Showtime

by Jason Argo

 

Part 7

 

The women were on their fifth round of drinks in Axton House, and all of them were very merry by nine o'clock in the evening. A group of ten in a normal-sized family home would have split it to the seams, but Mrs Van Damme's home was an old Listed Georgian mansion set deep in the Sussex countryside, large enough to imprison several normal-sized dwellings within its walls. It was far too big for a widow lady like Mrs Van Damme to occupy with just a solitary female companion, so vast expanses of the place went unused, but the woman's own family had owned the property since migrating from the continent two hundred years previously and she refused to give it up. No one ever argued about that. She was eminently wealthy enough to hang onto it. Two centuries of marriage alliances in Europe, South America and South Africa had increased the families core fortune, and among recent generations, infertility, war and homosexuality had whittled everyone down to such an extent that incredible amounts of money had been funnelled directly back to herself.

Marjory Nightingale felt her face redden. At twenty-eight she was the youngest woman there and it was the first time she'd been invited to Axton House. Her husband had encouraged her to come when she'd been invited because Mrs Van Damme was the most important person in the district. She held the land rights to all the primary farms in the neighbourhood and owned every brick of the Country Club, so a large part of the local economy and a great deal of employment was dependant on her goodwill.

The party had been fun at first. Collectively the women there were all rather similar - over thirty, predominantly pink-beige in colour and wearing ditsy little cardigans in sugar-almond hues. Initially the small talk had been lofty, the vocabulary studded with words like 'au pair' 'exorbitant' 'the Maldives' and 'Sardinia', but as the wine went down so did the overblown pretensions.

Mrs Van Damme had organised the evening for her women friends, it was the kind of party where men are never allowed. Carmine Wilcox, the impeccably made-up girl with the case had started off by just showing lacy nighties and silk briefs, but after everyone had drunk a couple of glasses of wine out had come the other knickknacks which were all well received as they passed from hand to hand.

Vibrators and dildo's, large and small, some stiff and smooth, some flexible and snakelike and others incorporating inexplicable rubber spikes or knobbly bits.

Marjory was hot with embarrassment over some of the things she'd handled in the past hour, most of which seemed to have the shape of a mans penis.

"It's all part of a girl's education," Mrs Beauchamp had said when she'd stopped giggling.

One of the other women had shrieked with laughter. "Once you've felt one, you've felt 'em all, darlin'."

Marjory had half scowled. "If they all feel the same why do I need to touch them all?"

Everyone fell about. Hyacinth Glossop spilt a glass of wine down the front of her dress and went off in a fit of high-pitched hysterics.

Consciously not attempting to dominate the proceeding Mrs Van Damme and her 15-year-old niece, Clementine, sat to the side, and while they examined each item offered around just like the other women their main delight seemed to be in watching the shameless antics of their guests. It would have been stretching the imagination to call the host attractive. In addition to an unusual dental arrangement that gave her a bucktoothed smile, she had a skinny build, a slightly hooked nose and tight wavy hair.

Hyacinth Glossop had told Marjory that Clementine wasn't really the woman's niece, in fact she'd hinted that she wasn't actually a girl at all, but one of those awful transvestite things - a boy who dressed-up as a girl. But that couldn't be true. Clementine was clearly a girl from top to toe, anyone could see that. She talked like a girl and preened all the time just like teenage girls are apt to do, and she had a large, spectacular pair of bosoms that jiggled when she moved and were if anything far too big for her spindly frame.

"Nothing's better than the real thing," assured Mrs Fawcett, planting a heavy hand on Marjory Nightingale's knee and chuckling until her whole fat frame wobbled.

Mrs Comyn was nearly sixty years old with greying hair and she looked the epitome of a kindly grandmother, but that evening she wasn't acting like one. She picked a plastic object up from the table, thumbed the switch on the base of it and tittered when the thing began shuddering in her hand.

Peals of laughter started again.

Mrs Carter-Plackett, a homely looking tweed-clad woman with an iron-grey perm who was known to smoke a pipe when alone, was telling a joke about a man's anatomy while stroking a large plastic cock that incorporated an anal probe.

"If my Colin had something like this we wouldn't be sleeping in separate beds." she declared.

Carmine Wilcox unboxed another item and held it in her hands. "This is the squirty model and it's very popular. It includes rubber testicles that can be filled with liquid which a little light pressure will send coursing along the shaft. Warm water is okay, but anyone who buys such an item tonight will receive a complimentary quart bottle of replica semen."

Mrs Glossop, a broad bodied fruity woman with a ringing laugh, leered with approval.

"If h'I ever saw a fella with something like that h'I'd divorce my darling 'ubby tomorrow."

By her side Mrs Quinlan guffawed. "If I know you, you've already done a lot of lookin' over the years."

Marjory cringed.

"Relax m'dear. We like to think of ourselves as an innovative, cutting-edge little community in the village. We're here to enjoy ourselves." Mrs Beauchamp said.

"I'm not used to it." explained Margory, "My mother said I should maintain some principles of decency."

Mrs Beauchamp tossed a handful of salted almonds into her mouth and crunched them like an industrial machine churning gravel. "Oh, I quite agree," she murmured spongily, "We all have to maintain standards - or something."

Marjory sipped more wine and began to feel a little faint. She tried not to notice the items the other women purchased. She herself bought a small teddy-bear decorated with a spotted blue bow-tie.

