Showtime

by Jason Argo

 

Part 2

 

The following morning whilst the students were at their first practise, Jennifer went out to buy a packet of tea she could hoard in her room - a precaution against having to endure the kind of pallid, insipid brew that Madame Dupont seemed to prefer. At such an early hour she hoped to get in between the early panic shoppers in dire need and the immovable browsers with time they couldn't fill and purses they never opened.

By then she had realised that some time would be needed for her to become accustomed to the way things were done at 19 Nob Street. At her mother's school in Yorkshire strict attention was always paid to modesty, but in Madame Dupont's house the students little skirts were in a constant careless flow of movement that offered unseemly displays of knicker-gussets and pretty, panty-clad bottoms. She knew it would never be any different there. Even she knew that such indecorum was integral with show-business.

Intriguingly, Madame didn't expect any of her students to wear a gaff or anything else to disguise their true gender, the whole point with her seemed to be to exhibit them for what they really were - boys dressed as girls.

She admired Madame's skill in finding and assembling such a clutch of loveliness - boys who wore skirts and scanty underwear and who used girlish mannerisms so effectively. The notion of promoting a troupe of all-boy dancers was certainly novel and was bound to stir up a lot of interest.

Not having not the least idea of how to conduct herself yet she had been pondering what she could impart to Madame's pantywaist disciples when they became her responsibility, then in a flash of inspiration it had come to her. There was no need to dwell on geography, quadratic equations or the evolution of life on earth. Whilst most of the time she paid little attention to make-up and fancy clothes herself, she was a past master at dressing up boys in promotion of femininity. When they were duly powdered and painted she actually took pleasure in instructing them in how to promenade with a swish and a sway, so it seemed sensible that such things should form her main theme.

She enjoyed the walk along Nob Street in the grey rain-threatening morning. Even at an early hour it was a street full of strange and interesting people all bustling for their own purpose, and a complete contrast to the serene calm of the Yorkshire dales.

Her only knowledge of London's geography came from playing Monopoly, and although she'd not encountered any of the places mentioned in the board game yet it was clear that it wasn't at all like it was in the Mary Poppins story. It was a cosmopolitan place and rather more exotic than she expected.

The shop on the corner of the street was small and crowded and smelt wonderfully of tobacco and chocolate. Patchouli drifted on waves from the voluble stout woman in a bursting blouse standing at the counter and talking in fast Italian to the man behind it, while from across the street came the aroma from an Algerian coffee-shop and sauces rich with herbs cooking in a neighbouring restaurant. Jennifer lifted her nose to it and took a deep breath of excitement.

This part of London may be a little worn, but it was going to be quite an adventure.

A newspaper delivery boy was in the corner depositing his satchel on having finished his round, and has he turned about their eyes met for a moment.

Fantastically, unbelievably, it was the same boy she'd encountered on the train on the journey down, and pleasingly he'd not lost the potential for submissiveness in his behaviour that she'd encouraged previously. He seemed mesmerised when he saw her, like a rabbit paralysed by the stare of a weasel, and it was a while before their eyes broke contact. By then he was blushing vividly, and she could tell he admired and respected her without her even speaking.

A woman swung in front of her, smiling.

"Hi, I'm Miranda Delahaye. You're new around here, aren't you? You're that girl just moved into number nineteen."

Courteously she returned the smile. "Yes, I'm Jennifer Hancock. Were you watching the house when I arrived?"

"Of course not," the woman said, "But I often glance at nineteen when I pass. It was once the home of Sir Greville Dander you know, and was quite a smart place in its day. Tottenham isn't a bad area, but the houses in Nob Street suffer these days from being owned by unscrupulous landlords who collect vast rents without spending anything on the upkeep of their property."

"That sounds about right. Nineteen isn't smart at all."

"No, I expect it's a bit of a nightmare inside, but it appears to suit Madame Dupont well enough."

"Do you know her?"

"No, no, but I'd like to meet her. She runs a rather radical dancing school I believe."

Jennifer's eyes narrowed. "Are you a detective, Miranda?"

The other woman's eyes glimmered. "Gosh no, I work for the local rag. Daddy owns the Tottenham Tattler and I work for him. But journalists can be a bit like detectives in some respects I suppose, they investigate, and I'm always on the lookout for items of local interest. But I promise I'm quite benign really."

A journalist, Jennifer pondered. From what she knew of such people they were all dishonest, devious and without conscience, and since they were the very qualities that could take a woman to the top in a male dominated world she didn't disapprove, she just had to be on her guard.

Miranda Delahaye was a smart lady. Early twenties. Lovely. Tall, almost too slender with dark, near black hair pinned neatly back, and large well-fringed brown eyes. She was nearly a beauty, only her over-wide mouth prevented her from being fashion-plate material.

Jennifer couldn't help but wonder if she did lezzy stuff.

At seventeen Jennifer saw no point in being shy. Unseen blooming got a girl nowhere and she had long been partial to hands-on girly scenes. Not just lipstick kissing and titty feels in the back of a taxi after a night on the tiles, but real bedtime capers. When at boarding-school she'd lezzied around with all the most luscious girls there and even some of the schoolmistresses, and she couldn't help wondering if Miranda shagged with girls. She was well educated lady so she would certainly know how to put the lingo into cunnilingus.

"If you want to interview Madame Dupont why not knock at the door?" she said.

Miranda flapped a hand. "I've tried that, but a man-ape in a butlers outfit always slams the door in my face, and the silly lady herself won't even speak to me on the phone. I got to thinking the next best thing - probably the better thing - is to talk with someone who lives with her and is easier to reach."

Jennifer smiled again and shook her head. "If you mean me, I can't tell you anything. I've only just arrived and I don't know anything about the place yet."

"Well, perhaps after a few days we could meet again. I'll give you my card. Must dash now. I'm doing a killer piece on St Mungo's school dinners. It'll hardly make the broadsheets but the Tattler thrives on trivia."

When Miranda had gone Jennifer tucked the business-card in her purse and looked about for the boy she'd been observing previously, but he'd gone too.

 

 

Later, when it was morning proper and a decorous time to meet the day, Lionel followed Timmy along the upstairs landing while downstairs his mother and Timothy's Aunt Fiona talked with Madame.

Timmy and himself were the last of Madame Dupont's resident dancers to arrive. Lionel was slightly younger and more inexperienced than his companion and feeling in need of some support he'd been following him for half an hour all around the house, but Timmy insisted in pretending he wasn't there.

Earlier, when everyone else had popped out of the sitting room for a moment Lionel had even sneaked a sip of rhubarb wine when Timmy did, but he'd coughed it up all down the front of his pretty pink frock.

Lionel noticed enviously that Timothy had red fingernails, as red as the slinky dress he was wearing. He was a little siren in his little red Lycra thing, especially with the rhinestone earrings.

Disconsolate, he smoothed his hands over his own pink taffeta, hating the ruched bodice and frills, hating the horrible satin sash and the awful Mary Jane's his mother always insisted he wore.

He wasn't allowed to choose anything himself and had given up trying. 'Mother knows best' was a regular maxim in his family, and if it wasn't his mother saying it, it was granny, and they both smacked his bottom if he complained too much. Everyone knew best accept himself.

He despaired of his dad. His dad didn't seem to know what boys his age should wear anyway.

Oh dear! If only just three of his relations died his father would be rich and he'd be rich too, and then no one would dare tell him what to do.

Where the newel-posts ended on the short landing of the second floor, two thick horizontal rails served as balustrades. Half hidden by the balustrades Timmy stood very still and peeped over to get a view of the two women standing in the vestibule below. Lionel's mother and his own Aunt Fiona, talking together before departing and leaving them in the care of Madame for the summer.

Below, Madame went back into the sitting room and on the landing Lionel moved up and stood at Timothy's side, following his gaze down to where the two women now had their arms around each other.

"Your aunty looks pretty today." he said.

Timmy nodded glumly. "Yes, but she doesn't know she's pretty. I don't think she ever looks in a mirror. She never as the time. She's always too busy doing other things."

Suddenly he drew in a deep breath.

"Oh, my goodness. Your mother is kissing my Aunt Fiona - on the mouth!"

"You mean your aunt is kissing my mum." Lionel retorted.

"Aunty doesn't kiss other ladies. Not on the mouth." Timmy insisted.

Lionel leaned forward to get a better view. "Well, it looks like that's what she's doing, and it looks like she's enjoying doing it."

"How would you know? Have you ever been kissed?"

"No - well yes. In party games. That counts doesn't it?"

