis extended and already juicing Wendy was beyond refusing such a request. "What about Abigail? Won't he be angry if he comes back and finds me doing you before he's finished himself?"

"Um yes, he probably will be cross - so you'd better make it a quick one."

Wendy rolled from the bed and tucked the front of his skirt into his waistband. Poppy was already on his back, but he told him to swing round onto the edge of the bed and raise his knees. In such a position his sissy-hole was most vulnerable, and since it had been recently lubricated and used by Abigail they both knew it would offer no resistance.

He took hold of Poppy's ankles and levered his legs up and back, almost over his shoulders, then with a sigh his slender form pressed against the inviting open bottom. Bare buttocks pressed onto his thighs, and bowing slightly he was able to look down and see the shaft of his engorged cock disappearing into the already well buggered rectum of the most used she-boy in the school.

He watched as it melted into him. Felt the glorious sensation as it delved into hot, cloying confines, and sighed in wonder as a warm enveloping softness of sissy-boy flesh surrounded it. Once his erection had penetrated beyond the anal ring it found only a squishy, silky soft resistance and he entered in like so many had done before, feeling raw pleasure as his body responded in the most lascivious and shocking way. 

Poppy's muscles sucked him in and their young bodies locked, spasmed and merged. After several moments of screwing deep Wendy pulled back until only the head of his cock remained inside the boy, then he eased forward again, repeating the strokes and building momentum, pressing down and banging in and out with as much energy as he could muster.

"Umm, that's it, that's nice - do me Wendy. Hump me - hump me hard."

Poppy's calves were on Wendy's shoulders, giving him full access to the depths of his bowels, and Wendy was soon plunging deep with every stroke. The subservient she-boys backside strained to meet each thrust, and whimpers of pleasure escaped his lips as his sissy lover increased the speed of his lunging.

The bedsprings groaned too, and glassy-eyed Poppy began panting. "That's it! Go on, go on. Do it - do me! Ooh, aah! Yes, do me - shag me." His anus twitched and flexed around the hot shaft inside him, trying to milk the strength out of it, and in reply Wendy pushed with his thighs, squirming his pelvis to force his youthful rammer in to its root.

"Crikey, you're awfully randy."

"Yeah," Poppy agreed with a shaky laugh, "I'm a real hot cow tonight, aren't I? Oh, do hurry up and put some spunk in me."

"'ELLO, 'ELLO! WHAT'S GOING ON 'ERE THEN?" said a jovial voice in the pantomime cliché‚ of an old time policeman at the end of the room.

"Omigosh!" The voice was so unexpected that Wendy felt a shock to his backbone and both he and Poppy shuddered and keeled over sideways, disengaging as they did so.

There was a noise at the door and light footsteps came up the aisle between the beds. Wendy tried not to turn his head, but couldn't help it. He had to look. He half expected to see Abigail looking ruffled and grumpy at the sight of him indulging with Poppy before he'd done pleasing himself, and he felt an odd kind of relief to find it was Nanette.

Although Nan had taken his place as prefect there was never any acrimony between them, and although he was far more assertive than he himself could ever be he treated him almost as an equal, and invariably gave him the respect due to a senior pupil. They'd been intimate with each other a few times and he was only ever dominant when he had a right to be - when he was on top and ramming hard. 

Nan took everything in at a glance; the bare flesh, the dishevelled expressions, the stiff, twitching erections, and he offered an apologetic look.

"You look like you were having a good time. Sorry to break it up, I didn't mean to startle you."

"We thought you were Abigail," Wendy told him, "He's only half done using Poppy, and you know how fussy he is about things." 

Nan gave a throaty laugh. "Abby's with Miss Twist, and he'll probably be a while yet. I didn't think you'd be so twitchy about him since you know him better than anyone else - 'cept of course you've not been in much favour for a while, have you?"

Wendy ignored the personal reference. "Poppy's real hot-stuff tonight." 

Nan nodded. "Poppy's always good pussy. He's beautiful. Dresses like real girl, fucks like a bunny and sucks cock like a vacuum-cleaner." His eyes widened, "Christ, neither of you have had cummies yet have you? We'll have to put that right."

He sat on the bed, took hold of Poppy penis and cupped his balls. "You're quite shameless, aren't you, Poppy?"

The other sissy blushed. "Suppose so."

"You definitely are," affirmed Nan, offering a wink to Wendy, "Poppy may be the most effeminate sissy-freak in the school, but he still enjoys having his plums played with." Masturbating the sweet angel with a casual slide of his hand, he added, "Will you marry me one day, Poppy?"

The sissy grinned, broadening his face into cherubic roundness. "Might do if Miss Hancock can't find me a sultan."

"You'll be a picture walking down the aisle with flowers in your hair, and I'll insist your wedding-dress is white lace and satin, you'll like that - though I think your skirt will have to be very short - you've such delectable legs and thighs and you'll want to show them off, won't you?"

Poppy giggled at the outrageous idea.

"He's a little minx," Nan remarked to Wendy, "Abigail will probably smack him when he returns."

Poppy face became animated and he pouted defensively. "He didn't say not to do anything else while he was away."

"Well, if you were my date I wouldn't expect you to go shagging with other people if I just popped out the room. Trouble is you're such a wanton gay-thing, and you can't resist an opportunity when it comes along. You enjoy being shagged, don't you?"

Poppy lowered his eyelids and smiled back at him. "Yes, Nan."

"You like to feel a length inside you, eh?"

"Yes, Nan."

"And you love to have someone jack-off in your arse, don't you?"

"I don't mind."

"I know you don't mind, and if I feel like trying you myself when Wendy's finished, you won't object, will you?"

"I suppose not."

Like a butterfly flitting from blossom to blossom, and without a pang of guilt about playing fast and loose with Wendy, he slipped his hands onto Nan's shoulders and kissed him on the mouth. Well, he reasoned, Nanette was a prefect now and there was nothing to be gained by upsetting him.

Nan must have given a devilish shove at that moment, because Poppy let out a moan, then Nan said, "Right. Good girl. Better slot you back onto Wendy's stalk now so he can fill you with spermies."

He indicated for Wendy to lay on his back across the bed, then told Poppy to face him and straggle his thighs. When that was done to his satisfaction he immediately took hold of Wendy's cock and stroked it earnestly, making it bounce and extend even further than it already was. Shepherding its tip into the well-oiled eye of Poppy's angelic back passage he crammed the youthful sissy down on it.

"Ooh." Poppy grimaced as he became spiked like an apple on a stick, but then at once he began moving rhythmically, riding up and down on the length of randy muscle inside and taking it from top to bottom.

"That's the way. " encouraged Nan. "Go right down on it. Fuck the juice out of it. You're well oiled and it slides in easily. I bet you could manage ten inches before it starts hurting."

When Poppy began flexing his anus right and left in a way he'd learnt long ago, Nan drew back. Inspired by the view of a handsome cock ploughing a restless, eager ring-piece he lowered his own pants and started to jerk his cock. It was no competition to Abigail's great stonker, but it gave fine enough service.

Moving forward once more, and oblivious to the occupation of Poppy's anus he forced a finger in beside Wendy's penis.

"Oh, ooow - Hey Nan, what're doing?" Poppy squeaked. His legs shook. "Ho, aaah - aah - ooohrrroooo!"

"You're a bit on the tight side, but it will have to do." Nan told him. He extracted his hand, then oiled his own cock copiously and climbed up behind, placing the tip of it where his fingers had explored.

"Ungh!" Poppy grunted as the head of Nan's penis forcefully wheedled in to try and join Wendy's unflinching erection. "Eeee! No - fuckin'ell Nan. Not two at once. You mustn't - I can't - it's impossible..."

"Yes you can. It's tight, but I reckon you're more capable than you think." the other student assured him as he pushed, slowly squeezing and stretching him to the absolute limit.

"Ooooh, aaah!" Poppy protested as an electric thrill of panic surged through him. His backside was pinned in place and was being made to accept all thrusts. It was painful. "Oh Nan, this really is too much - I can't manage two at the same time. You'll split me, you really will. Why can't you each take turns with me?"

Nan ignored him. The novelty of the situation fascinated him, and he concentrated on heaving forward. Slithering up just a little at a time it took what seemed ages to establish the second penis inside the frantic sissy-bum, but by being careful both Nan and Wendy were eventually cock on cock inside his tight confines, and able to fuck him together. In unison they pulled back and thrust forward with awkward jerks while Poppy's anus squeezing their dicks together into a single tube of flesh.

Wendy lay almost helpless on the bottom of the little stack. He wasn't uncomfortable though, and the sensation of Nan's testicles gently nudging against his own was rather erotic, but he did feel astonishment at having Nan's stout, muscular cock slide alongside his shunting erection. That was weird.

It was more than weird for Poppy. Face as red as a radish he gasped in disbelief and his eyes misted over. Never before had this happened to him. Even when he'd been gang-banged in the past men had only ever fucked him one at a time. Having two pricks stuffing his sissy-pussy together was a strange sensation, it was unique and probably kinky, and it was quite painful too. He only endured it because he was curious. His mouth gaped with an expression of fearful joy. Two dick's together. Wow, what wickedness. What would it feel like if they did a squirt at the same moment? Two randy stiffies both spewing cock-cream into his tight little rectum together.

For a few moments he allowed his senses to whirl in the sheer eroticism of what was happening, but then the discomfort became unbearable and he threw himself sideways. 

Nan winced as his connection suddenly ended. "You shitty girly-git! You nearly snapped my prick off!"

***

Abigail's mouth curved down in dissatisfaction as he made his way back to the dormitory. His effort to devise a task-rota for Open Day had aroused cold cynicism in Miss Twist.

"Not good enough," she'd said ( He never liked people saying that to him). "You're showing Zoë upstairs on one schedule while on another he's already being employed elsewhere. And you've put Alice in a classroom when he should be in the gym."

"Pull up your socks." she'd said ( He wasn't wearing socks, he thought churlishly). "Straighten your seams." ( His stockings were seamless, he sulked). "I'd expected better of you Abigail, but your heads obviously too full of girly thoughts at the moment. Go somewhere quiet and milk your doodle, then have another look at things."

He'd have liked Miss Twist to milk his doodle for him. He'd been girlified for a long time and never had sex with a female, but he knew he'd enjoy being handled by good looking women with strong, knowing hands and a firm grip. Emma Twist had all the qualities needed. She could pull out cream from a house-brick, he just knew she could. She'd make him cum a blizzard. But she'd no intention of entertaining such an idea. She went no further than patting his bottom up under his skirt.

Wendy and Nan gazed at him with slightly guilty expressions when he entered the room. They were both poised over Poppy's naked body with their skirts tucked up and their undraped cocks rearing obscenely, but although they respected his status and his temper and they'd clearly been indulging in something raunchy, they didn't hold him in the same kind of awe as the first-termers did.

"Just passing the time," explained Nan with an amiable shrug. "Poppy's a bit of a tease without his pants."

Scrambling to the edge of the bed, Poppy alone showed some agitation. "It wasn't my idea. They made me do it."

With surprising calm Abigail sat down on the mattress opposite. "You're a airhead Poppy. You're a bimbo with the morals of a cat." he replied testily. Glancing at the notes in his hand he morbidly considered the revision he still had to do. "Since you're so concerned for Wendy and Nan you'd best calm them down properly before you and I start again."

Poppy glanced sideways as Nan quickly moved towards him in a way that was overtly predatory, the front of his gymslip draped across the stem of his unrelenting erection.




A Sissy Saga Ch. 12



"Yes, come on Poppy," Nan urged, swinging distended flesh in front of his face, "You've got two hands. That's one for Wendy and one for me."

Doe-eyed, the sissy watched thoughtfully as Wendy took up a position the other side of him. "Well all right, as long as Abigail says it's okay."

Reaching out he took a cock in each hand and began masturbating them fiercely, first jigging Nan's, then giving Wendy's some energetic attention. When both had achieved optimum rigidity and were swollen and tense he rubbed them simultaneously with uniform pushes and jerks, then after a moment lapped the slavering tip of Nan's penis before taking it into his mouth and massaging the firm length with his lips.

As Nan sighed in wonder Poppy's mouth changed direction to give Wendy's cock the same treatment, making the same "Oooommmm" noise as his mouth dragged and pushed at his foreskin. He loved pleasing two cocks at the same time. Both Nan and Wendy soon began to puff with heightened excitement, but it was Nan who changed the rhythm.

"Let me finish myself off," he wheezed, while peeling Poppy's fingers away, "Let me toss off into your face." Perhaps there was no other sissy in the school that would have accepted such a suggestion so stoically. Still jerking Wendy with one hand Poppy half closed his hot, dreamy eyes and turned his face towards the broad tip of Nan's cock that was by then nearly brushing his cheek.

"Naaah!" Nan gasped, pounding his length with his hand as his pelvis swung up in the effort to rid himself rapidly of a burden that was utterly delicious.

Poppy's eyes closed as a large glob of thick cream shot out from the boys flaring meatus and splattered the side of his nose, while an attached opalescent strand sagged down to drape the corner of his mouth. He blinked, but before he could come to terms with what had happened a second blast of ejaculate struck his cheek. "Wow, that was a good one, Nan." he smiled in admiration, while being faintly aware that Wendy too was now breathing heavily.

Wendy hated making an exhibition of himself in front of Abigail, but the sight of young Poppy's pure features being so erotically besmirched overpowered his reserve. With his cock on overload and with his own hand, he began pumping himself furiously, his fist moving rapidly while his mouth hung slack in self-inflicted rapture.

Poppy risked a peep at the increasing wetness of the pounding meat. "Get in a bit closer or you'll miss my face." he whispered.

Wendy's loins shuddered, and again Poppy felt hot, wet spurts hitting his face. One, two, three! Semen hosed against his cheek in viscous, diagonal jets, and in quantity enough to ensure turgid white rivulets trickled down to his jaw-line.

Seated on the adjacent bed Abigail watched the event unfold with a po-faced expression, stimulated by the sight, but strangely not enjoying it. When Nan and Wendy had finished he rose up and glared at Poppy. "Your face is snotty and disgusting. It puts me right off wanting to shag you."

Poppy blinked hard. "Oh, well - I can wash it off."

"Don't bother," Abigail replied, "Just kneel down on the floor." As Poppy sank obediently to his knees Abigail grasped his hair and rolled his head back. "Open your mouth."

Poppy acquiesced without a murmur, face tilted up, mouth agape like a fledgling bird who's mother was feeding it, ready to be the receptacle for whatever Abigail produced.

Crouching astride Poppy's upturned face, and oblivious to those watching, the head-girl's hand heaved and pounded his own substantial length, rolling the foreskin back and forth with immense enthusiasm. His breath became hoarse and quick as he joggled his flesh rapidly until it throbbed and jerked. Stooping slightly lower he bent it downwards and aimed the drizzling tip at the subservient open mouth before pumping furiously.

"Oooowww. There!" he gasped. His back arched and his pelvis jerked vigorously as he ejaculated, his first blast going off at a tangent to skim Poppy's top lip and shoot up his left nostril. The remainder, lacking the same velocity, became concentrated in massive, syrupy glops that oozed from the eye of the penis and fell directly into Poppy's waiting mouth. With his teeth coated and his tongue swamped, Poppy didn't move. If there was more to follow he'd be expected to receive that too. However, Abigail's orgasm had been intense, but abrupt, and only a slender mucus-like strand dangled, threatening to detach itself, but stubbornly clinging on until, uninvited, Poppy's pink tongue snaked out to gather it in.

"Don't swallow yet," Abigail gasped as he frantically worked out the remnants of his pleasure, "You haven't swallowed, have you?"

Endeavouring to breath through one nostril Poppy pressed his smeary lips together and gave his head a little shake.

"Go and show Nan and Wendy what you have in your mouth." Poppy clambered to his feet and opened his mouth to display the great flood of semen he nursed. Nan and Wendy peered at it in curiosity, then Wendy waved him away in disgust.

"Okay, you can swallow now." Abigail told him. "Shame the fun as to end, but I've work to do."

Poppy pressed his lips with his fingers as Abigail's cum slid down his throat, and everyone else readjusted their underwear. Feeling disappointment, he made a show of his own erection. "What about me, Abigail? No one's creamed me yet."

Abigail raised an eyebrow and acknowledged his sissy-roused distress. "Anyone want to do a favour for Poppy? He's got a couple of handfuls to play with."

Wendy looked away in a display of disinterest, reckoning he'd already put on too much of a show in front of the head-girl for one night.

Nan gave a crooked smile. "Nah, I've things to do in the other dorm's."

Abigail gave a dismal shrug. "It's a shame Poppy, but no one wants to help you out. You'll have to go somewhere and pull on yourself." A sulky expression of disappointment had hardly registered on Poppy's face before the head-girl added. "And for goodness sake go and wash your grotty face before you make me sick."

Poppy had no need to despair entirely. He didn't have to settle for morosely satisfying himself. Five minutes later, coming out from the washroom with his penis still thrusting like a weighty pikestaff and wagging about in front of him, he almost collided with Gloria, who must have thought the god's had sent her a gift for her hand that night. She at once found a chair and sat him beside her, and with a stubby, thick finger sliding around in his sissy-anus and her skilful hand wrapped around his distended member she made him expend noisily, joyfully and generously.

Feeling like an orange that had been squeezed dry, he let his dreamy-eyed face sag against her great bosom while the woman herself gazed down like a pleasantly surprised connoisseur at the flood of creaminess that basted her fingers. "Yer little madam. What on earth was you 'olding on to all that for? Was yer savin' it up for Christmas?" 



A Sissy Saga Ch. 13



When not on duty on a Sunday Margaret Pardoe sometimes found herself at a loose end, and that particular Sunday she'd used up what enthusiasm she had for her embroidery project in the morning and had to settle for a stroll in the garden after lunch.

Emma was on duty, but that didn't prevent Margaret from being watchful of the school rules or for taking remedial action of her own if they were infringed. It was the only way she could wile away time on a hot, dreary day without formal lessons.

Uncharacteristically Miss Hancock came out from the house a little later and decided to take everyone off on a nature ramble. The entire school was assembled in double-file and told to hold hands with their partner, then with Jennifer swishing a stick at the rear to intimidate stragglers the mini-skirted schoolgirl crocodile was led off across a cultivated paddock towards a nearby coppice.

Margaret wasn't about to join in with any of that, Miss Hancock's nature walks were too much like route marches for her taste. Desperate for some other distraction she latched onto matron who was off to catalogue the Fairyfield family archive, and who seemed glad of some company.

They went to the unused east-wing and entered a small, windowless room littered with boxes and crates all of which had been opened for investigation. They revealed a huge stash of household goods that had fallen from grace over a number of generations; broken tennis rackets, a glass cabinet of bird's eggs, boxes of cutlery, a walking stick with a brass pommel, piles of letters and photographs and half empty bottles of Parisian scent. At the side of the door lurked an ancient Russian samovar looking rather lopsided and in need of repair, while smaller pieces of bric-a-brac lay everywhere.

Matron led Margaret to where a pair of tall stools and a small table stood in the centre of things. "Miss Hancock is constantly asking me to make a list of the items stored here. There's oodles of stuff as you can see, and Sunday's are the only days I'm free to do it." she explained.

Margaret's nose twitched at the musty, stale smell of the room. "There's no rush is there?"

Matron arched a sardonic eyebrow. "I believe Miriam is desperate for money."

"Ha! That's nothing new. She's never got enough of that."

"She wants me to separate out anything of value that will raise cash at auction."

"Totting up her treasure is she? The woman's obsessed by money." observed Mrs Pardoe as she side-stepped a pair of vases with oriental motifs that stood on the floor by her feet - one of them she noticed was already cracked from top to base. "All these bloody knickknacks look like old junk to me."

Matron smiled patiently. "Most families have a attic to store away items that are out of style or beyond favour, and I suppose this room must have become an attic to the latter-day Fairyfield's. Many of the items in here are certainly junk and wouldn't fetch a button at a boot-market," She sat down and raised up a heavy Victorian silver teapot. "But there's plenty of stuff over a hundred years old that would do rather well at auction. There's some nice pieces of Meissen china and some silver, London and Bristol, fully hallmarked."

"Must be a job to know what's what." remarked Margaret.

"I enjoy art, good music, books; and I've always had a passion for antiques, that's why Miriam asked me to make the list." replied matron, "None of it as ever been properly catalogued before so no one knows what could turn up." She stroked the exquisite teapot affectionately. "I'd be quite happy if I found one or two more of these."

She gave Mrs Pardoe a sideways glance. "You really should broaden your own interests Margaret. Free-time is such a rare thing here during the term. You should get out and about when you have the chance."

"Get out and about?" snorted the other woman, "You must think I'm mad. Peasmarsh is no livelier than a graveyard on a Sunday." 

Her manner and 'posh' diction always gave rise to ribald comment among the people in the village, while she in return had no appreciation for unsophisticated country folk and their rural ways. The way they doggedly seemed to relish living fifty years in the past irritated her. They all believed their village to be old and pretty when it was really decrepit and dull. They all lived in a mail-order catalogue and mirrored each other; the same clothes, same friends and same opinions. And sex? That was a dirty word that didn't even feature in the local graffiti.

She drew her stool closer to matron. "You're a fine one to talk, you never go anywhere yourself. What on earth made you settle here? You're not a secretary, you're a nurse - you should be working in a hospital. The nearest you get to nursing now is giving enemas to poncey sissies."

"Colonic irrigation is important to those who spend so much time admiring each others fundaments, but I do more than that. Miss Hancock relies on my medical knowledge to extend the cute appeal of her pupils, so my advice is constantly sought on matters of hormonal balance and diet."

"Everyone as the impression you once had something to do with breast-enhancement."

Matron smiled with a touch of pride. "I was a senior grade in my profession and I specialised in a number of things. I assisted in so many breast operations I could do them myself in the end."

"It's a shame to waste such skill. I'm getting old and frumpy, and I've started to sag a bit around the top. If you had the right stuff could you do something for me?"

"I could give you a choice of breast shape and I could even remodel your nipples if you wished. But, frumpy Margaret? That's ridiculous, you're rather well preserved. What are you, thirty-one, thirty-two? Still a good figure - and divorced. Well, unattached anyway. I'm typical English and blotchy, but I reckon there's some Latin in you. Your bosom stands out nicely and you don't even have to wear a bra most of the time. It's the students here who really need my attention. I could do a really good job on some of them. Their dainty chests would undoubtedly be enhanced by a couple of pert boobs."

Margaret snorted. "They shouldn't be messed about with. They look atrocious enough in skirts as it is."

Matron regarded her with one of the sour looks she was noted for, and thought cynically, 'Yes, they'd be sweeter for you if they didn't have pricks,' but she didn't say it. "It must remain a fantasy anyway. Miss Hancock will never take up the expense." She paused a moment, then continued sulkily. "And the truth is I'm a nurse no longer. I was struck off from the nursing register last year following my supposed misconduct."

"Misconduct? I'd heard you'd had some trouble, but..."

At that moment matron looked exactly what she was, a lean woman over forty and an obsessive hardened spinster. "I used the facilities at the clinic in which I worked for a sideline business of my own - putting breast implants into men."

Margaret Pardoe's mouth dropped slightly. "You gave men tits?"

The matron nodded, forcing a smile to her lips. "I mainly dealt with the wimpy-types, you know the sort, the one's with forceful and tyrannical wives who make their husbands to do housework whilst wearing frocks and aprons. As I've mentioned I knew the procedure backwards so I knew exactly what I was doing. The doctor's knew about it too, and they raised no objections if they got a portion of my fees. Everyone was happy until one of my patients experienced some disfigurement."

Mrs Pardoe unconsciously clutched at her bosom and seemed to become increasingly startled as the word 'disfigurement' percolated in her mind.

Matron offered a sharp look of impatience. "It was a faulty silicon insert that caused the problem not a want of skill on my part. There's a risk in all surgery, but with accusations of illegal practise being thrown about the doctors took fright and disowned me. Since there could have been criminal charges in the offing I thought it best to simply disappear."

She shrugged and smiled grimly. "So it was goodbye to London and goodbye to my career. And do you know, I really don't give a damn. I've come to enjoy being a country mouse, it's like returning to the womb."

She stood up and made her way over to a line of framed pictures. Carefully stacked against a wall stood a number of pale green classical prints representing mythological subjects. Salamacis and Hermaphrodite, Diana and Callisto, Leda surprised by the swan, and what appeared to be a representation of Aphrodite masturbating a pair of cupids. Behind those were a number oil-paintings draped in dust sheets. "For all their wealth the Fairyfield's possessed little good taste with the artists they favoured, but I've an enigma for you. Are you interested?"

Mrs Pardoe frowned. "I don't like puzzles much, but what is it?"

"What do you make of this?" 

As one of the oil-paintings was solemnly uncovered Margaret rose up and leaned forward to inspect it, with her head stooped forward she looked like a tortoise peering out of its shell. The picture consisted of a trio of women seated in a group, two much younger than the central figure. All were dressed in imposing full length dresses and wearing long gloves.

"A family group - mother and daughters probably. Nice looking girls. They're all wearing ball-gowns that date from the 1860s or '70s." She smiled. Even if she'd never been to university she knew about fabrics and clothes and took pride in her knowledge of historical costume. During Queen Victoria's reign crinolines gave way to narrow bustles and it wasn't until the 1880s that wider silhouettes and larger bustles came into favour. "Is it worth much?" she asked.

"The artist is unknown, so just a few pounds I'd say, but the value isn't what intrigues me here. Look at the title on the frame."

Margaret moved closer and stooped to read the inscription on a small tarnished brass plate. 'Henrietta Fairyfield with Juliette and Constance.' She shrugged. "Just as I said, a mother with her daughters."

Matron beamed gleefully. "The artist dated his work on the reverse of the painting as 1878. You get top marks for being right about the period, but I've studied the genealogy of the Fairyfield's and at that time there were no daughters. The family was comprised of Mr Henry Fairyfield, his wife Claudia, and their two sons, Julian and Conway."

Her eyes blazed at Mrs Pardoe. "Do you begin to see? Are you getting the idea? Henry - Henrietta. Julian - Juliette. Conway - Constance." Knowing the other woman to be rather obtuse and painfully unperceptive at times she tapped the canvas with the tip of a bony finger. "This painting portrays a former generation of the male members of the Fairyfield family in 19th Century drag."

"Christ! Who...?"

"You're curious as to why they'd agreed to be depicted as women, and I think that question can be answered by another portrait." With something of a flourish the matron uncovered another painting and turned it towards her visitor. This time the subject was a full length portrait of a single figure. A tall, slim, pinned and primped matriarchal looking woman.

Determined not to be fooled a second time Margaret examined it more intently than the first, but it was certainly a woman, of that there was no doubt. She had raven hair drawn back into coiled plaits set under a wide brimmed hat, which gave her youngish face a rather severe expression. She was wearing the riding habit of the Victorian period, a full, dark coloured skirt down to her ankles revealing only the tips of polished riding boots, and a matching jacket flared over magnificent hips to give contrast to a white silk shirt and black necktie beneath. Significantly the subject had elected a stance that was imposing and authoritative, one of her gloved hands clutching a riding-crop that she appeared to be tapping against her voluminous skirt in an attitude of impatience.

"Meet Claudia, wife of Henry, a lady whom I suspect was the alpha-bitch of 1878." declared matron. "It wouldn't surprise me to find she ruled this house like a Queen-Empress in her time. Forcing her husband and male offspring to pose as females was probably done to emphasis her domination."

Fascinated by the mysterious woman from the past Margaret squinted at the portrait, this time paying more attention to the face depicted than the clothes being worn. It was a flawless oval lit by slightly uptilted eyes beneath wing-like brows and sweeping black lashes. A delicately chiselled nose added an air of distinction, but an inexplicable expression of cruel disdain spoilt what was potentially a set of handsome features. "The hard mouth, the high cheekbones and the sharp eyes - she bears a surprising familiarity. She's almost the image of Miriam."

Matron's thin lips crinkled. "I've noticed that too. I suspect some of the ladies genes have been passed down through the generations. Some of her traits too, probably. When one delves into the piles of later photographs of the family one can't help wondering if some of the girls in them were really genuine females."

Mrs Pardoe drew back and sniffed. "If all the men were queers or wimps forced into maidenhood I don't wonder the whole family's died out."

Matron seemed to lose interest in that subject and stepped along to uncover yet another canvas and pointed with a bony finger. "This is the real prize find. A 1930s likeness of some old gent done by Philip de Laszlo, the famous society portrait-painter. Laszlo's are extremely collectable y'know. It'll be worth a bundle - thousands. Tens of thousands."

Margaret glanced at the crusty gentleman depicted. "Ugly old bastard, isn't he? You'd never believe him to be worth so much just by looking at him." Her eyes suddenly took on a gleam. "Are you sure about the value?"

Matron gave a haughty stare. "I've researched Laszlo's work in great detail this past week and there's no doubt about the painting or its worth."

"And Miriam - does she know?"

"No, not yet. I wanted to be certain before I told her."

The gleam in the school teacher's eyes became a look of slyness. "Why tell her? If she's not got a clue about what's in this room, she wouldn't know if it went missing."

The other woman's face twitched nervously. "Mrs Pardoe, are you suggesting I steal it? Miriam would certainly prosecute anyone who stole from her and the last thing I need is to be dragged up before a magistrate."

"Why should she hand you over to the law if she doesn't even know she's been robbed for goodness sake?" insisted Margaret, heatedly.

A flush of temptation coloured matron's cheeks. "It would have to go to a London auction house to realise the best price, and I'm bound to be recognised by someone if I hang around somewhere like Sotheby's."

"It won't be long before the school goes into recess. I could take it down south for you then if you wish, and we could split the proceeds. Just think, you could have all the medical things you want installed here, and Miriam wouldn't have a reason to object if you paid for them yourself. And I could afford to buy all the diplomas and references I need to get a post in a real girl's school."

The scheme seemed so simple and so foolproof that even matron's cynical logic became enamoured. Several times they discussed the process by which the oil-painting could be purloined and sold, and they failed to fault it at any stage. By teatime the idea of a moment had blossomed into a full scale plan and they both went down the stairs aglow with secret excitement.

In the entrance hall they met Miss Hancock and Jennifer as they returned from their nature rambling. "Ladies, you look positively inspired." smiled Miriam.

"I've just spent some time with matron and the Fairyfield memorabilia," Mrs Pardoe explained, "It was fascinating. Quite enthralling."

"Ah yes, there's a great deal of history in that room upstairs," agreed the headmistress, "You must both join Jennifer and I for tea and tell us all about the latest discoveries."

"No sign of any antique rings I'm afraid, but there's a lot of rather nice oil-paintings." put in matron, "Some have rather indelicate subject matter, but there's plenty that wouldn't be out of place hung in the entrance hall."

Miriam smiled. "I rather like the sound of that. We'll do it. The portrait of Claudia will make a nice focal point and I'll have old Sylvester Fairyfield put on the wall behind my desk in the study."

Matron's brow creased. "Sylvester Fairyfield?"

"Yes, you've probably come across a Laszlo among the artwork, matron. That'll be Sylvester. Uncle Albert made particular mention of the old man's portrait in his will. Very valuable, so I need to keep it in a safe place."

The remark left her mouth with all the flat tones of innocence banter and she was probably unaware as she led the way in for tea that it thrust a stake through the heart of the avaricious plans so recently prepared by Margaret Pardoe and the matron.

Thunderstruck, the two women cast an uncomfortable glance at each other as they followed behind. The headmistress had just demonstrated she knew more about the contents of the room in the east-wing than she'd ever before admitted and she'd proved that it was a risky business to make assumptions about her lack of knowledge. She was a woman with eyes that could see around corners. She was always one step ahead.

"Come along everyone," urged Miriam, "Gloria tells me we have crumpets for tea."

***

The gardens at Fairyfield were by stages becoming extensive and the topiaries and tree-shaded walks were put to good use by the boarders whenever they had opportunity. But, picturesque as they were they were not to the taste of everyone, and the more adventurous would often stroll off into the coppice that skirted the boundary of the grounds. It was these wilder reaches that were in favour with Sammy when he was intent on an intimate liaison with a friend. It was to that area he led Jemima that sunny Sunday evening.

Sammy knew Jemima was well up on things of a carnal nature but he had avoided him until now. That being the case his senses were particularly active and he was eager to try out the cute flirt. He put his arm around his lean and supple midriff and studied his face. "I like your hair."

"You do?"

"Uh, huh. It suits you. I do, I really like it."

Jemima blushed at the compliment. He was in the right mood that evening, but the further they went away from the house the more uneasy he was becoming. "If we go into the woods we'll get lost." he said.

"Don't be stupid. It's not a forest," Sammy told him airily, "It's only a few beech trees, and anyway, we can't go much further. I can already see the boundary fence on the far side of them."

Through a small tangle of wildwood glinted the tall iron railings that barred further progress, and beyond them the unmade road that ran level with it for half a mile before turning south towards Peasmarsh. He halted and looked around, and Jemima shuffled at his side. Everything there hung eerily still, like the heat of the day was trapped in the heavy foliage. Not a flicker of movement, just a low buzz of insect life. Right there, alone among the beeches stood a solitary yew tree of great age, its peeling, reddish trunk as thick as a church column. "This will do for what we want." he said.

Jemima ran off around the tree, squeaking with delight as Sammy chased him and he giggled fitfully when he allowed himself to be caught. Sammy clasped him in a bear-hug from behind and softly bit his slender neck.

"No love-bites," Jemima admonished, "And don't get me down on the ground. Miss Twist will go wild if I get my clothes grubby."

Sammy wasn't fooled. Beyond that alienating sheen of innocence lay a wide band of knowledge that he found exciting. There was nothing vulnerable about Jemima, he had to remember that. He was just very good at getting his own way.




A Sissy Saga Ch. 13



Sammy turned him around and backed him up against the tree, and at last he could appreciate the delicate beauty he had with him. His hands stroked up and down his body, feeling the outline beneath the serge gymslip. Stunning was the word. Jemima was fabulous, his skin was smooth, his face round and soft and pierced by enormous almond-shaped eyes, while his lips had a slight natural pout that seemed to perpetually invite kisses. And he liked the way he smelled. 

He moved nearer. "You smell so..."

"So what?"

"Different."

"From what?"

"Other people. Everyone smells different. You're sort of like pepper. You're an effeminate lovely, and one of the prettiest people here."

If he was flattering him it didn't really matter, it was the kind of thing every panty boy loved to hear and it made Jemima melt in blushes. "Are you going to be sexy with me?"

Sammy stood, swaying slightly, admiring the erotic image in front of him, feeling a warmth rising in his body, a puissant liquid feeling shot through with flashes of desire. The almond-shaped eyes were watching him, making his skin prickle. He was feeling more aroused by the minute.

He leaned closer and could smell Jemima's breath - a bit caramelly, like toffee. He touched his lips with his wet tongue, then pushed it into his mouth. Jemima kissed him back passionately and Sammy snuggled close. No one needed seducing because their thoughts were unified. Their mouths mashed attentively - adjusting, pressing - a lip sucked in, released and sucked again - a slight clash of teeth and a dewy movement of moist mouths.

Sammy behaved like a dog looking for its dinner, sucking with an open mouth, jaw chomping mightily. He smeared his mouth sideways and licked Jemima's cheek, then filled his ears with his tongue - wet flesh as slippery as a fish. 

Reclining against the tree Jemima accepted everything stoically, eyes almost closed now, eyelids fluttering as their two fevered faces munched one with the other and exchanged a flood of warm saliva.

"Did you mean it when you said I was pretty?" gasped Jemima.

"Of course I did. You're succulently pretty. I'd like to kiss your nipples, but that silly gymslip gets in the way."

"I can pull it down if you want to get at my titties, but bedtime is best for kissing nipples."

"Yes, I know. But I'm not in the same dorm as you, am I? Gloria's always lurking about in the corridors and you know what she does if she finds someone roaming about at night." He thought for a moment. "Of course you could take your clothes off now. You could get undressed here."

Jemima twitched. "Clothes?"

"Yes."

"Undress?" his voice rose in a panic.

"Yes."

"It's nearly supper time."

"I shall have you as an hors d'oeuvre."

"Get undressed in the woods? No fear."

"Well, just your pants then. If you take off your knickers I'll take mine off too."

To show good faith he reached beneath his skirt and peeled his own underwear down over his legs. Jemima flapped his hands and his 'too-pretty-for-a boy' eyes took on a vague unfocused look when he stepped out of them. Grinning with the sinfulness of it all, Jemima slipped off his own panties. "You make me feel wicked."

Sammy felt positively confident. He felt assuaged, relaxed, feminine and bouncy as his cock rose up and stuck out at a right-angle to brush against the inside of his skirt. 

He took a step towards his friend adoring the little struggle that wasn't really a struggle when he took him in his arms. There came a predictable little 'oh' of surprise when he gently bit the side of his neck and his teeth gently pulled at the tender skin.

Undeterred by his mild exclamation his fingers stroked his hips and started to inch up his skirt, lifting it up far enough to be able to settle himself against the bottom of his bare belly. Forcing Jemima's knees apart they were soon cock-on-cock, balls together, each plump pouch flattened against the other. Slipping his arms around behind Jemima's back he cupped a peachy bum cheek in each hand and pulled him close as his pelvis gyrated. 

Jemima responded to the scrotum squashing on his own. Bad boy. Naughty sissy. Sammy's slavering erection was caressing his own stiff shaft, hormones were raging in their bodies and they were gasping and humping frantically in an erotic pseudo-fuck. Both knew they'd gone too far to quit without experiencing the best kind of thrills.

"I'm not a slut, Sammy." Jemima exclaimed shakily, "I don't usually let boys knob my bum until the second time I go with them. But I wouldn't mind if..."

A sudden noise shattered the quiet of the small glade and a voice edged with indignation cut through the trees like a scythe, instantly cooling their passion and making them tremble. It was a moment before they realised that although the voice was formidable it wasn't close enough to be directed at themselves. Nonetheless, Sammy couldn't relax until he'd discovered its source.

Scrambling away from Jemima he crept stealthily across to the nearby iron railings and peered through. "There's a car parked on the road." he said, pulling his head back.

"Who is it?" asked Jemima, coming up behind.

Sammy peeped again. "Women. Old women. One of them is talking loud and making the noise."

"What's so interesting about old women?"

"They look like they're talking about the school. The noisy one keeps pointing."

"So what?"

"Wait." Sammy interrupted, "They've seen us. They're coming this way."

"No way." Jemima cried.

"Yes they are." Sammy shrugged. "Don't panic. It's okay. We're not doing anything wrong."

"We haven't got any pants on."

"They won't know that if you don't lift your skirt."

The motor car chugged slowly along the gravel road until it came level with them, then the awful voice let itself known again. "Stop the car Mrs Tichborne. There's two of them there."

The car jerked to a halt and two elderly women clambered out and walked towards them. One was glowering, the other, with red hair and large bosom and a red face that hinted at regular association with cooking sherry, just seemed mystified. Both were decked out in long print dresses that covered everything but their shins and they looked like they were going to church.

Jemima took a pace back as they approached, but Sammy felt safe enough with a tall fence in front of him and stood his ground.

"They look fairly normal to me, Mrs Boroclough." said the puzzled lady. "Quite healthy, well presented and not at all malnourished."

The first woman snorted loud enough to frighten horses. "It doesn't matter what they look like, it's what they are that counts. This evil school should be torn down."

A third woman got out from the back seat of the car to join them. Small in stature with curious hair that looked like it had been fried. "School. Did someone say school?" she asked. 

"Yes, there's two of the resident misfits standin' over there in gymslips an' straw 'ats." the one called Mrs Tichborne told her.

"I didn't notice. Oh yes, I see them now. Pretty schoolgirls."

"I wish you'd put on yer specs Miss Moffet, you know you're as blind as a bat wi' out em. Mrs Boroclough sez the Grange should never have been a school. She sez Albert Fairyfield intended to give it to the National Trust so they could do it up and attract a bit o' tourism."

"I don't see any harm in schools." said the smaller woman faintly.

Mrs Tichborne glowered at her. "I takes in lodgers, an' you's got a tea-shop. Seems to me a few tourists around here would make a nice change to the usual fertiliser salesmen, an' it wouldn't do either of our pockets any harm. A school only benefits grocer's like old Larkin."

"I suppose you're right. But we shouldn't take out our spite on innocent schoolgirls."

Mrs Boroclough sneered, her cheeks indenting to make her mouth look like a belly-button. "Except for the fact they're not what they seem. Except for the fact they're young men dressed as girls. I believe the woman here even gives them girls names." She stormed closer to the fence and glared at Sammy. "That's true, isn't it? Admit it."

"Miss Hancock says we're not allowed to talk to strangers." replied Sammy, bravely.

The woman growled. "It doesn't matter. It's quite obvious what you are."

"They look rather adorable in their neat uniforms." put in the littlest woman, mildly.

"They are house-trained puppies languishing in a den of inequity, Miss Moffet. We must strive with all our might to ease their plight. It's not natural for young men to be cross-dressed like this. It's bound to cause gender confusion in their simple minds."

Mrs Tichborne nodded. "Of course you're right, Mrs Boroclough. But even if that's true we cant go around kidnappin' 'em. Their own people - parents, guardians or whatever - they've paid for them to be here."

The Boroclough woman's eyes narrowed. "Parents. Guardians. Huh, such decadent degenerates that put them in this place should be burnt at the stake." She glared at Sammy again. "Come here. Come closer."

He didn't move. "Miss Hancock says we mustn't let Outsiders touch us."

At that the woman tutted with exasperation. "Do you see?" she appealed to her companions, "They are utterly under the sway of that Hancock woman and being told to avoid contact with decent people. Outsiders' if you please. The gall of the witch. She's been here no longer than a blink and already it's we who are the Outsiders." She shook her head in despair. "If only Albert Fairyfield had done as he first intended and bequeathed the Grange to the National Trust, we'd be spared all this vileness and distress."

Disgruntled and unable to progress with their disapproval the three women climbed back into their car and chugged away out of sight. No sooner had they gone than another figure rose up from the bushes on the far side of the narrow road.

"This is like the town high street today." murmured Sammy.

The figure was that of a young woman, probably not yet out of her teens. She had long raven hair and wore a T-shirt and a short black skirt that offered a good show of attractive bare legs. "Ha, you two look like a pair of goofy monkeys in a zoo behind those bars." she sniggered as she approached them.

Jemima and Sammy watched her warily, unused to girls of their own age they were unsure of how to greet her. Jemima's face darkened and his bottom lip pushed out, but he said nothing, while Sammy folded his arms across his chest. "Well, we're not monkeys and we're not goofy, so there."

The girl paused in front of them and peered through the railings at them. "I was only joking. My name's Pauline, who are you?"

Sammy shifted his weight, thrusting one hip forward. Wrapping an arm across his waist and resting the opposite elbow on it, he regarded her with veiled eyes. "I'm Samantha, and this is Jemima."

"Girl's names. And girl's clothes too." Pauline considered things for a moment. "I was on my way to catch the bus at the cross-roads when those women came along. They're a ghastly bunch so I hid in the bushes. I heard what they said about all the girls at Fairyfield being really boys who wear skirts. Is that true?"

Sammy at once became defensive. "It's nothing to do with you. We don't talk to Outsiders."

"You're talking to me." the girl replied cutely.

"Yes - well, I don't think you count so much. But we're not allowed to tell you anything about the school."

"No one ever gets to talk to any of you in the village when you go there because your always being watched by one of those snappy women that come with you." Her eyes scanned up and down their bodies, studying their short skirts and slender legs. "You don't have to tell me anything. Just show me your pants, I can tell what you are by just looking at your underwear. And I'm good at keeping secrets. Honest."

Sammy puffed indignantly. "We aren't a side show at a funfair y'know."

Jemima tugged at his sleeve. "Come on, let's go before she gets us into trouble."

The girl hurriedly pushed herself up against the fence. "Wait, don't go yet. I don't mind showing myself to you. I've got nice tits, do you want to see them?" Without waiting for an answer she skimmed up her T-shirt and revealed two small round and beautifully pointed breasts, each surmounted by a somewhat puffy pink nipple. 

The two sissy boys jolted to a stop and watched as she offered them between the iron railings. Having been deprived of female companionship for most of their lives they were appalled by her shameless candour, but despite being reduced to sissified ways their brains retained enough testosterone to get their cocks responding.

Pauline glanced left and right to make sure no one else was about. "Have you ever kissed a girls tits before?" she asked.

Astounded, Sammy shook his head while Jemima remained silent, not thinking it proper to mention how his mother sometimes asked him to suck her nipples whilst she fingered herself, or sometimes asked him to do it while she was being fucked by her boyfriends.

"This is your chance." invited Pauline, "Come and have a guzzle on mine."

Suddenly hot with excitement the two pantywaists stepped forward and plunged against her soft, milky-white bosom, each to draw a delectable tender teat into his mouths and then crouch side by side as they suckled like babies demanding sustenance.

Oddly they both hung back from touching her with their hands. Pauline wouldn't have objected to them reaching up her skirt and fingering her pussy, but the idea didn't seem to cross their minds. She didn't encourage them, she was happy just to allow them to suck for a while before she drew away.

"You both enjoyed that, didn't you? But now it's my turn to see what you've got."

Sammy prevaricated again but Jemima had become enthralled by the naughty game and in one quick movement he raised the front of his gymslip to reveal his lack of an under garment.

The girls eyes glimmered. His prick was thrusting out stiff and was a pretty sight, long and slim with a delightfully pale foreskin that opened slightly at the tip to show a hint of pink meat. His balls were nice too. Plump and full, giving him a delicious air of cuteness.

Determined not to be perceived as a prissy miss, Sammy used both his hands to raise his own skirt. "Mine's bigger than Jemima's" he declared rather proudly. It certainly was, and it was equally as stiff. Uncircumcised, the soft skin was drawn back to exhibit a purplish knob with a slit already gaping open. His testicles were also larger than his friends and had a commendable hang to them.

Pauline smile triumphantly. "So Mrs Boroclough was right, you really are male. Have you always had girls names?"

"Course not," chaffed Sammy, "But we have to do as we're told here and boys names aren't allowed."

"I suppose that's only right. If you dress like schoolgirl's you should have schoolgirl names. The girl studied them for a moment and her smile broadened. "You're both very naughty, but your pricks look very nice when they're stiff. They look like they have a bone in them. Do you play with them a lot? Do you enjoy wanking?"

The sissies looked at each other and their faces became pink, which only seemed to encourage Pauline to be more outrageous. "You're shy, but I think you play with yourselves all the time, and I can tell you both need a good wank right now. Would you like me to toss you off? If you shove your pricks through the railings I'll do it for each of you, both at the same time."

Jemima glanced at Sammy for some guidance. "We're not allowed to let her wank us, are we?"

Sammy shrugged. "If we don't tell anyone, no one will know."

Temptation had its way. Gingerly they each pushed forward and slotted their extended maleness between the iron uprights. Almost as cute as their erections was the adorable expressions on their faces as the girl took a cock in each hand, grasped them and went to work. If they were naïve of girls she was by no means ignorant of boys, nor of how to handle them.

Side by side they stood groaning, gasping helplessly , their mouths hung open, their eyes rounding in fascination as they watched her nimble fingers run slowly along their taut, straining stems, then suddenly tighten and begin to rub back and forth with slow squeezing strokes.

"That's nice," Pauline said, feeling delight at feeling the swing of their balls between their legs. The movements of her hand quickened, slicking the foreskins back to enable the reddish tips to pop into view. "Does it feel sexy for you, Jemima?" She glanced at Sammy. "Which of you is going to cum first?"

Neither Jemima or Sammy had control of anything by then, but as pleasure pulsed along the length of their cocks the girl's question abruptly received an answer. Jemima winced as if in pain and his penis suddenly jerked and twitched between her fingers then went off like an oil derrick blowing a gusher. He hung tight to the railings, panting and moaning like he was away in some other creation.

"There we are. There's a good sexy girl-thing." Pauline grinned as if praising an infant.

"Do me now. Finish me off." urged Sammy frantically.

The girl turned to give him her complete attention, anticipating from the hang of his ball sack that he had a great deal of girly-goo to offer. Gripping his penis between thumb and forefinger she tugged the slack sheath and wrinkled it rapidly back and forth over his gland.

Sammy clenched his teeth, his breath hissing softly as he fought to contain the pleasure she was providing. He wasn't having an orgasm yet, but the tip of his cock had started leaking sticky fluid, so the girl knew he wasn't far off.

"Bet you're a good spunker, aren't you Sammy?" she said, then she became inspired by a sudden sexy idea. "Let me watch Jemima milk you with his mouth." She glanced at the other girly. "You've sucked cock before , haven't you?"

Stupefied by events Jemima nodded dumbly, and just as speechless Sammy allowed himself to be manoeuvred into position. "Go down in front of him." Pauline told Jemima, glowing with the power of her persuasion when he obeyed without making a protest.

Sammy's mind was spinning with illicit pleasure, and the girl found it a simple matter to guide his penis between Jemima's obliging lips. Immediately his mouth engulfed the thrusting length and he began to nod his head back and forth.

Excited beyond measure by the wickedness she'd instigated the girl crouched down to reach between the railings, and holding the back of Jemima's head in one hand while palming Sammy's bare bottom with the other she played them both in and out like a concertina.

Sammy's judgement had disintegrated and his knees felt weak as he slid his sensitive stiff flesh rapidly back and forth in a joust with the warm slimness of Jemima's lips. Inevitably there came a soft gasp of delight, his hips bucked and a low, guttural moan hissed out between his clenched teeth. His body convulsed and his pelvis pushed his suddenly spasming cock hard forward, and Pauline knew he was pumping wads of hot, sticky ball juice onto his companions tongue.

Thrilled to see Jemima wasn't pulling away, she squeaked gleefully. "Wow, he swallows. Such a lovely girly-girl, and so good at it."

***

On Monday morning Miriam Hancock stood in the back doorway of the west-wing in her dressing gown, a cup of tea in her hand, watching the early sun burn away the mist which pearled the moorland. It had the promise of another beautiful day and it seemed as if nothing could spoil it, and since her school was now established she felt no need any longer to dash about greeting every new boarder in person.

The past year spent at Fairyfield had been idyllic for her, and sometimes walking upstairs with her fingers trailing along the silkwood banisters she'd become aware of an inexplicable affinity with the house, it was as if she knew it more intimately than her time there could allow. Sometimes the shadows on the walls leapt out at her like the ghosts of unbidden memories.




A Sissy Saga Ch. 13



Yes, she seemed to remember strange things, it was as if she'd lived there in the past. In such moments of deja-vu she felt rich carpet beneath her feet rather than fibre matting, she smelt buffed beeswax polish and had tantalising visions of guilt-framed oil paintings on the walls. All these things were short lived illusions brought on by tiredness maybe, but she was descended from the Fairyfields, and perhaps traits were not the only things passed on by genetics, she thought. Perhaps memories could be passed on too.

After a year her garden was beginning to take shape. She'd got rid of the dour shrubbery of laurels and skimmias and she'd had curves cut into the edge of the lawns to provide a softer, less regimented view. In her minds eye she was applauding the result. She could now take pleasure in her garden.

While sipping tea and nibbling toast and lime marmalade she thought it looked particularly good at that moment with the green lawns and paddocks rising gently up to merge with the grey, purple, yellow, all colours of the fells behind the house. Next year she would have some of the self-sown trees grubbed out and she'd have a pagoda built to create gateways at either end of the garden, with roses and clematis trailing over. And more would be made of the rhododendrons and azaleas. Perhaps a floral avenue.

Lately the persistent hot weather had caused her to review the daywear of her girls and serge gymslips had been stored away to await more inclement times or a trip to the village. They now wore their white blouses with the Peter Pan collar as an adjunct to a short, pleated netball skirt, and as a result of matron's suggestion the small halter-tops that usually covered their chests beneath the blouses had been replaced by training bras. Although the bras were less than 'A' size few of them had much to put into such a garment, but matron was adamant that the psychological affect of wearing them would pay dividends. Having each breast enclosed and snuggled by such an item was sure to make them feel more sissified, she insisted, and it could even encourage the more rapid development of girlish bosoms.

The phone tinkled and she tutted with annoyance at being disturbed on such a serene morning, but on answering it she was to find it carried a message to devastate her confidence and challenge her very right to be in residence at Fairyfield Grange.

The voice of Mr Sugar of Tate, Lyle and Sugar her solicitors, croaked on the other end of the line. It was a sign of foreboding when he rang out of office hours and a signal of doom if he called at breakfast time.

"Sorry to intrude so early in the day Miss Hancock, but I was just going through some mail I'd no time for yesterday, and I'm in receipt of some rather alarming news. We're both acquainted with the fact that Albert Fairyfield's last will and testament named the National Trust as his sole beneficiary and that your own legal claim came by way of a later codicil..."

"There's nothing wrong with that. It was all legally done and above board, wasn't it? It was written in his own hand and witnessed properly."

"Yes yes, but The Trust has decided to contest things. Their contention is that the text of the codicil made no mention of amending the original will, and technically such an omission can make your own claim null and void."

"You're telling me that Albert Fairyfield's dying wishes are worthless. Is that what you're saying?"

"Er, technically they may be."

"That's flimflam. It's legalistic nitpicking."

"Quite so, I agree, but nevertheless there is precedence for this kind of thing, and I fear the Trust intend pushing the matter further. It's not easy to challenge a legitimate will Miss Hancock unless..."

"Legitimate!" Miriam interrupted and gave one of her special laughs, "My dear Mr Sugar, nothing about Uncle Albert was legitimate, I doubt even his birth was that."

"I was about to say," the solicitor continued with just a touch of irritation, "Unless one can prove there were 'unacceptable motivations,' for which I'm afraid there is no evidence in this case, the codicil may not stand up to scrutiny. Unless it can be shown Albert Fairyfield was not of sound mind when he made his original bequest to the Trust we're likely to have a hard fight on our hands."

Miriam let out another hoot of ridicule. "Of sound mind! My uncle? You must be joking. He was as nutty as a fruit cake, the old bastard."

She heard the solicitor cough. "There would have to be independent witness's prepared to testify about his mental state Miss Hancock. Doctor's perhaps. The family lawyer. The vicar."

The thought of asking Arkwright or shaky Parson Roper to stand firm by her side in such a struggle brought a snort of derision from Miriam. "The god's are not on my side are they? The only sound thing about my uncle was the performance of his dick, but no witness's will testify to that. Look, can you forecast an outcome?"

"It's far from cut and dried of course, but I feel the money and influence an institution such as the National Trust can employ will be a deciding factor."

"They'll win?" She pressed the telephone closer to her ear as if better to hear his voice, concentrating, straining and attentive.

Sugar cleared his throat. "We could save something. They'll need someone to take care of Fairyfield Grange, and who better than a descendant of the family who built it. We could press for you to retain tenancy at a reasonable rental, although the school would certainly have to go if they decided to open the house to the public."

Words and phrases jangled in Miriam Hancock's head like a knell of bells. TENANCY! TOURISTS! NO SCHOOL! "What you're advocating is that I should settle for being a janitor Mr Sugar, and I won't accept that. Get out your law books, sharpen your pencils and get your brain into gear. I don't want to hear any more mention of surrender in this matter. Expense is not and issue. If money is required to fight this claim, I'll find it."

She was pale as she replaced the phone. Something had jumped upon her that was beyond her control and for the first time in ages she felt utterly helpless and vulnerable. Her whole future now appeared to lay in the hands of lawyers, and she knew how unscrupulous they could be.

Sugar's news had shaken her. There had been an underlying tone of defeat in his manner and a willingness to settle for the inevitable. She needed a good set of lawyer's, she needed the best in the land, but the coffers in her little treasury were empty and all her reluctant benefactors had been wrung dry. Even if Open Day gained her more sponsorship she wouldn't have the benefit of it until the next school term, and by then it would be too late. She could see her greatest dream crumbling, her great love-story with gentility falling apart.

It seemed so unfair. For the last six months of Albert Fairyfield's life she'd given him unremitting attention in order to gain his favour. For months prior to him tempting fate to do him in with a concrete flamingo she had travelled sixty miles every Sunday to visit him in that dreadful retired peoples residential home that had taken him. All those sad old men sitting around the television smoking and shuffling down corridors. She'd employed every wile she possessed to get the cantankerous old man to bequeath Fairyfield Grange to herself, his only remaining relative. Each time she visited she would put on a pretence of geniality and toss the randy old sod off in his grotty little room. 

Other women she knew had their lives mapped out by the age of twenty, but she had allowed her fortunes to ebb and flow with the tide. She possessed little of value herself. She was thirty-five with nothing to show but a failed marriage, and there was a sense of shame in such lack of achievement. Fairyfield Grange had given her a point of focus. The ownership of a grand house had provided the impetus to be grand herself, and it had produced a strange feeling too. She felt empathy with the bricks and mortar that linked her with the people who had lived there in the past. It gave her a place among them.

Fuck, fuck, fuckerty fuck. She was still learning that just when you thought everything was perfect, life could turn round and bite you. But they couldn't take the Grange away from her. She was the éclat of its dingy rooms and winding corridors. They belonged together. It was her home and no one could take away her home. It was grey and austere and its style was too assertive to be handsome, but it was her Mansfield Park, her Tara. IT WAS HER HOUSE.

She wiped her face with the back of her hand. Must take it easy. Everything will be fine, she decided. Yes, she would remain calm, mature, serene, tranquil, sophisticated, but most of all calm.

A few minutes later she took a trip to the toilet where her insides imploded.



A Sissy Saga Ch. 14



Miriam Hancock rarely absented herself from Fairyfield during term-time, but the need for extra finance to fight off the threat of the National Trust meant her having to take time off to cajole, threaten or physiologically squeeze her donors. Alec Grimshaw was a case in point, he had not contributed for quite some time and to see him she had to travel to York.

During the drive south she took the opportunity to appreciate the countryside and view the bloom of the Yorkshire moors in all their Byronic summer glory. Her eyes constantly strayed over the towering flanks of the fells as if seeing them for the first time, gazing up at the high tops and the patterns of walled green fields won from the yellow moor land grass. 

That summer was turning into a scorcher, the grass was parched. Weeks of unremitting heat seemed to have drawn every last drop of moisture from the soil, but weather, no matter its type, always dramatised the rolling landscape. She'd calculated a two hour drive to reach the county town, and as a break to boredom she'd decided to visit a potential client on the way. A stop-off would not only be refreshing it could also provide some income in the future, so it seemed sensible to kill two birds with one stone.

The hamlet of Codswallop was just a few old grey stone houses of one or two storeys nestling together under tired and sagging grey slate roofs, and she swung her car at a fork in the road to head between them. On the other side she dipped her foot on the brakes just before a humpbacked bridge to ask a farm labourer for the location of Sitt Garth.

The house she sought squatted on the west side of the village where a shady lane lined with gorse and briars snaked up the side of the dale. It had whitewashed walls covered with climbing ivy and clematis, a thatched roof, and a trendy brightly painted cartwheel leaning nostalgically against its gables.

Pulling to the side of the road she climbed out. The sky was a piercing blue arc above, unblemished by cloud, the golden sun a perfect sphere, and on that balmy summer morning nothing stirred. Not a blade of grass or a leaf moved; the only sounds being the faint buzzing of bees hovering about clumps of willowherb embedded in a crumbling brick wall.

A moderately attractive woman in flat shoes greeted her at the gate of a small front garden. She was holding a watering-can, but was clearly expecting a visitor. "Miss Hancock?" Miriam smiled, and the woman smiled back. "I'm Mrs Pumphrey. We spoke on the phone. I'm so pleased you decided come in person. Come around the back of the house, it's shady there and I have some Pimms on ice."

Miriam followed behind her into the sanctum of a small, cool garden surround by high brick walls. The garden was remarkably well-tended - lawn, koi pond, waterfall and a massive clump of honeysuckle. The rear of the house was lime-washed and enhanced by earthenware tubs spilling out lemon-scented ivy leafed geraniums. There a small table and some basket chairs were set out on the flags of a modest sized patio.

A face peeped out through a small window, hair set in banana tresses and the epitome of the girl just home from school, but from the previous telephone conversation she'd had Miriam knew that the girl was in fact Mrs Pumphrey's son.

"Is that Freddy?" she asked.

"I call him Felicity when he's being a girl." Mrs Pumphrey replied, then turning to the face in the window she called softly. "Do hurry up, Felicity; Miss Hancock is impatient to meet you. Put on your loveliest girly things and come out here or Mr Strappy will have to make a visit."

The face disappeared and the woman offered a slight sigh, "I've always been very supportive of Felicity's sissiness. I've shown him how to wear make-up and polish his nails, and even taught him to walk in high heels. But now that he's attained maturity it has become more and more difficult for the sweet boy to hide his true nature. Worse, he's beginning to experience funny feelings. Sex feelings. Feelings that makes his popsy stiff and drippy when he's in the company of certain men. My intention is to invite a local gentleman to come and lodge with me at Sitt Garth, but I fear problems arising from the arrangement unless I find a suitable place for Felicity.Fairyfield Grange has been recommended to me by a number of ladies of my acquaintance."

Miriam smiled warmly. "It's flattering to find my school so widely known and well thought of, and of course I'll help you in any way I can."

"I shall miss him of course," continued the woman thoughtfully, "But he can't stay with me forever, can he? Every sissy-fag must break his mummy's heart and her apron strings at some time."

Miriam leaned back in her chair and studied the woman for a moment. Her clothes were well cut and expensive, if unimaginative and worn without flair, and there was a volume of poetry at her elbow, so she was clearly quite cultured. Was she an out-at-elbows heiress or an authoress who found inspiration in the loneliness of the moors?

"Sitt Garth is an unusual name for a house, even when one understands that garth is the Yorkshire term for a field." she said.

"It means 'field of the River Sitt," the woman smiled wryly in return, "Unfortunately there's never been much of a river since the larn at Skeriton was turned into a reservoir, but one shouldn't be too selfish or sour. There always seems to be a shortage of water in Yorkshire when there's a good summer, so the sacrifice serves a purpose."

The koi pond shimmered like pewter as they watched the golden shapes moving beneath the surface. For a while they chatted amiably whilst sipping Pimm's and chilled lemonade, but it was a delay longer that Miriam had anticipated and she began to feel restless. At last the crisp trip-trapping of high-heeled shoes on the patio tiles announced the arrival of Felicity, and if he had been sweet looking peeping through the window, he was gorgeous now. 

A doll-like creature, lipsticked, beribboned, perfumed and pantied and as glamorous as any chorus-girl at the Folies Bergere as he minced slowly before them, one hand on his hip and the other held out in a limp swish. Even from several feet away she could detect his delicious perfume, an undeniable feminine scent. Miriam had viewed enough sissies to gauge a good specimen when she saw one, and this one was exemplary. His expression was three parts innocent angel and one part tantalising streetwalker - the combination that through the ages had driven men insane with desire. 

She at once saw the problem that Mrs Phumphrey was facing. Even the most honourable man around the house would find an eighteen year-old wiggling his pretty bottom at them a constant temptation, especially as Felicity appeared to enjoy being as loose as a goose whilst wearing tiny skirts and spiky high-heels. Without such paraphernalia he would still be naturally attractive, but with it he was a world-class cock stiffener.

As the sweet girlish creature passed in front of her she assessed him more closely. Felicity was now a slinky, slim-hipped seductress with silky, black seamless hose on his legs and strappy shoes with four-inch pencil heels on his feet, and he'd also adorned himself with a lacy garter belt and a tiny camisole that only reached the top of his pubic region. His face was heavily made-up, feminine lips as red as a fire-engine, huge eyes artfully emphasised by black eyeliner and lavender eye-shadow, and thick heavy lashes.

At the end of the patio he turned and made a second pass. His nearness was a dream. She could hear the rustle of his clothes as he moved and the hiss of his nylons skimming together. "The transformation is quite remarkable." she remarked.

"Isn't it, isn't it!" Mrs Pumphrey gave a radiant smile, then clapped her hands. "Take off your panties Felicity."

Her sissy son blushed with the shades of a summer sunset, pale pink skin and raspberry cheeks, and hair the colour of vanilla wafer. He was someone who would sizzle but never tan. "Oh, mummy. The lady - she'll see - everything."

"That's the intention," his mother insisted, "We mustn't hide anything from Miss Hancock. Show her what a lovely sissy you really are."

The sweet princess looked uncomfortable, almost distraught at having to remove his skimpy pants, but down over his nylon clad thighs they went anyway, allowing Miriam to view his goodies, perfect, pink and not at all distracting from his girlishness. A lovely broad cock draped prettily over a pink wrinkled bag that was the home for a pair of fat grapes.

When his eyes met those of Miss Hancock, he noticed that she was looking at him in a curiously provocative way. Her lips were slightly parted and the tip of her tongue played within the shadows. When she saw he was looking at her, she let her eyes roam up and down his body. Felicity didn't seem to know how to respond to the visitor's blatantly lewd inspection. Several times her eyes travelled up and down. After the first traverse he thought he could have been overreacting, but after the third time he knew her behaviour was deliberate. 

Quite suddenly things took an unexpected turn. The sissy paused. Thighs pressed together as an expression of dismay clouded his matchless complexion, then the hem of his scanty camisole became displaced as his naughty sissy-stick suddenly reared up, swollen and erect, bouncing slightly as he moved and swaying from side to side like a stiff-necked viper. With its peelips parted and leaking dribbles of tasty looking goo there was little doubt of a certain outcome.

Felicity's hips writhed and a small white gloved hand flew to his mouth as he grimaced with embarrassment. "Oh mummy, I..." The unexpected exhibition was far from complete, for Felicity's unbidden tent-pole began to shudder of its own volition, and with a desperate whimper he wiggled his fingers around it in a vicelike grip and started pumping his fist frantically, knees locked together, legs bending and straightening as he milked out his joy.

"Oooggghhh mummy - mumeeee! OoOOOOoooggghh, aaaAAAaaahhh!" There was nothing to be done. The creampuff's excitement was boiling over and the movements of his hand became unstoppable. He then uttered the sweetest scream as his sissy spermstorm erupted and laces of white juice flew around his hand, spluttering and swirling like lariats of cream.

"Dear me." exclaimed Mrs Pumphrey, just as if she'd just spilt tea into a saucer, "This always seems to happen when I ask him to show himself to strangers. I really must remember to insist the shameless girl keeps her panties on in the future."

Pretty Felicity continued humping with his own hand for several seconds before he felt able to stop, but Miss Hancock refused to be shocked. She'd seen such things too many times for that, and it was typical that she never yielded to an unseemly display of emotion. That would have been undignified, and dignity was an unchanging part of her.

Mrs Pumphrey responded by lightly smacking Felicity's saucy little bottom. "Oh really, sweetheart, you're incorrigible. Go and tidy yourself up at once, you naughty girl." She turned to Miriam showing an expression of slight concern. "That wasn't supposed to happen. I do hope such a little accident won't be an impediment to him attending Fairyfield Grange. They are quite rare."

Miriam suspected they happened quite a lot, but she made no comment about it. "Is Felicity acquainted with punishment?"

The woman nodded. "Nothing too harsh, but I find a mild spanking often works wonders with him. He becomes quite frisky and very amenable to wicked suggestions, and Felicity is very good at being a bad girl."

"I do have vacancies at Fairyfield, Miriam told her, "but the dear seems perfectly trained, and I feel I'd be stealing the money from your purse if I took him on. Have you ever considered placing her directly into a good private household? The world is full of sharks and charlatans of course so one has to be careful, but I'm in touch with two very respectable retired schoolmistress's who live together in Cheltenham and who are seeking a saucy little princess just such as her. They're both rather strict disciplinarians and rather quick with the slipper, but I rather think they'd be quite thrilled to witness Felicity's, um - little accidents. The other ladies and gentlemen they invite to their home are all rather old, but they're all wealthy have the most refined manners."

An excellent piece of business, thought Miriam Hancock as she drove down the road a little later to continue her journey. Mrs Pumphrey was enamoured by the prospect of receiving two or three hundred pounds for the placement of her sissy son instead of parting with fees for a term at Fairyfield. It was utterly out of character for Miriam to undermine her own business, but there were one or two things to bear in mind. The first was that she would undoubtedly gain a reputation for fair-mindedness that would travel far and wide in useful social circles.

And the second thing and not the least was, she was sure she could squeeze a thousand pounds out of the elderly ladies in Cheltenham for providing a sexy sissy such as Felicity. And since the whole arrangement had been left in her hands Mrs Pumphrey would never need to know that.

Before too long, and almost without her realising it, the majestic sweep of the road took her over the crest of a hillside, and soon afterwards she had a heart-lifting glimpse of the great wide plain of York and the distant rim of high moor land beyond.

***

Knowing she would have to stay overnight she took a room at a hotel in the centre of the city. Across the street was a chintzy Nuevo Caffe snack bar. She went in and ordered coffee. A large one. She was in no hurry now. She looked numbly at the crowds, at the queues for the tills. Feet scrapped all around her on the hard floor. Voices. What a difference to the countryside. How lucky she was she thought. How lovely it was not to be a part of the rat-race. To be able to wake up with the morning sun in her eyes, winter or summer. Woodcocks. Pheasants. Apples and plums. The song of the skylark and the harsh chack-chack of a merlin falcon. 

As if on cue, a Louis Armstrong song began to play. Maybe it was only inside her head, but it didn't matter. She heard it. Her favourite tune. Her mantra. 'We Have All The Time In The World.' she hummed it as she collected up her latte, picked up two biscotti, paid for them and carried them over to a window seat where she settled down to study the people around her. A young couple with eyes for no one else; a solitary old woman with wire wool hair studying a street map; a middle-aged man ostentatiously holding the hand of a much younger one.

Someone slotted coins into one of those machines that dispensed into disposable cups for the in-a-hurry takeaway crowd. The machine burped and spat out brown liquid with the gurgle of a diarrhoeic creature of the night; there was a sharp clunk and the machine fell silent.

She sipped her coffee and placed her cup on the formica surface of a table top that shone like ice, then her eyes widened. On the table next to her own sat Angela Magoogle, a woman she'd not seen since Harrogate. And she hadn't changed. Her dresses tended to run to colours better suited to Easter eggs than a grown woman of thirty-nine. 

Angela was wagging her finger and berating a weeping young woman seated opposite to her. At least she thought it was a young woman until experience kicked in, and then she realised it was an effeminately dressed young man. He could easily have fooled other people. He was luscious. A quailing fairy princess with the complexion of a sun-flushed peach. He was wearing a ruffled pale pink blouse and a little red rah-rah skirt that barely covered his stocking tops. Yes, definitely lacetop stockings and a G-string, she decided. On the back of his head was a broad-rimmed, flower-decked hat, a smart affair of wheat-coloured straw augmented with a pink rose and a ribbon.

"This is a surprise, Angela." she remarked. 

Miss Magoogle gazed at her, her narrow eyes suddenly shrewd and sharp and sending an unmistakable message. Wordlessly she was informing her that the emasculated sparrow-like thing accompanying her was her pet. The hard stare softened as recognition locked in. "Miriam, it's been ages."

They had first met long ago when doing a Social Services course in London. In those days Angela had been a naïve young lady from the provinces who thought Belgravia was a foreign country, and on being invited to share Miriam's bed had enquired, 'Who exactly is Connie Lingus.'

Angela had been a fast learner though and there was no naivety about her now. They observed each other in the indefinable way people do when they recognise each other as sisters under the skin and can trust each other. The girly-thing distracted them both, sobbing over a glass of orange juice and pausing once in a while to dab his eyes with a tiny damp ball of lace-edge hanky.

"I expect you're puzzled about Jubilee." she said briskly whilst giving her younger companion a severe glance. "Say howdy-doody to my friend." she insisted, and the wimpish thing choked out a very polite "I'm very pleased to meet you, miss."

"Cease your snuffling," Angela snapped, "I've had quite enough of your nonsense today, young lady." With a look of distain she scooped the froth from her coffee and dumped it into the saucer. "Steamed milk. Out of ten I give this three."

Miriam smiled sympathy. "The search for the perfect cappuccino goes on."