Eventually Carmine Wilcox packed her case and departed. Mrs Van Damme then stood up and indicated for her guests to follow as she led the way out of the intimately cramped drawing room and through into the Long Gallery, a more spacious place lit by crystal chandeliers and paved with black and white tiles in Battenburg style. Garnished with tapestries and green malachite vases it was the focal point of the house. The dimensions of the room were awesome, nearly forty feet in length, with lofty ceilings and huge curtained bay windows.

"Great 'ouse you've got here." enthused Mrs Beauchamp. "Got any ghosts, has it? I allus wanted to be scared out of my wits by a ghost."

"This room is said to be haunted," explained Mrs Van Damme's niece Clementine in a silky voice. "A Bride in a Box story of the most vivid kind. In the past brides used to play hide-and-seek during their wedding celebrations, and it's said one hid in an old iron chest in here and couldn't get out. No one found her at the time, and her remains were only discovered years after the event."

"A terrible thing to happen." remarked Hyacinth Glossop with a shiver. "It's enough to make my gastritis play up, so before we go h'any further can we agree t'talk about something else?"

Mrs Warburton agreed. "Aye, bad enough after the wedding-night, but for a girl to be done in before she gets her nookie - that's horrible."

There were several deep easy chairs and a couple of mushroom coloured sofas placed at one side of the room in an informal group and everyone seated themselves in preparation for what their host promised as additional entertainment.

One end of the room, the end where they sat, was dimly lit, whereas the other end of the room was brightly illuminated.

When the strains of Bolero introduced Bambi onto the floor before them all outrageous badinage fell away and the room was suddenly still. Everyone had suspected they would have to submit to some sort of musical soiree at the end of the evening, but they didn't suspect that their hostess had arranged something brighter and punchier than just chamber music. What they actually got surprised them all. They knew Mrs Van Damme was a rather quirky independent-minded person who treated social prudishness with disdain, but they never dreamed she'd employ a naked young boy to entertain them with a fan dance.

Yet they giggled with delight, little realising that he was but the first item on a menu of Frilly Follies.

Shortly afterwards a whole line of loveliness flooded onto the floor wriggling their hips suggestively. Boys attired in forbidden girlie things, flimsy short skirts, thigh high hose with cute pink bows around the top. They danced, stepping out magnificently to Astaire's classic, Putting on the Ritz, and when they moved no one could deny their profound pulchritude. The beauty of their seraph-like features were fixed with faux nonchalant expressions, but their dancing said all that was necessary.

Little skirts swung and swayed with each scintillating movement. Beribboned and perfumed but quite without any pants the first glimpse of exposed youthful cock caught the women's eyes like barbed-wire. The performers seemed to take pride in showing themselves - showing their pretty bags and their pretty pricks which were all bound round with a tiny bow of pink ribbon.

The unrepentant displays of slender pink baubles sent temperature soaring. Turning now and then to display their delectable bare bottoms the sissies danced with the confidence of young people who knew they were enticing to look at. Making no attempt to be modest they posed sexily, gyrating and wigwagging their scantily clad bodies shamelessly in front of the small enthusiastic gathering.

The room was booming with vigorous gee-up music that made every pulse zap faster, and Marjory Nightingale's throat tightened. It was all too bizarre. Disgusting.

Flamboyant exhibitionists, there was no other explanation possible to explain the exuberance those - erm - boys displayed when performing.

Everyone stared, unable to take it in at once. Unable to believe that they were confronted by a bevy of lovely girls who displayed unquestionable boyish jewels beneath their tiny split skirts.

"Whooo! The naughty dears - they're showing off their little wigglies." Mrs Warburton almost squealed.

"Some of 'em h'ain't so little." observed Hyacinth Glossop.

High pitched decibels of laughter bounced off the walls in a kind of quadraphonic cackle and a furore of lewd comments followed.

"Ain't no gherkins there."

"Plenty of pickles onions though."

 

Marjory Nightingale was stiff with concentration and her face felt like cement with the effort of trying not to pant. It was all so awful. Boys dressed-up like girls, exposing their genitalia, blatantly displaying their youthful - erm - youthfulness, and their cute little seed-bags.

A horrible guilty pleasure engulfed her. The best kind of pleasure. It was ten-times more reprehensible than she could ever have imagined.

Even so, the foregoing seemed to pale with the sequent appearance of Marianne. Any outfit he wore, no matter how elaborate or how simple, seemed to highlight his trim figure. His skin was a delicate shade of gold from the summer, and that nights blue outfit picked up the blue in his eyes so they seemed to shine from his face like sapphires.

He stretched, and all eyes watched his lissom body as he moved.

Goddess was the general opinion, so dinky and sweet, what legs - in nylons and with a 'Les Mis' hairstyle groomed to magnificence, and wearing makeup that gave him rouged cheeks and mouth-watering fuchsia pink lips. The clothes had not created a girl of course, but to those assembled he seemed nearer to being a girl than a boy.

He began to dance - confident, in control and at ease with his role - lifting and falling with the melody being piped from the audio-system, shoes trip-trapping in tempo. He was a natural performer, sensitive to the nuance of every musical instrument in an orchestra, his body flowing unconditionally with the rhythm. At home he was almost childlike hyperactive and showed a childlike wonder in anything new, but when centre stage he became suddenly concentrated. He listened intently to everything Madame told him in rehearsal and following her instructions to the letter. Attention to detail and the determination to succeed made him infallible. In the performance of dance he was faultless.

Lifting one arm Marianne tossed back his head, and spinning round he unclipped and discarded his bra. Next he began to slip the drape of satin from his hips.

