Showtime

by Jason Argo

Part 6

 

Additional engagements for the Follies came in fits and starts, but when Madame was able to forecast a bald patch looming she agreed to allow Samson to drive Jennifer and the mysterious earthenware pottery up to Yorkshire. In order to prepare for that Jennifer negotiated to have Samson take her to a garden centre to acquire a receptacle in which to rehouse Marianne's flowers, and to find a place to purchase three dozen glass jars into which the contents of the ill-used ancient painted earthenware could be transferred.

She would have liked Marianne to empty and wash the earthenware. Marianne had the most careful and dedicated hands in the house - any delivery boy who came to the kitchen door could vouch for that - but the task was clearly too much for a single person, so she dragooned everyone else in to help. Any damage caused by high-jinx or clumsiness would incur a severe penalty she warned, not just for one person, but for ALL.

Doubting that anyone else had the skill to re-pot the flowers she undertook that task herself.

Kneeling on the back step that faced onto the yard she rehoused them with considerable care, then set about scrapping out the remnants of stale soil from the stone pot. It was quite by chance that she placed her gloved hand flat against the insides and slid them slowly around, and to her surprise she found that the tips of her fingers bumped over ridges and nodules.

Curious, she shuffled to one side and tipped the vase forward to collect some daylight. When she peered into it she found it difficult to make any sense of things at first because everything was still so smeared with grime, but after a moment she was able to confirm it was lined with metal, black with age but quite uncorroded and sound. Even more interesting, the metal lining bore raised motifs of animals and strange lizard-headed people.

How odd! To have vague scratchings on the outside and elaborate decoration inside. Such a strange inversion seemed to confirm it was a remarkable object. Quite suddenly she began to appreciate it's importance. Not just because it was ancient and maybe valuable, but for the fact that it had undoubtedly once been prominent in peoples lives. Who were those people? How did they live? What thoughts had passed through their minds?

The Follies was booked for a performance later, but after lunch Madame Dupont surprised her by saying she had some correspondance to attend to and wouldn't be going out until the evening, and would Jennifer like to take the afternoon off.

An opportunity for time off during the day was almost unknown, and Jennifer accepted it without any qualms.

She was still thinking about the stone pot. Instinctively she knew she had discovered something important, not just historically, but on a personal level too. The mystery of it had started to haunt her, undermining all her thoughts and filling her mind with questions, and she fancied she knew exactly where those questions would find an answer.

The British Museum stood in Great Russell Street, just a little way along the Tottenham Court Road.

Standing bewildered in the concourse of the nations principle museum, she regretted ever having the idea to visit it. She had no experience of coming to such places alone and felt out of her depth. There were signs everywhere, clusters of signs indicating the way to various galleries, signs for the toilets, signs for refreshments, but nothing she saw mentioned Mesopotamia. Where did one begin looking?

Perhaps it would be simpler to pop into the museum library, she thought.

A notice on an information board told her there was more than 15,000 books slotted onto shelves around the walls of the library on two levels, with sufficient seating for over 200 readers in the middle of them. The scale of the place, just the description of it, made her feel dizzy. How on earth could she hope to find what she wanted in a single afternoon if she had to contend with a vast amphitheatre of accumulated text such as that?

For a while she wondered around aimlessly, displaying the distinctly masculine trait that assured her she could manage perfectly well without asking for help. But eventually she began to flounder.

She found herself flanked on each side by glass-topped display cases. In front stood a huge Chinese porcelain vase of the Han Dynasty and a marble bust of Alexander the Great, although she only knew what they were because the labelling told her.

She stood still for a moment, a lone fixed point in a two-way stream of people going hither and thither

"Look at these..." a voice said at her elbow. A man was craning down and gazing into a showcase, and although his eyes were riveted on what lay beneath the glass his remark was undoubtedly intended for her. "...Greek Slaters from 54 BC. Probably struck by the Roman Republic to finance their struggle with Octavian and Marc Anthony. Didn't do 'em any good of course."

After a moment he looked up, eyes shining. "Are you interested in coins?"

Jennifer blinked dubiously. "Only if I can spend them in a shop."

The man stood up. Confident, smiling, in his early twenties, large brown eyes set in a strong angular face. He was wearing pale brown slacks and a white shirt with a light blue jumper tied around his shoulders. "I couldn't help noticing that you were looking a little perturbed. Can I help?"

He was a white knight dashing to the rescue of a damsel in distress, and she flattered him by purposely exuding a large amount of mystified little-girl helplessness. Her suspicious eyes softened a fraction and she brushed her hand coquettishly through her hair.

"I do need some help."

"Great," he beamed, "I'm Ian Patterson-Jones, but just call me Ian."

"Thank you, Ian." she smiled warmly, "You must call me Jennifer."

She noticed above the sharp angle of his nose his close set eyes suggested a clever and determined personality. He was taller than she was, his shirt and slacks clean and immaculately pressed, his hair cropped short, his eyes sparkling with well-drilled efficiency. He looked strong but slightly overweight and not particularly fit. He reminded her of a youthful school master up for a game of tennis. Stern but fair.

"Do you know anything about Mesopotamian pottery?" she asked.

Ian grinned. "One of my specialities. I work in the antiquities department of a collage in Oxford. You need your wits about you to find what you want here. There are 280,000 objects in the collection of the Department of the Ancient Near East, but only 5,000 are on display at any one time." He indicated a sign on the wall with a wave of his hand. "Your best bet for the exhibits you want to see is to go that way. In that gallery are some fine examples of Neo-Assyrian polychrome glazed-ware. The leaf pattern they carry is particularly distinctive."

Jennifer put on a slightly overawed expression. "Could we have a cup of tea instead.? I don't have time to wander around. I only came here to satisfy a pang of curiosity, and since you're an expert you could probably supply all the answers I need."

The tea-room was jammed, lots of people sitting, standing and weaving around between small formica-topped tables fashioned to look like marble slabs.

"Grab a couple of seats and I'll get the coffee." the young man said gallantly.

"Tea for me." she insisted over her shoulder while racing to find an unoccupied place against the far wall. She settled down to make an idle study of the people occupying the tables around her own. A young couple with eyes for no one else. A solitary old woman with wire wool hair studying a museum directory while sucking the innards out of a black cheroot. A middle aged man ostentatiously holding the hand of a much younger one.

Her eyes widened. On the table next to her own sat Angela Magoogle, wagging a finger and sternly berating a weeping young girl seated opposite to her.

At least she thought it was a young girl until her experience kicked in, and then she realised it was an effeminately dressed boy. He could have easily have fooled others. He was about fifteen-years-old and looked luscious. A quailing fairy princess conjured out of a daydream. Like a sun-flushed peach, in a ruffled pale pink blouse and a little red raa-raa skirt that barely covered his stocking tops. Yes. Definitely lacetop stockings and a G-string, she decided. On the back of his head he wore a broad-rimmed, flower-decked hat. A smart affair of wheat-coloured straw trimmed with a pink rose and velvet ribbons.

"This is a surprise, Angela." she remarked.

Miss Magoogle gazed at her, her narrow eyes suddenly shrewd and sharp and sending an unmistakable message. Wordlessly she was informing her that the emasculated sparrow of a thing across the table from her was her pet.

"You're Miriam Hancock's daughter, aren't you?"

Jennifer felt slightly flabbergasted. "Do you know my mother?"

A faint smile. "Miss Hancock is well known in certain circles of female fraternity, and your name is frequently mentioned too."

"You're puzzled by Jubilee." she replied briskly. "He came to me as a houseboy six months ago, but now he's something else. A role in child welfare often puts me in touch with the Probation Service, you see, and I'm sometimes enthused to prevent young boys from getting into trouble with the law. I've a dedicated studio-room at home where I quell arrogance and antisocial behaviour. Nothing special, just a place where misconduct can be rectified by a little frequent mild torture."

She flashed a glance at Jubilee that was sharp enough to make the sweet young treasure quiver, then turned back with a disarming smile to Jennifer. "I strip them, tie them to the furniture and refuse to let them go until they submit to wearing lipstick and a frock and can demonstrate a competent formal curtsy. I don't allow my job to interfere with my personal life, but it can sometimes enhance it. You'll know what I mean, Jennifer. One doesn't need to be an Einstein to know that house in Nob Street is crammed with specimens like this one."

It was clear from what she said that she was more aware than she'd previously let on about Madame Dupont's activities, but at least she'd never made a fuss about it.

The girly-thing distracted both of them, sobbing over a glass of orange juice, stopping once in a while to dab his eyes with a tiny damp ball of a lace-edged hankie which he was holding with both hands.

"Cease your silly snuffling" Angela snapped, "I've had quite enough of your nonsense to day, young lady."

The local welfare officer and Jennifer then exchanged a second glance that satisfied both of them. In the indefinable way that people do they recognised they were sisters under the skin and could trust each other.

"Say howdy-doody to my friend Jennifer, Jubilee." she commanded the tearful effeminate sitting opposite to her, and the young thing turned his face and uttered a wimpish and very polite, "Hello, miss. I'm very pleased to meet you."

Jubilee was absolutely stunning, grey-green eyes stared with wide-eyed innocence and were wet with tears, but a retrousse nose enhanced his pert appearance, as did milky skin made to seem ever more milky by his sleek black hair, faultless with not a strand out of place, and a figure that was pure delight - the ideal girl, pre-shrunk by 40 per cent in everything - full of freshness and innocence and offering the sort of unconventional sexuality men only dreamed about. He was everything desirable in a female neatly presented in one delectable package. Cringing and pathetic and tied to a woman's apron strings, perhaps, but still quite the dishiest little cuddlebunch she'd seen in ages.

"You've taken on a lot by looking after such a beauty. A dear thing like Jubilee must be constantly besieged by admirers."

Angela nodded serenely. "Yes, it's a big responsibility and not one I take lightly. He's rather wayward in his behaviour when he gets the chance and needs constant supervision. At the moment I'm compelled to hand him a list of tasks and lock him in the house each day when I go to work."

So, each day he was left alone to complete a number of household duties!

Jennifer assessed the pretty-boy again. He had the soft, well-cared-for skin of a dainty city-creature and looked as if he'd never lifted anything heavier than a lipstick.

Angela Magoogle glanced at him too and shook a threatening finger. "We know what happens when silly girls don't do their work properly, don't we Jubilee? Lazy little madams get smacked bottoms, don't they?"

The fierce rebuke caused the teen princess to utter a sorrowful - 'oh' - and the handkerchief escaped his fingers and dropped to the floor.

