Showtime

by Jason Argo

 

Part 3

 

Madame took the air with sissyboy Amber in the evening. At the northern end of Regent Park there was a shady tree-lined walk where wealthy women regularly walked their pets, be they pink poodles, fierce Scottie terriers or fluffy pantywaist girlies. The latter were easy to recognise because they were invariably smarter and more decorative than the average real girls.

She passed a hard-nosed career woman with a rather bewildered looking tranny-queen tottering along on towering high heels at her side, blond hair in neat ringlets and wearing a Russian tunic in crimson felt worn over a black micro-skirt and holding a big rabbit fur muff. Then she passed another shemale bimbo squeezed into a dark blue velvet dress with a ruched neckline and flaring skirt whom a woman in her thirties was audaciously towing by a collar and lead.

Amber she'd dressed less flamboyantly. A downpour of rain earlier gave her the excuse to put him in a very short, pink PVC coat buttoned up to the neck, and with his matching rain cap and his flat shoes and his slim bare legs on show he had the look of a feminized and rather cute Christopher-Robin, although no associate of Winnie-the-Pooh would have been naked beneath his coat as Amber was.

As they walked Amber hung desperately onto Madame's hand, cheeks as pink as his shiny mackintosh, feeling like a sissy-girl from head to toe and completely at her command.

Knowing he was pretty enough to draw attention from the passing public the extreme brevity of the over garment alarmed him, since a simple unexpected gust of wind or a careless bend forward would immediately expose his most intimate anatomy to the gaze of countless anonymous admirers.

It was a fine day in early summer, the ground rather heavy from recent rain, but fast drying under a blustering wind blowing from the east. The trees were still bursting into new leaf, and the spaces between were dotted with primroses.

Meandering along a footpath they turned a bend and was greeted by an expected sight. Two figures, woman and boy seated on a wooden bench.

It was a prearranged meeting. Connie Lingus and Madame were past lovers, and although the heat had gone out of their relationship and the passion had died, there still remained an element of friendship between them.

Connie, a sleek woman in her mid-twenties, smiled as they approached. "Hi, how are you?"

Madame returned the smile with intentional lacklustre. "Depressed. Life is a black void of meaningless pain. How are you?"

"I nearly killed a dozen people in a bus queue on the way here."

"Why is your life so much more interesting than mine?"

"Just lucky I guess."

"I assume you had difficulty because you drove through central London."

"When did I not arrive in a car? I came out of the womb in a four-wheel drive."

Connie enjoyed making it clear to one and all that she was employed by a premier household and was working in a select part of the metropolis, but Madame was a bit cynical about that kind of ploy. When she'd first known her, Connie, who had migrated from the north, had thought Belgravia was a foreign country.

Madame looked at the boy at her side. Black hair, dark eyes, a symmetrical face with nice soft features. He was wearing a gabardine raincoat and below the bottom hem he had on long socks and shoes of the schoolboy variety.

Connie took hold of the boys hand, rose to her feet and pulled him with her.

"What do we have here, a bonny bouncing boy, or a gorgeous girly?" she simpered whilst studying Madame's own small companion.

"This is Amber." Madame said drily. "You inferred I should bring someone with me."

"Well yes," Connie said, "I have to look after Jerome, and he enjoys company." Her mouth broadened. "Oh, you are pretty, Amber. Is that a smile I see?"

Amber was smiling. Smiling in a self-conscious sort of way at her compliment.

For a moment she watched as the two younger things regarded each other with bright eyes and could tell they were attracted to each other on first sight.

Stooping, she peeped over Jerome's shoulder and along his line of sight and husked softly in his ear.

"Do you like it, popsie? Do you like what you see?"

Young Jerome rocked back and forth on his heels. "He's true tinsel, Connie. A real dazzler."

By mutual agreement the two women guided their charges away to where dense bushes separated them from the path, and at once Connie started to unbutton her boys coat while Madame did the same with Amber's pink mac. Neither boy was wearing any clothes beneath and each of their nubile bodies was enhanced by a prominent erection.

The younger woman pulled herself up and grinned at Madame.

"Bless them. They're both a little shy, but I really do think they like each other."

She turned her smile on Amber.

"Well, aren't you the cutest little sissy girl. Real girls like cocks sticking in their pussies, not sticking out in front."

Amber flustered slightly, but before he could form a reply she gazed into his bedazzled eyes.

"Do you kiss other sissies?" she asked. At which the sweet effeminate lad dissolved into blushes.

Without being urged Jerome edged closer to Amber and Amber edged closer in return, while Connie edged closer to both of them, scooping them forward and encouraging them to embrace. When they put their hands inside each others coats, swung their arms about each others waists and drew close together, the woman was content.

"There now, have a nice rub against each other while we grown-ups talk."

The two adults stood back to observe. "That's the same boy you were caring for previously," said Madame Dupont, "You must still be working as an au pair for the same people."

"Upgraded to full-blown housekeeper know."

"Still mistress to the man of the house?"

"Yes, and mistress to the woman of the house too. I play at both ends quite well. With the boy to take care of too it means there's rarely a dull moment."

She glanced across to where the two boys who had only met minutes before were now vigorously humping their naked bodies against each other and mewing in delight, moaning and giggling girlishly. Bare bodies pressed together skin on skin, nipple to nipple, their very stiff young popsicle's buffing up and down on each others lower belly.

Connie's expression was inscrutable when she saw Amber tilt his face and give her own boy a big, wet, lipsticky kiss with lots of tongue. "Horny little toads, but I do love to see two cuties making sissy love - kissing each other and feeling each other up.

"Does yours do wet ones?"

"Yes, of course."

"Mine does lovely wet ones and he has to get them out a couple of times every day. This little meeting is a real treat for him. Yours is rampant. No hesitation. Very eager."

"I tend to keep my treasures buttoned up a little too much in the house at Nob Street. They enjoy meeting new people when they have the chance."

"Looking after so many sissies must be rather a trial."

"Not really. Although if one visits their dormitories after dark it's usual to find half the beds vacant and the others double used. They love close contact, you see."

"Horny little brats. Extremely permissive too, I bet."

"I suppose they are. They do change partners rather often, but that's the prerogative of attractive young people."

Madame half turned towards her erstwhile friend. "Why did you telephone and ask me to meet you here? You said it was important."

"A letter - from your father." Connie told her, "He wasn't sure you'd still be at the flat in Golders Green when he wished to send it, so he asked an associate to bring it to me."

"I prefer the middle of town in the summer. What's that old bastard sending me letters for? Do you know what's in it?"

"Puhlease, Elise. I wouldn't dream of reading your mail."

"You have changed."

The two sissy urchins a few feet away were now oblivious to anything around them, whimpering and incoherent, consumed by their intimate pleasure. Heads slumped on each others shoulder, eyes staring, mouths hanging slack, they hugged tightly and humped together, hips grinding, each penis at full stand pressing into the opposing thigh, both moving the shaft up and down on the others stiff flesh.. Their cocks became wedged side by side, mashing one to one amid slavers of slippery pre-cum, moving, striking a rhythm, smooth young wands sliding and sawing across each other like bows on fiddles.

"Oooowwhhooo!"

"Mum - mmmm - aah, aaaahhh!"

With a cry the two sweet sissy-cocks spurted thick, warm glops of cum between their gyrating bodies and slithering together in its lubrication.

Connie glanced up. "Whoops! Oh look, they've finished. Better give them a wipe down. Sissies never know where to find a handkerchief when they need one."

 

 

The boy awoke and lay still, just looking around him. He was in a small room, though to his eyes it seemed a frightfully large one. It was panelled in dark wood, with candlesticks like cows horns on the walls, and the floor was polished to the colour of coffee.