Her eyes drifted. Jubilee was absolutely stunning, green-grey eyes wet with tears stared with wide-eyed innocence from a blemishless face. A retrousse nose enhanced his appearance, as did milky skin that was made to seem ever milkier by his sleek black hair, faultless with not a strand out of place. His figure was pure delight - the ideal girl pre-shrunk by forty percent in everything - full of freshness and offering the kind of unconventional sexuality men could only dream about. Cringing and pathetic he may be, and he looked like he could never lift anything heavier than a lipstick, but he was still the dishiest cuddlebunch she'd seen in ages.

"A dear thing such as you have here must require some care. He must be constantly besieged by admirers."

Angela nodded. "He came to me as a houseboy six months ago and stayed to become something quite different," she explained, "I still have some links with the Probation Service. I'm valued as someone who can prevent young people getting into trouble with the law. I've a studio-room at home where I quell arrogance and antisocial behaviour. Nothing special. Just a place where misconduct can be rectified by a little mild torture."

Her glance at Jubilee was sharp enough to make the sweet young treasure quiver, but she retained a smile of charm for Miriam. "I tie them to the furniture and refuse to let them go until they submit to wearing lipstick and a frock. Just like you I'm out of Social Services now, but my hobby keeps me fully occupied. You'll know what I mean. One doesn't need to be Einstein to know that you'll still have some interest in such things."

"Jubilee seems rather upset." Miriam remarked.

Angela offered a tight smile. "Crocodile tears searching for sympathy. We came into town for a few hours of inspiring culture, but the silly girl as ruined it. I blame myself. I've rather spoilt her." she indicated the front of the effeminates blouse where a pair of pert bumps pushed out the material. "I gave her a pair of little breasts for her birthday, and now the little tramp can't stop shaking them at every man she meets"

She leaned aggressively across the table and gave her youthful companion a thunderous look. "Just wait until I get you home, you shameless hussy. I'm going to put a wooden spoon to the back of your legs, and then you'll stand in the corner for an hour."




A Sissy Saga Ch. 14



The stern rebuked caused the testosterone-free princess to utter a sorrowful 'oh' and bust into a renewed bout of fitful tears. He dropped his little handkerchief and on impulse Miriam reached down to retrieve it, taking the opportunity to study the exposed legs pressed together beneath the table and breath in the fragrance of floral opiate that emanated from them. He was wearing strappy red shoes with very tall heels and a slender diamante strap encircled his shapely left ankle.

"There you are sweet thing." she said, offering the hanky back to him. He looked at her. A sheepish smile and a flash of teeth, whiter than polished ivory, eyelashes fluttering demurely on damp cheeks. "Thank you, Miss." he said in a faint voice.

Angela and Jubilee rose up from their chairs to depart. She noticed that Angela had fastened a silken jess and tether to his wrist, the kind of thing people used to control a captive bird or prevent an independent-minded infant from wandering off. The restriction didn't prevent the sissy performing a subtle gyration with his hips that betrayed the overpowering sense of femininity that had been installed in his mind.

She left the snack-bar soon afterwards, dodging the crowds while looking for her car. Other cars trickled past, an endless procession of acrid fumes and painted steel surging and halting to beat the traffic lights. Thank goodness for Fairyfield, she thought. There was serenity in the dales. The high fells enclosed everything in their shadows and barred the noise of traffic, aircraft and emergency sirens that were all so much of life in a city. 

She came upon Angela installing Jubilee into the back of a taxi. The woman turned and paused as she tugged on a pair of velvet gloves. "Can I give you a lift anywhere?"

She shook her head. "My car's just across the street." She ducked her head into the back of the cab to wish a cheery-bye to Jubilee, and when the pantywaist saw her he squeaked and clapped a hand to his mouth. She could see why. A vent in the front of his tiny skirt allowed his teenage cock to rise up unimpaired, and it was very stiff and drippy.

Angela's good humour didn't falter. There was a twinkle of repressed mirth in her eyes as she smoothed down her gloves and clenched her fingers speculatively. "Jubilee can be tiresome, but I should be able to do something for him before we arrive home. I own him, but I've no objection to my friends sharing his charms. Are you sure you wouldn't like a lift somewhere?"

Miriam thought briefly about holding the sweetly perfumed she-boy in her arms, then shook her head. "I must get on. I've other things to do."

The other woman nodded. "Shame. But come and see me when you have more time. I'll give you my card."

She glanced at the business card she had been given as she climbed into her own car. It depicted a lurid sketch of a seductive oriental looking girl, a phone number and address, with the printed words 'Transvestites and Pre-op Transsexuals, by the hour or for the weekend.'

***

It was a chore to find Alec Grimshaw's home that day but she managed it. It was a newly built villa well away from the urban sprawl of the city, and its Spanish style looked somewhat incongruous tucked into the dales. But it was typical of Alec Grimshaw to own such a place. He was a self-made man; a cut-throat wheeler-dealer and a County Councillor who enjoyed displays of outrageous opulence.

From behind a huge wrought-iron gate a drive of custard-coloured brick wriggled towards the house between rampant leyandii hedges. The place seemed deserted. And up close it was ugly. Miriam parked her car at the side of the gate, then went and knocked at the door. No one answered, and for a moment she had the horrible notion that after travelling so far she was about to find no one in residence. 

However, when she walked around the building and into the rear garden she found Alec admiring some rose bushes. 

He wasn't pleased to see her, one of his eyelids closed part way, until his eye looked like a whelk seeking the safety of its shell. "Miriam. Whatthefuck are you doing here?" He was a thickset man as big as a helicopter with a fat face and broad neck, and his apparent indignation did nothing to lighten the permanent flush of his complexion. He was equipped with a light grey sports jacket monochromatically blended to darker grey pants, a black shirt and a black and white floral tie. Save for a deep tan he looked like a gangster image from 1960s TV.

"Like a bad penny I always turn up, don't I Alec?" quipped Miriam. Her eyes scanned the expanse of well maintained lawns and flower-beds that swung down to the edge of a small lake at the bottom of the vast garden. "The hybrids are lovely" she remarked, gazing at the rose bushes.

"I grew 'em myself. I've called 'em Annabelle."

"Such touching sentiment. Annabelle is a lucky girl to have you."

"I asked yer why your here. What do you want?"

Miriam refused to be harassed by his bluster. "You avoid my phone calls and never reply to my letters, and you never told me you'd changed your address. I had to turn detective to find you today. How is Annabelle? And your boy - Theodore, isn't it? Such a good Yorkshire name. How is he?"

"Cut out the small-talk." The man snapped irritably, "Annabelle's collecting Theo from the town where he's studying interior design, an' I don't want you here when they get back. You could have saved yerself the bother of findin' me. You've already had all the money I'm willin' to give you."

He had always been a crabby man with a voice like a saw, but his bluster had never had any effect on Miriam Hancock. "Goodness me. Every time you see me you think I want money."

"Well, you do, don't you?" He glared angrily at her.

Miriam pulled a face, mimicking the expression of a sulky child. "You of all people know how expensive it is starting up in business, Alec. I won't see any profits from sales until the end of the year, and in the meantime I'm suffering from a small deficit to my budget. What would helping out mean to you? Only two holidays abroad this year instead of three? Not being so generous with drinks at the golf club?"

A harsh curl formed on Alec Grimshaw's mouth. "You've had all the cash you're going to get from me, woman. I've given you plenty in the past, but now I'm putting a stop to it. I may be a successful man, but I don't own a gold mine, an' you're a bottomless pit where cash is concerned."

Other people would have accepted that as the final word from him, for only fools were not reluctant to test their mettle against Alec Grimshaw. He was known to be ruthless. He was the kind of man who'd step on people's faces to get something he wanted, but none of that made any impression with Miriam Hancock. She knew him better than most. Knew his secrets and his weaknesses. She knew enough to wrap him around her finger.

Despite the man's hostile invective she maintained a bland expression. "I read in the Yorkshire Post that you've set your sights higher than the County Council and want to try real politics, Alec. But if you're intending to put yourself forward as a candidate in the next parliamentary by-election it wouldn't do you any good for people to hear about your little expeditions to Harrogate."

She struck a pensive pose with a finger on her chin. "Let me see now; there was Elsie, such a dishy girl, and the month afterwards, the lovely Clara. Then there was Rebecca - goodness me, she was so young - and you followed her with the twins. You were particularly fond of the twins. And gosh, yes. There were boys too..."

"A'right, a'right," Alec Grimshaw snarled, "I knows yer kept a record o' things, but you'd only incriminate yerself if any of it got out. Go try yer bloody blackmail elsewhere Miriam Hancock, 'cos I won't have it."

Miriam calmly linked her arms over her chest. "I won't need to declare anything, Alec. You'll recall I was once the wife of an MP and I know how things work. A few juicy rumours properly put about will spoil things for you nicely. Committees charged with the selection of parliamentary candidates are very sensitive to the slightest whiff of scandal, and a whisper of you being partial to stuffing you fat cock into rented young people would give them apoplexy. And of course you'd not dare try to disprove any of it in case you disturbed the truth."

The man's face flamed red. "Damn you, Hancock. You always know how to stick the boot in, don't yer? How much do you need this time?"

"Five - erm - ten thousand I'm afraid. The deficit in my budget is quite large actually."

Alec's face progressed from scarlet-pink to dark purple, and Miriam's eyes were inexorably drawn to the throbbing vein in his forehead, as if a worm were burrowing away under the skin. "Ten thousand! Fucks sake! Are you serious?"

"Yes, I'm sorry it's such a lot but I can't manage with less. Look, I promise not to come bothering you again. At least not for another year."

He gave her a wild stare. "A bloke could 'ave you murdered for a fraction o' that price."

"Quite so. But if I die in suspicious circumstances one would find the journals I wrote in Harrogate would go directly to the police. And they'd discover them to be extremely explicit. Names, dates, some photography, you know - everything."

There was a stifling silence for a few moments, and then Alec's mood levelled out. "Okay, yer can have the fuckin' money, but you'll have to wait. I don't keep cash like that in a bucket under the sink. It'll have to be a bankers draft." His eyes then narrowed and he settled his gaze on the extortionist. "You's got a good body on yer Miriam. Ten thousand quid must be worth something."

Miriam squirmed. "Oh Alec, if you're thinking about sex you must forgive me. You know how I feel about men. I couldn't possibly have sex with you."

"Bloody Mary!" the man spat out. "A hand-job then. Just give'us a wank."

Miriam glanced about. "Even that would appear a bit unseemly out here in the garden? Hadn't we better go into the house?"

"Hell no! Annabelle an' Theo could get home anytime now. You can give me the business in the garden shed."

He led her to a small wooden hut a short distance away and installed her inside between a rack of garden tools and a bicycle. Miriam grinned as she seated herself in a small canvas director's chair. "I say, doesn't this take you back a few years Alec? I'm sure you had a few dizzy experiences in the potting shed with other boys and girls when you were younger, just as I did."

Alec didn't join in with her reminiscing; he was too occupied unfastening his trousers. He was already half erect from the mere promise of attention from a woman's hand. Pushing his clothes down over his thighs he revealed himself as supremely well endowed. He had massive, hairy balls, and his cock was big, with a thick vein running the length of it right up to where the deep rim of its satiny mushroom head blossomed out. The whole thing curved upwards in an arc, and it was probably the biggest cock most women could imagine, with a juicy wet tip already extending from an uncut foreskin.

Miriam smiled and cooed has she explored the coarse hair at the root of his hugely swollen cock whilst between the warmth of his thighs she made herself master of his balls. She grasped them, weighed them on her fingers and was pleased by their ponderous heaviness. Her own appetite for such things was non-existent, but Alec liked it to be admired for his virility. None of that was a surprise to Miriam who had obliged the man with her hand occasionally in the past, and while she had no interest in men as sexual partners, aesthetically she could appreciate Alec's equipment as beautiful. At full erection the shaft was as thick as her wrist, and the head was even thicker, and that caused the foreskin to stretch like a sausage skin.

"Don't." she demanded cruelly as she felt him move forward. "Don't dare move." She wrapped her hand around the girth of his member and worked her hand slowly, so slowly he couldn't hold back a moan. Her other hand worked fingers into his groin, tugging and squeezing his huge nuts as they hung in the big sac of skin beneath his now fully erect cock. Seated as she was everything hovered only inches away from her face, but both she and Alec knew she would never use her mouth.

"You always did have a nice pair of balls Alec. All the girls in Harrogate agreed about that. They feel full now, so I don't expect you've jerked off today yet, have you?" She spoke so matter-of-factly as she gripped his penis and the man could only make an idiot noise of denial as she continued hefting his heavy balls. His eyes were closed and he responded with a noisy hiss as her hand pounded. Miriam's touch had clearly placed him into a state of bliss.

"No, I don't think you have." She stroked his cock, sliding the sheath of foreskin back and forth along the rigid flesh. "Otherwise this wouldn't be so big and hard. That's good, because although I don't enjoy men using me I like to see a good show at the end of a hand-job. A girl always enjoys being appreciated."

Before taking a full-time interest in girls she had done a considerable amount of hand-jobbing for youths and men, so she wasn't at all out of her depth. She was in fact rather adept at pulling the heavy foreskin over the bloated, fat tip and pushing it back along the length of the shaft. "Faster Alec? Do you want me to do it faster yet?"

Alec's breathing had become ragged and he sucked noisily at his teeth, but he stopped that abruptly and his jaw dropped as the shed door opened.

Suddenly a vision in violet was standing there, watching them. Alec's son Theodore. He was tall, slender, nicely tanned and he wore a pair of excessively tight trousers. A matching purple jacket was worn over a lilac satin shirt slashed at the front to reveal a chest of marble smoothness. The face - the features were just about identifiable as male - was if anything smoother. Everything was rounded, smooth and sensual. His hair was short and gelled upwards into a coxcomb of bright brassy blond.

Bug-eyed, unable to disguise what was happening, Alec could only bellow. "Theo! What the 'ell do you want?"

The young man swallowed back his own astonishment at what he'd interrupted. "Mother and I have just got back. Mum was wondering where you were." He didn't move. Framed in the doorway he looked awkward, as if waiting for something, unsure what to do, astounded, fascinated by the sight of a woman doing 'things' with his father. But he didn't turn and run.

Of the three of them, Miriam recovered first, and typically, even with her hand still wrapped around the man's fat penis, she was determined not to suffer the disadvantage of seeming embarrassed. "Hello Theo. Do you remember me?"

The young man nodded. "Yes, you're Miss Hancock. You used to visit us when we lived in the other house."

"Yes, I did. Funny, but I remember you as being more muscular. Didn't have you down as the purple suit type either. Your daddy and I are being a little bit naughty to day, but it's nothing to worry about. It's just a bit of fun. You'd better close the door and come inside."

"Inside!" fumed Alec. "You can't be serious about having the lad join us."

She gave him a fierce look. "Better that than for him to go into the house and tell Annabelle what he's seen, don't you think?"

Oblivious to his father's intimidating stare Theo moved gingerly forward, and then Miriam saw the reason for his courage. The driving force was a thrust in the front of his slacks. The sight of her blatant cock caressing had caused the sweet young man to develop an erection of his own.

Confident in such a situation and knowing she was in complete command she put her hand between his legs and massaged his youthful thighs. "I haven't seen you for a while Theo, and you appear to have grown up a little bit since we last met." She could sense Alec Grimshaw watching his son's face, looking for the reaction as she wrapped her hand around the bulge in his son's trousers and gave it a squeeze. She unzipped his fly, reached in and took hold of his stiffening cock - it was sticking straight up as she drew it out, and it was a good size - long, and thick.

Theo gulped. "Miss Hancock, I don't think..."

"Don't fret darling, I think you're quite old enough now. You've grown rather a lot lately. You're quite a daddy's boy now."

Carefully she hefted out his low-slung balls, then wrapped her hand around his cock, moving her fingers up and down the shaft and rolling the foreskin back to reveal the swollen head. Her fingers squeezed his penis deftly, stroked it slowly, played with it to make the boy hotter and hornier and didn't stop until she felt the organ become stiffer and glimmer of red poked beyond the foreskin. She then pulled the skin down over his glands to reveal his swollen knob. "How does that feel?" she asked quietly. "I expect it feels rather nice, eh? Do you have a girlfriend who does this for you?"

Theo shook his head desperately.

"A boyfriend, then. I know boys love to do this kind of thing for each other."

Alec groaned, but was unwilling to move away from the grip of the woman's other hand. "Miriam, that's my son you're tossin' off. Will you stop..."

"Don't be so selfish Alec. Theo is quite old enough to adore this kind of treat."

The young man's hips squirmed involuntarily and his blood engorged shaft rose up as her soft fingers gently pumped it. Miriam saw him grit his teeth and grimace like he was in pain, and for a second she believed he was going to cum at once. "Don't squirt anything just yet," she advised, "It'll feel a whole lot better and more intense if you can hold things back for a moment."

She began to stroke Alec's mammoth erection again, slowly and surely with her other hand and the man was trembling with arousal and pent up need. Father and son together, one in each hand. Miriam immediately seized upon the situation to apply a little sadistic humiliation. It must have embarrassed a man like Alec Grimshaw to have a woman manipulate himself and his son like that - but incredibly he couldn't break away. Watching Theo being fondled was as much a turn-on for him as being handled himself.

Theo's penis began to pulse in her hand and there was a look of agony on his face as he desperately tried to control the urge to ejaculate, but it was no good. The expert manipulations of the woman's hand motions were taking him into a new kind of nirvana, and he groaned.

Being none too fond of the sticky mess that male excitement produced Miriam pondered on how to settle the inevitable outcome, and became inspired. She pulled Theo's foreskin down once more, this time tightening her grip around the shaft as she stretched the skin down to the base of his young penis. All the time she had been cleverly easing him closer and closer to his father with each pull of her hand, and when the youngster's cock began to throb to a finish she directed his creamy, squirting load straight onto his daddy's big balls.

As splashes of hot cum bathed his testicles Alec too began to shudder, but before he could expel any juice himself Miriam tucked his enormous drivelling cock up beneath Theo's shirt, knowing that intimate contact with a smooth, warm belly would finish the job rather well.

It was a diabolic thing to do; for once his rearing erection had become established against Theo's stomach Alec became loath to remove it. Obsessed with his own selfish pleasure the man lost track of all sense of right and wrong. His eyes rolled and he moaned helplessly as he hugged his son tight and began to shoot his load. Theo squealed, and who could blame him? His daddy's enormous cock and balls were sliding up and down against his stomach, and great gouts of thick, manly milkshake were leaping onto his bare skin.





A Sissy Saga Ch. 14



With a contented smile Miriam calmly pressed them into a closer embrace when she noticed the shunting movements of Alec's body. He was passionately working out every drop of seminal fluid from his loins, and doing it by slithering his prick up and down in the generous smear of spendings already lathered upon Theo's body.

Knowing she had become superfluous at that point she exited from the shed. The father and son would have some cleaning up to do now, but that kind of business was not her concern. Instead she strolled towards the house. It would be unthinkable to leave without at least saying hello to her old friend Annabelle.

She walked into the kitchen. It was decorated in blues and creams and had the very latest and most expensive appliances. Annabelle was standing at a work top making sandwiches, and Miriam was impressed at how great she looked, just a short skirt and sleeveless blouse. 

Simply attired but she had multiple rings on her fingers and had a distracting amount of cleavage on display, and the gold and ruby pendant that nestled between her breasts carried a stone the size of a gobstopper. What really caught her attention was her tan. Annabelle had always taken a tan well, and her complexion she likened to what she'd felt on a visit to the Jeu de Paume at the Louvre when she'd first noticed the way Monat used oil paints.

Annabelle turned. "Miriam! What a nice surprise. How are you?"

The visitor pulled a face in pretence of lacklustre. "Depressed. Life is a void of meaningless pain. How are you, darling?"

"I nearly killed a dozen people at a bus stop on the way home."

"You were always a rotten driver?"

"I couldn't do without a car? I came out of the womb in a four-wheel drive."

"Why is your life so much more interesting than mine?"

"I'm just lucky I guess."

Miriam smiled warmly at the humour and the enthusiasm in her voice. Annabelle had always loved her to visit in the past, and she hadn't forgotten. They hugged. "Gosh Annabelle, you look great, lovely."

The other woman's eyes sparkled and she laughed - "and no tan lines "- in a naughty manner." What a super surprise to see you again. It's been ages - over a year, easily. You look lovely too, Miriam, and Alec tell me that you're managing a school now."

"It's my own school. A private venture, little to do with academic education."

"I should have known. Everyone said you did such a wonderful job in Harrogate helping young people, so you were bound to work with them again. I hope you're making good use of Alec. Apart from his work on the County Council he as all kinds of contacts in business and trade; it would be lunacy not to take advantage of him. Now me, I'm a bit lightweight. Some pottering about and plenty of sunbathing is as much as I can manage."

Miriam closed the door and took a longer look at the other woman. She was the same height as herself, and she was slender, with a lovely bum and beautiful flaring hips. 'A bottom to kill for,' she thought. "Alec has been very forthcoming." she said.

The other woman smiled. "Yes of course. You're so very clever. You'll already know how to handle Alec."

Miriam watched from behind as Annabelle turned towards the kettle. "Don't bother with tea. I've something better in mind." she said. She touched the woman's back, traced up over her shoulder-blade and then down her upper arm, making her body flex, and as Miriam leaned forward and kissed the handsome curve of her cheek her fingers pressed coaxingly against her spine.

Annabelle squirmed, then turned and flattened her back against the kitchen wall, a faint smile teasing the corners of her mouth. "Still the same seducer I knew a year ago, aren't you Miriam. Nothing ever changes with you."

Miriam smiled wryly. "I'm not stuck in the past darling. I've several new ideas I'd like to try, and they make me think of you."

The woman flushed and her hand shakily touched the corner of her eye. Then her mouth was on Miriam's neck, breathing soft, then hard, making her push against her. "Alec and Theo are in the garden, we can't possibly do anything now."

"They've some tidying-up to do outside. They'll be a while yet, so we've got time for something."

Coolly the schoolmistress kissed her lightly on the neck and cheek and pulled her close so that their breasts met and nudged together. The front of the other woman's blouse was soft and yielding. No bra, just plump breasts beneath, breasts that made no move to avoid the caress of her hands as they covered their juddering contours and pulled and squeezed. Despite being a wife and mother, in the right hands - hands like her own - Annabelle was a perfect piece of lesbian fluff when a chance came her way.

She slipped the strap of Annabelle's dress from her shoulders and kissed the pale line left on the tanned skin as her hands stroked up and down her sides. Gently she tugged down the top of the dress and kissed her again,this time full on the mouth, and Annabelle responded eagerly, almost hungrily, accepting her tongue without demur.

Then Miriam drew back. She had no reason to restrain herself, but taking her time was her way of doing things. Her lips drifted down Annabelle's neck, to her breasts, where they began to feast on hot flesh and a pair of upright nipples. She used her hands to reach under the hemline of the woman's skirt, and Annabelle's body twisted against the wall as she felt fingers slipping into the leg of her briefs to search out the lush, wet lips of her vagina. She was a woman who liked to be taken forcibly and used and abused until her head spun. As Miriam put her hand between her thighs she sighed and moved onto it, aching for her.

Her breathing tensed, fluttering in and out as two fingers entered her, moving strong and slow while the tip of a thumb nubbed playfully against her clitoris.

Miriam purred her approval. She kept one hand under the elastic of her pants, nestling in her soft, damp pubes while two fingers probing deep inside her. "You juice-up quickly. You don't change either. You must come and see me in my hotel room tonight, darling." She glanced around the kitchen. "You probably have one of those modern melamine rolling pins somewhere. Bring it with you and I'll show you how to make cream pie."

"Bitch! You know you're good at what you do, and you know I can't resist you." Annabelle gasped as her thighs pressed against the intruding fingers and her hips began to gyrate, increasing the tempo with each intimate thrust. "Hurry up and finish me off before Alec comes in. He's a bit of a prude about sex."

***

Miriam had fallen into the habit of leaving the school in the capable hands of Emma Twist when she wasn't there herself. It was a provision that infuriated her daughter who resented being thought of as still too immature for responsibility. In response Jennifer made a crafty distinction between the 'school' and the 'house' when talking with Gloria. Miss Twist was indeed in charge of the girls, she told her - who'd wish for that onerous task anyway - but in matters of a domestic nature she herself must always be informed of events first.

When that evening she wandered down into her mother's sitting room and was greeted by a flickering red light on the telephone console she almost sighed with delight. The flashing light indicated something was occurring at the front entrance that Gloria couldn't effectively deal with, and it gave her a chance to prove her worth.

"Visitor's Jennifer," the slightly flustered housekeeper explained the moment she arrived. "Their car's broken down along the road. They came tapping on the door, so I put 'em in the headmistress's study. They seem nice people, but I knows how yer mum feels about strangers being here, an' I don't know what else to do wi' 'em. Should I chuck 'em out?"

Finding herself truly in charge brought a swell of satisfaction to the teenager's bosom. She threw back her shoulders and smiled. "Let me have a look at them first."

The two women in the room both rose to their feet when she entered. One was young, no more than eighteen and a bright cheery thing with an English rose completion, the other twice her age with soft cheeks and a demur reserved expression. Both were slimly built and dressed neatly and in a way that betrayed their middle-class origin. Not the kind of people her mother would have immediately thrown out onto the road.

"I'm Jennifer Hancock," she said amiably, "I'm afraid my mother isn't at home at the moment, so you'll have to put up with me." She thrust out a hand and the strangers each shook it in turn.

Before the older woman could open her mouth the young girl got in quickly with a breathless gush. "It's awfully good of you to take us in like this. Gosh, we scratched at the door like a pair of stray cats and felt certain we'd end up with a bucket of water on us. But your houselady's been very kind. She's already given us tea."

Without waiting for a response she crashed on with introductions. "I'm Pat Fergus-Brown, and the lady with me is Mitzie. Mitzie's my mum's companion and she was taking me back to college in Oxford. I'm afraid something frightful happened with the car though. The engine simply stopped working."

"I's phoned the Automobile Services, Jennifer," put in Gloria, "but they say it'll be hours before they can get anyone here."

"Such a remote place. Desolate." The girl called Pat remarked with just a hint of a sour face.

"Yes, we are rather distant from what you'd term civilisation I'm afraid," Jennifer replied, "and I doubt you'll have any help from a mechanic before morning." She glanced at her wristwatch. "It's getting late and it'll be dark soon. It's probably best if you stay the night, that'll be easier than ferrying you into Peasmarsh ."

Mitzie at last stepped forward. "Could you put us up? We'd be awfully grateful. Even if the car were fixed tonight I'd dread driving over the fells in the dark, and Patricia doesn't really need to return before tomorrow."

"We're pretty full; you've come upon a residential school you see. But my mother maintains a small guest room, so if you don't mind the hardship of sharing you can camp out there until morning."

"Cats can't be choosy when they go adrift. We'd be glad of anything you have." Pat said.

Feeling competent and rather pleased in her role as mistress of Fairyfield, Jennifer turned to Gloria. "Rouse Hardwick and get him to find the car and tow it into the drive, then make up the bed in the spare room next to mine. It's no Shangri-La and it's not too spacious, but it'll serve the purpose for one night."

She remained with her guests whilst her instructions were put into motion, and quickly discovered that although Mitzie led with polite chatter she was constantly interrupted by the girl, and it was her lively banter that consumed much of the time. Patricia - Pat, explained that her family were the Fergus-Brown's of biscuit fame, and although their factory in Newcastle was now owned by the Nabisco Group, the brand name had been retained and her mother had done rather well from the deal.

"Well enough to put me through Oxford, anyway." she said, "I intend to be an archaeologist, you see." She smirked rather gleefully, then added, "Or a stripper. I suppose I'll need to make up my mind at some stage."

After Gloria had provided a plate of sandwiches and more tea, Hardwick arrived bearing some of the visitor's luggage, and then Jennifer felt comfortable about showing them to their room.

***

Lulabelle stood outside Miss Twist's room bouncing back and forth on the balls of his feet. He had to do something; anything to blot out thoughts of what he knew would happen soon. Eventually he heard footsteps and his body tensed.

It came as a mild surprise to Miss Twist when she found him was standing there, crisply starched blouse, little pleated skirt and white socks neatly turned down, and looking every bit the sweet schoolgirl. She stood, hands on hips, not letting the surprise show, a tall, imposing figure smiling slightly, her lips a prim red line that turned up at the corners. "And why are you here, Lulabelle?"

He bowed his head and gripping his skirt dipped a slow curtsy. He hated the way all the ladies used his given name in full. He'd prefer to be known as Lulu. Lulabelle was so extra girly. "To be punished, miss." he replied.

She glared. "And why are you to be punished?"

"I'm not sure. You told me to report." he replied, looking suitably ashamed.

It was all a bit unsatisfactory because she couldn't remember what his sin was herself. She couldn't even remember telling him to be there. Then again, she did tend to invent reasons for punishment during the day if a sissy struck her as particularly cute. Lulabelle was looking rather sweet and special at that moment, and cute ones were always the first to tread the path to her hurdle. With her such things as valid reasons never got in the way of correction.

She reached beyond him and opened the door to her apartment. "At least you've attended at the correct time."

"Yes miss." Lulabelle stepped carefully into the room, almost as if he believed that by being very quite he'd escape the purpose for being there, but Miss Twist reminded him all too quickly that such a thing wouldn't happen. Emma followed behind and closed the door, then gripping his right wrist she dragged him without ceremony towards her hallowed Mexican hurdle. Lulabelle found himself draped over it like a rag-doll, limp and pliable.

The woman took the hem of the little skirt and folded it up his back to reveal simple cotton panties and bare thighs. The pants didn't stay in place long. Within seconds the teacher had peeled them down at the back to expose his bottom while at the front the cotton fabric pulled against his penis, making it swell and throb a little. He felt her hand squeeze his bared posterior and it made him gasp and wriggle. It was humiliating to dangle like that while preparing to be spanked on the bare bottom like a kid.

Without warning the telephone by the side of the mauve sofa began to signal an incoming call, and with a tut of irritation Miss Twist went to answer it.

As she raised the receiver a smile lit her face. "Miriam - I didn't expect you to call this evening." She took a seat on the sofa, glanced across at Lulabelle, and beckoned him. "Lulabelle, I want you here please." she said in a clipped tone over the top of the telephone whilst indicating her lap where she'd pulled her short skirt high on her thighs to display her stocking tops and creamy thighs.

It was awkward for him to move, his knickers had slipped down and he had to hobble forward with them wrapped around his knees, while his cock was semi-hard and bounced around in front of him as he tottered forward. He managed the short journey as best he could and then stood waiting, very conscious that his pecker was rising up.

Miss Twist smiled up at him, and whilst making attentive noises into the telephone took him by the wrist and drew him face down across her lap, taking time to get him into her favoured position with his feet off the floor and his head low down the other side, then holding him firmly about the waist and pulling him forward until his pelvis rested atop her right leg to ensure his blossoming erection was pressing upon her nylon clad thighs. The sissy was immobilised and his bottom raised and ready, perfectly secure and under her control. Comfortable too, his only initial discomfort coming from his loss of dignity.

There was no cushion, nowhere to rest his head, but Lulabelle didn't complain. Obediently he offered himself in a full state of submissiveness, folding up the back of his skirt and dipping his tummy to make his pristine twin mounds jiggle and pout a little. That was the kind of co-operation a teacher expected, and the kind Miss Twist liked when a girly was suspended across her knee.

"You found that old bandit Grimshaw... " Emma said into the phone," ...I knew you would. It takes more than him moving house to throw you off track." She adjusted Lulabelle on her lap and felt him tremble as she latched an arm about his waist, then without offering any pretext she tucked the phone under her chin and ran her other hand up and down his bare legs, feeling and caressing them softly, smoothing an hand over a bare girly rump and patting it, making him feel the 'can't escape' excitement sissy's always felt when pressed firmly over a lady's lap. With a little additional thigh wiggling she soon had his penis clasped between her legs and he was in place to receive spanks on the eminently spankable up-curve of his bottom and the top of his thighs.

Emma continued with her conversation. "You've date with a girl tonight? Well, make the most of it, darling. You're deserving of some recreation."

Apprehensively Lulabelle waited for the first slap to come, and he didn't have to wait long. Her hand gripped his bottom squeezed it, then relented. His bum was bare, exposed, vulnerable. Then the hand returned, this time moving at higher velocity, and he felt the first stinging slaps.

SMACK, SMACK! The school teacher began lightly, just sever enough to make him wiggle a little, but the result was exactly as she knew it would be. An immediate pink smarting rose up in seconds. In a slow, even rhythm she struck the backs of his knees, smacking up and down his bare legs and making his feet jerk as if they'd been touched by electricity, then up the inside of his sensitive thighs and onto the crease where his legs met with his buttocks. 'Ouch!' And then her hand cracked onto each bottom cheek alternately. A smack, a brief rubbing better, then another smack, not hard, but constant.

SWASH, WHAPP, WHAPPP! The sissy schoolgirl gasped, his eyes squeezing shut for a moment in response to the sting.

"Everything's fine Miriam." continued Emma, "You allow yourself so little time off, try and relax whilst you're away." She chuckled into the receiver. "What's that? Am I spanking someone whilst we're talking? Well, yes actually. I'm having a word or two with Lulabelle. Her bottom is quite red, but it as to be done. The shameless little madam was playing with herself under the table while in class today."

A look of acute indignation formed on Lulabelle's face. "That's not true, miss. I wasn't... "

SMACK, SMACK! "Aaah!" A strangled cry as the spanking took on renewed urgency. He could feel the heat building up in his bum and he began to kick and squirm. The schoolteacher's smacks had settled into a rhythm, delivering a smack every few seconds, and although Lulabelle tried to remain still he had to wriggle anyway because Miss Twist was spreading the blows around so much, and if anything was putting a bit more force behind each one. That tended to make his bottom burn quite fiercely and make him more vocal, and his legs began to scissor up and down. The most horrible thing was that every time he moved his penis slued up and down between the lady tutor's nyloned thighs.

SMACK! "Ouch - miss, please." SMACK! "Ow - I'm sorrrryyy. I'll never do it again" (Whatever he was supposed to have done). With some alarm he felt the woman's fingers pause to stroke up and down the crack of his bottom, and as his anus contracted he was horrified to feel his cock swelling in sympathy against her smooth, bare thighs. Miss Twist passed her hand across his rump, and then began smacking again.

SMACK! The spanks stop for a moment and Lulabelle breathes heavily; his bottom glowing already from hips to thighs. "No, no upsets with Jennifer. I've hardly seen her today." Emma continued calmly.

SMACK, squeeze, SMACK, squeeze. She spanked some more, her hand walloping the helpless bare cheeks and raising their rosy glow to an even more vibrant colour. The tempo increases and Lulabelle's buttocks gyrated superbly as the smacks became slightly keener. He had to concentrate hard on keeping his bum clenched. He'd been a sissy for a year and been over countless laps, but he still felt embarrassment if a lady looked at his bottom-hole.




A Sissy Saga Ch. 14



His eyes began to fill with tears. His knees jerked and his legs trembling with every harsh swipe of her hand. His bottom was on fire, while his cock, which had lengthened and was as stiff as wood, was now compelled to saw in and out between the tops of her legs.

Emma listened to Miriam's sweetly persistent voice again reminding her of routine school matters. "You must relax dear, everything's in hand." She heard herself saying as she again brushed her fingertips lightly up and down the she-boys bum-crack. "You get so little time to yourself, so enjoy it. I'll see you tomorrow."

Miss Twist returned the phone to its cradle and suddenly a hand was resting on Lulabelle's bottom again, the strong fingers squeezing and kneading up and down his sore, nude cheeks. Her palm felt cool, pleasant, so he hoped all the spanking was over. 

"Had enough, Lulabelle?"

"Y-yes miss."

She let him up and he immediately slumped down onto the carpet at her feet with his hands massaging his burning bottom cheeks. Subdued and sobbing, he was feeling very small and sensed genuine tears not far away. The sweet thing was hurting. Well, thought Emma, she had to make it hurt, otherwise there was no point in doing it.

Emma hadn't had enough. The little episode had stirred things inside her to a high pitch. Her clitoris begged for attention and she squirmed a little on her seat, trying to adjust, trying to reduce the heat simmering within, but instead of reducing her arousal the slight movement served to crank up her excitement. "Just one more thing young lady. When you're eventually placed with a household your mistress will demand certain additional services of her housemaid, and this would seem an ideal opportunity to practise such things."

She hoisted her skirt and opened her legs leaving nothing between her own oozing heat and Lulabelle's eyes except a thin layer of cotton. The sissy noticed at once the clench of muscle between her legs and the sodden wet patch in the gusset of her knickers, and felt a telltale heat creeping into his cheeks. Such a situation was one he knew how to respond to. In the past his sisters' and his sisters' friends had frequently held him down and sat astride his mouth, so it was one he was trained for. Ever so gingerly he pushed forward with just enough tongue to test the dampness.

Emma brought her hands up to her breasts to find the nipples that were erect and aching, and straining to push through her blouse. Holding her excitement in she watched Lulabelle's head bobbing up and down between her thighs and detected his surrender. Lovely! She could feel his mouth working on her, feeding, churning as it reverently drew her sex juices through the micro-mesh of her pants.

"That's it," she urged, her voice husky and demanding, "Everyone knows what a sweet little cocksucker you are, but you need to practise how to please ladies by sucking their knickers. Grasping his ears she hauled his mouth firmly against her crotch. "Do it like a good girl. Open your mouth and suck."

***

Just before going to bed Jennifer acted the thoughtful host and was about to tap on the door of the room given to her two overnight guests to ensure nothing else was needed, but then a noise from beyond the door made her pause and hold back. A squeak like that of an animal in torment trembled in the air, then another equally as puzzling. What on earth could be happening?

Slightly alarmed she eased the door back on its hinges without knocking, and on top of the only bed in the room she found her female guests sprawled in a manner that she was quite familiar with. Both were naked, the older one laying on her back with her knees bent up and splayed to the sides, while the young girl was stretched out between her legs, lifting her hips and slamming back down with vigorous bawdy motions. It only required a perfunctory glance to observe the straps of the harness fastened about Patricia's ceaselessly moving nether regions to confirm that the teenager was ardently dildoing her older companion. Mitzie was throwing her head from side to side on the pillow and softly howling in undisguised rapture.

Pat glanced up the moment Jennifer made her entrance. "Cripes! We thought you were already in bed."

"Obviously." replied Jennifer with a cynical smile.

The girl stopped bucking, pushed herself up and exhibited her small puppy breasts, but found it impossible to hide the glistening length of rubber cock she'd extracted from between Mitzie's legs. Her companion seemed dazed and still in the throes of sexual bliss, so it was left to her to try and explain.

"Look, we didn't intend to upset you or anything," She attempted to cover the thrusting rubber penis with her hands, but it was big and slippery and avoided her control. "We thought to lock the door, but there isn't a key."

Jennifer thought the sight of a pretty girl, hung like a horse and servicing a woman more than twice her age was about as erotic as things could be, but she wasn't immediately ready to show her inner feelings. Instead she shrugged. "I'm fairly broadminded. I don't object to people doing anything with each other as long as they both consent, and Mitzie looks quite happy."

A sly smiled developed around the girl's mouth. "She humps like a brood mare - she's a real goer, it's no wonder mummy likes having her around."

Jennifer was wearing the sheerest of night-gowns, and the girl detected the outline of two taut nipples almost poking through. "I say, you're not horrified or anything, so I bet you've done lezzy stuff before yourself. Do you fancy trying Mitzie?"

Intrigued, excited, Jennifer failed to suppress a tiny pant. "Um, er, wouldn't Mitzie object?"

"Christ no. She's anybody's tonight. She's as hot as toast and absolutely up for it."

Standing up the girl finally lost all coyness about displaying the generous proportions of the attachment swinging from her crotch. "Here, you can even borrow my prick-thing if you want."

At last the woman on the bed stirred. "Now just wait a minute - Patricia - I..."

"Oh shush, Mitzie. For heavens sake don't try pretending you're a modest lady when I know you're a randy cow."

"Really! This is - is intolerable." The woman pushed herself up on the bed, small breasts juddering enticingly on her chest. Her words were meant as a protest, but they were weak and unconvincing, and just by looking at her Jennifer gauged she would be as compliant as Pat predicted.

The moment she removed her night-gown Pat sprang forward, eager to detach the dildo from herself and help fasten it to Jennifer's own loins. Jennifer smiled sweetly at Mitzie while she adjusted the fit.

"Up off the bed if you please, Mitzie dear. I want to shaft you up against the wall like a back-alley tart."

The older woman's head drooped and her body trembled slightly, but she offered no forceful refusal, and on being approached she became completely submissive, climbing from the bed and standing with her back pushed against the wall.

"Open your legs." Jennifer commanded quietly.

The woman was slightly taller than herself, but that was an advantage since it meant her thighs would be higher and more accessible, and with her legs spread Jennifer was able to send the tip of her appendage to root about between them.

"Come on Mitzie, its all for you. Help our rubber friend here find what it's looking for."

Mitzie obligingly rolled her thighs upwards at a slight angle, then took hold of the rubber cock and pressed the end of it exactly in the right place, groaning as Jennifer began a slow, no nonsense rocking motion, humping the monstrous rubber thing against the entrance to her sex, squirming and undulating until it entered.

"Oooow, n-nooo, a-aaay, aaah!" She gurgled helplessly as her pussylips suddenly splayed open and dilated around the slippery, solid object.

Jennifer heaved with her hips, and Mitzie groaned again as the broad length slithered up into her body to begin an ardent rutting; fucking her against the wall as if she were a whore in a dingy back alley. Perversely, the girl called Pat watched everything closely, standing at their sides and stroking each of them simultaneously, eyes shining and mouth grinning broadly with each movement and moan.

"Give her the lot Jennifer. Stuff it up her. She goes like a train, she loves it."

Jennifer began to pant as she pumped frantically with her tool. "Is that right Mitzie. Do you like getting it from a girl with a cock?"

The woman clenched her teeth. Half way up the wall, twisting and bucking against the young girl ploughing into her in the style of a man, she offered a wild, desperate look. "Ugh, mmm, yes. Yes I love it, don't stop yet. Don't stop ever."

Arching her hips up and down between Mitzie's thighs Jennifer had initiated a thrusting-sliding rhythm that pushed in the whole of her length with each forceful heave, stretching the visitor's vaginal tract wide and filling it with inordinate doses of cock-shaped rubber. She made no effort to be kind or caring, she was quite brutal, but the woman just made mewing noises and appeared resigned to being used in that way. Mitzie was only conscious of her desperate need to cum, and strangely she was barely aware of her own squeals when she did.

The woman slumped against the wall and was near to collapse as Jennifer extracted her cock from her gushing hole. But her plight was entirely ignored by young Pat who immediately seemed set on pursuing her own pleasure further.

Pert nipples brushed together as the girl's arms encircled Jennifer's neck and her eager, youthful breath fell upon the older girl's face, warm, perfumed and irresistible. Pat's lips hovered, then she pushed forward her sensuous soft mouth to provide a slushy hot kiss that Jennifer didn't resist.

"Mmm, I say, you really gave it to her, didn't you? You really fucked Mitzie good." Pat enthused as she dragged her mouth away. Then her breathless little kisses snuggled closer to Jennifer's ear. "Do you want to dick a bit of young cunt now? I know where there's one dying for a good seeing-to."

No verbal consent followed, but passion was high and desire strong, and they drifted down onto the top of the bed in an euphoric cloud. Jennifer settled on top and they slid together, rolling back and forth, kissing deeply, nipples stiff and pointy, bellies touching. In a moment she had installed herself between the legs of Patricia Fergus-Brown and was pushing the girl's thighs further apart in order to view the pink, moist aspects of her youthful vagina. Spreading the lips open with her thumbs she couldn't resist a smile as a lush orifice was revealed, and she carefully inserted two fingers to savour the wet, spongy grip of internal flesh.

Suitably inspired by the girl's groans she withdrew the fingers and lifted up to push in her cock, her young thighs proving forceful as its oily length skewered snugly into the girl's yielding body.

"Oooow!" Pat gurgled and squirmed like a snake as the bulbous tip of the phallus pressed hard against her outer pussy lips, then she shuddered and jerked as the first few inches of the long shape wormed a path into her. Expertly, Jennifer held her tight and swung up her pelvis to pump in the remaining length, then arching her back she eased the shaft out a little, just long enough to note that its contours were coated with copious amounts of feminine love fluid. At once she pushed it back in, repeating the process until she'd established a regular fuck rhythm. "There!" she cooed as her thighs pressed firmly forward, "I knew you could take it."

"Oop!" Ecstatic, the girl's hips gyrated and spasmed of their own accord while shivers rippled across her skin, then her head rolled back on the pillow and her mouth fell open to vent her passion as the mushroom end of the love-tool jousted inside her. "Mm, yes. Aaa! It's so - it's so big, so - wicked. Oh Jennifer, I can feel it right up in me. You're dicking me like a man and making me fuck you right back."

At that moment the naked form of Mitzie loomed over them, eyes glowing, mouth slack with wantonness. It took but a brief glance by Jennifer to see that the woman had now equipped herself with a strap-on of her own. "Hoist her on top and let me get at her." the woman pleaded. "Patricia's a naughty girl and needs some special attention."

Rather amused by the unexpected innovation Jennifer tilted sideways and rolled Pat on top of herself, and Mitzie immediately straggled her, prising open the young girl's bottom cheeks as she caressed her bare posterior. "Yes, special attention is required here." she murmured huskily whilst rubbing a thumb across Pat's winking anus.

The girl recognised the implication of the movement, and her anal ring twitched involuntarily. She emitted a whimper as hands spread her bottom wide, then gasped breathlessly as her dimpled anus buckled under the pressure of Mitzie's wicked phallus.

"Ooowh, Mitzie - aa - aarrggh!" She crooned her discomfort and bit her knuckles as her guardian's unforgiving attachment forced a route into her, making her rotate her backside slowly as her sphincter gave in and the hard length sank beyond it.

Her youthful face reddened. The plastic shaft felt unbelievingly huge but bizarrely sexy as it crowed into her tight hole and plunged deep, and for several seconds she held her breath, feeling pain, shame and lurid excitement whirling together as her anal tract expanded and dilated around one insistent rubber appendage while her pussy squelched on the one already provided by Jennifer. She was being double-dildoed - getting it front and back, and didn't know how to come to terms with such a thing.

Huffing vocally, she felt the two greasy replica cocks tunnelling and sliding inside her, each one shagging her mercilessly, sometimes independently and sometimes in unison, and all the time only separated by a delicate screen of internal tissue.

"Aah, oooh, oh god, Jennifer - Mitzie - please! It's - it's - Ohhh, oh god, oooow!" Once or twice Mitzie hauled her rubber extension back, but only because she seemed to find diabolic delight in forcing its return beyond muscles that had already ceased to resist. The natural elasticity of young Pat's anus was conforming obediently with the relentless pushing in and out of the oily probe.

"Aaah, oooh, Mitzie! You're f-fucking m-me, you're fucking mummy's little girl, ooh, oh, fucking her r-right in her little arse! Oooh. You're really - f-filling her up. Eeeow, oh god! I'm burning in there. Oooh!"

"It's no more than you deserve for taking me for granted and trying to humiliate me." Mitzie wheezed unsympathetically.

Clamped tight to the girl and screwing in her own fashion Jennifer agreed with a grin of ribald, rather sadistic delight. "It's true Patricia darling. You're a naughty, cheeky girl who needs to suffer, but you can still enjoy yourself if you get into the spirit of things." With Jennifer fucking her own thing in and out of her pussy so slickly Pat couldn't have stopped her approaching orgasm even if she'd tried.

"Oooooh, mmm! Ooooow!" Her climax whirled like a tidal force; she wailed and shook wildly as a blast of rapture and carnal pleasure fanned out from her genitals and shot down her limbs to make her toes curl.

It was another hour before Jennifer reached her own bed. Even after all the shagging Mitzie and Patricia had both insisted on licking her pussy. Holding it open they'd each shoved two fingers into her at the same time, and then lapped together, their hot, slippery tongues alternating between her clit and her drooling slit, and making her jerk-off several times. It had been a gorgeous, gratuitous session, and one that made her feel a worthy mistress of Fairyfield Grange.



A Sissy Saga Ch. 15



A fine day, thick and hot making Miriam Hancock's face dewy with sweat. She gazed at the house. Was this the place? She checked the card in her hand. No mistake. It was an unimposing Edwardian terrace house in a street of equally unimposing houses, narrow fronted, three stories high, the windows heavily draped. She went up a set of steps to a porticoed door and pressed a bell-button. On the wall at the side of the door was fixed a brass plaque bearing the name, Angela Magoogle BSc. PhD. The qualifications were utter fiction, she knew that as a certainty, but having them at her door probably gave Angela kudos with some people.

The door was opened by the beguiling Jubilee decked out in a very complimentary French maids outfit. The sheer girlish of him was impressive. Time had not diminished reality; he was still as beautiful as she remembered him. The delicate rouged cheeks were the same and his seemingly permanent startled expression remained unaltered. She noticed that around his slender throat was a slender black slave-collar thinly disguised as a choker. 

"Oh!" the girl-thing exclaimed.

"Hello Jubilee. I promised to visit Miss Magoogle before I returned home today. Is she here?"

Jubilee seemed a little confused and he quickly deferred to the woman who came up behind him. "Someone's here, Miss." he explained in a faint voice.

"I know there is, you silly creature." Angela Magoogle said in a playful, patronising way. "It's Miriam. Come inside Miriam."

She followed them through into the house. Once inside she noticed Jubilee stood on a small wooden plinth, a little platform about two inches high that was placed against the wall and was obviously his place to go when not being actively employed. "Curiosity wouldn't allow me to go home without first seeing what kind of a setup you have here." she explained.

Miss Magoogle nodded. "I'm rather flattered."

Angela was a minimalist. Her home was functional and quite handsome inside, but not elaborately decorated. The drawing room had plain mushroom-coloured walls pierced by a six-panelled sash window. There was a couple of narrow padded chairs and a low slung coffee table, but the place was devoid of frivolous ornaments, the only concession to the bleak décor coming by way of an unused stone fireplace with a heavy wooden lintel and a huge Rothko-style painting in different shades of yellow. To Miriam who enjoyed seeing a few knickknacks dotted around it was anathema. Nice enough for a railway station buffet-room but not a place to live in.

The redoubtable old friend was imposing in her den. Not beautiful, but nevertheless eye-catching. Her black hair was tied back behind her head that day and she was wearing a black cat-suit, its close fitting constriction gripping her pencil slim body so severely it denied it much of a shape, although it gave her a kind of sinewy allure. She looked a little laddish; only her high heeled shoes emphasised any real femininity. "Cup of tea?" she asked.

Miriam shook her head. "I've had enough tea these past two days to float an ocean liner."

Angela smiled handsomely. "Of course you don't want tea. You've come to see what I do, and you've arrived at an opportune time. I've recently taken on a fresh batch and they're only part-way through their induction training. With the assistance of some friends on the local judiciary I offer youthful wrongdoers an alternative to prison. They think they're in for an easy time when they come here, but they're always disappointed. Allow me to show you. Come through into my inner sanctum."

She produced a key, then indicated a door that led off into another room and led the way.

When the door swung open Miriam noticed its solid construction and that it was far heavier than the usual kind of interior door. She stepped forward and then stepped back, an involuntary reaction to an unexpected sight. On the floor and mounted on a plush rug was a young man, naked except for a lacy black garter-belt and dark stockings. He had his feet tucked under him, arms at his sides, the wrists tied to his ankles by a length of rope, and he was slowly bucking up and down. He had also been gagged. A black rubber ball-gag the size of a hen's egg had been pressed into his mouth and his resultant expression was a desperate grimace.

She ventured further into the room to stand immobilised. Her experience of sissy training was extensive, but in this place she perceived an element of dedication that verged on cynical professionalism.

"This is Marigold," said Angela, indicating the figure on the rug, "As smart as a runner bean, isn't he? One as to detach such males from their past and crush their pride, so I need to be quite heavy handed with them at first." She waved a hand at the helpless effeminate. "I don't concern myself too much with clothes during their first few days, dressing them will come later." she said. "They never go out from the house, so for the moment stockings and suspenders are enough to encourage burgeoning femininity."

Pausing for a moment she glared down at the distraught figure who had ceased moving. His penis was protruding from between his thighs and was slavering at the tip, but a rubber band wrapped around the base of it restricted the flow of vital fluids and denied any possibility of an early conclusion. "Come on, Marigold. Don't stop your exercise just because people are watching."

The individual on the floor looked up with helpless washed-out eyes and obediently leaned slightly forward. Slowly he rose up, then just as slowly settled again. Then he began repeating the movement, over and over.

"Marigold is part way through a morning session of do-it-yourself with an anal probe." Angela continued, "I insist they all do it once a day. Exercises that stretch their fundaments and accustom them to deep penetration are invaluable when contemplating their future."

Taken aback as she was, Miriam stole a moment to look around. On one wall was a wrack holding various scourges, canes and leather straps, on another a selection of cock-shaped vibrators and dildos in different sizes and colours. There also hung the only photograph she'd yet seen in the house; a large panoramic view of a row of glowing, cruelly punished bare bottoms slumped slavishly over a wooden trestle. It was a warning, a promise, a fearful indication to those that were brought there as to what to expect.

Still trying to become familiar with her surroundings she glanced over her shoulder and noticed what had escaped her as she entered the room. Another of Angela's androgynous subjects had been fastened into the straps of a body harness and hung on stout hooks behind the door like an old raincoat. His penis hung down impotently, an uncooked pork sausage slumped over a scrotal bag that had been shackled at its base by a slender leather strap. Attired and gagged like the one in front of her he was raised several inches from the floor, a placid little doll, arms dangling at his side, head bowed, he had to contend with being swung back and forth each time the door was opened and closed.

"Society as entrusted me with a mission," enthused Angela, " I take the violent and workshy and give them a purpose in life. They are simpletons who respond surprisingly well under feminine control. But then, that's true of all males, isn't it? So many of these people, despite their outward show of macho-aggression, have an underlying interest in homosexuality, and I capitalise on that by introducing promising cute specimens to a girly life. At the end of their training they will be returned to the world as shag-hungry tarts who will submit to good order and discipline."

Crossing the floor she threw open another door to draw Miriam's attention to a deep old-fashioned porcelain bath in which two more young men had been tied into a face-to-face embrace and laid full length inside the tub on top of a pink latex lilo. Naked but for stockings and gags she knew they would have resented the ordeal at first, but eventually, following an extended period of being strapped together, boredom would inevitably evolve into hot passion and they were now rubbing enthusiastically rubbing against each other. A selective peek revealed their cocks to be swollen to robust stiffness, solid and drippy and skidding up and down, one against the other.

"Here we have Pussy and Willow," said Angela, smiling with sadistic pleasure, "Once a blight on the streets and the terror of their neighbourhoods. When they leave here they will join a host of others who already walk the streets for me, and their frequently cum-filled backsides will bring me some badly needed income. You can appreciate that running an enterprise such as I have here entails a good deal of expense, so they must play their part in its upkeep." 

Miriam didn't altogether disagree with her point of view. In Harrogate she had learnt that most people think young people rented themselves out because they were abused, or forced into it. But a lot of them did it simply for the money. With limited skills for the legitimate job market, they were never going to make a decent living, so they hooked for a few years because it was the best paid job they could find. She wondered just how much of their earnings Angela allowed her sissies to hang onto.

Her friend frowned as she studied the two in the bath. "Tying them together is a useful precursor for later in the day when I allow everyone to mount each other, but these two are getting carried away with things far too soon." Saying no more she lifted a pail of cold water from the corner of the small bathroom and deliberately threw it over the two amorous individuals laying in the tub. It was a way some people would have deterred dogs from rutting in the street. The two young men piped a thin, muffled wail from behind their gags and appeared to shiver and congeal into a drenched mass, thrashing together like a pair of newly netted wet eels.

As they departed from the scandalous inner room Miriam couldn't help feeling there was a certain arrogant vanity about Angela Magoogle these days, but who could blame her for that? She was good at what she did. "I admire your ingenuity." she said, "You have a great deal of imagination, and in a way I feel regret at having to go home so soon. But I must get back to Fairyfield today."

The other woman nodded. "That's a shame, and shame on me, I've given you no hospitality since you arrived, so allow me to make amends. Would you like to take Jubilee to bed? I can provide anything you need by way of equipment."

Miriam glanced at the fairy housemaid still mounted on his tiny plinth. "That's - er - rather nice idea, but how would Jubilee feel about such an arrangement?"

The sissy looked embarrassed, his gentle features rendered even softer by the poor light against the wall. Tongue-tied and slightly scatty like all the most appealing effeminates he was not so naïve he didn't know how to respond with charm. His voice was delicate and quavering, with a cadence that spoke of hyacinths and roses, but before he could compose a complete reply Angela scoffed and callously answered for him. "It doesn't matter what he feels. He has no choice in the matter. He puts out his arse for whoever I say."

***

For Jennifer the new day began in a whirl. No sooner had Mitzie's newly repaired motor car carried her and Patricia away down the drive, when a white van appeared baring two male occupants. Perhaps her mother had forgotten to tell her, or maybe she had got the date wrong, but she suddenly found herself having to accommodate a photographer and his assistant.

When her mother had begun to scratch her head about raising extra income it had been Jennifer's idea to sell photographs. There was no shortage of glamour at Fairyfield, and Hardwick was an avid snapper of the sissy form. Over the past year many of the students had posed for him and he had a whole cupboard full of libidinous pictures, but while Miriam agreed that selling some of them was a fine idea, she rebelled at the time needed to tout such things around magazine publishers. Instead she had offered the facilities of the school and the models in it to a professional who was willing to pay a fee to produce his own artwork.

His arrival, and the clutter of equipment he had brought with him, had taken her by surprise, and it was fortunate that with Open Day looming one of the classrooms had been cleared for redecoration.

It was 11-0-clock in the morning and the sunlight streaming through the windows of the room was coming in at an unsatisfactory angle for the photographer. He had introduced himself as Monty, and he was walking around pulling down blinds and switching on lights. "I need light. That's what photography is all about, using light to paint pictures. But the light as to work for me, not against me." he grumbled.

A back projection screen in glorious dusky red had been installed at one end of the airy room and Amanda and Bambi were standing before it in their skimpy deportment picture dresses.

"All this farting around for goodness sake, why couldn't your mother just have just sent some of her people to my studio in Harrogate?" Monty moaned. His name was Tristan Montague, but he liked to be called Monty. He was tall, five feet eleven tall, with hunched shoulders and a narrow chest. His conical shaped head set on a scrawny neck was crowned by a mop of unruly black hair which lacked any style and flopped in a fringe over his low forehead. He would have looked moronic but for his eyes, two startling features that would cling to the memory when the rest of his face was forgotten. They were enquiring eyes; always searching, examining and criticising.

His caustic aside was snapped at his assistant, a pimply-faced sparrow-like youth with bristled hair, who was trying to take light readings from a meter in his hand, but it was covertly intended for Jennifer Hancock. Jennifer was sat on a chair at the end of the room by the door with her arms folded over her chest, and she didn't answer. The arrangements had been determined by her mother who didn't want her darlings straying around in the care of Outsiders. She herself was only present to supervise the shoot and was already bored. Having provided the models there was nothing she could do while they were setting up.

"Miss - erm - Miss Whatsyername," Monty's voice said, "I was promised four models."

Jennifer pursed her mouth stubbornly. "I was told two would be sufficient." It was a lie. She had been given permission to use her own judgement, but she had no liking for the brash photographer and resented the imposition he represented, so she was more in a mood to impede than be helpful.

Jennifer looked at the set-up. She had decked out Bambi and Amanda in a neat little concoction reminiscent of ancient Greece. Bare feet and an apricot one-piece, very short to make the most of their superb legs with two small knots to tie the material over their pale shoulders. The neckline had been cut low to allow a show of delicate skin, and the folds over the rest of their bodies only just hid the flesh inside. It was purposely calculated as false modesty, for the effect was more tantalising than nakedness. At a distance it was hard to judge their height. Neither were tall but both were perfectly proportioned. Certainly they were small enough to be reckoned as petite and pretty enough to break hearts.

She watched through half closed lids as Bambi and Amanda smiled coyly at the spotty-faced assistant. Untroubled by oily skin or ache themselves they were mischievously flirting with him under their lashes, their bodies stretching sylph-like and acting up on his behalf as he looking at them through the viewfinder of a camera.

Pimples was not the most handsome lad in Yorkshire, in fact he was geeky-looking and he seemed to have a mind as broad as a thread of cotton, while his conversation never seemed to rise above his navel. He had a tongue that rarely stopped wetting his lips and had been making blatant overtures for sissy favours since his arrival. 

Jennifer watched with open distaste. He was dressed in black leather trousers with a rhinestone belt and a skin tight black T-shirt, and he had one of the stupidest haircuts she had ever seen. He may have thought he looked slick, but he had a long neck on which his head was set too far forward and his hair was cut in the style of a lavatory brush.

"Hi dollface." he called to Bambi. He had a hand in his trouser pocket, a weak attempt to hide his depraved interest, since he was clearly massaging a hard-on. "Do you believe in love at first sight, or do I have to walk past you again?"

Bambi laughed out loud at the acne face framed with overgrown, untidy hair. The lad was a nightmare, but no more of a horror than anyone else from the outside he'd seen lately.

"You two look like handmaidens to the Queen of Sheba. Come here." the spotty one said.

Bambi tossed his head and stuck his nose in the air. "What for?"

"I want to show you the camera's."

Bambi's tinkling laugh sounded again. "Not likely." And looking provocative and incredibly mischievous he skipped away.

"Oho, someone else is there?" The youth pressed a hand to his chest. "You've broken my heart."

Bambi swung around, swinging his hips saucily. "Maybe Amanda will help mend it."

Amanda had been at Fairyfield long enough by then to have lost his inhibitions, and he spluttered his disapproval. "Tell him to fly off and crash in a distant forest."

Revelling in their cheeky impudence the two lovely look-a likes collapsed in each others arms, chuckling with singsong laughter as the young man emerged from behind the camera looking all flustered and cursing all 'fuckin' prick teasers.'

"Times getting on, and it's time I've paid for." grumbled Monty. "And there ain't no bed in here. Some of my best work is of fella's without pants stretched out on a bed."

"I've had some duvets and pillows collected from the bedrooms," snapped Jennifer, "You can make up a padded platform like a bed from them."

The photographer turned grumpily away. "I'll take a few general ones with the wide angle first, so everyone but the models should keep out of the way." He fiddled around, changing the light filters and shooting off test pictures, getting into his photographer mode. By the time that was done Amanda and Bambi were looking garish yet cute. Without any urging they raised their arms and put hands behind his head, eyes glittering, a flirtatious tilt of their heads and a devilish smile on their lush mouths as they swivelled their hips like showgirls in a revue.

Without any tutoring at all Bambi arranged his arm along the line of his thigh and smouldered at the hovering camera. "Hold it. Keep still." said Monty.

"We are still. It's your hands that are shaking." replied the she-boy.

"Aye you're right." Monty agreed reversing to frame his shot. "Anyway, that's grand. Just a bit further back maybe." He adjusted the tripod, peered through the lens, and then, using a cable switch, he tripped the shutter. The flash flared, and at once the slave units flashed too, bathing the whole room in white light while the camera's automatic reload produced an insectile whine. 

Pimples was still trying vainly to engage with Amanda. "Cool dresshh. Where do you come from?" he slurred through sharp, pointy little teeth reminiscent of a piranha.

"Mars." Amanda said, trying to ignore him.

"North or south?" he slurred. But no one paid him any attention.

"That slave on the far side didn't go off." Monty complained bitterly.

The callow faced, spotty youth pulled his hand from his pocket. "Fuckin' thing's fuckin' fucked, Monty." he replied, using the full array of expression known to him.

"Okay, we can do without it." the photographer grumbled. He turned to Jennifer. "I'm ready to start, I guess. But the outfits those pantywaists are wearing are just plain boring. I'm gonna have to do something about 'em."




A Sissy Saga Ch. 15



"We have other costumes here. The house is full of them." Jennifer said helpfully. Monty ignored her. He'd brought some items of his own and his assistant was already delving into a bag.

Jennifer shrugged her shoulders and turned away. On a table nearby lay a portfolio of work Monty had done in the past. She flipped through it, not at all surprised by the photographs inside. Monty may have been a picture-taker of wide experience but he had a singular taste and was clearly not the kind who belly-crawled through war zones to capture images of human suffering. He preferred young men. Beautiful young men in frocks. He was an established purveyor of sissyland and a good at what he did. Some of his models were swishing around in high-class fashion, while others posed in the almost obligatory fluffy little-girl outfits so beloved by enthusiasts of the sissy theme.

When she looked up it appeared to be nursery time. Monty's chosen outfits for Bambi and Amanda consisted of little pink shifts with short puffy sleeves that had flowers embroidered on the bodice. The drape of the little dresses was so short in barely covered their scallop-trimmed rumba panties, while on their heads had been placed snug fitting baby-bonnets with pretty scallop trim and which had tapes to tie under their chins.

As an added touch of stimulus a big, pink plastic baby-pacifier on a string had been looped about their necks. Bambi was holding a plastic baby-rattle that had the appearance of a pair of testicles on a stick, while Amanda was gripping an oversized infant-feed bottle that had a rubber teat moulded in the shape of a man's penis.

"That's more like it," Monty murmured, stepping back. "Very nice."

"Coochy-coochy, gaa-gaa-goo. Who's li'l babies then? So smooth and sweet. Yee-eess!" teased acne-face mercilessly, taking his revenge for being spurned earlier.

"Cut-out the claptrap, Herbert." Monty snapped at his assistant.

Ha! So spotty-face had a name, noted Jennifer. He was a Herbert. She wished this Herbert would vaporise, instead the bastard continued watching, looking at each of the sissies in turn, grinning like an imbecile.

"We're not really babies." Bambi protested.

"Course you ain't." blustered Monty, "But when I start with the camera I'll want you to act like babies. Sit together on the duvets now, hold hands and look helpless. And let's have you suckin' on them dummies."

The guard-disc on the pacifiers obscured half their faces, their small noses just about managed to show, and their eyes looked bright and beguiling under the hoods of the bonnets. Sliding easily into the role they had been given Bambi and Amanda rolled onto their backs, gurgling and squirming, knees pointed up and swing outward so the camera could get a good angle on their lace-trimmed panties. Thoroughly babyfied they even seemed to enjoy having a dummy-teat to suck on, and became occupied making busy, wet noises. Monty thought it a shame he couldn't capture the sound on film.

Jennifer passed time by flipping through some more of Monty's previous work. There was lots of other stuff. Semi-naked and nude studies. Young men wearing nothing but make-up and a smile, moist lips and come-to-bed-eyes, posing and reclining in various come-and-get-me attitudes, most of them sporting full erections. Two breathless looking individuals, hair in sausage-roll ringlets and wearing nothing but court shoes, were facing each other and comparing their substantial erections, both of which were distended and upright and featuring commendable moist, mushroom-shaped heads.

She studied the photo's for several minutes, absorbed by them, and an even darker side of things emerged. Other work showed strict fetish control and female domination. There was a series of several young effeminates wearing nothing but ball-gags and cock-and-ball harness, an item she was not unfamiliar with. Commonly called an Arab-strap, it consisted of linked rings - plastic, metal, sometimes just leather - worn around the base of cock and balls to restrict blood flow from an engorged penis. Sometimes it even successfully maintained an erection beyond ejaculation. In this case there was no indication of whether it was a before or after sequence, but everything there was upstanding magnificently.

The models were also wearing black leather slave-collars with studs and chrome buckles, which signified the role they were playing. They were all being sternly lectured by a very imposing young woman wearing a black mortarboard cap of the kind that was once the hallmark of schoolteachers. A long black gown was draped over her shoulders and under it she wore nothing but a skimpy black two-piece bikini. Posing in a matriarchal stance, in her hand she was wielding a school cane.

Trying not to show any alarm she caught the photographers attention whilst he was adjusting some of his equipment. "I believe my mother will have outlined the restrictions on photography here today. No pictures of sexual arousal. Nothing too indecent. Glamour studies are acceptable but she won't tolerate any disgusting antics being recorded. Okay?"

"Yes, I remember she mentioned that." snarled Monty with some annoyance. "But she ain't asked to see any of the prints, so we could..."

Jennifer cut him short. "That's the reason I'm here Mr Montague - to make sure you don't cheat." 

Monty paused a moment longer and studied her face closely, "You know, you're a good looker. I wouldn't mind photographing you without your knickers while you frolicked with these two creampuffs."

Her head snapped up and she gazed at him, achromatic and deadpan. "Fuck off."

The edge was taken off proceedings when Gloria opened the door. Jennifer turned towards her "What is it, Gloria?"

"Somebody's at the downstairs trade-door." she replied.

"Who is it?"

"A plumber. Sez he's here to fix the sink." was the less than lively response.

With a sigh Jennifer pushed herself from her chair and made for the door, and as soon as she'd disappeared through it the photographer's face broke into a leering grin as he took renewed interest in his models. "Okay you two sweeties. Shall we get on with it? Let me see some pricks."

It occurred to him they may refuse, they may feel some sense of shame at doing what he asked. But he was wrong, they showed no alarm. The duo returned his stare fearlessly from beneath their lashes and were neither coy, nor coquettish. Chins tilted down, and giving the camera the cheekiest of smiles Bambi and Amanda bent forward and pushed down their rumba pants to mid thigh, each exposing his penis and his testicles, proud of themselves. 

In unconscious unity the shameless creatures offered a wan smile and stroked their hands over their bellies as they displayed themselves. Nice cocks, passive white dangles with a slight indication of a cock-head bulging through a film of foreskin, all of which lay cushioned on the pale pink bags of their scrotums. Dressed in pink. Cute little baby girls with balls that looked full and heavy.

Monty's camera went click, whrrr several times as he moved around to get shots from different angles. Bambi cupped his balls with his free hand and responded by pushing the hood forward and then skinning his prick back even further, which allowed them to get a peep at the shallow groove under the swollen pink gland.

"Sweet, huh?" remarked pimply Herbert.

Monty agreed. "Nice. Now I want to see you both with a stiffy." he told the models.

The two sissies looked at each other and then back at the photographer. "I don't think we're allowed to do that."

"Nonsense. I'm paying Miss Hancock for your time this afternoon, so you have to do as I want. You know what to do. You take your cock in your hand and you pull it. Get started."

The youth called Herbert leered unapologetically while they jiggled themselves. "Do you chicks want any help? I can lend a hand if you like."

"Keep out o' this." snapped Monty peevishly.

Hands took hold and fingers got to work, and as blood rose up to engorge the spongy tissue of each male appendage they quickly became stiffer, thicker and more extended until they presented four inches of stiff flesh enraptured with girlitude.

With a full erection Amanda skinned his foreskin back slowly and felt the nerve endings spread as the bald tip rolled into sight, then he eased it back to rest just below the delicate ridge. By his side Bambi rubbed his own truncheon just as carefully, sliding the loose hood forward with his right hand and rolled it sideways over the head, then having found the hot spot that always suited him best he started yanking it quickly with his thumb. Since he didn't have any choice in things he set about indulging himself with intense concentration.

Click, whrrr went Monty's camera. "Oh yes. Look at that. Not such babies after all, are they?" he said has he watched each sissy continue to tease the sheath of skin back and forth over the shiny plum of his knob. 

"Nice. So much better than when they're droopy." Herbert said while scrutinising the teardrop shaped flare of the exposed pee-holes and noticing they was beginning to leak stuff.

Monty grinned crookedly. "Quite a pair. Quite a handful. Very commendable. They're real cock candy, and since that fag-hag ain't here now we can try something else."

"Swing round and face each other, darlin's. Nudge those juicy tips together." he told the girly-boys. Click, whrrr. "Keep those hands pumping. Let's see some nice dribble coming out from those fine specimens."