"Hmp!" Timothy frowned, his own experience was somewhat greater. "So you don't know."

The two women below drew apart, went out the door and slammed it behind them.

Lionel looked longingly at his companion. Girls were such soppy creatures and he bet Timmy only let boys kiss him at parties, just like he did.

He wanted to know more about kissing, and about where Timmy got his clothes and about Timmy's life that was so much like his own, only different.

They were both going to stay at Madame Dupont's academy for the summer where boys wore girl's clothes, and he wanted Timothy to be his friend.

"I love your dress." he said.

Timmy accepted the compliment without questioning it. An hour before he'd been walking along the street with his arm looped through his Aunt Fiona's, swinging his hips and swishing his little skirt - much to the delight of gentlemen passers-by who were greatly taken with his show of fine legs. Now, still entrapped in throes of vanity he turned his head and looked Lionel up and down. Looked at the silly, fluffy outfit he was wearing.

"Where did you get THAT? You look like a bridesmaid."

"I know." Lionel replied gloomily.

He was silent for a moment, then he said, "How do you keep your hair like that? Keep it so neat I mean?"

"Easy," Timothy's eyes lit up and he suddenly grinned. "Want me to show you?"

Lionel's eyes sparkled. "Really? You'll show me? Really?"

Timmy nodded. "Sure I will.." he said, throwing a friendly arm around his shoulders. "You can't go through life looking like Pollyanna, so I'll teach you all my tricks. It's important to dress right. After all, you don't want to be taken for a slut, do you?

"Um, no."

"Do you know what a slut is?"

"Of course."

What is it then?"

"It's a strip of wood."

"That's a slat, you prune."

"What's a slut then?"

"A woman without decency. A prostitute, a tart, a slattern."

"Ha, a slattern! There you are. I knew a slat would be included somewhere."

Timmy grimaced. "God a'mighty! The way your mind works you're certain to be thought of as a genius one day."

"You're beautiful though," he said, "Pretty face, pretty body - and your bottom is so sort-of - erm - girlish. Everyone here will love you."

Lionel offered no objection as the other boys hands slowly moved up to caress his sides, but he gasped a little bit as Timmy held him close, one hand low on his back, his beautiful face hovering.

Timmy was so close he was making him tremble.

"Oww!" he whimpered. It was just like - oh, golly ... So sexy.

Inside his ruched little dress his chest felt tight and his nipples were straining and sensitive inside the bodice. His willy was reacting too, swelling and becoming stiff inside the little perfumed panties his mother had put on him that morning.

"Hah! There you both are."

The voice came from behind Lionel and he whirled and stared, then took a deep and rather shaky breath. A woman was standing there - not really a woman, a teenage girl actually, rather pretty, but she was scowling like women do and she looked very formidable.

"I'm Jennifer, the chaperon here. You're the last of Madame's sissies to arrive. Didn't she tell you to report to me?"

"Erm, yes. But we didn't know where to find you."

"This house isn't Epping forest." Jennifer snapped, "There are only so many places I could be. Stand up straight and tell me your names?"

The two young girly things pressed their knees together and gazed up at her in awe.

"I'm Timothy," said Tim.

"And I'm Lionel," said Lionel.

 

Jennifer rolled her eyes with impatience. "No, no you silly tarts. Only your stage-names apply whilst you're here. What are your stage-names?"

"Trixie." Timmy replied dismally.

"Lullabelle." answered Lionel. "I didn't choose it. Mummy chose it. She chooses everything for me."

Jennifer glared. "You'd better buck up your ideas, my girls. As your chaperon I'm responsible for your behaviour, and idleness and time-wasting are on my list of 'must-not-do's'. I punish little creampuffs who annoy me and I can be quite harsh sometimes, so I hope neither of you are cry-babies."

Lullabelle looked suitably sorrow for himself because he knew he was a bit of a cry-baby.

"Come with me," Jennifer told them huffily, "I'll show you to your room."

The accommodation they were taken to was Spartan in the extreme. Just a bare little room with four narrow beds and a yawning alcove in one wall with a coat rail on which to hang clothes.

"You'll share here with Pompom and Dolly. The others in Madam's troupe are in the room next door." Jennifer told them. After a severe glance at what they were wearing she added. "Get changed at once. Everyone here wears the same picture frocks. You won't need your own clothes again until you return home."

When she'd gone Lionel, now Lullabelle, glanced around. The only touch of real colour in the room came from the duvet covers on the beds. He rather liked the one with primrose motifs, but Trixie went over and claimed it straight away and he had to settle for one decorated with ducks.

There was the sound of a low wolf-whistle from the doorway and the new arrivals turned to see where two figures had just entered. Pompom was wearing an open silk robe and a blue G-string. Behind him stood Dolly similarly attired, tawny brown eyes full of fun.

"Hi, you two. Welcome to the Ritz Hotel." Pompom said.

"It's no hotel, it's more like a prison." commented Trixie acidly.

"It is a prison." Pompom replied, "We're never allowed out on our own, and boyfriends can't visit. No men either."

"Hardly ever see men." put in Dolly.

"There's Samson, our horrid doorman of course."

Dolly nodded. "Yes, make sure your bum's bolted shut when he's around.

"We're on a break between practise." explained Pompom, "The next rehearsal is in an hour and Madame will expect you two there. Better get ready, you've got some catching up to do."

"I'm not sure about the girl who brought us here." Lullabelle said, "She seems very stern, and she's a real girl, isn't she?

"Jennifer? Yes, she's a real one." Pompom confirmed, "Quite fierce isn't she? And she smacks us, you know. Not just on the back of the legs like Madame does sometimes. Jennifer takes our pants down and spanks us on the bottom. She had us all blubbing yesterday."

"I never cry." said Trixie airily.

"Never?" asked Pompom.

"Never what?"

"Cry."

Trixie thought for a moment. "Well, obviously not completely never."

"I bet you'll cry when Jennifer smacks you. I bet you'll shed buckets of tears and beg for someone to give you a cuddle."

Trixie tossed his head defiantly. Keen to show off his swish red dress before he had to store it away he fell in with Dolly who he already knew, and together they went to visit the room next door, leaving Pompom and Lullabelle to assess each other.

An expression of despair flickered on Lullabelle's cherubic face. "Oh dear, wherever I go people spank me. It's so jolly unfair."

He noticed Pompom staring at his frock and felt annoyed. "I know it's got lots of freaky frills. I hate the way I look. I hate being mummy's little girl that she shows off at parties. I'm not the perfect little lady and I don't want to be. I want to be like Timmy - er, I mean, like Trixie. He said he would show me how to be different."

The other boy assumed a lofty air. "Phooey, I know Trixie better than you do. He's only interested in games that involve cheating and big prizes."

Standing back he admired the newcomers innocent yet sensual face with its neatly brushed dark hair and dark liquid eyes. His gaze took in his smooth arms and legs while his mind tried to imagine how his young body would look beneath his little-girl dress.

"If you want some help I'll give you some. Shall I be lady's maid and help you take your frock off?"

Flattered by such close attention Lullabelle demurely dipped his eyelashes. "You could unfasten the buttons at the back for me. They're always so awkward."

Obligingly Pompom did that, standing behind him, carefully unlooping each small button and peeling back the garment as he progressed, noting the lack of any under vest and admiring the structure of youthful bare skin on bone. Eventually and without asking he scooped the dress from Lullabelle's narrow shoulders and drew it down his body to reveal a slim, underdeveloped chest and flat belly. Beneath the dress Madame's latest recruit was wearing just white cotton knickers, the boy part of him made obvious by the way it was shaped in the front.

Busily he stooped down to help Lulabelle step out from the puddle of fabric at his feet, aware of how the other boy was watching him and how his breathing had quickened.

Lullabelle giggled nervously, feeling like a piece of fruit that had just been peeled.

"Don't you like people seeing you getting undressed?" asked Pompom, "Are you scared of them seeing your popsy?"

"I'm not shy."

"Good job, because Madame expects everyone to show their willies at practise sometimes. Anyway, lots of people like looking at boys willies. Men do, and plenty of women do too, especially if boys are pretty and wearing a dress and pretending to be girls."

He did a slow twirl and slipped the robe he was wearing from his own shoulders, letting it slide to the floor before turning back to shake his bare chest from side to side. It was a chest on which two small bumps had blossomed.

"It's my second season with Madame and I'm growing tits this time. My mother says boys my age sometimes develop tiny breasts, but they disappear after a while. Nice while they last though, eh? Do you like them?"