Completely in harmony with the strident, soaring saxophone solo of Gerry Rafferty's Baker Street - music that was imbued with deep pathos and yet seemed strangely erotic.

He had lustre, he could spin and shine. A kick, a leap, a whirl and a skip - circling the floor - unquestionably erotic himself, light and elegant, impeccable. When he lifted his face the moist pout of his lips and the suppleness of his body encouraged all kinds of disgraceful fantasies. He took on the aura of a pre-Raphaelite maiden in a painting, except he was warm and alive and as lithesome as an eel, with serpentine movements that were fluid and effortless.

He finished posing sideways on, hands on hips, one knee jutting slightly forward, which facilitated a perfect view of his extraordinary penis, foreskin drawn back to expose a dark purple head. Nature had made him a girl, but had added testicles and a long cock that swung like a weighty pendulum between his thighs.

Peering along his shoulder his lush eyelashes fanned up and down and his partially hooded eyes exuded a look of pure seduction.

Hyacinth Glossop visibly swallowed hard. "That thing between his legs should have a bloody license." she remarked

Marjory felt suffocated while the other women whistled, applauded and cackled like hens. Even Mrs Carter-Plackett, a charming and motherly woman in a flowered dress and neatly curled hair was cheering. They were enjoying every vicarious moment of the joyous erotic panorama.

The women around Marjory panted audibly. She herself boggled in disbelief and didn't know whether to exult or scream. What were they all thinking of? Some of them had children of their own. In the daytime they were all so ultra-respectable, but apparently when the sunshine faded so did their morals.

Then it clarified in her mind somewhat. Their own offspring were real people in the world, while the one's Mrs Van Damme provided were lewd imps from another dimension, here to be gratuitously enjoyed before being sent back again. They were as lurid and weightless as a pornographic film, mere tools for sexual pleasure, just like so many things in that place on that night.

Just outside the door Mrs Van Damme was making a proposition to Madame. She was persuasive, and she was very wealthy too, which only added to her persuasiveness. She was offering double the normal fee Madame charged for a performance of the Frilly Follies in exchange for a little bit of dubious after-the-show entertainment. Despite the stony dignity that characterised her every gesture, she possessed what so many wealthy people had always had, good taste, expensive clothes, icy manners and absolutely no scruples. In her case it caused a condition that made her bored, amoral and frivolous, and she spared no expense to liven things up.

"Not anything heavy," she assured her, "Just a little fun. You have eight young things in your troupe and Ai have eight guests. It's so neat, don't you see? An ideal situation on which to end a pleasant evening."

Madame resisted. Of course she resisted. She felt distinctly uncomfortable about making such an arrangement. She was a lady with moral values and great integrity, but eventually she succumbed to temptation. Financially she was behind on what she had forecast for that stage of the summer season, and some extra cash would make a difference.

"With Marianne I have nine dancers." Madame pointed out petulantly.

"Yes, of course. Such a delicate flower. So agreeable to the eye. Leave the deah thing to me. Ai'll deal with Marianne personally."

Back inside the Long Gallery somebody opened another bottle of wine and Mrs Durante produced a bottle of gin from her large black handbag.

Then the dancers returned to the room in extended line, this time utterly without costumes of any kind. Despite they lack of clothing they dropped a curtsy to their appreciative audience, then slowly turned to provide them with a view from every angle. Naked and magnificent. There was a hissing intake of breath from the women and one of them giggled, but none turned away their eyes.

The women gazed at the serried rank before them, eyes travelled comprehensively over the nude forms and watching the twitching young cocks standing to attention, pink and pretty. Their bare chests may have been quite titless, but in the pants department they were indisputably hot-looking chicklettes.

"Oh," Mrs Fawcett grinned, "They're scrumptious. Absolute poppets."

"Drop-dead gorgeous." agreed Hyacinth Glossop

Finally the naked pantywaists walked towards their erotically-stimulated admirers who proved only too willing to draw them onto their laps to be fondled and petted.

Marjory felt trapped in a cloud of heady floral scent as Bambi drifted in front of her. He introduced a paroxysm of guilt she had rarely known before. It felt like the boy could penetrate beneath her public veneer and see into her mind with all its wicked susceptibilities.

Her heart pounded in trepidation as she allowed him to slide onto her lap, annoyed by his impudence and amazed by the slight smile playing around his lips as he inclined his head. His eyes were sparkling and his cheeks were delicately flushed as he lolled his little pink tongue languorously across his shiny lips, making it appear like a sea-creature coming out of its shell.

Young he may be, but the little strumpet was brash enough to take star place in a whorehouse.

"Erm!" Marjory faltered, tempted towards a compliment but lacking quite enough nerve. Her husband would be incredulous if he knew about this. Her mother would be beside herself with horror.

A naked Bambi bounced forward, just a little bit coy and hesitant but with a dazzling, pink-lipsticked grin stretching rigidly across his face. Casually he gave a little tug to the pink bow on his penis and the dainty ribbon immediately unfurled.

"Hello, miss. Everyone's been told to sit on a lady's lap, miss. Can I sit on yours?"

"Oh, really ... I see ... Well, I suppose..."

When he settled on her lap and looped his arms about her neck she began to wonder if she'd got fantasy mixed up with reality. The ceiling, and the two floors of Georgian brickwork above it seemed to fall on her head. Her hands shook, her throat went dry and her ears popped, but despite the imagined pressure of several tons of masonry she managed to smile - sort of. She was dumbfounded, but rejected the idea of making him get off. She gripped his waist and hauled his young body against her own, feeling its warmth and pliancy as it moulded to her. Mmm, Gorgeous!