"Do it for each other for a minute. That's it. Good fun, ain't it? But don't peak yet, I've lots of other stuff to do before you enjoy a jolly. Stick out yer tongues an' slither 'em together. Give 'em a nice licking." And then. "Turn around and let me see what you look like at the back. Frocks up and heads down. Show me some arse."

Feeling hot and horny Amanda and Bambi were at his command, and at the man's insistence they turned away from him, got down on all-fours then pushed their faces to the floor, revealing bare bottoms the colour of cream. Monty savoured the texture of each milky mound. "Now the cheeks. Spread 'em. Hold them arses open wide. Open your legs and shove your bottoms up. Let's see some shagability."

The two young men complied, pushing their backsides up and splaying their thighs and showing their balls, which were hanging heavy like plums in bags between their legs.

"A-fuckin-mazin'." Herbert murmured with approval.

Monty's eyes glowered like those of a hunger hawk and he licked his lips as if actually tasting the savoury view. "Yes, lovely. Blemishless - so soft. I'll use the hand camera to do a few close-up anus shots."

Downstairs a stranger stood at the side entrance to the house awaiting permission to enter. He was twenty-something, clean-shaven and square-jawed, lean of body and sheathed in an open-necked shirt and crotch-hugging denim jeans. In his right hand he gripped the handle of a canvas tool bag.

"Hi!" said Jennifer, greeting him with what she hoped was a pleasant smile. He smiled back, showing a first-class set of teeth. He was even more compelling close up; broad shoulders and low-hipped tight jeans that bagged over blue trainers. He had olive tan hands with long fingers and smooth clean nails, and she had a vision of small wood-brown nipples on a hairless chest. His hair was dark brown like his eyes and was slightly mussed, as if he'd not long rolled out of someone's bed.

"Hi ya'self, I'm Reg. I've had a call about a blocked drain here."

Jennifer's brow furrowed. The man was a plumber. She'd been told nothing of a workman coming and Hardwick usually took care of blocked drains. She glanced behind and saw Poppy, like an inquisitive squirrel with his head poking around the kitchen door. "Do we have a blocked drain?" she asked him.

Poppy swung out from the kitchen, smiling sweetly. He was wearing what looked like an inch of eyeliner, a silver lurex crop-top and a black miniskirt that barely covered his pants. The crop-top displayed a large pink love-heart surrounded by the motto 'I'm The Girl Your Mother Warned You About.'

"A blocked drain? Erm - yes Jennifer. In the kitchen. I keep having to use the sucky-thing on a stick to empty the sink." he stood inches away from the plumber, rooted to the spot and shamelessly fawning over him. "Wow!" he uttered, and he wasn't referring to the tool bag in the man's hand.

"Probably just something choking the U-bend on the waste pipe," nodded Reg cheerfully. "I'll soon have that sorted."

Jennifer sighed. "You must excuse me for seeming ignorant, but I'm not told of half the things that are arranged around here. You'd better go through to the back."

Reg stepped in and politely wiped his feet on the doormat. "Could someone show me where the stop-valve is in case I need to turn off the mains water supply?"

He was tall and he had his sleeves rolled up and Poppy was captivated by his muscular arms. "I know where the tappy-thing is. I'll show you." he offered with childlike enthusiasm. "And I'll make you some tea. You're a big man so I'll make you a big mug of tea.

Believing himself to be the focal point of a pretty girls attention the plumber gave him a warm smile. "What kind of tea? English breakfast, Earl Grey, China or camomile?

Poppy grinned. "Builders tea. Strong, with a dash of milk and two sugars."

"You're a very kind young lady."

"It's no trouble." chirped the girly-boy, "We like to please people in this house."

Seeking a diversion for a few minutes from the tiresome business upstairs Jennifer went into her mother's study and opened the morning mail. Most of it was of no interest, just advertising circulars and utility bills, but one envelope distinguished itself from the others by its sheer quality. Another of her mother's schemes for increasing income had been to find placements for some of her students as quickly as possible, and a good deal of mail had been sent out to people she had cultivated as possible clients. The envelope contained a handwritten note on headed paper from the Marchioness of Wiggleswick expressing the kind of interest that was bound to please her mother.

On the way out she glimpsed Gloria slumped in an armchair in her private little hideaway, completely engrossed in a children's programme on the television. She had a flash of guilt as she hurried back up the stairs, not about what she'd just done, but about what she should have been doing. Her mother had charged her with monitoring the conduct of those ghastly photographers, and despite the care she had taken herself earlier she hadn't even asked Gloria to stand in for her. 

Suddenly she felt uneasy, and she had a right to be suspicious, because her worse nightmare seemed to be realised. Certain noises were apparent even on the landing; urgent and rapacious gasping and gurgling. Animal panting. Breathless throaty cries. The gruff pig-like grunts of men, the slap of flesh on flesh, and the little 'oohs' and 'aahs' of sissies.

On reaching the room she had provided she turned the handle slowly so the door opened without noise. She only opened it a crack, but through the narrow aperture she could see everything clearly. The room was quite gloomy with the windows covered, but she could easily make out the huddle of bodies on the duvets spread on the floor. No one needed to paint a picture for her to know what was happening. Bambi and Amanda were kneeling on the duvets, heads down and supporting themselves on their elbows while pushing up their defenceless, shapely backsides. The two men were crouched behind them, trouserless, gripping their hips and forcing them to be still while they humped back and forth like a pair of mechanical jackhammers.

White buttocks, white legs. Bodies surging and ebbing. Two tender sissy-loveholes each being speared by thick wedges of gristle-like sinew that were moving briskly, each going further and deeper on a velvet journey.

Bambi threw back his head, moaning deep in his throat, eyes closed, gasping and panting as pimply Herbert rutted with him. Monty, crouched beside his assistant was linked to Amanda by a penis embedded deep in his anus. With his balls pressed against him he held him still, letting him get used to being stuffed full of man cock, slowly withdrawing a couple of inches before sliding back again. He repeated it a few times and then began to quicken the pace. Amanda took it with a look of shock and a tiny squeak of anguish, whimpering softly as the pulsating flesh made him accept its girth.

"What would yer missus say if she could see you now, up to yer balls in arse?" Herbert asked his boss.

"I shudder to think," replied Monty spitting between clenched teeth, "But they're too good to miss. They shag like bunny rabbits, don't they? Ooh, ugh. So smooth. They make me huge, bigger than I've been with her for years."

Both men laughed. They made a badly balanced pair, each rather worn in their own way. But while Monty was coarse and arrogant Herbert was younger and liked to put himself about as a man for the girls, although he never refused a nice bit of youthful rump when it was available.

There was nothing refined about the coupling, it was masters remorselessly providing and slaves submissively receiving. The pantywaists rotated their haunches in rhythm with the movements and began uttering a constant groan, and as their cries increased in pitch so the men increased the speed of their pumping.

Jennifer remained outside on the landing and softly closed the door. Everyone seemed to be enjoying themselves, and since the men were on the colloquial vinegar stretch and nearly finished there was no reason to cause an upset. Her only concern was that her mother would discover that her trusted daughter had not made proper provision to protect her darlings from Outsiders. She would be furious. Still, what could be the most serious thing that could happen? As Tweedledee once said to Alice - the most serious thing would be to get one's head cut off.

She left them to finish what they were doing and went down the stairs again, and with nothing better to do she decided to check how the plumber was getting on. A curtain had been drawn halfway across the entrance to the kitchen so she contented herself by peering through the open portion. Most of Reg, the top of him anyway, was out of sight, wedged inside the small cupboard under the sink where the waste water pipe was concealed. The bottom half of him was kneeling on the floor, buttocks riding high. It was an undignified pose but not one that was unusual for a plumber, except that Reg's jeans had been neatly peeled down to his thighs and his bare rump was completely exposed. 

Poppy was attending to the visitor in a not unusual way for himself. He'd got down on the floor and had hauled the man's penis backwards between his legs in order to pump it with a full-handed grip. The broad tip clenched between his fingers was drizzling a strand of opaque icor that swung like a pendulum as he pushed and pulled.

With his head buried inside the cupboard Reg was partially out of eyesight but not at all out of earshot. He was gasping and gurgling in sublime helplessness, convinced he was being aggressively hand-jobbed by a pretty girl.

As she watched Poppy inclined his head, his playful smile defined by the corners of his mouth. Amusement never left his lips. Sex, any kind of sex was his forte - he loved it. Lots of it. Mainly these days with dewy young deliverymen who came to the door of the kitchen. There was nothing terrible about it, thought Jennifer, it was a harmless hobby and probably made a nice change to scrubbing pots and pans, even if they were Outsiders.

Poor Reg, she thought. He'd probably never encountered anyone who lacked sexual inhibition to the extent that Poppy did. With his head beneath the sink he would have been shocked to feel strange hands attacking his waist belt, but he would have accepted it. He may have been alarmed at the first touches, but although strong in body his will was undoubtedly weak. Men melted under Poppy's attention. There would be few in the world who could resist his charms, or his ministrations.




A Sissy Saga Ch. 15



In addition to constant physical stimulation Poppy offered his own eager urging. "Your chopper's like a log, Reg. I can tell it needs to unload something. Come on, don't be shy, you know you want to do it. Do it now. Do some nice spunkies for me." His voice was light, almost musical in tone, yet it carried the odd kind of huskiness that men found spine tingling.

A deep groan came from inside the cupboard. "Oooaar, hahhh!" and when it happened Reg's initial ejaculation was a spectacular projectile cum of championship magnitude. A thick rope of semen spurted halfway across the kitchen and hit the floor with an audible splat. Plenty more followed, but none of it matched the same velocity and it merely heaved out over Poppy's fingers in big wet glops of milky goo.

Poppy was impressed. "Oh, Reg, what a lovely creamy. You really let a girl know when she'd being appreciated. I bet you're making babies all over Yorkshire."

Jennifer slipped quietly away. No need to interrupt while the plumber was still working and Poppy was doing such a good job.

Later she went into the hall when Reg appeared and stood with him while he wrote out an invoice. "Everything okay now?"

"Yeah, yeah," the plumber said, still looking slightly red faced. "The gunge in that U-bend must have been building up for fifty years. I've told the girl in the kitchen to run the taps for a while to flush the pipes through."

"Good idea. My mother always reckons things work better when the tubes have been cleaned out."

Reg went out through the side door, a ruptured cavalier, his scrotum drained and aching. Jennifer went straight away to the kitchen where Poppy was busy with a bucket of soapy water and a mop. "Workmen always leave a mess when they call, don't they Jennifer?" he said innocently.

She looked at him and arched a single cynical eyebrow. "They do in this house." 

***

By the time Miriam Hancock's car came up the drive the photographer's had departed and affairs at Fairyfield had settled back into their routine. Having had quite enough of trying to control Outsider's for one day Jennifer was rather glad to give responsibly for everything back over to her mother. Miriam was pleased to be back too, but a blight was quickly put on her return when Hardwick divulged something unwholesome that he had been concealing from her daughter since the previous day.

Miriam's face was grim as she observed his wretched figure slumped in the chair facing her. "Just what happened yesterday whilst I was away? Don't miss anything out. I need to know everything if you want me to help you."

The gym instructor, usually so jaunty and dapper sat limp and forlorn and intensely pale. A nervous tic jerked the angle of his jawbone, and the fingers of his clasped hands moved ceaselessly. He was distraught and almost sobbing. "Ooh, they'll put me in prison, and there are big men in prisons who bully people like me all the time. I won't be able to take it, I may have to kill myself."

"Don't become hysterical Mr Hardwick. At the moment all you've told me is that you could be arrested at any moment for gross indecency and sexual molestation, but when I telephoned the police station just now they told me it was the nasty kind of assault that is tantamount to rape."

"Rape? Oh, dear. Oh dear oh dear."

I fail to understand you. For the past year your behaviour as been exemplary, you've always been happy enough to amuse yourself with what we have in the school, and now all of a sudden we have this. Tell me what happened, and be precise about it."

The man made an attempt to gather his wits. "Yesterday afternoon I had a spare period, so I went to fix the front gate out by the road. It's starting to sag you see, so I..."

"Yes, yes. Do get to the part I need to know about."

"There was a young fellow outside on the road, circling round on a shiny red bike." His eyes widened. "I didn't say anything to him. I didn't know him and I remember the warnings you've given me in the past about getting involved with Outsiders. But he spoke to me. He was friendly."

"Then what happened?"

"He was beautiful. He was wearing tight cycling shorts and showing lovely bare legs. He kept riding in circles and smiling, and he kept talking. Such a chatterbox. He was unbelievably sweet. Then he went across to the other side of the road and said he was going to do something behind the hedge."

"And then?"

"I couldn't help myself. I crossed the gravel road and found him sitting on the stump of a tree, leaning back on his hands with his cock and his balls fully exposed. 

Miriam uttered a sigh of resignation.

"I would never force my attention on anyone that was unwilling, you know me well enough to be aware of that," Hardwick continued morosely, "He didn't seem to mind me touching him. He seemed to enjoy being handled, and he did a tremendous dollop over my fingers."

"Hell!" Miriam exclaimed angrily.

"I'm sorry Miss Hancock, I know I've let you down." he snivelled with the uncontrolled gusto of a ten year old child. "But he was so endearing and seemed so eager and willing. He was impossible to resist and never gave a hint he would make a complaint about me. Oh, Miss Hancock, what am I to do?"

"Did you bugger him?"

"No, but I did persuade him to suck me off. That didn't take very long, I was quite excited. I don't think he liked it much, so maybe it was the first time he'd let a man go off in his mouth. Perhaps that's why he made a complaint."

Miriam stood up and turned to look out of the window, but her mind was in turmoil and she saw nothing of the view. "You've done me a great disservice Mr Hardwick. Image is everything, and this will be in the newspapers in no time. When people learn I employ a sexual molester at Fairyfield they'll avoid it like the plague, and no one of any importance will wish to be associated with me.

There'll be questions asked - investigations - social workers, police, bumptious officials of all kinds - all poking and prying into what we do here. They'll murder us. All my sponsors will crawl back into the woodwork where they came from. It will kill the school."

She was desperately trying not to hyperventilate. Nothing was going right, was it? First there was the National Trust challenging her over probate, and now suddenly this - the kind of scandal that promised ruination. She felt powerless, just like a bloody Nero plucking away on a bloody ukulele while things fizzed and popped around her.

She was upset. She had allowed things to upset her. She could feel the blood coursing into her cheeks and her heart begin an uneven dance. She stood still, thinking slowly, taking her time, breathing deeply, telling herself not to be a fool. She'd been in tight spots before and they'd never daunted her. Every problem had its solution, it just needed to be found. Self reliance, that was the key, the one thing that could pull her through whatever crisis fate chose to throw at her. To be one's self. Independent. Not witless. To be able to make decisions and plot the course of events, and change them if needs be. She'd always been good at that.

"You must help me Miss Hancock," Hardwick whined, "I must get away. Help me go abroad. I'll go to France. I have friends on the continent."

"You will not go anywhere," snapped Miriam, "You're no Bonny Prince Charlie and I'm no Flora MacDonald. You'll remain here with me until we've sorted out this - problem."

The man's shoulders sagged. "I'm so ashamed." 

He was on the point of tears, but Miriam didn't notice, nor did his plaintive whimpering register in her mind. Her thoughts suddenly cleared as they often did when she concentrated hard. She suddenly felt calmer and she smiled to herself. Everything was so obvious, a child could have worked it out. "I tend to smell a rat about this business, Hardwick." she said eventually.

"A rat, headmistress?"

"Yes. Are you sure you didn't know the young man on the bike?"

"On my honour. I'd never seen him before in my life - 'cept, 'cept, now you mention it I recall he did have a resemblance to a young fellow I saw buying grass seed at Larkin's emporium in the village. He may work on one of the estates around here."

Miriam clapped her hands. "Ha, so I suspect he would know who you were. Now, who knew you were going to fix the gate yesterday afternoon?"

"No one - well, I told no one special. I may have mentioned it to some of the cleaning women earlier in the day."

"That would be enough to alert everyone in Yorkshire to your movements. Anyone with a motive to do you ill would know exactly where and when to find you." 

The woman's mouth tightened. "I think you've been set-up, Mr Hardwick, vindictively and intentionally. And your downfall was meant as a means to destroy my school. Do you know the name of this young man."

"Yes, the police told me his name because he'd registered a complaint against me."

The mystery seemed solved and for the first time since her return home Miriam Hancock felt kindly. "Some evil person as frightened you half to death, but there is no need to worry any more. I believe I have the measure of things now. You've had a shock. Would you like a brandy?"

The man shook his head. "Something soft would be okay. A juice. A glass of water will do."

Miriam shrugged. "Don't you drink?"

"Not alcohol."

Extraordinary, thought the headmistress. Hardwick was a middle-aged teetotal gentleman, probably well bred and without any of the more common vices. He was so soft-centred he never struck the students himself but always sent them off to a prefect if punishment had been earned. Shame he was an incurable pervert.

Later, when discussing the subject with Jennifer, her daughter had given her a concerned look. "We should get out of this sissy school business while we still have a chance, mummy. There are too many pitfalls in running a place like this. We should sell-up and move somewhere else and settle for dealing in groceries."

Miriam replied wistfully. "In France this house would be termed a chateau and I would be a chatelaine. French names spoken in English sound so grand, and they so often generate a sense of romance and importance, don't they?"

For a moment her eyes smouldered, then she added gutturally, "I'm greedy. I want importance. I want more of everything, and the best way of getting it is to hang on here." Her face turned towards her daughter. "I want you to take a trip out this evening, Jennifer. I'll ask Emma to drive you. The two of you together will make a formidable combination."

She telephoned early the following morning. "Lady Chance-Barton? Miriam Hancock here."

"What is it Miss Hancock?"

"I'm so pleased I caught you in. You've probably heard of the trouble my Mr Hardwick as got himself into."

"Trouble - I've heard nothing, and it seems indelicate to inquire."

"It's a tiresome affair. Mr Hardwick as had some trouble with a young fellow called Rupert Ramsbottom. I think you may know who I mean."

"I've a gardener called Ramsbottom, it's probably his son. What's all this got to do with me?"

"Mr Hardwick desperately needs someone to intercede on his behalf."

"Intercede? Help him?" the reply dripped contempt. "He's beyond help I think. I understand the pervert was kicked out of his job in London for pursuing a series of indecencies, and frankly I'm horrified that you ever employed him in the first place. He should have been locked up years ago."

"I feel you are being unfair Lady Diana. His past I'm not qualified to comment about, but these recent allegations are too bizarre to be given credence. And even if they were true, he alone would not be to blame. From the circumstances as I understand them, I tend to think someone procured the young man for him, and if he is to be punished it would only be proper, don't you think, that such a despicable person should be punished also."

There was a pause, and then a reply echoed hollow through the wire. "Just what are you inferring, Miss Hancock?"

Miriam clutched the phone tighter and her heart pounded as she rounded on the woman. "What I'm TELLING your ladyship is that I know you bribed Rupert Ramsbottom. You gave him money, and you told him to seek out Hardwick and entrap him in a sexually gross act and then report the matter to the police. You did it to destroy him and to ruin my school, but in the process you've become guilty of abetting a rapist."

Another pause, and then a shaky reply. "I - er - that's simply imagination on stilts, and if you repeat it anywhere you'd better find yourself a good lawyer."

"I sent Jennifer to see the young man in question last night. Few people can withstand an interrogation by her, and Rupert couldn't help but let everything spill out. He's already withdrawn the accusations he made yesterday and Hardwick is in the clear. But I was interested in hearing your response. Now I wont feel so bad about circulating certain photographs I have in my possession."

"Wait - don't..." the voice on the other end of the line took on a desperate nuance. "You know very well those filthy photographs were obtained by unscrupulous underhand means and my role in them was an engineered fabrication."

"I guess you're going to have to rely on everybody believing your explanation. The press call August the silly season, you know. With parliament in recess and half the world on holiday, it tends to be a quite time for news. Newspapers are tempted to make major stories out of minor things at such times, and they like nothing better than a sex scandal involving a celebrity to headline their front pages."

"Look, Miss Hancock - Miriam, I'd like to talk over this matter with you. Would you come and see me?"

"No, m'lady, I will not. But you can come and see me. I'll put you on my schedule for eight tomorrow evening. I can't abide unpunctuality, so be prompt. And wear something fitting for the occasion. I'm an headmistress, so put on something schoolgirlish."

Replacing the handset abruptly, Miriam Hancock stood still for a moment, trying to comprehend the enormity of the triumph she'd just achieved. She could feel the smile on her face as if someone had set it there. The hoity-toity Diana Chance-Barton was at her beckoning.

The elation passed eventually, but the contentment remained with her for the rest of the day.



A Sissy Saga Ch. 16



It was after supper, but the evening sun still shone through the lofty windows of the gymnasium to catch dust particles floated weightlessly in its slanting streams of light. A naked young man who promoted the delicate aura of a fragile girl stood fumbling over his words before the seated figure of Miss Twist, groping helplessly for an excuse to explain the persistent stiffness of his penis. Eventually he subsided into silence, eyes apprehensive, knuckles white as he wrung his hands behind his back.

The teacher raise an ironic eyebrow. "In other words you don't know why you're in such a state, is that right Bambi?"

The student was almost too fragile, with his hair pinned back from his elfin face everything about him seemed small and frail at that moment. Everything except his penis that is, which was standing erect, swollen and as solid as he had ever known it. Earlier he'd secluded himself away and pumped it frantically, but even an ejaculation had failed to diminish its tenacious uplift. "I-I didn't have any trouble until matron gave me some tonic, an - and..."

"So, you blame matron for your ghastly show of male arrogance?"

"N-no miss - only I can't make it go down. I've tried..."

"Stop your miserable sissy faffing. You're not going to be punished for having an erection tonight. The reason you're here as already been defined, and you voted for extra detention instead of time in the dungeon. But if you thought you'd escaped with a soft option by agreeing to come here you may change your mind in a little while."

Bambi had already had some misgivings when he's seen the row of bare bottoms already lined up in front of the wall-bars. Four pairs of naked sissy buttocks pushed out into plumpness, four pairs of knees resting side by side on the wooden bench, and four helpless classmates bent forward, heads down awaiting 'whacks'.

Hands behind his back, he flattened his palms around his own pert rounded bottom in an unconscious way, symbolically protecting them from what he knew was to come.

Miss Twist narrowed her eyes in a way that made her look like a mean cat planning to shred up a canary, then she dipped into the sports bag that never seemed to be far from her side. "Since you have no control of your body we shall give the portion that offends a little playsuit of its own."

Seeming oblivious to the sexual content of the situation she drew him forward and fastened an Arab-strap onto his genitals. A metal ring slotted down over his penis to settle at its base, and a leather strap connected to the ring was buckled around the root of his testicles. That done she drew a second strap from somewhere beneath to divide his scrotum and make his balls bulge out each side of it like a pair of fat grapes. Her knuckles of necessity buffeted Nicola's straining penis as she pulled everything snug and secure and fastened the last buckle. "There, that would appear to make things tidier, don't you think Bambi?"

"Y-yes miss." His voice was a whisper.

"Fine. Go and take your place with the others."

The schoolteacher then produced a plimsoll from her bag and stood up looking somewhat ominous and threatening in a sleek, black body hugging leotard. Threatening was exactly how she wished to be seen. Her movement, and by implication the imminence of discomfort for imprudently presented backsides, caused consternation among the four other unfortunates who had chosen extra detention as a chastisement for their 'crimes'. Bare thighs squeezed anxiously together and nervous bum-cheeks huddled tight as if seeking security in numbers.

The fortunate side-effect of their posing made their dear bottoms develop into firm, round apple-shaped morsels that stuck out and waggled provocatively, and Emma wasn't slow to appreciate such a thing. As she approached the line of subjection Zoë, who's flawless derriere was about to become the target for her first stinger, moaned in despair. That was rashness indeed, but he stuttered - "S-sorry miss." - even when he knew it was pointless. An eloquent swish of the plimsoll, a THWACK, and he was a bungle of wriggling agitation.

"Silence," snapped the woman, " I don't want to hear anything but 'Ouch' and Ow'. You can save 'Sorry miss' until the end!"

She moved along to the next compliant figure and with a flourish of her arm brought the rubber-soled shoe swooshing down across Fifi's delectable round bottom. Fifi squealed, squirmed and earned himself a second smack before he subsided into obedient silence, sobs gurgling against a hand he clutched against his mouth. The teacher paced along the row again and then back, grinning, her expression puckish and mischievous, clearly relishing the helplessness of the sissies under her command. When slapped the gym-shoes playfully onto Trudy's upthrust bottom again her smiled broadened. It made the she-boy bleat and squirm his defenceless little bum beautifully.

How nice. They were all so easy to intimidate.

For a moment she dwelt on the cause of them being there. In the outside world their antics would be of little note, but at Fairyfield small deviations came in for big whacks. Bambi and Zoë had been caught playing with their pricks while perusing a magazine entitled 'Man-Sized' and masturbation without permission was of course always a good enough reason for punishment. Fifi and Trudy had been scooped up by Gloria as they exited from the door marked 'prohibited' that led into the unused east-wing. They were only clad in bathrobes, and in the pocket of one she'd found a part-used tube of KY jelly, while in another had been a plastic vibrator with the proportions of a cucumber.

The fifth individual was Poppy - he never seemed to be far from trouble. He'd pestered Miss Hancock to be allowed to water the flower-beds in the garden each evening, but had been caught out when Miriam had inspected the tool shed and found a blanket on the floor on which lay Poppy's bellybutton ring. On interrogation he'd admitted that one of the elderly gardeners - an Outsider - had been giving him tail.

Of course Miriam Hancock's regime at the school catered for all such misdemeanours and there was no real justification for 'special correction', but like Jennifer, Emma Twist relished humiliating and smacking pretty young men, and from time to time leeway was allowed for some imaginative amusement.

Rising above her reverie she paraded behind the miscreants, stopping at each in turn, stroking and tapping their buttocks. "Okay - now then, what do you lot deserve as 'warmers', eh? How many to make a start? One each, or half a dozen - what do you say?

It was play-acting of course, intended to amuse herself and humiliate the unfortunate pantywaists. When no one ventured a suggestion even of the most timid kind she made an arbitrary decision of her own. "Right - four each to begin with."

Trudy, who's pretty rump was first in line for the first batch of stingers, and who had already received some, moaned as she laid on a hearty smack that made him squeal and shake and lift onto his toes. But the shoe descended again before he'd even caught his breath.

SMACK, TWHAT, TWAK!

Leaving him in an undignified posture with a glowing bottom she moved on to Poppy, the next in line, and bottom number two began its frantic dance, the shoe not being fooled by either jive or rumba.

Bambi at the end of the line stole anguished glances at his blubbering friends. His was the most unenviable position of all, since he had to wait in agonising suspense while the ghastly shoe moved slowly but irrevocably along the row of others towards him. When the unfortunate figure next to him jerked tearfully forward under the impetus of a sharp blow his own eyes suddenly brimmed and covering his face with his hands he began to weep sissy tears.

It was unbelievable, but he escaped the first round of introductory spanks. Suddenly Miss Twist ceased swinging her arm and stood back. Jennifer had appeared. She stood in the doorway looking extremely vampish in a loose tank-top and very short buttock-hugging hot-pants, but if the clothes were suitable for a precocious little girl, her temper appeared to be a match. She looked for all the world like a child who had just had a bag of sweets snatched from its hand. "Really Emma, you go too far. Mummy promised I could take the correction period today."

"Of course, I know that's what she said, but time was getting on and I didn't think you were coming."

"Well, I HAVE come." the girl spluttered, at that moment looking the essence of sulks.

Emma Twist knew she had no choice but to give way gracefully. She'd never been overawed by the teenager like so many others. She knew she was equal to her in callous efficiency and her wider experience of life gave her the edge, but the girl was the daughter of the headmistress and that ensured she would always hold the advantage when it came to doling out domestic correction. Jennifer would always get her way.

"And so Jennifer dear, you can take the detention. I'll get out of the way and leave you to it - unless you want some help."

Jennifer laughed sarcastically. "Help? Christ, there's only five of them, and they all know I'll tie a rope around their pretty bollocks and hoist them to the ceiling if they give me any trouble." She gave the row of subservient girl-things a fierce glance. "Isn't that right, my sweet poppet's?"

Five pale faces swivelled about to nod rapidly in unison. "Y-yes, Jennifer." came the stuttering reply.

Suddenly the girl's mood seemed to mellow. Having triumphed in her right to take charge she glanced over her shoulder and smiled amiably at Emma. "You can stay and look after the forfeits if you like. I'd really like some help with that." Without waiting for a reply she turned back to the sissies. "Stand up and get away from the wall. Get in line."

She was at her most imperious, chin jutting, arm outstretched, finger jabbing the air. The small band of sissies immediately scrambled back to form an extended line with their bare toes nudging a chalk mark on the floor. It was only then that Bambi was able to see that his girlish companions were all suited as he was. Each had a raging erection, and each had their scrotums secured in an Arab-strap.

"No slouching," snapped Jennifer, "Tummy's in, chests out. Let me have a proper look at you all."

Completely unimpressed by the row of swollen, eminently thrusting male appendages she stood like a general reviewing troops, glowering at the line of impertinent, uprisen sissy-cocks that were all thrusting above the horizontal. Even Poppy's generous proportions were making an exceptional thrust. 

After a moment a flicker of amusement danced about the corners of her mouth. Wow, matron's aphrodisiac concoction had produced amazing results. When first mooted the idea had been for something to cause extreme embarrassment, but it had ended up something more than that. They all had remarkable stands - thick and strong and really manlike. What a volley they would give if they all went off together. Their pink ball-bags too looked stimulated, plumped out as they were from the straps that harnessed them in a way that made them look like diminutive rosy apples. Why, a girl could almost want to...

She silently rebuked herself. Enough of that kind of thought. The weak androgynous sods weren't worthy.

"Disgusting!" she scolded. "This is not what's expected of good girl's. What on earth have you been up to? Have you all been playing with yourselves or have you been doing it for each other?"

Five flushed faces fearfully shook from side to side, even though they'd all ejaculated at least three times in failed attempts to dissipate the priapism brought on by matron's tonic. Hands on hips she surveyed them critically, looking directly at the sheaths of skin that still hooded the tip of one or two erections.

"Hmph. Clearly there's still some maleness to beat out of you all. Slide your foreskins back. Knob-ends should always be on display when sissies show a hard-on to a girl."

She watched sternly and silently while those at fault drew their prepuce back to expose their swollen red helmets, then she suddenly became animated. "Right. All of you - get over to the wall-bars for warmers."

Four of them scampered quickly, but Fifi hung back to display the pink marks already evident from the spanks he'd received earlier. "We've already had warmers, Jennifer."

His remark only earned him a smack on the back of the head from her hand. "Don't question what I say, you sissy-queer. You haven't had warmers from me yet."

Bambi didn't escape warmers the second time, but Jennifer only gave them all two each - one on every upturned buttock along the row of submissive bottoms, and if she noticed his pert backside was still pale and creamy while all the others were rosy pink she didn't make it obvious.

While the daughter of the headmistress was entertaining herself in walloping the hapless young men with a gym-shoe Emma settled onto a low bench nearby. It didn't go easy for her to serve in a secondary role, but she'd become aroused, and staying at least guaranteed some action.

Her eyes drifted around the gymnasium. Hardwick had been told to provide a simple gym-circuit, starting with a run and leap over a vaulting-box to be followed by up and down ropes. A run to the far wall would extend things, then a gate-vault over a low beam and a monkey-swing along a high one would extract some energy. Each lap would come to an end with press-ups on a rubber mat.

When Jennifer had finished Emma rose up and helped hustle the class into single file ten paces away from the vaulting-box. A slap on his tender backside was the signal for Poppy, the first in line, to dash forward, leap onto a small springboard and sail over the box with legs astride. The moment he reached the climbing ropes a sharp whack set Trudy off on the same route.

One by one the others were dispatched, a brisk tap on the rear sending them on their way like little comets with red-hot tails, and Jennifer was soon circulating among them, dealing out acid abuse and random smacks at her whim while urging the owner of each shuddering bare bottom to greater effort. Zoë received a smack on his smooth thigh, then Fifi got one across the top of both legs. Next Poppy took a wallop square on his bottom, not too hard, but not too soft either. No one escaped her relentless pursuit.

They went around the circuit like steeple chaser's, and noticing how easily they managed it all infuriated Jennifer. She stomped from the floor grinding her teeth in exasperation. "The effeminate sods are supposed to suffer, but Hardwick's too clever at keeping them fit and he's made the circuit too easy. There's hardly a flush to their cheeks and they aren't even breathless."

Emma smiled thinly. She may have been pushed into second place but she at least had the presence of mind to think the matter through before making a start. "It'll ginger things up if we gag them. I've got some ball-gags with me."

She pulled a number of items from her sports bag, then took hold of Poppy. "If you approve Jennifer dear, I'll demonstrate with this one, then the others can gag each other."

Jennifer thunderous expression eased and she nodded, and Emma glared at the group of sissies. "Pay attention, you'll be told to pair-off and do this for each other in a moment."

"Open." she demanded, lifting a small, glossy black ball to Poppy's lips. It was his instinct to recoil, but the action was forestalled by a hand on his neck. "Aaawthpth!" He gurgled as the powerful woman pushed her fingers between his soft lips to hold down his tongue and lever his jaw down. "You must open wide for this," she told everyone as she forced the ball-gag into his gaping mouth with her thumbs.

The object was a solid rubber sphere the size of a tangerine, and it made Poppy's neck strain and his eyes close into a squint as its fattest portion was installed between his teeth. Pushing up against the roof of his mouth and flattening his tongue there was no way to complain even if he felt brave enough to try. He imagined his mouth to be stretched to its utter limit, and was amazed when his jaw had to stretch a tiny bit more as the redoubtable Miss Twist buckled the retaining strap behind his head.

"There. It's done." declared the watching Jennifer. "The rest of these creampuffs shouldn't have a problem fitting them, since your all used to having balls in your mouths."

Zoë and Bambi, and Trudy and Fifi were told to pair off and gag each other while the two females stood back and observed. The sissies looked wide-eyed and ridiculous with there mouths wedged open and thoroughly stuffed, but decidedly cute and charming when viewed in their only other garment - the Arab-strap harness that bound their genitals further down.

If the first circuit of the gym had been a piece of cake for them the second was a stone. Since their mouths were efficiently bunged they were unable to pant, and every whiff of air and each exhalation had to pass through their small flaring nostrils. When Jennifer, shouting like a fairground barker, began to harry them again they were soon snorting in desperation.

Around they went, and around again, and Bambi was soon aware of another worry. His penis was stiffer and more swollen than he had ever known it to be, and it felt unnervingly sensitive too. As he made his way from box to rope and horizontal bars to mat, it bobbed about before his thighs in the manner of an unwieldy truncheon. Scrapping it on the ropes made it twitch, tapping it on the bars made it throb and nubbing its tip on the rubber mat whilst doing press-ups almost made him ejaculate.

Hot with physical effort and chilled by anxiety he thought it terribly unfair that hitched to all the other humiliations he was enduring was the ghastly possibility of doing a cum in front of the women. He neither knew nor cared that the same affliction he suffered was shared by all the others in his group.

To an Outsider it would have been an extraordinary scene - five of them, naked but for a few tethers and straps, all running around the gymnasium in various stages of exhaustion, all the time having to cope with the unpredictable swing of an outward thrusting penile erection. There seemed no end to it. Each time one of them returned to the start-point Emma Twist gave him a smack and set him off again. Being unable to breath properly soon had an effect, and they began to falter, which gave Jennifer even more opportunity to slipper them on the way round.

Another lap and they began to stagger, breathing fricative, chests heaving, nostrils dilating, every movement needing extra effort to compensate for the restriction of oxygen required by their limbs.

The fifth lap became a fiasco. Zoë leapt bravely at the vaulting-box, but his best effort was laboured and he lacked the momentum to clear it. He crashed, legs straggling the end of it, and he became a barrier that Fifi who was following didn't identify in time. They collided, and in a sprawling mess of bare flesh and flailing limbs their juvenescent, epicene bodies tumbled down onto the safety mat.

Jennifer stopped everything to make sure there was no serious injury, but found the only thing shattered to be Fifi's dignity. The sissy bowed his head, shamefaced. His slender not so itsy-bitsy cock was twitching over the great big unbidden cummy he'd hosed over Zoë's belly during their tangle.

"Forfeit!" cried Jennifer, "This limp-wristed gay-girly as made a mess." And Fifi was sent off for a session with Miss Twist while the others were hounded into continuing their exercise.

Forfeits were an unapologetic extension to the bottom stinging warmers each sissy had received earlier. A half dozen smacks delivered onto an already painful well-reddened bottom, the only difference this time being they would be provided whilst draped over Miss Twist's infamous Mexican-hurdle. While Emma enjoyed watching Jennifer beat the androgynous figures around the room she had been waiting patiently to apply her own skill in more proportion, and she was now thoroughly ready.




A Sissy Saga Ch. 16



"So you've misbehaved," she admonished as Fifi reluctantly approached. "Shameless girly - doing disgusting squirts whilst ladies are in the room. There's only one sure remedy for that." 

Fifi gurgled behind his hand and glanced dismally at the hurdle. "That's right, it's there for you," Emma confirmed, "Get over it and make your bottom available."

She-boys like Fifi had become quite her favourite since coming to Fairyfield. Pretty, tender-bodied, vulnerable and easy to manage once they'd been cowed and made docile, their gorgeous bottoms were the perfect subject for the attention of a ladies slipper. Their manner could sometimes be surprisingly knowing for a sissy, as if they sensed that smacking them made a lady become damp between her legs, and often she'd give them extras for being so unerringly clever.

When the first swipe of the shoe struck Fifi's already sore backside his feet kicked up slightly and his legs parted before he settled into the kind of pose the schoolteacher appreciated - bottom slightly ajar to reveal a glimpse of anus - and his testes, divided by the harness that bound them, bulging between his thighs like a pair of juicy, fat plums. Circling round and loving the way each blow made him whimper, she took special care to aim her slipper at any pale patches on his reddened skin, then finished off with a couple of good stingers across both bottom cheeks.

No sooner had Fifi been returned to the gym than the belly-smeared Zoë fell foul of events. Halfway along the high-beam whilst doing a monkey-swing the frantic gyrations of his legs ceased and he suddenly paused and hung motionless like a pale pink 'Y'. He couldn't utter a sound of course, but his eyes staring wildly and his underarms, bathed in a slight sheen of perspiration, betrayed whirling emotions. Even in distress he was a gorgeous sight. His smooth slender stomach was made to seem even more delicate by the narrow, hairless chest that heaved above it, while his penis, as rigid as a steel bolt, was pointing straight out and oozing precum. Suddenly the tense cock twitched, and without the aid of any exterior stimulation it pumped forth a spout of cream.

With an expression of hopelessness clouding his face he dropped lightly to the floor where he was able to grasp the wayward gland in his fist and give himself a few moments of extended bliss before being directed over to Miss Twist.

He had only just been draped over the hurdle when Jennifer's voice was calling out again. Trudy Jones had lasted only a further half-lap before the tip of his throbbing member spontaneously bubbled with the appalling juice of manhood, and he too was sent over to Emma.

The doughty young schoolmistress had no intention of allowing a queue to form or of giving her current victim any respite, so she scooped him up bodily and stacked him face down on top of Zoë, pushing him well forward and pulling his legs astride so that Zoë's bottom was exposed beneath his own. With two sets of bared buttocks piled one on top of the other she continued as she'd intended, merely alternating her blows between them, an improvisation that she found so erotic that she did a cum in her pants. But it happened quietly and in secret, of course.

Soon afterwards Bambi too succumbed to the terrible sensitivity that assailed his penis. With the smooth skin of his abdomen taut from continuous repetitious exercise, his body sagged too low as he strained to fulfil a quota of push-ups, and the tender drooling tip of his youthful boner dug into the rubber mat. A spasm shot through him, and seized by erotic tremors his fingers clawed at the ball-gag and clutched at his pulsing cock. Breathing raggedly, nostrils flaring as he snorkelled for air, he was quite unable to prevent a copious discharge spurting forth, and even before his ejaculation had finished Jennifer was calling out, "Forfeit!"

Wearily he wiped away saliva forming on the edge of his imprisoned mouth as he staggered across to where Miss Twist waited to upend him over her hurdle. She gazed with secret relish at his helplessness and the endearing way his smooth legs appeared to be about to give way.

"Ah yes. Bambi!" the tutor murmured as she hauled him over. "I seem to recall you missed out on the first set of warmers earlier, and that being the case you'll get extra smacks now."

When Jennifer closed the circuit Emma hustled the five sobbing, sore-bottomed sissy-princess's together like a litter of puppies, and had them face the wall bars so she could survey their crimson bare bottoms. She was pleased with the result. So many gentle fingers now trying to soothe the heat from so many scorched buttocks. They were unable to talk, but they clearly shared a common anxiety of what would happen next.

"The effects of matron's, um, tonic is yet to wear off completely," she said to Jennifer, indicating the still upstanding line of youthful cocks, "I'll run them around the garden until it dissipates."

"Good idea," Jennifer said. She grasped Poppy by his elongated penis. "Take all the others, but I want this gender-bender for a while. I've some private business with him."

Dumbfounded, Poppy searched the faces around him for some guidance, but found none. Everyone else departed and he was left looking up at Jennifer's face in something of a quandary since he hadn't been aware of any kind of business at all with her. When she unbuckled the strap that held his gag in place and eased out the rubber ball he worked his mouth up and down in silence for a moment to test his jaw was still functioning.

"You're not going to hang me by my bollocks are you Jennifer?" he said at last, wiping the stain of recent tears from his cheeks.

The girl's mouth twisted. "Don't be such a cretin. I was about to compliment you on how well you managed this evening. You didn't disgrace yourself and you were the only one to avoid a forfeit."

He smiled wanly with a kind of ill-concealed pride. " I nearly did a cum loads of times, but I didn't want smacks over the hurdle so I managed to keep it in." His smooth features buckled slightly. "Anyway, I'm sure I got smacked more than any of the others without doing a forfeit."

Jennifer's face contorted in an expression of mock horror. "Why Poppy, you should be ashamed of yourself for thinking such a thing. It's just an impression you've got because you always squeak the loudest."

He gazed at her with a misleading air of wholesome innocence. "I wasn't squeaking - I couldn't squeak with a gag in my mouth."

The daughter of the headmistress allowed herself a small smile while her eyes wandered over him. In every aspect of his person, face as well as physique, he was formed as flawlessly as a girl. Naked in the gymnasium and elevated to the peak of condition, Poppy stood out, surpassing all others in symmetry of form and structure. Only his outlandish, oversized penis betrayed his real gender.

"Well, you know what I mean - you LOOKED like you were squeaking," she told him in a musical voice. "You're being quite horrid, and actually I'm quite put out to think that you believe I victimised you." Actually she was thinking how clever he was to have noticed the special attention she'd provided to his enticing little bum-cheeks. Special treatment because that evening she'd devised a special plan for him before she'd started.

"S-sorry, Jennifer."

"You've no one to blame but yourself if you've experienced discomfort. It's your own fault for bending over to please decrepit old men in the evenings when you should be watering daisies."

Poppy dodged the weight of her criticism in his usual fashion. "I don't water daisies. Feverfew look a bit like daisies, but..."

The girl grasped his arm impatiently. "Stop wittering rubbish. I've a special engagement for you tomorrow and it requires you to hold on to the accumulation of girly-goo in your balls. That being the case you'll spend the night in the dungeon with your hands tied behind your back." 

"That's unfair," complained the she-boy dismally, "The gym session was supposed to excuse me from time in the dungeon."

Jennifer took a firm grip on his penis and hauled him towards the door. "Your right Poppy, it is unfair. But life is like that. Sometimes it's terribly unfair for weakling, girly fuckwits. That's unfortunate, but you'll simply have to accept it."

***

That evening found Miriam at her desk in her parlour-office elegantly dressed in a severe high-necked blouse and black knee-length skirt. Her 'headmistress uniform' Jennifer called it. She passed the time going through correspondence that had been ignored earlier, and writing yet another letter to the Historic Buildings Commission outlining why she believed Fairyfield Grange should qualify for a maintenance grant. Her absorption was so complete she was only dimly aware when the clock on the mantle chimed eight. She only checked the time when Gloria poked her head around the door.

"Lady Chance-Barton is here, Miss Hancock."

Miriam pushed her chair back and placed her feet squarely on the carpet. "Ask her to come in."

Diana Chance-Barton entered trying to make a show of indifference rather than reluctance, but the mackintosh she wore buttoned to the neck looked extremely incongruous when considering the hot weather and did much to diminish her haughty swagger. A bitter smile slid across her pale face making her look rather gaunt in the failing light of evening. "You wanted to see me." she said coldly.

Her antipathy was thinly veiled. She stared hard, waiting expectantly and there was a look of belligerence on her face.

Miriam frowned. "I rather think it was you who wanted to see me."

"I was ambivalent about coming, but we must reach an understanding about those wretched photographs you have in your possession. You know very well they only exist as a result of vile trickery."

The headmistress observed her without smiling. Even in surrender Diana Chance-Barton played the part of the aristocrat to the hilt, heaping on condescension until it became nauseating. That wouldn't do. The surrender had to be absolute or there was no satisfaction.

She went forward to confront her. "The evening is far too humid for you to wear such a big coat, Diana. Allow me to help you remove it."

Lady Diana was thin, elegantly thin. It wasn't so much her figure that was striking, though her legs were spectacular, it was the upward tilt of her chin that marked her out as different. Although not born into nobility she had enjoyed the pampered benefits of wealthy parents, and her education had been thorough and privileged. None of that was a crime in itself, but unfortunately it had made this lady in particular unpleasant and arrogant.

The woman's haughty face flushed slightly as the headmistress unbuttoned the mackintosh without her consent and peeled it back from her shoulders. The high-society Mistress of Chance-Hall was revealed in a dark knee-length skirt, plain white blouse with a turndown collar, and a neatly knotted necktie of red and white stripes. Standing her beneath the ceiling lamp where the light was brighter, Miriam studied the woman's complexion with critical acidity. 

Her ladyship was an icon of the social set but she was no Lolita. Her beauty was of the kind that looked its best in daylight, but that night she had steeled herself to put aside make-up and haute monde and make an effort to dress as a schoolgirl. In a fit of over-enthusiasm to project the right image she had even opted to forsake wearing a bra, but her breasts were too impressive to retreat into insignificance. Every movement she made was marked by a noticeable judder of bulging flesh beneath the fabric of the blouse.

Diana's face glowed with embarrassment and she was clearly feeling overwrought. "Insisting I dress in this ridiculous fashion to visit you is intolerable." she snapped bitterly. "Perhaps now you've succeeded in humiliating me you're prepared to discuss things in a more mature way. Those wretched faked-up photographs that you constantly threaten me with are..."

"SILENCE!"

"W-what?" the visitors mouth dropped. She was astounded. People just didn't talk to the Lady of Chance Hall in such a sharp way.

Miriam Hancock's stare was glacial. "Don't make things hard for yourself by putting on pompous airs and graces, Diana. Act the schoolgirl part properly or we'll discuss nothing."

The other woman's face became set like stone. Miriam Hancock was an impertinent, conceited bitch, she thought. She'd been trying to influence the plebeian witch ever since she took up residence at Fairyfield Grange, but she'd failed. She had set out to dominate her like she dominated everyone else and it was infuriating to find she had gained the upper hand at every turn. She'd misjudged her. She'd thought her to be dull and insipid when she was actually as sharp as a whip. "Look here, Miriam, I..."

"Stand up straight girl. Put your feet together and stop flapping your hands like a bird."

"I-I'm not used to..."

"Not used to being told what to do? Not used to taking orders? You're twenty-nine years old and still a spoilt brat, but that will have to change."

"Miriam, please..."

"Don't be familiar. You must address me as headmistress."

"Really Miss Hancock, I can do without all this silliness."

Miriam flashed her teeth amid a frosty expression. "Then there's nothing more to be said. Let yourself out. Copies of the photographs will be in the post to all your favourite broadsheets tomorrow, and to the gutter press tabloids too."

Diana Chance-Barton had arrived having not thought beyond trying to assert herself, and now that had failed she was at a loss as to what to do next. "No, don't do that." Suddenly her self-assurance had gone. Her face became pink and her hands fumbled at her sides, just like a nervous schoolgirl. "I-I'd like to stay. Please allow me to stay, headmistress."

Miriam crossed her arms over her chest and savoured the moment. Gloated? Yes she was enjoying a little gloat. "I dare say you attended a good public school when you were younger, Diana. Cheltenham Ladies College or Roedean I expect. You probably became head-girl."

Diana stared at her shoes. "I was only ever head-of-house."

"Even so, you probably enjoyed a position of authority that enabled you to discipline younger girls, and I suspect you relished the power you had over them. Did you punish them often? Did you mock them? Did you strap their hands, twist their tits and pinch their nipples? Did you enjoy making them cry?"

Lady Chance-Barton shuffled uncomfortably. "I was entrusted to maintain the rules. A certain amount of correction was necessary if a girl was awarded a black mark. One had no choice but to do it."

Miriam went to her desk, and when she turned a short leather strap trailed from her hand. "The fright you gave poor Mr Hardwick as earned you a black mark and I'll not even mention the considerable bother you've caused me. Now it's time to pay the price." 

Diana stared at the strap in astonishment and horror. "Miss Hancock - headmistress, I..."

"Let me finish." Miriam's voice was chill. "Arrogance as made you an unpleasant individual. That's unacceptable, and I don't tolerate unacceptable behaviour from people who come under my jurisdiction." She tapped the tip of the strap in her palm. "Hold out your hand."

Lady Diana blinked in disbelief. "Oh god. No. you can't..." But then in a mechanical fashion she extended her arm and flattened her fingers.

Still Miriam made no obvious show of triumph, instead she reached forward to coolly check the other woman's arm was level with her shoulder and align the hand, ensuring it was open with fingers pulled together. Then her voice assumed the magisterial tone of an irate schoolmistress. "You're wearing paint on your fingernails, Diana. I don't allow that when girls are in uniform. In future you'll remove it before you come to see me."

"In future?" The horror on Lady Chance-Barton's face increased. "But I thought that - I'm sure we shared an understanding - what I mean is..."

Miriam stepped forward and judged the distance. The strap became raised, then whooshed down to strike squarely across the fingers of the outstretched hand. CRACK! The leather struck keenly and Diana's entire body buckled. "Ooow!"

"If you believed your visit here to be a one-off thing, you are wrong. You will attend here whenever I tell you. Only obedience will ensure the safety of those photographs. Do you understand?"

"Yes, y-yes, headmistress." replied Diana, wincing with pain.

"Good. Now the other hand. Get it up. Hold it level."

"Oh, oh please."

SMACK! "Oooh" The shoulders of the 'schoolgirl' sagged and she clasped her hands and wrung them together frantically, not knowing how best to ease the sting in either.

"So far so good." said Miriam, "but the real test comes when the bottom is punished."

Diana's face became apoplectic. It couldn't be true. Surely this sadistic Fairyfield harridan wasn't planning to belt her backside like some witless junior girl who had neglected to learn her lessons. She was a grown married woman of good breeding. There was her elevated position in society to consider, and her pride had to be taken into account.

The schoolmistress seemed to read her mind and her voice cut the air. "Your head is a nest for vipers, and I must knock them out of you by way of your buttocks. Status disqualifies you from nothing here. Take off your skirt."

Diana had pushed her pleading as far as it would go, and she knew it. While Miriam stood glaring like a bird of prey she looked miserably down at the floor and fiddled with the clasp on her skirt. The zip rasped undone, but she hung onto her pride a moment longer until an impatient intake of breath from the headmistress dissipated the last remaining vestiges of defiance. With a swoosh the garment slipped down and she stepped out of it.

"Fold it neatly, dear. There are no flunkies to do it for you here."

Her ladyship did as directed, making a great show of doubling the skirt over and draping it over the back of a chair, while Miss Hancock observed the close fitting hug of her schoolgirl knickers. "You're wearing nylons, Diana. That's a privilege I only allow to senior pupils at my school."

"I-I'm sorry. I didn't know."

"Never mind. In a way this occasion is a special one, and the welts of your stockings will enhance the outline of you derriere rather nicely."

With a soft 'plop' the skirt slid from the chair and onto the carpet. "You can't do ANYTHING right, can you? mocked Miriam. "Did you go to a finishing-school?"

"I-I attended Mme Lemarchand's Academy in Switzerland."

"Where you were no doubt drilled in the manner of a society hostess and taught how to eat 'difficult' food such as artichoke and asparagus. You will have been tutored in the correct table settings for various kinds of dinner parties and whether to serve real Cristal champagne or just settle for boring old Moet. Unfortunately no one ever taught you how to hang up your own clothes."

As Diana crouched down to retrieve the skirt her pants tightened around the soft curves of her buttocks, and her bum cheeks wobbled faintly but with a certain resilience as she straightened up. With the skirt properly secured at last. Miriam continued. "Now your knickers. Get them down girl."

Diana hesitated, wavered, and risked one last try to hold onto her dignity. Her voice became breathless and her tone childish, wheedling and pleading all at the same time. "Please headmistress, please don't make me. Don't insist I lower my pants."

"And why not, pray?" asked Miriam quietly with just a hint of teasing.

"It's - it's embarrassing. It's, well - a girl - a woman shouldn't be made to take down her pants for smacks - n - not when she's grown-up she shouldn't."

The other woman listened with an air of reasonable restraint and sounded almost understanding as she replied. "You may be right. Perhaps you are too grown up to have your pants taken down."




A Sissy Saga Ch. 16



She paused as if to consider the matter, then turn on her heels and went to a cupboard in the corner of the room from which she took a whippy-looking bamboo cane. "Right, m'lady. You may keep your pants on," she said with a satisfied smile, " but you'll bend over and touch your toes and keep absolutely still whilst I'm caning you."

Diana gawked with an expression of panic and dismay. Clasping her hands to her mouth she gasped several inaudible words.

"Pardon?" said Miriam, swishing the cane through the air in front of her.

"Ooh, n-no - Please don't cane me. I've never been caned before but I just know it will hurt too much. Oh. Please headmistress..."

"What? But you said you were a big girl. I would never use a cane on a little girl, but big girls who insist they're too grown up to have their knickers taken down must expect to be caned." She swooshed the cane once more, tapped it in her hand then raised her eyebrows. "Look, you're going to have to make up your mind what you are. Are you really a big girl, or are you just some kind of junior whinger?"

Lady Diana bit her lip in her misery. Completely out of her depth she pressed her knees together and tugged childishly at the elastic of her pants - navy-blue flannel, very little-schoolgirly, tight with virgin-like attraction - and slipped them down onto her thighs. 

"Off. Get them right off." rasped Miriam impatiently.

Diana obeyed at once, hopping about clumsily as she manoeuvred the garment down her legs and stepped out of them. Without any more coaxing she then stretched over and placed her hands on her knees, surrendering her bare backside to whatever would be forthcoming.

Oh yes, thought Miriam, oh yes. She breathed deeply, putting down the cane and taking up a leather-soled slipper instead she moved into a slightly offset position behind her victim. Diana's exceptional physique became apparent as her bared bottom rippled evocatively with her distress. In the shaded cleft between her buttocks her anus couldn't quite keep out of sight, while the delicate pink lips of her hairless vulva peeped timidly back from the apex of her thighs.

She had paused, waiting for some kind of instruction. Bottom thrusting, knees pushed back, feet together and with her hands reaching down onto her shins she was perfect for a few more wicked photographs. Shame there was no camera to hand, thought Miriam, her ladyships slit was worthy of a full-page spread.

Then she remembered all the cocks that had been there in the past. Untold numbers of every shape and size, all ramming into it and squirting sticky male icor into her depths. Her lips drew tight. Such a disgusting hussy deserved everything she got.

Diana vented a owch-ouch and a choking sob as the slipper drew back and then smacked briskly across the top of each leg in turn. "That's just a warning, my girl." the headmistress told her, "Don't give me any trouble or I'll use the cane whatever age you say you are."

Back came another sob and an almost inaudible. "Yes miss."

Miriam smiled gleefully and took careful aim before scoring the helpless rump before her with a scalding smack that drew a crimson blotch at once. "Why, you're quite a little charmer when you wish to be, Diana. I never knew you had it in you. You're being quite the little junior girl now, so I think an hairbrush would be more appropriate."

Grabbing her by an arm she marched the woman across the room and laid her face down over the arm of one of her sofas. Diana struggled briefly but without effect as she was pushed down, and her reluctant gyrations caused the buttons on the front of her blouse to give way. Out spilled her bosom, two generously proportioned, gelatinous dumplings, well-rounded without being heavy and with large pink aureoles. 

Miriam paid them little attention, satisfied just to know that such a thing would exacerbate the woman's embarrassment she became occupied in ensuring the correct pose was attained. As the woman settled her breasts and her belly onto the seat of the sofa she felt her ankles being grasped and spread wide apart and then mean hands roughly tugging at her hips until her naked bottom jutted submissively up above the armrest. 

Once her ladyships bared bottom was nicely rounded and completely exposed Miriam laid into it with the implement that had previously been placed nearby. A well calculated parabolic swing brought the flat, smooth surface of the hairbrush down onto the curve of a helpless backside. 

SMACK, SMACK, SMACK! She spanked quite hard, the sharp cracking sound of each blow resonating around the room.

Diana yowled. The blows made her scream aloud, white knuckles gripping the edge of the seat, feet kicking wildly in the air. "Ooh - please, oh please, miss..." Each time the hairbrush impacted Diana's naked cheeks squeezed together and wormed about sensuously, but no plea or promise or mental preparation seemed to ease the sting as the blows bounced from her flesh. SMACK, SMACK, SMACK! "Oh, nnnn, ooooh!"

Miriam Hancock's next flurry came in low from a long way back and caught the tender flesh between bottom and thigh. Diana's whole body juddered and she emitted a series of high-pitched yelps like a scalded cat.

Holding her firmly in position by a hand pushed into her back Miriam punished her soundly, alternating the smack of the brush between each lovely reddening cheek in equal quantity. Lady Diana bawled and finally blubbered, her bum, glowing with heat, twitched and jerked frantically, while at the same time she desperately pressed her thighs together.

Miriam was unrelenting, suddenly finding pleasure and excitement in the other woman's quick, squirming movements, loud squeals and soft breathless whimpers. By the time she had applied the final blow Diana had lost all vestige of dignity and was howling without restraint. Red-eyed and red-bottomed and clutching herself fitfully she was allowed to stand, wiggling and sniffling before the stern headmistress like a contrite little girl.

"There we are. All over for today." was Miriam's droll remark, "I'll let you know when I want to see you again, and next time remember to greet me with a polite curtsy. That's the recognised procedure I expect from all the girls I invite to Fairyfield Grange." 



A Sissy Saga Ch. 17



Titled people were a weakness with Miriam Hancock. She frequently spoke of them with harsh condescension, but the snob in her heart secretly rated them higher than wealthy businessmen, and so it was with some delight she agreed to the visit of the ennobled Marchioness of Wiggleswick. The delight had doubled when she discovered that in both Debrett's Distinguished People and Burke's Peerage the lady was ranked far higher in importance than Diana Chance-Barton. 

She was extremely old, in her eighties, shrunken and frail, and her bony frame was slightly stooped at mid-chest as if perpetually ready to absorb a blow to the stomach. She needed to rely on a stout Malacca cane for support as she made her way through the front entrance, but if her body was failing her mental senses were still razor sharp. She took in the headmistress's study at a glance, disapproving of the style of décor but noting the high quality of everything. 

"You seem nicely set-up, Miss Hancock. One wonders why you don't advertise your services more widely." she murmured haughtily.

Miriam was struck by her voice - she'd never heard a voice quite like it, refined, Wagnerian and aloof, containing a range of subtle meanings that weren't altogether clear. "I rely on word of mouth and a good reputation to do that kind of work." she replied, "I'm blessed with good contacts, and our local lady of the manor, Diana Chance-Barton is patron to the school. You'll know her of course."

She thought a little name-dropping may help to impress, but it seemed to have the opposite effect. The old woman's frosty features drew into a disdainful grimace, and when she spoke her words became elongated, with virtually no movement of her lips. "Diana Chance-Barton? No, I don't know the woman but I know of her. She's a floozy who spends every waking hour playing up to photographers with the idea she's some kind of leading light. Such behaviour wasn't acceptable in my day. When I was a girl we knew how to behave and were content just to know we had a high station in life."

She turned to the young woman who accompanied her, and who was now seated at her side on the chintz draped sofa. The companion was a little over five foot six wearing a lightweight shift-dress, about eighteen years old with long blond hair, and although she had a disturbing clever foxy face and a sly gleam in her eyes she was by any definition drop-dead gorgeous. 

"This is Miranda, my favourite granddaughter and an individual I spoil outrageously. It's at her behest that I came here today. Miranda as a passion for dolls, you see. She's been fond of collecting them since her childhood and now has hundreds. She loves to undress them and put them into new outfits, and for her birthday this year she tells me she would like a live doll. That's a difficult gift to find and is the reason I contacted you. Hearsay as it you can provide what we're looking for."

Brimming with confidence the previously panciloquent girl quickly put in, "It must be a pretty doll or I'll hate it and refuse to have it." 

The octogenarian grandmother at her side gave the headmistress a belligerent stare. "I hate imperfection myself, so I hope you've chosen something commendable. Freaks and deformity, clowns and midgets, animals dressed up as humans and vice versa. They are all abominations to me, and I have no sympathy."

Miriam nodded sagely. "I'm certain we can accommodate your requirements." She clicked a button on a table top intercom. "Send in Fifi, matron."

Her first impulse had been to offer this client Poppy who was waiting for a placement, but following some careful inquiries she'd concluded that he would be too dizzy and unpredictable to suit the old dowager. That being the case, she considered her choice of Fifi to be an inspired one.

A moment later the door opened and his small, timid figure, looking a bundle of pink skirts and white taffeta petticoats, squeezed into the room. His hair had been put into little-girl bangs and tied with enormous pink ribbons, and his cute feminine face had been perfectly made up, rouge on cheeks, lips red and glossed, and his huge liquid eyes ringed with mascara.

For the visit of her illustrious guest she had elected for the selected she-boy to be dressed in the latest of Margaret Pardoe's creations. It was a wondrous example of a dressmakers skill and artifice - a lovely primrose pink crinoline frock, fine and delicate in composition, cut to the thigh and flaring out. The bodice had been encrusted with bugle beads and garnished with embroidery, while a tiny waist, subtle and graceful, exaggerated the hipline. The cleavage was cut low but stopped short of immodesty to accentuate two delicate breasts compressed against the inside of the material. The dress was accompanied by a divine satin matinee coat of matching colour.

Fifi was dizzy with delight as the multi-layered drapes of silk-voile floated against the tops of his legs. His small hands, clad in white velvet gloves, were clutching a little purse that shimmered with sequins, and he wore high heeled shoes with cross-over straps that made a feature of his shapely ankles. 

"My students are taught to make their own outfits," explained Miriam proudly, "and while lace petticoats are much out of fashion these days there's no denying the pleasing froufrou effect they give to a skirt.

Bemused and more than a little awe-struck Fifi approached the three females and his skirts bounced and rustled when he performed a perfect deep curtsy. The short skirt swept round his thighs revealing the tips of garter-straps clipped to the dark welts of stocking tops.

The girl inclined her head and amusement danced in her eyes as she watched the slender legs under the floaty dress that barely covered Fifi's bottom, but the older woman's expression gave nothing away. "What do you think, Miranda? Do you like her?"

Fifi stood still as the girl scrutinised him, his only movement being the batting of his large appealing eyes. "You promised it would be a boy doll, grandmamma. I want a boy doll."

The old woman's fingers, like a soft and wrinkled bunch of loose carrots, drummed her knee. "It is a boy. It's a boy in girl's clothes."

Fascinated, Miranda grinned. "Hm, a girl-boy. That's interesting." She immediately leapt to her feet and began to examine him. Closing up behind him she began to pet him like a kitten, revelling in the freedom to run her hands over his shoulders and down his hips. "Nice and slender. Very dainty."

The old woman looked on indulgently as her granddaughter stood back and eyed up the length of Fifi's legs, trying to judge how high the skirt would go before the gusset of his pants would be revealed. Taking her grandmother's cane she tucked the tip under the hem of Fifi's frock and hoisted it up to expose his underwear - tiny pink panties with a ruffled front panel. 

She stepped back again, but only a pace, and she never took her eyes off Fifi. His stocking-clad legs were bared for virtually their entire length, the pale pink plumpness of his knicker-gusset just visible between the very tops of his thighs where a suggestion of delicate lace trimmed the rim of each leg. 

"Turn around." the girl told him curtly.

Everyone watched as he turned, and Fifi peering anxiously back over his shoulder. The tiny panties were no more than a G-string and left the whole of his bum cheeks uncovered, the fullness pushing insolently out under the lace and creasing in an intriguing line where his buttocks met his thighs. The narrow strip of nylon tucked intimately into the division of his bottom added the finishing touch to a charming pose.

Fifi squirmed enchantingly. The girl purred. "Yummy. I want him, grandmamma. Buy him for me. When he's my dolly I'll put him in new underwear every day."

The plumy old woman shuffled in her seat and offered a thin patronising smile. "That appears to be settled then. We'll take the he - she - whatever it is. He can go with us now."

"It will take an hour to pack."

"Don't bother packing anything. Everything needed will be provided in his new home."

Closing up behind Fifi, Miranda purred. "Are you pleased? You do want to be my new dolly, don't you?"

"I - er - suppose so."

"You'll love it. It will be dreamy. You'll have nothing to do but look sweet and wear pretty dresses every day. I'll bathe you at bedtime and tuck you in, and I may even shake your girly cock sometimes when it gets stiff and drippy. All my friends will be so jealous. None of them have a live dolly and they'll be amazed when they see your boy parts, so I'll create some outfits that have your bits on show all the time. They'll want to change your pants when you wear them, and they'll all want to take you to the toilet and aim things for you when you have wee-wees. Sometimes if I get in a bad temper I'll smack your botty of course. After all, you'll belong to me and I can do whatever I wish, but all in all it's not a bad deal is it?"

The crusty old marchioness observed her granddaughter dourly, then turned to Miriam. "People of good breeding don't speak of money and certainly don't stoop to haggling. All the same the price you ask for pleasing a genteel girl are exorbitant, Miss Hancock. I could arrange to use someone from one of the families on my estate for a fraction of the cost, but they tend to be rather uncouth and oafish. I believe yours are tutored in good manners."

"Indeed. We place a great deal of emphasis on polite behaviour here."

"The youthful thing will have relatives. I take it I won't have the nausea of a distressed mother pursuing me as to his fate."

The old dear was on guard, Miriam observed. She may be ancient and batty but she was covering all the necessary bases. "I have an arrangement with relatives and I'm allowed carte-blanch with most of my students when it comes to the matter of disposal." she replied hurriedly.

Seeming satisfied with what had been organised the starchy marchioness leaned towards her. "Miranda will become bored with this doll-thing eventually. You know how girls are, keen on fluffy bunny-rabbits one day and ponies the next. But when that happens I intend to employ the creampuff in my household, so I hope he's made of sturdy stuff. The male members of my staff are likely to pay a good deal of attention to a pretty creature such as him."

With the deal concluded the headmistress now felt confident enough to offer a smile of reassurance. "Have no fear of Fifi not being up to that kind of thing. He is capable of being a girl in almost every way."

The marchioness nodded and replied in the way Miriam Hancock was becoming accustomed, enunciating each word with the precision of an elocution teacher. "Yes, of course. He's probably very accomplished already."

***

The old bridle path through the spinney was deserted except for butterflies dancing amid the lilac. It was another hot day of summer and everyone longed to see cinereous clouds roll in over the crest of the implacable limestone moors. Lack of rain could be a disaster when weather was usually the opening topic for strangers pressed into conversation, but while its absence could be a colloquy, no rain for more than two weeks in Yorkshire resulted in a drought of biblic proportions, and for the past three months there had been none at all.

Gloria had dropped Jennifer and Poppy off on the ridge behind the village leaving them with a short walk to the back door of Monica Braithwaite's home. At least the sun was in retreat for that day as Jennifer dragged Poppy along quickly at her side, and a walk in the shade of the elms didn't seem too onerous.

Better than going through the town, thought Jennifer. Discretion was what she sought and she knew men would too easily notice Poppy's tiny, black micro-skirt, while his body, especially his bare legs would make his passing very memorable. She also knew Poppy loved being taken for a beautiful girl and he could be tempted to playact to a gallery of drooling males.

It was always risky taking pupils into the village. The sissies of Fairyfield were feminine masterpieces and whether men knew the truth about them or not she didn't doubt cock's rose up hot, stiff and throbbing all over town when they were about. Did girly-boys exude some kind of pheromone? They did something, because men were drawn to them before knowing their perfumed panties were full of cock, and usually they weren't inclined to leave in a hurry once they'd found out the truth.

Anyway, the woodland walk had a twofold purpose that day. Besides taking her to see Monica it gave her an opportunity to practise a little thing she'd been musing on for ages. She'd developed a fascination for the idea of leading sissies around by collar and lead, a thing her mother disapproved of either at school or in public, but which in a little used leafy byway she could practise to her hearts content.

She paused Poppy and made him stand still whilst she fastened a dog-collar about his slender neck, a lovely strip of black leather with a stainless-steel buckle. He was looking particularly lovely that day, with his small, barely perceivable breasts sheathed in a white sarsenet blouse decorated with tiny pink bows. She knew there would be no trouble from him. The girl-boy was a limp-wristed bimbo who's mild temperament allowed him to accept most things with ease, and she just adored the deer-in-the-headlights look in his eyes whenever she scolded him.

Poppy didn't object. Jennifer was a clever, strong-minded girl, and although her arguments were often diffuse she could always baffle him and make them sound plausible. She also had a skill in twisting his own words until he found himself agreeing with something utterly at odds with what he'd first intended.

Jennifer clipped a dog leash to the D-ring on the dog collar and yanked Poppy into motion. Steeply below them and just a little further on snoozed Peasmarsh, a random clutter of grey stone houses linked together by sinuous narrow thoroughfares.

Normally little more than ten minutes would have seen them at Monica Braithwaite's house, but Jennifer had not foreseen meeting Greg Totter. He appeared on the twisting path in front of them pushing a wheelbarrow. A youth, tall and long-legged, wearing patched and faded jeans tucked into rubber boots, and a frayed and baggy sweatshirt.

"Fuck!" exclaimed Jennifer in irritation as she hurried to remove Poppy's collar. She wasn't going to let a bumpkin like Greg Totter share in any of her private perversions.

"Hi." Greg called out. His dark brooding eyes regarded them curiously as he drew nearer. Greg was a grinning oaf of an odd-job labourer who reckoned himself a bit of a jack-the-lad. That day he was swaggering cocksure and smelling of stale beer. "You lasses looks luvely close up. Proper angel's." he said boldly, "An' that dainty thing you're takin' for a walk looks especial mouthwaterin' Jenny. I bets her lil' knicks' is pulled up luvely an' tight around her hot, little slot. I reckon she'd make a fine bit o' ruttin'"

Poppy giggled, putting his hands to his cheeks to hide the blush that crept up from his neck to his pretty face, but Jennifer showed no sign of being flattered or amused. Greg Totter had been employed a few times to assist the gardeners at Fairyfield to do landscaping, so she knew him well enough to be confident as she elbowed her way beyond him on the path.

Drunken lout, she fumed. ANGEL'S indeed. Girl's hadn't been called angel's since they stopped wearing girdles and seamed stockings. She increased her pace without replying or looking back.

With a raucous laugh the youth abandoned the wheelbarrow and pursued them, skipping in front to block their way he opened out the blade of a jack-knife and twirling it in his hand in a way that was meant to be intimidating. Cupping her fingers under Poppy's elbow Jennifer hurriedly propelled him forward, again bustling past the moronic teenager.

Greg stumbled round and followed. "Ain't yu gunna give me summat? I's got plenty to give you. I can easy manage two of you." 