"Yes, they're sweet."

"You'll probably grow them too if you enjoy being a girl. Do you like being a girl?"

"Well, sort of."

"I know what you mean. Some people think boys in frocks are weirdo's, but not all of them do. Men pamper little girls and protect them, especially if they're pretty and look a bit helpless like you do. They love to hold them and cuddle them, and perhaps have a few secret feels."

"Yes, I know."

"You do! Gosh, you're not so innocent after all."

Lullabelle blushed. "Nothing special. My Uncle Leo likes to squeeze me and rub against me."

"Everyone here will love doing that." Pompom said. "Their cocks will stand up like gateposts when they rub against you."

Unashamed, he pushed forward his chest. "Would you like to touch my tits? I don't let everyone touch them, only people I like, and I think I like you."

Tentatively Lullabelle put the flat of his hands over the other boys pectoral plums.

"No, not like that." admonished Pompom, "When you're feeling tits you should hold them between your fingers and thumb and pull them a little bit. You can roll them about whilst you're doing it, but only gently." Fluttering his eyes he moved closer and added. "It feels extra-specially nice if someone's kissing you at the same time. Would you like to do kisses with me while you play with my tits?"

Lullabelle squirmed slightly, but he didn't express any shock or horror.

"I'm a boy and you're a boy. Why would you want to kiss another boy?"

"We're both boys, I know, but while we're with Madame we'll always be dressed as girls. That means we can be what we like. Anyway, you're gorgeous. Good enough to eat. Better looking than a real girl."

He was stroking Lullabelle's back again, drawing him closer, rubbing the front of his little pants against his own pants and toying with the seat of his knickers.

Pompom smiled sweetly. "You've got gorgeous looks, but you know that, don't you?"

Lullabelle gazed at him with moist-eyed innocence. "Have I. Have I really?"

"Of course you have. It's the reason Madame picked you for her show."

"She says she picks people because they understand rhythm and have a natural flair for dance."

"That as well, but she chooses mainly for good looks. Her show relies on eye-catching good looks, and you know you have them. You've noticed how men watch you - study you - admire you, haven't you? It excites you. It makes you want to flirt with them sometimes. We all do it. It's what we're best at."

Lullabelle knew Pompom was more experienced than himself and he felt excited.

"Okay. How do I go about flirting?"

"Well, use your eyes for one thing. You have good eyes."

"Use them for what?"

"To look at other peoples eyes, and flutter the lashes a little bit to show how long they are."

Lullabelle experimented at fluttering his eyelashes, then giggled. "I look stupid."

"Not to someone else. Not to men. Men love that sort of thing."

"Are you sure?"

"Positive. And another thing. Men like to know you like them, so tell them they're strong or brave or clever, even if it's not true. They fall for it every time. And tell them you love them even if it's a lie. If you're clever and pretend to be weak and helpless they give you presents and do all kinds of favours."

He slid round and stood in front, his eyes peering down to devour his new friends cotton covered groin with its interesting shapes, the boy-cock inside the girls-pants bending the material outwards, and the little bulge in the crotch where his scrotum was cradled.

 

With his head cocked sympathetically to one side he gazed at the new she-boy. He had the most fathomless, brown-black eyes of anyone he'd ever met, each pupil merging invisibly into the darkness of its iris, always moist, as if on the brink of tears.

"You've let boys kiss you before, haven't you?" he said, "I bet loads of boys kiss you at school."

"Maybe they have. But I've known most of them for ages and I've only known you for a few minutes."

"What's that got to do with anything?"

Young Lullabelle felt his heart flutter. His eyelids drooped lazily and he tilted his head sideways as Pompom's mouth moved towards his own.

"No one will see us, will they?"

"Course not, and it doesn't matter if they do. But I won't tell if you don't want me to." Pompom pressed forward. "Let me," he whispered enticingly.

Before Lullabelle knew it their noses bumped and Pompom's lips were grazing his own.

His new friend was going to kiss him and he wasn't sure how to kiss properly with someone who seemed so experienced. But then his eyes closed all by themselves and his mouth was linked to Pompom's and he was dying of love ... or whatever else he was feeling.

Even so, even though Lullabelle wanted it to happen he didn't attempt to embrace the other boy, not at first. His hands dangled limp by his sides, because he was the lamb being led, wasn't he? - not to slaughter but to an exciting girly-wonderland - and if he felt guilty about it afterwards he knew he'd feel better if he could blame someone else.

"You taste brand new." breathed Pompom as he drew back. "Let's do it again, and open your mouth this time."

Oh, goodness! The next kiss changed everything. It was a real kiss. He felt his lips part, felt the moistness of his new friend, and then he felt Pompom's hand sneaking right around the back of his neck and pulling him forward. An electric shock jolted through his veins and points of light flickered behind his closed eyelids. His knees became as wobbly as a kittens and his willpower melted into a warm-hot glow between his legs. Inevitably he threw up his arms and looped them about Pompom's neck.

Pompom's lips were soft yet sort of firm too, gliding against his own, tasting and teasing, pressing onto his mouth while his tongue explored inside, exploring him gently until he couldn't help but respond, and ...ooh, it was all making his little pricky twitch and swell inside his panties.

And, oh, golly, he knew he should never do it on a first date - kiss with an open mouth. But he wanted Pompom to do it, just WANTED him to. He wanted more. More kissing, more feeling, more of everything.

Silence. Lullabelle half turned his head and their eyes locked and he thought he could drown in Pompom's dark, limpid eyes the way heroines did in romantic novels. Pompom did seem to have romance on his mind and just knowing that made his stomach do a little flip-flop and made his cock rise up in his pants.

"Um, um..." He didn't dare reply, couldn't admit he wanted his friends hot mouth on his breasts - wanted to feel his naughty hands dip into his pants.

But suddenly anyway, they were groping each other, stroking the front of each others pants and feeling the strength of arousal that distorted their clothes.

Glorying in delicious honeyed sensations that made his little nipples stand up Lullabelle lifted up his chest to offer it to a descending mouth, writhing with pleasure as Pompom fiercely sucked one breast and then the other.

He shuddered as Pompom rubbed his own gauzy nylon panties against him to feel the heated bulge of his little package, but courageously he himself then used the same technique to drag his stiffness over the contours of his friends tumescent erection, feathering it up and down the outline of the rigid pole.

Pompom gazed at him with big bright eyes and a saucy grin. "Naughty girly. Randy girl. You're ready for some real fun now, I can tell. Your girly-cock is stiff."

Exchanging some small exclamations they clutched each others hips and rolled their skimpy pants intimately together. Toe to toe, belly to belly, nipple to nipple, with tiny teats distended and nubbing one against the other they became enveloped in each others arms they kissed again while stroking each others bottoms, all the time pressing forward to enable their pelvis's to jive hard together.

They gasped into each others mouths. Panting and squirming, their panty bulges scrapped up and down, and then ... then they did it. With a strangled "Ooooh, OOOH!" of girlish rapture they spurted sticky gook in their pants and slithered the gooey wetness together, sliding the twitching shapes against each other like slippery mating eels.

"Mmmm. Gorgeous!" exclaimed Pompom heatedly. "I did a super, snotty wet cum, and you did one too, didn't you?"

Lullabelle raised his chin and lazily opened his eyes. "Mummy would be angry if I did that at home."

"Mothers are a pain, but you can do it all the time here. There are plenty of places to go if you want to be alone - or if you want to do things with a special friend. Don't make any arrangement with anyone else yet though. I want to get in bed with you tonight."

"Oh, I don't think ..."

"Everyone does it here. There isn't anyone else to do things with, so we have fun with each other."

"Okay, " agreed the new arrival, "but you must agree to do something special for me."

The other boy-girl grinned saucily. "What have you in mind?"

The newest sissy pulled a concerned face. "Call me Lulu, not Lullabelle."

 

 

Madame Dupont was of a sanguine temperament; she liked most people and was surprised when they didn't like her. This readiness to please had been damaged many times in the past, but it remained intact as far as horses, dogs and sissy-boys were concerned.

When Jennifer looked at her she felt something blurred and undefined about the woman. She had an unremarkable yet amiable face, but when she tried to assess it she found it gave no clue to her age or what she was thinking.

During a moment of tranquility that evening in the sitting room Madame sank back in her chair, sipped her tea and gave her new assistant a beady, reproachful glance over the fluted edge of the cup.

"I fear I may be nurturing a viper in my bosom, bringing you here. You smack my darlings, Jennifer. I know I smack the backs of their legs sometimes myself if they're being inattentive, because I demand dedication and insist on total single-minded commitment to the gruelling discipline of dance. But you take down their pants and spank their bottoms."