On impulse Jennifer stretched down to retrieve it, taking the opportunity to study the well exposed legs pressed together beneath the table and breath in the fragrance of jasmine blossom emanating from them. The gorgeous young androgen was perfumed all over with floral opiate. He was also wearing strappy red shoes with very tall heels, and a tiny diamonte strap encircled his shapely left ankle. She had an impulse to toy with the bauble and then progress to the calf of the leg, perhaps even go beneath the little skirt and caress the inner thighs with soft feather-like strokes.

Her own licentiousness astounded her. She was terrible! More of a wolf than most men.

"There you are, sweet thing." she said, offering the hanky back to him.

He looked at her. A sheepish smile and a flash of teeth, whiter than polished ivory, eyelashes fluttering demurely on damp cheeks. "Thank you, Miss." he said in a faint voice.

"The young dear seems upset." she remarked to Miss Magoogle.

Angela offered a tight smile. "Crocodile tears searching for sympathy. We came here for a few hours of inspiring culture, but Jubilee as ruined it. I blame myself really, I've rather spoilt him."

She indicated the front of the effeminate's blouse where a pair of pert bumps pushed out the material. "I bought him a pair of little breasts for his birthday and now the little tramp can't stop shaking them at every man he meets."

She leaned aggressively across the table to give her girlified companion a thunderous look. "Just wait until I get you home, you shameless hussy. I'm going to put the wooden spoon to the back of your legs, and then you'll stand for an hour in the corner."

At once Jubilee burst into a renewed bout of fitful tears.

Completely ignoring his outburst the woman looked across at Jennifer. "I could really do with a knowledgeable female companion to take charge of him in the daytime when I'm away, and to look after the other wimpish individuals I acquire from time to time too. Perhaps when the Summer Season ends with Madame Dupont you may like to take up such a post"

Just for a fleeting moment Jennifer was tempted. The prospect of lording it over the lusciously Jubilee did have its attractions, but then she realised that in such a position was no better than the one she already had. She would still be confined, shut up in a house every day, and as much a prisoner as Jubilee himself.

"Thanks for the offer, Angela. But the Yorkshire dales are calling me. I'll be going home."

It was then that Ian came over with two cups, a coffee and a tea, and she moved her chair slightly so that she was no longer looking directly at Angela or the comely Jubilee.

"Now then, how can a chap such as I assist a pretty lady in distress?" the man inquired.

Taking a cue from meeting Jubilee she gazed up at him with grateful eyes.

"I had an idea the library here could help me, but it's too big for me to find my way around."

Ian nodded as he sat down. "Yes, it's a bit of a monster. It should have a dedicated building of its own really, and I dare say it will have one eventually."

"Do you know anything about Ubaid stuff?" Jennifer asked at once.

Ian's head swivelled up. "Ubaid? My word, that's not something you hear people mention in the street, you're taking on real classical stuff and going back right to the start of things."

He didn't mind what she wanted to know about. It would make his day worthwhile if he could impress a pretty girl with his knowledge, and Jennifer was strikingly beautiful in that effortless, double-take way that some young women are. Five and a half feet of slender sexuality, slim yet curving where it counted, round cheeks and dark hair flowing down to kiss her shoulders. She wore no jewellery, but she didn't need to. The girl herself was a gem enough.

"The Ubaid culture was very early. It was marked by distinctive pottery that was used throughout most of Mesopotamia." he told her.

Jennifer brushed a wisp of hair from her face. "I know what the pottery looks like. What about stone items? I have a friend who swears she once saw a stone vase with a metal lining decorated with weird figures."

"Fascinating! I'm envious of your friend. I believe they have one of those in the New York Metropolitan but I've yet to see it myself." Ian's eyes narrowed. "There was never much workable stone in Mesopotamia. In ancient times limestone and gypsum had to be imported when it was needed, so it was expensive. Carved stone vessels are sometimes found on the sites of royal palaces, but they also had a use within temples."

With a look of disdain he scooped the froth from his coffee and dumped it in the saucer.

"Steamed milk! Out of ten I give this three."

Jennifer smiled sympathy. "The search for the perfect cappuccino goes on."

"It never ends." On an impulse the man leaned forward towards her. "You know, you look rather sweet when you're pretending to be helpless."

She avoided answering by turning her face away, just in time to see Miss Magoogle and Jubilee rising up from their chairs to depart. She noticed that Angela had fastened a silk tie about her girly-boy's left wrist and was leading him away with the tether end in her hand, as if he were a child who may wander off if not under complete control.

Such restriction didn't prevent the sissy performing a subtle gyration with his hips that betrayed the overpowering sense of femininity that had been installed in his mind.

Mindful of steering the conversation back to ancient relics Jennifer remained impassive when she returned her attention to the young man.

"Religion" I never thought of religion."

Ian's spoon rattled his cup as he stirred. "Early civilisations were polytheistic. Every aspect of their world was governed by supernatural forces and they worshiped any number of deities, but the supreme one in Mesopotamia was Inanna. She was goddess of both sexual love and war, and as the first cities developed, she came to preside over the largest urban centres of the world. Interestingly she was worshiped as both male and female to reflect her duel attributes of sexual fertility and her strength as a warrior."

"My kind of lady." chuckled Jennifer.

Suddenly enthused Ian continued in short, urgent bursts, like a machine gun. "Inanna was an exceptionally durable goddess with many other names. In later times the Assyrians worshiped her as Ishtar, the Greeks adopted her as Aphrodite, and the Roman's called her Venus - the planet Venus had always been Inanna's astrological sign, you see."

Feeling slightly embarrassed by his own enthusiasm he slowed down. "Christianity never completely destroyed the pagan gods and in the end simply immersed them with its own ethos. Christmas and Easter for instance were imposed on long established pagan festivals. My boss, Professor Dobbs, maintains attributes of Inanna can be recognised in the Virgin Mary. The sexual fertility associated with giving birth, of course - and throughout history countless armies have marched to war with that immaculate lady's icon in their vanguard.

The catholic church resisted declaring the Madonna a goddess, but in two thousand years it's never chastised anyone for falling on their knees to pray to her image."

He leaned forward again. "I'm rambling on rather a lot. Let's talk about something else. Let's talk about you. What do you do in London?"

"I'm employed as a sort of nanny-cum-governess-cum-dogsbody."

Ian grinned. A smiling mandarin, eyes scrunched in suppressed laughter. "What do you do when you're not working?"

"Sleep mainly."

He looked at her quizzically and nodded, one side of his mouth curling up.

"Not seeing anyone then?"

"No." she shot back, immediately defensive. Like any girl she understood the electric zigzags emanating from his eyes He was flirting. He was coming on to her and attempting a pick up. She didn't mind if it suited her own purpose, but she didn't allow herself to be fooled by men. She was immune to their charms. Young as she was she was able to identify their attempts at flattery for what they were. Bunkum! In fact she tried not to notice them at all, even when they were laid on thick. She never played the game as it should be played. The sparring of the sexes didn't interest her, all of which so often led to her being considered charmless.

"So, this thing my friend saw is rare and likely to be valuable." she said.

Ian scrapped his chair forward. Because there was a queue of people at the service counter and a lack of somewhere to sit, a man as big as a helicopter was slotting coins into a coffee dispensing machine wedged against the wall behind him.

"Extremely rare and probably very valuable." he said, "Look, it's crowded here. If you don't wish to see any of the exhibits perhaps we could go and get a bite to eat somewhere else, then ... erm ..." His gaze became set on her face and a smile lingered.

Jennifer felt his hand brush against her own and she instinctively drew away and finished his words for him. "Then maybe go back to your hotel?" She put her elbows on the table, cupped her chin in her hands and smiled thinly. "I don't think you can afford me, Ian. I'm high-class. I'd expect to be wined and dined expensively, and I'd want a hundred pounds in my hand before we started shagging."

The coffee machine burped and spat brown liquid into a paper cup with the gurgle of a diaretic creature of the night emptying its bowels.

Ian sucked in his cheeks and slumped in his chair. Slightly perplexed, slightly shocked, slightly disappointed, he shoved his coffee cup away from him.

"You're not a nanny at all. You're on the game, you're a pro."

She nodded, her face arranged into its usual expression of total impassiveness.

"Sorry to upset you, but you know how it is. I'm in a competitive industry and business is business."

The man's face went slightly pink and there was an awkward silence, punctured only by the noise of those around them. It seemed the little gem he had spotted really was a diamond, sharp and hard as well as beautiful. Eventually he came as close to smiling as he was likely to do. His surprise and disenchantment had been temporary and he now dismissed both.

"Sorry about the misunderstanding, Jennifer, but I make a point of not lavishing money on casual friendships."

She breathed a sigh of relief. She'd been relying on him having the pride of a young man who didn't expect to have to pay for his sexual jollies. At least he was being honest. Plenty of lesser men would inundate a girl with gifts and entertainment in order to seduce them, and in the end go about boasting they'd had sex for nothing.

 

Jennifer left the museum a short while later thinking she'd handled the situation quite well. It was a ludicrous story she had invented, but she reckoned herself more than a bit of lightskirt to help a man wile away his time in the city. And she had chosen to be diplomatic that day. All in all it seemed a neat way of cutting off an involvement she didn't need

She walked briskly along the pavement, expertly dodging the crowds. The afternoon rush-hour traffic trickled past, an endless procession of acrid fumes and painted steel surging and halting to the beat of traffic lights.

At the curb Angela Magoogle was installing Jubilee into the back of a taxi. The woman turned and paused to tug a pair of satin gloves over her fingers as she was about to climb in beside him.

"Where as your young man gone, Jennifer?"

"He's not my young man. He's quite good looking in a staid, academic way, but he's too furry on the inside, if you know what I mean."

"Yes I do. Most men haven't a clue what a woman really needs. Jubilee and I are off home. Would you like to join us for tea?"

Jennifer shook her head. "Better not. That would mean taking the rest of the afternoon off, and I have to get back."

She ducked her head into the back of the cab to wish a cheery-bye to Jubilee. When the pantywaist saw Jennifer looking he squeaked and clapped a hand to his mouth, while above it his eyes became huge and round.

She could see why. A vent had been tailored into the front of his tiny skirt and his handsome teenage cock, all red, drippy and very stiff had been threaded through it. It was standing up like a flag staff.

Such a marvellous toy, she thought, withdrawing from the cab and smiling at Angela, feeling slightly envious of her acquisition.

Angela's good humour remained unimpaired. There was a twinkle of repressed mirth in her eyes as she smoothed down her gloves and clenched her fingers speculatively.

"He's still rather new to wearing dressy feminine clothes," she remarked offhandedly. "They can effect him in an alarming way at the most inappropriate moments and it can be burdensome. But I should be able to do something for him before we reach home."

She added with a bright smile. "I own him, but I've no objection to appreciative friends enjoying his charms. Are you sure I can't offer you a lift?"