There was a fireplace fixed into one wall, enormous but unused, with a coat-of-arms fashioned into the surround above it. The ceiling was high and deep, but that didn't distract from the decoration of cherubim and seraphim that seemed to hang there like fat little flying pigs. In the centre was a painting of a man, a sort of bearded god, helmeted and holding a spear. And there were women.

It baffled him. None of the figures were wearing any clothes.

Then when he thought about it he sort of understood. No one seemed to wear any clothes when they were in that room.

He looked at the thick body reclining on the covers next him, at its nakedness, its large size and its black hairiness. Its proximity heightened the intimacy of the situation.

Bertie Bestable himself then stirred from sleep and rolled over languidly to gaze with delight at the young beauty laying naked on the bedcovers beside him. The lads eyes were open, his chest and stomach rising evenly, his arms outstretched, hands curled. His body was unblemished, unmarked, and the hairlessness of it further enhanced its appeal.

Bertie was a bulky form when laying against the slim bodied, slender-hipped youngster, but he left no doubt as to his intentions. A thick, stiff penis - a fresh morning log - was projecting from between his thighs as a symbol of a new days lust.

He noticed that the penis of his young friend was soft, jutting out nicely from his thighs, but still encased in its sheath.

The man's mental response was slow at that time in a morning, but his physical reflex was abrupt. He took charge at once, stretching across to jiggle the lads dilatory cock which began to lengthen, the pink crown emerging from the foreskin like a drowsy snail from its shell. It was only about the size of his own thumb even when it stirred but it was beautifully shaped, the shaft a pale rod, unvained and smooth, the gland at its tip when unveiled was rose pink with a delicate flair.

The boy turned away only to feel the man stroke his back and kiss his neck, then he felt him kiss the small tattoo on his slender upper arm that depicted a pair of fat testicles holding up a towering penis. Beneath the image had been inscribed the word, LOVE.

Bertie leaned over, chest heaving, grabbed his small hips and pulled him onto his back, slowly, savouring the shape of the small nuggets in the lads little sack with his hand as he began to anoint a chain of kisses onto his torso. He gently licked between his nipples, then he moved down to kiss his tummy, right below his belly button, while his big hands moved underneath to massage his bottom cheeks.

A moment later he turned the lad over and held his arm pressed across the backs of the youngsters thighs, deliberately sliding the fingers of his other hand across to hold the legs apart while he spread wide the indent of the lads buttock crease. He pressed against it with his palm, then with a finger and thumb he gently spread the anus to get a view of the pink inner entrance.

No words passed between them. Each knew how things would progress. The man's cock nosed between his buttocks, searching for a home and finding it at once. The lad winced slightly, but then pushed back to allow the snub-tip to wedge in his bottom-hole.

Pausing for a moment Bertie then put all his big cock into the tight, scorching pussy in a single steady stroke.

"Aggghhh!" Unable to do anything himself the lad squawked and groaned as Bertie inserted his big man-thing into his loveliness, widening him, opening him up, the man's senses rattling with delight as the lad's narrow fundament was made to expand and conform to the dimensions of a cock of noteworthy size.

He was dominating him, his immense cock, thick and stiff pushed deep inside his poor little bum, and the youngster was helpless.

Bertie was up to his balls inside him and was a man of a very happy kind.

Bertie Bestable avoided going into London during the day when he could. In the day the city was a place of work, of business dramas, high-speed thinking and high cholesterol levels, and he tried to miss out on all that. But in the evenings he went there frequently, to the theatre, to socialise or just to cruise around and take things in when the urge was with him. And it wasn't often that the urge wasn't with Bertie.

An amusement-arcade in an alley just off the Charing Cross Road had caught his attention the previous evening, its dingy interior illuminated mainly by the bright, gaudy lights of the game machines that were its business.

Inside he'd seen the boy at once. It had been a warm evening and the kid was wearing scant clothes, just a yellow singlet and a pair of short pants that could have passed for underwear.

Young and petite and with the flashing, seductive eyes of a siren the lad had minced around before him, rolling his little backside, drawing his attention and making himself known.

Bertie had stood arms folded, head on one side, blocking his path. He reckoned he must have presented the look of a good quality client since he was dressed in the garb of an off-duty upper-class male, the tweed jacket, cravat and cord trousers, which combined with floppy hair, heavy eyelids and a large thick lipped mouth, completed the image of the aristocratic cad he relished.

"How much?" he'd asked leaning down to whisper in the lads ear.

The boy had batted his eyelashes. "Depends what you want." was his softly spoken reply.

Of course Bertie never liked to limit himself, he liked to try everything, and so he'd brought the sweet thing back to spend the night at Dovecott Manor.

Right at that moment he felt a spasm in his achingly hard shaft and a shudder ran through him. For a moment he felt obliged to pause and hold his breath, but the delay proved of no use. He felt his body stir, blood rushing to the centre to make things throb, causing the muscles of his groin to become taut and obliging him to quicken the pace.

He tumbling forward against the lad and holding him tight, fucked him to a harsh passionate rhythm, a pound of meat in a half-pound arse plunging harder and faster, varying the direct push from time to time with a wicked joust to left or right as the kid began to experience a pleasurable whoosey feeling in his bowels.

But Bertie was only human. "Whooaaa!" His orgasm came at him like a wave and he pulled in his gut. His cry was partly anguish but mostly elation as he jerked and jerked and then let go, filling the whimpering young cherubs insides with a spermstorm of four-star manly juice.

Shortly afterwards he sat up on the edge of the bed.

"Let's see. Twice last night, once in the early hours and again just now." he mused as he stuffed banknotes into a brown envelope. Turning to his youthful partner he trust it into his hand. "You've earned your money my little trollop. Now off you go, get dressed and go down stairs and no telling anyone how you got it. My driver will take you back into town."

When the boy had gone Bertie rose up and stretched before going to the window and gazing out onto the lush lawns outside.

Dovecott Manor had its origins in early Tudor times, but in 1644, when it served as a fortified place in support of the king, Oliver Cromwell had it knocked flat. On the restoration of the monarchy it was rebuilt, and later generations enlarged and beautified the structure in any way they saw fit. Sometimes this meant the lavish use of oak for wainscoting and at other times embellishing the old with gilding and painted ceilings. By the time it came into the possession of the sixth Earl of Dewy it had taken on a Gothic appearance, with a great many leaded windows and formidable oak doors with ponderous iron latches. On the death of Bertie's grandmother, the Dowager Countess, it had been allocated to himself as a grace and favour residence, together with a more than modest income.

Bertie had no title himself, but he had the next best thing - he was a wealthy relation to a title.

There was a soft tap on the door and a servant entered.

Bertie Bestable's valet had a face so bland Bertie forgot what he looked like even when he was still looking at him. Poor fellow, face like a spade and as ugly as Himmler, he thought has he scrutinised the man who'd been in his employ for twelve years as if it was for the first time.

Mind you, Bertie would have forgotten his own face had it not been for the fact he glanced at it every morning in the bathroom mirror.

Hawksworth, was his valet's name. Every morning whilst Hawksworth brushed down his master's smart double-breasted lounge suit tailored from high-grade saxony, Bertie showered and then stood in the bathroom primping and tweaking his appearance. At 32 he was still extraordinarily good looking, he believed, although most other people reckoned him to be a chinless-wonder with an expanding paunch, a small mind and implausible large opinions.

In truth he wasn't good looking or intelligent, but he was lucky. He'd been born to the right people whose magnificent background lent his careless, impetuous ways a romantic aura.

He was a stylish cricketer, a good shot, and a bruising rider to hounds, and in his own mind he saw himself as a devilish good chap and a man of the world.