"Give you something? Don't tempt me." Jennifer hissed softly.

Alarmed, Poppy stared up at her. "Oh dear. Are you sure he won't hurt us?" 

The girl's face was grim and she had spots of bright colour staining her pale cheeks. "Hold my hand and you'll be okay. Greg's more mouth than trousers."

Still on their heels the youth grin broadened another notch and he cackled in amusement. "Hey Jenny, sell me that girl's knickers. I'll pay extra if they're still warm with pussy heat."

Poppy gulped. "Shall I give him my panties?" he whispered fearfully.

"Certainly not, you silly queen." fumed Jennifer in a fierce voice. Suddenly her eyes flashed with sudden intensity, she stopped, and with fury mounting swung around. "Look Greg Totter, just leave us alone and piss off."

Greg butted up close, then paused and levelled his gaze. "That's not a nice way for a lady to talk, is it? I reckon yer posh mummy would be disappointed with the language yer usin'. Relax an' 'ave some fun wi' me. I'll shag the two of you side by side, or if you like I'll stack the other un on top of you and do it that way."

Jennifer's body went rigid and her eyes gleaming dangerously. Totally in command of herself she stared at him. Greg was a simple-minded, foul-mouth bumpkin attempting to bully someone he'd gravely underestimated. Without giving any indication of her intent her two hands closed like talons and latched onto his shirtfront, while her right knee snapped sharply upward and crashed into the crotch of his trousers.

For a fleeting moment she was able to relish the way the shape of his balls seemed to bulge and spread out under the impact, then Greg's eyes bulged too, and he wailed. His head slumped down as he groped at his battered testicles and the girl took advantage of his lack of defence. Her arm flashed out and he let out a squeal as she closed his mouth with a fist as solid as a wet sandbag. 

Howling, stunned and disorientated, the youth first staggered, then gave a hot yellow roar as his knees gave way. Before he could make sense of what had happened Jennifer was behind him. Eyes glaring with manic fury she raised a foot and stamping it between his shoulders, knocking him flat on his face.

"Glurk!" An indefinable noise escaped Greg's mouth as he hit the ground.

Flabbergasted at such sudden violence Poppy could only watch with his legss shaking as Jennifer held Greg down with a foot in the middle of his back and took up his jack-knife.

"Bloody 'ell, dunna hurt me, Jenny." the youth pleaded in a rush of terror, "I'll give you anything if you don't hurt me."

"You've got nothing I want, dumb-brain," Jennifer replied coldly, "but I think your dizzy thoughts can do with something to occupy them when I'm gone.

With a few swift movements she slashed through his waist belt before slitting his trousers down to the bottom of the seat, then she stood up closed the knife and pitched it down the hillside.

Poppy gazed at her with admiration. He was a weak thing and very glad to have a strong girl protecting him, and he felt quite happy to have the collar and lead attached to him again.

Leaving Greg bleating Jennifer and the sissy walked the rest on the way in silence. The path wound through the trees where clouds of gnats swirled beneath the branches, down a short way, past clumps of bushes and into an orchard at the rear of the house where Monica Braithwaite lived.

Ducking beneath linen draped on a washing line they were greeted by the girl who had apparently seen them approaching. "Hi, Jen'. Who's this with you then?

Jennifer made her voice light. "Mummy promised you a reward for helping Miss Twist with the photographs, so I chose Poppy for you."

Poppy's hair was shining and clean, and his face, sweet as an apple, was innocent of avarice, save of course for his sweeping eyelashes which never failed to give a hint of hot promise. Monica beamed. "Scrumptious! I like him very much. I like him for the way he looks and for the way he is. He's cute."




A Sissy Saga Ch. 17



Jennifer removed Poppy's collar and Monica led them through the kitchen into the sitting room, all cosy and cluttered. There Poppy put down Jennifer's sports bag that he'd been carrying.

"Press your nose to the wallpaper and count to a hundred whilst I talk with Monica." Jennifer told him. She then smiled amiably at the other girl. "I hope you didn't get into trouble because of what happened at Diana's lodge that night. You took an awful risk doping her tea."

Monica shrugged. "Her ladyship were suspicious of me I think, but in the end she reckoned me too thick to 'ave anything to do wi' it. 'Cordin' to 'er I's only good for sweepin' up, makin' beds and getting rid o' her boyfriends used rubbers."

Jennifer cast a glance around the room. "You'll need a bed to enjoy your reward properly today."

Monica looked aghast and shook her head. "I dursn't use the upstairs. Me mam would go potty if she found out I'd had folk up there." She indicated a lumpy sofa with lace-edged antimacassars. "That does okay for most things."

Her gaze drifted to Poppy who was still facing the wall. "That precious thing looks so innocent - like the only kiss he's ever had was on the fore'ed from a maiden-aunt. Is yu really gunna let me do stuff wi' him?"

"Don't let his looks fool you," Jennifer replied, "He's as gay as a dance-band and he's had more pricks in him than an antique pincushion, but he as a skill with expressions that adds to his charm. Would you like to undress him? He won't make a fuss whilst I'm here."

Monica flexed her fingers in anticipation. "O'course I'd like to peel 'im. Is I allowed to snog wi' the beauty when I does it?"

"Sure, but he's a sissy and prefers men. Although he's had a lot of experience kissing boys I doubt that he's kissed many girls so you'll need to be a bit butch and masculine when you handle him. He responds best when he feels dominated."

Tentatively Monica moved up behind Poppy to listen to him still mumbling numbers, then in a rush of eagerness she turned him around and pressed his back against the wall. At once her hands began to stroke up and down his body, feeling his soft tummy beneath his tiny skirt and encountering the slight shelf of his hips.

A blush crept up the sissy-boys neck, but he didn't struggle or protest. After all, Monica was as tall as Jennifer even if she was stupid. And anyway, Jennifer herself remained in the room to make sure he behaved himself.

"You's not allowed to be a boy, so you mus' be a girl," Monica gurgled in a thick, syrupy voice, "You sure looks like a girl in them girl togs yo's wearing, an' I bets yer lass enough to be a little lesbian luvver fer me, ain't you?"

The analogy seemed to confuse Poppy, but when Monica gazed into his eyes she saw a measure of acceptance. She exercised subtle skill, lulling him into accepting her fully. She ran her fingers lightly down his arm, felt him draw back, scared blue eyes in an angel's face. She stepped closer, put her hands on his shoulders and felt the delicate bones beneath his blouse, saw the flinching pulse in his throat.

Suddenly she wanted to kiss him. In fact she'd been wanting to kiss him from the moment she'd first seen him. She wanted to kiss him the way men kiss girls.

She put a hand on the nape of his neck, ran her fingers through his soft blond hair and felt the heat there. Pressing forward and swept him up in her arms, enjoying the effects of his perfumed lace-covered bosom. When his mouth opened in a soft oh of surrender she trailed her lips down his face, nuzzling his brow, his nose his chin, but not yet his mouth.

Poppy didn't struggle even now, and as he raised his head to look at her something passed between them - a look, a flinch of acquiescence - not yet submission, but that would come, and Monica relished the challenge. She smiled, loving the attention the adorable girl-thing was giving her. Placing a hand on his head she curled her fingers through his hair before taking a firm grip, then with her other hand she caressed his cheek, sliding a finger beneath his chin to tilt it up.

Their eyes met for a moment before the boy shyly averted his gaze, but Monica leaned heavily against him. Putting her arms around his waist she scooped him forward and gently nuzzled her lips against his mouth before ever so slowly parting his lips with her tongue, then holding him tight she pressed her mouth down to deliver a deep kiss, rocking her jaw about until she could force her tongue into his succulent sissy mouth.

Poppy's knees went wobbly and his tummy trembled as the girl claimed his delicate mouth. Unable to move because of the grip she had on his hair and the weight of her pressing against him he merely moaned. At last her mouth pressed onto his mouth and she was kissing him aggressively, forceful and demanding, her tongue pushing his lips open and searching inside. Tongues touched and slithered together, but just as he was beginning to melt against her she drew back and lowered her lips to his neck, leaving him gasping and panting.

Discomforted, Poppy twisted his head in an attempt to throw off her ravaging, but the girl only kissed him harder. Clamping her mouth onto his own she sucked, trying to swallow mouthfuls of his flavour, unwittingly - though perhaps not - making the sissy develop a pit-prop in his pants.

Eventually she raised her head to glance at Jennifer who was busy opening up the divan. "This wee madam's as toothsome as me mam's apple-pie. I could eat him."

Without waiting for a response she turned to Poppy again. His lips were hot and parted and she kissed him once more, this time slobbering on his neck and working her tongue in his ear before returning to munch on his mouth and suck his tongue. In a frenzy of excitement she clawed at him, feeling his slender shape and pushing her hands up the back of his skirt to cup his soft bottom with both hands. Then she pulled her hands up and began tugging at his clothes.

The sissy made no effort to undress himself, but neither did he make any effort to stop her doing it. His neat little silk blouse was pulled open in a clumsy, hurried kind of way that tore away two of the buttons.

"Mmm! That's a bit different to when I worked at the Grange. Miss Hancock let's you wear a pretty bra nowadays." the girl purred while trailing the flat of her tongue over his bare shoulder. "I approves of that. I allus said pretty boys should wear pretty bras. Lean forward a bit so's I can unfasten it at the back. I want to get at yer tits."

With the bra pulled away she squeezed his small bare breasts, then she dipped low and enveloped each small, swollen pink nipple in turn with her mouth, cheeks dimpling as she pumped the tender, warm flesh back and forth.

"Oooo - whooo!" Poppy's shoulders rose and fell in rapid jerks and he couldn't help moaning. He always made a silly noise when his nipples were sucked and it didn't seem to matter who did it. Titty kisses were every panty-boys vulnerability, especially when it was done - oh - so nicely.

Feminine fingers deftly unfastened the buttons of his skirt and the garment trickled down his legs to reveal a pair of little pants that bulged. "Dear, dear!" Monica imitated light-hearted surprise as she squirmed a fingertip around in his bellybutton, "A girl shouldn't have a lump like that in her knickers. I'd better get yer pants off an' see what the trouble is."

The sissy mewled and shook as she slide down his underwear and allowed his aroused cock to swing out. It was a monster, a yardarm of stiff flesh enraptured with girlitude. Monica's eyes sparkled. Poppy looked delicious as he stood nervously nibbling his pouty lips, and it was a natural reaction for her to take hold of his outsized gland and jink the foreskin, exploring it in detail and rubbing every centimetre of penile flesh.

"There we are," she breathed heatedly as her hand glided back and forth. "Do you like what I'm doing? D'you like bein' tossed-off?"

Poppy squirmed and husked secretively in her ear. "Mmm, yes Monica."

Inspired, the girl's mouth sucked at the hot, perfumed cheeks of his young sissy's face, while her fingers assessed the tension in the male appendage they were strumming, an item that appeared to have extended another inch since she'd started. "Yer ready so quick. Are yu' ready to do a big sissy-cum for me?"

"Y-yes Monica. If I'm allowed to."

"O'course yer allowed to sweetheart. You may prefer a man to do it for you, but there's not many cocks that don't do a nice squirty for me."

Poppy whimpered. Monica smirked across at Jennifer in triumph. "The size o' this tart's cock is unbe-fucking-lieveable, and it's on the boil a'ready."

The other girl gave a patient smile. "Can I suggest you just keep him simmering. He's better entertainment when he's constantly panting for a finish."

Monica stepped back and gazed in alarm at the penis-shaped vibrator her friend had taken from her sports bag, and somewhat awe-struck she retreated away from the sissy-boy standing against the wall.

Not so Jennifer. Completely ignoring his nakedness she drew him out from the puddle of his clothes and guided him onto the divan. "I want you to show Monica how you use a plastic dick." she told him.

Poppy blushed and tilted his head in the attitude of an imploring supplicant. "Jennifer - that's not - I simply can't..."

"Bosh. This thing's only average size and you'll manage it easily." She gave Monica a pained glance as she stroked the distressed she-boy's bare buttocks. "It's not the object that unnerves him, it's having to demonstrate with it in front of a strange girl that makes him cringe. Lovely. I do enjoy hearing a sissy's feeble whines."

She grabbed his hair and pushed him down. "Kneel on the divan you creep. Head down and bottom up."

Monica looked on mesmerised as Jennifer squatted behind the flushed, subservient sissy. The girl first spread his buttocks, and then doused baby-oil liberally between them.

"Ah, oh!" Poppy squawked but remained still as her long, slender forefinger explored his anus. She inserted it gently, wiggling it and probing until it was stuck fully inside his rectum.

"Even with all the use you get you're still a dainty, tight little thing, aren't you?" Jennifer murmured with satisfaction, turning her embedded finger in a twisting motion, swivelling her wrist to further stretch his sphincter. Poppy made a pleading noise, but strangely he arched his bottom as if seeking deeper penetration.

After a brief jig with the finger Jennifer withdrew it and introduced the tip of the vibrator into the vacated space. Then her arm strained as she crammed down on the plug.

"Aaa!" Poppy groaned as his delicate anal ring expanded. His bullied fundament tightly clenched at and spasmodically grasped around the smooth plastic shaft as it entered, but the slickness of everything made preventing its penetration impossible. "Oooh, aaaooow!" His lips curled and his eyebrows furrowed as his pink face pressed down into the divan.

"There. That's no trouble for you, is it?" Jennifer purred as she worked the thickest two-thirds into him and stirred it around. Calmly she clicked the switch on the base of the vibrator and set it humming.

"Uuuurrghh!" Poppy found it impossible not to respond as a genial buzzing brought sensations of deeply felt pleasure to his lower body.

"Okay, you can do it for yourself now." she told him. Backing away she joined Monica to watch as the sissy collapsed and kicked about on the divan. The whirring of the object was unrelenting, and the desperate expression on his face told them all they needed to know about the incessant pulsing of the latex shape pushed up deep inside him, and from which there was no escape.

Instinctively Poppy reached behind and grasped the thick stem. "Ooooph!" He gagged and began to rotate his hips, skewering the terrible shape further into himself. "Oh," he puffed, "It's so - so wriggly - it's - it's so - so..."

"So big?" suggested Jennifer helpfully, "So solid and unforgiving? Yes it's a merciless sissy-lover that demands to go all the way, so it's ideal for the likes of you. Move around on it - work it in and out and give it the same good time you give to all pricks."

While Monica gaped in fascination Jennifer reached into her sports bag, and her hand quickly found what it sought. "Here," she said as she handed it to Monica, "This is for you."

The other girl's eyes widened in disbelief as she viewed the strap-on dildo being offered to her. Gingerly she took it in her hands and brushed aside the attachment straps to examine it. The flesh coloured object was made of soft, solid rubber, and its length was deeply ribbed with moulded veins, however she was most impressed by the awesome bulbous shape of its tip. "Cripes Jenny, it's a perfec' image of a randy hunk's cock." She blinked her eyes and raised them. "Is you expectin' me to - y'know - do 'im?"

"I thought you liked Poppy."

"Course I likes 'im. I'd never need sugar on me cornflakes if he was around." She offered a crooked smile. "Actually, I's allus wanted to try it - y'know - fuck a lad in the arse. An' young Poppy does have an allurin' little bum, don't he? He's very, er - fuckable."

A quiver of excitement shuddered over her as she hurriedly pulled off her skirt and pants. Climbing into the harness of the apparatus she buckled it around her hips, her excitement heightening as she established the base of the prosthesis against her pubis and became fully aware of her manlike extension.

"Wow. I feels dangerous now, yon cherub's gunna have to hold on tight when I gets to 'im."

Jennifer suddenly became aware of Poppy's intense little gasps. The persistent hum of the vibrator was subdued when buried inside him and louder each time it was extracted, and she noticed the rhythm was becoming faster and more frantic. "Mmm, ooh Jen-Jennifer - it's - it's f-fucking me." Poppy bleated.

One of his knees rapidly threshed up and down each time he stabbed into his anus, and on seeing the slackness of his mouth, the glazed expression in his eyes and the dribbling tip of his swollen penis, she recognised the signs of danger.

"Stop now." she demanded, then looking at Monica she explained, "He'll be jerking off all over the divan in a second if he keeps on, and it's too early to allow him that."

At once she extracted the length of plastic from the bewildered she-boy and examined his anus. "That's opened you up nicely. Now you can be a nice little bunny for Monica."

Poppy waited nervously, buttocks clenched as the other girl climbed up on the divan behind him and placed a hand on his back. She stroked him in long sweeping movements as if he were a pet of some kind, while her other hand reached between his legs and cupped his balls, hefting them in her hand and bouncing them up and down. Seeing him bent forward, head down and bum lifted and resigned to letting her do whatever she wished, Monica gained an inkling of the delight Jennifer felt so often. A pleasure gained from unquestioned domination.

Legs splayed, knees bending, she took up a crouched position behind his subservient form and brought her thighs level with his raised bottom, then with one hand she slowly rubbed the bulbous end of the dildo between his bum-cheeks.

"Jus' let me do it, me sweet treasure. This ain't much different to the one you's already used, 'cept this one's got me on the other end."

Taking a firm grip on his hips she slowly sank the strap-on penis into him, pleased to discover how easily he accepted it. She didn't pull back, but just stared at him. "He really is luvely." she murmured, pressing forward and wriggling her hips in a wide circle to make her cock churn inside the sissy's bottom. She pushed hard and Poppy groaned. His heart pounded and his eyelids drooped as the cocks thick, rounded head tunnelled a wicked path deep into his rosette. Within moments the smooth flesh of his bottom had created a concave dimple around the plunging shaft.

"Right!" Monica cooed, "Relax me lil' bunny-rabbit, 'cos I'm gunna shag you proper now."

"Oww Monica, oow!" Poppy gasped as the girl eased the gigantic plug most of the way out from his clasping rosebud - "Arrraaow!" - then squealed as she wormed it back into him.

He could do nothing then but clench his teeth as the excited girl violated his splayed bottom and relished the view of his stretched anal ring sliding up and down the surface of her tool. He was getting cock. He was a girl being lusted after as a sexual creature, and his pretty arse was being used in the best way possible, as a cock receptacle.

Content to be a spectator on this occasion Jennifer sprawled in a nearby chair to watch. It suited her jaded senses to see sweet young men being manfully handled by a girl, it humiliated them wonderfully and put the supremacy of females into proper perspective in their pleural minds.

"Ooh, yeow, ooh!" The sissy-boy released a series of delirious whimpers as his body bounced to the beat of Monica's thrusting rhythm. The girl had a firm grip on his rolling hips and in between pushing deep she was making the fat tip of her cock rotate lewdly just inside the entrance of his submissive anus. Not only did she enjoy ploughing into him, she'd discovered how nice it was to tease and tantalise his expectations.

"That's a good girly, there you go now. You can do it sweet-thing, an' I's enjoyin' fuckin' yer naughty bottom."

Her pleasure was obvious from the high colour in her cheeks, but then a dreaded noise she had not expected to hear that evening turned the vibrant healthy glow to a wash as pale as uncooked pastry. It was the sound of a key turning in the lock of the front door.

"Oh shit! That'll be me mam." she squawked in horror. Pulling abruptly away from her gasping partner she scrambled from the divan intent on taking up some pose of innocence, but found it impossible to hide the prominent thrust of the dildo she'd recently been using and which was still fastened about her thighs.

Her signs of panic affected Jennifer too at first, but the state of alarm dropped dramatically when it was discovered it wasn't Monica's mother coming through the door, it was only Monica's cousin Lizzie.

Monica snapped at her angrily as her anxiety floated back to ground level. "Watcha yer doin' here? Yer supposed to be round at Auntie Flo's tonight with everyone else."

Lizzie was less buxom but prettier than her cousin. She had a delicate pixie face, big brown eyes and a pert mouth, and a sweep of long fair hair that framed them everything. But if she looked innocent then those looks belied her ability to fend off the hostile invective aimed at her. Perhaps being smaller meant she had to assert herself. In any event she gave Monica a fierce look which meant; 'Just leave me alone or I'll tell everyone things you don't want them to know about.'

Leaning back against the door she clicked it shut. "It was boring at Auntie Flo's..." Her keen eyes scanned the scene in the room and sparkled. "It looks a lot more interesting here."

Fearlessly she advanced across the carpet. "I thought at first I'd caught you all doin' girly-stuff with each other. But that one there -" she indicated the cringing figure of Poppy, "- he may have a girl's hairstyle, but he's trying to hide a big cock and a pair of balls behind his hands, so he's a boy." She glanced at Jennifer. "Monica's wearin' a willy-thing. Was she was fuckin' him? Was she fuckin' a boy with it?"

Jennifer tried to remain amiable. "It may be best if you just went away Lizzie dear. Some girls shouldn't know about the kind of things we're doing here."

"Just bugger off." added Monica less diplomatically.

"Shan't." Lizzie persisted stubbornly, and she glared at her cousin with deliberate menace. "If I can't stay I'll tell everyone about what you did with those three boys yesterday."




A Sissy Saga Ch. 17



Monica looked shaken and she met Jennifer's inquisitive stare with a weak smile. "She's makin' something out o' nuthin'."

"Yes - but three - all at the same time?" gasped Jennifer incredulously.

"Her mam will knock the daylights out of her if she finds out." Lizzie interjected with unkinly jubilation.

Jennifer applied herself. Usually she was persuasive enough to talk a way out from any problem, but the uncompromising situation she was now in was an awkward one to explain, made all the more awkward by having to deal with someone she'd never met before. "Look, Lizzie darling, if you go away your lovely cousin and I will club together and buy you a nice present."

The girl's eyes narrowed slyly. "Don't want a present. I want to wear a prick-thing like Monica and fuck the boy."

"Yous a disgustin' little madam our Lizzie." seethed Monica.

Jennifer took a less jaundiced view. "If she's so keen to do it the solution may be to indulge her. If she takes part she's unlikely to tell other people about what went on here, and that'll be safer for you Monica."

At once Lizzie began pulling off her skirt and taking down her pants. "Come on Monica, help me put on the prick. I don't care if that stupid boy-creature sees my crack."

As it dawned on him what was being arranged Poppy gazed at Jennifer in helpless concern. Being abused by two depraved teenagers was bad enough, but the new girl had introduced a stomach wrenching element to the ordeal. "Don't let her do me Jennifer." he pleaded.

The girl gave him a smile of sympathy. "Her visit may have been unplanned, Poppy dear, but she is female, and that means her wishes are more important than yours. Despite you being such a super sissy creature you're still really only an unworthy male."

Poppy looked on with great misgivings as a sour-faced Monica attached the oddly curved dildo to her prettier cousin. The plastic penis looked obscene thrusting out from the slightness of the girl's thighs. It seemed to magnify its size. 

Brimming with confidence Lizzie walked over and slapped Poppy's hands away from his groin and thrust her own projection against his penis, gripping her newly acquired appendage in two hands and pumping it up and down. His eyes met Lizzie's, and he blushed deeply as he watched the girls mouth form into a tiny smile. "Look what I've got. My prick's not bigger than yours, but I'm a girl and that means I'm the boss. " 

She teased him, moving closer and flaunting herself. "What's your name?"

He lowered his eyes. "Poppy."

"Poppy?" The girl gurgled with amusement. "Poppies are flowers and only girls are given the names of flowers. Are you called Poppy because people think you're a beautiful blossom, or because you're a sissy who screws like a girl."

"Flowers are nice."

"Butterwort are flowers and they eat flies."

Poppy quickly snapped back. "It's short for Popperwell. That's my real name." Her flippant attitude made him suddenly reticent and he refused to say any more.

Lizzie turned to the older girls. "What do I do now?"

"If yer don't know what to do yer daft tryin' to do it, ain't yer?" Monica replied disparagingly. 

"Just follow your instinct darling." said Jennifer more civilly.

Lizzie gave Poppy a sharp look. "He's a bit sulky. Will he do as I tell him?"

"He will whilst I'm here." replied Jennifer. "Get hold of him. If you're bossy enough he'll roll over like a puppy."

Poppy nibbled dismally at his lip. Jennifer was his nemesis. He wasn't very tall himself, but he was taller than the girl and he knew he could smack her and make her cry if Jennifer wasn't around. Instead, with her confidence now reinforced Lizzie gave him a shove. "Get on your back."

Reluctantly he clambered down onto the divan and lay down in submission. He saw no way of escaping from the girl with a big cock. He felt helpless, but he had no choice other than to submit. "It won't be easy doing anything face to face." he warned her.

"Shut-up poppy-boy. I know how to do it. I've seen pictures in books." She followed him down and squeezed between his knees, then completely ignoring his lolling genitals she pressed close into his thighs. Her youthful face scowled when confronted by the low elevation of his buttocks, but rather than admit he was wiser than she was herself, she raised his legs and stuffed a cushion under him.

Poppy stared at her with an utterly dumbfound look until, in a way that had become natural to him when pushed onto his back, with his body arched and his legs spread wide he was forced to expose his lubricated hole to his pretty girl beau. He'd made up his mind to be passive and not respond to anything she did, but that resolution dissolved instantly when she thrust with her hips. Lizzie had braced herself, and taking a firm grip of his waist was digging her fingers into his flesh. The push of her thighs was solid and determined, so when the firm tip of her apparatus pressed between his bottom-cheeks he meowed like a kitten.

"Oooow!" He closed his eyes tight as the girls thighs forced the length of smooth, stiff rubber into his rectum in a relentless, slow sliding motion. His head jerked back and forth as his bottom attempted to grasp the thing and control it, but of course his well-oiled portal found no purchase on its slippery, smooth surface, and the bulbous tip mashed his already fragile anal resistance and sank straight in. Having had no experience of such carnal activity in the past the girl's movements were rough and somewhat frenzied as she forcefully humped forward.

"Oooh, ooh Lizzie, ooooh!" Poppy yowled while his head rolled and his smooth bottom shimmied and quaked as his anus expanded and conformed to the thick, oiled contours of the object inside it. He was experiencing a familiar hot, slightly burning sensation in his bowls. She could fuck. Girl or not Lizzie could make a boy take cock. His heart beat wildly as he contracted his tummy muscles and curled his hips up to meet her next impaling thrust,

"Lizzie's rather outgoing, isn't she?" remarked Jennifer as she watched closely. "She's got him on his back with his legs open, and she's going at him just like a boy getting stuck up a girl. What a firecracker."

"Dirty cow I reckons," sniffed Monica, "I don't know where she gets it from, I really don't. She came in the house that time you left Lulabelle here, and straight away she had her frock up an' was riding his face. That sissy-perv' didn't half have to do a lot of knicker suckin' that day."

"Gnnn-gggooh!" Poppy whimpered and began wriggling his bottom in tempo with the in and out movements of the insistent girl-cock. Grinning with glee the callous female had at once got the knack of how to heave the attachment fastened to her pelvis back and forth in his helpless sissy bottom, and with her uncertainties gone she was using the entire length of cock to pump his pliant body.

Then something magical happened. If the girl's inexperience made her slightly brutal, she was at least blessed by a fluke of chance when her random oscillations began to nudge that special place inside Poppy that all sissies revere because of its extreme sensitivity - the prostate, the gland that creates ball-juice.

The sissy's bowels suddenly convulsed and the burning feeling in his rectum was transformed into sensuous warmth., his mouth went slack and he began to sob with a strange mixture of shame and ecstasy as thrills assailed him deep inside.

"Oh, oh, oh!" Eyes tightly shut and breath coming in short, sharp, noisy gasps, the lance that impaled Poppy banished all self control as it stroked delicately against that lovely , loving region, and he started to thresh about and hump frantically with the little girl's strap-on fuck-bone. Each fast thrust and rapid withdrawal induced babbled exclamations as he blissed-out - loving the sensations they brought - glorying in what Lizzie was doing to him. "Oooorrr, YES! Ooh Lizzie! Oh -yeah! Fuck - fuck - fuck me!"

"Young love is so inspiring, isn't it?" quipped Jennifer, watching the proceedings while worming her clit between her thighs.

The young girl laying on top of Poppy and randily stuffing him with plastic had no appreciation of such an idea. What she was doing was purely mechanical and done only to raise her status in the eyes of the other girls. "I've had a enough of this." she suddenly declared, abruptly pulling away.

"I don't think Poppy's had enough." remarked Jennifer who felt slight disappointment at the brief duration of the weird coupling.

"I don't care about him," Lizzie replied coldly as she gazed down at the starry-eyed sissy who was clearly eager to continue. "Doing fucks is tiring. Why do girl's always have to do the hard work?"

Jennifer looked down at Poppy too. "Poor Poppy. Poor sissy-boy with his sissy-balls still fully loaded with sissy-cream. I really think we must do something to help you now."

She and Monica took hold of Poppy's legs and pulled them up until their apex was poised over his head, then they folded him double with his bottom up in the air and his genitals dangling above his face. When Jennifer pressed down on his buttocks, Poppy groaned and Monica looked a bit concerned. "Blimey. You'll snap the bugger in half."

"There's no chance of that," Jennifer reassured her, "Old Hardwick keeps all our sissies as supple as green twigs, and one like Poppy can take a good deal more contortion than this." To prove her point she applied a little more pressure.

"Ahhhm aaah, ahhh!" Poppy moaned in staccato. "Jennifer you'll snap me, you really will."

Ignoring his squawks Jennifer glanced at Lizzie. "Have a peep underneath and tell me how far his prick is from his face."

The girl peered carefully beneath Poppy's upturned thighs, saw his red face grimacing and noted the hang of his distended penis. "Couple of inches I think." she reported.

"Could he lick his knob if he stuck out his tongue?"

Lizzie poked Poppy in the ribs with the point of a small finger. "Stick out your tongue and give it a try." she told him.

"I-I don't want to." he moaned.

Reaching out Lizzie grasped his penis and gave his foreskin a brief jiggle, but ceased when a glob of clear fluid oozed from its flaring meatus. She gave him a couple more sharp jabs in the ribs. "Go on. Just try it, stupid."

Incredibly, this time Poppy obeyed and pushed out until he was able to swirl the tip of his juicy pink tongue around the juicy plum of his penis. "Now he's doin' it - he's lappin' at his knob-end!" Lizzie exclaimed in delight.

Jennifer nodded. "I'm going to push his thighs down a bit more. Try to get his cock into his mouth."

"Is yer gunna have him suck 'imself off?" asked Monica, who was occupied in fingering the sissy's bum-hole and stroking the under surface of his dangling balls.

Jennifer allowed herself a smirk. "That wouldn't be a bad conclusion to things, would it?"

The she-boys face creased in pain as Jennifer applied more downward pressure, but his sobs and groans were curtailed suddenly when Lizzie guided the tip of his penis onto his lips and then stuffed it into his mouth. Delirious with indecent excitement she started to jerk his foreskin again, and predictably Poppy began to make odd noises. "Um! Um, um gurr! Um, uhhh!"

The discomfort of being forcefully folded over didn't seem to register much once he felt the tip of his own penis in his mouth. It was a new experience for him, and not entirely unpleasant. The only resentment he had was of being observed by the girls, especially the newest one who seemed to take perverse delight in handling his cock.

"Come on. Hurry up and squirt some stuff in your mouth." urged Lizzie impatiently as she worked hard at keeping his foreskin mobile.

"Don't - mmph - don't - gmmph!" It was disgusting, but sort of exciting too. His boy-juices had been on the boil for the best part of an hour, and with Monica now ceaselessly tinkering with his balls and anus and her cousin practising intuitive skill in handling his cock it was impossible to hold them in any longer. Just a few more intimate strokes from Lizzie's delicate fingers and he was there.

His eyes blinked rapidly and he uttered a sudden string of gargling noises as his cock jerked several times in his mouth. A flash-flood of sissy-goo streaked the length of his gland and a large jet of sperm jumped out, then another, and then a third powerful spurt.

"Uuuuu, aarr, gummmph, glump!" His mouth became flooded with his own warm semen and with Lizzie's help his penis repeatedly twitched and added to the deluge. Where did it all come from, he wondered? It was so much more than he'd been expecting. 



A Sissy Saga Ch. 18



Miriam observed the assessor from the Historic Buildings Commission with a measure of disapproval. When he'd first arrived she'd believed her luck had changed and he was about to reverse a previous decision and tell her that financial help was about to arrive by way of a grant. That was not what had happened.

"I was on my way to Chance Hall," rumbled Mr Crabtree, a thin, long-nosed man with the piercing eyes of an accountant, "And since Fairyfield Grange isn't too far off my route I took the opportunity to come here and insist you cease pestering the Commission with so many irritating letters. Fairyfield Grange as never been under consideration for a grant, and it never will be."

He had declined to take a seat, so he and the headmistress stood facing each other in the middle of her parlour-office like a pair of pugilists in a boxing ring. She, delicate and sparrow-like, Crabtree no bigger but with eyes that tried to dominate. 

"You're being unfair," Miriam complained bitterly, "You're prepared to give assistance to Lord Chance-Barton who's wealthy enough not to need any, yet you give me nothing. Fairyfield as twice the historical interest of Chance Hall."

"That may well be," Crabtree replied heatedly, "But externally Chance Hall is a perfect example of a mid-Victorian stately-home. The Grange on the other hand as been cobbled about so much during its existence it represents neither one thing or another. It's an absolute mess, a dire hodgepodge of a place madam, and those two grotesque wings added during the reign of King Edward are the last straw. In no way do I intend to advise settling any money on this place."

Crabtree had the face of a spade and was as ugly as Himmler, decided Miriam. She looked at him as if he were a serial killer, or the sort of man who put pet poodles to death by slow torture. He was tall and trim and in his mid-thirties, sporting a bouffant hairstyle, and dressed in a well-cut suit that was too heavy for the weather. A white shirt, bow tie and black, well buffed Oxfords completed his ensemble. In Miriam's opinion such men always wore bow-ties, it betrayed their self-image of importance. 

She was tempted to attack him with knives at that moment, but instead she turned about to conceal her anger and fixed her gaze on the portrait of Sylvester Fairyfield hanging on the wall over her desk. It was a frustrating sight in a time of financial starvation. She desperately needed money to oppose the National Trust in their claim against her home and the sale of the Laszlo would settle all her cash worries in a single sweep. But the painting had to legally belong to her first, and since it was part of Uncle Albert's estate that wouldn't happen until after she'd won her case in court.

Gathering up her wits she swung about to face her visitor again. "Would you like to have a look around the school Mr Crabtree? I've a number of lovely students here and many of them would cherish a lesson in - um - historical architecture from such a worldly person as yourself. Perhaps I could arrange a few interviews. In private of course."

Her attempt to appeal to the baser instincts of his carnal nature met with complete failure. The man ignored her innuendo entirely and reached for his briefcase. "I don't have the time for any such nonsense. I'm due to have tea with Lady Chance-Barton."

Before he could depart from the room the door opened and Emma Twist popped her head inside. "Sorry to..." She stopped in mid-sentence and her eyes glowed at the sight of the visitor, and immediately sidling uninvited into the room she swung her hips and offered him a broad smile.

"Billy! What a surprise it is to see you. I never dreamed we'd meet again once I'd gone from Leeds."

The man paused in his stride and the colour drained from his face. The sudden change in his demeanour was remarkable. That which just a few moments before had been bombastic and sneering was now one of hesitance and uncertainty. He seemed fearful of gazing at Emma full in the face, as if like some creature from a Greek myth she'd turn him into stone if their eyes met. The sparse flesh on his face moving into furrows as he struggled with a reply and his tone seemed defensive. "I-I didn't imagine we'd ever meet again either."

"But here we are." fizzed Emma. Sensing the tension in the room she held him with a stare for a moment before glancing at Miriam and then back at the man's hangdog expression. Finally she moved up to Mr Crabtree, took his briefcase from his limp hand and put an arm about his waist. "Tell you what Billy," she murmured as she ushered him towards the door, "You leave your briefcase here and stand outside in the hall for a minute while I have a word with the headmistress. I'll call you back in when I'm ready." 

Having shut the door behind him she turned into the room and smirked. Her amusement was infectious and even in her depressed mood Miriam became tempted to smile. "What on earth went on between you and that grisly man when you were in Leeds? He allowed you to lead him away like a lamb."

Emma stopped smirking and settled for a broad grin. "Oh, he and I - we had a certain understanding. He has certain needs I've catered for in the past. Why is he here now?"

"I'd some hopes pinned on a grant from the Historic Buildings Commission to help me over a spot of financial bother, and that horror is the assessor who recommends such things."

"From the sour look on your face when I came in I'd say you hadn't enjoyed much success with him."

"He's a bloody simpering jack-in-office. A spineless know-it-all jobsworth." Miriam complained bitterly.

Emma chuckled. "Yes, I know that." Her fingers plucked gently at the buttons of her blouse. "Would you like me to help? I know him rather well and I could get him to change his mind."

The eyes of the headmistress narrowed. "Good Lord, I wouldn't expect you to go down on your back for the likes of that creep."

Emma removed her blouse and adjusted the sit of her breasts in the cups of the skimpy black bra she wore beneath, then before Miriam could make another comment she unclipped her skirt and let it drop to the floor. "Nothing like that will be necessary. Billy is not allowed to shag me. He and I have a special kind of relationship." she explained.

She went straight to the narrow cupboard in the corner and took out a school teacher's traditional mortarboard cap and schoolmasters gown that the headmistress rarely wore. Placing the cap squarely on her head and slipping the gown over her shoulders she then drew out a bamboo cane, and at last Miriam began to grasp what she was doing.

"Do you keep a cock here in the office?" Emma asked.

"In the vitrine, behind the sherry." the headmistress told her.

The strap-on was immediately hauled out and Emma stroked it. "Mmm, a black one. That will suit the colour scheme and the mood. And you always seem to favour the jumbo size, which is nice." Without pausing to consider anything else she buckled it onto her thighs, and when she'd finished she gave it a joyous shake with one hand whilst bringing the cane down with a sharp swish with the other.

The slash of red lipstick on her mouth drew into a demonic expression. Her skimpy black underwear and black stockings together with the jutting black penis and schoolmaster regalia gave her the appearance of a teacher from hell. Clearly now, she was one who would accept nothing short of abject obedience.

Miriam had yet to recover completely from her surprise. "I'm beginning to understand. You provide some answer to that vile man's kinky masochistic tendencies. Do you use the cock on him?"

Miss Twist gave a small shrug of her shoulders that could have meant anything. "Not always. The little pantomimes Billy and I play out don't always have the same ending, but he expects to be treated with severity and never complains of the form it takes. And he likes me to wear one. It tells him exactly who the boss is and that's important. I'll need an hour alone with him Miriam. Is that okay? If it's a grant of money you want from him I can guarantee you he'll award you the maximum amount."

Still slightly shocked by the overt sexuality being flaunted in her study, Miriam nodded. Emma held the bamboo cane in the fingers of both hands and bent it double to test its pliancy. "Send him in when you leave. Tell him teacher is ready to see him now."

The hall outside was deserted of other people, which was a mercy for Mr Crabtree. Miriam found him standing obediently outside the door, back against the wall and face cast down, looking every bit the nervous schoolboy who knew he was in for a hard time. He seemed immobilised by his own imagination, gripped by some fetish he probably didn't even understand himself, but which revolved around the role played by Emma Twist.

"Go in Crabtree. Miss Twist will see you know." she told him curtly.

The normally loud man was barren of words and his attempt at what was probably intended as a grovelling apology was aborted before it started by Emma's voice rasping sternly from inside the room.

The man trembled visibly. "Is she going to be cruel to me?"

"I've no idea Billy. But I think it best if you do as she wishes."

Emma's voice called again, more urgent and dangerously impatient now. "Don't keep me waiting Billy. Come in and take your trousers off. You and I have something to discuss."

The man immediately panicked. "Yes, Miss. S-sorry Miss." Offering Miriam only a shamefaced glance he silently slunk away through the office door and closed it.

***

Money was at last beginning to swell Miriam Hancock's war chest, and feeling confident and in a position of strength she was quite willing to meet a representative of the Trust to discuss an amicable arrangement.

The lady from the National Trust announced herself warmly as Pamela Upduff. Miriam assessed her behind a polite smile as she led her into her study. She was smartly dressed, about fifty and had no rings on her fingers, so she was probably unmarried. She also had a well-boned face which had probably been lifted. Miriam was quite certain it had been lifted. Gloria brought in coffee and Miriam, not in the mood to be civil, ostentatiously served herself first. "Well!" she said, reclining in her chair and glaring.

"I should like to say," Pamela began with a smile - as she always began, "how deeply the Trust appreciates your willingness to hear its point of view. It really is the best way forward with them and will pay dividends in the future."

Miriam grimaced her hostility. "I'm not about to give in to them. I intend to fight their claim to my house. I've enough funds now to invite Sir Gordon Pettifore QC to present my case in court, and as you may know, when it comes to matters of probate he's the best there is."

Her visitor offered her a sad smile. "Yes of course, but you won't know yet that you've been gazumped. Sir Gordon as already accepted a better offer from The Trust to represent them." She shook her head soulfully. "Lawyers. However eminent they become they're always so avaricious, aren't they? What would you do with them?"

Miriam clenched her fists. Right at that moment she could list a number of nasty things she'd like to do with Sir Gordon Pettifore, but the woman didn't give her time to dwell on them.

"It's par for the course, you see. The Trust always win in cases such as this so it would be wiser to accept the inevitable and concede before wasting a great deal of money. And it really would be the best way to signal Albert Fairyfield's generosity."

"Generosity?" Miriam spat. "Uncle Albert was never generous to anyone in his life. He was a shallow-minded scrooge and a devious bastard."

Ms Upduff's smile showed no sign of wilting. "The Trust understands how you cherish this house and what a shock news of your uncles endowment to an organisation such as ours must be. All of us at the Trust appreciate that."

Miriam's shoulders sprang forward. "His WHAT?" Her mouth remained open. "Did you say 'endowment'? Are you telling me he left money? Are you claiming money as well as the house?" She waved her arms about as if to suggest the very air she breathed was being stolen from her. "Endowment!" she repeated. "Endowment for what, for Christ's sake?"

Pamela's smile withered a little, but only a little. "Miss Hancock. The expense - there will be constant expense."

Miriam gave a snort. "You mean you'll except the gift of the house only if a gift of money goes with it. It's outrageous. Such an endowment rightly belongs to me. This is MY house."

"Yes, yes. We at the Trust understand your feelings and you may go on living here, you and your family in perpetuity. That's always been the policy with us. And by the way my name is Pamela."

Miriam ran a hand over the back of her neck and bellowed a rye laugh. Her uncle had made a fiasco of his last will and testament, no doubt purposely making it sketchy and ambiguous and subject to legal interpretation. No wonder the women at the care-home had said he died content. The decrepit old git probably laughed himself to death.

"I have to tell you Ms Upduff," she remonstrated, ignoring the woman's plea for first name intimacy, "I may not possess a Nobel Prize-winning brain, in fact I've probably only got one more O-level in education than most of the Royal Family, so you'll have to bear with me. Are you seriously telling me my own uncle left YOU a sum of money to allow ME to live in my own house? Is that what you're saying?"

"If you don't oppose us you'd be assured of a rent-free home, Miriam. Unfortunately if you dispute the matter the outcome may not be so sweet. Be sensible. Fairyfield Grange could prove quite a viable tourist attraction and everyone could benefit. Naturally the Trust will meet all structural costs to facilitate the house being open to visitors, and you'd only have to meet the annual running costs, which are unlikely to exceed thirty thousand pounds a year for a property of this size."

Miriam did what she always did when she felt at a disadvantage. She buried her emotions, sucked in a deep breath and pretended everything was under control. Control was important she reminded herself, and if she didn't have feelings she couldn't be hurt. It all came down to control.

She shuffled uncomfortably. "We're well off the beaten track and too far off from established tourist routes. No one would ever come here."

"I'm certain that won't be the case when we put our minds to it." Pamela smiled blithely, "We can easily promote a flavour of Wuthering Heights romance about this location and even suggest it was obliquely mentioned in the Bronte novel. That would have people pouring in, they'd love it. Chance Hall isn't far off, and stately homes always whip up bags of interest too. They are all grist to the mill of tourism."

She glanced about and simpered slightly. "I've done a little research on Fairyfield Grange in the Bodleian Library already, and although the Fairyfield family were business people and much lampooned in their time for putting on airs and graces, they did come into prominence towards the end of the 19th Century. 

"The Prince of Wales brought shooting-parties here once or twice before he became Edward VII, and there's an indication Queen Victoria may once have visited. Any suggestion of royalty is good fodder for visitors, the American's especially love that kind of thing. When the legal issues are done with my instinct would be to redecorate and furnish all the apartments in the late Victorian style."

Miriam sat down and no longer participated in the conversation, but Ms Upduff didn't seem to notice and managed quite well to continue on her own. On and on she prattled, making it obvious that in her mind the ownership of Fairyfield Grange had already been settled. She wasn't bad looking for a middle-aged woman and would probably have made a good shag, but her verbosity meant any partner would need to stuff her knickers in her mouth before doing anything else.

Pamela said she wouldn't return until things were finally settled, but then there would be some things to arrange. Such things as insurance, a structural survey of the building and an inventory of its contents. Extra toilets would doubtless be needed and there would have to be special facilities for the disabled to meet current standards for tourism. 

She would put forward a case for retaining the school of course, but frankly running schools didn't benefit the Trust and it was invariably felt that all education was best left to other organisations.

By the time she was ready to depart Miriam felt shattered, but her feelings were not spared the coup-de-grace.

"Your garden is a masterpiece," remarked Ms Upduff, "Unfortunately much of it will need to be sacrificed. It will be imperative to have good hard standing for motor-coaches and cars."

When finally alone Miriam mused dismally about the future. It seemed that the whole world had stopped. The silence that now descended felt like shell-shock, and beneath the brittle surface of her exterior she was in broken pieces. She had a premonition that however well her case was presented in court, she was going to lose, and in essence the Upduff creature had said that her school, her only source of income, would be closed, but she'd still need to find thirty thousand pounds each year if she wanted the discretionary right to live in the museum that replaced it. 

To add insult to injury she would also be expected to play host to coachloads of tourists, or pay someone else to do it for her. That wasn't the kind of future she'd envisioned for herself when coming to Fairyfield Grange and it wasn't one easy to settle for. It was both repugnant and financially unsustainable.

For what seemed an age there was no sound in the room except for the faint ticking of a carriage clock on the mantleshelf and the pacing of her feet up and down on the carpet. A caged animal seeking escape. She needed to clear her head and think things through. Something would turn up and save her. Something always did. Until then she had to keep her nerve, remain calm and maintain normality. The school routines must not suffer and Open Day must go ahead exactly as planned.

The room suddenly became claustrophobic. She gave a long sigh, then picked up a folder marked 'Solicitors' and flung it to the floor. She glared at it for a moment, then deliberately put her foot on it as she went out the door.

Outside she skirted the yard where Hardwick was rehearsing in the open air with the ten sissies chosen for the dance display she'd planned for Open Day. They were all high-stepping and swinging about to a tempo called out by the tutor. "One, two, three. Up, two, three" the ageing dance-master sang out rhythmically.

Still feeling irritated, Miriam paused. "Mr Hardwick, I do hope we aren't going to have to put up with that wretched shouting on the actual day."

Hardwick called his troupe to a halt, and they stood quite still, legs together, arms down by their sides. Unrequested, he then jogged across towards her.

"I shall provide a sound system and the beat of taped music eventually headmistress, but at the moment I still find it best to call out the time." 

Miriam felt in no mood to pleasant and gave him a grim look as she cast a critical eye over the group standing in the yard. Apart from their shoes each of the dancers wore nothing but a pair of pink cocktail gloves and a skimpy G-string. 

"Their costumes need to be developed, Hardwick, at the moment they create an air of cheap burlesque. On Open Day we shall be entertaining quality people, so I expect some imagination about such aspects."

"But, you warned me about expense, headmistress."

"Damn the expense. Speak with Mrs Pardoe and arrange something more elaborate. Everything that happens on Open Day must be top-line."




A Sissy Saga Ch. 18



Desperate to find some other distraction she headed for the gymnasium where Jennifer was entertaining Lady Diana. Hardwick had been told to take his class outside to free-up the facilities, and her daughter, her vicegerent in that days business, was in charge of her visitor.

They were the only people present when she arrived. Jennifer, dressed in skirt and high-heels stood out in high contrast to Diana. The lady of Chance Hall was wearing the schoolgirl gym-kit of blue serge knickers and white singlet, and was looking rather hot-eyed and tearful as she ran back and forth across the room. Her unhappiness probably had a lot to do with the way her vest had been looped up over her handsome bare breasts, and the fact that the juddering breasts themselves appeared pink and sore, as if they had recently been the target for several sharp smacks.

Miriam recalled how Diana, her face flushed with embarrassment, had pleaded not to be given over to the stern attentions of Jennifer, whom she considered a mere child. Being disciplined by a girl half her own age would humiliate her terribly, she'd said, but Miriam had explained that humiliation was part of the process she wished to inflict, and she must submit to anyone nominated to take her own place.

"I've tried exercising her ladyship, but she's absolutely useless in the gymnasium, mummy." Jennifer remarked testily when she arrived. "She can't climb ropes, can't jump higher than a daisy, and she runs around with her hands flapping like a pregnant fairy. I've had to hound her from start to finish."

Diana obeyed a curt signal to join them, then stood self-consciously in front of the headmistress at subservient attention, hung her head and gazed dismally at the floor. 

Miriam grabbed her chin and pulled her face up. "I need cheering up your ladyship, and I know you have connections with the Prime Minister's office, so I've been giving some thought to the New Years Honours List. I want you to propose me for something. An OBE will be good enough for the moment, it will add to the prestige of the school if I've a few initials behind my name."

Diana looked startled. "B-but headmistress, I-I'd need to qualify such a recommendation, and I-I..."

"Invent some appropriate fiction, you've always been good at doing that." Miriam snapped in bad temper. She half turned away, then turned back. "And while you're at it, and since you're involved with The National Trust, get them to stop challenging Albert Fairyfield's last will and testament."

The other woman quaked slightly. "A will? A bequest? I'm only a patron to the Trust, I just attend an occasional banquet. I don't have anything to do with its administration. I don't actually DO anything."

"Really? Well, you're going to have to change the habit of a lifetime milady, because its my home they're threatening to take from me, and if I end up suffering you're going to suffer along with me."

"Honestly, Mir ... Headmistress, I'd help if I could, but contesting legal things will be managed by a department quite separate from anything I know about."

Miriam's strong slender fingers grasped her by the hair, hauling her head back and making her wince, then she leaned forward until their faces were only inches apart. All the venom she'd pent up during her meeting with Pamela Upduff was now vented on Diana.

"You've always been fond of crowing about the influence you can exert on events, so start putting it to some use. Threaten people. Lie, cheat, charm them, but do something. Murder them, you useless bitch. Kidnap their children or seduce them, but get them to quosh all their thieving, legal rigmarole, you fucking ratbag."

The impact of her temper shook Diana forcibly. There was sufficient violence in her eyes to make her aristocratic pride evaporate and she became ashen white, staring in horror, her bare breasts shaking while her hands clenched and unclenched. For a moment she thought she was going to be sick, but suddenly Miriam's voice took on a more consolatory tone.

"Afterwards, if you're successful, I'll give you the photographs that cause you such embarrassment, and you'll free never to come here again. But as sure as eggs are eggs if I lose my school you'll lose your reputation, so you'd better think carefully before you insist on saying you can't help me."

Jennifer moved up beside Diana and pulled the distraught aristocrat nearer as her mother stormed out through the door, and purposely neglectful of offering an explanation she smoothed her fingers up the back of her legs. Her hand slid high, stroking across the seat of the woman's pants, dallying in the crease between her cheeks and then tickling at the insides of her thighs.

"Mummy's upset. I think it would be wise to try and help her, don't you?" she said. 

"Yes, yes. Okay, oh god yes - absolutely - of course - no problem. I promise to try." Diana replied heatedly. She made a move to pull the singlet down to cover her breasts but Jennifer stopped her with a sharp "No."

She saw the woman's lips begin to part, and sensed excitement welling up inside her. She wouldn't give in too easily, but for her that was part of the thrill. The struggling against the inevitable, the humiliation of knowing that she was going to lose.

"Be a good girl and do as you're told. Don't haul the singlet down, take it off."

Diana's eyes widened. "Why?"

"Just do as I say." Jennifer said, petulantly. She kept her eyes unwavering, staring at her. She would respond to that, she seemed to like a bit of authority.

Diana licked her lips and opened her mouth to speak again, but then thought better of it and hoisted the flimsy garment over her head. Her breasts juddered deliciously as she dropped her arms to her side. "You aren't going to smack my tits again, are you? They're still feeling sore from last time."

The daughter of the headmistress purposely kept her intentions obscure. For a moment she played outrageously with the woman's naked breasts, smoothing her fingers over the warm skin and testing the pliancy of each fleshy orb, her hands going around and under, kneading, stroking clutching, making Diana arch her back and clutch at air, until in desperation she cried out. "Jennifer, I'm not a lesbian."

Jennifer took a step back and pouted. "So I understand. But you'll do as a girl tells you while you're with me. Get your pants off."

Diana looked at her and started to shake her head slowly, as if she couldn't believe what was happening. Jennifer waited, giving her time to think about it, then harried her in a soft, velvet voice. "Diana, I'm going to count to three, and if those knickers aren't down to your ankles by the time I've finished..."

The woman seemed to tremble, and her lower lip quivered and on her face was the beginnings of a renewed pink flush, flooding just under her eyes. Her eyelashes fluttered nervously and she started backing away.

For a moment Jennifer teased her with silence. Then: "One."

The woman nibbled her lips.

"Two." There was a slight hesitant movement by Diana, but not nearly quick enough to please the girl. Just for a moment Jennifer remained in surly concentration, then her limbs galvanised into motion. Before Diana could blink twice a hand shot up to clamp around her jawbone in a grip she found impossible to shake off. Jennifer's palm became firmly locked under her chin as the claw of her fingers squeezed her face.

Once she'd got the woman immobile with her head wedged between her hands Jennifer leaning against her and ran a finger down the side of her neck. "I've done judo, y'know. I've got medals for it. I'm touching your mastoid muscle with my finger at this moment. It protects the carotid artery, which supplies blood and oxygen to the brain. If I move the muscle aside and apply pressure to the artery, here, you'll be unconscious in five seconds and a dead duck in half a minute." 

Diana began to panic. This was not what she'd expected, and nor did she have a clue about how to spin out of the steely grip that was frightening her. Jennifer Hancock had become a crazed thing. There was madness in her demon-dark eyes and a maniacal expression on her face, and she was strong - she was terribly strong. She was capable of doing as she said. She was capable of anything. 

Full of dread she reached for her pants, and little by little the elastic of her schoolgirl knickers was dragged down from her waist. Then came the slither as they dropped from her hips and descended to her knees. 

"Down they come. Down, down, down." encouraged Jennifer, "You don't need them," she told Diana, patting her trembling bottom, "I think you agree, don't you?"

"Oh - yes, Jennifer."

"Yes of course you do. You're a big girl now, you know your own mind."

"Yes, Jennifer." Diana stood stock still and a funny little feeling floated around inside her tummy as she allowed them to fall to her ankles. There she stood. Apart from her gym-shoes she was now utterly naked and displaying a curvaceous body that was as smooth as a billiard ball.

Jennifer put her hand around the woman's hips, then a hand slipped under one cheek of her bottom, cupping its weight, patting, fondling. Diana didn't move away. Her bottom felt warm and solid in her palm. She breathed out, heavily and slowly, and seemed to moved back onto it.

"What a pity a big girl like you as to be treated like a little girl, eh?"

"Um - y-yes Jennifer." 

She provide a keen wallop with the flat of her hand and Diana sagged. "Yes of course. Mummy was rather short with you, and rather brutal. Pulling your hair as if you were a naughty little girl." A gentle pat on the bare rump. "At least she didn't cane you. You've not been caned yet, have you? Do you want the cane?"

Diana had a job making her words come out. "N-no, not really."

"No, and there's no reason why you should be caned. You're a lady and you're not used to it, and you've been a good girl so far. But we haven't quite finished and I may have to cane you before the end."

"Tell you what - since mummy was so nasty to you I'll let you have some fun. IF you agree and make a good job of it, and if you're a VERY good girl - I'll let you off with the cane. All right?"

Diana grabbed at the chance. Nodding with enthusiasm. If there was one thing she dreaded it was getting caned, and she especially dreaded the prospect of being caned by a girl nearly half her own age.

"I want none of your virginal modesty. You'll do exactly as I tell you. Okay?"

Diana brushed her hair nervously with one hand. "Yes, yes. Okay." She sounded anxious, which was good.

"You're hopeless in the gym, so next time you come here we'll try a little cross-country run. Just five miles to begin with."

"But - I don't run. I don't run anywhere. I always have a car if I go more than a mile."

"You'll run for me if you don't want your bum the colour of a tomato, madam."

Giving her a blizzard of stinging smacks as a minor demonstration she was told to climb down onto her knees. "Hands on head, Diana." Jennifer told her as she went off to find a chair. Sitting down and elegantly draping one leg over the other a strange smile lingered on her face.

"Kneel in front of me... " she demanded, flexing her foot at the subservient woman's smoothly shaven thighs, "...then straggle my shoe."

A flush of uncertainty glowed on Diana's face and her hesitancy brought a swift response from the teenager. "Do as I say or I'll cane your tits as well as your bottom, you over-privileged, useless cow."

Diana wilted and awkwardly shuffled forward to mount her self on the pointy toe of the girls shoe. She wasn't sure what was happening and caught a sharp breath as the hard patent leather dug into her soft, intimate parts.

"I'm not often so obliging," Jennifer remarked glibly, "but today I'm feeling magnanimous, so as long as you're not too long-winded about it you may jerk yourself off with my foot."

Lady Diana's face burned hot and she was loath to admit to the tingle in her swollen clitoris. How could the girl - not much more than a stripling juvenile - expect her to humiliate herself in such a shameless way?

The answer was obvious. She'd already allowed her to smack her bottom and her breasts, and she'd made no forceful protest when the girls inquisitive fingers had undressed her and touched her up. She wasn't altogether happy about that and felt bound to say something. "Jennifer, I'm not a lesbian."

The girl remained unimpressed. "So you keep saying. But even if you're not you'll do as I wish. You're not as pure white as you like to paint yourself.

Diana's face fell. "If anyone ever finds out what happens when I come here, I'm..."

"Blah, blah, blah," Jennifer offered her no sympathy. " I've put up with your whinging all afternoon, woman. Okay, I get it. It will ruin your life. Everyone will hate you. It's not fair. Etcetera, etcetera, etcetera. Now shut the fuck up about it."

The woman stopped talking abruptly as Jennifer gripped her chin and brushed some strands of hair from her eyes. "Don't start being awkward, Diana. You don't want the cane - do you?"

Diana shook her head as she heard her own distant voice emit a hoarse, croaky "N-no...No, Jennifer." She didn't, not one little bit. 

The toe of the shoe twitched and nudged her straining clitoris, tormenting her with a touch of sensual electricity and changing her protests into subtle little moans.

"There. It's rather stirred you up I think." Jennifer mused, "I bet it's beginning to feel quite pleasant, isn't it?"

"Oh - oh, yes Jennifer." Diana's thighs seemed to melt and she began to pant and squirm down on the hard point of the shoe. Yes, suddenly it was feeling utterly wonderful. Could it be that the humiliation was exciting her?

Her tormentor put on a pretence of being thoughtful. "Em! Perhaps I'm being too stern. Maybe I'm demanding too much of you. Have you had enough? Do you want to stop?"

Diana rolled her eyes dementedly. "Oh please...no... no... please Jennifer... oh... don't... oh don't..."

"You're making my shoe quite sopping, girl. Are you sure?"

Her ladyship groaned. "No - not now - don't m-make me stop yet - please." Damn the girl. She was teasing her. She knew very well she didn't want to finish yet. She couldn't call a stop until the tingle between her legs had developed into a mighty explosion.

Her bottom wormed in her torment and her thighs spread wider and more eagerly. Her heated breath pumped from her mouth in rapid little gasps and she had an impulse to grasp the shoe and heave and scrape solidly against it.

Jennifer seemed to read her mind. "Keep your hands on your head Diana - and DO get your porky little clit' to show some urgency about this or we'll be here until suppertime."

Then Diana's pelvis began to plunge and jive as she frantically dragged her slushy wet vagina back and forth across the toe of the girls shoe, carefully ensuring her throbbing clitoris sawed purposefully against its hard tip. "Ooh, Jennifer - oooh, yes. I'm trying to hurry. Oooh, thank you Jennifer. Thank you."

***

That evening Miriam Hancock called everyone into the staff common-room to explain the kind of threat Fairyfield Grange was now under. At the start her words were ordinary enough and it wasn't the first time she'd used similar ones, but everyone could see that this time she was truly concerned. They had worked with her long enough to know every phase of her reaction to practically every kind of situation and they could tell that whatever the trouble was, this time it was bad.

She didn't actually say the school would close if the National Trust took control, but the air of gloom that followed her opening statement told her they all knew what it would mean. It would mean Fairyfield would become nothing more than a venue for visiting tourists.

"Of course I intend to fight like blazes to keep things as they are, but I must survive, and if I fail I must find thirty-thousand pounds each year just to remain here."

"No school?" mouthed Mrs Pardoe in stupefied horror. "I've always worked with young people. I don't know anything about doing other kind of work."

"Even if the worse comes to the worse there will still be a requirement for staff here," Miriam added in an attempt to mollify, "There will be a need for various tour-guides and assistants." She gazed down at the table around which they had all gathered. "Of course I can't guarantee the kind of salaries such posts will merit and that may cause some of you concern."

Emma Twist slumped in her chair. "Ice-cream kiosks and souvenir shops? I couldn't stay here if they turn the place into a funfair. I'll go. I'll just go."

She stared fixedly at her hands and no one else moved for a moment. Then Hardwick leaned forward. "It may not be so bad. The Grange could be used as a conference centre in the closed season. Lot's of places do that. Medical conferences for instance, paediatricians for example. Children's health is all the rage lately."

"Or a rural craft show," suggested matron, trying to warm to the subject of alternatives. "There's battalions of potters and weavers who'd want to come here. Yorkshire's stiff with people doing things with their hands."

"Most of 'em are wanking." Mrs Pardoe said glumly.

Matron tried again. "A music festival then. How about that? We could have a rock festival in the grounds at Halloween and Christmas."

"You've forgotten what winter on the Yorkshire moors is like, matron. It's proper arctic sometimes." Gloria put in.

Matron tutted. "Well at other times of the year then. Goodness, are we completely bereft of imagination?"

"Such affairs inevitably turn into drug-fests." remarked Hardwick, gloomily shaking his head.

"Tourists, eh?" Gloria chipped in again thoughtfully. "I wonder if them Nationalists have had a proper look at the roof-line yet. Them carvin's up there will have to be screened else they'll have some old pensioners chokin' on their peppermints."

Miss Hancock looked at her watch. It was 8-0-clock and the pupils had been without any supervision except that provided by Jennifer for half an hour, while the debate in the common-room was beginning to deteriorate.

"Nothing's going to happen before the end of term," she said fiercely, "The legal business won't get a ruling for weeks, and since my Uncle Albert was pretty gaga much of the time before he popped his clogs his will is certain to contain some ambiguities that could turn in my favour. I want our routines here to continue as normal until the outcome is known, and that includes preparations for Open Day. So let's get back to work."

***

The following day Miriam was surprised when the sun had the nerve to shine. She felt older than her years, and although she'd always prided herself on being a pragmatist her mind had become a desert lately. She knew that all that could be done was being done, and all she could do now was try to live through it.

Seeking to get away from the Grange for a morning and find some distraction from the threat the National Trust presented, she accompanied Gloria into Peasmarsh, and whilst the housekeeper was employed in Larkin's placing the grocery order she wandered across the street to Moffet's tea-rooms.

It was Saturday, and the village was a paradigm of rural Yorkshire. Small grey houses and church bells at practise. Cobblestones. Blue sky. The smell of beer and lunch. Moffet's was invariably crowded at mid morning. Not because of any great multitude of customers, but because it was so small that any more than a dozen people made it chock-a-block. 

Not being a frequent visitor she knew few of the people there, but she nodded stiffly to Mrs Tichborne and her lodger, a rather dazed looking young student schoolteacher called Eleanor Merrydew, and she also acknowledged the old man who worked in the shoe shop, a middle-aged spinster she'd seen around, and the pale dyspeptic-looking man who worked at the post-office.




A Sissy Saga Ch. 18



Fortunate enough to claim a table by the window, she ordered morning coffee instead of tea, and since she'd eaten no more than a bird at breakfast she asked Miss Moffet's girl if she could find her some cheese and a few crackers. The sweet thing was about Jennifer's age, with superb legs and a short skirt, and the swing in the front of her blouse advertised the fact she wasn't wearing a bra. Miriam couldn't help wondering if the lovely creature sometimes entertained women during her free-time.

Through the window the life of Peasmarsh dawdled along in its innocuous way. On the far side of the road Larkin the grocer had put out a display of apples, oranges, rhubarb and melons, and the riot of their contrasting shapes, hues and textures inadvertently competed with the velvety pansies, glowing dwarf marigolds and multicoloured polyanthus outside the florists shops next door. Among the passers-bye investigating these products she noticed Dorothea Boroclough. She was stooping over the boxes, her tweed skirt immodestly high, and with some dread Miriam hoped the awful woman had no intention of taking tea at Moffet's.

Unfortunately it appeared that was exactly her intention. Mrs Boroclough straightened up and suddenly plunged across the road, the movement so abrupt that she nearly swept an elderly farm labourer off his bike. The man complained in vain, for her only response was a dismissive flick of her head and an expression of contempt as she stormed in through the door of the tea-room.

The matriarch of Peasmarsh entered like the Queen of Sheba on a royal progress, with a smile and a little wave to everyone in the room, then to Miriam's considerable horror she made a beeline straight towards her table. It was a surprise too, since in the past the woman had cut her dead if their paths crossed. This day she seemed to be actively seeking her out.

In the village and for miles around Dorothea was a force to be reckoned with. She was leader of the Peasmarsh Mafia who under the guise of the Women's Guild met weekly to gather, dissect and pass judgement on all local affairs. She was wealthy and dominated the Guild in the style of a feudal tyrant. The diktats she issued, whether directly or by subtle hints and innuendo, were slavishly adhered to by all the Guild members and their spouses. Her opinion mattered, her grievances were sympathised with, and her abhorrence's were always viewed as justified.

For months her self-righteous intolerance to the kind of school Miriam was running had necessitated herself having to face enmity and invective from all kinds of people, and at a time when everything about the future of Fairyfield Grange was in the land of topsy-turvy the last thing she wanted was a public row with her. But if the overbearing bitch wanted one Miriam was in the mood to give as good as she got.

To her surprise the woman's expression was not one of hostility. There was no sign of pique, no hint of antipathy. "Would you mind terribly if I joined you?" Mrs Boroclough asked, smiling.

Miriam gave her a blank stare, neither welcoming nor offensive. She was curious more than anything. Puzzled as to why the leader of a gang of narrow-minded harridans now wanted her company. She nodded, and pushed down on the Stilton, cutting a thick crumbly slice which she carefully loaded onto her plate. "Please do."

Dorothea took a critical glance at the nearest chair and dusted it with a slap of an handkerchief before sitting. Other than that her mood was friendly and conciliatory.

"I feel I owe you an apology, Miss Hancock. I've been somewhat offhand lately, and I have to concede I was in the wrong. You operate an unusual establishment - it's unorthodox, and it takes people such as I time to adjust to radical ideas. The parson says I'm too critical of change and should be prepared to embrace innovation."

She turned to click her fingers at the serving-girl, then went on. "I've concluded there is nothing strange about having young men trained up to be servants. Everyone finds in hard to get staff theses days and shortages can make life rather difficult. Young girls just don't want to go into domestic service the way they once did."

Miriam buttered a biscuit and scooped some Stilton onto it. "Clerics have always been a trial to people of reason, but for once our revered incumbent appears to speak some sense. You've been listening to lurid stories about me Mrs Boroclough, and sometimes stories have no relation to reality."

The serving-girl wheeled up a tea-trolley and Mrs Boroclough helped herself to a gingersnap filled with cream whilst a cup and saucer and a pot of Earl Grey were being placed on the table. The delicate aroma of oil of bergamot permeated the air as she poured.

"You've every right to reprimand me Miriam. In small communities such as ours entertainment is too often comprised of malicious gossip."

As the tea-trolley departed Mrs Boroclough stared at the backs of the serving-girl's legs. "A shameless hussy, that one," she confided, "I have it she was seen in the spinney last night, in the back of a car with TWO men." She licked her lips. "Another account says it wasn't two men at all, but old Jessup the Postmaster and his WIFE!"

She offered an ingratiating smile before changing the subject. "I enjoyed a discussion with Alec Grimshaw yesterday - I believe you're acquainted with him being on the County Council - he speaks most highly of you."

So he should, thought Miriam, after all the fingering and fucking of young girls she'd organised for him in Harrogate - but where on earth was all this woman's gobbledegook leading?

"The students at the Grange," continued Dorothea, dropping a slice of lemon into her cup, "They're all such sweet things, though I - er - suppose you have to punish them on occasions."

"Naturally. They may have the appearance of blameless angels but they can display the behaviour of imps."

"Spare the rod and spoil the child is an adage I entirely agree with. When the flesh is weak, firm discipline is usually the only answer. It's a practise I've often had to apply to those in my employ." 

She sipped her tea delicately. "Between ourselves I'm in something of a quandary. I have a rather large home that requires a live-in maid to look after it, and the girl I have at the moment now insists on moving out to live with her boyfriend." Her faced buckled with indignation. "People can be so selfish. I don't mind telling you, because I know it will go no further - but, I'm at the point were I need to make some other arrangement."

Now everything made sense to Miriam Hancock. The overindulged, outwardly pious leader of the community was really just a degenerate old bat who wanted to do business.

Having broached the subject Mrs Boroclough opened up with her requirements. "I have it on a whisper that you are likely to place some of your - er, pupils, into good quality homes quite soon. I'm not altogether hostile to having a male servant, and I'm am not altogether penniless either, so I'm curious as to - well, as to what kind of fee you'll be demanding."

Miriam gave no clue as to her troubles with the National Trust. Knowing that a sign of weakness would encourage various hyenas to begin nipping at her heels she was determined to refer to the future as assured.

"Taking on one of my young people could prove an expensive business." she said.

The older woman smirked. "As I've already mentioned, I'm not short of money. My dear hubby left me well provide for, and I have my own income too. I own the village."

"Own it?"

"Yes." Dorothea's eyes glowed. "There are about seventy houses and some shops. Some of the houses are let out to farm workers and only bring in peppercorn rents, but all in all I do very well from them."

"It sounds rather feudal."

"Perhaps. That's the way it is around here. Lady Diana may have a title, but I more than match her with money and property. Tenants. Always problems. I'm like a marriage guidance counsellor half the time."

"I expect you give excellent advice."

"I do have some influence. I have a lot of influence actually. No one around here dares question anything I say."

Miriam pushed her cheese to one side. Originally she'd been adamant that her students should be sent off to places well away from the locality when she disposed of them, but now she reassessed things. 

If she obliged Mrs Boroclough, others would follow, and perhaps it wouldn't be a bad thing to accommodate a few of the top people in the immediate area. To a large extent it would bring them under her influence, and it would ensure their support instead of risking their acrimony.

"The produce of Fairyfield Grange will certainly be affordable to people such as yourself, Mrs Boroclough. Look, my school breaks for recess shortly, but there will be one or two students who will have to board-on through the holiday. Perhaps you'd like to have one on approval for a weekend and see how you get on before taking someone permanently."

The woman opposite perched a pair of spectacles on the end of her nose and delved into her handbag. A pocket diary, a chequebook and a gold plated fountain pen were then heaped onto the table. "I like the notion of a trial period. It's an excellent idea, and I'd like things settled soon. This weekend would be ideal. I'll give you a deposit right away."

Since Mrs Boroclough was already busily scratching figures onto a cheque Miriam was loath to stop her. And here was probably a woman who could manage the chaotic and irrepressible nature of Poppy. 