Jennifer thought briefly about holding the sweetly perfumed Jubilee in her arms and playing with his cock while planting tiny kisses on the side of his neck.

"No thanks. It's not often I get out in the middle of the day and I'll enjoy the walk."

The woman nodded. "Come and see me when you have more time. I live in Bloomsbury. And if you change your mind about the job-offer, you must let me know."

 

In Jennifer's absence Pompom and Amber secretly conspired to pursue entertainment more suited to their own tastes. Going up into one of the spare rooms they flopped down on the bed and dragged out a clothing catalogue. It was a item Jennifer frequently referred to when describing dress-sense and feminine wear, but at that moment the sissy's own interest lay at the back of the book where there were pictures of half-naked, attractive young men modelling under garments.

"Hunk!" declared Amber, screwing his thighs into the pile of the mattress while pointing at a well made young man with gigolo looks wearing nothing but a small pair of briefs.

He wasn't inexperienced. He'd enjoyed dressing up for ages and no one had made him do it. It was always an adventure. Every time he had the chance at home he would put on some of his sisters stuff and sprawl across his bed, stroking himself, rolling and twisting about to enjoy the feel of the feminine fabrics and girlish style that enveloped his body. Ribbons in his hair, stockings too sometimes - never tights - tights just masked the lovely whoosey excitement of wearing girls panties. He knew he looked good in a dress. He knew boys would grab hold of him and treat him like a girl if they could. He'd tried it a few times - dressing up 'for a laugh' for some of his friends, and he'd always enjoyed a sexy time. But things were much easier when he stayed with Madame Dupont because all the others understood. They were the same as himself. Cocks in frocks. Boys who were almost girls. That meant that if they felt hot for each other they could enjoy the best of both worlds.

"And that one. Wow!" exclaimed Pompom, dimpled and confident in a party frock, pointing to another picture. "Look at the handle on his satchel. That would make me whimper. Going to bed with that piece of beef would make anyone's eyes water."

They pored over that photograph and similar ones slowly, savouring each inadequately screened bulging crotch and serpentine shape with eager delight.

After a while Amber turned to the face beside him, then rolled onto his side and propped his head up with a hand to take a better look. Pompom was so perfect in a skinny kind of way, perfect nose, perfect mouth.

He reached out and passed a finger slowly from his chin to the region of his belly button.

"If you're feeling bonky it might be fun to do something together."

"Yes please." Pompom answered, in gentle, butter-melted-on-toast voice.

"You'd be nice naked."

"So would you." Pompom replied, and he moved in close so they were pressing up against each other.

Everything else melted away from the edge of their vision as almost simultaneously they reached for each others bottoms which were bare but for the narrow band of a thong between their buttocks. Rubbing their bare legs together they pressed themselves tight. Both boys were without inhibitions these days when it came to rubbing their panty fronts together, and they were soon mashing them together in a fury.

Amber's face nuzzled against his friends soft cheek, then his lips trailed to the corners of his mouth to brush his lips, the lightest of contacts, almost casual. Pompom felt a surge of sensation wash over him, as elemental as sheet lightening. Tentatively he opened to his lover, complicity burning through him as their tongues touched. He slid his arms around Amber's neck and drew him closer until he was resting against the whole length of his body.

His companion then opened his mouth wide and covered his friends tender lips completely, giving him a kiss that quickly deepened into a dizzy spiral of delight.

Pompom let out a small squeak has a writhing tongue slid in on top of his own, curling over his teeth and licking his gums while generally enjoying the taste of him. He was so excited he could hardly breathe, which wasn't helped by there being two tongues in his mouth instead of one and Amber's face being so close to his own it was impossible to breathe properly anyway.

He was aware only of his sissy friends arms encircling him and the melting warmth of his body.

"Whore!" Amber chuckled.

"Naughty fuck-slut." Pompom panted, his face innocent of avarice, save for his sweeping eyelashes which never failed to hint at hot promises. He was utterly ready, especially since Amber's cock seemed to have the dimensions of a totem pole.

But before he could say anything more a noise at the door punctured through his heady passion.

"WHiiiT, WEEERH!" The sound of a low wolf-whistle stopped them in their tracks and they both whirled round to find two other young people had entered the room. Two people they had not been introduced to before. Two girls.

They'd seen Sophie around the house before, they remembered her flashing eyes and the cynical twist of her lips from earlier visits. The other girl was a stranger. She had red hair tied in two stubby bunches either side of her head, which made her look like a devil complete with horns.

"You see," said Sophie to her companion, "I told you they wouldn't all be watching television."

Her voice was light, but there was something in its tone that made the two sissy's start to burn. Sophie in particular - Madame Dupont's daughter - had a stifling effect on them.

Dismayed and horrified Amber and Pompom couldn't think of a proper response. None of their previous relationships had prepared them for dealing with girls. Their jaws dropped and they rolled from the bed and jumped to their feet, only to find Sophie meeting their disconcerted expressions with a confident smile.

"Visitors aren't allowed up the stairs, Sophie." Amber explained in a limp, wishy-washy kind of voice that carried no tone of authority.

Sophie gave him a searing look. "Don't be so familiar, you tart. Show some respect. I'm Madame Dupont's daughter, so it's only proper you should call me, Miss Sophie." She then indicated the second girl. "This is my friend, Veronica. I'm showing her around. You must call her, Miss Veronica."

Astonished, Pompom attempted to say something, but the his words never came.

Sophie laughed and patted his cheek. "Shut your mouth, glamourpuss, before we all fall in. That bossy big-girl isn't here, and mummy is busy doing stuff. We can do as we wish and there isn't anyone to stop us."

The two new arrivals were dressed in a similar way, short blue denim skirts and blouses buttoned down the front, high to the neck with turned down collars. Quite conventional and displaying only a hint of burgeoning bosom and hips. Ostensibly they were paragons of virtue that contrasted vividly with sissies who wore skimpy lightweight dresses nipped around their tiny waists.

To the boy-dancers they looked obnoxious in their righteousness. Frequent outings with Madame sometimes took the Follies into mixed company, and sometimes even to women-only gatherings. The sissies had adapted to cavorting before grown women in their borrowed gender, but they were stumped by girls their own age observing them dressed effeminately.

At times like these when they were wondering what to say, they became easy prey. They'd never learnt how to avoid the minor persecution of girls. Direct questions always made them uneasy, and direct questions from girls made them squirm. Girls were tricky, especially aggressive ones, and if they answered too quick girls got them in a tangle and made them say things they didn't mean.

Instead of responding they hesitated and stiffened like a pair of cryogenically frozen pot plants, wilting under the stare of amused and mocking eyes. Their gaze shifting furtively left and right, looking everywhere but at the unwelcome visitors.

"You're both sissies and I can tell you enjoy each others company." Sophie said with an air of assumed superiority. "Don't be shy of us. Come here. Come closer."

In a way she sounded perfectly charming, but underneath her words they could sense she was as vicious as a tabby cat. There was a hint of unerlying iron in her tone that made them both gaze down at the floor to hide their dismay.

Hesitantly, feeling limp-wristed and helpless, they moved forward, feet and knees pressed primly together, keeping their heads low and focusing on the floor at their feet, all too aware of their diminutive dresses that displayed bare arms and shoulders and bare legs right up to the top of their thighs.

"You see, I wasn't lying." went on Sophie, continuing in the role of a tour-guide for her friend.

Although Amber and Pompom were standing close, she spoke of them as if they were inanimate objects without hearing or sensitivity.

"Mummy trains boys to be weak little girls. The house is full of creampuffs who wear panties and tiny flouncey frocks. They look like girls and act like girls. Do you like them, Veronica?"

The other girl wrinkled her nose and spoke for the first time. "They're astonishing. Quite awful really. Horrid!" She gazed hard at Amber. "They should be locked-up in prison. But they are sort-of cute. Don't they ever go with girls?"

Sophie raised an eyebrow in mockery. "What would they want with girls when they can play with Barbie-dolls and each other?" She took a pace forward and stood with her hands on her hips. "What are your names?

"Pompom. My friend is Amber." came a weak reply.

"Of course. You would have soppy girly names," Sophie said. Her voice was scornful, but her eyes danced with the kind of wicked laughter that increased their humiliation.

"Sissies try as so hard to be girls." she explained to her friend, "Trying on dresses, getting their hair and nails done." She stepped towards Amber, her eyes focused on the inadequacy of his smock. "But if they were at my school the head-girl would smack them for wearing such short skirts."

Amber shrank from her jibe, feeling a rush of guilt in the pit of his stomach..

"Don't move! Let's have a proper look you, you little creampuff." the girl demanded. Dispensing with any display of grace Sophie decided on an inspection. She took a pace towards him and stroked him with her left hand, trailing fingers across his chest as she passed in front, her face becoming more angular and sly with each up and down contemptuous elevation of her eyebrows.

Circling round in a figure of eight she did the same with Pompom, conceding they were both rather lovely. Their primrose-coloured muslin frocks were absolutely plain, decorated only by a band of ribbon about their high waists, but such simplicity seemed perfect when offset by a small amount of dress jewellery. A clutter of colourful bangles adorned their wrists and unpretentious guilt earrings decorated each ear. Obviously the mincing queens enjoyed dressing up, for other people, for each other, but most of all they probably enjoyed dressing up for themselves.

Closing up behind Amber she began to pet him like a kitten, revelling in the freedom of running her hands over his bare shoulders and down his hips, feeling the silky soft contours of his girlishness. Amber felt lead in his belly. He eyes were wide and he was tongue-tied. It was excruciating. What was going to happen next!

Sophie was delighting in showing her friend the kind of wild liberties an unscrupulous girl could take with an effeminate wimp, and she was standing so close he could smell her cherry-mint bubblegum as she blew on his hot, perfumed cheeks.

"Oh, please, Sophie - Miss Sophie - you mustn't." he whispered, unconsciously sounding weak and ineffectual.

The girl chortled villainously. "You feel like a girl and you smell like a tart, but you're just a Mummy's Darling really. What a prize you'd make for a boyfriend. I bet you'd let him do anything he wanted to do."

Her hands began to stroke up and down his sides, feeling his shape and squeezing the tiny shelves of his hips, and finally they cupped his boyish breasts in order to lift the soft flesh until it resembled a small bosom.

Amber winced, and in response she cooed in a voice that dripped with honey.

"Poor darling thing, how it must annoy you to be teased so. But there's no need to be nervous when I'm being nice."

Her voice was quite intimate, but she made it clear that participation wasn't allowed and he felt disadvantaged and used, as if it didn't need to be him being pawed. It could have been anybody.