Looking at his reflection never ceased to give satisfaction. Thirty-two years of living had not reduced the joy at looking at himself. When he smiled into the mirror the ink-black of his pupils visibly swelled, reducing the liquid brown irises to a crescent outline. His heart - such as it was - expanded. What style, what balance, what symmetry.

He picked a printed card up from beneath his shaving mirror and allowed himself one last wide grin before adopting a more serene expression.

"I've decide to hold a party, Hawksworth." he told his retainer, "Something special and spectacular. Something people will remember."

 

 

Early morning sunlight streamed though the gap in the bedroom curtains to throw a bright line across Trixie's duvet with its primrose motifs. Trixie was oddly conscious of it as he slowly awoke. It was going to be a warm day. He pressed his naked body into the mattress beneath him, finding wicked enjoyment in the sensation of his aroused penis pressing against his belly.

In his half-awake dreams he'd been recalling earlier episodes in his life. So often in the past he'd been captured in the park by a gang of big boys who made him stand there while they argued about whose turn it was to snog him in the bushes. Whoever had the chance would kiss him and put their hands in his clothes and feel him all over before making him 'do things' to make their big-boy willies squirt cream.

Sometimes if they couldn't agree two of them would share him, but however many there were the result was always the same. Big boy gooies on his belly, on his face, in his bottom. Big boy loads spurting on him, or up him.

Sometimes if they felt wicked they'd march him over to a passing man and offer to rent him out for a session. "Lovely arse," they'd say "Never spits out," they'd say.

Sometimes the men agreed to try him, and he'd have to do everything he did for the big boys with a strange man.

He could have complained to someone, but he never did. He was beautiful, and he loved having people lust over his body. And he was so pleased his Aunt Fiona had allowed him to come and stay at Knob Street, in a place where slender, trim-hipped boys like himself thought nothing of prancing around naked and showing their cocks to each other. And who, when they did dress, loved putting on a skirt just like he did.

Candy spoilt everything by opening the curtains, whistling through his teeth the way he did when he was feeling particularly sharp.

"Trixie - are you awake?" he called softly.

Trixie grunted and half turned, then opened his eyes and focused on the face looking over at him. It occurred to him that Candy had the prettiest eyes he'd ever seen, clear and unpainted and heartbreaking.

With a sudden surge of energy he pushed himself up onto his elbows. "Where are the others?"

"Having breakfast of course. You've slept late. No need to worry though, Madame as gone somewhere and we won't be having first practise until she gets back."

"I was having the most wonderful dream. Lovely thoughts." Trixie said mildly.

"Beautiful boys?"

Trixie laughed.

"Well!" Candy said, stippling his hands in front of his hips in a considered sort of pose. "I think you'll agree I look okay."

Trixie rubbed the sleep from his eyes. Candy was a natural beauty with huge eyes, long legs and a slender yet voluptuous rounded figure. He probably drove everyone wild at school - all the boys and men anyway. Like himself Candy was utterly naked, but there was nothing about his looks to suggest an awry sexuality apart from the hair pinned up behind his head and the slender gold chain looped about his midriff. He seemed a normal good looking boy, girlish facial features perhaps like many boys have before they mature in adolescence, but the body was that of a boy. Or a young underdeveloped girl maybe - hairless and soft in outline, no prominent hips, no sign of breast enlargement, but with genitals that seemed quite normal for a boy advancing into puberty, nicely developed with a rather substantial penis hanging lower than his testicles.

A rich pink glow suffused Trixie's cheeks and he shivered deliciously, his ears felt hot and his cockie got even stiffer. "Oh, yes. " he replied fervently, "You're quite the most..."

"Have you got a hard-on?" Candy said, gliding slinkily towards him.

Trixie grinned goofily and a faint tinge of pink coloured his pale cheeks. "Nothing to do with you, honest. I just woke up like that."

A fleeting mischievous smile lit Candy's smooth face, enhancing the gamine appearance lent by his dark hair and petite figure. He sat down on the bed beside Trixie, threw back the covers and reached down to take charge of things, feasting with his eyes while his hands caressed where he looked, stroking the palm of a hand over Trixie's bare upper thighs, savouring the hairless, alluring texture of the skin and running his fingers lightly around his groin. Finally he confidently wrapped his hand around the fat sausage sticking up from between his thighs.

"I want you to have a hard-on for me, and I want to satisfy it for you."

Trixie panted heatedly and responded by taking a grip on Candy's penis, and within moments each of them was boldly racheting his partners cock, making the smooth pink tips appear and disappear into the sanctuary of their foreskins. He was almost afraid, but when he leaned his head towards his new friend, Candy came forward and met him halfway.

Their lips touched in hesitancy, an exploration rather than bold contact, before Candy drew away momentarily as if seeking permission to continue. Trixie returned the kiss, his own mouth chasing the other mouth urgently until the contact was re-established, firmer and more ardently. Candy's soft, pink mouth tantalised as did his sweeping eyelashes that feathered up and down his cheek.

His mouth opened and he felt the ridges of the other boys teeth bite tenderly upon his lower lips, coaxing rather than aggressive.

And still the hands kept pumping.

Trixie groaned softly. Only one night in Nob Street and already he was showing what a shameless piece of bedroom fluff he was, but he didn't care. Candy was rubbing him so nicely, and Candy's own cock felt wonderful in his hand.

It was good fun, the best kind. The kind of fun girlies longed for all the time.

His tender body writhed languidly and he drew in a hasty gasp. His body was only slight, but as his chest lifted in reflex it seemed to swell as Candy's nipples grazed his own.

In a natural progression they settled back to lay side by side across the bed, their tongues touching together and duelling as they sucked each others mouths.

Candy's free arm swept down the small of Trixie's back to bring him forward so their bodies pressed close together, hip to hip, chest to chest, each enjoying the other boys stomach sliding against his own.

Trixie squirmed and giggled and gasped with delight. Candy was on top, he was all around, covering his body with erotic little shocks, hands, tongue, teeth, everywhere.

His eagerness soared and made him tremble. Wow! he thought. Oh yes!

Making love with Candy was somehow better than doing it with a real boy. Big boys didn't feel as soft as he did, they didn't smell as nice and they weren't as pretty as Candy. Guilt nagged in the back of his mind, but the hardness between his legs assured him that guilt would soon dissolve.

Then Candy's mouth drew back, now only wishing to jab and peck, to moisten and relish flavours.

"Aah, ooh!" Trixie squealed softly when Candy's tongue made circles around his nipples and he kissed him there, he was a really good nipple sucker. "Mmm!" and he groaned when the tip of the tongue ran down his chest to his stomach, there to linger in the well of his navel.

He did not stop there. No body hair concealed any part of the slender body that was trembling with expectation.

Moving swiftly down Candy licked his scrotum, silky and warm on his tongue, and gave the shaft a nice lollipop lick from bottom to top.

"You're a cock-tease. I want to suck you. I want to suck you off." Candy told him. It was as a statement, not a request.

Within seconds Candy was kneeling between Trixie's legs and his mouth was assaulting the pansy's junior rammer with great skill. His lips and tongue were gliding up the long, smooth shaft, making it wet, making it throb, exploring its curves and lines and taking time to tease and please. Then his tongue slid lizard-like under the bulbous head.

"Be spunky for me. Be very spunky." he urged shamelessly.

His tongue then moved up to lap at his sticky flow, then around the shaft, coating it with his saliva, drawing on it, pushing against it and taking it in, closing his mouth around the swollen gland and pressing it against the roof of his mouth with his tongue.

Trixie felt a beat, an anticipation of screaming and another beat as Candy's mouth enveloped it almost to the hilt. Mmmm, so soft and deep. Into the warm cavern that felt velvet at the edges and wet inside, gently, never biting or gripping too hard, the moist holster of his boyfriends mouth moved up and down.