Now, if she could only somehow get a feel of that serving girl's tits before she left the tea-room, she'd reckon her visit to the village time well spent.



A Sissy Saga Ch. 19



It came as a surprise. When Abigail received a message from his sister telling him to go to her room he was astonished. He never went into the family apartments until recess, so such a demand was abnormal.

Bossy bitch, Abigail thought as he made his way there, but he didn't say it. His relationship with his sister had never been one of close kinship, they'd spent too much of their lives at separate boarding schools for anything like that to develop, and while he had a slightly bullying facility himself, Jennifer always topped him when it came down to dominance. 

The years Jennifer had spent at school was a mercy for plenty of boys in the world, although not for himself. Whenever they were both home on vacation they had all felt the brunt of her bullying, demanding manner. Everyone respected her physical strength, but he himself found her voice to be the most intimidating thing about her. He could never seem to resist the power in her voice. 

She'd constantly ordered him around and made him do things he knew were wrong, such as dressing up as a girl. She'd taught him to use make up properly - foundation, blusher - mascara to give him nice long eyelashes, eyeliner and eye shadow, and lipstick. And then she'd dressed him in stockings, bikini pants and a garter belt before slotting him into high heeled shoes. She'd praised his looks, made him feel like a beautiful flower.

He didn't mind it at first. Doing naughty things was exciting, and if he was being made to do them he was blameless and it wasn't his fault. Being told to masturbate into his handkerchief in the back row of a cinema or ordered to do it with a hand in his pocket when on a bus journey had been demeaning, but most of all he'd hated the humiliation of being told to go up stairs with one of her girlfriends to show her how a boy did it. He could still recall the excruciating shame of being alone with a girl who was there just to see him do a cummy in front of her.

Finally there came the time Jennifer introduced him to another youth whom she'd also trained to cross-dress. She'd made them get together on a bed and told them to put on a lesbian show. That was the first time he'd ever done another male in the backside, and he'd taken to the habit.

"Why do you want to see me?" he asked when Jennifer let him into her room. He asked the question courteously. He may have been top dog in the school, but he was never superior to her.

His sister prevaricated slightly, but only for a moment, before telling him the callous facts. "Your time at Fairyfield is at an end, Abigail. Mummy needs money urgently so she's going to sell you. She as a guest coming this afternoon who wants a pantywaist as a companion, and she thinks you're the best choice."

Abigail caught his breath. He'd always known his mother didn't intend her school to cater for young men older than he was, and in the future a number of her students would be sold off during the course of each term, but it still came as quite a shock when he discovered she was selling them now. First Fifi who had gone to some mad marchioness, then Poppy who had been sent off on trial loan to some woman in the village, and now himself, her own son, bound for only goodness knew where. 

He was horrified and surprised, but didn't wish to show that in front of Jennifer. He chewed his bottom lip, blinking rapidly while his hands hung clenched as impotent fists at his side.

The girl could see hurt and insecurity in his face anyway, but typically she showed no emotion. Her attitude was one of detachment and ruthless efficiency. Her face beamed inappropriately as she closed the door behind him. "Don't worry. It's all right. You've always been a very co-operative girl so I'm sure mummy will have chosen someone nice for you. She will probably have chosen a man." 

Still disconcerted Abigail shook his head. "I hope she's chosen a man. I wouldn't know what to do with a woman. I don't even know what to do with girls."

"That's what I thought," Jennifer said, "Living at Fairyfield is all very well, but it makes sissies naive about the world outside," she said. "But you'll probably never have a choice in the matter, darling. Sissies rarely have a choice in anything. They're not required to think or make decisions, they're just required to be obedient when they're TOLD what to do."

She continued, "Because you've been a very good girl lately and you're so pretty I've been giving some thought as to how you should present yourself to a possible new owner. Since your not allowed to wear make-up when in uniform I thought I'd help you with some glamour."

"I can do that for myself." he murmured churlishly.

Jennifer's eyes narrowed and she regarded him as she might a Sunday roast before carving. "I want to do it." she snapped, and his head drooped. 

Immediately his sister reviewed things. "Your hair is okay. The pageboy cut will be fine with just a ribbon. A bit more make-up though. Your time as head girl as made you something of an old fashioned blue-stocking, so you'll benefit from rouge and shadow to plump out your cheeks. Some masacra too, to lengthen your eyelashes, and then something to push up your little tits. It won't be a problem."

In the past Jennifer's lovers had always been girls, or emasculated boys serving as substitute girls in a subordinate, feminine way. Turning a young man, helping him find his way into the inexplicable excitement of sissyland and projecting him into girlhood had always been on top of her list of pleasures. She enjoyed kissing them and feeling them up when they were in girls clothes, and putting them into a bra and getting them trained in wearing stockings and high heels were desirable first steps.

"What a stunning beauty you are with that demure-eyes-cast-down look. You could become a fashion model. In the outside world men will fight each other for a chance to coo over you and hold you in their arms, and girls will want to smack you for looking so sweet." She pulled him close, sliding one hand round to feel the shape of his pert bum and then leaning down to peck a little sisterly kiss onto his flushed cheek.

"Oh!" Abigail's long black lashes fluttered down onto his rosy cheeks and he relaxed and squirmed with pleasure. For a second she pressed against him and enveloped him with her perfume, she could have sworn he detected the beat of his heart. 

Abruptly she leaned down and kissed the side of his neck, this time her teeth biting and pulling gently at the tender skin.

"Oooohhh! Jennifer, what...?"

Realising that fun times with her subservient brother were coming to an end, Jennifer thought to make the most of the moment and slid her arm down to cup his waist. 

"Such a tiny waist," she said in admiration, "Look at that, I can very nearly get my arm all the way around it. You swish around so lightly and so prettily, and you've got superb legs. Personally I think boys who have nice, shapely legs should take every opportunity to show them off."

At that moment the button and zip on his skirt became unfastened and the garment dropped down his legs to become a puddle of blue serge around his nylon-clad legs. Now he quivered with increased uncertainty, but Jennifer didn't even acknowledge what she'd done.

Alarmed, Abigail flinched. "Jennifer, you're undressing me."

"That's right. Lovely things like you shouldn't spend all evening buttoned up to the neck."

"Okay, but honestly, I can manage to take my own clothes off. I don't need a nursemaid."

Jennifer grinned. "Oh, but I think you do. You need a girl to look after you."

The dear, sweet thing was in complete surrender to her so she leaned forward and kissed his mouth - and Jennifer knew about kissing, of that there was no doubt. Her lips were full and hot, and she used her whole head, not just her lips. But it was a bona fide kiss, simple and sweet - tentative, chaste and almost virginal - that seemed so right at that moment. Abigail's body was soft, sweet and fragile and his lips warm, pliant and comfortable. As she drew back she nibbled lightly on his lips. Delicious! Some men would walk barefoot over broken glass to try some of that.

She placed a friendly arm about his shoulders and ushered him towards the bed, sitting him down at her side she cradled him in her arms, feeling the slight musculature of his body through the material of his blouse as she urged him to throw his arms about her neck and press his cheek against her face. 

Easing him back she unbuttoned the cuffs on his blouse and then the front of it all the way down. Reaching inside she began tracing her fingers along the bare skin of his sides and across his back until acting on instinct their lips touched again - tenderly at first, then more robustly, fiery, and then the whole of Jennifer's tongue was thrusting into his mouth. 

As the heat of passion began to build she smeared her hot lips across his flushed face in order to lick his ear before trailing the tip of her tongue down to run along the line of his jawbone. The moist tickle under his chin made him raise his head, which enabled her to stroke her tongue up and down the blemishless white skin of his throat.

Finally she removed his blouse, and skimming it from his shoulders left him wearing only his underwear; white panties and a little white cotton bra clamped to his boyish chest. His breasts were flushed and his perky nipples could be seen pushing at the material.

Her hands moved over his bare back, stroking him down from his neck to the thrust of his bottom, then she began to kiss the top of his breasts as she reached behind to undo the clasp on his bra. Ah, yes, bare titties! Boy titties. Maybe only little bumps and not full breasts yet, but good enough to thrill.

Her mouth went down on his right nipple which was erect and tender, and her warm, slick mouth feasted on its tip, a treat too delicate to resist - kissing it and sucking it and giving it a little love-bite, just a hint of teeth to make him whimper, before switching to the other side. It wasn't too long before the sweet scented sissy was writhing and moaning exactly like the hot-bodied girls she'd seduced so often in her past.

Indeed, Abigail was experiencing the kind of high-octane sexuality he'd never known with a girl before; he adored the titty love, it suggested smouldering, hidden passion and apparent desire. Enraptured by Jennifer's magnificence he went limp in her arms, allowing the teenage girl to lay him down and roll on top of him and trap his body beneath her own, permitting her questing hands to squeeze and pull his tiny breasts while she feasted on his scrumptious flesh.

"So pretty. Such a sexy girl." she husked as she kissed his cheeks and eyelids. She could tell he liked what she was doing and what she was saying. It made him sigh and puff out his chest, and his big, brown Bambi-eyes squinted into slits of pleasure.

At last she sat him up, and quivering and docile, Abigail sat uncomplaining and immobile as the girl set about transforming him. Opening a compact she daubed powder on his nose and crooned softly. "A little dab of powder, a little dab of paint, makes a little lady what she really ain't."

She dosed him liberally with lipstick and musky smelling perfume, then brushed metallic bronze powder onto his eyelids with a large bushy brush. After the make-up came the accessories. She'd found plenty of stage-jewellery in Margaret Pardoe's costume cupboard. Clip-on earnings, bracelets, necklaces, and she delighted in adorning him like he was a girl going to the Oscars.

Long false nails varnished to a colour that matched the lipstick on his mouth were added to his fingertips, and there he was, with makeup flawless, eyes mysterious, his glossy pink lips parted slightly in apprehension to give a hint at the pleasure they could offer.

Three inch heels would complete the feminine look, she decided. He was slightly smaller than her, but even if the shoes gave him additional height he'd still remain where she wished him to be - below her.

She didn't qualify her behaviour, instead she pushed him down to settle into the corner of her bed, noticing how his meagre weight barely depressed the mattress. Ideally she knew she should have sacrificed a little time to soothe him and put him at ease before starting anything special, but her eagerness refused constraint.

Her fingers stroked his legs, delicately smoothing them up his coltish limbs in what could only be interpreted as a caressing motion before anchoring the dark welts at the top to the clips on the dangly suspender straps. Shapely legs sheathed in nylons. Excellent! thought Jennifer.

"You're different to the others. You always have been. You've a streak of testosterone in you that defies everything. I've noticed how horny you become when you stand near Emma Twist, and I dare say you'd have no conscience about screwing a length up me if I allowed it."

He drew in a sharp, shocked breath, but before he could compose himself properly she straggled his hips and took hold of his hand and thrust it up under her skirt. "Touch me between the legs. Feel my pants. Sample the warm, wet slickness you generate in the gusset."

"Jennifer!" His arousal was now obvious. Embarrassed by his own excitement he raised his knee in a weak attempt to hide the impudent rise of his penis inside the scallop trimmed bikini pants he wore. She noticed right away how they were now distorted by excitement.

Callously she withdrew his hand and thrust it away. "There is yet time for some fun. Before that, your pants must come off." she told him.

Ignoring his exclamations her fingers stroked his belly and began to fiddle with the waistband. Abigail gulped. The emotions inside him - the tumble of dread, nervousness and shame - were not discussed. He was allowing her to dominate. He was letting his sister undress him, letting her see he was wearing panties and allowing her to see that he was aroused in the lewdest way possible.

Her hands moved down behind him and he didn't move as she smoothed them over his slender buttocks and playfully patted his lean rump. "You're very obedient, and that pleases me." she told him as she moved her hand down over his straining bulge. "Does dainty girls underwear excite you? Do you enjoy feeling your boy parts rubbing inside it?"

Abigail almost panicked. Without speaking - without asking - he gasped a little as she put her fingers into the waist elastic and eased the garment down over his thighs. The tone of her voice had been uncompromising and he didn't dare argue, and against his expectations he became beguiled by the persuasive caressing as they slid over his legs.

She hauled the pants down his legs until they became a puddle of wispy nylon around his feet. Oooh, he felt so helpless and at her mercy, and when he made an effort to stop her going further she just slapped his hand away.

Despite his embarrassment, or perhaps because of it, his penis was stiff and distended. It was standing out from the depilated soft curve of his underbelly and the white unblemished flesh of his thighs, swollen and visually straining, raised above a right-angle, a shin bone wrapped in silk that bounced when he moved, with a blushing bell-end straining out from its tip.

"My, my!" murmured Jennifer approvingly, "You could do damage to the furniture with a thing like that. Better watch where you go."

"Jennifer, are you going to wank me off?"

The girl gave him a scathing look. "Wank you? Certainly not. You effeminates are all so selfish, always thinking of your own pleasure. But I know what a mess you make when you get overexcited, and I don't want your girly gook squirting all over me."

Abigail suddenly felt uneasy. When she pulled back she left him with the impression of strength and power that excited a curious quivering awareness throughout his whole body. He noticed how she focused on him, one eyebrow raised in cynical amusement at his blushes. It was easy to read that look now, and he remembered the terrible demands she'd made of him in the past. 

Aghast, he gazed up at her. He couldn't blush any harder, the heat of embarrassment glowed in his face. He was quaking all over, and if he hadn't been sitting down he would have fallen down. There was no fear, only nervousness in the pit of his stomach and a strange trapped feeling in his head. Her words had instigated imaginings that were shocking, exhilarating and nerve-racking all at the same time. 

The girl was prepared for a little rebellion, she was used to such things in the first phase of a plan. She arched an eyebrow and a grin tugged at the corners of her mouth, then with the flat of one hand she laid a sharp smack onto his soft, flushed cheek, not hard, but hard enough to bring his teeth together with a click.

"Oh!" Her brother flapped his hands and his 'too pretty for a boy' eyes took on a vague unfocused look. "Oooh! Jennifer, what...?"

"Don't make a fuss, or I'll start being cruel." she told him. "When you're with me you must be obedient. I thought you would have realised that by now."

Abigail's moist eyes held her gaze for a moment, then looked away. She had such a commanding voice it never occurred to him to refuse. Rubbing the sting on his face sheepishly, he capitulated.

Jennifer smiled inwardly as she stroked a finger tentatively up the side of his face. The sweet lamb knew exactly how luscious he looked, but was reluctant to admit it. 

She drew him forward by his hips, taking his penis in her hand to savour the texture of its spongy tissue and tensed sinew for a moment before stroking its length a couple of times. It was primed and ready to be worked over by a knowledgeable hand. But not yet, not for a while yet. There were things to do before he deserved any pleasure of that kind.

"Up you get, and do a little shimmy for me." she told him.

Abigail paced back and forth a bit, casting worried glances in her direction each time he turned. Obediently he rolled his hips and pouting over his shoulder in the manner of a precocious tart when the oh-so-bossy Jennifer demanded it. His stiff, unrestricted penis, bouncing above his testicles and wagging about ridiculously in front of him as he minced back and forth did nothing to cool the heady erotic nature of things. 

Jennifer's non-too-professional eye didn't blink as she watched it extend from the top of his trim young legs, and Abigail secretly sort of wished he'd been given a skirt if only to cover up the sign of his embarrassment.

Eventually Jennifer called a halt and beckoned him forward to stand in front of her. "It's gratifying to find you accepting sissyhood so gracefully, Abigail," she husked. "Stand up straight, heels together, arms by your side," 

He turned to go back but she caught him by the arm. Her other hand went to the back of his head and pulled his mouth against her own. Her hot tongue licked his lips and then forced a way between them, just the way a man likes to do with a woman; aggressively, filling his mouth. 

She slid her tongue in and out of my mouth for a full minute before coming up for air, and his whole being focused on her kiss, which seemed to last an eternity. When he pulled back he could taste and smell her lipstick all over his mouth.

He felt lost and confused, and he groaned into her mouth as she took hold of his cock, sliding the smooth skin up and down its hard core until slick moisture began to erupt from its tip. It felt so good to have her rubbing his penis. Her fingers felt so sensual, her grip so comforting.

She whispered in his ear. "You're such a lovely prick-tease. So much bigger than any of the others in this place. There are veins in your shaft, and the head is kind of purple. Poppy is the only one who can compare with you, but he's such an effeminate bimbo he's not any real competition."

He shuddered slightly when she stroked her fingers lightly under his ball-sac. His upstanding penis slavered slick, clear juice from its tip, but there was yet to be no release for its impatient main cargo.




A Sissy Saga Ch. 19



"I'm not going to do anything. It's you who must do the doing. Mummy won't tolerate you developing an erection in front of her guest while she's conducting business, so you must discharge all risk of it. That means I have to ensure you have a good wank."  

Abigail had long become used to Jennifer viewing him without clothes, but he wondered just how many other boys had a vicious sister who demanded they appeared naked before them, and how many of them would consent to masturbating while they were being watched. Reluctantly he sat down on the bed once more, wrapped his hand around his thick shaft and stroked it until it started to swell and rise up. 

"The skin is smooth and loose," his sister observed as he began to slide his prepuce back and forth. "I think everything is getting even bigger now." 

He kept stroking, and Jennifer observed for a while with a vague smile, outwardly showing no hint of the delicious feelings that tingled in every part of her body. She loved watching boys wank; it was so excruciatingly humbling for them to put on that kind of show, and her delight was doubled if she had to make them do it. More than doubled if they were shy and unwilling

"It's harder now," she gushed. "It's enormous!" 

"Is all this really necessary?" Abigail asked.

She nodded adamantly. "I think so, being in charge of all the other boy bitches in this place makes you obnoxious. You don't get spanked much these days, so you need to be reminded about humility from time to time." Her eyes suddenly shone with a devilish light. "I tell you what, let's make it more interesting. Do that thing that no one else seems able to do. Do you remember the little trick you used to do in Harrogate?"

"I don't know what you mean." Her emasculated brother knew exactly to what she was referring, but declined to admit it.

Jennifer scoffed and went over to him. "Yes you do." She gripped his hair and rocked his head side to side, and he groaned, shocked at how weak he could still feel when she had hold of him. "I can still make you cry. Surely I won't have to smack you before you give in and do it."

She lifted his balls with one hand and began to stroke the length of his boner vigorously with the other, grinning as it thickened in her hand. "Oh, yes! Quite a monster, and it doesn't seem to matter who does this for you, so I can only think your rather a pervert Abigail."

Pushing him onto the bed Jennifer climbed up beside him to ensure he wedged himself into the corner and braced himself against the wall. Opening his legs she drew his knees up to the level of his ears, which ensured his cock jutted up over his stomach. "Bend your head and lean down."

"I can't - I can't do it." Abigail whimpered, knowing all too well that her intention was to make him suck his own penis.

"Yes you can." she said sternly. "I've seen you do it in the past and nothing as changed. Your dexterity and the size of your girly prong are both amazing."

Placing a hand on the back of his head she pushed down and Abigail's spine curved as his back hunched and the tip of his watering cockhead loomed inches below his face. His expression immediately scrunched into a grimace. "Jennifer, I..."

She pushed again and his face dipped lower, and this time his lips grazed the tip of his moist knob end. Inexplicably he then surrendered. He opened his mouth and lowered his lips onto his cock while his sister continued to fondle his balls and helped to feed him his own meat.

Inexplicably he began to comply with her demands. He softened his pink lips and gently kissed the fat knob on the end, leaving behind pretty lipstick smudges. The skin was so soft and velvety. He didn't wait for jennifer's next instruction before his lips parted and he began to caress it with his tongue.

"That's right. Make love to it and refresh your memory. Feel it get bigger in your mouth," his sister whispered excitedly. Then she put her hand on the back of his head and pushed down, forcing his hugely swollen cock deeper into his mouth and onto his tongue. 

Abigail's eased back and lips opened around the swollen cock-head and his tongue swirled around it before he took a grip with his lips. Precum began oozing, but that was only a pallid introduction to what he knew was to follow.

In such an unnatural contortion he couldn't manage the whole thing, not the entire length, but his mouth could take in the fat mushroom-shaped tip and the top most sensitive inch of the shaft. He began to pump with his face, his mouth making wet, hollow noises as it moved, while his hand moved freely up and down the rest of his turgid member.

As his initial coyness evaporated he angled his penis up towards his face and pulled it towards his lips. Slicking his wet, pink tongue over the tip he took a moment to explore the large, satiny crown which had begun to leak precum from the slit at its apex, then his tongue began gliding up and down the long, smooth shaft, making it wet, making it expand, taking time, teasing and pleasing, until at last his lips settled around the tip and he enveloped the fat plum with his mouth. 

Having taken in the bulbous tip, he clamped his lips beneath its lower rim and blithely began to pleasure himself by moving them up and down. Never gripping, never biting, coating everything with saliva, drawing it in, pushing down on it, once, twice, again and again.

Jennifer praised him. "I'm proud of you Abigail, dear. You're unique. No other girl I know as a brother who can suck himself off."

Ugh! Jennifer was vile to do such things, Abigail's scrambled mind mused, but he was silly too. How could he? How could he allow himself to be bullied into sucking himself off - wanking into his own mouth - in front of a girl - in front of his own sister? 

He began to gag, and Jennifer let him pull up to breathe. Then she pushed down again and introduced a bouncing rhythm that made him take more and more. Once the fat head of the cock passed into his mouth it was easy for more to follow, and when there was no more resistance from him Jennifer let him find his own tempo. "There! Now I've got you started I'll let you do it for yourself. But remember the rules. We've always had an agreement about this sort of thing."

He continued bobbing his head up and down, each time up sliding the head out past his lips. His naughty hand was urging his juices to flow and as thrills began to shimmer up and down his length he clamped his lips tighter and moved his mouth up and down. He couldn't help it. She was making him do it. Jennifer was always making him do disgusting things.

Other males would have struggled and failed to effect a manoeuvre they could only be do by extraordinary contortion, but Abigail didn't rely on contortion, he was exceptionally lithe of body, and his cock was exceptionally long. With one hand tucked beneath his ball-sac he was able to gently caress the tender globes inside, while with his other hand he gripped his serpentine length and guided its spongy, bulbous end upwards to meet a face that was dipping down.

He moaned as his cock throbbed involuntarily, then its tip started to drool more copiously in his mouth and his whole body started to tremble. His breathing became ragged as the leaking flesh began to shake. Then he realised he couldn't let go - didn't want to let go. His mouth clamped tighter, his lips moved faster beneath the base of his broad arrowhead, and his hand wouldn't stop pumping. The movements of his mouth quickly became increasingly eager, and lower down one of his hands was caressing his testicles as if urging his plump ball-bags to give up their treasure.

Then in an instant his tinted eyelids fluttered and his expression melted into one of infinite rapture as if in response to some kind of unseen impact.

"Mmoh!" His belly undulated in a dolphin-like ripple and a meaningless little noise squeezed out from his throat as he balked slightly, but even though he was clearly ejaculating his lips remained latched in place. Mouth and hands then worked in unison, rapidly pumping the shaft, teasing juice along his glands as he wanked into his own mouth and consumed his own copious discharge with the enthusiasm of a baby at its bottle.

Jennifer needed to monitor her breathing when seeing such a job so well done. She must have been watching closely, because just when his dick rippling in his mouth she held his head and kept it firmly in place.

"There, you see, you like it don't you? My girly-brained brother is enjoying himself."

Abigail closed his eyes as his cock lurched and vast globs of cream ejected into his mouth. Then more. And more. Warm, slimy cum-jets of male seed squirting in uncontrollable spasms. He'd tasted plenty of cum before from other cocks, but this was his cum pumping out from his own twitching cock.

Ugh! Eeeaaah, glup!

His sister was unable to resist stroking under his balls again, and she beamed with approval when she noticed his throat undulating. "You're swallowing. You do remember the rules after all. That's lovely, but it's enough of that for now." she told him, "Any more of it and you won't want to eat your dinner."

***

Later, when Abigail entered his mother's study he found her standing by the fireplace with a cup of tea in her hand, her manner was of that of a lady of the manor receiving a guest. 

The guest on this occasion was a stranger. He was a lean, too thin, bald-headed elderly man wearing a good quality, well tailored suit. There were deep creases in his narrow face of the kind that constant deep thought creates, and webs of fine lines around his eyes that stood out like cross-stitching. But it was his mouth that drew most attention, it carried the cynical smile of a debt collector.

"Now," said Miriam, waving her son to the centre of the room. "If you'll allow me, I'll introduce you to my best recommendation. Abigail is without doubt a young man who excels in grace and beauty. A first-class product of Fairyfield Grange and a credit to all who've had a hand in training him."

A new day had brought on a new mood, and the difficulties Miriam had previously faced no longer seemed so daunting. Sick of being downcast, it was on with the job. The cost of opposing the National Trust's claim to Fairyfield Grange had put her in some financial difficulty but Mrs Boroclough had shown the way, and she had got nothing to lose. If mere money was all that was required to put things right she'd raise enough to buy the whole wretched Courts-of-Law, and finding early placements for some of her students was a good way of raising cash. After all, they were created to be expendable and they were there to be exploited.

At a signal from his mother Abigail divested himself of his robe and stepped forward to reveal the full extent of his sister's artistry. Be fore he had left her room she had approached him from behind and, with a practised manoeuvre drew a satin garment around his middle and began to lace it up in a criss-cross fashion behind his back. 

He had gasped as she pulled things tight and tied them in place, and only then did he fully realise she had put him in a corset, an aubergine coloured strapless bodice, brief enough to leave his chest on show for a bra; with satin ruffles around the bottom rim, and brief enough to expose everything below his hips. Four garter straps dangled down from the bottom edge to skim his hairless, creamy thighs and buttocks. 

"It will pronounce your girlish shape and give you a better waist." Jennifer had told him.

She had referred to him as a girl, so he now playacted the part as he stood before the old man, hands on hips, head tilted up, blushing slightly, confident that the man would at once note his boyish anatomy and show approval. After all, he had a perfect body, he was young and radiant, and he wore no pants so his sinuous thick cock hung over a fine dangle of balls. Aware that a sissy on sale should display himself from every angle he posed briefly, one knee jutting slightly forward, first facing him, then turning about to offer a back view.

Already thrilling in a typical sissy way by the stretch of the garter-straps over his tender bottom-cheeks, Abigail squirmed and sucked in a sharp breath when Jennifer had fastened a bra to his chest once more. He was a girl with a cock and little in the way of tits, and she'd said he'd need something to lend him more shape. Something that would give him a shape between Poppy's gorgeously squashy buns and Bambi's pimples. The snug fitting cups would give each of his breasts a sense of separate existence, she'd told him, and the soft cotton-wool padding would gently coddle his swollen nipples.

He was excited. Not simply because he was exposed, and not just because he had an audience. There was something else. The delicious sensation of nylons on his legs, the tug of suspender straps over his thighs, the firm hug of the little bra that harnessed his bosom.

His mother fold her arms across her chest. "Walk around a bit," she told him. "Let the gentleman see you strut." Her voice was suddenly deep and booming. A stentorian shock coming from such a slender frame.

He made a promenade, teetering on preposterous high-heels, thrilling to the sensation of tight female garments. Burning with shame, nervous but radiant he sashayed around the room, eyes wide in the manner of a startled colt, a girlish young man in a waspwaisted girdle that accentuated his hips and bottom, while a snug little bra cosseted his titties in the most delightful way.

"A lovely physique, you will agree," his mother continued, stopping him again, "Small and exquisitely formed, a nice waist, something of a swell to the hips, beautifully proportions legs and very pretty feet and ankles. 'The innocent and beautiful have no enemies but time' I read somewhere once, but you'll find Abigail's looks long lasting. The matron I have is a perfect whiz and is experimenting with treatments to retard the growth of coarse body hair and repress the development of the larynx."

She made no reference to his genitals. That would have been too crude and anyway they were obvious enough.

To Abigail's slight annoyance the visitor didn't say anything for a while, he seemed to be smiling at something invisible and far away. When he did speak it was in the crisp well-educated voice of a barrister.

"By virtue of the profession from which I'm lately retired I've viewed many such, er - lads in the past, Miss Hancock. Some of the young rapscallions I met during my service to the Courts of Law were beautiful rough diamonds - dressed in faded jeans and loud T-shirts and wearing rings in their ears. All many of them needed was affection, and of course proper discipline. Unfortunately they constantly mutinied against all efforts to help them."

The man scrutinised Abigail again. "This young person is indeed a fine looker and a rare commodity indeed, but I need someone who'll never tire of being both a servant and an intimate companion, and who won't rebel when awarded a few well deserved smacks now and again. That someone also needs to be provided at the right price."

Miriam responded sharply. No matter that the goods on her stall were her kith and kin, she was obsessive when it came to success in her enterprises.

"Abigail will be no ordinary member of staff to you. While being competent in all household duties he as the skills worthy of a geisha and a bottom well disposed to being spanked. As for expense, although the initial outlay may be high, this she-boy-servant will never expect wages or holidays. And in the unlikely event you eventually tire of him I estimate he can be sold-on with little financial loss."

The man nodded and seemed to be in full agreement. "One last thing. During my time with the judiciary I had cause to deal with many young men who indulge in body piercing. You'll know what I mean. It's a strange desire people have these days to dangle jewellery from their ears and nipples, and sometime from their cock. Personally I found it had the effect quite enticing."

Miriam nodded. "That won't be a problem. I can arrange for matron to do whatever is required, it will just mean Abigail won't be ready for you until the school recess."

Abigail was dismissed from the room at that point, for although he fancied a bargain was being struck it seemed his presence wasn't considered necessary any longer. The whole business had the air of a slave-market, which was a fair analogy, since once a placement fee had been paid the client would virtually own him.

His own future now seemed set. He'd never obtained qualifications that would lead to a profession, so perhaps it was his destiny to serve as a pet for a decrepit old man.

Perhaps it wouldn't be too bad. The man seemed okay, almost paternal; slightly avuncular and not a bit like his idea of a lecherous sugar-daddy. He was old and as hairless as a Chihuahua, but neither of those things mattered. At least there was no sign of dotage or senility. And at least it would get him away from Jennifer, the sister who'd always been the bane of his existence.

He'd led an ideal life since his mother had appointed him as head-girl. The post had given him the benefit of never being a subject for physical punishment while allowing him to deal plenty out. Such an exalted position also meant he was not obliged to give sexual favours to anyone, while it enabled him to chose any of the other effeminate bimbo's as a bed-companion.

Being astute and able to recognise a good thing he'd tried them all. Yes, he'd enjoyed a good time, but philosophically he realised that all good times come to an end. His only regret was that in his haste to taste and try everything ten times over he'd sacrificed stalwarts such as Wendy, who was probably the truest friend he'd ever had.

***

Soon after dealing with her brother Jennifer stood naked before a full length mirror and studied her reflection, admiring the strong lines of her face and the tilt of her chin. She looked, dare she think it, quite stunning. Outwardly the image she viewed was that of a typical teenage girl, slender and well hipped, and although small chested she had the indefinable glow of beauty that only youthfulness can emit. Like a goddess, she was a beautiful symbol of feminine authority.

She tumbled her hair and brushed back a stray tress, then stretched out and leisurely eyed her limber body. She also had great legs which carried her swiftly with enviable grace, and she was generally quick in everything she did, full of energy, brimming with vitality and effervescence.

When she went into the village all the old grannies would tell her it was about time she found a steady boyfriend. But why should she? She had no tolerance for the weak or ineffectual, especially if they were males. Boys would only want her for sex, and in her own way she'd already experienced more sex than a libertine twice her age, and done it all without them. 

Apart from screwing around with Monica Braithwaite and Polly Clagget, North Yorkshire was a bit of a letdown so far, but she could always get her jollies from dominating her mother's sissies. Being cruel to pretty girly-things always made her drippy and often made her jerk off in her pants without even touching herself.

She rubbed her hands over her body, feeling the bare flesh and firm, sexy muscles, and absent mindedly she licked her fingers and played with her pert nipples, squeezing and twisting them. Still only eighteen, but an Amazon experienced beyond her years, her indomitable will being sustained by fitness and physical strength that displayed its potential as she flexed and posed. Early every morning she worked-out in the gym and she had the strength of any youth her own age.

She didn't need a boyfriend. She was as proficient with a cock as any of them. When she pondered about such things she rather liked the idea of having a cock. Maybe Freud was right. Maybe women wanted a penis. Well, maybe not a penis, but certainly a decent cock. Sometimes she posed before the mirror with a strap-on fastened to her pubis - sometimes a solid rammer that stuck out like a ships yardarm, and sometimes a huge, thick dangly thing that swung down between her legs. Sexiest of all were those with a good pair of balls.




A Sissy Saga Ch. 19



It was unfair that she didn't have a dick and balls of her own. Instinctively she knew she could make better use of them than any of the overrated Neanderthal-males of the species. She was something to be reckoned with, and she got a kick out of putting men where they belonged. Beneath her.

Penis envy? She scolded herself. Surely not. To dispel such an idea she sought out the most feminine items in her wardrobe, a crimson silk blouse with Magyar embroidery on the sleeves and neck, which with a tight black knit skirt and a gleaming black belt cinched about her waist accentuated all her bodily curves in the best feminine way. After dousing herself with perfume she packed some items into a sports bag and went down the stairs to pester Gloria to drive her into the village.

***

The bright promise of Jennifer's trip out threatened to fizz out like a damp squib. She'd gone to the haberdashers in Peasmarsh with the clear intention of seeing Polly Clagget, but instead of finding the delectable and suggestible girl behind the shop counter she was confronted by the girl's mother, Martha.

Martha Clagget was a contradiction of her daughters modesty. Often brash and rather showy, she was a brunette with hair styled short and shaggy and with brown eyes and pale skin. When younger she had clearly been a beauty, and if ageing had rounded out her frame somewhat it had done it in a kind way. She still retained a pair of nice hips and a good bottom, and her breasts, which she considered her best feature, were large and always given full prominence when she dressed.

"Sorry if you've come special to see Polly, but she works so hard all the time I thought she could do with a day off." Martha told her.

Jennifer glared a scowl of dissatisfaction and turned to leave, but the woman quickly added. "Hold on dear. While you're here I wonder if you'd mind helping me out. I'm treating myself by runnin'-up a new evening gown, and measuring oneself is never easy. It'll only take a minute."

She came around the counter clutching a tailor's measure, her two large breasts juddering noticeably beneath a blue silk blouse. The shop was in a side alley and its windows were small-paned and dusty. Going to the door she turned a 'closed' sign to the outside, pulled down the door-blind and turned a key in the lock.

"Don't want any nosy so'n'so's peepin' in." she explained while plucking at the buttons on her blouse front. "Measurin' is best done in the buff as y'know, but I'm choosy about who gets to look at my knockers."

Two juddering bare mounds of flesh spilled out. Her breasts were heavy, plump and highlighted by brown nipples that had an arrogant jut to them, and she was unequivocally proud of the show they made.

"Impressive, eh?" she said, giving them an unnecessary little shake. "You're an attractive lass yerself Jennifer, but you're still a bit lackin' in the upstairs department. Fact is there's not many around here that can match my pair of udders."

Her mouth crinkled in a sly smile and her eyes smouldered. "You can feel 'em a bit if you measure 'em. Would you like to touch 'em, dear?"

Jennifer pursed her lips. "Touch them? Why would I want to do that?"

The woman frowned with annoyance. "Blokes can't keep their hands of 'em, and there's plenty o' women that like to admire 'em too. I make Polly tell me everything, and I know what you do when you come here. You fondle her, and you - you spank her bum."

She was attempting to instil some disapproval in her voice, but Jennifer didn't flinch. She could read Mrs Clagget as easily as she could read her daughter. Why else had she been dragged into this ridiculous farce of measuring her tits?

Having enjoyed relationships with several schoolmistress's when at boarding school she was not intimidated by females older than herself, and it wasn't uncommon for her to seize the initiative in such situations. Okay, she thought, if the woman wants to play, we'll play, but it'll be on my terms.

She took the measuring tape from Mrs Clagget's limp grasp and extended it in her hands, but instead of pressing it against the woman's dimensions as expected she drooped it across the top of the thrusting chest. Deftly, she curled the tape under the droop of one breast, then wrapped it around the voluptuous contours of the other to confine them both in a figure of eight. Then, without seeking any approval she drew the ends of the tape together and tightened the configuration until the mounds of flesh bulged and crowded together, one against the other.

Mrs Clagget seemed surprised and a little dazed, but although she sucked in a noisy breath she remained amazingly still while Jennifer drew the binding tight and tied a knot behind her neck.

"Christ! What are you doin'?" she said at last.

Jennifer gripped her chin and gave her no option but to look at the expression on her face.

"I'm letting you know who's boss here Mrs Clagget, and it's not you. I'm never too cruel, so don't worry. On the whole the things I do only heighten pleasure, but I have to have co-operation. I think you realise that, don't you?"

"Er, yes. I think so." Martha replied faintly. Jennifer Hancock's strength and self-assurance made her feel rather weak. There was something humiliating about being made to feel so fragile by a slip of a girl only half her age, but it certainly got her juices moving.

"Polly said you could be very sharp and didn't stand for any augments, but she didn't tell me you'd tie-up my tits."

Grasping the tips of the bulging breasts in her hands Jennifer kneaded them briefly. "I need to emphasis your submission. You ARE submitting to me, aren't you?"

The woman made no effort to draw back as her flesh was squeezed and pulled, she merely squirmed slightly and lowered her eyes. "Yes, I suppose I am."

She led the distraught woman across the room. "I think you've been a very naughty girl recently, Mrs Clagget. Haven't you?"

"Yes, yes I have, Jennifer." the woman mumbled.

"You need to be punished. It will help cleanse your conscience and make you feel better."

"Yes, yes. I've been a bad girl and I deserve to be smacked."

"Bend over. Get over the shop counter." the teenager instructed. She pressed her between the shoulders, and the woman had no choice but to lean forward and present her bottom.

"More. Surrender to me."

Martha Clagget obeyed, pushing her buttocks out, and then glanced over her shoulder to see Jennifer's eyes fixed rigidly on her exposed flesh.

Without another word Jennifer swung her around and told her to lean forward and take a good grip on the shop counter. She obeyed mechanically, remaining quite motionless as her skirt was hiked up over her hips. The raised skirt revealed black garters, black stocking tops and an excellent pair of sturdy thighs, but no pants.

"What! No underwear madam?" the teenager chastised when confronted by her bare rump. "Was you expecting me to call today? Is that why you sent Polly away and stayed here yourself?"

Mrs Clagget declined to reply. Her fingers clawed at the counter top, her head dipped and her bottom pushed back.

With the woman's buttocks undraped and entirely at her mercy, and perhaps believing her hand wasn't quite the right instrument with which to wallop such a mature lady's behind, the girl then took a moment to select a leather belt from a number on display in the shop. Choosing a broad item she could utilise in the manner of a paddle when foreshortened by her hand, she began to swat Mrs Clagget's bottom repeatedly, making her bum cheeks jiggle and heave, and leaving fiery, smarting blotches on the tender white flesh.

THWOCK! "Ow!" She winced sharply and wriggled as Jennifer gave her backside immediate attention with a brisk swing of her hand. She heard the strap swoosh and winced at the furcating lash of leather, and then her head jerked up from the polished mahogany surface and she had to clench her teeth to stop herself from crying out as the supple thongs lashed her plush behind.

A searing pain bit across both buttocks and her entire body squirmed, but she remained in place. When it was finished she knew her backside would be a mottle of pink and purple flesh, but as her forehead dipped onto the hard top of the shop counter she dare not ask if it was over.

"You're behaviour lately as been selfish, underhand and deceitful, Mrs Clagget. I know full well that the only reason you allowed Polly time off is because she was proving a distraction to all the randy cocks you covet for yourself."

Martha lifted her face, her cheeks reddening. "Yes, Jennifer. Whatever you say."

WHOP! "Uck!" The woman squirmed, her bottom bobbing up and down and swivelling sideways. Jennifer smiled wryly. "Don't move about too much or I may think you don't want to be smacked."

CRACK! "Mmmmph, ooh!"

"Oh yes. That was a good one. It caught you square on your plumpest bits and must have stung awfully. Never mind. It'll just throb and feel hot for a while."

The strap was lighter and slapped keener than the ones she usually employed, and the glowing blotches it produced quickly became scarlet.

"Okay. Enough of that for the moment. Let's see what else we can have fun with."

She left the woman slumped against the counter top and went to her bag to take out a plastic strap-on. She'd brought it along to show Polly, to try and stimulate her and tempt her into making available her as yet untried delights, but it had a new role now. With Polly's mother it became an object for definite application.

Until then she had conducted her business with Mrs Clagget in cool detachment and with her excitement under control, but after removing her wrap-around skirt and fastening the formidable tool onto her thighs engendered a pulse of perverse delight that set her body tingling. She'd always enjoyed being dominant in her relationships, and dominating with a cock was the ultimate expression of power.

Mrs Clagget found her horrified gaze riveted on the item Jennifer had fastened to her thighs, but she didn't alter the submissive pose she'd adopted. With her freshly smacked bottom glowing like a beacon she leaned forward and gripped the shop counter while she peered at Jennifer with the wide eyes of a child. Slightly frightened, clearly excited, she watched the teenager approach with the dildo fixed in place and swinging almost horizontally in front of her thighs.

Jennifer moved up behind her. She was a bully, always the queen pin with a heart as hard as nails. She always had been. She had a quick tongue with an ever ready response. It was in her blood, just like it was in her mothers blood. She had to be in total control of everyone and every situation. She smiled inwardly. At school she had been compared to Penthesilea, Queen of the Amazons. Her pleasure was all to do with power, she was the Amazon hunter who constantly chased the potentially submissive.

"Open your legs." she demanded.

Martha Clagget twittered nervously as she moved her feet apart, and her legs trembled in spite of all she tried to do to stop them. "Oh Jennifer, that thing you're wearing, it's er, fuckin' mazin, but I don't think - perhaps you shouldn't..."

Her protest was weak and uninspired, and she felt a wave of pleasure roll over her the moment the nub of the big-girls toy nozzled forward and became established between the slushy lips of her pussy. 

The prong pushed easily long the length of the delicate, muscled tube of her vagina with no more than one or two firm thrusts, and it immediately transformed a cocky diva full of vanity into a moaning bitch full of cock. Her bound breasts bulged and bounced beneath her as she felt the girl grip her hips and begin to shunt rapidly in and out.

She fixed the woman with a basilisk stare. "Take it madam," Jennifer hissed, "Take my cock deep into your mushy snatch and grip it hard. Can you feel it? Can you feel my lovely girl-prick moving about inside you? It's beautiful isn't it? It shags you so nice."

The other woman's round, solid bum jostled in her hands, squeezing up and against her, her tightness, moist and yielding, caressing her entry. Her hips rolled from side to side, her eyes glinting from beneath half-closed lids.

"Ooowphh!" Mrs Clagget groaned and mewled, ecstatic with libidinous stimulation. It had been a while since anyone had used her body and the object that was ploughing her at that moment seemed to have the dimensions of a stallion.

"Yes, yes. Oh yes. It's going deep, and it feels huge," she gasped her frantic excitement as the rhythm built, thrusting and grinding the two of them together.

Seismic shock waves rippled through her body. The girl was better than a man. Better than men in general anyway, who were usually vain, ignorant and unimaginative. Better than her last boyfriend who had been big, but vain, ignorant and lacking in technique.

She'd been through three husbands but none of them had handled her as efficiently as Jennifer. Nor could she remember a strap-on doing her so well before. Nothing had ever felt quite as intense as the feelings wrought by that plastic length buried in her pussy. And it was glorious to know it would never become soft.

Jennifer banged all her entire length into her so forcibly it lifted her onto her toes, and she gagged, eyes rolling, her mind in a half stupor. "Wow, it's not often a lass gets to have a dick shove her about like that."

"You have to learn a lesson. You've got to be a good girl from now on."

"Yes. Oh I will be a good girl," Martha moaned in rapture, "I'll always be a good girl for you."

The plastic penis fitted so snug and made her feel a total whore, which was just how she liked to feel at such times, and to intensify the pleasure she slyly reached back between her legs and began to oscillate a fingertip around the tiny throbbing monolith of her clitoris.

Almost with a touch of malice Jennifer extracted her tool from the woman's grasping hole, leaving the used vagina slack and slavering, and inducing a witter of disappointment from Mrs Clagget.

"You're quite a mare Mrs Clagget, aren't you? Quite insatiable." Jennifer mocked. "If I wasn't such a nice girl I'd reckon you as a slut. Do you want me to fuck you some more? Do you want my prick inside you again? You have to tell me if you do."

"Yes I want it," Martha moaned in delirious desire, "Put that thing back in me and use me like a bitch. Fuck me."

"Perhaps you'd like a little variety. Would you like to try something else?"

Martha's eyes fluttered with sly desire. "Yeah, fuck my arse this time. I love it up there. Bang it in my back door."

Jennifer wasn't about to refuse a plea such as that, especially as Mrs Clagget was wagging her rear about to entice the action. She didn't doubt she loved being shagged in the backside, plenty of women did, and men rarely did it as lustily as a woman desired. It took another female to judge things right.

Mrs Clagget felt a warm hand on her thighs, going between them, stroking them and easing them farther apart before sliding upward, making a slippery furrow through the lips of her sex and onward until it reached her anus. There it paused to tease and probe indecently with a delicate finger. 

Mrs Clagget closed her eyes, aware only of the burning sensations on her bottom and the erotic tingle provided by the finger. It dallied for a moment then embedded to the second knuckle, churning inside inquisitively before withdrawing.

Jennifer stood between the older woman's parted legs and deftly forced the tip of her cock into Martha's expectant backside, then she used the weight of her body to ease it forward and force a way into the expectant rectum.

The woman felt its visit, something far broader in girth than a finger that was stiff and not to be denied. With a single strong thrust it overcame her resistance and the visitor had sheathed the hard plastic object neatly in her back passage. She closed her eyes and her mouth grimaced. Oblivious to everything else around her she sighed. 

Nothing, no one had ever possessed her like she was being possessed at that moment. Jennifer was shagging her in the arse, and oh god, nobody had ever done that to her before quite so well, nobody had ever fucked her so intimately... Well, only that big black stud on the beach in Jamaica that time, when she'd been squiffy on Bacardi. He'd stuffed her arse full and taken her like an earthquake. It was the same with Jennifer now.

Slowly the teenager began to slide the strap-on back and forth, ploughing the woman, each thrust pitilessly given, jabbing left then right with such vigour that Martha practically melted.

"Gnnnnh!" Martha squealed thinly as the fat tool sank in, pushing aside clenched anal muscles with impunity and burrowing deep. As Jennifer drew back her extension the rim of the woman's anus returned part way with it, gripping around its wide circumference and appearing like the gaping rectum of a horse.

She immediately slammed back in again and started moving like a train. Mrs Clagget groaned helplessly. The woman lifted her breasts from the counter top, gasped and arched her head back, astounded at the depth of her feelings and the depth of the penetration. An initial resistance proved futile and easily overcome, and now her sphincter muscles clamped helplessly around the odd penis.

"Perhaps I'll find time to visit you at home sometime," Jennifer murmured heatedly as she rushed towards an orgasm of her own. "I could spank Polly and yourself over the dining room table side by side, and maybe shag you both in the backside afterwards. Polly's ripe for it now. You know she is. You should let her try it."



A Sissy Saga Ch. 20



Mrs Boroclough lived alone, but her house was the biggest in Peasmarsh. It had tall windows with ornate guards, and a polished copper plate fixed on the wrought-iron gate engraved with her name - as if everyone for fifty miles around didn't know who she was.

It was far too big for a widow-woman who's children had grown-up and departed, but she insisted that someone of status - a person such as herself - needed to maintain a home that impressed. And anyway, Boroclough's had lived there for so long it was now something of a family heirloom.

The inside of the house was like the outside, solid, perfectly ordered, polished. Bowls of potpourri gave the spacious rooms a smell of attar of roses, and everywhere was decked out with Chippendale furniture and decorated with antique Chinese porcelain and collections of period jade and ivory. It was the aesthetic home of a woman who'd married well, but who had always been financially independent in her own right.

Poppy was accommodated in a ground floor bedroom that was once reserved for Mrs Boroclough's visiting grandchildren. It was gorgeous. Never before had he known such luxury. 

When Mrs Boroclough had gone out that night she'd told him to rest since she may required the attendance of a servant later, so left alone he'd undressed and stretched out on his bed atop a cream-coloured cashmere blanket with his head on a large, soft feather pillow trimmed with ecru lace. A lovely combination of euphoria and drowsiness had rolled over him, and rapping his penis in his hand he'd settled down to daydream.

On being told Mrs Boroclough wished to borrow him for a few days he'd been alarmed. He didn't know what to expect from a cranky old widow and he thought it ridiculous to be sent away. But that's the way it had worked out, and off he'd gone.

The reality was better than he'd feared. When he'd arrived the woman had noticed his slender ankle-bracelet and told him to display it at all times to remind him of his place in things. It was a tiny chain, and he was canny enough to know that a chain was the symbol of a slave, but as it turned out his duties weren't strenuous at all. What it really meant was he wasn't allowed beyond the front door.

He'd cleaned the house room by room during his first day there, sometimes getting a spanked bottom for not doing it well enough, but that was to be expected. He suspected Mrs Boroclough could be mean and hurtful if she was in a foul mood because she kept showing him a wooden spoon which she said was very stingy on tender bare thighs, but she hadn't used it yet, and she hadn't smacked him hard enough to make him cry yet either - well, he hadn't cried very much, anyway.

He had no skill in cookery, so she had made their meals, leaving him to scrub the pots and wash the crockery afterwards. He also had to eat at the kitchen table after serving her in the dining room. At least she kept him daintily frocked. During the daytime when he was being used as a domestic he wore a second-hand gingham dress and beige tabard that Mrs Boroclough had acquired from the church bazaar. It was a precaution to maintain his housemaid outfit, since in the evening she said she liked to entertain, and when she had guests she wanted him immaculate in black and white.

That night he was laid on his lovely bed daydreaming he was owned by a rich American cowboy who'd taken him to live as a fuck-puppet on a big ranch in the wild-west. Like the men who owned him in most of his daydreams the rancher was jealous, and usually objected to other men using him, but after the annual cattle drive he would reward his ranch-hands by letting them have him for a night in their bunkhouse.

Oh golly. His eyes became half-shut while his full pink lips quivered and formed a lazy half smile. A dozen big, brawny cowboys with jutting jaws in need of a shave would fuck him and fuck him. They'd pass him from bed to bed and screw him mercilessly all night long. Wicked men with huge cocks would cum in his mouth and in his bum, and later he'd have to lay down and stretch out naked while they wanked-off all over him.

"Oh," he breathed, "Oh." His pulse rocketed and he scrabbled around like a beached fish, flailing at the bedcovers. Awful! Mmmm! He moaned, his hips snaking has he used both hands to make his cock twitch.

Better not do anything. Safer. Mrs Boroclough insisted her house was kept pristine clean and she had the eyes of a ships-rat. They saw everything, and he just knew she'd notice if he left the tiniest smear of a cum-stain on his pretty bed covers. It was dangerous to play with himself in her house, but what else could a sissy do if he had no company? He wasn't in the habit of being alone. There'd always been plenty of others chasing after him at the school, and he'd always had company.

He remembered the clients his mother had organised for him. The retired factory managers who offered him cake and lemonade before they shafted him, the professor's from universities who were much too clever to talk with, and the black men with big cocks who's dearest wish was to plunge them between creamy-white buttocks. Some of them were good at what they did, but mostly it was only business.

He glanced at the window. Daylight had gone, but the moonlight made it almost as bright as day. It was too warm to sleep and he didn't feel tired, he just felt slightly bored. He preferred the word 'bored' to 'frustrated'. Frustrated smacked of what men thought a boy to be if he was bold enough to wear a little dress or raise a flirtatious eye. It meant 'available' and 'all he needs is a good fucking'.

On impulse he threw aside the bedclothes and slipped on the pair of pink panties with scallop lace trim he'd been given as night wear, then he padded out from the bedroom.

In the sitting room he looked about for a magazine with which to wile away some time, but found only a copy of the Yorkshire Post at the side of an armchair. On a small console stood a photograph of Mrs Boroclough's grandson Alistair, a dashing, handsome young man. Mrs Boroclough had said he was studying horticulture so he would be interested in flowers. Which was nice.

Poppy put his hands on his hips and did a little wiggle, then he stuck out his tongue at the photograph and slowly curled it back in a solicitous beckon. Alistair was a hunk, he thought, and it certainly wouldn't be a trial to play games with him.

Suddenly he was shaken from his musing by a noise at the door, and he knew it wasn't Mrs Boroclough because he would have heard her car drawing into the drive. He stood stock still, both hands pressed to his face, eyes peeping through open fingers. It was scary to be left in a strange house alone. Squeezing his eyes shut, he pretended the noise hadn't happened and pretended there was no horrible brute lurking outside in the dark. After all, he was only a boy in pink panties, so what chance had he of deterring a burglar?

After a moment or two some courage returned and he apprehensively went up to the sitting room door, opened it a crack and half opened one eye to peer out into the front hall. Nothing was there. The strange old house was merely settling in its footings.

Suddenly the telephone on a table adjacent to the armchair buzzed with activity and he almost panicked. Pale with shock and with guilt rippling in his belly, he moved over to pick up the handset.

"H-hello. This is Mrs Boroclough's house."

"Poppy!" Mrs Boroclough's voice snapped into his ear from the other end of the line.

"Yes, Mrs Boroclough."

"Were you sleeping?"

"Um, no Mrs Boroclough. I - er - I was reading, Mrs Boroclough."

"If you've finished your chores you should sleep when I'm not there. I want you fresh and alert when I return home."

"Yes Mrs Boroclough. Sorry, Mrs Boroclough."

"I'm at Mrs Tichborne's house now. I'll be home in an hour, so there's no point in you sleeping now."

"Yes, Mrs Boro - I mean, no Mrs Boroclough."

"I want a cup of malted milk before I retire tonight. I'm utterly exhausted, so make sure I don't have to wait for it. I want it ready when I arrive."

"Yes, Mrs Boroclough."

"Do you remember how to prepare my malted-milk?"

"Er, yes I think so. Erm - two spoons of er, er..."

"I explained it to you earlier quite clearly. Three heaped teaspoons of Horlicks powder and two of sugar, thoroughly mixed with hot milk - not boiled milk. You really must get into the habit of remembering things Poppy. Life will be a lot less painful for you if you do."

"Yes Mrs Boroclough."

"I'll see you about 11pm."

"11pm. Yes Mrs Boroclough. Thank you Mrs Boroclough."

A click on the other end of the line meant it was safe for him to hang the phone back on its cradle. Phew! Good job I'm quick with answers, he thought.

He glanced down and realised he'd unconsciously been playing with himself the whole time he'd been talking. His erection, enormous and dripping at the tip, made him feel silly, but he stood and admired it for its beauty. He was in love with it after all, in love with the pleasure it constantly gave him. Eleven o' clock was an hour away. Plenty of time to get everything ready for Mrs Boroclough's return.

***

He'd not intended to sleep, but nevertheless he dozed and floated away into a sissy wonderland where he was part of a consignment of sylph-like slave boys, locked in the hold of a sailing ship and bound for the harem of some immensely wealthy oriental potentate.

The headlights of Mrs Boroclough's car blazed through the window curtains as it turned into the drive, and the sudden illumination, so like the sweep of a prison searchlight, awoke Poppy with a start. He'd not intended to sleep, but he'd dozed whilst awaiting 

His eyes scanned the room. Nothing to feel guilty about. His mind jarred as another thought entered it. She'd be expecting her malted-milk to be ready and he hadn't even started it.

He pushed himself up. Oh no! He'd got an erection - his stonker hadn't diminished at all, and even when he hauled on his panties it remained rigid and made the front of the garment stand out like a bell-tent.

Racing into the kitchen he slopped half a pint of milk into a pan and put it on the stove to warm up before grabbing a tall china mug. Hurriedly he scooped three teaspoons of malted-milk powder into it, then dosed two teaspoons of sugar on top. His heart sank and his knees trembled when he again noticed the unabated thrust in his pants. What could he do with it? She'd be furious if he didn't present himself right.

He heard a key turn in the front door lock. "Poppy, are you awake?"

"Yes, Mrs Boroclough, I'm in the kitchen."

"Where's my Horlicks?"

He dashed back to the stove and stuck his finger in the milk to test its temperature. It was still tepid. "Erm, I'm just pouring it, Mrs Boroclough."

A lie like that wouldn't hold her off for long. She was already in the sitting room taking off her coat and her earrings, and he wouldn't get away with greeting her with a stiff cock. He was going to be spanked for sure, probably spanked very severely. She wouldn't be beyond belting the backs of his legs with her wooden spoon if she was tired and feeling grumpy.

Oh dear, oh dear! How could he get out of this jam? The kitchen was spotlessly clean and Mrs Boroclough's eyes scanned every inch of space when she entered a room. Gazing down at the front of his pants he simply knew he'd got a double load to get rid of, but he daren't masturbate in there - dare he?

"Naughty cock, you're forever getting me into trouble." he murmured scathingly.

Mrs Boroclough soon lost patience waiting for him to appear in the sitting room and made a beeline for the kitchen.

"This is NOT what I expect when I arrive home, you wretched servant," she snapped sharply when confronted by his near nudity, "A maid should be properly dressed to greet her mistress at the door, and how on earth can you deliver a curtsy whilst wearing only knickers? This is awful! Most unsatisfactory!"

Poppy's head drooped. "Sorry, Mrs Boroclough."

Quite unexpectedly, and very swiftly for her age the woman grasped hold of his ear and gave it a cruel twist. "How many times must I tell you that the lady of the house must always be addressed as 'madam'? If you weren't such a sweet looking little thing I'd pack you off back to the Grange this instant, but as it is I'll persevere and attempt to train you to do things as they really should be done. Don't bother putting on more clothes now. As soon as I've had my night-cap you're in for a jolly good spanking over my knee. Now, where's my malted-milk?"

She moved up to the stove with cool authority, hard annoyance lingering in her face. Poppy forced a smile and raised her cup of beverage up from the work-top where he had been stirring it, only to be treated to yet another tut of disapproval.

"Drinks should always be served from a tray. Didn't they teach you anything useful at that so-called school?"

As she sipped her drink her scowl at last began to recede. "You're a scatterbrain Poppy, but never mind." She patted his pantied bottom and stroked it appreciatively. "At least you have a nice little bum and some of the ladies I invite to my home have a distinct bottom fetish. It would be a shame to deprive them of yours. Do you enjoy dancing?"

"Yes, I'm very good at dancing, Mrs Boroclough."

"Good." The woman said no more, she took the drink in her hand and strutted away into the sitting-room, while Poppy's fingers twisted together as the flutter in his stomach finally began to dissipate. He hadn't escaped getting smacked completely, but at least she wouldn't swat his legs with her zingy wooden spoon.

He was a little apprehensive about her hot-drink, but he'd given it a really good stir and she had no reason to suspect he'd tossed-off into it.

****

The following evening Jennifer met Emma Twist in the village. "It's rather a nice bungalow." she remarked, padding barefoot between the rooms wearing only her underwear, a bra and pants. It was a warm summer evening and the lack of clothes didn't seem inappropriate. "All mod cons. Only the sitting room is a mess."

"The place is unoccupied at the moment," replied Emma voice from the kitchen, "Like most of the property in the village it belongs to Mrs Boroclough, and she's having it redecorated with a view to renting it. That's how I got the key. Greg Totter is doing some work for her."

"I couldn't believe it when I found out you were involved in an affair with that gormless turkey Greg. Mummy would have a blue-fit if she knew."

"It's to avoid offending her that I meet him here." replied Emma amid a tinkle of glasses. "No offence to your mother, but she does tend to want to control everything around her and I can't do with that. I'd be lying if I said she wasn't the main reason I invited you here tonight. You're less likely to let anything slip if you're involved too."

Jennifer smirked. "I'd be an ass if I hadn't already guessed that."

Eventually Emma came through from the kitchen with two glass tumblers and a half-bottle of gin. Like Jennifer she was clad only in her underwear, her case a half-cup black bra and matching bikini briefs. "I don't know if I should ply you with alcohol. After all, you're still only young."

Jennifer smirked again, snatched the bottle from her hand and poured herself a measure. "Young in age, but mature enough in outlook."

That was true, thought Emma. What a splendid creature she was. A dominant teenager defying all control and lacking an iota of female compassion. She passed herself off with such aplomb that everyone reckoned her unconquerable, and it was her qualities of coldness she herself had come to admire. Instead of being competitors they now conspired as partners.

"When's Greg supposed to arrive?" Jennifer asked.

"Any minute. He knows better than to be late."

"It'll be interesting to see if he's up to managing the two of us together."

"He's not going to be allowed any choice." Emma told her dourly.

A few minutes passed as they sipped their drinks, then the scrapping of a key in the lock of the front door announced the arrival of their expected date. Greg Totter entered cagily like a thief in the night, but came to a sudden stop when confronted by the two semi-naked women.

"Jenny! I didn't expect to see you here."

"My name's Jennifer, not Jenny, and you shouldn't expect anything until you get it." the girl replied coldly.

Emma seated herself on the dust cover of a settee and began unravelling a ball of string. "Say sorry to Jennifer for being discourteous and stupid Greg." she told him crisply.

Greg seemed amazingly humble and showed none of the smart-alec bravado he was so notorious for. His face dipped and he gazed at the floor. "S-sorry, Jennifer."

Only then did Emma take any real notice of him. "That's better. Now, come here to me and get your cock out."

Instantly Greg scuttled across the room , his knees shaking as he obediently lowered the zipper on his dungarees and fished out the fat, limp worm of flesh from its hiding place. At once it began to distend and rear up, but a sharp slap from Emma's hand deflated it again.

"It's a nice dicky, but we've no use for it tonight. I'm going to put a tourniquet around the base of it to stop it being naughty."

Greg was eighteen, but Emma spoke to him in a soft cooing voice more suitable for dealing with an eight-year-old, and incredibly, the youth accepted her condescension without protest. Jennifer observed his penis silently. The hash slap had curbed its instinct, but it was still an impressive size, even when drooping impotently from the front of his slacks.

She grinned. "Why Greg, you've no hair around your 'bits'!"

"Greg isn't allowed to have body hair," intervened Emma, "He has to make himself smooth whenever he comes to see me. Only men have body hair, and we're still deciding when he'll be allowed to grow-up, aren't we Greg?"

The youth hung his head and didn't reply. Emma knotted the string about the base of his penis, then playfully swung the limp length of flesh from side to side with a fingertip.

"That's a good boy. That's how a well-behaved cock should be. If you prove worthy it might - just might - have some hand relief later. But your going to have to earn a reward like that. You'll need to put a lot of effort into co-operating, Greg. Lazy boys who don't try hard don't get treats." She pushed her fingers under his testicles. "Everything nice must be earned, don't you agree?"

Greg gulped. "Yes, Emma."

The lady tutor frowned and inserted a serious note to her voice. "I think tonight we should introduce an element of formality to things, Greg. Using my first name, as you do, sounds too familiar, like we are equals, when in actuality you're very much an inferior. I want you to show proper respect, so from now on you'll address me as, MISS Emma - and Jennifer will be MISS Jennifer - do you understand?"

"Y-yes."

Emma glared. "Yes, what?"

"Oh - er, Yes, Miss Emma."

"Stupid ninny. Now don't forget again. You're such a numbskull, so before we enter into the main event I think you'd benefit from a little lesson in humility. Remove your trousers and stand on the other side of the room. When I say MOVE you'll get onto your hands and knees and crawl quickly across the floor, then put yourself over my lap for a spanking. Clear?"

He blushed with shame and nodded quickly, and as he stepped out from his trousers he risked a sheepish glance at Jennifer. "Don't look at Miss Jennifer with such a dippy hangdog expression." Emma fumed, "She's here to take a full part in the proceedings, so just get used to the idea."

Feeling suitably chastised Greg stumbled over to the far side of the room and stood in dismal submission with his back against the wall. There was a short pause, then - "MOVE!" Emma's voice snapped.




A Sissy Saga Ch. 20



Greg dropped down and scrambled forward towards her doglike, on all fours, with his flaccid penis swinging beneath him, and with the hard floor scuffing his knees.

Emma watched him carefully for a moment or two, allowing him to get halfway across the room before stopping him abruptly. "No, no, you dizzy prick - you're far too slow. Go back and start again."

The second time he scuttled even more rapidly, heedless of the carpet scouring his knees, and with an almost thankful sigh dumped himself across Emma's lap, face down, back dipping to raise his bare bottom. Emma's hand immediately came down on the offered anatomy with a palpable CRACK! One blow bounced from his right buttock and a second lashed the left, the intensity of the slaps making the resulting sting they delivered almost visual.

SMACK, SMACK! "Gggnnn!" Greg bleated. The smarting on his pale flesh was quickly apparent.

SMACK, SMACK! "Hardly a virgin bottom, but a nice one to punish all the same," Emma murmured. 

Greg twisted and writhed, his buttocks dancing and flinching as tears began to stream over his cheeks. "Nnnrrr - nnnrrr!"

"Dear, oh dear! I've known little children make less noise than you Greg. You really are abysmal - quite a pathetic nancy-thing. But you're getting no more than you deserve, and no more than you need to make you a good subject for the bedroom."

She plumped up his bottom and massaged the cheeks with both hands, rolling and pushing them into various shapes before casting a smirk at Jennifer and parting them to show her his anus. "You're quite hairless between the cheeks, Greg," she told the subjugate, "That's rather clever of you. However did you manage it?"

"M-me sister Pauline did it for me, miss." Greg sniffed.

"Your sister is such a sweet girl, how on earth did you persuade her to shave your arsehole?"

"She knows I 'as to be smooth when I come to see you, miss."

Emma gave a despairing glance at Jennifer. "Greg is the sort of pervert who enjoys shagging his sister, so I'm not really surprised." Turning back she gave the distraught youths rump a resounding whack! "Pauline will be a tight little madam at her age. Too nice to resist, eh Greg? You can't hold back from squirting your cream into her young puss, can you?"

Greg avoided giving an answer and Emma didn't pursue one. She just patted his buttocks. "Never mind. Up you get. There are other things to think of now, and Jennifer and I will ensure you pay due recompense to womankind for your depravity. Are you in the right frame of mind to co-operate, Greg?"

The youth seemed slightly desperate, but he couldn't help looking at the brace of strap-on dildo's Emma was extracting from her sports bag. They appeared hefty, and their bulbous tips looked callously businesslike.

"Yes, miss." he replied faintly.

"Both Jennifer and I intend to bugger you and I want you to put on a good show. I expect you to apply yourself properly and put-out like a randy whore. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Miss Emma."

She handed him a bottle of baby oil. "Good, now run along. Off you go to the bedroom. Remove the rest of your clothes and lubricate yourself, then get on the bed and wait for Miss Jennifer and I to join you."

Greg scurried away in the manner of a thoroughly scourged child, clutching the baby oil in one hand and rubbing his crimson bottom with the other.

Emma looked at her younger companion. "Are you ready for this?"

"Why shouldn't I be? I was surprised when I caught you with Greg in the tool shed up at the Grange." said Jennifer taking a sip of gin, "Not surprised about you, but about him. He's always put himself about as being so macho, and a world away from fem-dom. He's the last person I'd expect to find allowing a woman ram the shaft of a hammer up his ring-piece."

"One needs to know how to handle young fellows like Greg." Emma replied offhandedly, "Where he's concerned 'M' stands for masochist rather than machismo. Actually, I been stalking his arse for a while, and when he looked at me there was something about his expression that confirmed I was in with a chance. It wasn't lustful, it was the look of reverence I'd seen in other men when they wished me to take control. Once I'd got him in the shed I just slapped his face a few times and he was as good as gold about dropping his pants."

She took a handful of other items from her bag. "We may decide to gag him and tie his hands later. Perverts such as him love the illusion of being anally raped by beautiful women." As she leaned forward the swell of her breasts all but overflowed from her bra, causing to pass the tip of her tongue over her lips.

Jennifer couldn't help but admire the sight. "You've got nice tits, Emma. Don't be surprised if I give them a grope when things warm up." The older woman returned a crooked smile. "Most things are acceptable in a orgy, but if you start on me I'm likely to take a turn with you own little bubbies."

Jennifer unclipped her bra and removed it, fluttering her eyes in encouragement as her small pointed breasts sprang up. "No need to stop there. With only one man to share there's bound to be moments when we both need to be occupied with something else, and rubber dicks are very adaptable. Best make the most of it. Open Day is on Saturday and we're going to be run off our feet getting ready for it from tomorrow."

Alone in the bedroom Greg Totter lay naked on top of the bedcovers silently contemplating the soreness of his bottom. It had evolved into a warm rosy glow, and all thoughts of rebellion against his ill treatment had receded. But he anticipated the rest of the evening with querulous anxiety. He'd already oiled himself and put on a pair of nylons and a garter belt he'd found laying on the pillow. The scene was set, and for him there could be no escape.

His ears felt like they were burning, because he knew that no matter how pathetically he moaned and groaned those two pitiless women were going to roll him back and forth between them and take it in turns to fuck his arse for the next two or three hours.

***

That same evening Mrs Boroclough's guests were on their fifth round of drinks, and all of them were very merry by nine o'clock. A group of ten in a normal-sized family home would have split it to the seams, but Mrs Boroclough's home was an old country mansion, large enough to imprison several normal-sized dwellings within its walls. 

Vast expanses of the place went unused, but the woman's family had owned the property for two hundred years and she refused to give it up. No one ever argued about that. She was eminently wealthy enough to hang onto it. Two centuries of marriage alliances in Europe, South America and South Africa had increased her families core fortune, and among recent generations, infertility, war and homosexuality had whittled everyone down to such an extent that incredible amounts of money had been funnelled directly back to herself.

Pamela Upduff felt her face redden. It was the first time she'd been invited to Mrs Boroclough's home and she was the youngest woman there. She'd stayed on in the village to get some local background for the Trust, and her landlady, Mrs Tichborne had encouraged her to come. It had seemed a good idea because Mrs Boroclough was rated as a very influential person. 

It would have been stretching the imagination to call her host attractive. In addition to an unusual dental arrangement that gave her a bucktoothed smile, she had a skinny build, a slightly hooked nose and tight wavy hair, but the party had been fun at first. Collectively the women there were all rather similar - well over thirty, predominantly pink-beige in colour and wearing ditsy little cardigans in sugar-almond hues. The small talk had been lofty when she arrived, the vocabulary studded with words like 'exorbitant', 'the Maldives', and 'Sardinia', but as the wine went down so did the overblown pretensions.

Mrs Boroclough had organised the evening for her staunchest women allies, it was the kind of party where men are never allowed. Carmine Wilcox, the impeccably made-up girl with the case had started off by just showing lacy negligees' and silk briefs, but after everyone had drunk a couple of glasses of wine out had come the other knickknacks which were all well received as they passed from hand to hand. Vibrators and dildo's, large and small, some stiff and smooth, some flexible and snakelike and others incorporating inexplicable rubber spikes or knobbly bits.

Pamela was hot with embarrassment over some of the things she'd been asked to handle, most of which seemed to have the shape of a mans penis.

"It's all part of a girl's education," Mrs Titchborne had said between giggling.

One of the other women had shrieked with laughter. "Once you've felt one, you've felt 'em all, darlin'."

Pamela had half scowled. "If they all feel the same why do I need to touch them all?"

Everyone fell about, and an over blown woman called Hyacinth Glossop spilt a glass of wine down the front of her dress and went off in a fit of high-pitched hysterics.

Consciously not attempting to dominate the proceeding Mrs Boroclough and Clementine, the young woman who had been her previous maid, sat to the side, and while they examined each item offered around just like the other women their main delight seemed to be in watching the shameless antics of their guests. 