The two girls swapped a brief devilish glance, then enlivened by Sophie wicked antics Veronica became inspired to join in the tormenting. She turned a puckish expression on Pompom, walking slowly around him without saying a word. And now Pompom felt intimidated. Blanching at her officious manner he raised his head and tried to look virtuous.

"This one as his nose in the air... don't see why," the girl remarked eventually, "He's rather sweet though. Lovely legs. Very slender. Most boys are dull and stupid, but at least this one isn't unattractive."

Pompom didn't respond, but he felt his nipples tighten and stand up sharp. Beyond words, looking sheepish and uncomfortable he felt tight with tension. He could feel it emanating from him in waves.

"He's lovely." Veronica continued, smiling whilst provocatively running her hands up and down his body. "He's a Little Miss Scrumptious."

She pressed against him and he could feel his dress on his thighs and his little skirt swishing against his cock. Then she moved round behind him and her fingers fluttered up the sculptured curve of his ballerina back.

"Your dress - so short, so scanty..." and her hand slipped under his skirt to stroke the apple-smooth rounds of his bare schoolboy bottom.

She was teasing him unmercifully, almost punishing him with her touching has she indulged in testing the pliancy of his flesh and observing how the smooth cheeks of his bottom spilled out beyond the elastic of his panties.

It was then that she saw the open catalogue on top of the bed.

"Disgusting rude creatures! They've been looking at pictures of men who are wearing practically nothing."

Sophie pushed Amber away. "Stand still." she almost barked, standing with her hands on her hips like an irate mother and startling him with the harshness of her voice.

"Dirty cows, aren't you? Perverts, that's what you are. You're vile creatures, so you must be punished. Veronica and I are going to spank both of you."

Veronica was as amazed as much as the sissies were horrified. "Are you sure about doing that?" she whispered.

"Of course," Sophie affirmed quietly, "I'm not knew to this kind of thing, y'know. When daddy makes a mistake with his work he often asks me to cane his bare bottom. Some of his friends - his business partners - they like me to do it to them too. Men can be weird. They like little girls to punish them. Once I caned three of them in a row while they were draped over the back of the sofa in our lounge."

She gave a sniffy glance at Pompom and Amber. "We can't mark mummy's fragile darlings, of course, but we can give them a good walloping with our hands. Are you ready to try it?"

Veronica was still new to her friends odd games but quite willing to be led into depravity.

"Oh yes. Yes." she confirmed, grinning wickedly in a show of female solidarity. She had no idea of what her friend was introducing her into, but it had the girls-club membership appeal of supremacy over boys.

Sophie turned to the speechless sissy-boys. "Come here you fluffy lesbians, it's spanking-time, so you must get undressed. Take off your frocks."

Each sissy face tucked in, assuming identical looks of dread like baleful twins out of a gothic nursery rhyme. Flushing scarlet they unclipped their waistbands, pushed the straps from their shoulders and allowed their outfits to float down over their bodies.

Then they were each standing in a small puddle of rumpled satin facing the two girls naked except for a tiny set of lace-edged thong-pants.

Veronica tittered. The sissies trembled. Jubilant at seeing how slavishly they melted into submission Sophie circled around them, planning her next move and calculating how far she could push things.

"And your panties. They're just silly bits of nothing anyway, so you won't miss them."

They knew they would miss them. Jennifer made them do it all the time and they always missed them, but at least she was sort of nearly grown up. It was awful to have to take their pants off in front of younger girls, knowing they were going to gawp at their boy parts, examine them and even touch them maybe.

They hesitated for a second, and Sophie's expression became a threat. "Do as you're told or Veronica and I will hurt you and make you cry."

"Oh, umm!" Two pairs of doe-eyes fluttered as lush bottom lips went between teeth. Thumbs went into the elastic around their hips and pushed down. Within the span of a second their tiny cotton pants had been managed over their thighs to scoop beneath their scrotums briefly before departing down their legs, the last remnant of decency and the final visage of their pride descended with them.

And there they were. Two effeminately made-up boys standing in front of two girls, showing themselves for what they really were, both emotionally rung out and lacking the strength of mind to resist whatever was demanded of them.

They weren't feeling the least bit horny now and the flaccid display was met with derision.

With her eyes riveted on them Veronica tutted. "Hmph. What a disappointment. I was expecting to see something better than a couple of dead worms."

Sophie heaved a sigh of exasperation. "Yes, hopeless, aren't they? Can't do anything right."

She took a purposeful step forward and gripped the two of them by their hair.

"Useless girly pin-brains!" she scolded, rolling their heads from side to side, "How dare you insult my friend by showing her limp dicks? You really do deserve a few smacks. How many smacks do you think we should give you?"

Pompom felt his toes curl without being told to.

"Oh - um - er - Two?" suggested Amber.

 

Sophie's eyes opened wide. "ONLY TWO! Preposterous. That would hardly make your pretty bottom cheeks blush. No, no. I suggest six is the minimum. Twenty-six would probably be better, but we won't push our luck. That Jennifer bitch will be back soon and she's got a temper as prickly as a bramble bush, so we need to finish before she arrives."

Taking a firm hold of Amber's arm she dragged him towards the bed. "Come along. I'll sit down and be nanny and you can get over nanny's lap."

Seating herself with her legs close together she then hauled the reluctant sissy forward, a firm hand hooked over his shoulder forcing him down, his upper bodies tilting towards the floor, his bottom automatically lifting up in a way he was familiar with.

"Now, you must behave nicely or I'll be very angry."

Amber thought to utter a final word of protest, but suddenly, swish - ZWAPP!

He experienced a fearful stinging pain on his bare backside and his right foot kicked up coquettishly, just like a girl would react over another girls lap.

"Such a pretty bottom." observed Sophie calmly.

Her eyes shone with wicked delight. It was absurdly easy, she thought. Her mother's girlies were so weak... weak when confronted by girls anyway, quite incapable of dodging their demands. Boys in general were inferiors. The idea they grew to form the toughest gender was laughable.

Veronica followed her lead and hauled Pompom face down across the bed, straggling his back so she could clamp his defenceless bottom between her knees.

SMACK! There was a sharp noise as a hand made contact with the underside of Pompom's tender buttocks to demonstrate how excited she had become.

A pause to allow the chastised flesh to settle, then; SMICK, SMACK! Making bare flesh judder and rotate, SNICK, SNAP! Making it take on a rosy hue.

Gaining confidence Veronica began to spank harder, and Pompom squealed as she did it, his body moving in rhythm with her hand. It wasn't just the stinging slaps that hurt, although they were bad enough, it was also the indignity and humiliation of being so completely under the control of such young girls. They were treating them like toys, using and abusing them as suited best.

Buoyed up by her initial success the girl purred. "Do stop whining. You have no shame. It's your punishment, you dirty, shameless boy-girl. I must punish you quite severely. But I suppose you may cry if you want to. Have a little boo-hoo. Sissies are allowed to cry."

SLAP! "A bottom to be spanked often," Sophie said bringing down her hand on Amber's rump. "A bottom for the hairbrush." she said striking the other cheek.

SPLATT! "A bottom for the slipper," enjoined Veronica excitedly, WHACK! "A bottom for the strap."

Two flushed sissy faces contorted as each smack made contact.

"Uuuggghh! Please, oooh, oowow, please." pleaded Amber, but it did no good. Even as his head and body bounced with each smack Sophie ensured he remained still by reaching beneath his slender thighs from behind and gripping his cock and balls, investigating his private parts, playing with his young cock and the testes in his soft, warm scrotum.

Ignoring his tiny gasps of dismay she milked him for several moments until the penis became stiff and solid, then she callously abandoned it.

Glowing buttocks clenched hopelessly as they swivelled and bobbed from side to side "Push it out. Show me a nice round target." Sophie demanded. More sizzling contact. CRACK! "Oooouf!" SMACK! "Oooh, ooh!" WALLOP! "Ooh, my bum."

"Cry-baby!" Sophie teased.

Young bottoms jerked from left to right, trying to judge the next impact and wanting the avoid it. They never succeeded.

SPLATT! Another stinging blow. " Disgusting girlies -" CRACK! "Dirty trollops -" CRACK! "Showing off in front of real girls."

Ordeals always come to an end, and at last this one did too. The two sissies were thrust from the bed and permitted to clamber awkwardly to their feet.

A crafty smile spread over Sophie's face and she waved a dismissive hand.

"Face the wall. That's the proper place for silly girls who've just had a bare-bottom spanking."

Sobbing fitfully they staggered over to the wall and stood facing it in a learnt ritual, nervously nibbling their pouty lips, hands on heads, neither of them saying a word. Both stood still, bare red bottoms thrusting out a little towards their tormentors.

Veronica was thrilled by the experience. "That was fun, but what now?" she asked, warming to the unusual situation. "Shall we twist their arms and then lock them in a cupboard full of hairy spiders?"

Sophie tapped a fingertip on her teeth has she sought inspiration. "Don't be a goose. We'll tell them to do a hand-job. It will humiliate them deliciously to do it whilst we watch."

Her friend looked alarmed. "Are you mad? Oh, I'll simply die if they did that. And anyway we haven't the experience to make them do that sort of thing."

A muscle tweaked the corner of Sophie's mouth and she shot her friend a tart smile.

Veronica gawped. "Are you saying you ARE experienced?"

Sophie rolled her shoulders. "When I'm at home Daddy does it in front of me. He likes his little girl to MAKE him do it. And my stepbrother, George. Nearly seventeen-years-old. A pompous ass. I've trained them to do it sitting side by side on the settee."

She ignored her friends dumbstruck look. "Turn around." she told the two sissies.

Pompom and Amber turned timidly, feeling sore and sorry for themselves and still slightly weepy.

Sophie thought they couldn't have looked lovelier, with their cheeks red with humiliation and their eyes so moist and tearful.

"You want to please us, don't you?"

Their faces dipped, they nodded but said nothing. Punishment had humbled and humiliated them. At that time and in that place they felt completely enslaved, submissive from the tops of their heads to the ends of their toes.

Dragging the two sobbing, protesting and feebly struggling she-boys by the hand she led them back to the middle of the room.

"You know what we want to see. Get a hold of yourselves and do something. You're old enough to know about wanking. Rub your willies until they get stiff. Get fruity. Play with them and make them big. Veronica and I want to watch you skinning randy bananas."

Pompom and Amber could offer no support for each other. They were both in the same nightmare fix, powerless and unable to think straight. Without even a murmur of protest they did as they were told, each grabbing hold of his penis to begin pushing and pulling.

They were acutely aware of the girls watching their fingers moving their foreskins, and such close scrutiny now began to work in reverse way to what had previously been the case. Instead of making their faces pale it started to make them redden as embarrassment took on a new twist. In just a few seconds their pricks had risen horizontal and they were rigid.