Totally relaxed and in complete surrender Trixie closed his eyes to bask in the wondrous joy of being so nicely fellated.

After a moment he felt the mouth drift away, and he wondered why, but when it returned it was warmer, wetter and even more energetic than before.

Trixie tilted his head back, caught in a tidal wave of blissful feelings he bent his arms at the elbows and made sweet sissy fists. His stiff young cock tensed, it throbbed and ached and, oh yes, he was going to do it. He was going to let everything go and squirt a great big creamy dollop into Candy's tireless, demanding mouth.

Suddenly his young cock spasmed and jerked and he cried out as he thrust deep into the ravening yaw.

"Oh Candy, Candy darling. OooOOOH!" He moaned loudly in the euphoria of release as he felt the seed boil up and leave him with the velocity of a skyrocket.

A tad of curiosity in his mind wondered how his little cock-sucking sheboy lover would cope with what he'd provided, but a moment passed before his eyelids sprang open, and then he cried out in surprise.

And in HORROR.

Helpless and speechless, Candy had been completely muffled by a great big hand wrapped around his face, and it was Samson squatting between his loins, his great humped back bent forward, his thick, enormous lips around his penis, massive head jerking erratically as it drained him of his bubbling boy-gooies.

 

 

 

Madame Dupont left the house early that morning without explanation, leaving Jennifer in charge of everything for the first time. Being in charge of sissies was no strain to the teenage girl since she'd done it before at her mother's school, and in many ways she enjoyed it. At such times everyone had to pay minute attention to what she said and carry out her instructions without a fault. There would be plenty of tears along the way, but things needed to be done to rectify the ghastly condition of the house, and the young dancers were her instrument for getting them done.

Despite Madame being absent Jennifer saw no reason to abandon her routine early morning stroll to the shop on the corner. Once everyone had been given their tasks she left Samson in charge of things and set off with an eye to catching sight of the paperboy called Freddie.

She saw no sign of him, and had not seen him since their first meeting, so when she was in the shop she caught the eye of the man behind the counter.

"Is Freddie around?"

The shop manager was Mr Sicily, a man who showed white teeth in a slightly swarthy Mediterranean complexion. His parents were immigrants, but he spoke the language of a lifelong Londoner. "He's been an' gone. He don't hang around when he's done the papers."

"Do you have his telephone number?"

"Sure, but I can't give it to you. His mama would go barmy if she found out I was handing out her ex-directory number to whoever asked for it."

"Okay. Would you ask Freddie next time he's in if he would leave me the number. No need to put a gun to his head or anything. He doesn't have to if he thinks it not worthwhile."

A voice suddenly called from the far end of the shop in a voice. "I haven't done you before."

She turned and saw a tiny old woman peering across a small counter top.

Mr Sicily smiled again. "Mama as the cards out."

The corner of Jennifer's mouth twitched. "I don't really have time to play poker."

"They not playing cards, they're tarot. Would you like her to foretell your fortune?" He glanced around. "There's no one else here at the moment. It will please her if you permit it."

A half-smiled formed on Jennifer Hancock's face. She didn't really believe in all that superstitious hocus-pocus fortune-telling stuff, she told herself. The visceral predictions of fortune-tellers were always ill defined and open to interpretation, but like most women she was curious, and one could have fun afterwards by dissecting things that had been said.

She strolled over to the counter where the old woman was wedged between barley-sugar and Bisto. The woman's black hair streaked with grey was caught back in a tight bun, and although she had been in London for thirty years she still hung onto the featureless black dress traditionally worn by the older generation of married women in the land of her birth.

"You're new here. I've done most other people around here." the woman said.

"I've been in London for more than a week."

"A week in any place is still new. Show me your hands, please." The woman's diction was good, only an occasional stretched vowel sound betrayed her immigrant roots.

Jennifer raised her hands in front like an infant child responding to a teacher, and the woman gasped her wrists, studied the back of her knuckles and fingers then turned them over to look at the open palms.

"You have a trim build, but you're very strong."

"I keep fit."

Slowly the woman's eyes turned up to give a penetrating stare. "You're not only strong in body, I sense you're strong in mind too. And you have Romany blood in your veins. Did you know?"

Jennifer was both startled and impressed. "How clever you are. How did you work that out."

The woman smiled. "People such as I, those of us who have cultivated the gift of clairvoyance, are sometimes privileged to have insight into the unknowable."

"My mother insists she can trace the female line of our family back over a hundred years to the gypsies of Budapest. Can you add anything to that?"

"The Romany's are a nomadic branch of the great stew of people that fermented in Asia Minor when humanity was in its infancy. Tracking so far back is not easy, but if that is your dearest wish I shall ask the cards if they can help."

She put the pack of tarot cards on the counter top and divided them into five stacks. The cards were probably as old as the woman herself, the pattern on the backs of them worn with frequent use. "Take three cards and lay them face up." she said.

Jennifer felt an odd tingle of expectancy. Her knowledge of tarot cards was minimal, coming as it did only from the silly tinkering girls at boarding school did late at night in the dormitory. But she did remember there was seventy-eight cards in a pack divided into five suits called Arcana. The first card she laid was a radiant sunburst, the second a priestess, both from the tallest stack known as the Major Arcana. The third, a clutch of swords, she took from one of the other piles.

The woman looked nonplussed. Surprised. "Two others, please. Lay two more."

The final two both came from one of the Minor Arcana and bore symbols she was unfamiliar with.

"You're family is far away." Mrs Sicily said.

Jennifer nodded. Yorkshire wasn't very near, but that was an easy one. The canny old dear knew well enough she was a visitor to London.

"You have chosen lucky cards. You will be blessed with success." announced the woman.

That wasn't a surprise either. She'd always had confidence, and wasn't self-confidence one of the prerequisites for success?

"What of my family roots. Do the cards say anything about that?" she asked.

Mrs Sicily dealt five cards herself and abutted them to those already on the countertop, then she took a deep breath and her eyes became fixed on them, flashing from one to the other, each in turn. A flutter of desperation seemed to enter her eyes and she laid five more before finally looking up with a grave puzzled expression.

"You do not originate from the Romany tribes. Your time with the Indo-European stock of Asia must have come late. You go back further than they do, and you're from somewhere else."

Jennifer shook her head. "I don't understand. Did the cards tell you that? Where? Where does my family come from?"

Mrs Sicily frowned and drew the cards together. "It's impossible. The cards will not say at this time, and I cannot command them."

No revelations then! Jennifer mused. She felt disappointed, and poor Mrs Sicily was crestfallen. Obviously the old girl was not a fraud. A charlatan wouldn't have been stuck for a fancy story to feed her. The woman was genuinely foxed for something to tell her and felt there was no choice other than to abandon things.

The session had been brief and she'd been told nothing of a mind-bending nature, but nevertheless the teenager guiltily reached for the purse in her shoulder bag, even thought she knew it really wasn't to best way to use the modest allowance her mother provided.

Mrs Sicily threw up her hands. "I cannot take payment from a person who chooses cards that are unfathomable. That would be dishonourable."

 

Madame had just returned in a taxi when Jennifer reached the house, and she was in possession of two large, heavy suitcases which she was urging Samson to carry directly upstairs. When she saw her young assistant approaching along the street she paused on the steps, and instead of greeting her with a smile her mouth drew tight.

"Jennifer, I'm extremely displeased." she said scathingly.

"Why?" Jennifer opened her eyes wide. "Have I done something wrong?"

"Of course you've done something wrong. You must know that. You've been out."

"Just for twenty minutes to go to the shop."

Madame snorted. "You left my vulnerable little darlings defenceless."