But why oh why did she end up with the youngest, cutest little thing of all?

Unscrupulously she pressed against the yielding body to eliminate all space between them whilst her hands skittered over his nakedness to find it just as lean and lithe as she had imagined. She breathed his scent again. It rose intoxicating and extravagant up to her nostrils. She touched his arm very gently and a multitude of emotions tangled inside her head. She leaned down and pressed her mouth onto the hollow of his neck, savouring his warm skin and tasting it.

I can't believe this, she said to herself, I can't. It just doesn't make sense. I'm a normal married woman, and I'm the wife of the incumbent vicar.

"Ullo me little darlin'," murmured Hyacinth Glossop as she eased Candy up onto her lap, "Let's have a proper look at what your showin' off."

He was absolutely naked apart from floppy gold sandals that displayed bright red toenails, and she immediately grasped his penis and began a careful rubbing motion with her fingers. When she felt the small tool flex in her grip her actions became more frenetic.

"You ain't got no tiddler," she grinned, "Nice bit of 'addock is what you've got, an' I hopes you can do something with it. I bet you can. Bet you will. Yu wouldn't want to disappoint a lonely an' defenceless old lady, would yer?"

All around Marjory Nightingale other women were cuddling boys on their laps, stroking their bodies, already touching them indecently. Mrs Comyn had hoisted her skirt right up to the top of her legs so she could enjoy the rub of soft, naked buttocks on the bare thighs above her stocking tops. Women who doubtless had offspring of their own were now indulging in the vilest, most decadent kind of groping. She trembled as she realised that in that room she was permitted to be wicked. On that night, she could do things that would normally be unthinkable. She could act as depraved and as disgusting as she wished and no one would betray her, because everyone else was behaving just as depraved and disgusting as herself.

Their wickedness was infectious. She became enthralled by it. The boy on her own lap smelt so clean and sweet, and he seemed to accept what was happening. He seemed to expect something. Hesitantly she traced the curves of his figure with tender fingers, ran her hands over his rounded bare flesh.

Caressing him she became aware that his soft, sensual body was unlike anything she had previously known. Was it so vile? Was it just sex? A seduction?

Right then it didn't matter. It was what it was.

Bambi's breathing was shaky, his lips quivered as Marjory's fingers folded into his hair and her other hand ran along the top of his right thigh.

"Are you okay about this?" Marjory asked.

Bambi gasped and nodded as her hand transferred to his left thigh. The sweet cherub was very excited.

She blushed as she abandoned herself to mere sensation. What power a woman could demonstrate at such moments. She pressed her thighs firmly together under her skirt, but there was nothing she could do about the flush of her cheeks and the unusual brightness of her eyes.

She was suddenly stroking him all over, enjoying the texture of his skin and delighting in his nakedness, and when she moved her hand down over his belly, he shivered.

Wonderful! He was a little tease, she could tell he excelled at teasing boys, teasing men - teasing ladies.

Her eagerness was hardly pusillanimous, in fact it revived the naughty throbbing between her legs she'd once known as a schoolgirl, when she'd done that kind of thing for her cousin at the bottom of her mothers garden. Such heady feelings of guilt then, but such hot excitement too.

That had been years ago, but the thrill now was no less intense, and she couldn't hold back from caressing him. "You're the prettiest, sweetest thing I've ever had in my arms."

Strangely she seemed to know exactly what to do. She knew how to make a sissy throb with pleasure. She started from the top, teasing his rising nipples, stroking them with her fingertips, tenderly and without haste, coaxing the darling little tips into thrusting peaks and pressing and kneading the soft flesh around them.

"May I touch you? You know... touch you, down there?"

Bambi quivered. "Yes, I suppose so. If you want to." he declared breathily.

Her hand reached down and moved from one softly-defined hip to the other before providing caressing strokes from knee to thigh, enjoying his nakedness, not touching intimately at first, although getting a bit closer each time.

She rubbed closer and closer until her fingers nudged the boy part of him - his hairless little bag and his smooth-skinned cock, standing stiff by then, a delicate plum on the end of a slightly curved shaft.

She kissed his mouth and his hair and his eyelashes, gently running her tongue along his ears and down his neck while her fingers closed upon his small half-erect masterpiece, gently rolling the tiny sheath of foreskin all the way back and exposing the pink tip. Up and down, up and down until it developed into a firm stalk.

Oh goodness! She could feel it filling out as she rubbed. It was far smaller than her husbands, even smaller than her cousin's in the garden all that time ago, but it was stiff and solid, and the boy was mewing and sighing so sweetly. Much more than her husband ever did.

The muscles in his neck stretched as her fingers worked more quickly, titillating nerve-endings just beneath the surface of his sissy-boy protuberance. His chin lifted, teeth hacking at his lower lip, flushed with excitement his head twisted from side to side.

"Ooooh, miss!"

He was in ecstasy, and she was too. The beautiful smooth young thing was surrendering to her completely.

She looked down at his swollen, bald tip, appearing and disappearing amid an accumulation of slick juice as she jived his foreskin. Such a glorious sturdy young stalk. She wanted to satisfy it, she wanted to please him.

Oh how could it be happening? She went out of her way to be a good neighbour, she went to church three times every Sunday, felt sorry for all the little poor black children in Africa, and she made regular donations to a donkey sanctuary. Yet there she was, wanking a young boys willy, and wanting to wank him off to completion.