"Ummph!" Amber gagged a little but managed to pull back so his hand could get a grip on the base of his stalk. He then began sliding his fingers up and down, jerking the dinky hood of foreskin furiously while Pompom imitated every action.

"Stop! Wait a minute," demanded Sophie, "Hold back the skin and let Veronica and me have a look at some knob."

They knew what she meant, but they neither argued or questioned. Each paused to take in a gulp of air then took hold of his penis and wrinkled back the foreskin to reveal a plump pink helmet surmounted by a flaring, watering slit.

The girls studied them critically but seemed pleased. Indeed Veronica gasped with genuine wonder at the sticky, clear ooze seeping from them, but Sophie's expression remained enigmatic For her the delight probably stemmed more from the thrill of domination than anything else.

"Quite nice, but I'm sure they can improve on things. Lay down on the bed and give us a performance, you wicked girls." she told the shamefaced duo, "Milk your willies. We want to see lots more sticky stuff and a good creamy finish."

Amber began to bleat. "Please... Sophie... Miss Sophie... Please don't make us..."

The girl showed not an iota of compassion at his distress. "Don't be silly. It will amuse us, and quirky things like you are good at it."

Pompom and Amber lay side by side across the mattress, thighs and knees pressed together, hands moving in a fuzzy pink blur. Eyes scrunched shut, the pummelling of hands at last having its effect.

They gasped and groaned as they dutifully masturbated before the wilful girls. They sighed and thrashed their heads from side to side as their bodies heaved and rocked. Frezied in their own way, panting loudly as their boy parts duly swelled and stood up.

Sophie told them to slow down when she observed their vacant expressions and noticed their hands bouncing up and down on their vertical boners as they made a mad rush towards a finish. She then gave Veronica a playful nudge. "Come on, they're easy-meat. We'll sit on their faces until they've done what we want."

Veronica sighed in admiration. "Gosh, Sophie. This is exciting. I'm so pleased you're my friend."

 

That night Jennifer Hancock dreamed vividly. In sleep her minds inbuilt proclivity towards conformity and reason dropped away and she dreamed dreams of things long ago.

She was in a large chamber, rectangular, boxy, dark walls tapering faintly towards hazy points of convergence in the corners. There were no windows and the only illumination came by way of the insipid glow of oil-lamps most of which had been grouped by the wall at one end. Recessed on the wall in this brighter spot stood a large plaque modelled in high relief depicting the figure of a curvaceous naked woman, twice natural size, painted all over in red ocre. She was wearing a horned head-dress and her hands, raised shoulder height, were holding a rod and a ring, which Jennifer inexplicably seemed to know were the ancient symbols of divinity.

There was no doubt in her mind that she was witnessing something from the past. She also came to understand that she must be within a shrine or temple dedicated to the goddess Inanna, because on each side of the figure was a a frieze emblazoned on a ground of garish saffron yellow displaying weirdly detached erect penis's, their size and tension declaring the uttermost in virility. Clearly the people of antiquity lived close to nature and were not shamed or embarrassed by the natural functions of the human body. Only as civilisation progressed would prudish minds take control of society.

.

Then she saw it. Saw the familiar shape of a receptacle standing before the graven image. A large vase, a stone urn full to the brim with some sort of grey-white mucus. Something was smouldering in a dish beside it and suddenly she was aware of an aroma more heady than any spice she had ever smelt. It encapsulated the precious oils of flowers and the subtle scent of aromatic wood shavings incited to smoulder, and something else too, probably some kind of narcotic. It was so rich she felt drenched with it.

She was present at a religious ceremony, she had no doubt. There would be rituals, chants and sacrifices, but none of those concerned her. She knew she was there for other reasons.

There were people silhouetted in the uneven gloom all around, a host of adherent lookers-on, old, young, men, women. Faces blinked in and out of focus in the manner of slick, oily wraiths. She saw them but they didn't see her. She was hovering in the air, as inconspicuous as a mote of dust, invisible to everyone; a thing without substance.

Musical noises of a stone-age culture resounded - the hollow sound of conch-shells and the screech of reed pipes accompanied by the bop, bop, bop of hands beating on primitive drums. And then other figures became discernable, the images sharpening as a dozen scantily clad dancers emerged into the halo of light before the imposing idol. In the gloom she could make out the pearly sheen of flawless skin.

Boys. Beautiful boys with seductive lively bodies, young enough to be exquisite yet old enough to sow the seed of procreation. Eyes shining in wonder, heads lifted to show cheeks blanched to the lustre of alabaster. Revelling in immodesty, naked save for an adornment of bangles, necklaces, beads and trinkets they skipped and glided left and right, the gyrations of their bodies as agile and fluid as girls.

Thighs slender and straight, hips slightly rounded, groins devoid of hair, the slim, doe-eyed, delicate nymphets became darting spectres in the poor light as they advanced and withdrew, bellies flat, feet moving with a grace that had become familiar to her.

She held her breath until her lungs burned. They passed directly in front of her, objects of striking beauty, moving like reeds in the wind with serpentine movements. The dim light guilded the curves and angles of their bodies as they gyrated their hips to make each pelvis swing back and forth hypnotically, but unaware of her scrutiny they didn't look up.

Observing them closely she could make out the deep crease between their lean, round buttocks which tightened with every kick of their legs, as if they were making love.

Their antics became outrageous, their excitement palpable as they reached down to handle full, weighty genitals and thrust forward their hips in an obscene gesture. She stared down at their groins as each penis stretched and thickened and stood proud, the prepuce peeling back of its own accord to reveal pink drooling pee-lips in clear view. All the while they continued their dance, keeping precise synchronisation as deft fingers rolled their foreskins softly back and forth in a show of virility.

She stared in amazement and watched an entire troupe of young cocks changed shape, extend and increased in tension until suddenly the dancers halted, their slender marionette bodies spasming as they tensed and strained, arteries widening as awareness of their impending orgasm visited them. Hands so delicate in their intimate task, quickening as their pleasure increased.

The mouth of one individual dropped open, his eyes became dreamy, half-closed, half-lidded in delirium as he advanced towards the stone vase. "Aaaakkk!" he groaned, face contorting in the agony of orgasm as he experienced the searing rip of semen surging along his gland and the oh-so-blissful release.

The vase, recipient of countless previous ejaculations, soaked up his meagre offering in an instant, but the event stimulated a joyous tingle in others that brought them to the point of no return. Legs began to tremble and stomachs started to heave, while young mouths gaped in a sort of anguish as they mewled.. Breaths became rasping as they felt the first throb of impending completion, peelips opening and closing as pumping hands urged slick, sticky stuff to ooze forth.

They all moved towards the vase. Gasps crecendoed in panted squeals as they worked their hands ever faster, until at last each tip spat out hot, creamy goo to the glory and honour of Inanna, goddess of sexual love and fertility. Each ejaculation shot up with a long tail and whirled like a whip before collapsing onto busy fingers. And then came more. Lots more to add a dutiful contribution to the accumulated contents of the vase, which Jennifer realised at last was a representation of a cavernous vagina.

The dream faded into abstraction and she awoke feeling mystified, and yet knowing that when asleep she had understood everything that was happening. With her mind still immersed in a long ago world of temples and powerful goddess's who held sway over mankind a pungent, sweet smell of incense seemed to linger in her nostrils and she had to blow her nose to nullify it. She felt she had actually been there, but how could that be?

She was sceptical of reincarnation, but maybe one of her ancestors had actually been at such a ceremony. Was it possible that the effect of it had been so profound it had embedded itself in that persons genetic makeup to be carried like a race memory deep in the mind of following generations? Had concentrating so hard on that silly pot stimulated a recall? Her mother would think such a thing quite possible, she had an incurable romantic belief in that kind of mumbo-jumbo.

She climbed from her bed and plugged in an electric kettle intending to make a cup of tea.

Her mother often had nonsensical notions but she reckoned herself to be more rational. It had just been a reaction to the events of the day. It seemed logical that in her sleep the information Ian Patterson-Jones had given her earlier had become intermingled with thoughts of the boy dancers of Madame Dupont's academy, and the two things had quite simply fused into an erotic little fantasy.

Even with her commonsense restored she realised that whatever the origin of the dream it still meant something personal to herself. Her spirit had been lifted by it and she felt strangely inspired.

 

Early the following morning she packed a bag. The next day she was to accompany the mysterious cache of earthenware pottery to Yorkshire and she needed to quieten her excitement with some activity. Afterwards she went down to the sitting room to take breakfast with Elise Dupont..

For a woman of forty odd years Madame Dupont was still attractive and it wasn't difficult to visualise her success as a dancer in her youth. She was creative. She had started in the sixties, when experimental theatre was revisiting the British scene, just a stripper at first, and when the bloom of her youth began to fade she'd stopped performing herself to become a teacher of dance. Since she was an extrovert she had proved a good teacher. Given a better start in life she would have been one of the outstanding choreographers of her time.

The attention to detail in her work was the opposite to the untidiness in which she had to live.

When Jennifer thought about the woman's eternal optimism she wished she knew enough to be more supportive, but when she told her of her decision for yet another session of photographs she riled against it.

Jennifer was horrified. Didn't she see the danger of getting involved with photographers?

No, of course she didn't, she herself had shielded her from the fact that pictures of her nubile lovelies were being passed around the city, and that Horace Pratt was selling them from his shop like bags of tomatoes. She felt guilt too, for the photographs had been her idea in the first place.

Jennifer shot her a poisonous look. "You've already done photographs with Mr Pratt's man Toby Parkin."

"Yes, I know. But I can't do with the fuss of dealing with magazine people, nor the delay in getting payment. Ralph Montague as paid upfront for an afternoon's session with some of my darlings. I'm off the look at a venue for the Follies so you'll have to oversee things when he arrives. Give him what he wants, but you know my feelings about photographs. Glamour studies are acceptable but I won't tolerate any disgusting antics being recorded."

"You mean you won't be here? You expect me to supervise all this?"

"Do try not to be selfish, Jennifer. When you go up to Yorkshire I shall be stranded in the house for two or three days, trapped like a fly in a jam jar and unable to do anything but paperwork. It's vital I tidy up details in town before you go."

 

It was 2-o-clock in the afternoon and the sunlight streaming through the windows of the dance studio was coming in at an unsatisfactory angle for the photographer, Monty. He was walking around the room, pulling down blinds and switching on lights.

"I need light. That's what photography is all about, using light to paint pictures. But the light as to work for me, not against me.

A back projection screen in glorious dusky red had been installed at one end of the airy room and Candy and Prudence were standing before it in their skimpy frocks.