"Hardly defenceless. Samson was in the house."

"Samson as plenty of brawn but little brain, and people can sometimes baffle him with smart talk. The man needs guidance, and whenever I'm not here I expect YOU to provide it. I have no use for an assistant who wishes to be Miss Independence."

Jennifer went up the steps fuming, but saying nothing. Miss Independence indeed! Who did the woman think she was? Not only did she have to exist in a horrible poky room in her grotesque old house for the entire Summer Season, but she now had to contend with picking her way around the feelings of her unpredictable mother-hen foibles.

Her own mother had always indulged her and she was unused to being reprimanded. Perhaps that was why she had insisted on her going to London. Maybe she hoped a taste of the real world would amend her own laxity.

They went in without exchanging any more harsh words, and once in the sitting room Jennifer felt it diplomatic to move on to another subject. Her eyes strayed to the mornings post that Samson had placed on the little writing desk in the corner.

"I've got mail, and you have letters too, Madame."

She passed three items to the other woman then flopped down heavily in a armchair that had stuffing bursting out from its seams like spilt brains. On the envelope addressed to herself the handwriting was clearly her mother's.

"It's from home," she said with a nostalgic note to her voice. "What a fine hand mummy has, there's something invigorating about it. Such style, I wonder where she ever got such style." She tore it open and read for a moment before looking up. "There's a piece about the rose garden at Fairyfield that I'll read you afterwards, as good as anything in an horticultural magazine."

Madame raised a cynical eyebrow as she jammed herself into the corner of a large settee where the once cherry-red upholstery was almost threadbare.

"Do open your own post. You may have a booking for the Follies." Jennifer urged.

Madame Dupont studied the mail in her hand. "I doubt it. I've probably got invoices demanding payment, and a hype telling me how my life will always be incomplete unless I invest in a rowing machine. Ah! No. This one's from Sophie, my daughter. I'll read it later in my room."

"You have a daughter!"

Madame at last smiled rather warmly. "Despite what I may seem now, I've not always been a dance-fixated recluse, Jennifer. I never married of course ..." she shrugged dismissively, "but I have a daughter living in Esher with her father. He's rather steady and well-off and much better able to provide for her."

Jennifer wagged her head. "You never cease to amaze me, Madame Dupont."

Marianne brought in a tea tray. "I hope you're going to drink some this time, Madame." he twittered fussily, "I had to chuck it all away earlier because you went out so quick."

The woman smiled and accepted the mild rebuke with magnanimity. She was always amused by his scatty remarks, so clearly Marianne was more than a servant to her, and more even than a key feature for the Follies. He had a sweet smile that spread from his mouth to his eyes and no one could be completely immune to it. He was the most loveable person possible. Never lost his temper, was always amenable, and he possessed a beautiful temperament that was the envy of others.

Everyone loved Marianne. The only flaw in his personality was that he was too trusting and could never see bad in anyone. An admirable trait but a dangerous one when dealing with some people.

"You're a minx, Marianne," Madame said, "And one day you will get your deserts. But for now go off and fill your time in elsewhere. Rehearsals for you will be directly after lunch."

When the pantywaist had gone from the room Madame Dupont seemed disposed to move away from the subject of her daughter. She placed one letter to the side and picked up another.

"We amaze each other, Jennifer, but I'm going to amaze you the most. I have a passion to live within easy reach of Shaftsbury Avenue and the rest of theatreland. Footlights and greasepaint are part of me and I constantly need to feel the pulse of the West End. That being the case I'm going to make Horace Pratt an offer for this house."

"You're going to buy number nineteen?" Jennifer asked incredulously, "But how? You're always so short of money. You never have two brass pennies to rub together."

"I've come into a sort of inheritance recently - my father."

"You've suffered a bereavement. I'm so sorry if I offended you just now. Please accept my condolences."

The woman shook her head. "I won't make a drama of it, we were never very close. He spent most of his time down the road in Pentonville - as a convict in the prison. Daddy was a banjo player once, but when big bands went out of fashion he turned to armed-robbery, and whilst we never enjoyed a good relationship he was at least good enough to tell me where he'd stashed all the loot he never had a chance to spend.

"Apparently he was helping to refurbish the prison-governor's garden when a concrete flamingo fell on his head."

"A tragedy."

"Yes. Death by concrete flamingo can't have been a nice way to go. Killed him outright though, so I all his stuff belongs to me now. Quite a lot really. Enough to buy Number 19 anyway, I think. I should get it at a good price. I had a couple of builder friends of mine convince Horace it will probably begin to fall down soon, so he'll want to get rid of it quick."

"You don't rate Mr Pratt very highly, do you?"

Madame pursed her lips and replied in a voice that was as crisp and even as the snow of King Wenceslas. "I've run out of strychnine, so I'll put ground glass in his whiskey next time he comes here."

She opened a second piece of mail, a lilac coloured envelope.

"From a friend," she said with a smile. "She wants my dancers to perform at a Girl Guide jamboree."

"A joke, surely." snorted Jennifer.

Madame chuckled. "Yes, of course it's a joke. My darlings would fall to pieces if they had to perform for a gang of squealing bobby-soxers. They become utterly bemused and helpless in the company of real girls."

She put that letter to one side and picked up a stiff brown envelope, long and thin, an old fashioned shape from the days of quarto paper and sealing wax. The address was typed but the name written by hand. Tearing it open her eyes appeared to expand and become very alert with a feverish kind of brightness..

"Goodness gracious! It's from Bertie Bestable at Dovecott. His handwriting is so illegible he should have been a doctor, but he clearly wants to see a show. I have the first booking of the Season for the Frilly Follies."

She glanced up to explain. "I first met Bertie when I did the clubs south of the river. He's rich, careless with money and considered a bit vulgar, but he'll make an ideal first client. A success at Dovecott Manor will guarantee a successful full season for the Follies."

"I'm so pleased things are moving on in a good way." said Jennifer.

Madame seemed overcome by a faint dreaminess.

"I've created the most exciting dance company ever. I've trained them, guided them, encouraged them to make the most of their potential. Now they're world-class. Further rehearsal will only serve to maintain their edge. Right now they're ready to perform."

Suddenly her eyes stared wildly and she began to shake.

"Saturday evening! That's just two days away. Oh dear! The first show of the Season always makes me tense. It sets the tone for everything that follows, you see."

She gave her teenage assistant a look of fierce urgency. "I won't expect you to accompany us on every outing Jennifer, Samson and I can manage most things without additional help and you're deserving of some free time, but I'd value your support on this first one. The first one is always so vital."

Agitated beyond endurance she rose up and went to the door to call along to the kitchen.

"Marianne, bring a fresh pot of tea - and bring some chocolate biscuits. We're going to celebrate."

 

 

Jennifer held the road map open across her slim knees and chattered with delight every mile of the way since they'd left London, enthusing about everything whilst passing through a countryside that had slipped into the parched silence of a corn-scented summer. It was a land of quiet distances beyond deep hedges of haw and sloe, and of potato fields lined with willows, their shining leaves rippling in the sunshine. There were butterflies too - browns, yellows and Vanessides, and the grass was truly green. Not at all like Yorkshire really, but the rural feel of things gave her warm remembrance of her mother's home in the north.

She sniffed the air like a young colt savouring an open spring meadow. "Do you smell it?" she asked Madame Dupont, "Everything is so clean here."

Madame wasn't convinced. "There's more muck in the countryside than you'll ever find in the city." she replied dourly.

Much of the journey was on duel-carriageway, and Madame Dupont, a capable driver, made good time even on the minor roads. She was driving a minibus carrying Jennifer and the dancers, while Samson followed behind in a transit-van with everything else they needed. She would have made better time still had she not needed to keep consulting the rear-view mirror to ensure her manservant wasn't veering off in the wrong direction at every junction and fork in the road.