Very softly she nuzzled her mouth against his lips, and heaven! He gave her a little bit of tongue.

Oddly she didn't feel at all conspicuous. Everyone else was indulging in the same kind of wickedness. She was sitting amid seven other women each of whom nursed a naked pretty sissy on her lap, nibbling ears and licking faces and jiggling stiff young cocks as if there was no tomorrow.

Oh, the dear young thing was moaning so sweetly against her neck. He was moaning softly and rocking his whole body against her eager fingers, and oh yes, he was going to do something, she just knew he was.

"Faster, miss."

"Faster?"

"Uh, uh, oh!" Bambi gazed into her eyes. "Please miss, you're gonna make me do a gooey."

Marjory rubbed more industriously and he shuddered and trembled.

"Yes, yes little darling. Let it happen." she panted, "It's okay to do it. I want you to squirt."

Bambi began to shudder and whimper almost at once. His mouth opened as if in rictus, he arched his head back as the hand hurried, then slowed, hurried, then slowed, each motion intuitively judged. She could feel his excitement pulsing against her fingers, then he gave the sweetest little moan as his cock exuded a sudden small shot of warm cream, emptying out the little reservoir of juvenile semen he'd been accumulating in his sweet little balls all day.

"Oooooaaaaahhhh!"

Gone was her reserve. The splash of ejaculate on her hand made the warm fluid in her own thighs bubble. The intimate caressing transmitted tiny electric pulses that turned her knees to jelly and her panties had become a sodden rag.

Around her all the other sissies were breathing heavily and doing their cummies in the same room, each one pumped up hard and beginning to explode in a lady's hand.

It was a moment to relish for her, watching eight beautiful girly-boys gasping to the point of climax, all looking slightly amazed as they spurted hot streams of milky cum from already moist cocks,

In assorted spits, leaps and sticky oozings their secretions drenched the set of attentive fingers assigned to their pleasure. It lasted less than half a minute, but to everyone there it seemed much longer.

 

Marianne found himself in a separate room. It was an impressive salon where the walls were covered with a copy of a fresco one of Mrs Van Damme's forefathers had seen in a mausoleum at Halicarnassus. Nude and robust women and effeminate looking youths, miraculous in their levitation, sprinkling flowers on heavily armoured Greek warriors.

The room had a white and gold coffered ceiling and was snug, though it was more of a showpiece than a place to live in and the furniture was all draped with dust sheets.

He was naked and Mrs Van Damme was scrutinising his delectable body and serpentine penis with an attentive expression. At fifty-five she was still a woman with regal baring and the aloof, unshakeable confidence that came from living a thoroughly privileged life.

"Lovely creature. Even more delicious than the last time I saw you. So beautiful, so feminine - in most respects - and so sweet."

The sissy was standing with his back to the wall, and beside him the woman's thin, big-boobed companion, Clementine, was observing him too.

"Nice little breasts, Mrs Van Damme," she enjoined, "They belong on a girl really. And just look at those male parts, so out of scale with the rest of him."

Mrs Van Damme nodded. "Just as I recall the deah creature was at Dovecott, Clemmy mai love. Breasts, tiny but perfect, and the rest of him ..." She glanced down at his groin. "Exceptional. Incongruous, but extremely arousing."

Uninvited, she pressed her lips to Marianne's warm cheek, enjoying the delicate undertone of his skin and its moist scent, a scent that seemed to indicate that a bunch of warm lilies were somewhere couched at the base of his neck. Gliding her lips along the curve of his neck she moved lower, kissing his breasts and drawing the nipples into her mouth, then flicking her tongue against them.

Gasping with pleasure Marianne twisted against her as she suckled on him.

"I doubt if any man could pass you by without admiring you, sweet thing. Do you allow men to copulate with you often?"

Marianne blinked. He was not familiar with the term she used and didn't understanding at first. "Pardon."

Patiently the woman lowered her level of expression. "Do you allow men to shag you?"

"Um, sort of."

"A lot of men?"

"Quite a lot."

"In that case I won't cause you any undue discomfort if I imitate them."

She unclipped her skirt to reveal she was wearing the biggest and best item Carmine Wilcox had to offer - the squirty one with a pair of balls heavily loaded with cum, which was now slick with grease and ready to offer fulfilment.

Marianne paled as he observed its murderous dimensions swing out from her thighs, but before he could say anything she turned him and lightly pushed him forward. His hands became pressed onto the top of a small lacquered table while his bottom pushed back.

Helpfully Clementine leaned across his back and spread his bottom, oiling all the right areas with the contents of a plastic squeezey bottle, and then holding his small buttocks open while Mrs Van Damme grabbed hold of his hips and slowly teased him with the tip of her apparatus, stroking the broad tip of her tool against the whorl of his anus.

Bracing himself for what was to come his small bottom tightened as he moved it back and up to meet the awesome object. She positioned the bulbous helmet against the small, neat ring of Marianne's anus and shunted forward with her hips.

"Oooohhh!" He groaned and gripped the side of the table as he responded to the inexorable penetration, and "oooh!" His knees nearly caved in as he felt his hole stretch to accommodate the big plastic truncheon Mrs Van Damme was forcing in.

The woman's hands gripping his hips tight as she began ramming him with the passion of a buck rabbit just out of celibate confinement and on high heat, sometimes almost lifting him from his feet with her enthusiastic thrusting.

"Oh yes. That's it my sweet darling. Oh, you are a fine piece of fuck-mutton."