"All this farting around for goodness sake, why couldn't they have just come to my own studio in Camberwell?" Monty moaned. He was tall, five feet eleven tall, with hunched shoulders and a narrow chest. His conical shaped head set on a scrawny neck was crowned by a mop of unruly black hair which lacked any style and flopped in a fringe over his low forehead. He could have looked moronic but for his eyes, two startling features that would cling to the memory when the rest of his face was forgotten. They were enquiring eyes; always searching, examining and criticising.

His caustic aside was snapped at a pimply-faced youth with long hair, lean and sparrow-like with glasses that made his eyes look huge and bewildered, who was trying to take light readings from a meter in his hand, but it was covertly intended for Jennifer Hancock.

Jennifer was sat on a chair at the other end of the room with her arms folded over her chest and she didn't answer. The arrangements had been determined by Madame Dupont who didn't want her darlings straying around the city. She herself was only present to supervise the shoot and was already bored. Having provided the models there was nothing she could do while they were setting up.

"Miss - erm - Miss Whatsyername," Monty's voice said, "I was promised four models."

Jennifer pursed her mouth stubbornly. "I was told two would be sufficient."

It was a lie. She had been given permission to use her own judgement, but she had no liking for the brash photographer and resented the imposition he represented, so she was more in a mood to impede than be helpful.

Despite her experience and skill Madame Dupont came up with some ghastly ideas from time to time, and another session of photography was one of them.

Two days previously, in an impetuous and audacious move to promote the Frilly Follies more widely, she'd taken everyone to Hyde Park and paraded them around the Serpentine and on into Kensington Gardens. Her darlings all wore broad-rimmed straw hats, and in their sleeveless picture dresses with the teasingly short skirts swinging against their bare thighs, and flat shoes with tiny heels, they looked like a set of rather immodestly clad young schoolgirls out for a stroll in the sunshine with their tutor.

Not everyone approved of this evocative pageant. Some old biddies on the magnificent tree lined avenues gave them a dark look and a dose of tutting as they went past, but they proved exceptions. Men tipped back their caps and leered at their exquisite bare legs with bold staring eyes, reducing the pretty things to titters and blushes.

It was a very warm day and the park was crowded. On a lazy summer morning things took on the appearance of a sepia-coloured version of a long-vanished England. It spoke of warm beer supped around blazing pub fires. It spoke of a green and pleasant land, of country house picnics and interminable games of cricket played out on village greens by men dressed in scrupulous white flannels.

Many were the puzzled observers would have felt their hormones stir as they watched them pass; a double file of honeyed innocence apparently quite unconcerned with the stimulating appearance they presented. Madame acknowledged the admiration like royalty in progress, striding in front like a modern-day Boudicca. She appeared to have a sixth-sense as to the sort of person who would maintain a more than passing interest in her flock, and to such people she would stoutly present herself and offer her card.

When he first introduced himself Ralph Montague, who liked to be called Monty, seemed no more remarkable than any of the others. Nothing more than a day-tripper with a camera who wished to take a picture of a bunch of pretty things grouped around the bronze statue of Peter Pan. Only later did it transpire he had a professional interest and was a devotee of flouncing girly-boys.

Jennifer looked at the set-up in the room that day. She had decked out Candy and Prudence in a neat little concoction reminiscent of ancient Greece. Bare feet and a pure white one-piece, very short to make the most of their superb legs with two small knots to tie the material over their pale shoulders. The neckline had been cut low to allow a show of delicate skin and the folds over the rest of their bodies only just hid the flesh inside. It was purposely calculated as false modesty, for the effect was more tantalising than nakedness. At a distance it was hard to judge their height. Neither was more than five feet tall but both were perfectly proportioned. Certainly they were small enough to be reckoned as petite and pretty enough to break hearts.

She watched through half closed lids as Candy and Prudence smiled coyly at the spotty-faced youth. They were flirting with Pimples under their lashes, their bodies stretching sylph-like and acting up on his behalf as he looking at them through the viewfinder of a camera.

Pimples was not the most handsome lad in London and he seemed to have a mind as broad as a thread of cotton, while his conversation never seemed to rise above his navel. He had been making blatant overtures for sissy favours since he arrived, and had a hand in his trouser pocket all the time, a weak attempt to hide his depraved interest, since he was clearly massaging a hard-on.

"Hi dollface." he called to Candy, "Do you believe in love at first sight, or do I have to walk past you again?"

Candy laughed out loud at the acne face framed with overgrown, untidy hair. The lad was a nightmare, but no more of a horror than anyone else from the outside he'd seen lately.

"You two look like handmaidens to the Queen of Sheba. Come here." the spotty one said.

Candy tossed his head and stuck his nose in the air. "What for?"

"I want to show you the camera's."

Candy's tinkling laugh sounded again. "Not likely." And looking provocative and incredibly mischievous he skipped away.

"Oho, someone else is there?" The youth pressed a hand to his chest. "You've broken my heart."

Candy swung around, swinging his hips saucily. "Maybe Prudence will help mend it."

Pru spluttered. "Tell him to fly off and crash in a distant forest."

Revelling in their cheeky impudence the two lovely look-a likes collapsed in each others arms, chuckling with singsong laughter as the young man emerged from behind the camera looking all flustered and cursing all 'fuckin' prick teasers.'

"Well times getting on, and it's time I've paid for." grumbled Monty. "And there ain't no bed in here. Some of my best work is of boys without pants stretched out on a bed."

"I've had some duvets and pillows collected from the bedrooms," snapped Jennifer, "You can make up a padded platform like a bed from them."

The photographer turned grumpily away. "I'll take a few general ones with the wide angle first, so everyone but the kids should keep out of the way."

He fiddled around, changing the light filters and shooting off test pictures, getting into his photographer mode. By the time that was done Prudence and Candy were looking garish yet cute. Without any urging they raised their arms and put hands behind his head, eyes glittering, a flirtatious tilt of their heads and a devilish smile on their lush mouths as they swivelled their hips like showgirls in a revue.

Monty adjusted the tripod, peered through the lens, and then, using a cable switch, he tripped the shutter. The flash flared, and at once the slave units flashed too, bathing the whole room in white light.

The camera reload produced an insectile whine. "That slave on the far side didn't go off." he complained bitterly to his assistant.

The callow faced, spotty youth pulled his hand from his pocket. "Fuckin' thing's fuckin' fucked, Monty." he replied, using the full array of expression known to him.

"Okay, we can do without it." the photographer grumbled. He turned to Jennifer.

"I'm ready to start, I guess. But the outfits those pantywists are wearing are just plain boring. I'm gonna have to do something about 'em."

"We have other costumes here. The house is full of them." Jennifer said helpfully.

Monty ignored her. He'd brought some items of his own. His assistant was already delving into a bag.

Jennifer shrugged her shoulders and turned away. On a table nearby lay a portfolio of work Monty had done in the past. She flipped through it, not at all surprised by the photographs inside. Monty may have been a picture-taker of wide experience but he had a singular taste and was clearly not the kind who belly-crawled through war zones to capture images of human suffering.

He preferred boys. Beautiful boys. He was an established purveyor of sissyland and a good at what he did. Some of his models were swishing around in high-class fashion, while others posed in the almost obligatory fluffy little-girl outfits so beloved by enthusiasts of the sissy theme.

When she looked up it appeared to be nursery time. Monty's chosen outfits for Candy and Prudence consisted of little pink shifts with short puffy sleeves that had flowers embroidered on the bodice. The drape of the little dresses was so short in barely covered their scallop-trimmed rumba panties, while on their heads had been placed snug fitting little baby-bonnets with pretty scallop trim and which had tapes to tie under their chins.

As an added touch of stimulus a big, pink plastic baby-pacifier on a string had been looped about their necks.

Pom-Pom was holding a plastic baby-rattle that had the appearance of a pair of testicles on a stick, while Candy was gripping an oversized infant-feed bottle that had a rubber teat moulded in the shape of a man's penis.

"Nice," Monty murmured, stepping back. "Very nice."

"Coochy-coochy, gaa-gaa-goo. Who's li'l babies then? So smooth and sweet. Yee-eess!" teased acne-face mercilessly, taking his revenge for being spurned earlier.

"Cut-out the claptrap, Herbert." Monty snapped at his assistant.

Ha! So spotty-face had a name, noted Jennifer. He was a Herbert.

"We're not really babies." Candy protested.

"Course you ain't." blustered Monty, "But when I start with the camera I'll want you to act like babies. Sit together on the duvets now, hold hands and look helpless. And let's have you suckin' on them dummies."

The guard-disc on the pacifiers obscured half their faces, their small noses just about managed to show, and their eyes looked bright and beguiling under the hoods of the bonnets. Sliding easily into the role they had been given Candy and Prudence rolled onto their backs, gurgling and squirming, knees pointed up and swing outward so the camera could get a good angle on their lace-trimmed panties. Thoroughly babyfied they even seemed to enjoy having a dummy-teat to suck on, and became occupied making busy, wet noises.

Monty thought it a shame he couldn't capture the sound on film.

Jennifer passed time by flipping through some more of Monty's previous work. There was lots of other stuff. Semi-naked and nude studies. Boys wearing nothing but make-up and a smile, moist lips and come-to-bed-eyes, posing and reclining in various come-and-get-me attitudes, most of them sporting full erections. Two breathless looking young boys, hair in sausage-roll ringlets and wearing nothing but court shoes, were facing each other and comparing their substantial erections, both of which were distended and upright and featuring commendable moist, mushroom-shaped heads.

Half way through the folder she came across a set of a statuesque, slim-hipped boy wearing just very tight blue denim briefs. A large, dark wet patch around his groin and a stream of liquid flowing down his inner thigh told the story. He was smiling brazenly at the camera as he pissed his pants.

She studied the photo's for several minutes, absorbed by them, and an even darker side of things emerged. Other work showed strict fetish control and female domination. There was a series of several young effeminates wearing nothing but ball-gags and cock-and-ball harness, an item she was not unfamiliar with. Commonly called an Arab-strap, it consisted of linked rings - plastic, metal, sometimes just leather - worn around the base of cock and balls to restrict blood flow from an engorged penis. Sometimes it even successfully maintained an erection beyond ejaculation. In this case there was no indication of whether it was a before or after sequence, but everyone there was upstanding magnificently.

The boy models were also wearing black leather slave-collars with studs and chrome buckles, which signified the role they were playing. They were all being sternly lectured by a very imposing young girl wearing a black mortarboard cap of the kind that was once the hallmark of schoolteachers. A long black gown was draped over her shoulders and under it she wore nothing but a skimpy black two-piece bikini fastened onto a matriarchal stance. In her hand she was wielding a school cane.

Jennifer's heart seemed to leap into her mouth. Goodness gracious! The girl model in the photographs was Madame's daughter, Sophie, and in this particular study it could hardly be said she was modelling junior fashions.