"The bluebells are out." said Pompom in the back of the van, pointing at a dusting of colour beneath an elm tree.

"They aren't bluebells, silly, they're violets." Marianne told him.

"Same difference."

"No it's not," Marianne said indignantly, "Violets are smaller and sweeter."

Pompom gave him a vindictive glance. "Oh yes, eat them, do you, cleverclogs?"

It was after five in the afternoon when they arrived at Dovecott Manor. The smooth tarmac of the road stopped abruptly and became dirt. At this point the community responsibility ended and an area of private property began; fifty acres of wild greenwood allowed to grow unhampered and untamed. This was in contrast to the grounds of the house it surrounded where the lawns were deep and thick, manicured and cut through by flagstone paths.

A succession of anonymous people waved the two vehicles around the side of the house to a door at the back, where a very ancient and decrepit looking man in a morning-suit stood waiting.

"There's a room inside you can use." he told them without emotion.

"Where do we perform? And at what time?" asked Madame crisply.

The old man shook his head to indicate he didn't have a clue.

"Where is Mr Bestable?"

"In with the guests." was the effete reply. Whereupon the old fellow turned about and walked away so slowly and solemnly Madame fancied he was contemplating commit suicide.

"This is really too bad of Bertie," she complained to Jennifer bitterly, "He assured me he would be here to fill me in on all the arrangements - venue, time, entrances and exits, sound system and lighting. We know nothing. Good Lord, we're strangers here and utterly lost. He expects perfection to simply blossom while he stands in the front of the house carousing."

Her expression became one of desperation. "Supervise the unloading Jennifer whilst I go and find the wretched man."

Dovecott Manor was imposing. When Madame first stepped inside it seemed a mysterious place, filled with old furniture and the remnants of other peoples lives. The entrance hall ran the entire width of the house, with sets of French windows at the far end leading onto a terrace where people were milling about, glasses in hand. Local girls in black dresses and frilled organdie aprons offered silver trays of hors d'oeuvres, a man in a a white dinner jacket played cocktail piano in the hall, and a string quartet gave out strains of Mozart on the terrace. In a gazebo on the back lawn, couples gyrated to disco music.

The party was already in full swing. Women falling upon each other with such enthusiasm when they arrived that she thought it must be the reunion of long lost friends, until she realised the kissing women never sullied their lips with fleshy contact, and used the brief moment to scan over each others shoulders for guests more fascinating, or gazed at their own immaculate reflections in one of the gilded mirrors on the wall.

Madame Dupont felt a little out of place. The men were all black bow-ties and dinner suits, and the women made-up to the eyeballs with not a catalogue dress between them - the cost of the simplest outfit there would have paid her rent for a month.

"My dear," a voice said loudly close by, "Isn't this the most heavenly little shindig?"

Elise Dupont jumped involuntantarily. A woman was standing at her elbow almost drowning her in heavy perfume. She took a step back and took another look. It was quite a sight.

A dumpy woman, dressed in a haphazard way with flashy ornaments dangling here and there, but she had taken great care with her large face, which was painted out of resemblance to humanity, and was topped with an enormous wig lacquered sufficiently enough to withstand any typhoon blowing across southern Essex.

"I'm Lady Dewy," the woman explained, "Milly to my friends and those who knew me before I married the old earl and came up in the world. I'm the showgirl made good. Straight from theatreland to having my own big show. Mistress of an old man to being mistress of his estate - acres of land going that way, that way and that way - more acres than you could count. Though now of course much of it as been sold off with those dinky little farms and cottages people term as 'desirable residences'. And Dovecott as been given to Bertie, the earl's nephew - grace and favour - an enormous house at very nominal rent. It's the kind of thing us lah-de-dah's do, y'know."

She stopped talking for a second and peered at her, making her feel a bit like a specimen in a bottle.

"And who are you, my dear?"

"I'm Elise Dupont." Madame replied, taking her in. She was fifty if she was a day, A hefty lump raised on towering high gold heels, with her plump thighs squashed into a skin-tight Pucci silk capris and her breasts flattened by a sparkly sequinned tank top. She wore a rope of real emeralds around her thick neck and obviously belonging to the school of 'if you've got it, flaunt it' was weighed down by massive diamond and ruby rings.

"Bet you've never seen anything like me before, have you Elise Dupont?"

"No, I certainly haven't."

"And I haven't seen anything like you. My dear, this is supposed to be a party. Girls are supposed to dress up. That's how they catch their men."

"Is that right?"

"Trust me," she nodded. "I caught four of 'em, each one richer than the last. You want to know my secret? Just be yourself, my dear. Forget about their pompous titles, just stick out your tits and shake 'em. They'll fall at your feet, and that's the best place for 'em. At your feet, I mean. A girl can never have too much of that."

"I'm looking for Bertie Bestable." Madame said as she surveyed the room for a familiar figure.

Helpfully Lady Dewy pointed to a small group.

"He's there. He's the younger one and he's an awful flirt."

"Is he?"

"Oh yes. Anyone would need three heads to a stink of skunks to stop him making a pass when he gets the chance. He's an awful flirt, with boys as well as girls. Around here he's considered what they call a regular dash. But avoid that woman with the yellow hair and velvet bow standing with him, she thinks she's kipper's knickers and she's licensed to kill."

She recognised the woman at once from photographs she'd seen in The Stage and other show-bussiness magazines. Annalisa Gordeno, once known as Annie Green, was an acclaimed diva of musical revues in the West End and by all accounts a prima-donna in every other way too. She was wearing a dress that night which in Elise Dupont's opinion was a huge mistake, glaring bright pink like cheap bubblegum, and strapless, which was also a mistake if one had collarbones that looked like someone had shoved a coat-hanger sideways down their throat. At that moment she looked like the kind of brassy woman who picked men up on cruises.

Forty-something now and fighting to stave off a thickening waistline it was said by those who knew Ms Gordeno that she had cultivated her voice to sound somewhat drippy, frequently referring to herself as 'little me', so silly, so very much in need of a strong man to sort out horrid things. But her prettiness was all bubbles. She ate men, who were usually prepared to be eaten. She was a snob who didn't care for women much, and if thrust too long in their company got a headache without delay.

Lady Milly immediately began to point out other notable guests and regale her with salty stories of their exploits. It would have been entertaining had Madame not been in such a hurry.

Bertie Bestable was enjoying his party, looking well fed and well-upholstered he was strolling around, greeting everyone and pausing for brief conversations now and then. He knew most of them of course because he'd invited them himself, but there were a few strange faces, guests of guests, hangers-on and the odd gatecrasher. He greeted them all the same, with an air of boyish devil-may-care and scintillating charm, laughing at their jokes uproariously even when he didn't catch the punchline.

Madame walked over and inserted herself delicately into the group of people surrounding him, avoiding looking too hard at Annalisa Gordeno who was thoughtfully studying a half tomato on a plate that she's taken from a sumptuous buffet at the back of the room.

Elise thought to intervene quickly to get Bertie's attention but was thwarted by a woman barging past her. Stiff-necked and proper, she was painfully thin and tall, wearing a dress of bilious green, her face a humourless white tulip in steel-rimmed glasses.

"Bertie deah," the woman said, "I've just seen a number of children arrive, no more than schoolgirls by their looks. Surely you don't intend to foster them on us as entertainment? Pitiful amateurs! They've likely had no training whatsoevah. It will be a torment for them and an insult to the theartah."

Bertie's face turned slightly pink. "Mrs Van Damme, I assure you they're professional entertainers."