Jennifer looked back at her with a wide-eyed expression of slight shock. She was no doormat, and although she had some respect for the woman who was hosting her she refused to grovel. She was crazy, she thought. She had given her responsibilities and she must know how demanding they were.

"Yes, or course I do." she replied, "I'm only trying to do my best for them. They need to be handled with a firm hand and mild spanking is a method used by my mother and one that guarantees good conduct. To forbid it would undermine my position here.

"I don't have your own advantage of having them in a close class of instruction, Madame Dupont. They are running free when you give them to me and they lack any kind of self-discipline. When they're bored they give vent to silly male boisterousness that as to be constantly quelled."

Calmly she poured herself a second cup of tea, more as a diversion than as a need. She decided it best not to mention the fact that she secretly became sexually aroused from games of domination and control.

"Trust me Madame, I may make them squeak and cry a little, but I love them even when I'm doing it. It also gives them a sense of security knowing someone cares about them enough to inflict discipline, and pantywaists in frocks constantly feel naughty and know there's a need to be punished. The bonus is that boys who submit to being bare-bottom spanked over a girls knee become truly humbled and are invariably far easier to train afterwards."

Against such a tirade of determination Madame Dupont had no defence, she could merely acquiesce. "Yes, I suppose they will be, but you mustn't be unduly excessive Jennifer, and you must never do it without good reason."

The teenager smiled warm reassurance. "There is always a good reason, and my hand, or the back of a hair brush on occasions, that's all I use. I follow my mother's teaching in matters of correction and she would be horrified if I were heavy-handed or brutal."

Madame breathed a tiny sigh of surrender and clasped her hands in her lap. Her tea now sat untouched at her side. "You'd think they'd learn your routine quickly. You'd think they'd know how to avoid chastisement."

Jennifer grinned. "That's sissies for you, Madame - dizzyheads - always needing reminders."

They sipped their tea silently for a moment, Madame her favoured dishwater brew and Jennifer an infusion from a separate pot which she'd taken pains to instruct Marianne in how to make. Then the older woman opened up a completely different subject.

"I told Horace yesterday that I'd got a whole list of bookings for the Follies, when I really don't have any at all. None of the people who seemed so eager to see the show weeks ago have yet given me dates."

Jennifer frowned in sympathy. "They probably don't know you're ready, so you must remind them. Get on the phone - send out some circulars. You're in business Madame Dupont, so you must promote what you have." After a moments thought she added, "May I suggest that while your waiting you could engender a little income by having the dancers pose for some - erm - tasteful photographs. My mother enjoys quite a nice sideline from selling such things to certain publications and I'm sure she'd provide some useful contacts."

Madame nodded. "Photograph's, em, yes, I hadn't thought of that. I suppose it's wasteful not to utilise my little darlings fine looks in every way possible. I'll get something organised."

At last the newcomer felt established enough to put forward some thoughts that had occurred to her as soon as she'd arrived.

"I must speak to you about the house, Madame Dupont. It's ill maintained of course, but most offensively of all it's grubby. My hands fairly stick to the grime on the banisters whenever I come down the stairs."

The older woman looked slightly offended without taking umbrage. "But I have no money for cleaning staff, Jennifer. You must be aware that my finances are quite restricted."

The girls confidence blossomed visibly in her smile. "The problem can be inexpensively solved. We have mops and brushes and plenty of soap and scouring powder, so your residents must be persuaded to clean the house themselves. After all, they have no television and nothing else much to fill their evenings, which can only lead them into mischief. I propose, with your permission, to devise a cleaning programme for them. Within a week everyone will be able to appreciate the difference."

Madame nodded, grateful to have someone undertake responsibly for such mundane aspects of life. "Yes, yes of course. You're at liberty to use the young people as you wish in the evenings."

 

 

Horace Pratt always felt comfortable when seated in the stockroom of his pawn-brokering emporium in Hook Lane, not withstanding that he was surrounded by vast amounts of miscellanies clutter. In his stockroom he was a king in his counting-house. Everything around him he could interpret as gold, for he loaned desperate people only a fraction of the value of any item they brought to him, and he could sell it on at a good profit if the owners failed to redeem it in the time agreed. His empire was one of furniture and fob-watches, diamond rings and dumbbells, heirlooms and vital tools-of-trade.

He himself traded in the misery of the masses, making a business of dealing in other peoples failures and inadequacies. He took in bankrupt stock when it suited him too, and also used his premises as a convenient front for deals he struck with minor criminal riffraff who wanted a little quick cash in exchange for items they'd purloined.

Horace was held in cynical esteem by the people in Hook Lane. When night-time revellers had destroyed one of the three brass balls hung outside his door he'd neglected to replace it, and his shop and gained the unflattering name of Pratt's Bollocks.

He was feeling quite content in his secluded stockroom, a small medicated plaster stuck laterally across his nose gave evidence of his encounter with Madame Dupont's man Samson the previous day, but the thug had only split the skin and not broken his nose as he had feared. Lounging in a well padded old armchair he took an item from a shallow stack of slender paperback novelettes that had lurid titles such as 'Underage Rentboys' 'Barebottom Ride' and 'Sucking Off Daddy'. He was soon engrossed in one entitled 'Naughty Boys at School':

"... It was a humid summer night when matron slipped into the dormitory,' ran the text, 'and with just the light of a waning moon beaming in through the open windows she could see a dozen naked young boys laying on top of their bed covers. Unsleeping and restless with the summer heat they were caressing their hot, slender bodies with sluggish sweeps of their hands; stroking bellies and breasts and tugging pert boyish nipples.

Matron stood motionless for a few moments just watching, but when several youthful hands reached down to linger on smooth, bare thighs, her fingers flexed. She knew the signs.

Ah yes. So many little soldiers all aching to get on parade and unpack their haversacks.

Time to give the little loves some dedicated matronly attention, she thought. Without that they would undoubtedly fall victim to providing attention to each other, and that would be disgraceful. The task she contemplated would be time consuming and rather wearying with so many to deal with, but they would all be so very grateful in the end ..."

Horace shifted in his chair and began fumbling with the buttons on his trouser fly. His own muscular hooded-knight was swelling and throbbing and already standing to attention.

The door suddenly opened and Toby Parkin, his shop manager, poked his head through. Toby was a tanned man with tussled artificially blond hair and an earring. It was hard to age someone so lean and yet wrinkled like a raisin and with such a tobacco-husky voice, but in appearance he was the antithesis of urbane Horace.

"Pinky and Ben are here, Horace. D'you wanna see 'em?"

Horace put his book to one side. "May as well. Nothin' much else to do at the moment. Send 'em in."

Pinky and Ben were young teenagers, enterprising local lads who regularly cadged bits and pieces from him to sell from a suitcase down at the weekly open-market, and deals with them were often an highlight of his day.

When two slim figures came through the door Horace sat up straight.

"Come in boys, come in. I's got some good gold bracelets for yer today. First-class stuff. Don't turn the skin green for forty-eight hours. You'll make a killin' wi' 'em."

Pinky and Ben were a ideally matched pair of school friends, nicely put together, sweet features, faces flawless not having yet reached the stage of oily skin and acne, but their beguiling looks were a facade for cunning little minds and an definite asset for selling junk. People just couldn't believe such innocent looking babes would swindle them.

Horace rubbed his hand over his orderly hair and stroked his neat moustache.

"But yer knows yer have to pay when you want a bite of my apple. Have you got any cash?"

Pinky and Ben looked at each other, then looked back at Horace and shook their heads.

In a parody of self-importance Horace thrust out his chest and stood up, his hands stroking at once down the front of each boys jeans. Pinky and Ben stood perfectly still while he unzipped their fly's and fished around inside their pants. Within moments the shop owner was holding a sturdy, well proportioned penis in each hand.

"I's a martyr to all this. But okay, we'll settle for the usual. Get yer togs off." he said.

"All of 'em?" enquired Pinky.

"Sure, all of 'em," said Horace, "You've got time ain't yer? The market ain't until tomorrow."

He lit a cigar, outwardly showing no interest as the two boys kicked off their shoes and started to strip. But of course Horace was too canny to allow such things go completely unobserved.

Slowly their bodies were revealed, nothing remarkable for young teenagers. Just a slender expanse of young naked flesh, a modest sprouting of hair around their genitals and none yet under the arms or on the chests, and their arms just carried a fine down.