Trying not to show her sudden alarm she caught the photographers attention whilst he was adjusting some of his equipment.

"I believe Madame outlined the restrictions on photography here today. No pictures of sexual arousal. Nothing too indecent. Okay?"

"Yes, I remember she mentioned that." snarled Monty with some annoyance. "But she ain't asked to see any of the prints, so we could..."

Jennifer cut him short. "That's the reason I'm here Mr Montague - to make sure you don't cheat." Striking a gentler note she asked, "Where do you sell your - er - artwork, Monty?

"Not in this country, that's for sure. People are too lily-livered to handle it here. But there's other places where deals can be done."

She felt a lessening of tension. At least that seemed to promise they wouldn't be handed out like flyers on the streets of London.

Monty paused a moment longer and studied her face closely, "You know, you're a good looker. I wouldn't mind photographing you without your knickers while you frolicked with these two creampuffs."

Her head snapped up and she gazed at him, achromatic and deadpan. "Fuck off."

The edge was taken off proceedings when Madame's manservant opened the door.

Jennifer turned towards him "What is it, Samson?"

"Somebody on the phone downstairs. For you." he replied.

"Who is it?"

"Dunno."

With a sigh Jennifer pushed herself from her chair and made for the door, and as soon as she'd disappeared through it the photographer's face broke into a leering grin as he took renewed interest in his models.

"Okay you two sweeties. Shall we get on with it? Let me see some pricks."

It occurred to him they may refuse, they may feel some sense of shame at doing what he asked. But he was wrong, they showed no alarm. The duo returned his stare fearlessly from beneath their lashes and were neither coy, nor coquettish.

Chins tilted down, and giving the camera the cheekiest of smiles Candy and Prudence bent forward and pushed down their rumba pants to mid thigh, each exposing his penis and his testicles, proud of themselves. Each sissy cock was limp of course, three inches of passive white dangle with a slight indication of a cock-head bulging through a film of foreskin, all of which lay cushioned on the pale pink bag of their scrotum.

The apparently shameless creatures chuckled. Dressed in pink. Cute little baby girls with pricks.

Monty's camera went click, whrrr several times as he moved around to get shots from different angles. Candy cupped his balls with his free hand and responded by pushing the hood forward and then skinning his prick back even further, which allowed them to get a peep at the shallow groove under the swollen pink gland.

"Sweet, huh?" remarked pimply Herbert.

Monty agreed. "Nice. Now I want to see you both with a stiffy." he told the models.

The two sissies looked at each other and then back at the photographer. "I don't think we're allowed to do that."

"Nonsense. I'm paying Madame Dupont for your time this afternoon, so you have to do as I want. You know what to do. You take your cock in your hand and you pull it... Get started."

The youth called Herbert leered unapologetically while they jiggled themselves. "Do you chicks want any help? I can lend a hand if you like."

"Keep out o' this." snapped Monty peevishly.

Hands took hold and fingers got to work, and as blood rose up to engorge the spongy tissue of each young male appendage they quickly became stiffer, thicker and more extended until they presented four inches of stiff flesh enraptured with girlitude.

With a full erection Prudence skinned his foreskin back slowly and felt the nerve endings spread as the bald tip rolled into sight, then he eased it back to rest just below the delicate ridge.

By his side Candy rubbed his juvenile truncheon just as carefully, sliding the loose hood forward with his right hand and rolled it sideways over the head, then having found the hot spot that always suited him best he started yanking it quickly with his thumb. Since he didn't have any choice in things he set about indulging himself with intense concentration.

Click, whrrr went Monty's camera. "Oh yes. Look at that! Not such babies after all, are they?" he said has he watched each sissy continue to tease the sheath of skin back and forth over the shiny plum of his knob.

"Nice. So much better than when they're droopy." Herbert said while scrutinising the teardrop shaped flare of the exposed pee-holes and noticing they was beginning to leak stuff.

Monty grinned crookedly. "Quite a pair. Quite a handful. Very commendable. They're real cock candy, and since that fag-hag ain't here now we can try something else."

"Swing round and face each other, darlin's. Nudge those juicy tips together." he told the girly-boys. Click, whrrr. "Keep those hands pumping. Let's see some nice dribble coming out from those fine specimens."

"Do it for each other for a minute. That's it. Good fun, ain't it? But don't peak yet, I've lots of other stuff to do before you enjoy a jolly. Stick out yer tongues an' slither 'em together. Give 'em a nice licking."

And then. "Turn around and let me see what you look like at the back. Frocks up and heads down. Show me some arse."

Feeling hot and horny Candy and Prudence were at his command, and at the man's insistence they turned away from him, got down on all-fours then pushed their faces to the floor, revealing bare bottoms the colour of cream.

Monty savoured the texture of each milky little mound. "Now your cheeks. Spread 'em kids. Hold them arses open wide. Open your legs and shove your bottoms up. Let's have a look."

The two young teenies complied, pushing their backsides up and splaying their thighs and showing their balls, which were hanging heavy like plums in bags between their legs.

"They're looking good." Herbert murmured with approval.

Monty's eyes glowered like those of a hunger hawk and he licked his lips as if actually tasting the savoury view. "Yes, lovely. Blemishless - so soft. I'll use the hand camera to do a few close-up anus shots."

 

"Hello." Jennifer said, going into the sitting room downstairs and pressing the handset of the phone against her cheek.

The voice on the other end came as such a surprise she had to dump herself down on the sofa.

"Freddie! Where have you been for the past three weeks?"

"Cornwall," came the breathy reply, "My mother said I should have a proper holiday while I'm out of school. She said it was wrong for me to spend so much time alone in the house, so she sent me to stay with her sister in Cornwall. I got back just a few hours ago, and I called you as soon as I could."

The phone became suddenly moist where the plastic pressed against Jennifer's face. She felt like a child at Christmas. Freddie's abrupt disappearance from her life without explanation had caused her some upset, and his sudden return struck her with equal shock.

"Look, I'd like to see you. Right away, just for a moment or two. Can you meet me behind the shop where we met the first time?"

There was a moment of hesitancy and she sensed the youngster was blushing madly.

"Yes," came the eventual reply, "I'll be there in ten minutes."

Jennifer put the phone down and sallied out into the hall, her mood now quite different to what it had been a short while ago. Before the day had merely offered a promise of routine, but now there was the prospect of adventure with her very own juicy boy.

"I have to pop out for a few minutes," she told Samson, "Pay attention to what's happening here while I'm away, and keep an eye on the visitors upstairs."

As she went out to the door she wondered about what she'd said. Despite the weeks she'd spent in Nob Street she'd never quite got the measure of the ponderous Samson. She had neither the rapport or the authority with him that Madame enjoyed and her own dealings with him were hit and miss much of the time. He pleased himself as to what he did as far as she was concerned, and because his favourite excuse for not having done something was that he hadn't understood what she'd said in the first place, she tried to cover that loophole.

"Do you understand?" she asked.

"Yus." the doorman replied in his usual zombie cadence, as if he were in training for a monosyllabicity competition.

She hurried along Nob Street and crossed the road into the alley that went up behind the shops. To the side the gaunt face of a semi-derelict warehouse loomed upward, while to her front lay the small yard that was her destination. Nobody else around but a young girl with red hair, all on her own looking bored and at a loose end.

Freddie was already there when she arrived. He was as she remembered him most easily, dressed in a T-shirt and blue denim jeans. Nice. Quite boyish, but not really masculine. Boy-thin arms and no teen muscle yet.

She held his shoulders at arms length. "Let me look at you," she smiled and touched his cheeks, then she stepped back and appraised his figure. "You're losing weight. Are you eating properly? What a surprise. Fancy you calling me as soon as you arrived back from holiday. Did you enjoy it? Was it nice in Cornwall?"

Freddie gave her the same kind of shy smile he'd smiled when they had first met on the train to London and lowered his eyes guiltily. "It was okay. I wanted to send you a postcard, but mother told me not to."

"Never mind. Let's just think about what we're going to do now. I can't stay long because I'm looking after things at the house while Madame is away."

She looked around. On her right was the back of the corner shop and on her left - she realised by the smell that wafted over the wall - was a bakery. Immediately to her left there was some kind of outhouse that was under renovation abutted to the old warehouse, but there was no people around. Bread was made most every day of the week, but obviously resurrections didn't happen on Sundays. Everywhere was deserted - except for the nosy little girl she could see peeping around the corner at them.

"The little place. Come with me, it'll be more private over here." she urged, leading him by the hand.

There was a resinous tang of paint and wood shavings around the building. The door was locked but there was a secluded walled niche to the side of it.

The teen girl licked her lips, anticipating the taste of Freddie as she pushed him into the shadows and flattened him against the wall.

His arms were slender and girlish, and no wiles of paint and powder were needed with him. His cheeks held the natal blush of a rose petal and his lips were deep red on their own account.

She took hold of his chin and rotated his face. It felt nice. She called him darling and was being kind - almost loving, and Freddie thought he wouldn't mind at all if he were her darling.

She took him in her arms and slowly leaning forward she put her tongue in his ear, to which her just uttered a tiny "Oh, I say..."

Putting her arms about his waist she scooped him forward and gently parted his lips with her tongue. Holding him tight she delivered a deep kiss, rocking her jaw until she could force her tongue into his succulent sissy mouth.

A blush crept up from Freddie's neck, but he didn't struggle or protest. After all, he was a confirmed sissy now, and sissies didn't know how to fight, they only knew how to squeal and gasp when someone gripped them firmly.

He tried to touch her but she pushed his hands down as she slipped her tongue into his mouth to twine with his own, slithering, twisting and goading him into high excitement.

She held his face in her hands to brush her lips against his mouth, pressing her face against his cheek and dragging it around until their noses bumped, and when she kissed him her tongue darted in and out, plundering his senses and doing things to make his core melt.

Jennifer knew everything about kissing. Her mouth was rough and urgent and Freddie whimpered at its sensuous demands. Her lips were full and hot and she used her whole head and not just her mouth. She knew what she was doing was irresponsible, but the thrill she derived from it was amazing.

As she drew back she nibbled lightly on his lips. Mmm! Men would go to war to get a chance of some of that.

Freddie slumped against her, his body slack as he clung to her shoulders, thrusting against her, melding to her body, needing to be closer.

The girl revelled in that and tugged him deeper into her embrace, breathing in the slightly boy-smell of his luscious pheromones as her fingers played up and down his fragile spine. She traced its length to his bottom and cupped him in her hands to pull him into the cradle of her thighs. She wanted him to bare himself and let her take whatever she wanted from him. She wanted him to give himself.

Feverishly she slid her mouth down his jaw to his neck and tugged the skin gently with her teeth. Freddie squirmed as she sucked the lobe of his ear, and his breathing changed again, catching, and then a long exhale.