The woman's narrow head shook lugubriously. "Poor creatures," she said in a voice rich with sympathy, "Mothers! Some people reelly ought to be shet up in boxes for treating their deah offspring so dreadfully."

Instead of bridling at such criticism Madame Dupont became fascinated by the woman's mixture of punctilious tones and strangled vowel sounds. She thought the accent so refined her words must have been squeezed through a laundry mangle.

Bertie Bestable was an avid collector of ancient curios, the walls of the anteroom forming a gallery of frescoes peopled with angels and fabulous creatures. Shelves held a collection of Coptic altarpieces and statuettes, and there were other items too. On one level a carved stone xoanon from Sumatra, at another a cycladic idol from the Aegean. There was also an Ibo fertility truncheon from Central Africa, and a sealed gold casket said to contain a toenail of St Barnabus, smuggled out from a monastery on the Iberian peninsular.

When the woman with the strange voice drifted away a pot-bellied, balding man, clearly an academic, launched into what he hoped was a shared sphere of interest.

"I'm delving into the antediluvian, Bertie - you know, after Noah's flood - and I've recently had a good look at the Khafaje bowl in the British Museum."

Bertie gave him a droll sideways glance. "I'd be a rotten liar if I didn't admit I'd rather study something more to my taste at the moment, Dr Dobbs."

"Oh, indeed. And what would that be?"

"Why, epidermal photochromatology in youthful antipodean anthropoids, of course."

The plump man's face reddened. "What the heck are you talking about?"

Bertie's eyes twinkled in merriment and Annalisa Gordeno roared with laughter. More of a shriek than a boom, but whenever she laughed she ensured she drew attention to herself.

"He'd rather study pretty bottoms, Dr Dobbs." she said, her body shaking as if Bertie had said something unbelievably funny. "He's a dirty lecher."

"The Oxford English Dictionary lists forty-nine words to describe buttocks." Bertie added joyfully.

"Fascinating," remarked Dr Dobbs dryly, "That's exactly the number of terms the Inuit Eskimos have for snow."

"What's the matter with the food?" Bertie asked Annalisa as he observed the solitary half tomato wobbling on her plate.

The woman sighed and the tip of her nose twitched like a rabbit. "I can't decide whether to eat it or not."

"Why?"

"Tomatoes are full of fluid which will make me fat. But they're also full of antitoxidants which are anticarcinogenic."

Bertie's brow creased. "But, do you want to eat it?"

Anilisa looked at him as if he were mad. "What's WANTING to eat it got to do with anything?"

In desperation the little fat man turned to Madame Dupont.

"I'm Marmeluke Dobbs by the way, Lecturer in Antiquities at Verton. Bertie pointed you out when you arrived. He tells me you use the house once owned by Sir Grenville Dander."

"I believe I do, I've heard his name mentioned." Madame replied vaguely.

"Fine fellow by all accounts, but one with a colossal ego. Got his nose pushed out in the 1920s when he was doing digs in Mesopotamia. Found some useful stuff apparently, but at that time the newspapers just wanted to know about Caernarfon's discovery in Egypt - y'know, the Valley of the Kings and the tomb of the boy-king Tutankhamun. When he came home old Sir Grenville had an immense sulk and shut himself away like a recluse. Never spoke about what he'd found."

Taking advantage of a convenient moment Madame gave an urgent little tug on Bertie's sleeve.

"You really MUST spare me ten minutes to explain things."

 

Fifteen minutes later when Madame returned to her Company she was desperately trying not to hyperventilate. Nothing was going right, was it? Arrangements for her arrival had been minimal, the program she'd been given was sketchy at best and the host so laid-back he'd fallen off the edge of the planet, just like a bloody Nero, plucking on his ukulele while things fizzed and popped around him.

When she got among her troupe everyone was delving into the hampers that the panciloquent Samson was carrying in from outside and panicking to get into costume. Jennifer was literally spitting out feathers from something that had burst on the journey, whilst Prudence was struggling into a outfit that was a size too small because it had a small waist that would exaggerate his hipline.

"I know the bodice is a little tight, but it gives me more of a figure." he was explaining to anyone who would listen.

Bambi laughed because he was small enough and slim enough to get into any costume.

"If you cough or eat a pea all the buttons will ping off."

Madame wiped her brow with the back of her hand. She would be fine, she decided. She would be 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.

 

 

The music-room in the house, a tall, handsome, pillared octagon, was filled with the triumphant first movement of Locatelli's C major quartet. The players, thin men in dinner suits pinned against the far wall by rows of little round guilt chairs, were playing with passionate conviction as they mounted towards the penultimate crescendo.

Within seconds of the deep liberating final cord Madame stepped regally out from a side entrance into the cleared space that had been nominated as a performance area. It was some four hours after the pandemonium on arrival and during that time as things began to take shape she had managed to compose herself.

Now, with the sanguine exuberance of a circus ringmaster she commanded everyone's attention.

"Ladies and gentlemen, it's showtime, and for your entertainment we now present forty-five minutes of - Frilly Follies."

The instant she disappeared music from overhead speakers began to throb with Bizet's 'Bolero', and the audience seemed to freeze in their seats as Bambi sprang out from the wings to take centre stage.

He was a tiny 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 small, 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.

Bambi was the youngest and smallest of Madame's troupe, 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 hairless little 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 contents of his soft silken bag dangling at the root of his pink popsy was young, fresh and perfect, but his modesty was constantly shielded all around by the practised strategic movements of the two large 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 Bertie Bestable.

Madame too was in raptures. "Well done, Bambi, they really liked that." she said, stuffing a boiled sweet into his mouth as if rewarding a performing dog.

Heart palpitating she dug her fingernails into her palm in an effort to calm herself as she observed the others in her group preparing to spring forward with the next routine.

"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 Lulu.

A moment later they were high-stepping like drum-majorettes into the lights. Six young boys 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. They presented a sight to make dead men sit up, and it was impossible to disguise the stirring of loins in the room.

Madame hadn't ended it at that. 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 young genitals had no hope of taking shelter.

They were tricked out with beads, earbobs, frills and furbelows, but no underwear - not a stitch, their slender white 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 youthful testes were clearly defined.

A ripple went around the room, people gazing in astonished disbelief at the plethora of femmed-up revealing jail bait and the sight of 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 Pompom 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.

Surveying them analytically Marmeluke Dobbs leaned across to Bertie sitting next to him.

"How old are they?" he asked,. He was a corpulent man of about fifty, who overflowed his chair leaving only a streak of guilt wood to be seen here and there.

Bertie shrugged. "They're kids, I don't know how old they are, but they could be twelve or thirteen. Nice legs though, and nice..."

The other man narrowed his lips and sniffed. "I don't know what you think of this buggery lark, but I think it's unnatural."

Bertie nodded wisely before giving him a impish smile. "My dear old Dobbo, I don't recall anyone mentioning anything about buggery. How on earth did you come up with a thought like that?"

The girlie-boys became a sestet team once more, advancing and receding in line abreast, feet moving at a blur - rap, tack, tap - rack, tap, tack - a'racker d'tacker racker, rap, trap-tap - eventually moving sideways to slide like a knife into its sheath as they exited through the door that was draped to accommodate the wings, stage-left.

Again the audience applauded loudly, and once more Bertie Bestable clapped the loudest.

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 Prudence, so very like a dusky peach himself, who went on 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.

A lively melody began to pipe from the audio-speakers as he cruised to a stance in the centre of the floor, and then 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 ..."

 

The Busby Berkley number receded and Prudence glided away into the wings, then the music mutated to a heady rumba beat and Marianne appeared. 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.

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 the rumba, 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.

Quite abruptly the strains of rumba faded to be superseded by the languorous, sultry melody of Gershwin's 'Summertime'.