In unconscience unity Pinky and Ben stroked their hands over their bellies and offered a wan smile as they displayed their nudity. Nice cocks, their scrotums hanging loose between their thighs, the balls looking full and heavy.

Vain little bastards, thought Horace, smiling to himself. Must think they're the only decent boy-pussy meat around.

Puffing on his cigar, he pondered for a moment. What would it be today? He could suck them both off, that would be nice - and then they could suck him off. He was partial to a double-header from a pair of good looking boys.

But no, he decided. He'd fuck them today. They always made such lovely little noises when he fucked them.

"I've come up with a special idea for today," he said, "There's some nylon stockings and a couple of ladies garter belts over by the window. Let's see what you look like wearing 'em."

Both youngsters looked shocked and rather disenchanted with the idea of having to put on feminine clothing.

"Mr Pratt, you've never asked us to do that kind of thing before."

"Things change," Horace told them, "I's been inspired recently, an' variety is the spice of life, y'know."

While they were getting ready he went out into the shop where Toby ran things with the help of a very fat and very nearly witless woman of fifty summers called Mrs Gitty.

The place was otherwise empty. No customers at all.

"The shop's quite this afternoon, Toby."

 

"Dole day at the Job Centre, Horace." Toby explained, "People will have money of their own to spend for a couple of days."

Horace rolled his cigar in his mouth. "We should take advantage of slack periods. You're good wi' cameras so I want you to do a special job for me later. Go up to Nob Street and take some snaps of Madame Dupont's little pantywaist faggots. Y'know the sort o' thing I mean. Pretty faces an' pretty poses with plenty o' pretty cocks showing under frocks."

Toby regarded the plaster on his employers nose and he suddenly looked worried.

"Oh, I dunno about that, Horace. I'm not a violent man an' she's got Attila the Hun as a doorman, ain't she?"

"This will be okay, no danger." Horace assured him, "She requested it herself, so she'll have arranged things properly."

He looked over at Mrs Gitty whose enormous bosom was slumped on the shop counter, and who was absorbed in a copy of 'Teenage Romance.'

He gave Toby a nudge with his elbow. "Here, come through into the back and have a break. Pinky an' Ben are putting out for a poke, an' I don't mind sharing 'em today. Mrs Gitty can look after things here."

When Toby looked a bit reticent he gave him another nudge. "What's the matter? Don't you fancy a treat?"

Toby at last stirred. "Of course I do. I don't use me where-with-all with the missis much these days, but I won't turn down a chance with either of them shirt-lifters in there."

A moment later the two men shut the door of the stockroom behind them. Toby's eyes glittered when he saw Pinky and Ben, standing naked except for the skimpy apparel of nylon stockings and suspenders which, not to be outdone by Horace's fertile, deviant imagination, they had each augmented with ladies court shoes.

"They're a-fuckin'-mazin'!" approved Toby. "Ere Horace, Pinky an' Ben don't 'alf make horny business outta wearing suspenders an' stockings. Proper little bunny-boys they are."

Pinky was a little embarrassed, but squared up bravely.

"Hi, Toby. Didn't expect to see you here."

 

"I liked the show you're puttin' on, it's your best yet." Toby said. He turned to Horace. "Y'know they're better than girls.

Pinky posed a little and the men appeared to drool.

Ben walked with a seductive swish towards them. "We are," he said precociously, "We are better than girls."

Both men laughed. They made a badly balanced pair, each well worn in their own way, but while Horace was wiry and almost graceful Toby was younger, ruddy in the face, weak somewhere inside perhaps, but powerful looking on the exterior. Privately he fancied himself as a man for the ladies, but he never turned down a nice bit of boy-arse, and the feminine garb Pinky and Ben wore at that moment seemed to bring together all the essentials for a raunchy episode.

"Are yer both oiled-up?" Horace asked the two boys.

When Pinky nodded he indicated a waist-high stack of duvets at the side of the room. "Stretch over them me little lovelies, an' let's get started."

He looked at his shop-manager. "You have Ben and I'll take the delightful Pinky," he told him, "We can always do a swap after a while if you fancy a change."

The two youngsters had been in the stockroom plenty of times in the past and they knew what was expected of them. Without waiting for more directions they leaned forward and settled across the pile of bedding, heads down, their smooth, white derrieres and boyish nylon-clad legs forming up side by side, ready to accept the lust of two degenerate men as the price of Horace Pratt's favoured treatment.

The two men didn't take their eyes away from them as they moved up behind. Those backsides were youthful, smooth and enhanced by a smattering of girlish apparel. They seemed almost feminine in appearance, and they were clearly prepared to be dutifully subservient to a manly invasion.

Pinky flinched just a little as Horace's firm fingers spread open his soft bottom cheeks to expose the enticing pink whorl of his anus.

Toby purred with degenerate glee as he watched. "Boy! Look at the little tease. Clean as a whistle and ready for action."

Horace leaned forward, his eyes taking on a fierce glow as his lips thinned.

"Is that right Pinky? Is you prepared for some action?"

"Er, um, I ain't sure, Mr Pratt. Your thing ...it's so ...it's so big."

Delighted by the comment the man smiled in mock disbelief. "Oh come now m'lad. You've been at his game long enough. You must have developed some endurance by now."

Almost in unison Horace and Toby heaved the tumescent male appendages out from the front of their trousers and rolled back their foreskins, thumbing apart the lads buttocks to get a look at where they were going before pumping themselves up to maximum arousal, smearing the blunt tip of their knob-ends over the inviting little starbursts revealed, then screwing them around insistently until each dimple gave way and expanded.

Horace was slightly envious of his shop-manager because even when he was as stiff as a neat whisky Toby always showed a slightly bigger cock, but he consoled himself with the thought that size wasn't the be-all and end-all of things. It was the way a fellah rooted a lad that counted, and he could make them squeal and moan and bite lumps out of a pillow - no problem.

"Phoaw!" He grunted has he established himself fully inside Pinky's backside with no more than two or three forceful shoves, then while he paused to enjoy the constriction of the narrow tube he'd occupied he looked across at Toby.

His shop-manager took slightly longer getting started with Ben, pushing his length in with slow deliberation, but going equally as deep while enjoying the lads whimpering. Not as experienced as Horace Pratt he gripped Ben's hips and stood for a moment unmoving until he was sure the lads dinky bottom was fully impaled.

Horace grinned at him. "Wow! You're a wild thing when you're let loose, Toby Parkin. A bit of a ragin' bull you are. G'on y'randy bastard, ram as hard as you like. He ain't made o' china."

At last Horace started to plough Pinky, pumping in and out of his young arse like a jackhammer, while Toby followed his example with Ben.

"What would yer missis say if she could see you know, Toby. Up to yer balls in a lad an' giving him the benefit of yer dick?"

"One shudders to think." said Toby helplessly spitting between clenched teeth. "But there's nothing to equal a nice bit of young arse, is there? Tight as a drum. Tighter than his mouth I bet. This little character fucks like a bitch."

"They are bitches Toby, they love it an' they stretch like rubber bands, so don't hold back with yer ball-juice."

Holding onto Pinky's hips Horace started to heave back and forth with his thighs, angling to left and right then quickening the pace as he began lunging straight down the middle.

The two youngsters began mewing and yowling softly, for while each had considerable experience in dropping their pants for men neither was yet completely attuned to the stretching of anatomy and the lustful, deep pounding such situations encouraged.

Right from the start they began giving out the soft groans and whimpers that Horace Pratt enjoyed, the noises that relayed to him that they could detect the size of the thing in their anal tracts and could appreciate its vigorous movements.

"Oooh, oooh, oooohhh!"

Ah yes, Horace thought, they squirmed so helplessly and scratched around exactly like breathless maidens when they had a good cock spearing them briskly in their cute little fundaments.

Genially Toby paused for a moment and waited until he felt Ben humping back against him in response, slowly opening up and accepting more and more.

And suddenly there was more. Ben was horrified it may split him, and it was none too soon that his anatomy adjusted to cope with things. A thick wedge of gristle-like sinew, irresistible, going further and deeper on a velvet journey.

OOOhh, ugh! So smooth. He was huge now, bigger than he'd been with his wife for years, and he was burying his cock to the hilt.

Toby could sense intangible power surging out from his groin. His penis was a rod of tingling nerve ends and his balls were aching to release their cargo. He could feel his cock head swelling deep inside Ben's backside.

"Oooohhh! Here I go." he gasped. "You get first-prize from me Ben m'darlin'. Uuuuhhh, ooooohhh! Oh yeah!"