Mrs Titchborne had told Pamela that Clementine had been an odd kind of maid, in fact she'd hinted that she wasn't actually a girl at all, but one of those awful transvestite things - a boy who dressed-up as a girl. But that couldn't be true. Clementine was clearly a girl from top to toe, anyone could see that. She talked like a girl and preened all the time just like attractive girls are apt to do, and she had a large, spectacular pair of bosoms that jiggled when she moved and were if anything far too big for her spindly frame.

"Nothing's better than the real thing," assured Mrs Fawcett, planting a heavy hand on Pamela's knee and chuckling until her whole fat frame wobbled. She was nearly sixty years old with greying hair and she looked the epitome of a kindly grandmother, but that evening she wasn't acting like one. She picked a plastic object up from the table, thumbed the switch on the base of it and tittered when the thing began shuddering in her hand. Peals of laughter started again.

Mrs Carter-Plackett, a homely looking tweed-clad woman with an iron-grey perm who was known to smoke a pipe when alone, was telling a joke about a man's anatomy while stroking a large plastic cock that incorporated an anal probe. "If my Colin had something like this we wouldn't be sleeping in separate beds." she declared.

Carmine Wilcox unboxed another item and held it in her hands. "This is the squirty model and it's very popular. It includes rubber testicles that can be filled with liquid which a little light pressure will send coursing along the shaft. Warm water is okay, but anyone who buys such an item tonight will receive a complimentary quart bottle of replica semen."

Mrs Glossop, broad bodied and fruity with a ringing laugh, leered with approval. "If h'I ever saw a fella with something like that h'I'd divorce my darling 'ubby tomorrow."

By her side Mrs Quinlan guffawed. "If I know you, you've already done a lot of lookin' over the years."

Pamela cringed.

"Relax m'dear. We like to think of ourselves as an innovative, cutting-edge little community in the village. We're here to enjoy ourselves." Mrs Carter-Plackett said.

"I'm not used to it." explained Pamela, "My mother said I should maintain some principles of decency."

Mrs Titchborne tossed a handful of salted almonds into her mouth and crunched them like an industrial machine churning gravel. "Oh, I quite agree," she murmured spongily, "We all have to maintain standards - or something."

Pamela sipped more wine and began to feel a little faint. She tried not to notice the items the other women purchased. She herself bought a small teddy-bear decorated with a little spotted blue bow-tie.

Eventually Carmine Wilcox packed her case and departed. Mrs Boroclough then stood up and indicated for her guests to follow as she led the way out of the drawing room and through into the rarely used Long Gallery, a more spacious place lit by crystal chandeliers and paved with black and white tiles in Battenburg style. Garnished with tapestries and green malachite vases it was the focal point of the house. The dimensions of the room were awesome, with lofty ceilings and huge curtained bay windows.

"Great 'ouse you've got here." enthused Mrs Fudge. "Haunted is it? I allus wanted to be scared out of my wits by a ghost."

"This room is said to be haunted," explained Mrs Boroclough's companion Clementine in a silky voice. "A Bride in a Box story of the most vivid kind. In the past brides used to play hide-and-seek during their wedding celebrations, and it's said one hid in an old iron chest in here and couldn't get out. No one found her at the time, and her remains were only discovered years after the event."

"A terrible thing to happen." remarked Hyacinth Glossop with a shiver. "It's enough to make my gastritis play up, so before we go h'any further can we agree t'talk about something else?"

Mrs Warburton agreed. She had a tiny mouth that reminded Pamela of the spout of a teapot. "Aye, bad enough after the wedding-night, but for a girl to be done in before she gets her nookie - that's horrible."

There was a row of little round guilt chairs placed informally at one side of the room and everyone seated themselves in preparation for what their host promised as additional entertainment. The end where they sat was dimly lit, whereas the other end of the room was brightly illuminated.

Everyone had suspected they would have to submit to some sort of musical soiree at the end of the evening, but they didn't suspect that their hostess had arranged something brighter and punchier than just chamber music. What they actually got surprised them all. They knew Mrs Boroclough was a rather quirky independent-minded person who treated social prudishness with disdain when it suited her, but what they got when the woman turned on the sound system was totally unexpected.

In the wings Marianne straightened the lace of his electric-blue outfit, chosen because it matched his eyes and brought out the honeyed highlights in his hair. As was usual he was astonishingly beautiful. His golden tresses sparkled in the lamplight. Mrs Boroclough had assured him that he'd never looked lovelier, and he felt it was true.

A vocal group called ABBA were popular that year, and Poppy's had a routine that blended with a recent hit entitled 'Dancing Queen'.

"Friday night and the lights are low. Looking out for a place to go..."

In a swirl of silks and lace he suddenly appeared before a mesmerised audience, silhouetted in the bright lights with the riveting self-consciousness that only experience brings, the soft folds of his outfit draping themselves bewitchingly over his slim figure. 

The audience caught their collective breath, for he was a magnificent sight, scantily clad in stockings and pearl-coloured high heels and just a tiny half-bra covered with spangles and sequins to cradle the small mounds of creamy flesh moving jauntily on his chest. A shallow drape of pale cream peau satin over his thighs formed a quasi-skirt of minute proportions.

Any outfit he wore, no matter how elaborate or how simple, seemed to highlight Poppy's trim figure. His skin was a delicate shade of gold from the summer, and that nights blue outfit picked up the blue in his eyes so they seemed to shine from his face like sapphires.

He stretched languidly and began to dance to the high notes of an angel chorus and the plunges notes of a piano. All eyes watched his lissom body as he moved - confident, in control and at ease with his role - lifting and falling with the melody being piped from the audio-system, shoes trip-trapping in tempo. 

His slender toned body moved to the beat. His eyes were brilliant, his cheeks as soft as a rose petals when a coloured spotlight flashed across him, illuminating the scanty garments that hid so much and so little. The material pressed against his cock - an enlarged boner now - as his hips rotated to the tempo of the music.

"You're a teaser, you turn 'em on. Leave 'em burning and then you're gone. Looking out for another. Anyone will do. You're in the mood for a dance..."

He turned, slim and alluringly moulded with his small breasts and softly rounded hips. His movements became synchronised with the music. Bumping his hips to the rhythm he turned slowly to display all aspects of his body, then he pressed his fingers to the thin material stretched across his remarkable penis, a patch of cloth that barely covered his ball-sack.

"Dancing Queen - feel the beat of the tambourine..."

His hands snaked up his body, caressing it, stroking it as they moved, then went behind his back to unfasten his bra and expose the small satin globes of his breasts. Poppy was always pretty, but during a performance when he knew a multitude of eyes were riveted him, he became radiant. In a symphony of concerted movement he swept a hand across his body, lightly, all over. His stomach was flat but his waist dipped and his hips curved. His head became up-tilted in a trance of joyous achievement as the music faded, nipples erect, his lips parting as if imploring a kiss.

The song continued: "You can dance, you can jive. Having the time of your life. See that girl. Watch that scene. Diggin' the Dancing Queen."

Pelvis rolling in lascivious invitation he boldly undid the small drape of shimmering satin covering his thighs and allowed it to drift down. More of his slender body came into view. His belly was flat, his navel only slightly indented, and below lay a ridiculous little G-string front, delicate and nebulous, shimmering like platinum beneath the crazy lights - a whisper of satin, that was no more that a pouch inside of which something mysterious and impossible lay coiled.

One hand briefly touched the pink nipples of his perfect little breasts and a shiver flitted over his skin like a tiny incandescent butterfly. Then his fingers reached down and there was an audible gasp throughout out the room as the tiny G-string was stripped away. He was thin with a tiny waist and shapely legs, and he had breasts, and his penis swung down to dangle like a bell-rope from his hairless thighs.

He finished posing sideways on, hands on hips, one knee jutting slightly forward, which facilitated a perfect view of his extraordinary penis, foreskin drawn back to expose a dark purple head. Nature had made him a girl, but had added testicles and a long cock that swung like a weighty pendulum.

Peering along his shoulder his lush eyelashes fanned up and down and his partially hooded eyes exuded a look of pure seduction. His golden tresses glistened beneath the lights and his pale body dripped sex. Neck so graceful, limbs so sensual, hands so delicate, he was a transvestite dream that could corrupt the celibate.

Pamela Upduff's breath became tight and her lungs felt like immobile sacs as she force herself to exhale. She recognised the dancer as the sweet looking maid who had greeted everyone at the door earlier, and who had curtsied so prettily. She hadn't realised then that the maid was a male. That cock. Wow! The mincing queen was hung like a horse, he possessed an equine-like monster far too big for the slight body that owned it, but it looked all the more thrilling because it was there.

She heard a woman whisper to her companion. "Good Lord, do look. Isn't he delicious? That prick! Surely it must be against the Geneva Convention or something."

At her side Hyacinth Glossop visibly swallowed hard. "A thing like that should have a bloody license." 




A Sissy Saga Ch. 20



"Must have escaped from a zoo." retorted another voice.

Pamela Upduff was stiff with concentration and her face felt like cement with the effort of trying not to pant. It was all so awful. A young man dressed-up like a girl, exposing his genitalia, blatantly displaying his gigantic - erm -youthfulness.

A horrible guilty pleasure engulfed her. The best kind of pleasure. It was ten-times more reprehensible than she could ever have imagined. She felt suffocated while the other women whistled and cackled like hens. Even Mrs Carter-Plackett, a charming and motherly woman in a flowered dress and neatly curled hair was cheering. They were enjoying every vicarious moment of the joyous erotic panorama.

The women around her panted audibly. She herself boggled in disbelief and didn't know whether to exult or scream. What were they all thinking of? In the daytime they were all so ultra-respectable, but apparently when the sunshine faded so did their morals.

"Oh," Mrs Fawcett grinned, "He's scrumptious. An absolute poppet."

"Drop-dead gorgeous." agreed Hyacinth Glossop, corpulence overflowing her chair and leaving only a streak of guilt wood to be seen here and there.

Pamela felt trapped in a cloud of heady floral scent as Poppy drifted in front of her. His presence seemed to penetrate beneath her public veneer and see into her mind. He introduced a paroxysm of guilt she had rarely known before that uncovered all her most wicked susceptibilities.

"Erm!" She faltered, tempted towards a compliment but lacking quite enough nerve. Her mother would be beside herself with horror if she knew about this. Oh how could it be happening? She went out of her way to be a good neighbour, she went to church three times every Sunday, felt sorry for all the little poor black children in Africa, and she made regular donations to a donkey sanctuary. Yet there she was, lusting unhealthily along with all the others.

With a small, sly smile on his mouth Poppy stood with his weight on one leg so that his pelvis tilted up at an enchanting angle, then reaching down slowly he took his gigantic prong in his pretty manicured hands and held it upright as he waltzed out of the room, regarding it with the reverence given to a dance partner, slicking back the foreskin to gaze at the bulbous knob-end as if he really was in love.

***

When the guests had gone Poppy found himself in another room. It was an impressive salon where the walls were covered with a copy of a fresco one of Mrs Boroclough's relatives had seen in a mausoleum at Halicarnassus. Naked and robust women and effeminate looking youths, miraculous in their levitation, sprinkling flowers on heavily armoured Greek warriors.

The room had a white and gold coffered ceiling and was snug, though it was more of a showpiece than a place to live in and the furniture was all draped with dust sheets. He was naked and Mrs Boroclough was scrutinising his delectable body and serpentine penis with an attentive expression. At fifty-five she was still a woman with regal baring and the aloof, unshakeable confidence that came from living a thoroughly privileged life.

"Lovely creature. Even more delicious than the last time I saw you. So beautiful, so feminine - in most respects - and so sweet."

The sissy was standing with his back to the wall, and beside him the woman's thin, big-boobed companion, Clementine, was observing him too. "Nice little breasts, Mrs Boroclough," she enjoined, "They belong on a girl really. And just look at those male parts, so out of scale with the rest of him."

Mrs Boroclough nodded. "Breasts, tiny but perfect, and the rest of him..." She glanced down at his groin. "Exceptional. Incongruous, but extremely arousing."

Uninvited, she pressed her lips to Poppy's warm cheek, enjoying the delicate undertone of his skin and its moist scent, a scent that seemed to indicate that a bunch of warm lilies were somewhere couched at the base of his neck. Gliding her lips along the curve of his neck she moved lower, kissing his breasts and drawing the nipples into her mouth, then flicking her tongue against them.

Her passion made Poppy gasp and he twisted as she suckled on him.

"I doubt if any man could pass you by without admiring you, sweet thing. Do you allow men to copulate with you often?"

Poppy blinked. He was not familiar with the term she used and didn't understanding at first. "Pardon."

Patiently the woman lowered her level of expression. "Do you allow men to shag you?"

"Um, sort of."

"A lot of men?"

"Quite a lot."

"In that case I won't cause you any undue discomfort if I imitate them." She unclipped her skirt to reveal she was wearing the biggest and best item Carmine Wilcox had to offer. Poppy's eyes grew large when he saw the bizarre phallic tool strapped to her pubis. The wicked shaft was rather odd looking. It was a semi-rigid plastic pole, flesh coloured with a bulbous tip, but it had a gentle upward curve and was deeply ribbed with tiny, pointy-warty nubbins along its entire dramatic length.

The woman stood, legs apart, hands on hips, her mouth presenting a slightly crooked smile as she basked in the pleasure of possessing such an impressive piece of male-like genitalia. She looked raunchy and wanton. Taking a grip on the uplifted shaft she stroked it in simulation of a man masturbating.

"Rather inspiring, isn't it. A lovely fat hot-dog to put between your slim little buns eh? I chose a nice big one for you Poppy. Can you imagine what it will feel like stuffed up your saucy bottom?"

Poppy paled as he observed the murderous dimensions of the thing swinging up from her thighs, but before he could say anything she turned him and lightly pushed him forward. His hands became pressed onto the top of a small lacquered table. Resigned to an unenviable fate he thrust out his bottom in submission and waited. 

The woman contemplated his buttocks, marred only by a little recent smacking but still emitting the lines and texture that made them ever admirable. Small, soft rounds that would separate with the gentlest caress to surrender the enticing little pucker between. Men would pay handsome sums to know the inherent delights of that sweet young arse.

Such appreciation didn't mitigate her harshness. Ignoring the upturn of his buttocks she grabbed him by his hair. "You're too small, you little freak. I'd break my legs trying to get up you in that position, push your bum higher."

"Oh, Mrs Boroclough, oh..." Poppy's pulse raced wildly. Being pulled about and roughly handled had stirred some excitement in him and now his entire body trembled as he felt the nudge of the plastic device pressing onto his splayed bottom. Knowing what to expect helped. He dipped his belly and raised his bum.

Ensuring he was helpless she reached between his legs and pulled back his testicles. When certain he was settled and beyond rebelling she drew back and released his balls but remained watchful as she pressed a thumb between his buttocks and rubbed his anus. 

Helpfully Clementine leaned across his back and spread his bottom, oiling all the right areas with the contents of a plastic squeezey bottle, and then holding his small buttocks open while Mrs Boroclough teased him with the tip of her apparatus, stroking the broad tip of her tool against the whorl of his anus.

Gripping the shaft of her strap-on in her fist she guided the broad tip onto a perfect target for cock. For girl-cock. She then took hold of his hips and braced herself.

Poppy braced too, his small bottom tightened as he moved it back and up to meet the awesome object. She positioned the bulbous helmet against the small, neat ring of Poppy's anus and shunted forward with her hips.

"Oooohhh!" He groaned and gripped the side of the table as he responded to the inexorable penetration, and "oooh!" His knees nearly caved in as he felt his hole stretch to accommodate the big plastic truncheon Mrs Boroclough was forcing in.

The woman's thighs tensed and her buttocks knotted impressively as she pushed forward, rubbing one hand along the outside of his smooth thigh while her other hand carefully wedged the tip of her strap-on appliance into its required location. Her face took on a determined expression and she clenched her teeth. Keeping her knees together she angled back, tightened her muscles and pushed with her lean, powerful hips. Glancing down as she squeezed the first inch into the lissom young backside, she began to press forward.

How satisfying to see her rugged girl-staff sink into the bull's-eye of a pretty arse, she thought. She sensed Poppy's anus was rather a snug little morsel usually, but since Clementine had basted both it and her tool with plenty of lubricant it proved no obstacle.

Poppy gulped as the intruding length of greased plastic lifted him onto his toes. "Push back and take it." the woman demanded.

Her cock sank in, and his pink anus flared significantly open as his tiny well-greased buttonhole expanded, thinning and dilating salaciously around the invading prong's blunt oily head. Once started it became easier. Further and further it went in until the she-boy groaned. Pain? Pleasure? Maybe a mixture. The woman didn't care. 

Most of her instrument was soon sheathed, and a brisk jerk with her pelvis quickly forced in the rest. When fully installed she experimented by shaking Poppy's rounded derriere left and right and up and down, making him huff and puff as his bottom was pulled about and contorted into gratuitous shapes. His feet arched and his toes curled as the assault intensified and Mrs Boroclough began long-dicking him like a man.

"Wow, oh it's - it's - it's - oh fuck!" The sissy exhaled noisily as his smooth-rounded bum-cheeks bounced and jiggled around on the sliding shaft. He tried to relax, knowing it would be easier to co-operate, but the violent ramming of the full prick inside him forced him to concentrate.

"So you're a squeaker," the woman quipped heatedly, "Well squeak away, girly-fuck, because I'm going to give your precious boypussy a truly deep seeing-to. You're in for quite a lovely ride."

"Oowwwfff!" Poppy gurgled inanely and out loud, tilting his head back and lewdly clenching his anus around the large slippery knob in his backside. He felt the same searing brand inside that all boys feel when a man breaches them, and at that moment Mrs Boroclough was as good a man as any he'd ever known.

"Bounce on it," she demanded, "Bounce around on my cock... That's it... Good girl! Good cock-slave. You're my girl. You'll drop your pants and be my girl whenever I want you to be."

"Y-yes. Oh, yes..." He surrendered, utterly giving into her demented desire and rocking back and forth in tempo to the rhythmic thump of her latex tool. They were united, a big cock and a submissive bottom - boss and appellant - giver and taker. Now he was humping in lurid response to the girl's thick, slippery length and athletic thrusts. 

The old woman seized him by the hair and cruelly hauled his head back. "That's it, move with me you little cow. I know you like it. I know you love it. Being fucked in the arse - it's all you're good for - you'd love a girl to give you a baby if she could. You'd love me to give you a baby, wouldn't you?"

The woman's hands gripping his hips tight as she began ramming him with the passion of a buck rabbit just out of celibate confinement and on high heat, sometimes almost lifting him from his feet with her enthusiastic thrusting. "Oh yes. That's it my sweet darling. Oh, you are a fine piece of fuck-mutton."

While this was happening, the redoubtable Clementine, acting as supernumerary to her former employer, was crouching down beside them and milking Poppy's cock industriously, aiming the juicing tip expectantly at a metal wastepaper bin tucked beneath the table.

The thrust of Mrs Boroclough's mature loins increased to fever pitch and each time she went in she drove harder and deeper.

Poppy panted heavily and the woman panted too. "You squeak and moan like a girl. You like to be fucked like a girl, but it's my turn to cum."

She gave a huge lunge that pushed her attached length fully inside, and ominously it seemed to swell. A squeeze on the fat juice laden balls between her legs instigated a glorious disgorging of liquid love along the embedded length.

"Oh, yes." The woman blurted as she pumped with frenzied spurting thrusts that stuffed the tender sissy to the limit, powering her replica seed into his welcoming warmth with a force that made his entire body jerk and jerk again.

"Aaaaarrrrh! Yes, yes. I can feel it filling me up." Poppy squealed as the woman's replica penis exploded like a volcano inside him and his stretched bum hole slithered on the fiercely rutting pole.

"Give out your honey, darling. Empty your handbag." urged Clementine as she frantically jiggled his swollen cock beneath the table.

Poppy mewled and thrashed his head from side to side as his body heaved and rocked. The woman was gripping him tight as he writhed, extending every muscle as a sixty-megaton orgasm took him, and trapped in the midst of delicious torment his cries were probably a reflex.

"Eeeetch! Mmm, yeah! Give me a baby Mrs Boroclough - Oooow yes, give me a baby."

A strangled whimper as his big sissy stick convulsed in Clementine's massaging hand and began to spew cum into the wastepaper bin. Quite suddenly his penis began to ejaculate sticky semen in fierce splatters, Clunk, plink, splot, splat!

Clemmy grinned in delight and continued pumping, her deeply tanned face radiating deep satisfaction as each viscous surge twanged against metal. Agreeably impressed at the amount spurting out of him she gazed up at her mentor. "Goodness, Mrs Boroclough. You've picked a fine specimen this time."

***

Poppy was returned to Fairyfield in the back of a taxi late that same evening, and both Jennifer and her mother met him at the door. Self-consciously the she-boy fished an envelope from his pocket and handed it to Miriam.

The headmistress perched a small pair of spectacles on her nose and studied the note it contained, and having read it she stopped Poppy in his tracks.

The slender she-boy turned and peered at her coquettishly, eyelashes fluttering, budding breasts pressing out the fabric of his dress. Then he came over and stood formally, hanging his head like a miscreant hauled up for some crime, his cheeks tinged with a slight flush of guilt.

Miriam found herself looking at an exquisite ring of gold and amethyst threaded onto one of his fingers. "Did Mrs Boroclough give you that?"

"Yes, miss."

She held the note aloft. "The lady seems smitten. She informs me she wishes to wed you, Poppy. Do you want to marry her?"

He wobbled his shoulders apprehensively. "Um, yes please, Miss Hancock. If I'm allowed."

"We'll decide about things in the morning when I've had a discussion with the lady concerned. You'd better hurry off now and get your beauty sleep."

When he'd gone Jennifer gazed at the note in her mother's hand with an expression of consternation. "A marriage? Mrs Boroclough wants to marry Poppy?"

"It's only right she should ask me. He is rather delicate, a rare flower that can be picked or stamped on, and I'm the nearest thing to a guardian he has at the moment."

All saw Poppy as beautiful, but for Miriam Hancock he represented a certain kind of perfection. The soft shimmer of his hair, the molten-tar smudges of his eyes and the subtle curve of his mouth projected a purity that discounted the bizarre escapades he often became involved in. He was a transvestite who was quietly sure that nothing he did was ever sinful or wrong, and he had the most honest face she had ever seen.

"Marry him? Jennifer repeated. She made it sound like an oath. She was astonished. "Marry? Surely not. It's ridiculous. Poppy could never be an husband to anyone."

Her mother smiled. "Of course. Everyone knows that. He's a full-time girl, so Mrs Boroclough will take him as a wife." 



A Sissy Saga Ch. 21



The next morning Jennifer Hancock went down the stairs with her hair piled on top of her head and wearing a crumpled pale-blue linen overall to be amazed when Lulabelle said she looked as fresh as a daisy. Her mother was talking on the telephone, and when Jennifer appeared in the sitting-room she clapped her hand across the mouthpiece.

"I've been negotiating things with Mrs Boroclough. She'd like to have a few words with Poppy now, would you fetch him from the kitchen?"

When Poppy arrived he took the stem of the phone in one hand and cupped the mouthpiece with the other, reverently raising it up as if he was about to kiss a pair of testicles.

"Poppy speaking." He didn't say much after that, but an occasional timid "Yes, yes." and a lot of emphatic nodding of his head signified he was paying great attention to something being said. After a short while he murmured a soft "Thank you, Mrs Boroclough. See you soon. Bye, bye."

When he put down the phone a wide toothy grin was stretched across his face. "Mrs Boroclough says I'm going to have a white wedding in church, and then have a honeymoon in Torquay." His grin turned to Jennifer, "That's a holiday town on the south coast."

Miriam sighed in her extra-special patient fashion. "The lady didn't say Torquay, dear. Mrs Boroclough said she would take you to Tuscany. Tuscany is in Italy."

Looking slightly confused, Poppy straightened up and jangled his earrings. He looked from Miriam to Jennifer and back again, then finally shrugged his pale-pink shoulders in dismissal. "I don't really care where it is, as long as it's near the seaside."

The moment he'd gone from the room Jennifer gave her mother a look of disbelief. "She can't possible mean to marry someone like Poppy in church. It must be at odds with all kinds of ecclesiastic law."

Miriam calmly poured herself another cup of tea. "Don't underestimate that woman, Jennifer. She's a pervert, but she's a rich pervert, and in any day and age that makes a great deal of difference. I've insisted that it should be done directly after Open Day. Next week, before the school breaks for recess."

She's some kind of squillionaire and probably wealthier than Lord Chance-Barton. She's certainly rich enough to have contempt for polite society. As for the wedding, Parson Roper is massively in debt to her, so he'll do exactly as he's told."

Poppy took both jam and cheese as well as bread to the dining area up the stairs. "Mrs Boroclough says I'm going to Tuscudy for my honeymoon." he told everyone sitting there.

"Tuscudy? Do you mean Tuscany?" asked Bambi.

Poppy's mouth twitched. "Erm, it could be the same place. People call it different names."

"Tuscany is in Italy. My gran' once went there." said Pompom, slotting a slice of bread into the toaster. "She said it was all mountains."

Poppy nodded. "Yes, there's probably some hills there," he conceded, "but I think there'll be a seaside-bit too, with a funfair on the beach." His mouth suddenly wreathed into a beaming grin. "The Big-Dipper roller-coaster ride scares me and makes me squeal, but I love it."

He began telling the others how Mrs Boroclough was sending him an engagement ring in the post, real gold with real emeralds on it, and when Bambi mentioned that it was rather unusual for a man to be the wife of a woman Poppy became as cross and began berating him like an irate hen.

"Everyone needs to get married at least once, it doesn't matter to who. The trouble with you younger people today is you see everything in black and white and make no allowance for change." he chunted with a wag of his finger, "I'm grown up now and I can make my own decisions, thank you very much. I'm old enough to think about things properly."

The sentiments he expressed had clearly been scooped out of a magazine or a movie, but they certainly fitted his mood at that moment. "No one tells me what to do anymore ...'cept the headmistress - and Jennifer - and Mrs Boroclough."

Bambi sucked a jammy finger. "And policemen, and the Queen, and anyone who shouts loud."

Poppy threw back his chair, and flushed with annoyance brought up his hands like a pair of spiked talons. "Shut up, Bambi. If you keep making fun of me I'll - I'll scratch you."

With that dire ultimatum ringing in everyone's ears he swivelled on his heels and flounced from the room.

Amanda finished buttering his toast. "Mmm, yum. Where's the jam?"

Sammy pushed a pot of jam across the table and spoke for the first time. "Poppy's sweet. I'll miss him if I come back for next term. Will you miss him, Bambi?"

The other she-boy thought for a moment. "Yes," he said with a wobble of his head, "no one else is so easy to beat at Scrabble."

***

At the end of August each year heather blooms in riotous colour across the dun-tinted hills of the West Riding. Waves of purple and magenta swathe the Pennines in such stunning magnificence that even the most jaundiced of eyes fill with admiration. Such a vista was a fitting backdrop to the one day in the year Miriam Hancock felt more important than any other. It was Open Day at Fairyfield Grange.

The rejuvenated gardens were in prime condition in flagrant defiance of the restrictions on the use of water during the summer drought. They were defined on all sides by old stone walls covered with climbers which at the far end scrambled up into two ancient trees, their blossom shining among the dark foliage of the branches like spun silk. Below, in the wide borders under the walls, floribunda roses clustered together in dense blocks, and in the centre, surrounded by gravel paths was the lawn upon which Mr Hardwick now conducted the opening display.

Stepping out in perfect formation the aerobic dance team bounced, skipped and cavorted onto a wide piece of decking set out on the lawn. Heart palpitating the gym instructor dug his fingernails into his palm in an effort to calm himself as he observed them. "Come along, dear things. Try to look animated! - No, not like that Dolly, that just makes you look half-witted - remember what you've been taught, all of you, heads up and smile, and don't let anyone get close enough to get into your knickers."

"We're not wearing any." piped Lulabelle.

It was such pleasant weather that the guests spilled outside to watch without being urged. Gathered in small groups, lounging in teal chairs or simply loitering on the York-stone steps, they stared, bright-eyed and earnest, smiling and gesticulating as the children swivelled their hips, caressed their bodies, wiggled their bottoms and humped the air.

A moment later they were high-stepping like drum-majorettes. Six young men wearing very short little-girl outfits that made the most of their superb bare legs. Some had dark hair, others were golden blond, reflected light framing their heads and playing on the edges of curls and ringlets. 

They were all beautiful, each in his own way, their faces lightly made up to retain the lush aspects of youthfulness, their bodies slender and supple, attired in diminutive dresses of purple plush trimmed with gimp cord and black Spanish lace. Jennifer had been keen to dress them in nothing more than a pink ribbon tied around their testicles, but her mother had vetoed that idea. A little decorum was required for the first part of the day.

Even so, they presented a sight to make dead men sit up, and it was impossible to disguise the stirring of loins among those who viewed them. They were tricked out with beads, earbobs, frills and furbelows, but no underwear - not a stitch. Miriam hadn't objected to some titillation, and to the amazement of all those watching the front hem of their tiny skirts had been pinned to the waist to form an outward flowing drape beneath which their lush, creamy thighs and well proportioned genitals had no hope of taking shelter.

Their cocks, each one an individual soft sculpture, were clad with only a narrow bow of pink ribbon, and while their scrotums varied in size and shape they were uniformly soft sacs of pink skin in which the outline of their testes were clearly defined. A ripple went around the people there has they gazing in astonished disbelief at the plethora of femmed-up boycocks on girls.

Extending into line abreast they began with tap in the Irish style, arms motionless at their sides, chins in the air and legs moving rapidly, hop-tapping and heel kicking below. The audio-accompaniment this time consisted of a lively fiddle, a reedy sounding pipe and a lambeg drum, while the rhythmic clack of shoes provided both music and melody of their own. 

The tune crashed to a stop and almost instantly the invisible fiddle changed key and launched into a faster jig allowing Candy to spring forward, knuckles on hips, to give a virtuoso display of jazz-jive.

When he dropped to the rear Amanda and Trixie took centre stage in a whirling, synchronised, foot stomping pas de deux that had their skirts swirling in dizzying circles and provided ample opportunity to observe pretty bare bottoms and exposed boy parts.

In a daring move they spun round, back to back, lifting their skirts, bewildering the spectators, taunted them, tormented them, their soft high-pitched squeals hammering like nails into their attention as they wriggled and rubbed their bare bottoms together, while laughing at the intimacy.

There were no hoots and hollers and no stamping of feet, but the tumultuous applause at the end declared it a great success, even if no one had foreseen that some of the guests would afterwards invite the whole troupe in through the front doors for a glass of lemonade.

Inside the house bright sunshine poured in through the tall windows to wash the entrance hall with rafts of pristine light, making the dark stained pine panelled walls take on a lighter hue as if shot through with mahogany, while a set of crystal lamps with cream silk shades added their own glow. The ambience was cheerful.

Miriam Hancock stood back against a wall, smiling inwardly as she surveyed her guests and the glittering scene spread out in the voluminous room. She was in a good mood, her high spirits attributable to a number of factors of which a fine start to Open Day was only one. The atmosphere was friendly, almost jovial, and everyone appeared to be at ease. 

It had been a long time since the walls of Fairyfield Grange had resounded to so much genial chatter, and it filled her with a sense of gratification. Undoubtedly her status was rising up in the estimation of the great and famous.

The beginning of the day had found her feeling uneasy since a mistake would cost her money. In one location she had chanced to bring together all her best sponsors and most influential well-wishes, as well as a number of good quality people who had expressed an interest in owning a transvestite servant, so it was vital for things to go well. 

The bulk were a motley lot of middle-class types she had known from her time in Harrogate; bank managers, solicitors and corporate officials. Many were accompanied by their pushy wives; pillars of their local communities, who invariably supported some Town Guild or Women's Institute, but who had become bored and jaded by their unchallenged way of life.

On arrival, and while still sober, they were like many others gathering at soirées in country houses during the summer. Clever men and women immersed in debates about theatre, literature, politics and travel, but there was no doubt in Miriam's mind as to the real reason they had come. All too easily their eyes strayed and lingered on the emasculated young men who fussed about them bearing trays of white wine and soft drinks. Those upright guardians of public morality had come to view the products she had on offer.

Because dissatisfaction at the start of events would have rumbled throughout the day and could have an effected on her entire enterprise, she'd elected to set the tone early with the aerobics; a light-hearted, raunchy little romp that would stir the imaginings, and the pants, of the august get-together. The carefree gaiety that now surrounded Miriam lifted a burden from her mind, and her voice bubbled with theatrical vivaciousness each time she spoke.

Jennifer flitted by looking smart and ladylike in a blouse of crepe de Chine with a bow at the neck. "How's it all going, mummy?"

"Like a dream. Everybody's hard at work."

"Not you I hope."

"Me? I've done everything except cook the bouchees."

"Roads!" she suddenly exclaimed. Glee bubbled from her. She wanted to giggle and laugh and hold her sides, and although the laughter seeped out of her abruptly the glow of delight continued in her cheeks. "I've just finished speaking on the telephone with old Mr Sugar, my solicitor, and he tells me the National Trust have withdrawn their claim to Fairyfield Grange - and all because of roads."

When she noticed her daughters puzzled expression she explained that The Trust had petitioned the County Council to upgrade some roads vital to support the passage of juggernaut motor-coaches into the area of Peasmarsh, and when Lady Diana had heard the main highway would pass close to Chance Hall and her home was on Pamela Upduff's list of 'Sites of Tourist Interest' her objections had gone into overdrive. 

She'd pulled every string to which she had access in the Council's Highways Department - and probably every dick she could get hold of too - and had managed to kill the idea. Without decent roads tourism couldn't develop in the way the Trust wished, so they'd dropped the whole notion of acquiring Fairyfield Grange.

"Dear Diana came up trumps in the end, and since I'll also benefit from Uncle Albert's endowment eventually I feel I should do the right thing and give her those silly photographs at the end of term."

Jennifer nodded, but then said, "You may find that she'll still want to come here afterwards. I've an idea she's developing a secret passion for being smacked and pushed around."

Her mother straightened her blouse. "If that's the case you must tell her to write me a polite letter in her best handwriting requesting a continuance. In future she will have to pay a fee for each attendance. After all we're not a charity and we may have to task other staff with her discipline."

She gazed at the crowd of people gathered around the aerobics' team bunched inside the main door with some irritation. Men and women alike were studying the clutter of hot, near naked sissy bodies and becoming increasingly invasive with caressing the exposures of bare bottoms and thighs.

"Do try to get the dancers out of here, darling. Since they've allowed themselves to be enticed inside they're in danger of having their best parts plundered in broad daylight."

Jennifer scowled and nodded. "They've no reason to be here. They'll be needed for other things soon."

As her daughter made off Miriam turned to fuss with a vase of flowers and give a withering smile to Parson Roper, who'd told his wife he was off to a Diocesan meeting. "Do admire my freesia's parson. Aren't they precious?"

"Er um, er what?"

She indicated the floral decorations. "The flowers parson. The purple pelargonium and the freesia's look divine, don't they?"

The clergyman returned her smile languidly. "You've a good many blossoms here today, Miss Hancock, and they're all quite lovely."

"Preferable to a roomful of moonfaced bishops, I dare say."

The parson wiped his ruddy face with an handkerchief. ""Eminently so. And if the church fete could be as appealing I'd be a happy man indeed."

"I'm so glad you approve. Later in the day I'm providing some exclusive entertainment for those people who's help I especially value, and I invite you to stay on and enjoy it."

The parson smiled his gratitude, then his disingenuous eyes darted over the assembly, observing every scantily clad girly-boy within range while checking who among the visitors was eminent enough to enjoin in conversation. "Well, must trek forth. Ever onward and upward as they say." he chortled.

Miriam caught the attention of Miss Moffet, owner of the village tea-room and a member of Peasmarsh parish council. The woman gushed at her immediately. "Everyone in the village thinks your girls is right luvely things, Miss 'ancock, an' I reckons they're right. They'll all be breakin' lads hearts before too long."

Miriam smiled patiently until she drifted away, and then found herself approached by Mrs Boroclough, who gave a bright laugh. "I do believe Miss Moffet still thinks the students here to be girls, Miss Hancock. I told the silly woman to wear her spectacles, but she's too full of vanity to heed advice."

Moving a step closer to provide some intimacy she added, "She's right about them being lovely though. They're quite delightful."

Walking on Miriam then nodded to Larkin. At the time Fairyfield Grange had been built a lowly tradesman such as he would never have been invited to a social event at the house, but times had changed, everyone knew that. 

The rich man was still in his castle with the poor man at his gate, but somewhere in between there was a confusion that had never been there before. It was important in modern times to accommodate everyone who could be of use, and old Larkin did have his uses. 

Even in the darkest hours of establishing her school he'd never withdrawn his goodwill, and he had a rather shady but useful web of contacts throughout the country. Moreover, in return for an invitation that day he'd been agreeable to his bitch-boy Judd participating in some of the entertainment.

Interested in everyone and everything, Sammy stood on the far side of the room clutching a flat silver serving tray while gazing up at the old oil paintings that had recently been hung on the walls. They all portrayed stern looking ladies and gentlemen wearing old-fashioned clothes, and it had been explained to him they were some of the Fairyfield's; representatives of the family that had built the Grange, and of which the Hancock's were the only surviving line.

He'd been moving around constantly for an hour offering drinks and snacks, but since he wore a short black underslip with shoulder straps no wider than spaghetti, and dark stockings and high heeled shoes, he was feeling glamorous and was enjoying the promenading.

Mrs Pardoe had fumed when Miriam had rejected the idea of the serving girls wearing their parlour-maid outfits, but the headmistress had been adamant that something rather more risqué was appropriate for the occasion, and Jennifer had jumped at the chance to dress as many young men as possible in costumes that was mainly comprised of girls lingerie, paying particular attention to ensuring the drop of the skirts weren't too long and didn't entirely obscure the dark welts of their stocking tops.

The recent applause signified the dancers had met with approval, and the students, ever responsive to an audience's mood were buoyant as a result, sharp on cue and flirting with witty ripostes among themselves.

Candy ambled over while still adding lipstick to an already vivid mouth. "Have have you seen that frayed looking man on the sofa who looked like a travelling salesman? His was flashing something from the front of his trousers, and it wasn't a wallet. He's watching you all the time. I think he fancies your arse."

Sammy paused in fastening the tops of his nylons to the straps of a suspender belt and gave his neat rump an affectionate pat. "You never know. This could be his lucky night." he grinned.

When Candy drifted away Sammy sniffed. An odour hung in the air. What was it? Cannabis? Coke? LSD? He'd never done drugs, and didn't know the difference. Perhaps it was a mixture of them all. He was only allowed to sip barley water, and that had to be done behind a tall screen where Gloria filled flutes of champagne for the guests.

Turning away from the wall he fluttered his eyelashes in a suitably coy fashion at the gentleman nearby who was scrutinising him closely. The man was elderly with a deep tan and wings of white hair, but looked slim and athletic. He wore a grey suit with a white shirt set off by a grey silk tie, but it was his eyes that Sammy noticed most. They were staring with enough desire in them to make a sissyboy slide off the edge of the planet, while the front of his smart grey trousers were distorted in a way that he was very familiar with.




A Sissy Saga Ch. 21



Before anything could develop between them the pantyboy's attention was diverted by a woman tottering towards him, in one hand a glass of sherry, in the other a semi-opaque yellow drink containing a skewered cherry. She was youngish, mid-twenties, rather good looking with immaculately coiffered hair, and she looked exotic and friendly - if also rather tipsy. Sammy recognised her as a sort of celebrity newsreader from national television.

Joanna Toppingham had been discreetly observing Sammy since she'd arrived. The moment she'd entered the room her eyes had been drawn to the strikingly attractive poppet in female attire, and she thought him incredible. He carried himself so elegantly in his little black dress, just like a real girl, and the delicate threadlike straps on his bare shoulders tantalised for being all that supported the concealment of his adorable little chest and nipples. 

Something had stirred in her immediately, and had eventually compelled her to appraise him from a nearer view.

"You're lovely," she murmured, inclining her head and offering him a merry smile. "I'm told that the girls here are really boys, but you all look so sweet it's hard to believe it's true. What's your name?"

Sammy suddenly felt tense. "Sam - Samantha, miss."

Chuckling at her own daring lasciviousness the woman sluiced down the sherry and handed the empty glass to Gloria who was standing nearby. "Is there somewhere this - erm, lovely creature and I could have a moment of privacy?"

Intimidated, the housekeeper became uneasy. She too had recognised the woman as Joanna somebody-or-other who was quite famous on television, and famous people tended to overawe her.

She flustered awkwardly. "There ain't nowhere 'cept Miss Hancock's study, but I don't think she'd want anyone in there."

Used to having her own way in all things and with an ego the size of the West Riding, Joanna poured the yellow drink down her throat and pulled a rye face. "Come, come woman. The headmistress is a charming person and I can't believe she'd refuse me a small favour. It would only be for a short time' and we'd just stand inside the door."

Her voice was slurred, but buoyant and insistent enough to make the housekeeper's resistance crumble, and Gloria hesitantly took a key from her pocket and led the way to the study door. "Just for a minute then, and I'll have to come with you."

Unconcerned by the ultimatum the guest swept blithely past her, dragging a bewildered Sammy by his arm. Once inside the room Gloria shut the door and stood with her back against it while Joanna leaned down to be at eye level with her chosen sissy.

"Show me, darling," she said, "Slip down your panties and prove to me you're really a boy."

Sammy inched up his little skirt coyly, but then found himself paralysed by her avid attention. "You're making me blush, miss."

"Ha!" The woman tweaked his pretty nose, "Silly creature. There's no need to be shy with me. I do lots of television work and I frequently visit dressing rooms when young men take their pants off. There! I shouldn't have said that, but you've such an open face I feel I can trust you."

Immediately she took control of things herself, pushing Sammy's hands aside and groping beneath his flimsy dress. "My, what pretty legs you have." she muttered as she hauled his pants down over his nylons. With a brisk flick of an immaculately manicured hand she raised the front of his skirt and gazed in delight at the male-genitals revealed. Smooth, well-formed and dangling with deceptive innocence.

"What a naughty surprise to find in a girls knickers, and such delicious pair of balls too, they look so cute in their little pink bag. Gosh, you are a honey. How old are you Samantha?"

"Eight-eighteen, miss."

"Eighteen! In that case I expect your willy will get stiff if you play with it. Will you play with it for me?"

The developing situation increased Gloria's interest and she left her place by the door to peer over the guests shoulder. "Go on. Do it fer the lady, Sammy luv. You've done it plenty of times before with people watchin'."

Usurped from her accustomed role of dealing directly with boys herself, the housekeepers thoughts wandered to other things as Sammy started to jink his foreskin to and fro.

The visitors derriere was thrusting back at her invitingly, in a nice, round, impudent kind of way, and it was undeniably attractive. Gloria was quite disposed to girl-on-girl stuff from time to time, but hadn't done anything with a woman for months. Miss Hancock always had something else to do lately, and none of the other females at the school would allow her to touch them intimately.

As the pert, poised rear-end of the guest seemed to be inviting some attention she chanced brushing her hand across its expanse, and on receiving no objection from the preoccupied Joanna-woman she became bold enough to slip the hand beneath her skirt and fondle the chubby bottom. Still no protest. Fortified by alcohol Joanna seemed to have put aside any pretence of scruples.

'Drunk as a skunk an' ripe for some jiggery-pokery', decided Gloria gleefully. She pushed two fingers forward to find the gusset of the woman's pants pulled tight between her thighs and drawn up so taut they accentuated the plumpness of her vulva delightfully. New found confidence quickly blossomed into impertinence as the housekeeper raked her fingers back and forth, stroking more firmly and digging deeper with each successive pass.

The television-person was entirely occupied observing Sammy's penis as he pumped with his hand, and appeared oblivious to Gloria's touch. Outwardly she remained impassive to the fondling between her legs, but strangely her very immobility gave the housekeeper encouragement to continue.

Gloria knew all about anatomy, so even though the woman was secured in her pants she had no trouble in worming a fingertip around the site of her clitoris before drawing it back to test the accessible nature of the hidden vagina and probe lewdly at the indentation of her anus. Eventually moisture began to filter through the gusset of Joanna's knickers, just a slight oily dampness at first, but soon becoming a copious ooze.

The woman started to gasp, and the more Gloria rubbed, the more she panted. Sammy didn't understand what all her noise was about, but her excitement infected him and his cock rose up like a stick.

"Oh, it is stiff!" Joanna exclaimed, trembling with enthusiasm. "It's come up wonderfully, and it as such an adorable well-formed knob-end. It looks firm, wet and gooey. It's ready to unload, I just know it is. Don't stop rubbing it Samantha. Keep wanking, you naughty girl."

"I-I don't know if I'm allowed to do a squirt, miss." Sammy answered faintly.

"Of course you are," Joanna gasped desperately, "No one will object to you pleasing me, and I want to see you shoot."

With a reddening face hot with flushes she snaked her head around to glare at Gloria. "Tell this creature it as permission. I want to see the tranny-tart toss-off."

"'Course you do," soothed Gloria as she strummed the woman's slushy pants, "Listen Sammy, you jus' carry on an' make a proper job of it. We's all here to please people today." As her fingers slithered around the puffy shapes inside the woman's pants it would have been difficult to dissuade herself from such duty at that moment.

"That's it." enthused Joanna as Sammy's fingers began to accelerate their movement. "Freaks like you need milking constantly. Not by me of course. You should have a pretty girl with soft hands doing it, or a man. Yes, you'd probably prefer a man, and given the chance they'd probably queue down the street to play with your doodle. They'd want to cum in you and on you and empty your pretty pink bag over and over again."

Sammy jiggled his cock furiously for several more moments, then he uttered a small choking moan as a streak of semen jerked from its tip and plummeted to the floor while another slavered over his fingers.

"Yes," the woman exclaimed, "I knew a queen like you would squirt beautifully. Keep wanking you tart, get it all out."

Almost as if to pacify the woman's inane urging Sammy's cock jacked out another big creamy dollop and Joanna's eyes bulged as she watched it roll over his fingers. At first she whimpered softly and sucked her lips at the sight, then quite abruptly her mouth became slack. "Oww, bloody 'ell! Ooooow, aaarh!"

She tore herself away from Gloria, clutching her groin, thighs scissoring one against the other, knees flexing, head bobbing up and down.

"Aaaarh, mmmm!" Lips drawn back and teeth fully bared, her expression was one of pain and anguish, but even Sammy knew it was rapture. Joanna Toppingham was experiencing a huge cum herself.

Eventually the gyrations ceased, and as shame soaked through the guest's alcohol addled brain she became irrational enough to jab an accusing finger at Gloria.

"I've been embarrassed! You've humiliated me, Mrs Fat and Ugly. I wouldn't have come into this room if you hadn't let me. How dare you tease me with emasculated young men and rub me with your grubby paws, you fucking old cow?"

Gloria looked at her quizzically for a moment. "Now then, there's no need to be rude." she said. Then her jaw clamped, her fist bunched into a solid lump and she biffed the famous television-person in the eye with force enough to send her reeling back.

"Yaaaarrrhhh!" howled Joanna as she bounced against the wall.

"Manners maketh the Miss, y'know," the housekeeper told her solemnly, "Bein' rude's a sign you didn't have a good nanny an' weren't brought up right."

Joanna hugged her face and sniffed. "What did yu wanna thump me for? I didn't know you were a nanny. I should have known only a nanny would know how to stroke my pants so nicely."

"Well, I ain't been a nanny for a while, but I ain't forgot how to be one."

The woman tried to compose herself and brushed a strand of straying hair from her face. "I feel sick and dizzy. I need a cigarette."

"Best go out into the front hall then madam," Gloria advised, "Miss Hancock don't like people smokin' in her office."

As the woman departed Gloria followed, pausing only to give the startled sissy-boy a stern glance. "'Ere Sammy, you make sure this place is left clean an' tidy afore you leave else I'll give you a smack if no one else does."

Left to himself Sammy looked about for his pants, then realised that the television-lady had absent-mindedly gone out of the room clutching them in her hand.

Outside in the hall the behaviour of the guests was becoming increasingly ribald, and deprived of the skimpily clad aerobics dancers and with their libido's lowered by alcohol their attention had turned to the waitress's.

Candy was standing at the end of the room held in conversation by a lady and gentleman seated on a couch who were both blatantly stroking up and down his nyloned thighs and reaching under his skirt, whilst Jemima was giggling coyly as a softly spoken man tried to induce him up the stairs to the second floor.

Surrounded by a group at the other end of the room Zoë was being encouraged to dance to the staccato beat of a dozen pairs of clapping hands, and it was only Jennifer's intervention that prevented him from being cajoled into performing a striptease.

In fact she made a point of disrupting all such instances, and smiling sweetly at the guests she made some excuse to drag each of the sissies away. Her mother had a program for the day and she was guarding it scrupulously in her name.

Sammy wiggled his way back into the room and stood demurely before the elderly man who'd been drooling over him previously. Stirred into mischief by the decadence he'd recently been party to he battered his pretty eyes until he was sure he had the gentleman's attention, then began to flip the hem of his little skirt up and down. If the old gent wanted a thrill he had no qualms about giving him one, and he knew it wouldn't be long before it was obvious he wasn't wearing any pants.

Jennifer pounced like a cat, grasped Sammy by an ear and dragging him off to another part of the room, leaving behind the grey-haired man looking annoyed and disappointed. A moment passed, then the man rose up from his seat and slouched off to seek a breath of fresh air.

Wendy had been sent out onto the porch to gather abandoned glasses, a mundane chore that didn't fit with his own sense of status. With a touch of pique he decided to string the job out as long as possible rather than chance being detailed for a second just as distasteful, but he'd being working for no more than a minute when he was joined by an athletic looking, smartly suited man in his fifties wiping his florid face with a handkerchief.

"Too hot for indoors." the man remarked absently.

Wendy lowered his eyelids and smiled back at him sweetly. "Yes, but the weather's lovely outside."

There was moment of appraisal as they studied each other. For his part the man found immediate pleasure in the young, well groomed person before him. The smile and the engaging musical lilt of a voice yet to break fascinated him. He'd just spent forty-five minutes ogling a striking girly-thing inside the hall whilst drumming up the courage to make an approach, only to see him snatched away, first by that ghastly television newsperson Joanna What's-Her-Name, and then by the headmistress's officious daughter.

It seemed apt compensation that the lovely sissy-thing near him now was as equally as pleasing as the last. He was younger than he'd first thought, deliciously young, and even more available. His face was sensitive, yet there was a flame in his eyes, and he liked the set of the head on his trim shoulders.

"I - er - I still find it difficult to believe that you and the other young men here aren't really girls." he stuttered awkwardly. "You all look so - erm - adorable in your pretty frocks, and you act your parts to perfection."

He took a brave step forward and his eyes tracked over the young queens sunny face. "What I mean is, I'm - er - not used to it, you see. I'm a stock-broker. I deal with vast amounts of money and I'm usually very sensible. But I've never - erm - never indulged - you know - with a young man, much less one acting the part of a girl."

Wendy feigned surprise and raised two melting eyes. "Not even kissed one?"

"No. I've never even kissed one. Not on the mouth, as it were. I mean that's not acceptable is it?"

Wendy's eyelashes swept up and down. He was always mindful of the clumsiness of men new to using boys, but at least this one looked kind and thoughtful and admitted his failings. Perhaps all he needed was a little guidance.

"Depends who you want to please, sir. Some boys are made for kissing. They love it, and I think you'd love it too if you tried it." He moved forward to reveal his utter loveliness, and the gentleman felt bewilderment he'd never known before.

Hesitantly, timidly, the strangers arm closed around Wendy's shoulders, and on finding the young man made no attempt to slip away he drew him close.

"Gorgeous!" he breathed, reeling from the rise of delicate perfume. "Acting like girls all the time. You she-boys - you young people probably - er - Do you - er - boys kiss each other and stick your tongues into each others mouths?"

With his lips slightly parted and his eyes as big as he could make them Wendy gazed up at his face. This was more fun than collecting dirty glasses. "There's not much we haven't tried. I like boys a lot, but I love men." he answered.

Everything seemed so natural. Without asking permission the banker gathered Wendy against his chest, pulling him close until the sissy felt the rasp of his jacket on his cheeks, the soft silk tie on his nose, and smelt the scent and soap of man.

The man's lips stirred the crown of his hair. He couldn't control his feelings, couldn't hold them in. "What's your name?"

"Wendy, sir." Wendy said.

"Wendy!" He repeated the name, making it come out of a strangled whisper of near panic.

Wendy sank back and tipped up his face, and drawn to the flutter of movement the man caught his chin in his palm.

The next moment he had the young thing in his arms and his lips trembled as he covered the she-boys mouth with his own, firmly clamping onto the soft, pink lips, crushing them and munching hungrily.

It was the kind of fierce melding of hot lips and flickering wet tongues in which Wendy excelled and he gave the amorous gentleman the benefit of his experience, raising up on tiptoe, throwing his arms about his neck and rolling his mouth around quite shamelessly, even opening it wide to invite the man to lick down into his throat.

The stranger was too coy to do such a thing, but he gloried in the warmth of their illicit embrace, in the stir of Wendy's arms and the sensation of his youthful body palpitating against him like a captured bird. When they drew apart he was breathless and he suffered a moment of panic on discovering his hand was intruding down over Wendy's belly. "Oh - I - er -"

"It's okay sir. I like what you're doing." Wendy husked. Ever the manipulator he slipped his own hands inside the man's jacket, pressing himself close enough to detect something big and hard sticking up inside his trousers. Something that was sure to be seven or eight inches of solid meat.

"You're excited, sir. And you're so handsome and manly you've made me excited too."

He gazed up at the man's face, his expression one of deceptive innocent. "But if you want to get my pants off we'll need to find somewhere a bit more private."

Praise is an aphrodisiac, and the scent and the feel of the slender, effeminate beauty in his arms was all the man needed to sharpen his eagerness.

But it was not to be. At that moment Jennifer arrived snapping irritably about uncollected glassware, and the anonymous gentleman blushed madly and swung away in pretence of inspecting an urn of flowers.



A Sissy Saga Ch. 22



By mid-afternoon Open Day for many was adjudged over, but while prospective clients and the purely curious were encouraged to depart the most valued of Miriam Hancock's supporters were skilfully spirited away elsewhere for tea and cakes. While the men went to the gymnasium, the ladies were assembled in one of the classrooms on the second floor where the desks and hard seats had been replaced with plush-padded chairs.

The room resounded to a cacophony of genial chatter and the tinkle of china cups as a dozen women took tea. Most of them were broad in the beam, middle-aged and middle-class matrons whose conversations were loaded with words like 'marvellous', 'wonderful' and 'darling', adjectives easy to use in a world given to insincere exaggeration. They were all paragons of virtue when in the public eye, but in the seclusion of Fairyfield Grange that day there was an air of preoccupied expectancy about them. It seemed they were determined to relax and let their hair down.

All except Joanna Toppingham perhaps, who was nursing an inexplicable black-eye that was developing the appearance of a purple plum, and was slumped silent in a chair amid a rising pall of something that wasn't real tobacco smoke.

On the fringe of things Hyacinth Glossop displayed enormous amounts of marbleised flesh and complained about her varicose veins whilst helping herself to a third slice of Dundee cake. By her side Mrs Boroclough concentrated on the coconut macaroons and sympathised. "You don't have to tell me, my dear. I'm a martyr to 'em myself. A martyr I tell you."

At length Miss Hancock installed herself on a narrow carpet that started at the door and ostentatiously spanned the room "If I could have your attention ladies, it's show time and we're ready to begin."

The women put down their teacups and turned towards her, keen interest etched on each heavily made-up face.

"You are all aware that my intention here is to adjust the nature of young men and develop them into becoming the finest of housemaids," began Miriam. "And since you are the core of support for my work and you all aspire to own a pantyboy-servant of your own eventually, you're deserving of a little instructional entertainment. Here at Fairyfield we specialise in the training of effeminate panty-boys. Sissies who wear skirts and act like simpering girls are primarily used by men of course, but they can be an endless source of amusement to women too."

"As you will discover in due course if you don't know already, my sissies all look delicious when decked out as French-maids, but when a days chores are done there are a myriad of other recreational outfits in which they can be dressed to charm, stimulate and titillate the imagination of ladies. Today I intend to show you some of them."

The seated women stirred and dragged their chairs into a row along the edge of the carpet, and a titter of delight fluttered along their ranks.

"Just a word of thanks to Margaret Pardoe who provided the sartorial savoir-faire for the gorgeous costumes to be displayed," continued Miriam, "And to Nanny Jennifer and Gloria who's support as been magnificent."

There was a ripple of applause for the absent ladies who were occupied in last minute details outside the room.

"Ladies and gentlemen, it's ShowTime, and for your entertainment we now present forty-five minutes of speculation and wonder."

Miss Hancock made a hand signal towards the door and took a pace back as music from overhead speakers began to throb with the beat of Bizet's 'Bolero'. The audience seemed to freeze in their seats as Daisy sprang out from the wings to take centre stage. 

He made a lithe figure with bird bones and eyes as bright as a robin, hair hanging in pretty bangs and ringlets and adorned with a posy of Parma violets. His face was pale and pointed and had a mouth that was pursed a little in consideration, as pink and rosebud-like as anything portrayed in a sentimental illustration.

Daisy was the smallest of Miriam's students, and he was naked but for the silver high-heeled sandals on his feet, light and strappy. His unclad body was as smooth as butter, but much of it was obscured by an enormous ostrich-feather fan both at front and back. The audience gazed silently in disbelief, lips compressed, eyes wide open like bystanders in a street.

Perfectly delectable, hips swaying, he swung into the rhythm of the music which provided the stuttering tempo for abrupt changes of pose, engaging wiggles and solicitous prancing. He turned about and then turned back, gyrating his body, skipping one way and then another, the silky-smooth nakedness of his sissy body absolutely apparent, but faultlessly guarded.

Feeling sweet, feminine and unbelievably naughty, every few seconds or so he would throw out his arms and conduct a swirling series of semaphore signals, but only doing it when the choicest portions of his body were concealed. The soft silken bag dangling at the root of his perfectly constructed popsy was constantly shielded all around by the practised strategic movements of the fans he operated with his hands.

Facial expressions complimented the enticing movements of his body. A coy over-the-shoulder pout, the tip of a pink tongue showing, a glorious saucy grin to display immaculate white teeth. Everyone applauded vigorously as the fan-dance concluded and he made his exit, and none applauded more vigorously than Dorothea Boroclough.

A moment later a multitude of sparkling bright lights pieced the dim gloom of the auditorium in a pyrotechnic display that in itself was an auroral ballet. Slowly the colours became sharper and more vivid as they began weaving, diving in arcs and loops. The spectacle - the greens, the blues, the purples and then the mauves, indigoes and violets became a kaleidoscope of colour that were invigorated by Bambi, so very like a dusky peach himself, who appeared next.

Fists on hips he strutted out confidently beneath the lights, adding a vitality and a kind of glow of his own.

He looked particularly splendid that day, and he knew it. A string of pearls around his neck, matching earrings and a bracelets on each wrist, fully clothed - sort of, looking radiant in a powder blue high feather head-dress and skimpy matching bra-top, a bare midriff and silk-clad legs. 

He wore no panties. The drape of his tiny skirt was splayed open at the front and he wore nylons to demonstrate just how glamorous a penis and testicles can be when garnished around with stocking tops and suspender straps. Behind him a magnificent spray of blue feathers appeared to erupt from the region of his small, high-set bum-cheeks, rising up in a vast fantail before drooping down to almost meet the floor.

The music mutated with the mood, and a lively melody began to pipe from the audio-speakers as he cruised to a stance in the centre of the floor, where the voices of a feminine chorus began to chant the words of a timeless number from 'Forty-second Street':

"Keep young and beauty-full. It's you're duty to be beauty-full. Keep young and beautiful, if you want to be loved..."

Promoting an unremitting Hollywood smile he started around the floor on a scintillating promenade of glamour, strutting with the elegant vanity of a peacock, taking measured steps in high heels to accentuate his magnificent legs, each swing of his pelvis, every vivacious flashing glance calculated to draw the attention and button observers to their seats.

"Take care of all your charms, and you'll always be in someone's arms. Keep young and beautiful, if you want to be loved..."

Hips gently rounded, thighs slender and straight, he moved slowly at first, then kicked and whirled and increased his pace, arms stretching, hips gyrating, feet flashing in a permutation of classic movements. His hair had been twisted, braided with beads and interlaced with cream-coloured silk roses before being wound into a chignon behind his head. His features remained serene as he spun, his skirt following his movements with disciplined ease. 

Fabric shimmered in liquid motion as he twirled in harmony with a momentary heady rumba beat, enacting a tribal dance of primeval decadence long ago born around bonfires on the African plains. Every motion of feet, legs, arms, even fingers, was made with precise consideration. 

He was in his element. It was what he was made for; to perform, to thrill. Every turn of his head, every flash of his eyes was done expressively. Here was a person who excelled at giving heart-stopping, ball-breaking messages with his body, and all those in the room gave him their undivided attention, eyes adhering to him like chewing-gum stuck to a pane of glass.

He became immobile and statuesque. An alluring provocative creature. Beneath his sooty lashes he had eyes that could enchant, but he seemed oddly unaware of their mesmerising effect. His smile became suddenly pouty and playful while his hands stroked up from his bare midriff and over his ribs, to slide up beneath the skimpy bra as if to unfasten it.

But suddenly the Busby Berkley number receded, Bambi glided away into the wings, and Miriam reinstalled herself.

"And so you see just how perfect emasculated young men can be for entertainment. Now allow me to invite Nanny Jennifer to demonstrate the kind of personalities into which a caring owner can mould them." 

A moment passed in which the women smiled rather self-consciously at each other, then a gasp went round the room as a sibilant rustle announced the arrival of an adorable boy in dainty little-girl mode holding Jennifer's hand.

Jennifer was dressed in a powder-blue overall with a smart leather tawse dangling from her belt. The model who accompanied her was Zoë, wearing a little girls party-dress of yellow chiffon with puffy short sleeves and masses of petticoats. 

The dress was all white lace accentuated by delicate pink bows across the bodice, and around his waist was a four inch wide satin sash tied behind by a huge bow. Little white lace gloves graced his hands, and Susan's feet, clad in white Mary-Jane's were complimented by white ankle socks trimmed with a lacy turned down cuff. But if anything was the point of focus it was his skirt, a high, wide bouncing concoction of petticoats that showed off more than his lovely legs.

"You will have noticed that all the pantywaists here no longer cry and stamp their feet when told to put on a dress." Miss Hancock purred, "Their dull male brains have been made to surrender to delicious girly feelings and they adore being soft and feminine. Zoë is dressed as a eight-year-old girl, helpless, trusting and virgin-sweet. He'd be any mother's Pride and Joy and every daddies darling."

"And every dirty old man's wet dream." added a wry vice from the audience.

A wave of consternation swept over Zoë when everyone chortled with amusement, but he was given no time to dwell on things.

The headmistress gave him a little push in the middle of his back. "Do a little promenade." she told him. "Mince back and forth a few times and don't forget to move your hips as you've been taught. Be the precocious little madam I know you are. The ladies want to see your petticoats deliver a good sway and swish."

Crimson faced Zoë sashayed forward with practised, lissom grace. He was nervous and aroused at the same time, and as he sissied to and fro his adrenaline rushed as a dozen pairs of eyes scanned the slim honey-coloured legs that descended below the bouffant cloud of his frothy petticoats. He bounced in a nimble little dance and curtsied sweetly, before thankfully Jennifer took his hand again and led him away towards the door.

There was spontaneous applause. Genuine appreciation. The sissy fashion-parade seemed to be going well, but then without warning the lecherous tension in the room suddenly cracked.

"This is boring," moaned Joanna Toppingham who had remained truculent and remote in an alcohol induced torpor until then. "We want to see pricks. Loads of them. Why won't you show us their pricks? Make the brainless tramps take their pants down and jerk on their meat."

She was so far out of it she couldn't appreciate the disruption she had caused. A kind of shocked paralysis settled on everyone except Miriam, who appeared to be unflappable. Quick to respond to her mothers signal, Jennifer, who was standing at the door, went off to find Gloria, and the beefy, heavyweight housekeeper came in at once to glare at Joanna.

"You's being loose wi' yer language again, miss. Best if you leave the room I think. Best if I gags yer mouth an' locks you in a broom cupboard for a while."

The colour drained from the woman's face and her mouth drooped like warm trifle. Knowing already how persuasive Gloria could be she mumbled faintly and mysteriously, "Yes, nanny. Sorry nanny," then rose up and sullenly followed the housekeeper out through the door.

Miriam smiled at her daughter. "Thank you, Nanny Jennifer. Bring in the next exhibit."

Miss Hancock continued in a silky tone as before, quite unabashed. "Now then ladies, while some sissy's like to wiggle in pretty 'little girl' frocks with frothy petticoats and Mary-Jane shoes, others can be encouraged to try new roles.

A sigh of satisfaction rose up from the assembly as Amanda appeared in the room. He was portrayed as a slave-girl - or possibly a slave-boy since his appearance would have suited either. His neck, arms and ankles were strewn about with strings of baubles, bangles and coloured beads, but he had no real costume, not even a pair of pants. His only clothing consisted of a silk headscarf that had been folded into a triangle and tied about his hips, and since the scarf had been craftily draped over to one side there was very little to guard his modesty at either front or back.

He stopped and stood before Miriam, feet together, his gaze offset to the side and hands clasped behind his back as if he were expecting a reprimand. That gave many of the women a chance to strain forward to gain a better view of his half-obscured penis and charming pink bag.

Miriam's hand stroked his delicately formed face. "Every lady would appreciate one of these." she said, "Obedient, long-suffering, hard working, but constantly pretty. A joy to the beholder I think you'll agree. A mere male, but with the skills of both a skivvy and a harem maiden. I dare say the Amazons of Greek myth would have had whole seraglio's full of such sissy beauty."

Her hand moved up to stroke the top of his head. "Many of the pupils of Fairyfield have featured in magazines, and some of you here may recognise Amanda as the most recent centrefold model in BOYS IN PANTIES."

Out in the audience Mrs Tichborne smirked sideways at Mrs Gannet who was an intimate associate. The named magazine, commonly referred to as 'Pricks in Knicks' regularly circulated among a number of the women around them.

"But oddly enough," continued Miss Hancock, "you'll all have noticed, Amanda wears no panties at all today." She smiled jovially down at him. "Oh dear, it's not very modest, is it? We'll have to ask one of the nice ladies to put you in some knickers, won't we?"

This was a cue for several of the women to make a search of their handbags, and it was Mrs Tichborne seated front-centre of the group who was first to pull out something frilly and wave it furiously at the blushing sissy. "Here darling. These are soft and skimpy." she cooed.

Other women waved items too, and confused and intimidated, eyes, large and sparkling, mouth soft and luscious, Amanda glanced from one to the other. There was a hoot of glee from the excited assembly as the dazed sissy boy then looked anxiously up at Miss Hancock.

"Ah, look ladies, he can't decide which pants to wear. He does so desperately want to be knickered, but having to make a choice is far too difficult for a featherbrained girly." She smiled down at him. "Shall I choose your knickers for you, precious?"

Amanda put his thumb in his mouth and nodded, and the women sighed with pleasure at the weak, submissive creature who could no longer make the smallest decision for himself.

"Mrs Tichborne was the first to show a pair." Jennifer declared helpfully.

The woman, a bright and brassy female packed into a green dress that was far too short immediately leapt up with a squeak and came forward with a pair of minuscule pink panties in her hand. She wrapped young Amanda in her arms and pressed her crimson mouth all over his face before holding the panties at his feet with the elastic stretched out.

The sissy-boy stepped daintily into them and gave a little gasp as Mrs Tichborne drew them slowly upward, pulling out the waistband to ease it over his excited prong and smoothing them snug over his girlish bottom. "There now Amanda. Does that make you feel properly girly?" asked Miriam.

"Yes, thank you miss." he replied softly.

"Good girl. Now go and sit on Mrs Tichborne's lap for a while and watch the other pretty girls parade in their lovely outfits."

He was quickly installed on the woman's fat knees and Mrs Tichborne immediately had a hand on his thighs as she petted him.

The next in the parade of femininity to be led in by Jennifer was Wendy wearing a short aquamarine beach jacket over a matching two-piece bikini of minimal proportions. His legs were slender, smooth and sun browned, dimpled at the knees and with delicate ankles. Emasculated, immaculate, superb, he glided along the catwalk wearing shoes with thin, high heels, walking slowly, allowing a mincing gait to develop in his step.

Two dozen curious eyes gazed at him and kept pace as he moved. When he stopped he pushed a knee forward and stood with hand on hip before turning about to strike the same pose in the other direction.

The stance was designed to accentuate his shapeliness, his girliness, and it created an alluring quality in every limb. He looked straight at the audience, turned his head, then turned his shoulders in a movement that was well practised. Easy, exquisitely engineered, his young body flowing with seductive elegance.

Hooking his thumbs into the front of his skimpy pants he sauntered forward; one foot dead in front of the other.

"Without doubt an indispensable accessory for the beach." Miriam announced. "Wendy is a young Miss capable of tantalising men and women alike, and boys, even straight boys would love to play in the surf with this young thing.

"Such a slender reed," she murmured, " he wiggles so saucily when he walks and as a bottom that's quite irresistible. Without doubt crowds would assemble and queue along the beach just for a chance to rub up against him."

Wendy's hair was pinned back over small ears, his lips, soft and pink were slightly agape, and his eyes were inexpressibly beautiful, dark and long lashed with lids slightly hooded to offer a sultry appearance. In a graceful unconcerned movement he removed his beach jacket and all the eyes panned down to search beneath the contours of his flawless shoulders to appreciate the rise and fall of his young bosom. Obligingly it juddered slightly to intrigue.

No attempt had been made to disguise what his tiny pants contained, and everyone then strived to define the exact outline of his cock and his plump testicles. Someone in the audience generated a low wolf-whistle. Everyone else was too entranced to look and see who it was, but a mixture of stifled giggles and barking laughter rolled around the room.

"You'll have seen a number of my sissies at the reception earlier," said Miriam, "And you'll have observed how each of them can strut with an air of feminine charm. An attractive feature you'll agree."

"That dear thing there can kick sand in my sandwiches anyday." chortled a blowsy red-haired woman.

"By next term I'll have a selection for you to chose from, Mrs. Glossop." Miriam answered.

Accompanied by a chorus of regretful sighs Wendy was finally escorted 'off-stage', and Miss Hancock resumed her commentary.




A Sissy Saga Ch. 22



"And now, something for those darker moments." she said mysteriously. "Some will find no appeal in costuming a servant entirely in latex or rubber, but I know that many of you here think it extremely erotic."

Jennifer then led out her most favoured concoction, her 'rubber-doll', which was really Holly Brown dressed in a short dress, and cocktail gloves that went up beyond the elbows, all of which were made of shiny black rubber and clung to him like a second skin. The design of his outfit held him sheathed like a lily in its slim corsage and lost no point of emphasis in displaying his superbly moulded throat, poised white shoulders and the taut virginal curves of his young bosom.

The teenage 'nanny' hauled him along the catwalk by a dog-leash clipped to a studded slave-collar around his neck before swinging him round to face the enraptured throng.

The straps and buckles of a leather harness enclosed his head while Holly's beautiful eyes blinked in bewilderment over a mouth stretched around a fat, round ball-gag. Carmine lipstick coated his mouth, mascara had been deftly applied to his long, luxurious lashes and metallic blue eye shadow to the lids, but the only features of his face that could be clearly seen were his eyes, open wide as if he'd just been caught in the glare of a spotlight.

When Jennifer brought him to a halt it could be seen that his legs were encased in smooth rubber stockings notionally held in place by rubber suspender-straps, and he stood teetering on pointed-toed shoes with ridiculously high heels that shaped his legs and pushed out his bottom in lewd invitation.

"Of course great patience is required for this kind of costuming," remarked Miss Hancock casually, "It requires time and a great deal of talc to slide even a slender morsel such as Holly into such body gripping attire." Pausing, she simpered and smiled, "However, there's probably no finer kind of punishment suit to wrap a sissy in when discipline needs to be applied.."