Marianne 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.

A pause of appealing hesitation, and it came off.

Now he was free to cup his two small breasts that stood proud and totally unsupported, the pinkness of the winsome erect nipples enhanced by a blush of rouge.

He caressed himself for a moment knowing he was being closely studied and admired, but he knew he was beautiful, totally gorgeous, and when he took up another stance the line of his body was exquisitely exact, the turn of his limbs light and stealthy. His was a performance that combined the grace of ballet with the titillation of striptease and spectacle of erotic tableau.

Beneath his creamy shoulders and the swell of his hips he was resplendent in seamless tan stockings secured to a lacy garter belt by elastic suspender straps. His golden tresses glistened beneath the lights and his pale body dripped sex, so slim but so wonderfully moulded with his small breasts and softly rounded hips. Neck so graceful, limbs so sensual, hands so delicate, he was a transvestite dream that could corrupt the celibate.

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 her 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.

Bertie Bestable's breath became tight and his lungs felt like immobile sacs as he force himself to exhale. He could feel his own flesh hardening, body trembling, blood pounding beneath flushed skin. He was a man who adored watching boys get undressed and this was extra special. Marianne was an angel fallen to earth and his enticing little bottom would be a source of interest to men for years to come.

And that cock. Wow! The mincing little queen was hung like a horse, he possessed an equine-like monster far too big for a slight body such as his, but it looked all the more thrilling because it was there.

He heard a woman behind him whisper to her companion.

"Good Lord, do look at her. Isn't she quite delicious? That prick! Surely it must be against the Geneva Convention or something."

"Must have escaped from a zoo." retorted another voice.

Bertie was the host and he enjoyed knowing his guests approved. The charmer out front certainly did have a capital dangle swinging between his creamy white thighs and dark stocking tops. Nice knob-end and a good bag of nuts too.

With a small, sly smile on his mouth Marianne 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 around the floor, 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.

The moment he danced away into the wings an avalanche of petticoat frills appeared on the floor, a group of three girls dressed as regency dolls, beautiful, like models advertising crinoline ball gowns, pink and crimson off the shoulder outfits that boasted vast shimmering skirts that fell in tiers of ruches down to their ankles. Petticoats beneath projected the width of the skirts and accentuated the narrowness of their waists, and long crimson cocktail gloves that stretched up beyond their elbows highlighted the slenderness of their arms. But it was Madame's innovation that really caught the attention. As with their earlier costumes the skirts were divided at the front and were splayed open to hide nothing and reveal all.

The three damsels skimmed delicately around the floor until a trio of 'boys' eventually joined them. The boys were clothed in simpler style. White starched shirt fronts with collars and bow-ties, and long-tailed black coats. Nothing else. Nothing below the waist but the pink ribbon on their willies and kidskin slippers on their feet.

The tinkling chimes of a harpsichord introduced a minuet, a routine into which Madame had incorporated much of the intricate choreography advocated in Feuillet's treatise on dance.

It was a genteel display in which grace and form were paramount. Girls of the past would have found their social status devastated by an awkward, careless step, but there was nothing more graceful anywhere now than those six figures on the floor.

Pairing off, the boys and girls allowed a ruminative 'cello to utter two phrases of its own and begin dialogue with a viola, then splendidly synchronised and stepping lightly they advanced and retreated, two small paces forward, then one step back, swaying elegantly, legs stretching, toes pointed. Their only contact with their partners being fingertips raised to the height of the chin, heads pushed back, faces turned inward to enthral each other with ravishing smiles.

"Discipline!" breathed Madame to herself as she observed them from the wings. "Poise, footwork, grace, balance. Allegro, keep the movements small."

Every movement took the breath away, each poised stance of their lithe young bodies formed a sinuous curve, a flowing line of craftily arranged costume and youthful bare flesh that stimulated even the most jaded of imaginations.

"Incredible!" someone muttered.

Bertie smiled innocuously. The minuet set his head wagging with its insistent beat and some of the people seated on the guilt chairs followed the strains with an intensity that equalled his own. Awe struck, he was wholly unconscious of his hand stirring the pack of pork in his breeches as the delicate promenade orbited the floor, unclad thighs flashing as they paraded by, at times brushing against himself and the others in the front row of the auditorium.

And then came the finale. In a flurry of magenta ruffles and showing all their previous exuberance Madame Dupont's little girl's joined together in a familiar repertoire: Chopin's waltz in A flat major, Litz and Debussy etudes, a flourish of Rachmaninov - pieces she had practised to death and to which her students now moved faultlessly.

Bambi returned, this time bouncing into the lights looking like a small feminine angel in an extremely short lemon-yellow party frock that could have been made for an eight-year-old. It had bows and lace and lots and lots of petticoats that showed lots of bare legs, and he wore frilly white ankle-socks and Mary-Jane shoes. But no panties. His hair had been combed up and decorated with a large yellow bow, and with credible aplomb he took the lead in singing a vintage Shirley Temple number:

"On the good ship Loll-eee-pop

It's a sweet trip to a candy shop

Where bon bons play,

on the sunny beach at peppermint bay ...."

 

His youthful voice tinkled clear and sweet, but although the audience listened their eyes ranged ceaselessly up and down his scantily dressed figure.

Keeping his head up and his shoulders back and maintaining his hands and arms at a graceful angle, he tapped, pirouetted and swirled. The frugal items that made up his costume had been tailored to show off his petite young body to its best advantage, so when he turned he was able to bump up his bottom until the back of his skirt flounced up to reveal his peerless little bare backside.

He oozed with the same cuteness and precocity of the legendary child-star, hopping, bobbing up and down, stretching and dipping and gesticulating so energetically that this time everyone had a chance to see the tender sissy's own confectionery beneath his purposely shortened ruffled petticoats - the flavoursome looking candy-stick and the luscious little gob-stoppers wrapped in their very own pretty pink bag. Finally he swung round, put a forefinger under his chin and gave a deep curtsy.

Afterwards, everyone's delight was obvious. Many were physically salivating and Bertie was ecstatic and effusive with praise when he went over to have a word with Madame Dupont.

"First-rate show, by Jove. Superb choreography. Great charm. The only thing it lacked was, erm..."

Elise Dupont rebuked him acidly before he'd even finished. "I wont have my angels do erections Bertie, if that's what you're thinking. That would be unnecessary and quite crude."

"Er, yes indeed," Bertie mumbled, "Perhaps we can discuss the matter sometime."

He eyes swung towards Jennifer and looked her up and down.

"Miss Hancock is my assistant." explained Madame, indicating towards Jennifer.

"Such a pleasure to meet you." Bertie said, offering his hand.

Jennifer was prepared to be pleasant, but his gentleman drawl had an unpleasant edge to it that stated without saying, that it was really no pleasure at all. In his book assistants to anyone were rarely worth knowing, and although he enjoyed women occasionally, this one was a drab who didn't dress to the right standard. No breeding and no taste. Afterwards he spared her not a glance.

The woman wearing the steel-rimmed spectacles and snot-green dress made a beeline over to where Madame stood. "They're all boys! And all quite shameless too. How original. What an innovation. What a surprise, I'd no ideah. Simply mahvullous!"

Her eyes alight with excitement and intrigue. "Eroticism even with inspired choreography can be tiresome. Viewing naughty boys in dresses makes such a refreshing change.

"Mai card," she added fulsomely, "Ai can be reached here. Telephone me on a weekday."

  

  

  

*********************************************
© 2005 by Jason argo. All Rights Reserved. These documents (including, without limitation, all articles, text, images, logos, and compilation design) may be printed for personal use only. No portion of these documents may be stored electronically, distributed electronically, or otherwise made available without the express written consent of StorySite and the copyright holder.