His cock convulsed suddenly inside the anal snare and he grimaced as a huge jet of cum evacuated his glands.

Pinky and Horace were only a little way behind. Pinky felt the shop-owner tensing up, gripping his hips more firmly, pumping back and forth more vigorously, using every inch of his hot, narrow tunnel to stir his liquid seed.

"A gennelman could get used to this," Horace grunted as he forced Pinky's legs further apart in order to elevate his beautiful bottom.

The tightness of the boys rosette squeezed his thick rod fitfully and quite suddenly he was emptying out.

When Horace finally ejaculated he did it with untypical calmness, eyes bulging like marbles, but uttering no more than a series of faint 'aaah, aah's' as he unloaded a mighty lathering of manly cream into the lads rectum.

The rumble of a petrol-engine came from outside and a dark shadow passed across the small, unwashed window on the other side of the room, and at once Horace rumbled with irritation like he'd been interrupted midway through a cup of tea.

"Dammit, that'll be the lorry from Babbington's warehouse. It wasn't due until later."

With his lust sated his mind homed-in on business and he tucked his penis back into his trousers.

"Come on Toby, you old hippy. Playtime's over an' it's back to work. Let's go see what it's got onboard."

When the two men left the back room to go outside to the lorry Mrs Gitty's porcine eyes narrowed slyly. She was enormously fat; an enormous hank of flab, the size of a paddle, hung from her upper arms and her eyes had to strain to see through the adipose that threatened to engulf them

There would be some bartering to do with the driver and the men would be away for at least twenty minutes, and she reckoned that was time she herself could utilise nicely.

Abandoning the shop counter she quietly slipped into the stockroom to survey what Horace and Toby had left behind.

Glassy-eyed and breathless Pinky and Ben were sprawled on their backs across the duvets like a pair of limp popped balloons in a puddle, legs splayed wide, indolently trying to recover from the frantic rogering and terrific hosing they'd just received.

Mrs Gitty exploded before them like a man-o-war under sail, her monstrous melons rising and falling with the intensity of her breathing. "Well now - just as I thought." she remarked with a discernable tut. "Them 'orrble blokes have been doin' mucky things with you both. Makin' you wear stockings like girls while they buggered your little bums without mercy. Disgustin' they are. I've half a mind to report 'em to the RSPCA."

The woman's gaze descended upon their bare flesh, concentrating upon their pink bags and their study, still unsated boy-cocks.

She unbuttoned the front of her dress, and not having to contend with any foundation garments she was able to shake out her two vast, shuddering breasts - bloated items that were heavy and pendulous and had nipples that stood out like tent-pegs.

"Mr Pratt's selfish an' Toby's stupid an' imitates him. Left you here without squeezing out yer spermies, haven't they? A pair o' rascals they are. I knows you scallywags don't mind finishing things for each other, but I don't mind helpin' out. You needs is a bit o' comfortin' from a lady to make things right."

With a big cheery smile she swung about and wheedled her enormous backside between them as she sat down, and at once she took a cock in each hand.

"Yer deserving of a bit o' pleasure, an' luckily I's in the right mood to give yer fat little todgers a good wallopin'."

Mrs Gitty was undoubtedly well qualified to do that kind of thing, having spent her life riding cocks of all sizes she was also no slouch at handling throbbing dicks that were ready to blow. In addition she'd read all of Horace's pornographic novelettes days ago, having carefully tucked them one at a time between the pages of her teenage romance magazines, and at that moment she rather fancied herself in the role of the matron in 'Naughty Boys at School' since no one was better able to pump a whole series of slender young pricks than she was.

Pinky and Ben writhed under her furious ministrations, revolted by her grotesque appearance and vast bulk, yet intrigued by her lack of shame and excited by the expert way her podgy hands operated. Her hands were small and her fingers fat, but her manipulations showed all the deftness of a woman who had spent a great deal of time in the past slicking foreskins up and down.

With a rearing erection clenched in each hand she bobbed them up and down, making the smooth cock-heads appear and disappear into her fist like a pair of bald-headed jack-in-a-box. Within moments her caresses had graduated from a gentle joggling to top speed pumping.

"Come on you two. Don't be shy, let go of yer cummies for Mrs Gitty. A lady like me don't stop 'til she sees a nice result, an' you'll both feel better when yer get the milk outta yer tubes."

The constant jigging of her hands had the desired effect. As if in answer to her obscene urging the two boys moaned desperately and each of their pricks began spurting-off, each erupting like a cream-filled Vesuvius, whirling, swirling lassos of sticky opaque lava leaping up to slop over the woman's knuckles.

Mrs Gitty beamed with delight. "Whooo! You naughty boys. Playin' with you like that as made me do a great big wet in my knickers."

 

 

The following morning Jennifer was already thinking of getting the house straight and her critical gaze swept over each shabby aspect of it as she went down the stairs; the threadbare carpets, peeling wallpaper and the woodwork that hadn't been repainted for at least fifty years. She had always despised brown as a colour, and number nineteen was absolutely full of brown varnish paintwork. Even the wallpaper had autumn colouring, which to her mind would make living through the summer very depressing. As for the curtains! They were cheap, nasty things, supposedly Draylon but clearly nothing more than cotton.

She stamped her foot on a rug in the hall and the cloud of dust that rose up only served to raise her dissatisfaction another notch.

The large earthenware urn by the front door was her first mark. She thought it a dreadful looking thing, it stood on the floor bristling with long dead flower stems and with matchstick-like putti clasping hands encircled its bulbous belly. It was the opposite of anything beautiful, being used more often as a doorstop than anything else, and it was probably a safety hazard.

She turned to the emasculated Marianne who had traipsed behind her like an inquisitive pet poodle. He was the senior sissy who between sessions of solo rehearsals with Madame Dupont seemed to serve as a downstairs maid.

"Get that monstrosity out into the back yard." she demanded tersely.

Marianne stooped and took hold of the pot, but achieved nothing. He heaved and tugged mightily, his bare bottom thrusting out under his skimpy skirt and wagging about fiercely as he attempted to raise the urn from the floor, but despite his best efforts he only succeeded in rocking it slightly on its base.

"It's too heavy for me to carry, Jennifer. I can't even lift it up." he finally weaselled apologetically.

Jennifer tutted in irritation. "Get out of the way you weak little fairy, I'll do it myself."

A show of her own strength she always considered a good way of impressing effeminate little faggots who could barely lift a teaspoon without whimpering, but has she took a grip on this particular object its weight almost embarrassed her. It seemed to be made of stone rather than clay and she regretted not first scooping the soil from its innards to lessen the burden.

Nevertheless, she was not about to demonstrate frailty with a weedy young pantywaist looking on. She bear-hugged the things, heaved to her feet, and with tendons, sinews and muscles straining walked rapidly through the house to the open back door where she summarily dumped it on the step.

There was no garden at the back of the house, and such space that belonged to Number 19 was small, concreted over and enclosed by high brick walls pierced only by a latched gate that allowed access for kitchen deliveries.

Marianne stepped out into the yard and gazed bright-eyed at the infernal urn.

"It's not a bad pot really. Do you think Madame will buy me a packet of seeds so I can grow flowers in it? Geraniums would be nice."

Jennifer shrugged, dusted off her hands and took stock. "Oh, come, Marianne. I know you're a soft, silly creature with cotton wool for brains, but even you must know Madame has more important things to think about than growing flowers."

The morning was sunlit, with a promise of a good summer. Bougainvillaea encroaching from a neighbouring property criss-crossed over a nearby wall in a blaze of purple, hot pink and salmon orange, and below it stood Marianne, features softened more than usual because they were in shadow.

Marianne, fair-haired, blue-eyed and pink cheeked, was older than the others, and as senior sissy he was allowed to please himself in the way he dressed. It struck her how different he was from the rest. Delicate and slightly awkward in her company his little shows of nervous clumsiness made him seem endearingly vulnerable.

There was something fragile about him, a tilt of the head, the slight hunch of his shoulders. Look at him now, his sweet smooth features with pear drops dangling from pierced ears, in his simple white teen-pop-diva tank-top that left his navel bare, and his little skirt.

He was on the small side, the French would have termed him petite. But he had a slim young body, perfectly proportioned. A rare little beauty, with a touch of bronze eyeshadow and pale lipstick, and with sandals on his bare feet and his golden hair haloed by the morning sky there was no other word to describe his appearance except racy. From the tip of his honeyed head to the toes of his dainty feet every satin curve of his body tantalised. She wondered for a moment who he really was, but then decided it didn't matter.