"Is it really a boy? It's so hard to tell." muttered the sparrow-like Miss Moffet.

"Of course. The young man is a sissy-boy." insisted Mrs Glossop beside her. She unconsciously licked her lips. She herself was a Bridge-playing ambulant woman who's usual pastime was quarrelling with hotel managers, but at that moment she was being taxed in trying to control the indecent pounding of her pulse.

Jennifer moved close to Holly and unclipped a rubber bra strapped to his chest, and with the item removed two tiny white breasts were revealed, squeezing forward through a pair of holes fashioned into the bodice of his outfit.

While the girl's hands deftly plumped up the newly bared flesh her mother dragged a tall stool onto the carpet.

"Showtime would not be complete without a demonstration of Fairyfield correction." she declared.

Holly was pushed towards the stool and made to lean forward and place his cheek on the seat. He then gripped its legs, knees bending to facilitate offering out his bottom.

Jennifer was again attentive. The back of Holly's rubber skirt was rolled up to reveal the sheer beauty that lay beneath. His black stockings stopped high on his thighs where the back of his legs and the bare satin skin of young buttocks gleamed like ivory in contrast. Bending as he was, his body formed a perfect curve from the knees upward, and beneath the arch of his abdomen the outline of his penis stood out in pure perfection.

He had not been provided with panties; instead his penis, which was fully at attention, was shrouded for its entire length by a black rubber condom, while his testicles, which had been tethered at the top to make them bulge, were tucked into a separate, snug little sling.

"Such a pretty bottom. Perfect." commented Mrs Frobisher as she absently adjusted her bra, which had suddenly begun to feel very tight. She couldn't take her eyes off the girl-figure in rubber. Her face, her nipples. Those legs. Her cock.

Miss Moffet gaped. "Jennifer isn't going to strap her, surely."

As the daughter of the headmistress unclipped the leather tawse from her belt Holly resolved to accept his ordeal in the best way possible, which was sensible, because resistance was of no use.

SPATT! "Mmmuufff!" His high heels kicked slightly and then settled back.

SMACK! "Aaaaahhh!" The audience leaned forward each time the lash came down with a sharp slap on Holly's creamy little billows, and as the sissy emitted anguished squawks around the confines of his gag they all seemed to wince and draw breath in sympathy. 

Mrs Frobisher's eyes sparkled as she squeezed her thighs together. "Oh dear - but he is a naughty girl, dressing up like that and showing his bum, so I suppose its all right to smack him as long as he doesn't get more than six."

BLATT! "Gggrrrrhh!"

WAP! "Uuugg!"

Jennifer gave him only four. She'd promised to give him no more than two, but had come to realise such a small number was far too derisory.

Miss Hancock then stepped forward and signified that Holly should be removed from the room.

"After that rather torrid display there will be a short interlude whilst we assemble the finale," she explained, " But don't wander off too far ladies. I can assure you it will be worth waiting for."

At the back of the room Amanda sat quivering on Mrs Tichborne's lap, his cheeks blazing with shame. The panties the woman had previously put on him had quickly been dragged down onto his knees once she'd extracted him away from the other women's pawing, and now, regarding him like a prize won in some raffle she was greedily doing all the pawing herself. Her fingers were holding his engorged penis and gently gliding up and down.

"Don't be embarrassed," she whispered, "Pantywaist freaks should enjoy a ladies attention. Keep your arms down at your sides or I'll get cross. Have you ever had your hands tied for misbehaviour?"

"Only when I'm put in the closet."

"A closet?" cooed Mrs Tichborne, "That would be a tiny, dark room where naughty girlies are taught to mend their ways. A lovely idea."

Pausing momentarily she drew her hand away to take up a small scented handkerchief, which she draped delicately around the tip of his erect girlhood.

"It's ages since I've done this with such a stiff young willy as yours - it's a year at least since a woman from Birmingham lodged at my house. I looked after her husband in the evenings when she went out, and I sat him on my knee after bathing him and putting him in his clean jimmy-jams."

Giving his solid young penis a slow jig with her hand she went on. "I used to give him a little rub just like this, because I know naughty boys can't resist rubbing their willie-winkie's in bed. They'd rub them for half the night if they had the chance and miss a lot of sleep, so I told him it was best if I did it for him."

"What's next?" murmured Mrs Frobisher.

"Bound to be something to do with sex." replied someone.

"Sex, especially with the wrong person is seriously overrated." Mrs Frobisher declared, "Most men promise a girl the moon, but end up just giving her stretch marks and a gin habit. Ages and ages of fumbling and pressing, groping and writhing; and all the time a woman as to look so bloody graceful, when a cup of tea and a decent book would be far more enjoyable."

She gave a long-suffering sigh. "I've tried getting rid of my old man several times, but I've not succeeded yet. Last week I polished the top of the stairs to the smoothness of a skating rink. He slipped and tumbled the whole way down, but blow me, he only broke a leg. The old goat's got a bloody charmed life."

Miss Hancock took the centre of the floor once more, and at her signal the door opened and in minced a procession of four sissy confections. Trudy, Zoë, Jemima and Lulabelle, hair neatly combed, lips masked with gloss and cheeks highlighted with rouge. All they're pale bodies were naked except for powder blue pyjama jackets that were unbuttoned and laid well back on their shoulders to be utilised as mere decoration.

The ladies sat entranced in their seats, fingers bearing cigarettes pausing in mid-air, their owners immobile. 

Miss Hancock's panty-boys all had such slight, deliciously girlish bodies, alabaster skin, flawless hips and legs, pretty ankles and small erect nipples that like their cheeks had been boldly defined by rouge, but in contradiction to their effeminacy each of their pricks was at full erection, rising above the horizontal and swaying slightly as they walked.

Weaving a pattern of sensuous beauty they reached the centre of the catwalk, stopped and turned to face the audience of female notorati. Fresh, clean-looking bodies, sweet and pink all over. Perfectly glossed mouths, rouge on their nipples, and without panties their cocks were bare and throbbing and very excited.

There was a hush in the room, an air of expectancy that hammered in the ears as the women avidly surveyed the display, assessing the dimensions of each upward thrust and downward dangle. Sissy's they may have been. They were naughty, naughty boys who sometimes wore frocks and pretended to be girls, but they still had cocks that could probably do lovely big squirts.

Like animated dolls the pantywaists blushed beneath their rouge. All were very aware of the predatory eyes gazing at them. Their preferred world was one of men, and the gaggle of strange, watching women embarrassed them terribly. But they were Miss Hancock's coup de theatre, and for her showpiece of the afternoon her guests would be entertained by a clutch of pretty pantywaists masturbating themselves to orgasm.

The ladies goggled slack-mouthed whilst making a brief attempt to maintain some dignity, but several let out a yelp of glee that betrayed their enthusiasm and impatience.

Jennifer made a final pass along the front of the panty-boys, taking hold of each nipple in turn between her forefinger and thumb, twisting and plucking until the tender teats mimicked their lower anatomy and thrust up in optimal arousal.

"Make a beginning." Miriam then demanded.

At once the row of girlies made a start, some stretching a hand over their hairless thighs to raise their testicles, while others stroked up their bellies to caress their creamy male breasts, but within moments each of them had taken his penis in his hand and was tugging it.

The audience watched intently as slender fingers shunted soft, pliant foreskins back and forth. Four lovely gasping sissy's standing in a row, squealing softly as they wanked. Their chests seemed to expand, to swell, rising and falling while their thighs closed on one another, knees dipping and then straightening.

Although engrossed in their exercise the prettyboys were all keenly aware of the expressions their action provoked among the women. The softly spoken chorus of 'uuugg's' and 'ooohh's' that accompanied their self-inflicted pleasure made the women's faces glow with interest, perhaps even naked excitement, and their large bosoms lifted and sank rapidly as the tip of each erection became moist and pink.

Wracked by spasms as their hands moved in a frenzy it wasn't too long before each of the little angel's began shuddering, skimming higher and higher to seek the peak of pure sensation. Agony, ecstasy, shame and joy were etched in all of their porcelain-like features.

"Disgusting!" exclaimed Mrs Gannet, slack mouthed and working her thighs like bellows.

"My daughter will be green with envy when I tell her about this," commented Mrs Glossop, "She loves watching boys beat their meat. She's forever pestering her brothers to let her watch."

The other woman wasn't listening. Her attention was entirely captured by the performance just a few feet in front of her. "Unbelievable! They're all such smooth, cute things, and they blush so prettily. Look at that one - What an angel. He's as stiff as a pole. One could hang a flag on it."

Although still occupied in lovingly stroking Amanda's stiff willy Mrs Tichborne peered between them for a moment. "Dirty wankers. Their fairy-queen arses will deserve a good smack when they've finished tossin'-off."

"That won't be long now." Mrs Frobisher said.

Some of the other spectators moaned as they gazed at the line of lovely erect organs with eager eyes, and one or two abandoned the pretence of decency and openly put a hand up their skirts.

Fragile Miss Moffet made an urgent and frantic search of her handbag. "Oh dear, I suppose I'd better wear my spectacles."

Trudy ejaculated first. He'd been showing a copious amount of precum almost from the start and now he was squirming his thighs and moaning with each urgent move of his hand as his foreskin slipped over and back, over and back across his glistening cock-head.

Stroke, stroke, stroke. His legs opened to show the dangle of his testicles as he changed his grip to a full-handed wraparound and increased the speed of his personal caress to a furious pounding. The frantic rubbing lasted for half a minute, then his mouth squeezed out a guttural protest between clenched teeth.

"Gggnnn - oh - ooow!"

The sweetie came, eyes wide and moist as he squealed with sissy rapture. His body convulsed and his hips pushed his spasming cock forward as a glop of white cum exuded from the flaring slit at the tip of his gland. Several more followed rapidly, the last and smallest dangling tenaciously by a strand of its own making, stubbornly remaining to swirl like a lariat as his hand worked to rid the invidious ache from his cock.

The sight released the physiological brakes on the other sissy's. Moaning in unmelodious chorus, legs shaking, their slim bodies quaked. All frantically tugged and jerked, pushed and pulled, and one by one they also shot out their sissy-cream.

Jemima imitated Trudy, his hand working in a blur until a shuddering thrill coursed through his body. "Ahhhhh... aaaahhh!" He emitted a tiny shriek of amazement as his penis kicked in his fingers and a glorious blob of translucent ejaculate heaved forward in a modest arc.

A moment later Zoë succumbed. Whimpering with joy his hips pushed forward and his sissy-cock throbbed out its juice, an impressive amount that first leapt up and then slavered down heavily over his tightly clenched, pumping fist.

It was all too much for poor Lulabelle who gurgled in alarm when the firm plum of his penis began to ooze juice from the vent at its apex. Eyes staring, mouth agape, he looked almost surprised when a gout of semen finally burst forth, spitting rather than oozing, and making the woman avidly watching directly to his front panic and reel back in her seat.

"Unnnnhhh!" His eyes rolled as he squeezed and the last slaver of creamy cum boiled out to lubricate his delicate fingers.

At the back of the crowd of women Amanda was still in the captivity of Mrs Tichborne's intoxicating caress while perched upon her lap, but with his friends jerking off so openly, he too surrendered to an inevitable rush of pleasure.

With the lady's hands sliding up and down his body and with his swollen cock being so boldly milked he shuddered, moaned and writhed, and his face became a mask of anguish as he released his pent up excitement. "Oh miss. Oooow, ooooow!" he crooned.

Instantly the tiny handkerchief wrapped around the tip of his youthsome stalk became sodden with warm wetness, while an excess of creamy ejaculate oozed through the flimsy fabric to baste the woman's fingers. Mrs Tichborne blinked hard. "Goodness me! I never thought a slip-of-a-thing like you could be so - erm - full of it."

"My, my! Just look at all that goo coming out of them all!" exclaimed Mrs Frobisher, "Such youthful young men, yet such large amounts. I've not seen so much spunk squirting at one time for years. Not since the girls played games with the boys at my last school dance."

Open Day at Fairyfield Grange was well underway but it was far from over, and whilst most of the women guests were being entertained in one of the classrooms, an uninvited one in the form of Mrs Amos was following behind Margaret Pardoe and climbing the twisting back stairs. She trailed behind the tutor as she led the way along the second floor corridors, puffing and panting and decrying the need to rush, but in the end she deemed all the effort worthy.

To mark the Open Day celebrations the internal walls of the closet-room, so often called 'the dungeon', had been lined with imitation stone-cladding to make it actually resemble the torture chamber in a castle keep, and on each side of the room a half dozen students stood immobilised, their thin wrists bound by rope and hauled over their heads by a pulley device coming down from the ceiling.

They were naked except for a black leather dog-collar decorated with stainless steel rivets and a ball gag stuffed into their mouths. Hoisted onto tiptoe their bodies were stretched taut enough for their ribs to be definable beneath their delicate skin.

"This is a bit sort o' kinky in't it?" remarked Mrs Amos with a smirk. "Miss Hancock don't 'alf lay on a good show for people she wants to impress, don't she?"

"Show is all it is," insisted Mrs Pardoe coldly, "Everything today is designed to stimulate the imagination and set pulses racing, but visitors will be allowed to do no more than spank 'em and wank 'em in this place."

"It certainly stim'lates my imagination." replied the other woman thoughtfully. She gawped lecherously at the pale naked bodies quite openly, enjoying the bewildered expressions on so many faces and the way each lissom figure squirmed against its bindings.

She appreciated their helplessness. She'd been denied contact with such creatures the entire term, and now there were so many at her fingertips, striped-off, accessible and unable to fend her away. Her flesh tingled as she stroked the smooth chest of one sissy and the belly of another while contemplating the hang of their cocks and balls, then she squinted at a small victim strung up on the end of the line.

"Um, yes. I remembers this 'un. I's had me eyes on him for ages." The helpless sissy-boy in her sights screwed his face around the fat bung in his mouth as she waddled across and gripped his penis with finger and thumb.

Mrs Pardoe gave her a steely sideways glance as she detached one of the others from the rope on which he dangled and briskly pulled him forward. "I've already chosen someone for you. Miriam will be bringing some ladies here from the fashion show in a few minutes, so we can't afford to dawdle. You weren't invited to this event and I'm risking her considerable displeasure by sneaking you in. Especially since Emma Twist promised her you'd never be allowed to touch the students."

"Hmph! I allus said Miss Twist's tongue ran away wi' her. But a deals a deal between us two Mrs Pardoe. Yer don't get owt fer nowt in this world."

"Believe me, I wouldn't be doing this if you hadn't made me an attractive proposition." the tutor replied fiercely, remembering the pact they'd recently made.

The illicit guest made no reply, but contented herself watching the schoolteacher tether the selected sissy's hands behind his back with a plastic snap-tie, then force them up his back in order to bind them in place with a leather thong hanging from his collar. The subject's wide eyes mirrored his disenchantment, but he knew struggling was futile. "Where's all the gents gone?" Mrs Amos asked at last.

"They'll be with a number of other sissies in the gymnasium."

"Pumpin' lil' arseholes like billy-oh, I bet." She gazed at the trussed-up boy being offered to her. "What's this ones name."

Mrs Pardoe looked at the person referred to, pushing the fringe of hair up from his brow. "Names aren't too important on days such as this. Call him Fido, he'll come to heel like a dog if you're assertive."

She swung round. "Take care what you do, Mrs Amos. You can belt him with a strap, and you're at liberty to use your sordid imagination in whatever way you wish. But Miss Hancock won't tolerate canes or whips - and of course she won't stand for any male-on-female sex either."




A Sissy Saga Ch. 22



The other woman conjured up a hurt expression. "I ain't a monster Mrs P. I only ever wants to make 'em a bit wriggley an' watch 'em do a squirt. If I let the thing shag me I'd suck 'im in and blow 'im out in bubbles."

Mrs Pardoe winced at the woman's crudity but held back on a reprimand. The hag and herself had entered into an agreement for that evening, and she didn't wish to complicate matters. Silently she clipped a dog-leash onto the D-ring on the boys collar and handed him over.

"Go upstairs to the east-wing. There's a room there where you won't be disturbed. This queer will know where it is, so make him show you the way."

She rubbed her hands in anticipation. That's my side of our bargain done, so where's the girl you promised me?"

"Lizzie? I took her to your room earlier. I figured that's where you'd want her."

They left the room together, Mrs Amos dragging her prisoner behind her, then without even a parting word the tutor immediately went off to indulge in her own indiscretions.

"Stuck-up cow!" muttered Mrs Amos the moment she was out of hearing. Giving a sharp tug on the leash to haul her captive nearer, her eyes glistened. One of her hands roamed slowly down over his youthful breasts, down onto his slender hips before reaching round to settle on his bare rump.

Her breath suddenly rasped heatedly. "Still, the bitch did sort out a sweet mincin' fella' wi a nice todger for me, so I won't complain."

Dumb and incapacitated the sissy could only watch as she clambered down onto her knees, and with utter disregard to being sited in the middle of the corridor begin to lick his smooth pale thighs. Remorselessly she worked her way towards his genitals, then taking his pink bag in her mouth she rolled the balls around on her tongue until his penis expanded and rose up stiff.

"Not allowing proper sex may be the rule here, but I reckons a bit o' oral stim'lation don't count with that." she murmured absently.

Taking hold of the rigid penis she rolled back the foreskin until she could lick the tiny cleft in its mushroom tip, then she took the entire length in her mouth.

"Mmm, lubbly!" she announced as she relished the silk-like texture of hot straining flesh.

Her mouth clamped down and it pumped so avidly that it only took a minute before she sensed the boys body coil like a spring and push against her face.

"Oomph, umph!" Inscrutable sounds issued from her throat as he guzzled hungrily, pushing her lips right down to his hairless groin.

A few more moments passed, and then she drew away, her face a mask of satisfaction as she licked her lips. "You's lads here may be all queers, but you's still good spunk makin' machines." she remarked.

Abruptly her expression changed. "That don't mean you're in for an easy time wi' me." she added scathingly. Climbing to her feet she jerked him forward with the leash.

"Get up them stairs y'fuckin' girly cunt. I aims to have more than one load out of you afore I'm done."



A Sissy Saga Ch. 23



Mrs Pardoe's heart pounded like steam-hammer as she made her way to her room. It had been such a long time since she'd had a young girl to herself, to take command of, to admire and to love, and she knew Mrs Amos's niece Lizzie was a real doll.

On the way she passed the Joanna television-person ensconced with Gloria in the stair well of the third floor, both of them too preoccupied to notice her. The younger woman was teetering unsteadily against the sill of a window and moaning pathetically.

She continued to watch for a moment as the woman's battered face wobbled beneath a hairstyle that was becoming increasingly askew and she noticed that Joanna was gasping at the antics of the housekeeper, who's hand she had allowed to push up under her skirt.

"Oh, nanny, nanny. Oh how I love you. Oh how I've missed your finger in my tiny hole," she was mewling. "Only you know how to please a little girl properly."

"Behave yourself," cautioned Gloria, who'd never met her before in her life. "Yer twat's all hot an' drippy, but if you's a naughty girl an' does a cum too soon I'll have to take you to my room and spank yer botty."

"I can't help it," groaned Joanna fitfully, "Oh yes, yes that's it. Use two fingers and push them all the way up. Fuck me nanny."

The woman was out of her bloody mind with booze and dope and an easy mark for Gloria, decided Margaret. But she was far too excited by the pleasure awaiting herself to dally longer.

She almost ran along the corridor, pausing just a moment to check her face in a mirror, making sure her face and nose had not gone shiny. Then just as Mrs Amos had promised she found Lizzie Braithwaite seated on the couch in her sitting room. 

From her vantage point by the door she watched, intrigued and slightly apprehensive. Despite the warm weather the girl sported a heavy black cardigan, longer at the front where she had made it sag with her habit of thrusting her hands deep into the pockets. She was beautiful. Auburn hair with golden lights that gave it a shimmering iridescence, languorous brown eyes, lips that were soft, pouty and pink, and with rosy cheeks that gave the appearance of a permanent blush.

Margaret's fingers tingled and her crotch seemed to melt. She generated the warmest greeting she could, "Hello Lizzie," and the girl smiled sweetly in return.

"Hi - are you Mrs Pardoe?"

"Yes, your Aunt Florence is busy and she said you'd keep me company for a while."

"I will, but Aunt Flo said I'd get a reward if I do."

The demand sounded mercenary but it helped Margaret to relax. "That's right, darling. I can be very generous with rewards if you agree to be a good girl for me."

"Oh, I can be a very good girl." Lizzie replied. The girl's enormous angel-eyes blazed with mischief. Little more than eighteen she looked so fragile at first glance, with a Dresden china-like delicacy in her features that contributed so much to her exquisiteness. Margaret felt an urge to rush across the room and touch her, but managed to hold back.

"Did your aunt tell you anything about me, Lizzie?" she asked.

"She said you like girls." her visitor responded somewhat blandly.

They were like two castaways, marooned on the moors. But although they had only just met, they were not entirely strangers. Margaret knew there was nothing to hide. The girl knew why she was there, so there was no need for timid, furtive glances; no requirement for anything other than frank appraisal. Everything had been efficiently arranged. 

"Yes I do. I especially like pretty girls, and you're very pretty. Should I call you Liz or Elizabeth?"

"Elizabeth sounds too posh. Call me Lizzie."

It had been such a long time since Margaret had been given the opportunity to seduce such a luscious thing and she felt awkward and inarticulate for a moment, but her eyes soon became drawn to the girls legs - smooth and shapely glowing with a sunshine tan. With the girls appearance all the negative feelings she had carried for so long at Fairyfield were transformed. Here was the kind of thing she had yearned for throughout all the painful prior months, and it was unencumbered, unrestricted; not hedged in by petty rules.

They exchanged a warm smile, and Margaret locked the door behind her as she unpinned her chignon and let her long dark hair fall around her shoulders. 

The girl stood up to shake off the cardigan. As it dropped she exposed her slender shoulders, and exposed also a pair of magnificent breasts, skimpily covered by an half-bra, in which pertness combined perfectly with generosity of proportions. Lower down she was wearing the tiniest of panties, miniscule white satin garnished with tiny silk bows.

Confident in her allure Lizzie writhed her body like a serpent and pushed out her chest, while her eyes narrowed in a way that was both thoughtful and seductive. Without invitation she sidled forward, arching back to cleave to Margaret's bosom and encourage the woman to pull her close. Sunshine tresses spilled around the back of her head and her porcelain fragile shoulders. Oh yes, she was warm and smooth to touch and just as lovely as Margaret remembered real girls to be.

Smiling, the visitors mouth opened slightly to show a set of pearly teeth, and she paused as if awaiting a burst of praise to which she thought herself entitled. It was almost as if she were conscious of how her beauty had power over people. "Take off my bra." she whispered heatedly.

It was not what Mrs Pardoe had expected. Yes, she had bargained for a girl, and yes she wanted the clothes off that girl and wanted access to all her naked charms, but she'd expected such things would happen gradually following on from shy giggles and sweet persuasion.

Lizzie was a cornucopia of intoxicating volumes and curves, and for a reverent minute she ran her fingers over the shapes of her body, revelling in finding the soft places and the firm places, the succulent , throbbing bounty she had not yet had time to examine. Her hands shook slightly, but the girl made no objection to being vulgarly explored, nor did she flinch when the catch of her bra became unfastened and the garment dropped away.

Margaret's face glowed with indescribable satisfaction on viewing the rich ripe, supple mounds of the girls breasts. The nipples were so deep with colour they could have been rouged. The texture of them was like an aphrodisiac, and as she stroked the bare flesh she felt moisture welling between her own legs, and had to restrain herself from licking her lips. She could smell the scent of the girl's skin and anticipated the taste of it slicking on her tongue. Lizzie would be sweet, with the kind of flavour only females could generate.

She was feeling confident now. Using one hand to hold the back of Lizzie's head she planted a motherly kiss on her brow, while her other hand slid behind the girl to hold her close.

The girl parted her lips - a blatant invitation to be kissed on the mouth - and Margaret finally descended beyond salvation. Taking hold of her face in both hands she kissed the shiny pink mouth for a long moment.

Lizzie displayed a great knowledge of kissing and used all the subtle gyrations of mouth and tongue that transferred sensuality. Each kiss sensitised the older woman to the next and was followed by a studious exploration of the girls face with her tongue. Returning to her mouth she renewed the kissing in a more piercing way before laving her earlobes and her eyelids. 

When the girls tongue entered her mouth, she held it there, matching it thrust for thrust while her hands moved up and down her neck. Eventually she pulled away, bent her head and kissed Lizzie's throat, from the pulse at its base all the way to her jaw line. Finally she manoeuvred the girl across to the couch and sat her down.

Excitement soared in the tutor. With her free hand she began a slow, tentative exploration, seeking erogenous zones and all the secretive places where women like to be stroked and caressed. She trailed her finger along the silky skin of her neck and shoulders and felt her shiver in response. Her hand skimmed lower, until she finally cupped a firm breast in her palm. She then kneaded each in turn.

Checking herself, she loosened her ravening mouth sufficiently enough to be able to lave the firm berry of Lizzie's teat with her tongue.

"Ooooh! Mrs Pardoe -" simpered Lizzie, "That's nice."

"Really?"

The girl smiled and nodded, then grasped Margaret's head and forced her small breast roughly against her mouth. "Suck it a bit." she urged.

The woman nearly swooned at the invitation. Still massaging the girl's ample chest and crotch she eagerly filled her mouth with hot, young flesh, drawing on the little bud that tipped it until it peaked.

Lizzie swivelled her chest. "Do the other one now. Suck my other tit while you're touching me up."

She took both breasts in her hands and slowly clasped and unclasped them until Lizzie was entirely focussed on her fingers, arching her ribcage and jiving with her hips. Eventually she took one rampant nipple in her mouth, listening with delight to the sigh that escaped her as she sucked and pulled, making it extend and stretch.

Events were proving quite exciting enough for Margaret Pardoe. She moved her own mouth into the hollow of the girls neck, kissing her shoulders while caressing her smooth body. Eventually she reached down between the girls legs to find the gusset of her pants. Committed at last she then began to hump the shape of youthful pussy flesh with her fingers.

"My! You're so naughty," Margaret mumbled as her mouth rolled onto a second tiny nipple. "Only bad girls ask ladies to suck their titties so I may have to spank you over my knee in a minute."

Lizzie's mouth formed into a pout as the woman guzzled. "You don't have to -" she lifted Margaret's head up and her eyes narrowed. " - if you don't spank me I won't make a fuss if you pull down my knickers and have a little play with my cunny."

A lump suddenly seemed to germinate in the woman's throat and she swallowed hard. The clever young madam certainly knew how to make a tempting offer.

"Ere, well - we - we may be able to come to an arrangement, I suppose." she replied weakly. Her whole body throbbed now as her hands dropped onto the girls pants, dipped under the elastic and skimmed them down her thighs. She held firmly onto Lizzie as she pulled her feet from the leg-holes.

The girl sat down with her hands folded over her bulging vulva mound, neatly trimmed with a defining slit separating the two halves. To Mrs Pardoe she was the embodiment of perfection - of beauty - of sensuality. "Lay back, darling," she urged, "Spread your legs open - as wide as you can. Let me have a proper look at what you've got."

Lizzie was certainly co-operative. She almost did the splits whilst laying back on the couch, her crack opening to display her swelling pudenda and labia.

"Ooh, Mrs Pardoe!" Her nostrils flared as the woman used two fingers to stretch open the outer lips of her vagina. For all intents it was as if she were examining the insides of a purse that had a lining of pale pink. Tiny inner lips gaped, moist and slightly ajar. With her forefingers Mrs Pardoe gently opened those too, and there it was - the subject of so many of her daydreams - tight and pristine, the diminutive aperture of a youthsome cunt.

Such a shame to know such unspoiled beauty would not last, the woman mused. Within a comparatively short time that same tender, snug tunnel would no doubt acquire the habit of hugging the dimensions of the hateful male cock and milking out its ghastly seed.

She licked the middle finger of one hand and deposited spittle on its tip before rolling it against the delicate exposed portal. She pushed, and the first digit of her long, thin hand started moving into the small hole. The teenage snatch was moist and there was no resistance as she then wormed it into the narrow orifice. As she exalted at the tight fit of hot youthful flesh around her finger and began moving it in and out, and she felt the warm, slick insides of the girl pulsing and alive. 

Lizzie opened her mouth, but no sound came out. She remained silent and motionless as the woman slowly finger-fucked her.

At that moment Margaret Pardoe almost envied men. At such times she wished she could have a man's dick so she could plough the juicy hole properly. But, not to worry. Giving a young pussy a good length of finger always got her own juices flowing well enough.

Hot with excitement she extracted the finger and climbed down on her knees to cover the girls genitals with her mouth, sucking the tight slit and tickling the sensitive places with the tip of her tongue. Lizzie quivered as she felt the lively flesh squeeze beyond the lips of her sex and enter her, and with a cry of surprise she clamped her hand to the back of the woman's head. "Wow! It wriggles like a worm in there, Mrs Pardoe."

The schoolteacher drew back after a moment. In her oral invasion she'd encountered little taste, but all the same her imagination had registered the flavour of violets and rose petals. Wild with passion now, she held everything wide open and once again began to wiggle her finger in the squishy pussy-hole.

"Put two fingers in," urged the girl shamelessly, "I can manage two, and it'll feel like when Parson Roper sticks his thing in me."

Margaret was startled - horrified. "The parson! He sticks his 'thing' in you?"

Lizzie nodded. "He sits me on his lap when I go to practise confirmation, and he slides his thingy in under my pants. When he's got it pushed up inside me he lifts me up and down on it. My friend Pauline says he does it with her too. I think he does it with lots of girls. Pauline says he does it with young fella's too, but I can't see that, can you? Not unless he shoves it up their bottoms."

Margaret became almost immobile with petulance. It was infuriating to be told a mans grotesque male muscle had squeezed its way into such a delicate, female body - jerking around and squirting its disgusting stuff into her unsullied womb. Was nothing sacred to that vile priest?

Nevertheless her passion bubbled at the girls urging, and she inserted two digits into the silky sheath of her youthful charm. Lizzie's pussy spasmed, hot and moist, and internal muscles began milking her fingers. "Oh, Mrs Pardoe, you're making me hot. I want you to show me your jellies now."

"Jellies? I don't know what you mean."

The girl rolled sideways out of reach. "It's what Pauline and I call women's tits. Young women have jellies and old ones have floppies. You're not very young Mrs Pardoe, but you're not wearing a bra and I can tell by the way the front of your blouse moves you've got nice jellies."

Margaret didn't wear underwear when she had sex in mind and the young girl was alert enough to notice. "Come on Mrs Pardoe. You're not scared of showing your boobies to me, are you?"

"Of course I'm not scared," huffed Margaret, "It's just that - well, it's not what I expected."

She felt it only right to make a show of reluctance, but having her breasts bared didn't really worry her. In fact she was rather eager for a chance to drag her nipples up and down the teenagers luscious body.

It took only a moment for Lizzie to unbutton her blouse and as the girls hands skimmed it back she thrust her breasts forward. Lizzie smiled her admiration and carefully caressed the jutting mounds, trailing her fingers around the fleshy contours until she was rubbing lightly on the exposed nipples. The school teacher had good breasts with soft, sensuous skin, and her teats were erect and meaty.

After a moment she placed a hand below each breast and cupped them in her palms, then began to squeeze them rhythmically, sliding the flesh between her fingers and teasing the hot, tense nipples with her thumbs and forefingers, and Margaret Pardoe allowed her to do as she wished.

"They're nice ones," Lizzie husked, "I can tell by your nipples you've never had a baby. Shall I suck them like a baby for you?"

The woman glowed with pleasure as the girl's pink tongue at once lapped across her flesh, and she gasped softly as her delicate mouth fastened onto her breasts, engulfing each nipple in turn so neatly, moulding to it, suckling ardently and dragging wetly on the teats.

"Mmmm! You taste just like Miss Merrydew, that school teacher who lodgers with Mrs Titchborne," remarked Lizzie after a while. "She's only a student teacher really, but Pauline and I like her a lot." 

She stroked Margaret's bare inner thigh until the woman shuddered. "Pauline and I both wear our old school outfits when we visit her because that turns her on, and she sits on the couch and lets us stroke her legs - well, she keeps saying we shouldn't do it, but she never stops us. We stroke her knees, then go up and down her thighs, like this - then she allows us to put our hands up her skirt. It makes her hot and flustered, but she lets us do it."

"Hang out your jellies, we tell her. And Miss Merrydew does that too, she does whatever we say. She gets out her bare tits and lets us roll them about and play with them. And she lets us suck her nipples, just like I'm sucking yours."

"Pauline's starting to grow tits already," Lizzie continued, "She says that means she's allowed to do things with blokes now, although she's only done stuff with her uncle and her brother so far - and with the parson of course. But everyone does it with old Roper."

"Do you like what I'm doing? Does it make you feel sexy? Miss Merrydew gets all wet and sticky in her pants when we play with her tits."

Margaret uttered a quivering chuckle that betrayed her repressed excitement. "I - I'm - erm, not wearing panties. But surely you wouldn't wish to touch between my legs."

Lizzie's cute mouth returned a crooked smile. "Why not? I let you have a go between mine."

The woman's stomach did a flip-flop as the girl reached for the zipper and clasp on her skirt, unclipped everything and hauled the garment down her legs. Good god, she thought, she was being stripped. It was inconceivable, unbelievable - but very erotic.

In fact it was exactly as she would have desired things. She'd been vague in her mind about how to contrive it, but had trimmed her pubic hair in hopes of the girl going between her legs. She only had a little hair, neatly trimmed into a 'V' shape and pointing downwards, and now, while Lizzie watched, she leaned back and spread her thighs to display her gash of oozing femininity in all its glory.

The girl was not in the least bit troubled. "Wow! You've got a lovely one. It's all wet like Miss Merrydew's, just like I knew it would be."

She slid her hands along the woman's thighs and gently rubbed her fingers in light circles around the lips of her pussy, then she spread the labia with her thumbs and stared intently at what was revealed. The mature pussy looked all pink and wet, like a generously layered oyster that had opened.

"Ooh, mmm, Lizzie -" Margaret threw back her head and exhaled a noisy breath as the girl's face suddenly went down between her legs. She writhed and moaned as the girl began sucking purposefully on her clitoris while allowing her tongue to make occasional excursions and slip in and out of her dripping pussy.

Working her hips around on the girl's sweet face quickly brought Margaret to the verge of an orgasm, but her youthful lover seemed to know just how to keep her on the edge without letting her go over.

Lizzie gazed up and smiled, her wet face glistening. "Nice huh? You like that, don't you?"

By then she already had two fingers tucked inside Mrs Pardoe's slick, warm pussy and was gently fucking her with them while stroking the tip of her thumb around the tense little bean that nosed out from the fleshy vagina lips.

Casually she introduced a third finger, then a fourth. Mrs Pardoe groaned and shuddered, but seemed mesmerised by what was happening. Emboldened, Lizzie tucked her thumb in too, then pushed forward until cloying flesh embraced her hand like a mitten.




A Sissy Saga Ch. 23



"Unhhh!" Margaret panted, watching as Lizzie's fingers gradually pushed into the warm, quivering place between her legs, sinking into the pliant column of her body, moving forward until it was enfolded deep inside her flesh. Gazing at the place where the hand had gone she bit her lips but was unwilling to call a halt. She felt herself expand around the hand, oozing moisture and opening up to receive it.

"Oohhnaggghh!" She exhaled loudly. With the hand buried in her up to the wrist she became enveloped by a deep throbbing excitement. Her eyelids twitched, her mouth went slack and when her breathing became laboured she realised she was completely at the girl's mercy.

Lizzie's eyes fluttered and her coquettish smile almost became an expression of amusement when she saw the pleasure on the woman's face. She'd expected Mrs Pardoe to make her take the hand away, but instead the wicked school teacher was undulating her body and enjoying herself.

She viewed her slender wrist encircled by the woman's taut, stretched flesh and pumped it back and forth briefly, which created a sticky, sloppy noise. Initially she'd not made a fist because the woman's passage had cramped her hand and it had been half paralysed by the warm, spongy inner anatomy that hugged it. Now, because there was a sudden excess of juice she was able to bunch her fingers and punch forward.

Mrs Pardoe heaved in her seat, too far gone to realise immediately that half the girls slender forearm had tunnelled into her body. Semi-hysterical, she shuddered when the arm, like a huge over enthusiastic animal penis, went too deep, but then as if to contradict herself she grasped Lizzie fiercely by the elbow and heaved her pussy up and down its length. The girl felt the wet pussy-lips contracting around her forearm, squirming and rotating each time she pulled back to twist her hand, re-clench her fist and plunge back in.

With a moan Margaret writhed as swirling waves of arousal surged through her body. The throbbing in her thighs intensified beyond bearing. Each thrill leapt up to dangle in tantalising suspension. She wanted that hand inside her, wanted it to master her and fuck her.

"Oh Christ!" Mrs Pardoe moaned, wincing as the sensations engulfed her, "Unnhh, yes."

At that moment she was in a fuck-trance, undulating, wheezing, gurgling, her body surging and arching as her thighs clenched and drove hard down in response to the intimate intrusion. And then it happened. A sweet burning that brought a sharp cry to her lips in union with a sudden juddering sigh.

"Yeeeooow, oooh!" She jerked and threshed, then in accompaniment to clotted snuffles and snorts, cawing grunts and soft whinnies she climaxed and her spasms weakened. 

Between the two of them silence reigned for a moment, broken only by the sound of Margaret's rapid breathing. Then Lizzie grinned. "Goodness me, Mrs Pardoe, I think you make even more fuss than Miss Merrydew." she observed blithely.

Margaret's mind reeled. "Surely you don't do such things to a school teacher."

"Miss Merrydew isn't a real teacher yet, she's still learning to be one. She says she doesn't like Pauline and I to visit her lodgings at the weekends, but when we get her clothes off she's always wearing her best undies. She also says she doesn't like us to put a hand up her, but Mrs Tichborne's her landlady, and she holds her down and tells her to take it."

From somewhere the girl had acquired a large rubber glove and was squeezing a slender hand into it, easing the open end up around her wrist until it fitted with an elastic snap.

"W-what - what are you doing now?" stammered Margaret in sudden alarm.

"I've only half done you Mrs Pardoe. You'll have to turn over for the next bit."

Margaret's anus clenched in reflex to the realisation that the girl intended to shove a hand up her backside. She couldn't allow that. It had been almost too much to bear in the comparatively elastic-like recesses of her vagina. It would be impossible to tolerate a fist and forearm in the narrowness of her rectum. Gracious! It would be like taking a donkey-cock.

"Now listen Lizzie. If you're thinking of repeating your awful little trick with my bottom you must forget it. I never allow anyone to tamper with me there."

"Oh please Mrs Pardoe, you'll enjoy it, I know you will." Lizzie insisted, "Mrs Tichborne likes it. She asks Pauline and I to do it to her while she lays on top of Miss Merrydew."

Mrs Pardoe paled. What was being proposed was utterly gross and she needed to re-establish her authority and forbid it, but instead she began to feel woozy and her insides began to do flip-flops again.

"This is ridiculous. I - I don't think - I mean, I couldn't possibly..."

Somehow her words didn't form up readily and her mild protests faded away. Horrified she climbed up onto her knees and pushed out her backside, allowing herself to be positioned by the little girl's hands. Oh god, she thought. She was going to let her do it.

A slush of oil fell between her bottom cheeks and Lizzie's rubber clad fingers scratched and burrowed. Margaret generated a subdued harrowing wail as the small, well oiled gloved hand wormed into her back passage and thrust against her sphincter.

"Oh, Lizzie darling, please. Please be careful."

***

In the gymnasium things had begun rather sedately. The dozen or so 'girls' who were required to join the gentlemen there were wearing delightful fluttering summer mini-dresses that didn't hide their loveliness, and they were all perfectly made-up to make their eyes huge, their bodies sweet smelling and their lips kissable. Men met some of them at the door to scoop them up in strong arms as bundles of excited girlish squeals, and with pointed toes kicking slightly, they were carried off inside like blushing new brides.

Wendy walked in, strutting gracefully through the door and smiling at the grey-haired gentleman who'd kissed him in the porch earlier. The gentleman's eyes sparkled in return. "Hello Wendy, I was hoping to see you. You're looking lovely."

The sissy half-turned, wiggled his bottom and generated an extra-sweet smile over his shapely bare shoulder. "You say the nicest things, sir. You take a girl's breath away."

The stock-broker throbbed with joy at the undiluted effeminacy aimed at him. "All the other men are grabbing pretty girls. Would you be my girl?"

Of course he would, he said. Wendy settled on the shy stock-brokers lap and slued his arms about his neck like the softest of ropes, fluttering his eyelashes and wriggled his bottom to seek out the swelling in the man's trousers. He found it at once.

"I'm so glad you picked me." he said in his best little girl voice. "We had such a lovely kissy-cuddle before, but we didn't have a chance to finish properly."

All the pantywaist's in the room were by then perched on a gentleman's knee and receiving kisses, hugs and sexy feels, and Wendy's man was no different. Bolder now, the stock-broker kissed Wendy hard on the mouth as he stroked his long delicate hands artfully up and down the sissy doll's slender shape and felt the soft outlines of the body beneath his clothes. "You're wearing very little under your dress." he said eventually.

"None of us are wearing anything but our tiny panties underneath, sir. Will you help me take my panties off?"

The man swallowed hard. "Take - them - off!"

"Yes sir. All the girls know why they're here. We're all here to be fucked, sir."

Around the room the lovely feminine boys began gasping and sighing and before long every gentleman in the room had a princess's panties off and was playing with her pretty toys. All the goodies there were exquisite - pink and girlish - and as each creampuffs sissy foreskin was gently peeled back and moved up and down a dozen excited peelips parted to show dribbles of seeping goo.

The stimulation of so many other gasping sissies in the same room soon had the girly-things overheating and one by one they squealed and pumped blobs of hot, sticky sissy-juice all over their gentleman's busy, loving hands.

Quite soon the pretty summer dresses had been removed and the men undressed too, and everyone climbed down onto the rubber safety mats strewn about the floor. No seduction was employed there, nor any coaxing or courting. None was needed, for the men were committed to sating their primal urges while the sissies were primed to please.

Trouserless now, the nervous stock-broker at last lost his inhibitions and shoved his stout penis into Wendy's backside. Mindful of the man's inexperience the pansy had helped by sitting astride his thighs and positioning his anus on top of his demanding dick, then holding the oiled cock in his sissy-soft hand he'd whimpered as he lowered himself onto the thick, slick column, knowing it couldn't come out easily.

At the angle he was moving everyone in the room could see his little rosette stretching to its limit. Gravity came to his aid, his own weight helping to force the cockhead in, and he was able to rise up slightly, and sit down again slowly, repeating the action and increasing the tempo until he was sedately bouncing up and down.

Within minutes his gentleman was shunting it in and out of him with such furious passion one would have thought he'd been waiting to do it all his life.

A little way off Trudy's tight orifice was stretched firmly about Lord Chance-Barton's redoubtable man-root and massaging the liquid stuffing out of the nobleman's glands, while also nearby two other cuties were laying together, swooning as they each took a prodigious cock side by side.

There was a slight excess of men, and one or two pretty frillies were handled by two of them at the same time, but the pantyboys all knew that sissies had to be prepared for that. Mrs Pumphrey's sissy-son Sara-Jane was experiencing his first real homosexual-orgy with Councillor Grimshaw and Doctor Breeze. The doctor was sitting on the mat and working the femmy-boy bum up and down on his rampant shaft, while Grimshaw occupied the lady-lads mouth with his giant cock, pulling his pretty lips forward onto his bull-sized testicles.

Variations on such themes repeated themselves around the room tenfold as huge hairy ball sacs swung against soft, small buttocks and thick cocks pumped fiercely into obliging rectums.

The atmosphere in the gymnasium was soon electric with lust. Ropes of hot goo smeared down over cocks and over fingers as beneath the dimmed lights a spermstorm began to blow. The spread of wildly writhing bodies took on the surreal format of a sex-circus in which the guttural grunts of men in rut combined with tiny gasps and thin girlish groans, and before long the room was awash with squishy bottoms and cum filled bellies.

The gymnasium was Hardwick's area of responsibility, but knowing how susceptible he was to diversion when naked young men were available Miriam had discreetly asked Emma to keep a watchful eye on things. She was standing in the vestibule outside the gym door when Parson Roper appeared. Freshly showered and with a bathrobe girding his portly frame he marched straight by and entered the gym, only to reappear within moments sporting a mournful expression.

"This really is too bad Miss Twist. Miss Hancock assured me there would be ample young men to entertain everyone, but when I arrive I find not a single one free. Indeed, some of the gentlemen in there are having to share."

Emma smiled in mock sympathy. "Our sissies can manage several men one after the other and it was envisaged that the guests would spend quickly and make for a rapid turnaround. But they all the men seem to have come fortified by aphrodisiacs, and they're determined to keep going."

"Surely such a thing could have been foreseen," snapped Roper bitterly, "We aren't living in the middle-ages for goodness sake."

The edge was taken off his irritation when Gloria arrived with some of the girly-boys previously engaged in the fashion show.

Being aware of the housekeepers own passion Emma studied them with an element of suspicion. "Only five of them, Gloria? There should be more than that."

The roly-poly housekeeper flashed an ingratiating smile that betrayed an element of guilt. Hardwick would never have noticed her holding back a couple of sissies for a little private diddling, but she'd not reckoned on Emma being there.

Bulbous breasts and gelatinous buttocks rolled beneath her dress. "Oh aye! Fancy that! I must have left a couple in the house. I'll go back an' get 'em right away."

Hardwick appeared through the door of the gym shortly after Gloria had departed, his face glowing from inexplicable exertion and his tracksuit trousers bulging indecently at the front.

"Everything okay in there, Mr Hardwick?" Emma asked.

The gym instructor nodded. "Yes indeed. All the guests are extremely pleased and all the faggots are in sissy-heaven."

As he spoke Larkin loomed behind him, his expression was lecherous, and sweaty tufts of hair sprouted above his ears. "By heck! This is a right lively homo-orgy Miss Hancock's laid on. A bloke can't teach them lady-lads in there anything about whorin'. They're willin' to try anything that takes a mans fancy."

He had an arm around the shoulders of a dreamy-eyed effeminate who's soft cheeks still bore traces of a recent cum-drenching.

Seemingly insatiable the shop owner's eyes lit up as he surveyed the spread of newly arrived talent as if they were succulent choice cuts in the window of a butchers shop.

"Hah! They're all lovely, but some fresh, young tranny-meat wouldn't go amiss."

At once his broad hairy arm reached out, grabbed hold of a flush faced sissy, and yanked him in through the door so swiftly that Roper, who was watching, was astounded.

Emma didn't constrain a smile of sardonic satisfaction. "Better be quick parson. The new supply is disappearing already."

Puffing with sudden panic Roper clasped Jemima and Zoë firmly by an arm. "These two are mine." he proclaimed, and marched them away into the gym to seek a space on one of the mats.

Hardwick looked sheepishly at the two remaining nancy-boys. "Er, um! These appear to be surplus at the moment Miss Twist, so I'll - er - keep 'em occupied until they're needed."

A short time later Gloria reappeared with a second clutch of sissies, but to Emma's surprise she also brought Mrs Amos with her, dragging her along by the hair and pulling her about as if she were a marionette. "I's found this 'ere slag abusin' one o' the students up at the house Miss Twist, an' I knows you said she weren't allowed to do that."

Emma ushered the new arrivals through the gym door, then turned to scowl at the distraught cleaning-woman. By then Gloria had thrown a thick arm about her head and was crushing it in a head-lock.

"Quite right, Gloria." Emma said, "You appear to understand my instructions far better than she does herself. The hag must be taught a sharp lesson, but since I'm not free to do it myself, perhaps you'll oblige me. Confiscate all the money in her purse then give her a good slapping before you throw her out of the gate."

Mrs Amos was beyond struggling, her arms dangled limp. Wide-eyed, face crimson, she moaned and attempted to make some sort of plea, but that was stifled when one of the housekeeper's enormous hands clamped over her mouth.

"O'course, Emma. That's no trouble. I'll take her off an' do it now."

Emma briefly contemplated the fate of Mrs Amos as she was dragged away. Fearful of the beating she was about to get she'd beg and plead and make all kinds of salacious offers in hope of reducing its severity, and since Gloria was pretty much starved of any other sexual outlet that evening some of her offers may be accepted.

She tried not to think to hard about what the two gross looking women could indulge in. She couldn't spare the time to be sick.

She checked her wristwatch. Judd and Greg Totter had been installed in the gym-store for the exclusive use of an affluent American who'd paid a substantial cash fee. The client hadn't shown-up yet, but that wasn't a great surprise. He'd probably got lost. She suspected Americans - those that knew it existed - thought of Yorkshire as something like London, only with fewer hot-dog stands. 

While there was a lull in other proceedings she took the opportunity to go and check that everything was still in place, and she was surprised to find the visitor there and already stripped to his underwear. The spotless white of his vest and shorts contrasting sharply with his coal-black skin. A figure sufficiently imposing as to be intimidating, he had the typical Negroid features of flaring nostrils and broad lips, and he was tall, over six feet, with wide shoulders and a bull neck.

"Mr Biffo. I didn't see you arrive."

The mouth of the guest spread into a wide grin. "Drop the mister babe, an' jus' call me plain Biffo. Some fat lil' old lady showed me the way here, an' I's streetwise enough to manage everything else." He inclined his head towards Judd and Greg who were standing naked against one of the walls. Both of them seemed intimidated. While Judd had his hands on his head, Greg was clutching at his bare bottom in the manner of a freshly spanked little girl, and he looked as if he'd been crying. "Couple o' nice twinks yu laid on fur me. I like the way yu made 'em cute an' hairless."

"Being smooth-bodied is a standard requirement at Fairyfield." Emma told him.

The American grinned. "That naughty lil' Greggy said he don't put out fur no niggers, so I had to upend him and whop his ass like he wus some lil' girl. Now he's had a good cry he wants to please me - he wants to please me any way he can." He stared at Greg. "Ain't that right honey?"

Greg sniffed unhappily. "Yes - yes Mr Biffo, sir."

Biffo grinned. "Yu'see, he's showin' proper respec' now an' callin' me, sir. Both them cuties know the blackman is master here."

Emma observed everything coolly. Greg was always a bit of a cry-baby when he got spanked, but mindful of Biffo's hands being the size of table-tennis bats maybe he had a good reason for tears this time. The blackman leered at her and made a show of the ten inches of thick meat trapped in his pants. "Wanna join in an' make it a foursome babe? I got lots to share around."

Emma shook her head. She was only ninety percent lesbian and sometimes indulged the other ten percent with a good sized cock, but intriguing as Biffo was she had no intention of participating in an orgy that would put her in the role of a supplicant.

"I'm afraid I'm much too busy. I'll leave you to enjoy the boys." she said.

"Shame. I ain't trailer-trash y'know. I've been to college."

"College?"

"Yeah, Wisconsin. I was in the football team, my boyfriend was a cheerleader."

"I dare say it's a lovely place."

"Sure is. Wisconsin produced the first Barbie doll, and Somerset can claim to be the Inner Tube capital of the world and home to the Hamburger Hall of Fame. Pity I had to move to the east coast to make my money."

The moment she'd gone Biffo reached down, grabbed his undervest and pulled it over his head. His pectorals were well defined and magnificent with dark nipples standing out in spectacular fashion, while lower down a set of tight abdominal muscles rippled on his smooth, hard stomach. He was an unscrupulous gangster with pretensions to be refined, but who couldn't shake off the mannerisms of the Harlem streets that had honed his nature.

"Hey, Judd."

Judd blanched. "Yes sir." Ethnic differences didn't bother him as they bothered Greg, but Biffo's massive physique both terrified and intrigued him. He felt strongly attracted to the big Negro's inherent manliness, and unconsciously he glanced down at his wedge-shaped hips, trying to imagine what the his big black cock would look like when extracted from his pants.





A Sissy Saga Ch. 23



Biffo grinned. "You've been starin' at me ever since I arrived. I guess I look tasty huh,?" He put a hand to his crotch and rubbed the log shape in his shorts. "Don't fret, I'm gonna give you white boys everything you need." Moving forward he towered over both of them, bathing them with the heat of his powerful frame. "What do you guys do to pass time in this godforsaken back a'beyond piece o' dirt?"

"We smokes grass when we can get it." admitted Judd.

"Yer don't mainline?"

Judd shook his head.

The chronic junkies Biffo usually plied his trade with did anything he asked for a fix, but he reckoned these two fags probably didn't need to be in a dope-dizzy stupor to give him satisfaction. He studied Judd closely for a moment. "Nice an' slim ain't you? Nice cock for a whitey too. Now check out mine."

Immediately he slid his shorts down his legs, and his enormous rock hard cock reared up with its foreskin drawn back over a dark purple cock-head that looked as big as a peach.

"One o' you sweeties is gonna have t'suck my chocolate meat, so who's it gonna be?"

Both Judd and Greg blinked hard, but Biffo didn't wait for a reply. Reaching out with both hands he grabbed Greg's nipples and squeezed until the youth felt his knees go weak.

"You've sucked dick before, ain't yer Greggy?"

"Yes, yes sir." Greg spluttered.

"Course you have, but I don't reckon you've tasted liquorice juice before, an' I reckon it's time you did."

He hauled down on the youths nipples until in a daze Greg found himself on his knees at the Negro's feet. In desperation he tried to say something, but the moment his mouth opened Biffo slid the end of his thick meat into it, and instead of talking he found himself stuffed with a cock that was steely hard and yet velvety soft at the same time.

"Now come on honey, do the work." Biffo told him, "No spittin' out. Do a good job fer me else I'll wop yer girly ass agin."

With brute determination he grasped the back of Greg's head and rammed forward with his hips, making the teenager give up any thought of resistance.

"Wow, yeah! You look great on your knees with your hot whitey lips stretched around my dick." Biffo told him. He drew back, then slammed in again. "That's it. Suck on it cherry-pie, an' play with them black balls. There's a whole lot o' stuff in there I want you to have, so suck 'em dry."

Glancing at Judd he added. "Don't worry about me finishing too quick. I've popped enough pills to keep my stalk up all night, even if I unload." A sudden thought occurred to him. "Say, I hear this is a cross-dressin' school. Do you two faggots wear skirts?"

Judd shook his head in sudden indignation. "Greg an' me are only here for one night. We're not real queers, we like doing stuff with lasses as well as lads."

"That so?" remarked Biffo as he continued to hump in and out of Greg's mouth. "Becha you'd put on a skirt for me anyway. Becha you'd be a girl fer me if I wanted you like that, wouldn't ya? Bet you'd grow tits for me if I wanted ya to."

Judd's mouth trembled and he felt a tumble in his belly. He hated the idea of being taken for a limp-wristed bum-boy, but he knew he'd do whatever the big man wanted him to do. Standing so close to such a big manly hunk made him feel weird and tingly and horribly submissive, and given the chance to run he knew he'd probably run straight into Biffo's strong arms and cuddle to his gorgeous, solid chest.

Yes, he thought, it wouldn't be difficult to be a girl for someone like Biffo. He was so much more masculine than the fat-bellied grocer who kept him as a pet and rented him out.

"Gonna cum!" Biffo groaned. Greg started to pull away as the cock began throbbing in his mouth, but the big Negro stopped him with his hands and tilted back his head. "Aaah, gee, yes. You were born to suck cock, Greggy-boy," gasped Biffo as hot semen began to spurt. "That's it - take it faggot, swallow it down."

Keeping one hand on top of Greg's head Biffo used the other to milk his cock, leaving just the fat tip of it in the teenager's mouth. Greg tried to swallow quickly, but Biffo's cum was so copious that a sizeable quantity escaped beyond the corners of his mouth and streamed down onto his jawline.

When the big man had finished jerking he drew back and scooped the wayward rivulets from Greg's chin onto his broad knob-end, and then stuffed it back between Greg's lips.

"Waste not, want not! That's what my mammy used to say. Pantywaist dudes like you shouldn't squander a real man's generosity."

Extracting his penis again and displaying it as still completely erect despite his ejaculation, Biffo swung round and grabbed both youths by an arm. "Come on sweet things, let's get down to some proper heavy stuff."

Judd gulped. "Christ Mr Biffo, is you gunna fuck us?"

"Sure I am, I've paid to fuck some boycunt, an' I'm gonna," the Blackman said, "But you're gonna love it. Look at your dick, it's as hard as a rock! I reckon that means you're aching to have my big, black torpedo in your soft, lil' asshole."

He scooped up Greg, and while Judd watched silent and docile, laid him down on his back on top of tall pile of safety mats. Greg's legs were spread open, which made him feel vulnerable, but with his backside exposed and his shoulders scrunched up against the wall, all he could do was watch. His position brought the crack of his anus up to the level of Biffo's groin, and he knew it would be impossible to ward off the black man's huge, randy dick.

But Biffo didn't assault him at all. Not at first. Instead he yanked Judd forward, heaved him up as if his weight meant nothing, and laid him on top of his companion, stacking one on top of the other.

Both teenagers had tremendous stiffy's, but Biffo seemed to have no use for them. He'd laid them face up so he could see their expressions as he did what he wished to do, and as he pushed between two sets of knees Judd's face took on a look of awed apprehension, while Greg laying beneath him, peered up with a half squashed expression that was a matching grimace of turmoil.

Biffo pushed with his pelvis and his torso. Cabled with muscle he made Judd feel the power of him as his giant cock squeezed between his buttocks. Squishy with lubrication, the teenager's anus spread open at once, and he squealed. He could feel the man moving in, going deeper and deeper, and as the tremendous length made its way he felt his insides stretching to make room for the invader. But it was what he wanted. He wanted to be filled, and when Biffo began to withdraw, slowly, deliberately, it was torture.

The Negro paused, his face inches above Judd's as he listened to the youth's moans. Then he began to move his hips again and push back in, this time moving his pelvis in circles, probing into Judd's compliant rectum at different angles.

"Gonna fuck your pussy now, Judd-boy. Gonna fuck it hard." he promised. As he spoke he dragged back until just a few inches remained embedded, then he rammed forward, long-dicking him and causing the muscular ebony shaft to pump vigorously.

Judd responded automatically, his body convulsing, his anus tightening around the thick, hard cock as it sawed back and forth.

"Oh man! That's a beautiful piece o' pussy you're giving me." murmured Biffo. "You really like being fucked by a fat stick o' black, don't you?"

Judd wilted with inexplicable joy. "Y-yes Biffo, I love your prick. I love you shagging me." He squealed as the thing stirred about inside his body, but he felt okay really. It was what he wanted. He wanted the humiliation, and he wanted the thick black cock buried deep in his arse.

Biffo rewarded him with a grin. "I know you do, boy. I knew you were ready fer a length o' nigger-dick the moment I arrived."

He started to extract his cock, almost dragging Judd from the top of Greg as he pulled it out. 

Judd clutched at him desperately. It felt wild, like his anus was being turned inside-out. "Wait Biffo. Don't go away."

"Need it now, huh, pussy-boy? Well don't worry 'cos I'm gonna give you plenty. But right now I need to be fair an' give some to Greggy."

He pitched his penis beneath Judds backside and probed until he found the entrance of the other youth's back passage. Greg Tooter's penis was thrusting up swollen between Judd's thighs as if wishing to compete with the black man lover. Biffo gripped it in his fist, but not to pleasure it, he used it only to help him lever his own massive tool into the passive backside.

As Greg quaked and shrieked the visitor sparked with an idea. "Say, maybe I'll take you two guys back to my shag-pad in the Bronx. I've a whole string o' limp-wristed honkies who hang around me there, and they'll do anything I want if I feed their habit. But I kinda like sluts who co-operate without being brain-dead. You could both have a career in the States. When I'm done with you I'd stake you out as workin'-boys on 42nd Street, or find you a place in a homo' whore-house."



A Sissy Saga Ch. 24



The early morning sun made the windows of the great house sparkle, and the ancient, dappled walls of Fairyfield Grange looked like they'd been daubed with gold.

Abigail swept across the back patio and admired the recent changes. The large windows facing onto the terrace had been taken out and replaced with French doors. It was a facet of his mother's ultimate ambition - chilled punch on the terrace with some pretty maid bringing it out through French doors represented the thing she'd always chased. Status.

For a moment he stood poised on the steps that led down into the garden, his heart beating a little faster as his gaze roved among the dozen sissy pupils in little frocks meandering over the pastoral vista. The sky was soaring, azure, clear and without cloud, and the sun was a perfect orb, its blinding radiance casting a lustrous sheen on the rolling lawns.

He quickly saw who he was looking for at once. Wendy was heading for a sheltered corner where a sundial fought to function amid the shade of rearing rhododendrons and the shadows of an old stone wall matted with ivy. He waited until he'd seated himself on a weathered wooden bench, then went over to join him, sitting next to him and drawing his nylon-clad knees together.

"Hi, I was hoping to see you this morning."

Startled from idle contemplation Wendy leaned back and regarded him dismissively. "Haven't you noticed? I've been around all term and finding me hasn't worried you much before."

He made a move to raise up and leave, but Abigail pressed on his arm. "Please ... don't go." His eyes were like fathomless pools. "I'm lonely," he said softly, "although I don't suppose you'll believe me."

It was all a bit wearing. For a third of his waking hours Wendy managed not to think of Abigail at all. For another third he imagined them both back in time and being reunited in various erotic situations. The final third was given over to maudlin thoughts when hearing about Abigail's exploits, or even worse, discovering him acting one out. 

The space between them seemed to suddenly charge with electricity. There was a sense of something more than just physical between them at that moment, there was an embrace of minds, of shared spirits, just like they'd known in the past.

Wendy sat down again and suffered an urge to close the gap and touch his old friend. His stomach, the tips of his breasts, his fingertips, all tingled with energy. He needed - wanted...

A single blink broke the spell and he quickly looked away, unable to come up with an excuse for staying and unwilling to admit he'd never stopped thinking about his beautiful cousin. Yes, Abigail was still awfully good looking, and in spite of everything he'd be a liar if he said he wasn't flattered by his attention.

"Life can be cruel, don't you think?" Abigail asked, sidling up to him.

"What do you mean?" Wendy asked.

Abigail smiled, his eyes all enveloping. "Fate if you like. You and me."

"There hasn't been any 'you and me' for ages." Wendy snorted. He intended the remark to sound indignant and cutting. It was, but Abigail didn't rise to it, instead he sat smartly and rubbed his hands together. "Poppy's wedding is tomorrow, then school breaks for recess. I won't be here next term, so I wanted to say goodbye without being rushed."

Surprised, Wendy turned his head. "That sounds awfully final. Are you leaving forever?"

"Mother's found me a place with some old fella' that lives in Surrey, not far from London. On the river. A magnificent house. The man - his name doesn't matter - lives alone, and he's quite old and very wealthy. He's going to take me down there at the end of term, and I don't think I'll be coming back here soon." He gave a gentle smile. "Nanette will likely be the next head-girl. It should have been you, but you're never strict enough."

Wendy dismissed the idea with a throwaway flip of his hand. "Nan's the right choice for that kind of thing, he's as cold as ice." His brow creased nonetheless. "This place won't be the same without you."

Abigail gazed out at the garden. "I'll miss all this, and I won't have any use for the things I've learnt here. The man just wants a well-hung sissy as a sort of companion. He's going to keep me as a sort of pet, with nipple rings and a Prince Albert in the end of my cock."

"What's a Prince Albert?"

"It's a metal ring that goes up your pee-hole and out through the top of your knob. Matron did it all last week. That's why mother wouldn't let me take part in Open Day."

"Ouch! That must be horrid. Why does an old wrinkly want you like that?"

"It's his kink I suppose. With a tether on a Prince Albert he can attach me to the furniture or take me for walks like a dog. Some people enjoy doing that sort of thing."

"Being towed around by your cock won't be nice. I wouldn't wish that kind of thing on anyone."

Abigail smiled. "It won't be so bad. Fresh fields and pastures new and all that. Mother reckons the guy's so old he'll croak soon, and if I play my cards right he'll make me a bequest in his will. He may even leave me everything."

At that moment Jemima came dawdling along the path in front of them making a serious business of kicking the heads off stray peonies when he thought no one was looking. He was looking very pretty himself, his short skirt highlighting what extremely good legs he had.

"I want you and I to part as good friends," Abigail told Wendy, "Let me give you a treat." He beckoned Jemima over. "Come here you lezzy. You'll let Wendy shag you, won't you?"

Jemima shrugged. "Sure, but what's it worth?"

"Mercenary bitch. Are you selling your charms these days?"

"A tranny as to think about the future and how he's going to make a living eventually. I'm an excellent shag, and that must be worth something."

"I'm sure we can arrange something." Abigail said.

Jemima seemed impressed, but Wendy wasn't. "Piss off you faggot. Come back on a rainy day."

The sissy shrugged his shoulders, deadheaded another flower with his foot and ambled away.

"I don't want that kind of treat today." Wendy snapped.

Abigail looked at him closely and frowned. "I've neglected you, I know that. When mother made me head-girl I got some pretty awful ideas about how important I was and I was rotten to you. Will you always be angry with me?"

A sheepish expression swept over Wendy's face. His attraction to his cousin had never wavered in spite of everything. He wanted to tell Abigail how lovely he still was, but daren't.

"Not angry, just annoyed that's all. We were so close once, then things changed so quickly." He glanced down. "This is the very bench Jennifer first spanked me on when I arrived here. That day when we - when you and I first ..." He left the sentence unfinished and looked away.

"We did have some fine times together, didn't we?" mused Abigail, " We seemed to do little else but screw last year. And you look just as you did then. Dashing and dishy; pretty and bright-eyed as ever, no fatter, no thinner."

Wendy fidgeted and patches of red appeared on his cheeks as he solemnly reached for his cousin's hand. God, could it really be? After a whole school-term of disinterest could Abigail still have a soft-spot for his erstwhile lover? "I've missed you, you beast. I've missed you terribly."

"I know, and I want us to be friends again before I go away," replied Abigail. "Let's do something together."

The yearning Wendy ha hidden for so long erupted on his face as he told Abigail of the wealthy stock-broker who'd recently bought him. After he'd first ridden the man's thick bone during Open Day he'd returned to see the headmistress, brought him flowers, held doors open for him and treated him like a lady.

"I'm going to be living with him soon," he said, "I'm going to live with a nice man who'll give me as much cock as I can handle, but some things between you and I will never change. Can't you see that right now I want you?"

Abigail squeezed his friends hand and gazed at him quite matter-of-factly. There was no need to pretend. They knew each other too well to play games.

"Is your - are you, y'know - HEALED?" Wendy asked.

Abigail nodded. "Everything's fine now. I'm ready for anything."

Wendy suddenly breathed deeply and pressed against him. "I'm glad. I'm glad because I want to find out what it's like getting poked with a Prince Albert. I want to feel it sliding up an down inside. Take me somewhere and spank me until I cry, then shag me silly."

***

On the day of Poppy's wedding it was as perfect as it could have been. A piercing clear and glorious day in late August; a grey-stone church with a tall spire ringed by chestnut trees; a fat brown stream bubbling haphazardly through silky tufts of meadow grass nearby, and a village taken from a storybook; a handful of honey-coloured houses half hidden behind fields of golden corn and Michaelmas daisies.

Peasmarsh looked an idyllic English village in the sunshine. It was recorded in the Domesday Book and had developed little in a thousand years, consisting of a couple of pubs, a few rows of cottages and the church of St Barnaby, the footings of which had been laid in Norman times.

Poppy looked endearingly gooey-eyed and moony in the trousseau Mrs Boroclough had bought for him. It was an extremely expensive Schiaparelli design straight from Paris, a slim-fitting understated floor-length tube of ivory shot silk, an Empire styled, high-waisted creation in which his tender bosom became effortlessly elegant and properly majestic and pivotal. Tilted back on his head he wore a dainty garland of silk marguerites and in his hands he clutched a small posy of fresh orchids and gypsophilia.

The preparations had been done with great urgency and had taken mere days, the dressing that morning consumed three hours, the journey from Fairyfield an hour, but the wedding ceremony took less than forty minutes. At 2-0-clock in the afternoon, with the congregation settled and as if primed by a starting pistol, a small crocodile of people entered the church and made a slow, dignified progress down the aisle in tempo with the stately rhythm of Mendelssohn's Bridal March playing on the organ.

The interior of the church had been festooned with orange blossom and lilies, and Parson Roper led the way followed by Poppy, moving solemnly, legs shaking, body aglow, bearing a smile of dazzling delight and clinging to the arm of Miriam Hancock who was decked out in a broad brimmed Ascot hat and a smart peacock-blue two piece suit. 

Behind them trailing in two files came the bridesmaids, some of Poppy's sissy friends from the school, who had likewise been treated by Mrs Boroclough. They all wore soft silk-georgette dresses, crushed strawberry pink all over, sleeveless, with elegant little ruffles drifting over the shoulders and low sweetheart necklines. Their ankle-length skirts lined with white petticoats swirled and floated like clouds, and long, white cotton gloves gave them the appearance of Regency princess's.

Waiting before the alter stood Mrs Boroclough, her whippet-thin head adorned with an extraordinary flower-smothered hat the size of a satellite dish, and wearing a cream silk frock with fringes of amber beads at the neck and cuffs. When Poppy joined her he peeped beneath lowered lashes to steal a swift, appreciative glance at the tall, dark figure nearby. Mrs Boroclough's grandson, Alistair. 

Alistair, was acting as best man and wearing a grey morning suit that tactfully broke up the all-female assembly at the point of blessing. His tall commanding presence emanated an aura that was compelling. He was devastatingly handsome, broad-shoulders, chiselled jaw, piercing dark eyes and he emitted an aroma that was rich, woody and intoxicatingly masculine. He was a man who instantly and totally besotted Poppy and one he gazed at with something verging on idolisation.

Things proceeded without a hitch. Mrs Boroclough had no respect for the clergy and never troubled the Almighty for favours. A Marriage By Common License short-circuited the need for the reading of the banns, and everyone ceded to her plutocracy so she trampled on any other rules that got in her way.

"Dearly beloved," said the parson. "We are gathered here today... " he observed everyone dolefully as he went mechanically through the preamble of the ritual. Despite his own deviances he held onto the unremarkable view that humanity was composed of two genders which in the course of time fused to form a whole. Anything outside this uncompromising idea was incomprehensible to him. Marriage was important, which is why it shouldn't be taken lightly, wantonly or inadvisably, and yet there he was, about to bless a woman in wedlock with a young man dressed as a girl.

He had no choice but to please Mrs Boroclough. She had the power not only to bankrupt him but also by dint of her influence with Church authorities to deprive him of his cosy little niche in the countryside. He recoiled at the thought of ending up on the fringe of a grubby industrial town where he'd need to watch his church building every night to prevent his parishioners from rolling up and carrying away the lead flashing from the roof.

At the recognised moment he felt bound to ask the assembly - "Does anyone here know of any legal impediment to the marriage of the two people before me?"

His eyes scanned around. What a joy it would be if someone made an objection. He could stop the proceedings there and then and it wouldn't be his fault.

The congregation became instantly hushed. Quite apart from the residents of Fairyfield there were more than a score of village people sitting in the pews, but they were people who prized Mrs Boroclough's patronage and who wished to continue in her good favour.

The woman gave the parson a cursory glance as she ran her tongue over the top row of her teeth and her eyes turned upwards. Woe betide anyone rash enough to ruin her day. 'Off with their heads' she seemed primed to quote.

The ceremony droned on. Poppy liked churches, especially old ones. He liked the coloured glass windows and the flowers and the candles, and he enjoyed the singing. He didn't know much about religion but it was okay, except that vicar-men always talked too much.

Unconcerned about what was being recited he watched a beetle crawl over the toe-cap of Parson Roper's shoe, and then suddenly the man was speaking to him.

"Do you - em - Poppy Popperwell - take Dorothea Lolita Boroclough as your lawfully wedded - erm - spouse, to live together according to Gods law in the Holy estate of matrimony?"