It took only moments for Jennifer to detect he was wearing something beneath his shirt, she could feel the edge of a strap across his back, and suddenly her smile held a challenge and her dark eyes seemed to blaze with passion.

"Say nothing." she said, hooking her hands under the bottom of his T-shirt and skimming it up, bit by bit, rucking it over his flat bare belly and tucking it under his arms to expose - a little bra, a small lacy white thing with a tiny silk bow between the half cups that swooped down to cuddle his gorgeous chest.

Freddie's cheeks deepened in pinkness. With his face tilted up toward hers and his pageboy tresses swinging back, he looked deliciously coy.

"I - I thought you'd like me like this." he panted shyly.

"I love it." she told him. She also loved the way he cringed like a virgin schoolgirl as her fingers slipped around to unfasten the bra-strap on his back.

With the item pushed up and tucked out of the way she surveyed her prize. His boy-girl bosom was small, smooth and slightly pink and surmounted by tiny swollen nipples the size of coat buttons.

She smiled at him, feeling powerful and macho and lucky to have him.

"Keep your hands out of the way."

He did., sighing as she caressed his chest, squeezing the flesh and pulling it left and right.

"Oh!" He sighed as she grasped the teats and slowly milked them with pushes and pulls of her fingers, coaxing the little tips into peaks, pressing and kneading the soft flesh around them with the palms of her hands and drawing the nipples out with gentle fingertips.

"Don't move, okay?"

Freddie panted, his body quivering. "Or- or what?"

"I'll have to get rough."

"Oh..."

"Fancy you arriving back now of all times. Tomorrow I have to go up to Yorkshire for a few days, but I'd like us to have some time together before I go. Is you're mother working at Drury Lane this evening?"

"Yes. She's there most evenings, and she comes home late."

"I'll be free tonight so I'll come over to Fox Mews. I'll phone you later and tell you when to expect me. And I'll want you to put on a good show, okay?"

Her gaze drifted to the bare flesh that became exposed. Her hand reached down, down to the waist band of his jeans. A snap as a press stud parted, and then a zipper growled and he squirmed and twisted as the trousers were pushed down over his hips and onto his thighs.

What a surprise. Beneath his jeans his underwear was diminutive white panties with a delicate scallop trim, and he was wearing a lacy suspender belt with the straps attached to the welts of stocking tops. Like so many she'd known before Freddie was a boy only on top. Underneath he was a simpering little queen.

"Gosh, how lovely! You're wearing pretty lingerie. You are an eager beaver, aren't you? But I'm not going to complain. It must mean you want to be my girl, and you want me to take you to bed and make love to you."

Freddie uttered a tiny nervous laugh. "Oh dear."

"I'll spank you first and perhaps make you cry."

"Why?"

"You'll behave if I smack you." she explained patiently, "It'll make you hot and eager to be a good girl. Anyway, you're such a naughty boy. You deserve to be spanked, don't you?"

"Yes."

"But I do like what you've done. It demonstrates that you take pleasure in the hot rush that comes with girlification. You feel sexy in girls things, don't you?"

"Sort of. When I'm with you I do." He blushed. "I'll do whatever you want."

He was unable to deny her anything. The front of his girlish underwear bulged wantonly, but she ignored it at that moment. When he thrust his hips at her she cupped his buttocks in her hands and let her fingers brush the crease between his bottom cheeks. He writhed against the wall as the most intimate flower of his person was teased and probed.

"Such dependable co-operation." smiled Jennifer, "Co-operation such as that deserves to be rewarded, and although I don't make an habit of it these days, I'll make an exception for you."

Sliding her hands around to the front of him she touched between his legs, diverting from one softly defined inner thigh to the other, knowing he wished to be felt like that, knowing he wanted to be touched. A hand delved into the depths of his panties... pausing, soothing and fondling before closing around his genitals and lifting his testicles and rampant penis over the top and out from concealment. "Keep still." she said sternly.

He trembled and as he did so her questing fingers were there, and his pelvis bucked hard against them. Obediently he relaxed and allowed her to draw out the entire length. His penis was nicely made, uncut with an indication of a well-formed cock head bulging beneath the film of foreskin. Immediately she began to move the sheath of skin back and forth with her fingers, lightly pumping it down until the bald mushroom-shaped tip became fully exposed, before pushing it all the way up again.

Quite suddenly she was conscious of the kind of feeling people get when they think they're being observed, and looking behind she saw the girl with red hair who had been trailing after her. She was a dozen paces away, a sweet thing in a short denim skirt, squinting hard and trying to see what was happening in the tiny alcove where Freddie had been pinned.

When she saw Jennifer turn her head she tensed, ready to race away if a move towards her was made, but instead of showing annoyance, Jennifer smiled.

"Hello, what your name?"

"Veronica."

"Want to help me, Veronica? Want to hand-job this boy for me?"

The girl shrugged. "Might as well. There's nothing else to do today. Will he let me do it?"

Freddie gave an indication that he was about to say something about that, but Jennifer quickly pressed a restraining hand over his mouth.

"He'll be as good as gold whilst I'm here. Come on, we won't hurt you. Come here and get hold of his cock. You do know how to do it, don't you?"

"Cause I do. I've got a brother."

With that question neatly answered Veronica moved into the small enclave to get a closer look at what was on offer, and seeming satisfied she fearlessly wrapped her fingers around Freddie's penis. As more blood engorged its spongy tissue it became thicker and stiffer, and Freddie sucked through his teeth as nerve ending began to tingle.

Jennifer nodded approval. "That's it. Now I'll snog him while you wank him off. Fair deal?"

Immediately she repressed any thought of protest from the boy by kissing him hard on the mouth, while at the same time her hands began to grope his chest and tug at the soft flesh of his breasts.

Young Veronica began carefully, her small hand moving slowly and rhythmically and so smoothly that Freddie felt himself tighten as the pressure inside him increased. When her hand gently squeezed a hot spasm shot upwards from the pit of his stomach to the tip of each nipple.

Delighted by the amount of oozy precum her movements were generating the girl took hold with the full ring of her hand, increasing her speed and wrinkling the hood of his foreskin back and forth faster until a warm slush bathed her fingers.

"There, you need this," Jennifer whispered to Freddie matter-of-factly, "Afterwards you won't be distracted and you'll be able to concentrate on preparing to be my girl-toy. Because tonight you're going to be Felicity for me, aren't you?"

She glanced down at the girl. She thought Veronica was a little young for this sort of thing, but she was brazen and confident about doing it, and she was concentrating so hard on what was happening she didn't bother to conceal a flash of glee when she felt Freddie's anatomy responding to her touch.

In fact the young girl was acting in an unbelievable predatory fashion, while one of her preteen hands cupped the boys testicles her other hand was jerking his foreskin, the tip of a small thumb caressing the sensitive spot beneath the head of his gland in a disturbing, knowledgeable way.

Freddie's limbs momentarily lost all structure as they racked in a spasm. The activity of the two girls together had turned his stomach to jelly and he felt all squishy inside. There was a sensation of sparks. Young as it was the Veronica's hand seemed to generate electricity along his shaft as she rapidly stroked it back and forth. He twisted helplessly left and right, wanting it to stop, but conversely also wanting it to go on forever. His eyes rolled and his mouth gaped, he could feel the blood pumping in his veins and the mating juice pumping in his testicles.

Finally his member surrendered its accumulated juiciness in a seismic blast that drained his scrotal sac in a second. He sucked through his teeth and his eyes took on the dreamy look people have when just coming out of anaesthetic. "Oooh, eeerrrr!"

A moment later, wanked to a frazzle by a little girl, he slumped against the wall, staring with a fixed, dazed expression, his beautiful eyes still moist from the recent sweet agony of orgasm.

Veronica regarded was had happened with an expression of slight disgust. The boys ejaculation hardly looked sexy. It had splashed halfway up her forearm and looked like a streak of opaque glue freshly squeezed from a tube.

 

Jennifer had a flash of guilt as she hurried back to the house, not about what she'd just done, but about what she should have been doing. Madame had charged her with monitoring the conduct of those ghastly photographers, and despite the care she had taken earlier she didn't trust Samson to do it for her. Sometimes he ignored what she said just out of sheer bloody-mindedness.

She had a right to be suspicious. She let herself in, and there was no sign of Samson near the door, but she saw him in the sitting room with a group of madam's darlings. He was slumped in an armchair completely engrossed in a children's programme was on the television.

When she went up the stairs her worse nightmare seemed to be realised, certain noises were apparent even on the landing; urgent and rapacious; gasping, gurgling. Animal panting. Breathless throaty cries. The gruff pig-like grunts of men, the slap of flesh on flesh, and the little 'oohs' and 'aahs' of sissies.

She turned the handle slowly so the door opened without noise. She only opened it a crack, but through the narrow aperture she could see everything clearly. The room was quite gloomy with the windows covered, but she could easily make out the huddle of bodies on the duvets spread on the floor.

No one needed to paint a picture for her to know what was happening. Candy and Prudence were kneeling on the duvets, heads down and supporting themselves on their elbows while pushing up their defenceless young backsides. The two men were crouched behind them, trouserless, gripping their hips and forcing them to be still while they humped back and forth like a a pair of mechanical jackhammers.

White buttocks, white legs. Bodies surging and ebbing. Two tender sissy-loveholes jammed with randy cock and being pumped manfully.

Candy threw back his head, moaning deep in his throat, eyes closed, gasping and panting as pimply Herbert rutted him. Monty, crouched beside his assistant was linked to Prudence by a penis embedded deep in the youngsters anus. With his balls pressed against him he held him still, letting him get used to being stuffed full of man cock, slowly withdrawing a couple of inches before sliding back again. He repeated it a few times and then began to quicken the pace. Prudence took it with a look of shock and a tiny squeak of anguish, whimpering softly as the pulsating flesh made him accept its girth.

"They shag like bunny rabbits." Monty quipped.

There was nothing refined about the coupling, it was masters remorselessly providing and slaves submissively receiving. The pantywaists rotated their haunches in rhythm with the movements and began uttering a constant groan, and as their cries increased in pitch so the men increased the speed of their pumping.

Jennifer remained outside on the landing and softly closed the door. Everyone seemed to be enjoying themselves, and since the men were on the colloquial vinegar stretch and nearly finished there was no reason to cause an upset.

Her only concern was that Madame Dupont would return suddenly to find that her trusted assistant had left the house without making proper provision to protect her darlings. Quite rightly she would be furious. Still, what could be the most serious thing that could happen this late in the Summer Season?

As Tweedledee once said to Alice - the most serious thing would be to get one's head cut off.

  

  

  

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