She noticed that today the young queen wore a slightly longer skirt than the one he'd worn when she'd first met him, but it still didn't hide all that it should. The bell-shaped tip of his preposterously long penis still dangled obtrusively beneath the bottom hem.

He was different from the others, not just by the extent of his cock but by his attitude. Marianne clearly adored being the leading light in a household of full of girlishness, he was a mincing, dizzy blond bimbo who was proud of the fact that he could more than hold his own among such a gathering of youthful, feminine beauty. But strangely, although he had an enormous cock he didn't seem to have the faintest wish to use it for anything other than going to the toilet.

"How often do you have sex?" she asked.

Marianne rolled uneasily from one foot to the other. "Erm, not very often. Not every day."

He frequently allowed the younger boys to try their stiff prodders in his backside when they got horny, but he didn't rate that as sex. That was just pleasing people. Being held down across a bed by someone like Samson and having a gigantic skin-covered bone screwed up him, THAT was sex.

The girls eyes narrowed as she studied him. He was clearly in awe of her and that pleased the streak of dominance in her nature. But perhaps something was required in addition.

"I didn't spank you yesterday when I spanked the others, did I?"

Gathering some courage the slightly made she-boy delicately swivelled his hips. "I haven't been naughty, Jennifer."

Jennifer conjured up an expression of mock consideration. "Boys who wear lipstick and skirts are innately naughty and always deserve a smack or two. And anyway, I think I should give you a little sampler so you can refer to it in the future."

Unconsciously Marianne's hands flew behind him and he hugged the seat of his tiny frock. His face dipped but failed to conceal his precociousness. It was almost as if he were flirting with her.

"You wouldn't spank me hard, would you?"

Amazing, thought Jennifer. Delightful. He was submitting without argument.

"That depends on my mood and your reaction." she told him. "Come along, there's no set time for spanking girlies with me. We'll go through into the sitting room where it's more comfortable - more comfortable for me anyway. It not likely to be at all comfortable for you."

As she strutted back into the house Marianne trotted apprehensively at her heels, and she noticed that even in flat shoes the little sex kitten trod little mincing steps as though he were a girl in stiletto's.

"Oh please don't spank me hard, Jennifer. Not VERY hard."

In the sitting room Jennifer hauled the she-boy before her and concentrated for a moment on the front of his tank-top, or more precisely on the soft, round shapes it concealed. As she coolly appraised the gorgeous young hottie she moved closer, and Marianne made no effort to resist when she raised his top and tucked it under his arms to reveal his chest. His breasts were real enough; not huge in size, smooth and delicate with a rather engaging little uptilt. They were a pair of perfect adolescent girl-tits with virgin pink nipples that were pointy and alert.

His eyelids fluttered while a sweet smiled trembled on his glossy lips. It was a softening device that sometimes worked with Madame and always worked with men, but it didn't work with a canny teenager who was so well up on pantywaist tricks.

"Get undressed. We don't want anything getting in the way, and I like girls with titties to hang them out when they go over my knee. You don't mind doing that, do you?"

Looking slightly bewildered the girly-thing shook his head. He was a pretty, gentle looking creature with lovely eyes, and he shuddered as he removed his tank top and short skirt, turning slowly to let her appreciate how the lines of his legs lead enticingly to the sweet little mounds of his rump.

"Not hard," he pleaded while worshipfully looking over his shoulder at the haughty teenage girl in anticipation of the humiliation she was about to hand out.

He was a blond-haired sex-pot with a stunning waif-like body, his belly was flat and his torso tapered until he almost had a waist. Everything about him was poised in and appealing girlish way. But of course he was a paradox with his pert girlish bosom and his balls, and his extraordinary elongated penis. The penis was a titanic thing, quite sturdy and smooth for most of its length, only blossoming into a broad sculpture about two inches from the tip where it broadened out to accommodate a fat, purple helmet. For some reason Jennifer thought of a clapper on a cathedral bell.

With one hand she took hold of his chest and gently contracted her grip, feeling his flesh take on a shape between her fingers, while with her other hand she reached around the back of him and squeezed his little backside, testing the texture of the soft, defenceless young rump.

"Such a naughty girl." she said quietly.

He became as vibrant and skittish as a fawn. "Wha ... What are you going to do?" he mumbled.

He was standing with his bottom slightly pushed back and Jennifer gave it a preliminary swat with her hand. SMACK!

"Uumph! Ow, that hurt." he complained.

She let go of him and stepped back. The urge to chastise him was both a personal compunction and a frivolous pastime and in her it was very strong, but she realised she had to control it with Madame Dupont's senior girl.

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 and dominance of course, and she was the Amazon hunter who constantly chased submissive bottoms.

The trouble was she'd been thoroughly spoilt as a young girl. Her mother permitted her to do just as she wished at home, but at 19 Nob Street it was a different matter. Madame Dupont was a different matter. Already she had felt the lines of restriction being drawn against her behaviour and she dare not overplay her hand. If she was sent back to Yorkshire labelled as unsuitable or unmanageable before the end of the Summer Season her mothers outwardly mild temper would go pyrotechnic.

She regarded Marianne broodily. Some other method of imprinting her dominance was needed. "I'm not going to spank you." she said.

The sheboys eyes fluttered and he almost looked disappointed. "You're not? Aren't I pretty enough?"

"It's not that. You have all the prettiness needed to make a girl want to stretch you over her lap and wallop you until teatime. It's more complicated. For instance, is there anything you've done lately that you feel bad about? Anything that gives you a pang of guilt?"

Marianne turned his eyes upward to indicate he was thinking deeply. He'd been involved in a number of sexy capers with delivery boys at the back door, but he'd done nothing he regretted. And he'd burnt Madame's morning toast once, but she'd just said to make some more.

Slowly he shook his head.

"There you are! Just as I thought. There's no point in spanking someone who feels no shame, and Madame would be extremely displeased if I upended you without a valid reason."

As she spoke she laid the tip of her finger on his lower lip. It was as soft as a rose petal. She allowed the moment to draw out, then slowly her thumb peeled back his lips so she could examine his teeth and gums as one would inspect those of a horse; all were in perfect condition and scrupulously clean, just as she had expected. Sensuously she eased her finger into his mouth to pierce him in a subliminal way.

"For the moment a little display of humility will do." she told him speculatively, "Something to prove your respect for me and to emphasis your place in things. You're such an unusual sissy - a girl with a big cock - so it must be something extra-special."

She moved her finger back and forth in his mouth, probing the soft, salivating cavity intimately, pushing at the insides of his cheeks and making them bulge out. When a few moments had passed she inserted three fingers and worked them back and forth.

Arms at his side, head tilted up, Marianne accepted her invasive treatment slavishly even though it made him wretch slightly when she lunged towards his throat.

"You have a lovely mouth." she told him with approval. Her eyes scanned his face and she thought for a moment before her imagination sparked.

"I've got it." she said, withdrawing her hand and viewing the copiously slaver on her fingers. "Use your mouth. Over there. Go and sit down in the corner and suck yourself. I'm sure you can manage it. Suck yourself off. Okay?"

Marianne uttered a surprised giggle and the fingers of one hand covered his lips, the long nails making them seem thin and delicate and pointed at the tips. His eyelashes fluttered and he blushed prettily. "Um, ere ...!"

Jennifer smiled. "Of course you're bound to make a bit of a fuss, but you're really just drama queen, aren't you?"

"Yes, Jennifer." the sissy-boy agreed. He bit a trembling lip and tried to hide against her shoulder, but she peeled him off and sent him on his way. Like a chastised eight year old he moped fitfully across the room, then sitting on the floor he wedged himself into the corner and braced himself against the wall. Opening his legs he drew his knees up to the level of his ears.

Other males would have struggled and failed to effect a manoeuvre they could only be do by extraordinary contortion, but Marianne 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 rising them up, 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.

As his initial coyness evaporated Marianne 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 crouched in front of him and watched his activity with suppressed enjoyment. Her pleasure was covered by a veneer of calm nonchalance, but at times like this her focus easily shifted and the visual sight came onto her in a dynamic way, like heat.

She never allowed effeminate schoolboy imps to see the reaction their submissiveness engendered within herself, and within her pants, to do so would be tantamount to admitting a weakness that the faggots may find a way to use against her one day. Importantly and above all things she liked to present herself as imperious, unassailable and strong. But she was amazed by the swelling and extending and rising up. Goodness! It was much bigger than she ever imagined it could be.