Poppy nodded politely. "Yes please, sir. Thank you very much, sir."

The woman at his side tutted. "Say, I do, dear. This is very important. The correct response is, I do."

Poppy returned a melting apologetic smile. "Sorry, Mrs Boroclough." Then he looked at the parson. "I do, sir."

"You may - er - kiss the bride." proclaimed Roper a little later. Mrs Boroclough bent forward and pressed her prim lips against Poppy's brow, and it was done. As they left the church to the organ struck up the triumphant strains of the Prince of Denmark's March.

Chance Hall had been offered as a venue for the reception. Lord Nigel welcomed it, since his wife was away visiting an orphanage in the midlands in company with a clutch of paparazzi. The house was old and picturesque, an imposing neo-classical residence concealed from the road by a short, forested drive of ash, hazel and oak and ringed from the world by an old stone wall mottled with moss and fringed by flops of ivy.

Beneath clouds that sailed in great galleons of cumuli across a sailor-boy blue sky a light breeze ruffled a set of drooping willows and their long delicate fronds floated sideways, like a girl's long, fine hair. The gardens looked lush, and outside the countryside rolled, fields of corn and barley with hedgerows in between sprouting joyous green flags and tendrils topped by feathery whirls of late blossom.

Everyone mingled in the garden. Pimms-drinking ladies in Jasper Conran hats and gentlemen with roses on their lapels chattered in time-honoured wedding fashion inside a pink-and-white-striped marquee pitched at the side of a small lake. Music fluted from a state of the art amplifier and an area of wooden decking had been laid on the grass in case people wished to dance. On the lake a pair of swans, startlingly white on carbon-grey water, paddled to and fro.

"A lovely wedding breakfast." remarked Mrs Carter-Plackett.

"Yes, lovely." agreed the repressed, downtrodden little man at her side who was her husband, and who was wearing a rather ancient Monticristi panama that sported a raffish leopard skin hatband and a strong smell of mothballs.

Mrs Boroclough's former companion, Clementine, tutted. "It's a champagne reception, not a breakfast. Breaking-the-fast is from the days when the Church dictated no food should be taken before consuming the Communion bread. Mrs Boroclough doesn't accept dictates from anyone."

"What a gorgeous lady!" the small and elderly Miss Moffet remarked suddenly.

Jennifer Hancock glanced over her shoulder to follow the woman's line of sight, but could only see Gloria standing at the mouth of the tent poking half a sugared doughnut into her mouth with the tip of a finger. "Surely you don't mean her, not Gloria. She's, erm... she's hardly a girl's ideal."

Miss Moffet frowned disapproval. Her sharp features belied her sentimental belief in romance as portrayed in cheap novels. "Rather bone-jarring attractive in my opinion. A single woman like me couldn't help but feel safe with someone like her in the house." Her eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "Now Miss Hancock's school is going into recess I wonder if she would allow the dear lady a holiday. She could stay with me. I'd love to pamper her for a couple of weeks."

Hardwick's troupe of dancers divested themselves of their bridesmaid gowns and stripped down to long cotton gloves and G-strings to perform an impromptu dance routine on the decking. A sense of decorum dictated they retained their pants, but apart from their tap-shoes that was all they wore. The vocal number chosen by Miss Hancock that thrummed out from the amplifiers reflected her upturn in good fortune, since she'd recently gained access to Uncle Albert's endowment.

The sheboys went straight into their routine as a chorus of female voices, jaunty yet mellifluous, boomed out from the nearby speakers:

"We're in the money. We're in the money. We've got a lot of what it takes to get along. We're in the money, that sky is sunny, Old Man Depression you are through, you done us wrong."

The dancers swayed with the melody and went at it full tilt, feet, hands and bodies moving as one, and in between verses they put on a display of spry and rapid synchronised footwork that would have had Fred Astaire applauding. The gym-instructor had honed them into a unit of precision that was immaculate to behold.

Barefoot, slightly built and impeccably proportioned their lightweight figures served to emphasis their spry youthfulness, as did their legs. Their dark and merry eyes and the long bright ringlets that spilled down over their ears together with the flush of excitement on their cheeks, gave an impression that was not unbecoming.

Stimulated with lecherous interest a crowd gathered to observe the engagingly stuffed panties clinging to their hips, all very conscious of the way their tiny white G-strings looked so precarious. Their gaze inevitably paused there, where the last wisps of delicate material still covered pretty sheboy genitals. It required no imagination to define the outline of what lay inside, the pouch of their thongs was no more than a minute snugly-fitting patch of delicate white gauze edged with scalloped lace from which the contents constantly threatened to spill out.




A Sissy Saga Ch. 24



"We never see a headline about bread-lines today. And when we see the landlord, we can look that guy right in the eye. We're in the money, come on, my honey. Let's lend it, spend it, send it rolling along."

Sunlight played on glossy thighs that were smooth and shapely with an enticing butterscotch tan. Each dancer's spine had enough curve to generate immense sauciness to its attached gyrating bare bottom cheeks. They were untouchable in the present situation, but more than a few people groaned in frustration and all the men looked like they'd got a car trailer attachment stuffed down the front of their trousers.

When the music stopped Jennifer swept them away to get dressed. All that is with the exception of Lulabelle, who darted off in search of a toilet, and almost barged headlong into Hyacinth Glossop.

The gentlemen were not the only ones to appreciate the display of pantied penis's. The woman moved round to stand in front of him, regarding him thoughtfully, half-hooded eyes like those of a predatory bird, peering down to mentally devour his cotton covered groin with all its interesting shapes, the boy-cock inside the minuscule smudge of girlish-panties bending the material outwards, and the bulge in the crotch where the plump wrinkly bag of his scrotum was cradled.

The darling perfectly proportioned, she noticed, with large innocent eyes and a rose and ivory complexion. He looked carbolically well scrubbed, and the honey sweet smell of newness about him drew her forward like a wasp to ripe fruit.

"How d'y'do. What's your name?" she asked.

"Lulabelle... Lulu if you like." he answered, looking at her suspiciously. 

Hyacinth was a short and corpulent. She had a wrinkled, fat face, saggy neck like a turkey, and she was almost as big across as she was tall, with a head that seemed to rise directly out of her ample cleavage. Her peroxide blond hair was caught back in a bun so severe that her pencilled eyebrows were arched high, giving her a perpetual look of surprise. That day she wore tortoiseshell glasses and a snot-green dress which was fighting a losing battle with her figure.

"Are you planning to stay long?"

"I'm... I'm not sure... Miss Hancock decides things like that. Where are the loo's, please miss?"

Hyacinth pursed her mouth and looked towards the house. The edifice seemed to smile beneath eaves warped by time, its complexion mellowed by two hundred summers.

"The loo's? Everyone as permission to use the toilets in the 'ouse today. Come with me, I'll show you."

Lulabelle, flushing slightly and shook his head. "There's no need to do that."

The woman was not to be deterred. Her brow knitted, she took one of his hands in hers and drew him forward. "Of course there is. It's best if I show you the way." she said, moving him away from the garden and steering him purposefully towards the house.

He wasn't sure he wanted her to take him, but she was so overbearing he didn't know how to refuse. He trailed indignantly at her side into the rear door and along a neat, carpeted passage. "'Ere we are. There's the toilet." she remarked, indicating a door. "Can you manage, or shall I come in with you? I don't mind 'olding an' aiming things for a cutie like you."

Horrified, Lulabelle raced into the cubicle and slammed the door. He hoped that she would be gone by the time he'd finished, but his hopes crashed when he opened the door again and she immediately grabbed hold of his hand.

"Let's not go outside yet." she said hurriedly, as if trying to pin down a butterfly before it escaped. She smiled and tilted her head to one side. "I watched you dancing - you boys - h'all that to-ing an' fro-ing an' stamping yer feet. You were h'all squiggley and sexy. It was very - um - entertaining."

As if following a predetermined plan she ushered him a little way down the corridor before guiding him through French doors into a small conservatory set out like a walled garden. It was a botanical wonderland full of tiny flowers dashed with colour and abundant with purple clematis. "This is perfect." she declared.

Lulabelle wasn't so sure. "Oh ... er ... couldn't we go somewhere else? Everyone is outside."

The woman seated herself on a wicker chaise-longe, piling a mass of cushions behind her and patting her tight coiffeur complacently. "No, no, m'dear. This is h'ideal. I like it because it's private." She leaned back against the cushions and watched him covertly. A strange ardour darkened her eyes and an indefinable hunger sharpened the angles of her round face. Up to that point the tenor of conversation between them had been breezy silliness, a light-hearted exchange of nonsense. Now things changed.

"Naughty little mademoiselle, that's what you are. Disgraceful. Does yer mother know you prance about practically naked in front of people? Does she approve of you showing-off like you do?"

"I - I think she knows."

She made a wide gesture with her arm and loose, lumpy flesh jiggled like tapioca. "Awful! Some women these days have no sense of decency. You're a bad boy, makin' people feel sexy like you do. If them that looks after you won't sort you out, I'll have to do the job for 'em. You're... um... little outfit suits you perfectly, but I think we need to 'ave it off."

Hyacinth couldn't resist it. She got hold of him and pulled him forward, letting her hands run the length of his spine until they reached the waistband of his skimpy G-string and then she hooked her fingers under it.

She felt Lulabelle tense as she pushed the tiny garment downward over his legs, hearing his gasp as the elastic scraped the tender pink tip of his cock head as his sheboy lovestick sprang free, stiff and drippy. But she didn't stop. She didn't pause until she'd dragged the garment over dimpled knees and working the thongs off over his ankles and feet.

Then Mrs Glossop cleared her throat and breathed heavily. "I know h'all about you an' that queer lot at the school. But you are a lovely thing. A vamp. Narrow little limbs, just like a toy. How old is you?"

Lulu looked at her sheepishly. "I'm nearly nineteen."

"You don't look that old, but I 'spect that's coz you're a frilly pantywaist shemale." She glanced down. "Nice knob though, a good looking pair o' balls too. It all seems odd somehow. Still, live-an-let-live I allus say. The world would be a boring place h'if everyone was the same."

Lulabelle felt her stroke his bottom very slowly, tantalising herself, letting the line of his legs lead her to the site of her fascination. 

Hyacinth felt heat in her knickers. Like an addict in urgent need of a fix she drew him closer. "Down! Get over my lap, yer naughty tranny teaser."

Lulabelle looked startled. "Oh, no. Not my bum, please miss."

"Oh yes." she replied gruffly. "You're not going to throw me off as easy as that, me cherub. It's time you learned a bit of 'umility. A thing like you shouldn't go around teasing respectable ladies like you do. My kids is all grown up and its not often these days I have a chance to tan a pretty arse, so I's gonna spank yours 'til it's cherry red."

She was not about to hurry her pleasure. Breasts swelling inside her bra she settled back, hoisting the front of her cotton skirt up above the welts of her tan stocking before positioning him across her broad lap, drawing him close until his thighs made contact with her knees and then pulling him into the familiar 'bottoms up' position. She felt his penis nudge against her bare thigh and fancied it had extended an extra inch.

Her eyes travelled down his back to observe how his muscles stretched and his spine indented. His waist was so narrow she was sure she could span it with her hands, and his bottom lifted up like an apple yet to acquire a rosy burnish.

"You have a beautiful bum dear, so soft, perfectly shaped for spanking."

With the minimum of fuss she established his position, bottom in the air, legs straight, hands touching the floor. The pose was right, his helplessness right, the surrender of his most intimate parts to a older, wiser person the natural way of things.

SWAP! She smiled and smacked once, a weak flick at best but enough to make Lulabelle catch his breath as it landed. "Oh!" 

With her mouth watering she spanked his thighs, beginning with the back of his knees and working slowly up to the soft flesh beneath the crease of his buttocks.

SNICK, SMACK, SPLAT! "Eeeer, Nnnnrrr, Ooooeuf!"

At last the bottom, thrusting upwards, the cheeks round and soft, the skin the colour of ivory touched as yet by just a blush of sunset.

SWIT! Her palm bounced off the juddering backside and the tendons of Lulabelle's shapely legs tightened as his girlish backside gyrated. "Yyyaaahhhh!" He wallowed and squirmed in showy histrionics, his face twisting as he attempted to clutch at his bottom.

SWAT! "Yeouch, oh, oh, oow!" Hyacinth had managed to control her erratic breathing, but now a crooked smile distorted her mouth. Opening her handbag she took out a pot of skin cream and scooped some out to grease her fingers.

Lulabelle's heart raced and his mind whirled. He closed his eyes, aware only of the sting of his bottom and the new sensations being introduced. A hand touched his thighs, wormed between them and eased them apart, then fingers slid up to claw wide his perfect sissy cheeks.

"Oh, miss..."

When she observed his anus she thought the pulpy rosette to be nicely taut. She kneaded his buttocks, giving attention to the crevasse between and rotating a fingertip around his bum hole until the pucker opened up. Then, placing the tip of her finger against the youthful pucker she gave a little push to establish it beyond the ring of muscle.

He felt the hardness. It snouted like a blind animal as it made its way. Her probing finger skewered boldly and flexed amid the satiny warmth within, producing a parody of the masculine penetration of a girl.

"Uph!" In a fraught movement Lulabelle titled his head back as he grimaced, but the woman ignored him. A little jigging around to open things up, then another shove to get in get in another inch. The lubricate made it easy. Her finger penetrated beyond his sphincter to loosen the ring of his anus. Burying it inside him she turned it left and right as if she were trying a key in a lock. 

The finger dallied for a moment, embedded to the second knuckle and moving about inquisitively in the moist, mushy confines. When she withdrew it she replaced it with two fingers, and Lulu uttered a little moan as they began to fuck his narrow passage. Every centimetre of her fingers entered, and his tiny butternut bottomhole began to slither around them, letting them go deep. Tight young buttocks, bunching and changing shape as she dug between them.

"Oooh!"

"There we are my little lover. You manage h'everything so nicely."

"It - it feels so big."

"No bigger than some of the things that 'ave ploughed you in the past, I'm sure." Inspired, Hyacinth leaned over and applied her weight, moving her fingers with increasing piston-like efficiency, romping them in and out joyfully, fucking him with a frenzied sleazy passion that felt almost out of control. Her fingers were sturdy and delivered swifter, harder strokes.

"Is that okay for you? Does it feel like a man?"

"Gggnnn! It feels - I dunno, I dunno." He twitched inside, and an enormous shiver of tingling pleasure rippled through him.

She heard his high-pitched tranny squeal as the warm soup his cock slopped out. It splashed onto the bare thigh above her stocking tops and dribbled slowly downwards like melting ice cream.

It proved a trigger for herself. Her tortoiseshell glasses slipped down her nose as hot sensations raked through her own body. Gasping out a sharp cry she clamped her legs together as orgasmic bliss swept through her. Her facial expression told its own story. Her normal high colour intensified into deep puce while her entire body seemed to deflate, draining the tension from her neck and shoulders. 

It had been such a long time since she'd enjoyed such uninhibited pleasure, and in answer to the excitement in her loins she withdrew her fingers, dropped Lulu between her thighs, and crammed his face against the warm, slick swamp that had formed in the gusset of her pants.

"Oh, oh, yes. Now make a meal o' that yer dirty little girl." she whinnied while heaving her aching genitals against his mouth.

Outside in the garden the last of the summer butterflies flitted through the dark backdrop of the rhododendrons, and the trees bordering the lake were a blaze of glory; emerald, saffron, gold and deep olive green.

Jennifer, wearing a rose pom-pom chiffon dress with a bow on its wide swathed collar was feeling the model of sartorial elegance which was so different to her usual couldn't care tuppence attitude. The previous day she'd also had her hair styled. She'd gone to Castleford and found a salon with black walls and the kind of music everyone associated with class 'A' drugs, and had emerged with a style designed to frighten old ladies. She looked so much like a rock-chick she'd had to spend the rest of the day subduing the extremes of her spiky new coiffure. That day she looked more gothic than anything, metallic blue lipstick, blood coloured nails and heavy purple eyeshadow. 

Out of sight, a Champagne cork popped and some women giggled. Sunlight was bathing the top of the marquee in molten light and tucked inside the open end of it Poppy was being all lightness and warmth. Not content with just playing the diligent new bride to perfection he stood, still in his trousseau, pouring tea and serving tiny sandwiches to the wedding guests, recommending the ones with eggy filling while quietly throwing away all those stuffed with slices of orange coloured fish which he thought tasted disgusting. It was an occupation he was familiar with. Like a child he was a creature of simple pleasures.

"Beautiful weather. Beautiful ceremony in the church too." she remarked to her mother, "Shame Poppy's mother couldn't come today."

"His mother?" Miriam shrugged her shoulders, "She's still in Holloway and can't get the time off. I spoke to her on the phone though. I expected her to be angry, but she seemed oddly resigned. Maybe she expected this was going to happen one day."

"That number you chose for the dancers to perform earlier..."

"It's an old tune."

Jennifer nodded. "But you ARE in the money now you have the full benefit of Uncle Albert's inheritance. You're rather well off."

Her mother gazed around in alarm at the absence of sissies. All but Poppy's closest friends had been taken back to Fairyfield, but suddenly she couldn't see any of them. "Where are they? The wicked imps have scampered off. I've lost track of all my darlings." she complained, "Get Gloria to help you, Jennifer. Go and find them at once. Go and find them and send them back here."

Jennifer dashed along the outside of the marquee in a temper, but couldn't even find Gloria. All summer term she'd kept tabs on her mother's pantywaist ménage without them giving her any trouble, and now on the very last day when she though she could relax with a glass of champagne the trollops had taken advantage to go off on escapades. She should have known better. She should have tied their feet when she had the chance.

Two of the dancers were easily found. Alistair, Mrs Boroclough's grandson, was sitting in a wicker chair behind the marquee, and Jemima and Candy were kneeling worshipful and gaga between his knees, allowing him to spoon-feed them with ice-cream.

It was no mystery why they were attracted to Alistair, he was very dark and wicked looking in a thoroughly piratical way, with the perfect shape of his head tilted with the arrogance of a Roman god. 

She regarded him with suspicious and thickly-mascared eyes. With the right provocation he could have made James Dean look like a beatific Noddy, and from the satyr-like expression on his face and the enormous bulge in his trousers he was probably contemplating dosing his two adoring admirers with a different kind of cream to the chilled variety.

She snatched them away and told them to go back to her mother, then moved along the garden away from the tent. The concentration of people had remained in the vicinity of the tent, but Amanda, Holly and Trudy had walked off a little way. They were back in their bridesmaid outfits and gossiping and giggling in an all-girls-together kind of way.

Then others began to appear. She spied Lulabelle returning sheepishly from the direction of the house and then saw Bambi meandering along the path by the lake, hand in hand with a village boy. When he saw her looking the village lad guiltily released Bambi's hand and widened the space between them.

It wasn't as bad as her mother had feared, only Sammy was missing. But where could he be?

Impatiently she brushed around the intense green leaves of a beech hedge. Beyond it was a topiary of high privet with pleasant narrow walks in between. Coming to a sort of crossroad's in the greenery she came to where a marble nymph reclined in a mossy arbour where rustling noises behind the bushes suggested a young person was into mischief.

But when she went to investigate she discovered Lizzie, the niece of Mrs Amos, sitting astride the thighs of a supine Lord Nigel who had his trousers round his knees. On the ground beside them lay a pair of girls pants, and Sophie's skirt was flipped up over her buttocks. The girl's pussy, that part that should have been reminiscent of an oyster, fresh, pink and well guarded, was stretched slickly around the girth of a very rampant penis, sliding up and down fiercely, dipping and rising, smothering the vertical prong with the soft envelope of her young muscular flesh.

Sophie gasped each time she crammed down, urging the cock to stretch her delicate flesh and cleave her young vagina. Up and down went the girl's thighs on that male appendage, slick and slippery down to the fat balls, pausing to appreciate being stuffed with man meat before lifting up to the base of the mushroom tip.

The man bucked his hips and he gasped and gurgled when again and again she repeated the process, but the young miss wasn't daunted by his urgent thrusts. Sophie was probably never daunted. The girl maintained an energetic panting noise, ardent and rhythmic.

"Fuck me, mister." her voice cracked. "Dirty old lordship. Shagging a young girl. Stuffing your big prick into her tiny cunt. Yes, that feels nice. But do it harder, you old duffer. Fuck me harder."

Jennifer turned and walked quickly away. She'd been asked to collect in the sissy dancers and had no intention of being drawn into anything else. Her mother had frequently told her it was inadvisable to interfere in other peoples private family affairs. Anyway, Sophie may be misbehaving, but at least today she was misbehaving in an almost normal way.

She exited from the topiary and then slowed. Beneath the shelter of a spreading magnolia there was a wooden gate that led into a grassy paddock. She froze. Beyond the tree and in the paddock stood a small stuccoed gazebo with a domed roof, and between the miniature Grecian-style columns that formed its upper structure she identified the slim-bodied figure of Samantha. What on earth was he doing there so far away from everyone else?

She tramped noiselessly over the grass and circled round to the doorless entrance to find he was not alone. A woman was with him, a woman was kneeling before him as if in prayer. She recognised her as someone she'd seen hovering around St Barnaby's. Pamela somebody. Yes - it was Pamela Upduff.

"Excuse me." she said. "My mother wants Samantha back at the tent."

It was then she noticed that Pamela's actions were worshipful but far from holy. The woman had one hand curled about the pantyboys erect penis and the fingers of her other were tucked beneath his testicles.




A Sissy Saga Ch. 24



Sammy looked shocked and slightly guilty when Jennifer loomed before him, but he remained standing still. Pamela turned her head to gawk up and the sight of a biker-girl dressed in dolly-mixture hues of Juicy Couture velour, robbed her of breath, leaving her quite speechless for a moment. A breeze lightly caressed her hot cheeks. Her mind began racing and she laughed shrilly, unable to hide her embarrassment. "The dear thing - I was trying to help him - I think he's got a wood splinter in his - er - penis."

Jennifer's lips tightened and her stormy hazel eyes locked with hers. She had never met this particular woman before but that didn't stop her dominant nature from rising up, and when she was on top she was habitually insouciant and irreverent.

"A wood splinter?" She moved closer and peered over the woman's shoulder, then smiled wryly. "Looks like it's got half a cricket stump stuffed down it to me."

Devilishly she cupped a hand behind the woman's head and urged her face forward. "But do continue with what you were doing. No one else will ever know, and you do want to taste everything this lovely creature can offer, don't you. You'll only regret it if you don't use the opportunity you now have."

Strangely Pamela felt ashamed, terrified and jubilant all at the same time. She didn't wish to back away and the strange girl was encouraging her, almost giving her permission.

She eased Sammy back against the wall and knelt before him. Giving in to her most licentious appetite she ran her tongue along the upper flesh of his girlish thighs until it could go no higher. With one hand she lifted his scrotum and began to lick his wrinkled sac, inadvertently, or perhaps purposely rubbing her cheek against his jutting penis. 

Opening her lips wide she gently took his testicles in her mouth, moving her tongue from side to side, and on releasing them she traced the tip of her tongue up feel its contours and the soft vein along the length of his penis until it reached the shiny pink head. How could she do such a disgusting thing? And with a teenage girl watching every move!

It didn't seem to matter. The girl was right, she had to use the opportunity. Wickedly she twirled the tip of her tongue around the sissy boys fleshy helmet and poked into the tiny slit before she drew her lips together around it to form a warm, moist airtight seal.

Slowly, very slowly so that she could provide the maximum pleasure, she moved her head up and down, filling her mouth with warm saliva to give lubrication. With each movement she swallowed a little more of him, taking in his rigid flesh until her mouth was full of rampant she-boy cock. It wasn't long before Sammy slumped back and closed his eyes. He croaked, his body stiffened and his muscles tensed, and as he began to pant Pamela eased away.

"Don't stop." Jennifer said, "You've started so you may as well finish. Let me help you." She took hold the sissy penis herself and began to move her fingers up and down the shaft. 

Pamela Upduff quaked slightly. "Oh dear! I've never - ever - not even with my boyfriend..."

Undeterred Jennifer held the stiff penis in one hand while reaching into Pamela's hair. Forcefully she guided the woman's head, abruptly pulling her face onto the purple plum and urging her to get back to work and try harder. "I insist you finish what you've started," she nagged, "And I insist that you swallow the result. Drink all of it. And mind your manners and remember not to talk with your mouth full."

Submitting dumbly to the directives given to her, Pamela started again. She did just as Jennifer insisted, she clamped her lips over Sammy's vibrant, smeary helmet and sucked avidly. She knew what would eventually happen of course - it was what she wanted to happen, it was a thing she sometimes daydreamed about - but would she accept the reality or be revolted by it?

The sissy-vamp make a loud moaning sound of a kind she'd rarely heard before and it made her lips move with increasing frenzy, forward and back, then forward again taking the succulent flesh as deep as it would go. Caught up in the throes of hot excitement she clasped the sissy's bare buttocks with one hand and burrowing a finger into his anus, feeling the hot insides close around it as she pushed it in and out of his tight, hot tunnel. Then she flinched as the young man, enfolded in a paroxysm of pleasure, uttered a shuddering squawk and ejaculated his sissy-boy juice into her mouth.

Her former misgivings were settled immediately when she allowed the squirting penis to empty its entire squidgy hot load and didn't make an attempt to avoid any of it. In fact she greedily gathered the bolus of it on her tongue, and shaking with excitement she consumed every drop the pantywaist could deliver, even licking her lips before drawing away

The afternoon drew to a close; clouds were building up over the church spire of St Barnaby two miles away in the village as a large chauffeur driven limousine elegantly crunched the gravel at the side of the house. It was a prelude to whisking the newly married Mrs Boroclough and her feminine boy-wife away on the first leg of the journey to their honeymoon retreat.

Poppy came out from the house where he'd been given a chance to change into his going-away outfit, which on this occasion was unquestionably demure and debonair. His face was made-up in feminine splendour and everyone admired the bright turquoise two-piece suit he was wearing, a bolero jacket over a frilly white blouse and a skirt cut just above his knees. On his feet were a pair of shoes with heels that looked like they could puncture concrete.

"I'll come and see you when we get back." he promised Miriam with a sad, pouty face. "I'll come and visit just as soon as I get back from Tuscudy."

Jennifer noticed that Clementine and her boyfriend, the woman's raffish looking grandson Alistair were accompanying them on their honeymoon. It was a strange arrangement and one that guaranteed Mrs Boroclough didn't intend to monopolise the blushing bride.

"Poppy will never be anything other than an effeminate sexual slave who may have a few privileges." she remarked to her mother.

Miriam expressed no concern. "Such an arrangement will suit him well enough. He's quite happy being told what to do, and being faithful to one lover as never been his strong point."

Jennifer knew that. She knew he was in the habit of seducing the delivery boys or any other male that came to the back door, and she could always tell from the glow on his face when such a thing had happened. But marriage? Could such a thing work? she pondered. What if it were only a passing fancy with Mrs Boroclough, a holiday romance sort of fling? She said she loved him. But how could she love him? And why?

The answer was fairly easy when she thought more about it: Poppy was a promiscuous prick pleasing featherbrain, but he was also beautiful and gentle and vulnerable in an old fashioned way. It would be easy for anyone to fall in love with him.

"I do hope things go well for him, but I have the terrible feeling that this so-called wedding has been nothing more than an elaborate amusement for a bored society hostess."

Miriam felt just a little uneasy, but she was convinced that being wedded to a woman like Mrs Boroclough would be ideal for Poppy. She offered a superior sort of love - one with a very good bank balance attached, which would replace his previous rather precarious life with a glorious tapestry of comfort, style and opportunity. And what was more, according to Poppy himself, she was a much better lover than most men.

"So do I." she admitted, "But as an insurance against the woman becoming bored and throwing him out I insisted she set up a trust-fund he can access on his twenty-first birthday. He won't be left penniless, and he can always return to me."

As the limousine drew away Poppy's eyes sparkled and he grinned gleefully as he waddled his fingers against the window. Everyone waved and shouted back. "Good luck." "See you soon." "Have a nice time."

"I shall miss the dear creature." declared Miriam wiping away the threat of a tear. "We've been together a long time and he's become a sort of second daughter to me. But I think he'll be happy. I think he's found his feet and his home."

"And Mrs Boroclough as probably found her clitoris." added Jennifer.



A Sissy Saga Ch. 25



Emma Twist didn't attend the champagne reception after Poppy's wedding. After helping take most of the students back to the Grange she left them in the capable hand of Margaret Pardoe and climbed into her little second-hand Fiat. It was her preference that day to make a visit to a certain Lavender Cottage on the periphery of Peasmarsh. 

The windows were open and the breeze played on her face as she drove along, while Classic FM played an aria from Rigoletto on the radio. LA DONNA E MOBILE. Very apt for a lady on the move. The sun was in its heaven and she was in hers, the National Trust's attempt to acquire Fairyfield Grange had collapsed and the future was assured.

Little had she realised that Jennifer would provide such a fine opportunity for gratification when she'd seen her that morning. It was so unexpected, and so appreciated. She had double-booked herself to be in two places on the same day - and would Emma be interested in standing in for her elsewhere?

Such a thoughtful girl. So unselfish!

Emma crunched the little Fiat into top gear and put her foot down. She could just about afford a slightly newer car if she sacrificed a few other things, but it hardly seemed worth the expense when leading a life that didn't allow time for travelling. Anyway, recess was in the offing and she'd already put all her spare cash into arranging a vacation in Mexico.

Mexico was where her fantasies had first begun to take on realism. In the scattered peasant villages around Monterey the food could be surprisingly good if one enjoyed the ethnic, and the lodgings were cheap if five-star service wasn't important. More important, in such places she could always muster a queue of apprehensive young people offering themselves to be spanked in return for a little gift or inexpensive treat.

Some of the mothers too were willing; willing to have their tits slapped, and willing to be spanked, fingered and shafted by a generous lady who paid them more attention than their arrogant, macho-obsessed husbands ever did.

In a mood of elation she motored down the village street. The buildings were all built of rough quarry stone, but they looked mellow and neat in the sunshine and it was easy to spot the shambolic figure of Mrs Amos standing on the corner by Larkin's store. Not being a frequent visitor to Peasmarsh she felt in need of assistance in finding Lavender Cottage, and she'd summoned the tatty woman to act as a guide, and despite the hammering she'd received at the hands of Gloria on Open Day Mrs Amos had been willing to oblige.

Drawing up at the pavement Emma peered out through the car's open window. "Which way do we go?"

"Up top o' the lane behind the shop," Mrs Amos replied, "It's narrow, so it's best if we walk I reckon."

Climbing out from her car Emma locked the door and gave her travel bag over to be carried. "If you're wishing to get back in my good books you're going to have to try hard today, Mrs Amos. You'll need to pay attention to what I say and be faultless in obeying instructions."

The woman dipped her head several times rapidly in her usual weaselling, sycophantic fashion. "Yes, yes. Dunna you worry Miss Emma, I's learned me lesson."

The assurance was greeted with some cynicism. Emma knew too well that the only way to be certain of anything with this particular woman was to keep a firm grip on the scruff of her neck and give her a regular beating.

She gazed at her companion's face as they walked and recoiled at the sight. She didn't think anyone could be uglier than Mrs Amos usually appeared, but having received a pair of black eyes from Gloria so recently her face looked sunken and had taken on an additional ghoulish pallor.

"You're not looking well Mrs Amos. Gloria gave you quite a hard time I think."

The woman nodded. "Horrible it was Miss. She didn't smack me bum like you do, she just thumped me around all over the place, all brutal like."

"I thought you may have been wily enough to seduce her away from some of the rougher treatment."

"It weren't no good tryin'. There was that posh lookin' television-woman laying unconscious on her bed wi' a cucumber stuffed up her cunt. Erm! Beggin' y'parden Miss - that is, it were stickin' out from her lady-parts, Miss."

"What did your husband say about the state of your face?"

"I tol' him I fell in a ditch. He believes everything I say."

They were forced to move to the side of the road as a car squeezed by, and Emma paused to glance around."This lane is quite well made. I could have driven up and saved myself a half-mile walk."

Mrs Amos grinned like an idiot ape. "Um, yes. I's not much good at judgin' things."

Emma sighed. "No you're not. You've just enough active brain cells to be rated as living."

At the top of the lane stood Lavender Cottage, a handsome, classical-looking structure with leaded windows and a tiled roof buckling with age that soared up to display great patches of coloured lichen. Pretty enough to be pictured on the lid of a chocolate-box, thought Emma as she went up to the front door and knocked. Almost at once she was confronted by the buxom Mrs Clagget.

Emma folded her arms across her chest as their eyes met, and she didn't smile. "I'm Miss Twist. Jennifer Hancock telephoned you earlier to let you know to expect me."

Martha Clagget fidgeted but didn't challenge what she said. Instead she pointed a finger at Mrs Amos. "What's she doing here?"

"She's my bag-carrier." explained Emma without looking round. "She can remain in the hall while we do business, or you can put her out in the backyard."

"I don't want her in my garden," puffed Martha pugnaciously, "She looks like a piece of baggage herself, and if the neighbours saw her on my patio they'd think I'd opened a refuge for tramps. You'd both better come in."

Emma gave Mrs Amos a stern look as they entered. "You'll stand inside the front door and not move from there unless I call for you."

Inside the house Emma took everything in at a glance. Mrs Clagget's sitting-room was small, but scrupulously tidy, without any of the bobbins or tat one could expect of a haberdasher's home. In fact it was rather tastefully decorated, with an Aubusson rug on the floor and a six-foot long traditionally loomed tapestry depicting nymphs in a garden hanging from the dominant wall. Standing on a companion table by the door was a butterfly lamp in the style of Comfort Tiffany, while the space beneath the velvet drapes of the window was taken by a chaise longue covered in chinz.

Polly Clagget was seated on the couch. Big brown eyes and petite body, with blond hair pinned up on the back of her head. A beautiful girl, prim and proper but oozing sexuality.

Mrs Clagget stood in the centre of the room and pushed out her considerable bosom. "I'm not sure I agree with what Jennifer as arranged for today, Miss Twist. She never mentioned when we began things with her that she'd send other people if she couldn't come herself. It's very disconcerting. The relationship Polly and I have with her is - er, intimate and personal, not something to share with strangers. And Jennifer never visits Polly and I at the same time. Not usually anyway. On the whole we're not used to that. I only agreed for you to come here because nothing much else happens around here on Sundays."

Emma felt certain that the woman's display of modesty was a charade she felt obliged to put on. She'd have never let her into the house if she'd not been interested with what was on offer, and nor would she be standing there swinging her chest about in such a showy way. It would require some careful linguistic engineering and a few deft moves to get the woman moving from a cold start, but success with Martha Clagget was pretty much guaranteed. Her daughter however was not so easy to read.

"I understand, and of course I'll leave immediately if you insist." Emma said, "I could liven your Sunday up for you, but if I stay I must be sure of some measure of co-operation." She smiled sweetly at the girl. "What do you think Polly?"

The girl quivered. "God! I couldn't possibly do the kinds of things I do with Jennifer with anyone else. That would be too degrading. It would be awful."

"I've no idea what Jennifer does, and I've not asked." Emma told her, which was a black lie. She'd gleaned in graphic detail everything that happened at Lavender Cottage and knew that here was a mother and daughter who were both amenable to lesbian domination.

"Look, I think we should get to know each other a little better before a decision is made. What about kissing? As Jennifer ever kissed you?"

Mrs Clagget shuffled uneasily and glanced at her daughter who looked suitably shocked. "Well, no. Jennifer doesn't kiss. She doesn't show any kind of affection." she replied.

"Considering the fact we've not met before perhaps a little kissing would be a pleasant way to introduce ourselves to each other. What do you say?"

The older woman put her hand to her mouth to stifle a tiny smirk of illicit excitement, then she glanced again at her daughter. "Well, I don't like Polly kissing boys in case they get bad ideas, but I don't mind her kissing girls so much."

Emma sidled elegantly across the carpet and seated herself close up to Polly. Bashfully the girl dipped her gaze, but Emma tucked a finger beneath her chin and raised her face, making her look into her eyes. She reckoned her eyes were her best feature. Men fell in love with eyes, and so did women. It was as if they saw their dreams as well as themselves reflected in them. Unfortunately such people soon discovered that when with her they were gazing into dark pools of Narcissus in which they were doomed to drown.

The schoolteacher offered a twisted smile and put on an air of authority. "I like to be dominant. Would you like me to dominant you?"

Polly gaped. Light-headed with excitement a wild blush bloomed in her cheeks. "Oh god... I - I... What would you make me do?"

"I'm not too sadistic. I know what you can tolerate and the sort of things you enjoy." She put her hands on the girl's waist and pulled her closer. The teenage body shuddered but didn't resist.

"That's it, relax Polly. I know what's good for you, you're in safe hands. I adore girls like you. I love making them surrender their sweet bodies."

Polly's gaze swung down to disengage from the eyes that mesmerised her. "Yes, I know. I can tell. I-I just thought it would be different to this." she murmured softly.

"Different! How?"

"I thought - I thought I'd be taken to another room."

"You mean somewhere were your mother can't watch? Well, that's appropriate sometimes, but on this occasion I want the two of you together. It'll be fun. Wait and see." Spreading her fingers through the girl's hair Emma pulled her head back sharply.

"Ow, oooow!" Polly's hands flapped helplessly as the visitors lips pressed firmly against her soft mouth to relish her fresh, sweet taste. It felt awkward for a moment, staid, almost innocent, but Emma was a good kisser and she found herself quaking with pleasure and wanting to continue. Consumed by excitement she began to kiss back.

As the girls body sagged forward Emma took the opportunity to fondle her breasts; no bra beneath the thin nylon blouse, just supple flesh and tight little nipples that felt like erasers on a pencil. Polly tried to draw away when she felt the hand, but with a measured amount of insistence Emma held her in place and made her moan and writhe with the kiss while her hand rolled her young bubbies around.

At last Emma herself broke the clinch and looked at the girl's mother who had been watching intently. Patting the seat on the alternate side to her daughter, she smiled. "Let's you and I try it now, Martha. Are you as keen as Polly?"

"Oh well... I never..." Mrs Clagget twittered, and she visibly panted as she hurried to settle beside her. "I don't know as I should, but you're very overbearing Miss Twist. Just like Jennifer. There's just no arguing with you ladies from that school."

Emma swivelled round slightly and husked in her ear. "Calm down and take it easy my dear. There's no need to fluster. I'm going to make all the decisions for you this afternoon."

Bolder now, Emma placed a hand on either side of the woman's face and drew it forward, then she swooped right in with her mouth, finding Martha ready to reciprocate at once, sliding her tongue forward before she had a chance to do it herself.

Her arms were instantly embracing the older woman, which made the buttons of her blouse extremely accessible. The garment was soon laid open and Emma's hands went straight up her back to unclasp her bra and allow her voluptuous breasts to shake loose. Mrs Clagget had a pair of breasts that appreciated being handled, and Emma's hands were experienced enough to deliver the most bliss evoking caresses.

"Enjoy the sensation of my touch, dear. Close your eyes and dwell on the blood rushing through you. Enjoy how it makes your nipples throb and your slit hot and moist."

The woman wheezed, and when Emma felt a meaty hand stroking her knee she judged it time to draw away. Too much familiarity and things would become a mere urbane lesbian frolic, and she wanted more than that.

She stood up and placed Polly's hands on her mother's neck. "Have a little go with each other whilst I watch." she suggested.

Martha didn't seem too shocked by the idea, but Polly blushed beguilingly. "Mummy and me - oh - but -"

"It's all right," Martha assured her, "I know it's naughty darling, but Miss Twist is making us do it." She then put a hand behind her daughters head and leaned across to kiss her with an open mouth, and despite her initial hesitation the girl responded in a way that was wholly uncharacteristic for such a superficially prim creature.

Mouths began moving like those of starving waifs invited to supper, and Emma was sure she saw tongues moving. Martha's hands began to skim around Polly's breasts which were small and pert the way many teenage girl's are, but she didn't touch them. Even so, their kissing became intense and it seemed they were beginning to make love to each other.

"Mrs Clagget, do you want to squeeze Polly's breasts? She's such an eager beaver, I'm sure she'll let you. Go ahead, open her blouse and get them out. Find out how soft they feel and how she loves having them pulled about."

Polly's head drooped and she sat biting her lip as her mother exposed her young bosom. Emma offered encouragement. "Yes, you've got the right idea. Tug her nipples, she loves that."

"Now Polly, your turn. Stop kissing for a moment and take off your mum's blouse. There! Now you can play with her lovely big jugs properly. I think you've been wanting to do that for a while, haven't you?"

Satisfaction glowed in Emma as she watched Polly and her mother kissing and playing with each others breasts. All their inhibitions had quickly evaporated and they were wallowing in the delicious thrill of relinquishing control and being commanded by a formidable woman, responding obediently to her every direction no matter how questionable it was. They were so docile that she felt she could easily own them.

"Undress each other girls. Take each others clothes off. I want you both in the altogether now."

At once Mrs Clagget and her daughter began to tug at each others clothes, and while they were doing it Emma slipped off her own dress and stood before them in a white bra and panties. "It's time to do something else, I'm feeling rather left out." she told them.

She posed with her hands on her hips. While she never reckoned herself as material for a magazine centrefold Emma knew she had a good face. She also had all the right shapes in pleasing quantity in all the proper places, and the moment they'd met she'd sensed Mrs Clagget looking her up and down and liking what she saw. Her daughter liked it too.

"Do you think I'm good looking?"

Polly gawked in unrestrained admiration. "Yes Miss Twist. I wish I were as pretty as you."

Emma preened at the compliment, and instantly returned it. "You're already very pretty Polly, my dear. You have the kind of young, shapely figure all men and women lust to make use of. Now, both of you come here."

Hot, salacious expressions blurred their eyes as mother and daughter slid from the couch and moved gingerly towards her. Without clothes it was apparent that their bodies were shaved smooth everywhere, a custom likely pressed on them by Jennifer who had become used to being surrounded by smooth bodies at Fairyfield. It was a thing she entirely approved of. Lack of body hair gave young girl's a childlike quality, and even older people took on an element of nubile, immature charm that was appropriate for those in her sway - for inferiors.

"Put your hands behind your back and await instructions." she told them, just as if she were talking to a pair of sissy-boys from the school. Unclipping her bra she exposed her breasts, cupping her hands beneath and holding them up.

Mrs Clagget and Polly gazed at them avidly, which encouraged her to indicate her right breast. "Martha, I'd like you to kiss this one."

The woman moved quickly, her mouth half engulfing the breasts before settling back to suck the nipple. Emma gave her a light smack on the side of the head. "I said kiss it Mrs Clagget. I'll tell you when to suck."

"And now Polly darling, keep your hands behind you and come and kiss the other. But no, on second thoughts you may suck."

The girl moved hesitantly, skimming her mouth against the proffered nipple before taking the bulging flesh into her mouth.

"Ooooh! That feels nice, Polly."

As the two women feasted on her tits Emma felt herself becoming wetter and wetter between the legs, but she was then distracted. "What are you two sluts doing? Touching yourselves, I see! I told you to keep your hands behind your back, and there you both are with sticky fingers. Most reprehensible! You're very naughty girls and I shall have to punish you."

Now she felt confident. At last she felt they were truly in her grasp. She pushed them away and found her handbag in which she'd earlier stuffed a leather tawse. "Stick out your hand," she demanded of Mrs Clagget as she grasped her wrist, "Hold it out flat."

"W-what -?" The woman looked at her aghast, but obeyed anyway and choked a sob as the leather strap lashed across her fingers. Three smacks on one hand, then Emma grabbed her other hand and applied three more. Mrs Clagget's face contorted and she slumped back and hugged her hands between her knees.

Too shaken to do anything but look horrified Polly trembled under the gaze of the woman with flashing eyes, but she was to find no mercy. Each of her slender hands were subjected to the same harsh treatment and she began to cry.

"I haven't finished yet." Emma said coldly.

The teenager pleaded with her, eyes wet with tears. "I - I... No... I don't need... Please don't punish me anymore..."

"I'll punish you all right. I'll having you begging for mercy. On your knees in front of me. You too Mrs Clagget. Hands on top of your head where I can see them, and look me in the eye! Tell me how naughty you have been."

The two women dropped down and crawled forward to gaze up at her. "I - I've been a naughty girl." Martha Clagget said haltingly.

"You'll address me as MISS whilst you're under my tutelage. Don't forget."

"Sorry, miss... I've been a naughty girl... very naughty."

"What did you do?"

"I - I was touching myself, miss."

Emma turned to the girl. "And you were touching yourself too Polly, weren't you? Where were you touching?"

(Sniff!) "Between... my legs, miss."

"Rubbing your clitty. Masturbating without my permission! Surely a sin worthy of a spanking."

(Sniff, sniff) "Erm, oow... I - I suppose so, miss."

The girl and her mother were ordered to kneel side by side with their bellies on the couch and their bare backsides thrust out. SLAP ... SLAP ... SLAP!




A Sissy Saga Ch. 25



She started to smack them with her strap, slowly and not too severely but with enough sharpness to make each of them whinny and squirm. The result was an electrifying sensation that throbbed in their exposed sex and provided a heady warmth that ensured each clitoris extended fully.

More slaps, and with ever increasing intensity Miss Twist let her two captives know their true place in the order of things. Chattels subordinate to her will. Slave-toys for her amusement.

"There! What a lovely sight. You're both becoming rather pink down there, and very moist too... Let me check with a finger ..Yes, yes. Very wet. I knew you'd appreciate it. I knew lezzy sluts like you would enjoy the attention of a stern lady."

Mrs Clagget and her daughter realised the truth of what she said. Whenever she called them 'naughty' or 'randy' or 'a slut', they felt a thrill, and the more degrading the situation became the more it actually excited them.

SLAP... SLAP... SLAP! "Ooooer, oooow! P-please..." "Aaaaaah!"

Blows continued to bounce from both bottoms, and it was not half so gentle anymore. The flesh was red, hot and sore. Alive, throbbing with pain. Yes it hurt, but the feel of leather swinging down in the play of such masterful hands made it strangely rewarding for the recipients, and it seemed no more than a naughty bottom should be made to endure.

Emma paused and decided it was time to utilise some of the equipment she'd brought in her sports-bag. For a moment she considered tying up the two women whilst she arranged matters, but as a rule she never bound anyone unless she wished to introduce a sense of utter helplessness, and in this case she wanted them to have use of their limbs.

"Hands on heads and stand up. Stand in the corner and face the wall. Separate corners. I don't want you exchanging gossip whilst I'm busy."

When she was satisfied they were panicking to follow her instructions she turned and went to the door, and as she opened it she found Mrs Amos crouching outside, blatantly trying to interpret noises to follow what was happening in the sitting room. On being discovered the woman gave one of her oafish grins and scuttled back to her assigned place at the end of the hall.

Emma followed with a scowl. "Give me my bag, you wretched slattern."

Mrs Amos handed the bag over without thought, her entire attention concentrating on Emma's near naked figure, and especially on her juddering bare breasts and extended teats. Such ogling infuriated Emma, and taking the bag she half-turned, then turned back to deliver a solid swipe with her hand to the side of the woman's head. The blow landed with a resounding clack! And Mrs Amos winced.

"That's for trying to peep though keyholes - and for gawking at me like a lovelorn schoolgirl on heat."

Back in the sitting room she checked that Mrs Clagget and Polly hadn't moved, then peered into her bag to review her equipment - and impressive selection of cuffs, gags and restraints together with a number of long spiky vibrators and fat strap-on cocks.

Calling Mrs Clagget over to knee in front of her she fitted a restraint onto the woman's head. It was a kind of horse bridle with a black leather brow band to encircle her head and a strap that looped over the dome of the skull that could be pulled down to form cheek-pieces each side of her face. When these were pulled beneath the chin, stainless-steel buckles fastened the whole thing securely in place.

An important component was the steel snaffle that could be pulled to the back of the mouth like a horses bit and held in place by yet another strap that went around the back of her head. It wasn't a complete gag, but it held down the tongue nicely and reduced attempted talk to unintelligible garble.

Some people may have thought such elaborate paraphernalia was unnecessary when dealing with already cowed subjects, but Emma had a liking for ritual and to her it represented the high form of capitulation she relished. More than an halter for a slave, it was the livery of a domesticated beast, and those who suffered the ignominy of wearing it knew, without being told, they had forfeited the right to free will.

"Mmmmmf, mmmmmmthf" Mrs Clagget moaned hopelessly as the snaffle was fastened on, and when Polly too was led out from her corner she gasped at the sight of the head harness already fastened onto her mother.

"Oh no. I can't. Please don't put one of those things on me."

Emma's hand cupped the girl's lower jaw. "But you're willing to submit, aren't you?"

"Y-yes, but..." Down she went on her knees anyway, to remain obligingly still while Emma fastened the horse furniture about her head. When the metal snaffle scrapped back across her teeth and stretched the corners of her mouth she gazed up with imploring eyes. "Lub, glub, mmmph!"

Emma stroked her fingers through the girl's hair and pulled her head round. "Lovely. I love the way your pouty mouth moulds to the metal. Now turn around dear. I want you on your hands and knees with your legs well spread."

From her bag she extracted a double-ended plastic phallus that was sheer perversity, being eighteen inches long, jet black and thickly veined, with a wide, bulbous tip on each extremity. "Have you ever seen one like this Mrs Clagget? I expect you've seen lots that are smaller, but this one is colossal, isn't it?"

She squatted on the carpet directly behind Polly's vulnerable, bare rump and clutched the dildo in both hands. "I understand that Polly is still a virgin Mrs Clagget, so I'll leave her intact. I can make do with other things. Spread her bum open for me. Let me see what I'm doing.

Mrs Clagget blinked hard several times and appeared to prevaricate and Emma had to emphasis her instruction with a slap to the back of the woman's head. "Do it!" she demanded.

The haberdasher gave in. Leaning forward she grasped her daughters buttocks and pulled them apart to reveal the rosette of the teenagers anus. "Very pretty." approved the schoolteacher.

Polly's face reddened but she made no effort to avoid anything. Instead she sagged onto her elbows and allowed Emma to make a few short stabs with her instrument. Hardly able to believe it was happening the bizarre touch to her backside made her wiggle, and she shivered as the intruder pushed lightly and then withdrew, only to return with the blunt, bulbous tip pressing with even greater force.

"Aah! Lovely girl. I just adore having you like this. Don't fight it darling, just let it go in. Hold her bum open nice and wide Mrs Clagget. I want to see how her little hole manages."

Polly took a deep breath, and on the next push of the dildo the pliant rim of her dainty anus yielded and stretched around its girth. "Oooowph!" She whimpered as she struggled to accommodate the dramatic size of the thing sliding into her anal tract. She was on her hands and knees in her mother's parlour with her sopping pussy churning out juice, and mummy was helping a total stranger to sodomise her with a grotesque length of plastic.

The thing was big. Big enough to make her eyes water with the effort required to take it, and mummy was holding her bum wide open and watching it go in.

As the rounded tip burrowed forward and disappeared Emma rotated it slightly, and the previous short shunts began to escalate into a forceful pumping action. She pulled it back out then pushed it straight back in, and kept doing it. In and out, harder and faster, while Polly gurgled and moaned mindlessly.

Eventually she paused. "Six inches should be enough for her tight little arse to hold onto." Without warning she then grasped Mrs Clagget by the neck and dragged her forward. "Now you Martha. Kneel behind Polly and turn about. Get on all fours and go bum-to-bum with her. I'm going to introduce you to a rather erotic experience. I know how partial you are to a lusty rogering up your back passage, so I'm going to allow you and Polly to share opposite ends of the same cock."

"Omwph, ganngh!" Martha quaked and groaned as Miss Twist raised the unengaged end of the phallus and shoved several obscenely thick inches into her backside. It was amazing. Utterly disgusting. Yet incredibly gratifying sensations possessed her as the oily, massive dong slid deep and skewered her like a pig on a spit. She couldn't help but snivel softly as her poor anus repeatedly tried to close and clench about its girth, and repeatedly failed. The thing was so gross. It was uncompromising, solid and thick, and she had no control.

Emma pulled back on the woman's hips until she was sure her instrument was well established, then she eased away, her senses sizzling at the depravity she'd created. A mother and daughter linked together by an enormous cock impaling their rectums!

Martha and Polly squirmed and wriggled. Both aware of the shameful predicament they shared, but unable any longer to curb their primary sexual instincts, each of them reached back beneath their bellies to caress their genitals, and as they pleasured themselves with their hands their buttocks slowly wormed back and forth on the giant prong. In the heat of excitement it dawned on them that they were inadvertently fucking each other, but it felt so debauched and lovely neither wanted to stop.

Emma removed her sodden panties and settled down on the carpet to observe. Resting back on her elbows she spread her legs and called out. "Mrs Amos, come here."

Of course the crone was listening outside the door again by that time, and she almost fell through it in her eagerness to enter. Her face screwed up in delight when she was at last allowed to see everything. "Wow! You knows 'ow to get folk to oblige yer an' no mistake, Miss Twist."

"Never mind all that," Emma snapped irritably, "Get down here and stroke my clit'. I don't want you to touch me anywhere else, so don't try to kiss me or stick your fingers in. Just stroke with a fingertip. Understand?"

Mrs Amos nodded enthusiastically as she gazed at the younger woman's thighs, bare and spread open for her attention. "Yes miss. Thank you miss. Thank you for lettin' me wank yer miss. It's a honour, so don't worry. I'll give yer wet little noodle a right good workout."

While the schoolteacher continued to watch the erotic tableau in the centre of the room Mrs Amos ejected a gob of saliva onto a fingertip and immediately went to work rubbing around the small hooded, swollen pip between Emma's legs. By that time Mrs Clagget and Polly had established a steady fuck-rhythm-harmony together and were glancing back at each others faces, gurgling protests of distress but still churning their buttocks onto the object embedded in their backsides.

Mrs Amos glanced over her shoulder at them. "'Ere you idle cows, move them arses faster and put on a proper show fer Miss Twist."

"Shut-up with your noise Mrs Amos." groaned Emma who was in the throes of something like pain. The woman was buzzing her fingertip energetically around her most sensitive point of anatomy with great expertise and she could feel an orgasm blossoming. A deep, unstoppable welling-up of release was causing her to tremble as wave after delicious wave of ecstasy shuddered through her body.

Momentarily oblivious to everything else while her thighs twitched and her mind boiled with rapture, she gyrated her thighs against the hag's fingers. Her body twisted and she let out a subdued wail as she bucked hard against the hand that was serving her.

It took an heady moment or two to recover her senses and by that time Martha Clagget had disengaged from the dildo and was writhing on the floor submerged in her own climax. And although Emma's attention had been diverted for less that half a minute, thirty seconds was long enough for the disreputable Mrs Amos to seek out mischief.

By the time Emma focused again her dishevelled assistant had turned Polly Clagget on her back, extracted the phallus from her rear and was forcing it between her legs - pushing it into the girls vagina.

"Stop, Mrs Amos - Stop..." demanded Emma. "The girl is..."

Too late. Polly squealed despite the steel ring in her mouth as Mrs Amos pounded the cock in and out of her previously unused sex.

Such attention was not altogether unappreciated. The teenagers eyes stared unseeing and her teeth chaffed on her bit. Near hysterical with unexpected bliss she began undulating her crotch rapidly around the length of plastic that was deflowering her. Loving being fucked, and spiralling into the kind of exquisite orgasm she'd never known before.

***

The following day the school broke for the recess. It was a dazzling jewel-blue day and from midmorning onward a number of smart cars began to draw up at the main entrance, and one by one pupils joined their parents or guardians to be taken off for the holidays.

Zoë was one of a small number who would board-on for a while, so he took no interest in the coming and goings at the front of the house, and since the day was free-time for him, he decided to spend it in the gardens at the back.

Because it was recess he'd been given leave to wear other clothes than those of a schoolgirl and he gloried in decking himself out as for the beach; slippers with block heels, tiny black bikini pants and a sleeveless yellow top which he'd tucked up high on his chest in an effeminate way to show off his sylph-like shape and smooth tummy.

Left to his own devises he was soon daydreaming as he meandered down the flagged path that cut through the rose garden with its sundial centrepiece, his thoughts dwelling on an imagined tropical island where he was a princess being courted by a gorgeous sun-tanned lover.

He'd never entirely discarded pretty dreams of fairies and pixies and enchanted castles but long ago he'd introduced into them erotic themes, and he reckoned this was one of his best fantasies. His lover would be hunky and able to scoop a squealing sissy under one arm and carry him off into the long grass. For a while he would try to resist the naughty man having his wicked way, just like a good girl should, but in the end he would give in, and the big man would hold him down and fuck him for hours and hours.

A broken delphinium halted him as he paused to tie it back to its stake.

"Hi."

The piping voice of Lizzie Braithwaite suddenly shocked him out from his warm thoughts. "What are you doing here? Outsiders aren't allowed into this school."

"It's end of term, and I asked Mrs Pardoe if I could visit. She said Miss Hancock wouldn't mind as long as I keep out of the way. That's a nice outfit you're wearing. You are a pretty girl and you look ever so sweet. Are you going to sun-bathe?"

"Might do. I might do something else. I'm allowed to do what I want today."

"I'm allowed to do what I want too, and I want to have some fun. Would you play a game with me? Come into the gym-store and play a game."

Knowing girls could be sly and conniving made Zoë a little uneasy, but he hadn't really got any firm plans and her invitation intrigued him in an odd kind of way.

Lizzie took a firm hold of his hand and made up his mind for him, and it was only when they entered the store that his suspicions became justified. She shut the door behind him and he found himself confronted by two other girls. Pauline Totter was there and so was Lizzie's cousin Monica Braithwaite. Even more disconcerting, he found two of Fairyfield sissy's already there and in attitudes that hardly appropriate for innocent games.

In one corner facing the wall stood Lulabelle, motionless and naked except for his knickers which were looped around his knees. His bottom glowed pink so he'd obviously been spanked recently. Near to the door Trudy Jones was strapped to the wall, hands raised above his head and wrists tied to the coat hooks above his head. He too was naked - except for a bow of pink ribbon tied around his balls.

It was a clear example of how defenceless and suggestible sissy's were without ladies to guard them. Deprived of every visage of male aggression they were prey for coaxing, cajoling people, and susceptible to the outright bullying of depraved girls.

"Wow! Lizzie is clever. She's got another one." grinned Monica. "He's a pretty one with a nice shape in his pants too. Make him take off his knickers Lizzie."

"Strap him on the hands." suggested Pauline spitefully.

"Don't be so impatient," Lizzie told them, "I found him, so I decides what we do with him."

Poppy began to feel alarmed as the girls drew up in front of him. "I don't want to play your games, and I'm not staying here to be tortured."

Lizzie grabbed hold of him firmly. "Oh, but don't go. We're only having fun and we'll even let you do what you want to do. Watch this."

She clicked her fingers and immediately Lulabelle turned from his place in the corner. Lizzie beckoned him forward. "Here! Come here and kneel in front of me."

Silently the well-smacked Lulabelle stumbled across the room with as much speed as his drooping panties would allow. As he sank to the floor Lizzie seemed oblivious to his swollen penis which was prominently on show. "Tell me what you want to do most of all, girly-freak."

The sissy hesitated, then gazed up. "Please Lizzie. Please may I suck your knickers?"

The girl shook her head. "No, I've no time for that at the moment, but you can suck Pauline's knickers. She'd really like to try it."

The opportunity for Lulabelle to practise the fetish he'd developed at home with his sisters and female cousins had never been great at Fairyfield, but he'd not forgotten about it. The sight of Pauline sitting on a hamper and raising the front of her skirt drew him in her direction as if by magic. Pauline opened her legs wide and his mouth immediately homed in on the nap of the pants stretched taut and pristine over her inviting crotch. He knew precisely where to clamp his lips. His open mouth fastened onto the girls underwear and he sucked diligently.

"You see," Lizzie said with a grin, "Lulabelle is allowed to practise his favourite game, and you can too if you wish. What's your best game? Would you like to kiss Trudy?"

A mischievous Monica pushed between them. "You can suck him off if you want. We'd like to see you do that."

"Yes, I bet you're good at sucking cock." seconded Lizzie.

Zoë shook his head angrily. Normally he wouldn't have turned a hair at doing something with Trudy, but he drew the line at doing it to amuse a bunch of girls.

"If that doesn't suit you we can start with something else. " decided Monica. "You've got super legs, so show us how nice you look in stockings and high-heels."

"I'm out of here," Zoë replied with a scowl, "I'm not staying to be used as a dress-up doll."

As he turned to walk away Lizzie gripped his arm, then took hold of his hand and levered back his middle finger.

"Yeow!" He could have yanked his hand away, but he didn't, he could have bashed her, but he didn't, and when Monica pitched in and pulled his hair he could have punched her, but he didn't. Too much of a sissy to strike out and too thoroughly conditioned to respect females he could only stand there yowling and allow them to hurt him.

"Stop being cruel." was all he could say, which only caused Pauline to chuckle cynically.

"Ha! You're just a wimpy, useless prick like the others. You enjoy being made to do naughty things."

From the far end of the store Pauline was holding the back of Lulabelle's head and pulling his face between her legs. "This creature is sexy. He's trying to push his tongue through my pants." she murmuring dreamily

The other girl's paused in their subduing of Zoë to observe Lulabelle munching avidly at the gusset of their girlfriends underwear. "Make him play with his willy while he's doing it." Monica advised.

"He's doing that already." Pauline bleated, " He's strumming his prick like a banjo, and - oh, oow - my cunny feels strange and my panties are soaking, and now he's poking his tongue at my bum-hole."




A Sissy Saga Ch. 25



Showing no concern Monica turned back to Zoë. "Now then, be a sweet girl and do as you're told."

Just before midday Mrs Blanquette arrived to collect her son Simon, now called Amanda. Looking beyond the garden out onto the dale so balmy in the sunshine and with the grassy hillsides garlanded with cowslips and buttercups, it was difficult to believe that it was the same place she'd brought him to as a young man just a few months earlier. The sky was a cerulean, almost Mediterranean blue of high summer, and the fells were rich gold tipped with lilac hues.

They met in the entrance hall and embraced. She smelled of Chanell and made mother-hen noises, giving out hugs and kisses in an ostentatious show of maternal affection. "What a long time it's been," she said, "And, oh, how I've missed my baby. So rosy-cheeked and healthy now. Hardly the same snippet I brought here."

"That's not all, I'm growing tits too," her sissy declared rather proudly, "They're only small at the moment, but matron says they'll get bigger if I keep taking the medicine, and I'll probably need a larger bra next term."

The mother smiled and held her son at arms length for inspection and her first impressions were confirmed. He was every man's wet-dream. A world-class pussyboy. The kind of sissy people mortgaged their houses to own.

Hovering nearby Miss Hancock was quick to enjoin with some courteous conversation. "Amanda as settled in extremely well and as made lots of new friends."

"That's such a relief," Mrs Blanquette replied, "You'll know just how much we mothers fret about our children's welfare, and this was the first time my little treasure as left my side."

A young pretty blond thing wearing immaculately applied make-up and the full regalia of a housemaid bobbed a curtsy and offered up a tray bearing a glass of lemonade.

"Charming! Er - one of your girls, Miss Hancock?"

The headmistress nodded. "This is Wendy. Quite fully trained and ready to be placed as a live-in consort to a wealthy City stock-broker within the next few days. The dear man is quite head-over-heels in love with her."

"I'm impressed. Impressed with everything. Your establishment is clearly meeting with success."

"I try not to be complacent, but yes, I've met with a good deal of satisfaction lately. I've already delivered my first trained girly-boy to a gentleman in Surrey - a retired High-Court judge would you believe? And one of my other prospects as been successfully matched with a local lady of good standing. I've also placed a charming creature with two elderly matrons in Cheltenham."

"Cheltenham?"

"Yes, it's a very pleasant little town full of retired professional people. They play golf and bridge most of the time, but they're constantly seeking other diversions, which all bodes well for the future."

"Greg and Judd too." added Mrs Pardoe, moving up to her elbow.

"Yes, we've also taken on a commission to arrange for two village lads to go to America. But I'd have to count that as something separate to our normal business."

Amanda wriggled. "We'll have to wait a few minutes mummy, my bags haven't come down yet."

"Have you packed your housemaid outfit?"

"Erm, no. I didn't think I'd need it at home."

"Go and pack it and bring it with you, darling. I'll want you to practise your domestic skills during the holidays. I'll wait for you in the garden."

Mrs Blanquette calculated that the gardens behind the house would offer a chance for tranquil contemplation, and indeed the only noises to pierce sublimity there were those of birds squabbling high on the roof of the house.

The sun was in her eyes when she glanced up, but even so she could easily make out the flutter of feathers amid the twisted shapes and grimacing stone creatures half-suspended from the overhanging eaves. Gargoyles, she thought, but then saw what they really were and was shocked, amused and surprised in equal measure.

Perhaps mythical beings - fairies - had always been associated with Fairyfield Grange, but that didn't explain why intimate portions of their anatomy should serve as decoration for the roof. Was one expected to appreciate yawning vaginas, thrusting breasts and delicate carved creatures being impaled on rampant stone erections? Only Indian gods went in for such antics, but the roof line of the Grange made even the Kama Sutra seem demure.

Having become stirred by the architecture she found herself looking at the arch over the gatehouse and she stopped dead, for there she noted, considerably battered by weathering but nonetheless discernible, the carvings of two figures. Perhaps it was a quirk of the imagination, but the scene portrayed appeared to be that of a youth struggling with a mythical beast - a sexually aroused satyr. Or was it? Inexplicably the satyr seemed to have breasts.

Bemused and baffled she settled onto a garden seat. It was a glorious day and the sun was hot. Bumblebees were navigating between clumps of purple marjoram in a nearby rockery, and a little grey-brown dunnock was splashing in a birdbath on the edge of the terrace.

Two women came into sight, tracing their way along the narrow gravel path in front of her. The one leading the way with confident strides she recognised as Miss Hancock's daughter, the second, heavily burdened with a bundle of brooms and a vacuum-cleaner she'd never seen before.

It would have been a scene of unmemorable domestic routine were it not for certain things she was quick to notice, for while the girl was dressed in an unremarkable but smart blouse and skirt and flat shoes her belt was adorned by what appeared to be a Scottish tawse. The other woman, trailing behind and struggling with the household paraphernalia was more strikingly attired. Her shoes had high stiletto heels which appeared incongruous with her skimpy two-piece bikini.

The teenager gave her a polite 'Good afternoon' as she passed by, then turned to chastise the woman following. "Do get a move on Diana or it'll be midnight before you've done cleaning the classrooms."

Diana Chance-Barton tottered and stumbled and the hose of the vacuum tumbled to the ground, whereupon she whimpered pathetically. "There's such a lot to carry Jennifer. I - I can't manage it all."

With a loud tut of irritation the girl backtracked, picked up the vacuum-hose and looped it around the woman's neck. "There! If you had any brains you could have done that yourself before you started out, couldn't you?"

The woman's head drooped. "Yes Jennifer. Sorry Jennifer."

"Right! Now get a move on like I told you, or you'll find yourself getting a smack before you even start work." She smiled again at Mrs Blanquette. "Decent staff are so hard to find these days, aren't they?"

The visitor laughed. She was worldly-wise and not unused to witnessing such scenes of unashamed dominance as the one being played out before her. "That one's got too much to say for herself my dear. I'd gag her if I were you."

"Good idea," said the girl, "I may do that."

As the shapely, near-naked buttocks of the female submissive wobbled off along the path Mrs Blanquette couldn't help but contemplate how ideal they were for receiving a smart walloping, and she didn't doubt that before long they would get one. Maybe they'd even come in for a good caning. Yes, she decided, they really deserved a caning.

Hardly had the two women disappeared from view when a spry looking young individual, naked except for a black garter-belt, nylons and spike-heeled shoes shot out from the door of a low roofed building nearby, and raced across the lawn. Or would have raced had the high heeled sling-backs been more suitable for running on grass. As it was an intended turn of speed quickly became a precarious hobble. Then the figure became obscured by a neatly trimmed hedge of topiary.

Immediately, out from the same door burst a small group of teenaged girls in summer frocks, yelling and laughing and running swiftly in pursuit. When they too disappeared behind the hedges there was silence for a while, then a jubilant girlish cheer.

Mrs Blanquette sat back, puzzled. What a strange place this was!

After another minute the group appeared again; three girls with a rather taller, practically naked form walking in the midst of them. Straining with curiosity Mrs Blanquette beckoned them over to where she sat.

It wasn't until then she realised that the central figure was an attractive young male wearing female hosiery, but no pants, and the leading girl was holding a length of skipping rope, one end of which had been fastened in a noose about the top of his scrotum. 

"What on earth are you doing?"

The girl with the rope replied without showing the least qualm of guilt. "We're having fun dressing up Zoë, but as soon as we'd got stockings on him he started to get a stiffy and ran off."

With an equal amount of candidness one of the other girls grinned broadly. "We caught him though, and we worked the stiffy-stuff out of his willy behind the bushes."

Mrs Blanquette scrutinised their captive. A precious looking young man, very sweet and appealing and a perfect model for the girls underwear he was wearing. Apart from the rope looped about his testicles he was otherwise unrestrained, and since he seemed older and bigger than his captors she wondered why he endured their undignifying torments.

"What do you think of all this, Zoë?" she asked him.

He simply shrugged and gazed morosely at the ground. For whatever reason he was utterly in the thrall of the female gang around him.

"He doesn't mind what we do to him, he knows we're only playing a game." said another of the girls.

"He's a sissy, so he does as he's told." added the one with the rope. With a spiteful tug she made her prisoner grimace as she hauled on him. "Come along cock-pleaser. Let's leave the nice lady to enjoy the garden."

A strange place indeed, but one she wouldn't mind being associated with in the future, mused Mrs Blanquette when they'd gone. Perhaps she could gain some sort of kudos with the headmistress if she made a donation to the school funds.

A few minutes later Amanda arrived to tell her his luggage was loaded. He'd taken the opportunity to change his clothes and he looked dazzling in a little black dress that highlighted the perfection of his black stockinged legs. His shoes had four inch stiletto heels were something she'd never indulged him with before, yet he walked in them with perfect feminine elegance. The shoes also caused him to push his tasty bottom back and his chest forward, and yes, he did have the makings of a small bosom. He was a beautiful, sexy, effeminate.

She glanced at her sissy son as he settled beside her in the car. "Your school seems to be a unique one. Do you enjoy being here?"

Amanda nodded. "I want to be a prefect next term mummy. Then I'll be allowed to smack all the first-termers and make them cry."

She started the car then slammed it clumsily into gear, and the tyres screeched as she swung away from the main building and headed down the drive. Amanda gazed up at her with a thoughtful expression. "I say Mummy, I'm a girl now so shall I be allowed to have boyfriends when I'm at home?"

His mother pursed her lips. "Well, you'll be occupied most of the time being a servant-girl, but I'll let you go to the park on Sunday afternoons. There's always lots of boys there who'd like to kiss you and squeeze your little titties, but I expect when you see your new bedroom you'll want to spend the time at home. I've had it redecorated in apricot, and now it as a huge double bed and great big mirrors on the walls and ceiling. It'll be ideal if mummy's friends want to give you a cuddle. Mr Hornbill your old tutor as already booked an evening with you, and you've always liked him, haven't you?"

Young Amanda blushed slightly. He remembered how his tutor at home had a habit of patting his bottom and nuzzling his ear with his mouth. He was sure he'd always wanted to take him to bed. "He'll probably be very naughty with me, mummy."

The woman smiled graciously. "As long as you're an industrious housemaid you'll be allowed a little naughty behaviour quite regularly. It will be your reward for being a good girl. When we get along the road a little way we'll find a nice quiet spot and pull up for a while. I want to take off your bra and examine your new titties, maybe have a little play with them."

"Mummy, that will probably make me feel all hot and sexy."

"Yes, I expect it will, and I'll likely have to give you some relief. That's all part of a caring mother's duty."

As they passed through the front gates of the school dark thunder clouds began forming up on the horizon in promise of a final end to the long, dry season. They also marked the end of the summer term at Fairyfield Grange.