While this was happening, the redoubtable Clemmy, acting as supernumerary to Mrs Van Damme, was crouching down beside them and milking Marianne's cock industriously, aiming the juicing tip expectantly at a metal wastepaper bin tucked beneath the table.

The thrust of Mrs Van Damme's mature loins increased to fever pitch and each time she went in she drove harder and deeper.

Marianne panted heavily and the woman panted too. "You squeak and moan like a girl. You like to be fucked like a girl, don't you? But it's my turn to cum."

She gave a huge lunge that pushed her attached length fully inside, and ominously it seemed to swell. A squeeze on the fat juice laden balls between her legs instigated a glorious disgorging of liquid love along the embedded length.

"Oh, yes." The woman blurted as she pumped with frenzied spurting thrusts that stuffed the young sissy to the limit, powering her replica seed into his welcoming warmth with a force that made his entire body jerk and jerk again.

"Aaaaarrrrh! Yes, yes. I can feel it filling me up." Marianne squealed as the woman's replica penis exploded like a volcano inside him and his stretched little bum hole slithered on the fiercely rutting pole.

"Give out your own honey, darling. Empty your handbag." urged Clementine as she frantically jiggled his swollen cock beneath the table.

Marianne mewled and thrashed his head from side to side as his body heaved and rocked. The woman was gripping him tight as he writhed, extending every muscle as a sixty-megaton orgasm took him.

"Eeeetch!" A strangled whimper as his big sissy stick convulsed in Clementine's massaging hand and began to spew cum into the wastepaper bin.

Clunk, plink, splot, splat!

The teenage Clemmy grinned in delight as each viscous surge twanged against metal, agreeably impressed at the amount spurting out of him.

"Goodness, Mrs Van Damme. You've picked a fine specimen this time."

 

Outside Madame was assisting Samson in loading the vans, her manservant handling most of the wicker hampers alone while she was bowed under by bursting carrier bags.

A feeling of guilt was seeping through even to her fingertips, caustic and wounding as such things always are.

Oh dear! What had she done? She was the most careful of minders and tried to maintain standards of decency and play the Follies straight, but in every Summer Season there came a time such as this when dastardly greed overruled all her best intentions and she sold out her darlings to depravity. She encouraged them to be sensual and salacious of course. It was important for the show that they were desirable, but she liked to think of them as untouchable and unreachable. That had all changed in an instant with a flash of Mrs Van Damme's chequebook.

Women! She sighed and shrugged as if she were an honorary man. There must be a limit to the depths they sink, but she wasn't sure just how far down it was.

It was one more aspect of her struggle to make sense out of life. Perhaps, like Rumplestiltskin she should go to sleep for a while and wake up when it was all over. Or perhaps she was asleep already and all this was a dream. The trouble with a mind like her own was it moved so fast from one idea to the next. Yesterday's staid rules so often became today's dispensables.

But however fluid her thoughts were there remained one unmoving constant. She was a staunch aficionado of the theatre and a steadfast adherent to the old stage cliché 'the show must go on.'

 

Annilisa Gordeno picked up her multicoloured snakeskin Fendi handbag, left the theatre in a huff and drove home in a dark mood.

She'd skipped the after-show-drinks at Drury Lane that night after feeling peeved that the skinny bitch in the lead-role had received a standing ovation, and she, once a star-turn in her own right, had been reduced to applauding with everyone else.

Her, Annalisa Gordeno, applauding someone else! It had been a bitter pill to swallow. What ignominy would she have to settle for next? Just a voice in the chorus next year, perhaps? A mere face in a crowd scene, or maybe filling in as the arse-end of a pantomime horse?

Once the toast of the West End it appeared she was now among the has-been's. All the starring roles were handed to slim, young creatures, and she was no longer young and she was forever fighting a spreading waist.

She'd dieted from time to time. But what should it be? High carb, no protein? High protein, low carb? High fibre? Wheat free? Fat free? Food free? That stick-insect lead-girl said she drank herbal tea rather than coffee. Said it helped keep her figure. She'd thought about trying it herself, but had decided it would be like believing a dry crispbread was a good substitute for a thick cheese sandwich.

She was, she decided, depressed that night. She was forty-two, and recently her days had all gone two ways; depressed or ridiculously giddy. When she was giddy, she felt like an eighteen-year-old girl again, like it wasn't too late to start an all-girl rock band if she wished. But when she was depressed she just felt old, like she'd never done anything worthwhile in her life. She felt completely undesirable and no one would ever want to have sex with her again. She would go through menopause and her vagina would dry up - as it was she was finding it rather difficult to keep lubricated with the men she entertained, because they were all so egotistical and boring, and most of them had a prick that couldn't get more than frankfurter-hard. Metaphorically, their engines were still intact but their starter motors had ceased up.

Her car turned a corner and began a slow crawl along Fox Mews. A light was shining through the drawn upstairs curtains of her house. Nothing strange about that with Freddie at home from school, but the light was burning in her own room.

What was Freddie doing in her bedroom?

Feeling bemused she settled her car at the curb side and went up the steps to let herself in. Then she paused in the hall. What if it wasn't Freddie in her room? What if it were a burglar?

She stood still for a moment and scanned about. Downstairs was deserted and in darkness, much as it always was when she returned, but there was an eerie feeling in the air, like as if something had punched through the usual routine. She switched on a light and went to the stairs, looking at everything on the way. There was white moquette on the floor, a Persian carpet and gilt-framed pictures on the walls, also rare porcelain on the Pembroke table. Plenty of good stuff for a burglar to snaffle if he knew his business, but nothing had been touched.