She was surprised also, if not astounded, by Marianne's dedication - of a pretty boys mouth gratuitously plugged by his own penis.

His member was inside his throat and still he worked his mouth smoothly and relentlessly, while his lips fought with the incessant, electrified liquid urges in his thickening meat

This wasn't the first time Jennifer Hancock had supervised young sissy-things in sucking their own cocks. In the past she'd sometimes assisted them to get a result, but this girly-thing needed no help. Marianne had very likely done it before just to please himself, but she knew that being MADE to do it in front of her would add a lovely extra thrill for him.

Gently she leaned forward and kissed his neck, speaking quietly, softly, seductively.

"You're very pretty." she said, pressing closer to hear his guzzling, feeling her own wetness between her legs, the throb inside her vagina, the stiffening of her clitoris and the swelling of her breasts. The huskiness in her voice didn't need to be emphasised.

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.

For a while his smooth, slender neck undulated to give evidence of deliberate swallowing, but at last he lifted his head slightly and his tongue fluttered over the end of his cock to ensure no trace of secretion was left behind.

Jennifer needed to monitor her breathing after seeing such a job so well done.

"That's enough of that for now young lady." she told him, "Any more of it and you won't want to eat your dinner."

 

 

At breakfast time the next day Madame Dupont was gushing with revitalised enthusiasm.

"I'm got some business-cards now." she said. "They're quite cheap if you do them in one of those little machines outside the railway station. What do you think?"

She offered Jennifer one of the cards from a deck in her hand.

It read:

A DANCING EXTRAVAGANZA

MADAME DUPONT PRESENTS HER FRILLY FOLLIES

EVERY GIRL A BOY, EVERY BOY A GIRL.

Ideal entertainment for private parties and social evenings.

Book now to avoid disappointment.

THE SHOW OF THE SEASON. ONE NOT TO BE MISSED.

 

Jennifer nodded her approval. "It says everything you need to say. Who do you intend sending them to?"

"Why, to everyone." Madame replied jubilantly. "Well, everyone who expressed interest in the past. I've got fifty cards."

Jennifer pulled on a coat. "I'm going out to the shop at the end of the road. I was thinking of taking a few of the dancers with me and giving them a little airing. They seem to be stuck here in the house all the time."

Madame dropped the cards into her lap. She took off her steel-rimmed spectacles and put them into a black case with a snap.

"Take them out! That's impossible." she said.

"Why impossible?"

"It's for me to decide. I've said it's impossible."

"But Madame, it wouldn't cost anything and they'd ..."

"They are not free to run about."

And that was the end of the matter.

 

Jennifer went out alone. Early morning was the time of day when the London air was least clogged with car fumes and the time the time of day she preferred. It would have been an ideal time to take some of the sissies for a stroll too.

Runabout! Madame had said. Goodness, why, they never went anywhere. People once used to stick pins into the eyes of linnets to keep them in their cages, but Madame Dupont only needed a sharp word.

Perhaps she had some good reasons. The nancyboy dancers were of a like age to the sissy creatures her mother maintained in Yorkshire, and in some respects there were other similarities. They had always been beautiful. They were among the lucky who from birth had been blessed with sunny dispositions and striking good looks. Relatives and strangers alike had fawned over them and praised them endlessly. People liked to pet them and cuddle them and they'd always been confident in their appearance.

They had also become aware that the focal point of their attraction was inside their pants, so they took every chance to put on the most revealing clothes in order to pose and lounge about in ways that guaranteed admiration.

When she thought about it she could understand Madame's reluctance to allow them out. The woman took her duty of care seriously. While boarding with her boys were compelled to wear feminine attire constantly and encouraged to affect female mannerisms, so it would be crazy to let them roam around. They were cute and utterly seduced by the magic of dressing up like girls. Madame's students excelled at being extremely feminine, ultra girly-girls, and would doubtless wish to wear high heels and little dresses with a tight waistline, which so often encouraged them to jut out their little bottoms provocatively, while wiggle-walk high heels made it impossible to sashay in any other way than a sexy mincing swish that made their hips swivel deliciously.

They were all established sissies and showed no coyness in being attired in that way. They were too cute for their own good really. Set free they would set off erections in trousers all along the street.

She was practically at the end of the road when a boy on a bicycle went speeding past her and she recognised him at once as the newspaper delivery boy she'd met on the train and again seen in the corner shop a few days before.

Her inquiring mind observed him carefully as he swung off into an alley at the rear of the place that employed him, and instinctively she followed the same route and found the bicycle pushed up against a wall in a small, bland windowless yard. Obviously it was a safe little nook where the lad habitually parked his bike when he went to return his empty satchel to the shop owner.

Having satisfied her curiosity she was about to turn about and leave when the instinct that had led her there also made her linger, and she was soon rewarded by being in place when the boy returned.

She stared at him for a long moment. He was immaculate in a white T-shirt that showed his slim tanned arms. He wore Levis that fit as if tailored for his narrow backside, and white sneakers without socks. His hair was slightly tussled but neatly cut at the back and sides and his eyes were wide under long lashes. Also his mouth was very nice, kind of sensual.

When he went to take hold of his bicycle she gripped the handlebars.

"Hi, I never thought I'd see you again. I'm Jennifer. What's your name?"

"Fred." he replied apprehensively.

"Fred! That's not a very pretty name for someone as pretty as you. You should be called Felicity."

"That's a girl's name."

"Yes, but it's very apt. You're not very heavily built and you've got a sweet face. You probably need someone strong to look after you."

She looked at him, her gaze slightly mocking now and not in the least deferential, observing his entire slight figure, drifting over him with thoughtful appraisal and lingering like a caress. She knew she was right about him. She had a intuitive gift for picking such people out in a crowd, and she found a terrible pleasure in exploiting their vulnerability. Some would respond slavishly at once to her harsh, bullying words while others needed to be handled more cunningly at first. She wanted this one to invite her to take charge.

"Do you live around here, Felicity?"

"In Fox Mews, with my mum. Please don't call me Felicity."

"Okay, I'll call you Freddie, that's a compromise - a halfway house between Frederick and Frederica. Will that do?"

"I'm not a girl."

"No, of course you're not, but you're as sweet as one. And you know that, don't you?"

She noticed the quickening of his breath and his reluctance to look her in the eye. He was slightly afraid, slightly excited.

She took a step towards him and she adored his little struggle that wasn't really a struggle when she pinned him against a wall, and the soft, oh of surprise when she gently bit the side of his neck.

His arms hung limp at his sides, unwilling to resist, unable to fend her off, and of course she'd known from the start he wouldn't resist.

She exercised subtle skill, lulling him into accepting her. 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 shirt, saw the flinching pulse in his throat.

He was a boy of slender build and had the kind of soft, delicate features that would have stirred the maternal instinct in most women, but which only aroused the predator in herself. Left alone in her company the dear young thing would instantly bend to her greater will and slip down his pants. Then his pale little bottom cheeks would wobble slightly and quickly turn red as she smacked them.

It was important to make it absolutely plain that she was in charge and that he was expected to do just as she wished. Control such as that - reducing young things like Freddie to creatures of unquestioning obedience was her greatest thrill. Hers was a feudal ownership, her subjects had no right of appeal, and afterwards, cradled in her arms and sobbing profoundly, he would meekly agree to whatever other plan she may devise.

Suddenly she wanted to kiss him. In fact she'd been wanting to kiss him from the moment she'd first seen him on the train. 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, felt the heat there. She stepped forward and swept him up in her arms, giving him a face-full of perfumed lace-covered bosom, saw his mouth open in a soft oh of surrender, and trailed her mouth down his face, nuzzling his brow, his nose his chin, but not yet his mouth.

Freddie 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 she relished the challenge.

She smiled, loving the attention the adorable Freddie 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 Jennifer leaned heavily against him and softly nozzled his lips with her own.

Freddie's knees went wobbly and his tummy trembled as the girl claimed his little 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. She was always more comfortable in the role traditionally played by men.

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, his young hard cock now a solid rod in his pants.

"Here," she said, forcing something into his hand, "Put these in your pocket. They're a pair of pink panties for you to enjoy at home. Wrap them around your willy and wank into them when you think of me later, but don't forget to rinse them out afterwards. Next time I see you I want to know you're wearing them."

Leaning against him she whispered heatedly in his ear.

"Promise me, darling. Promise you'll do a lovely cummy for Jennifer."

Flushing red with embarrassment Freddie whimpered and squeezed out a faint little, "Yes, oh dear - I - I promise."

  

  

  

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