Less alarmed now, but still deeply curious, she made her way all the way up the spacious wine-coloured carpeted staircase.

When she entered her bed room her mind spun like a kaleidoscope. Scattered shards of reality only slowly came together as she gazed incredulously at Freddie, soundly asleep on her plush queen-sized bed with its scrolled walnut ends and grey and maroon silk-eiderdown. He was laying prostrate, but his face was turned to the side and she could see he was wearing a hairpiece, lush and raven, like his eyelashes, and his lips were deep pink and glossed to perfection. Even more alarming, he was wearing a tiny pink baby-doll negligee trimmed with marabou feathers. It had been pushed up high on his back, and slumped as he was with his thighs over a bolster his posture was suggestive. The backs of his thighs and his bare bottom were red, blotched scarlet, as if he'd recently endured a harsh spanking.

She gasped and felt her heart thump with rage.

Overwhelmed by his appearance, too shocked to make any other response immediately, she took a pace forward. Good gracious! There was a shine of lubricant between his buttocks.

"Oh!" she said in another attack of surprise. She blinked and her mouth opened automatically but seemed to have neither wind or words to draw on.

Jennifer suddenly appeared in the doorway of the en suite, silhouetted in the bright lights from the bedside lamps and, with a riveting self-consciousness of an actress entering a room in a play. At first unaware of the other woman's presence she paused for a moment and posed to reveal her perfectly curved figure. She was dressed frugally in a filmy black halter-top that made her appear both sexy and ladylike. When she took a step into the room something else was revealed. She had a leather belt around her waist and a strap coming up from between her legs that latched onto it at the front, and at the height of her crotch the strap had been pieced through by an aperture through which jutted a generously proportioned rubber cock.

Annalisa was of course violently taken aback, and for just a moment she stood stock-still. Then she exploded.

"What the fuck ...!" Her eyes became slits between clenched furrowed brows and reddened cheeks, and they glowered with righteous anger. "You! The girl from the slum - what have you been up to with Freddie? What have you been doing to my son, you filthy, unholy cow?"

Jennifer started, but although surprised and alarmed she didn't panic. She never panicked in the way other people did, but she did inwardly curse her misjudgement. It had been a mistake to visit Fox Mews and a mistake to stay so late. And it was definitely a mistake to allow herself to fall asleep when she'd completed her daring escapade.

She'd phoned Freddie the moment Madame and her sissy-troupe had departed that evening. After ensuring his mother was also away she told him that she'd be visiting Fox Mews in an hour and he should tell Felicity to get ready.

When she had arrived there had been no sign of misunderstanding about what was to take place. Freddie had greeted her shyly, eyes cast down, but his hair had been neatly arranged, he wore earrings, and his face sparkled with lipstick and eye shadow.

Hey presto. Abracadabra! With little more than an hours warning he had become magically transformed into Felicity, sweetly perfumed and dressed ready for the bedroom.

Smacks first, she'd told him. A mild spanking always makes a sissy frisky. It encourages him to wiggle his bum and make it amenable to whatever may follow.

Now she'd been caught dead to rights, bare bottomed feminised boy on the bed, and an outrageously horny looking dildo bouncing between her thighs.

She had only met Annalisa once before, but she felt she knew her well enough to see she wasn't quite herself. Her face was twisted and livid, but her energy seemed scattered almost as if she were undecided what to do. Her face looked puffy and certainly she was astounded, but she didn't display the hysterical anger she expected from a mother whose offspring had been wickedly abused. Instead of attacking her with an axe or rushing off to summon the police, she was dithering.

The moment of danger passed. Annalisa seemed loathed to make a fuss, and in fact her attention seemed to have strayed right away from the sight of Freddie's prone body on the bed.

Catching a whiff of her discomfort Jennifer gave her a big fake smile and leaned against a chair. Her manner was nonchalant, but her eyes seemed to pierce right into the other woman's brain as if she could read the thoughts registering there.

Annalisa was looking down at the plastic penis jutting from her loins, she couldn't take her eyes off it. Strapped to a young girls thighs it was probably the most sensual prosthetic the ageing prima donna had seen in ages. It was pink and sturdily constructed, about seven inches long and slightly curved, and it sported a superbly moulded tip. It was altogether perfect for servicing a tight pussy.

"An enchanting item, eh!" Jennifer remarked, "It looks okay, doesn't it? Practically the real thing. You've lived life, Annalisa. You've seen girls wearing cocks before. This is my penis. Come closer and have a better look."

The tone of her voice sent a chill through the woman's body and seemed to flick on a switch inside. Fascinated, agog with trepidation, Annalisa's lips curled back to show her teeth. For a moment she looked like a horse about to neigh, but then she meekly slumped to her knees, took the cock in her hands and gazed at it.

Jennifer pressed closer and gently stroked her hair, suggesting she put out her tongue and give the replica cock a few gentle licks, which Annalisa obligingly consented to do.

It was exciting to see the woman being turned-on by the way she was presenting cock and even more exciting to watch her kiss it and press her fingers against the balls. Without any more urging the woman pushed her mouth onto the head, licked the tip of the shaft to wet it and then threw back her head and took it into her mouth. Jennifer immediately began to rock her hips back and forth as Annalisa sucked.

The woman issued out a faint wet gurgling sound as the bulbous tip sank into the back of her throat. She gagged, choked and coughed, but for a while she held it there, breathing through her nose before drawing back.

Jennifer felt as if she were a stranger in a bus queue, feeling like she was standing outside her body and watching the two of them perform. Annalisa Gordeno was the leading-light here, star of stage and screen, singer, actress - and now champion sword-swallower, she thought in whimsical amusement. Just goes to show how nondescript celebrities can be when they're outside their own little milieu.

Good word - milieu - she thought, she should use it more often.

Annalisa gasped as if she were drowning when she let the instrument slip from her mouth, but she couldn't hold in a sigh of admiration. It was like she was fifteen again, alone in a room with her favourite schoolteacher and with her insides fluttering.

"It's - oh! It's truly magnificent! Will you - erm - are you - are you going to use it on me?"

Jennifer held down her sense of triumph and smiled lightly.

"Why, Annalisa, I had no idea - but I'm not disappointed. Take off your knickers. Since you're such an enthusiast you should certainly try it for size."

The other woman shook, but nevertheless reached up under her skirt and tugged at her pants, skimming them down as quickly as she could.

"God, Jennifer. You're a bitch."

She clambered up and wiggled herself onto the edge of the bed, breathing heavily as she leaned back and splayed her thighs, allowing the girl unrestricted access to her sexual attributes. The sights the woman had witnessed since entering the room had served her like an hours normal foreplay and her wetness was apparent.

"I don't usually do this sort of thing," she insisted, "Not with a strap-on."

"Of course you don't, but my mother always told me conventuality is the refuge of a stagnant mind, and that's true, isn't it?"

The teenager positioned her, spreading her legs in a workmanlike way and used her fingers to open her up, which was easy because she was so wet and ready. Beneath her the bed creaked despite its sumptuous depth and extravagant fittings.

A finger slipped into Annalisa's slavering cranny and the woman opened her legs wider to allow a second digit to invade her. Her pussy gripped at both fingers and she moaned incoherently with pleasure when they were wiggled inside.

"Ready for the real thing now?" asked Jennifer.

Annalisa blinked. "The real thing! Oh - um - oh yes." she croaked, "But not here. Freddie may wake up."

Her feeble objection made no headway with the girl. "But you have such a lovely bed with a beautiful mattress. It's perfect. You'll simply have to control yourself, dear. No shrieking or loud moaning, eh!"

It had been days since Annalisa last had sex and even then it had been rather pathetic, but despite her previous misgivings the unexpected orgasmic facility left her well lubricated. Nevertheless Jennifer took no chances. She took a bottle of sweet almond massage oil from the bedside table and smeared a generous amount on her cock before wedging the woman open with her knees and sliding between her legs. The latex prong nudged Annalisa's belly and bumped against her thigh before at last being offered up to the waiting pussy.

Easing forward the girl separated Annalisa's wet vaginal lips with the tip of the tool then watched the woman's hole open up and stretch around it as the sturdy length glided in. It entered smoothly, sinking deep until it could go no further.

Annalisa uttered an esoteric gasp as Jennifer humped against her.

"It's such a monster, oh yeah! Give it to me, Jennifer. Give me the whole length."

Jennifer's hips arched back, already accustomed to the squelchiness and the slipperiness, then slammed forward as she started to fuck her properly. Annalisa was an active participant when it came to sex. She moved and she made noises.

"Oh, oh, oh! Come on - fuck me." she gasped out loud in a voice breathy with sexual emotion. Movements became more and more frenetic as she urged Jennifer to her task.

She enjoyed being fucked that way. The girl was her master for a while and she was happy to concede to being the master's woman.

Jennifer responded with firmer thrusts of her pelvis, her pussy felt alive with the firm grinding she was delivering. A girl well-practised in using a strap-on, she had laid Annalisa on her back and got stuck into her in the traditional missionary fashion most men prefer, humping up her thighs and then driving down forcefully.

Occasionally her dildo would enter so deep that a strange sensation of pain and pleasure would send a confused message through Annalisa's body, but overall the woman's grunts became more audible as her movements became more frantic.

Jennifer's gasps now reached higher levels of volume too as she played out her role as lover.

She rocked herself backwards and forwards, exhaling deeply as she pushed her mound against her instrument. Its base acted as a fine stimulator for her clitoris and helped the juices to flow.

"Remember - no squealing, Annalisa." she reminded has she buried the entire instrument to its hilt in Annalisa's wet, eager hole.

Annalisa's style of taking it was undulating and fluid so she was able to savour the sensation of the penetration of her womanhood. Her mind became transfixed on Jennifer's shaft as it plied its way in and out, slow and deliberate at first and then moving faster, its solid shape and her own wetness making a sexy slurping noise.

Utterly compliant she panted softly, then flopped back and gazed up from beneath heavy-lidded eyes as she gently churned her hips to create a circular massage along its length. Aah!" Just what a woman needed. As good as a real one. Better than a real one. Stouter, stiffer and more reliable. No fannying about trying to keep it upstanding.

She was bucking and screwing with the girl as ardently and as fierce as she'd ever done with any sleek-mannered gigolo of the past.

"Did you use this thing on him - y'know, did you stick it in Freddie - in his backside?"

"I think you know I did."

"Does - does Freddie make a noise when you fuck him?" she asked, "Does he squeal a lot?

Some of my boyfriends say he does."

"You allow men to fuck him?"

"They sometimes come visiting when I'm not here. Freddie never complains."

"You're a dirty cow, Annalisa. You enjoy thinking about him being fucked. You'd probably like to watch it happen."

The woman clearly had her own sexual deviations but Jennifer mainly loved the feeling of being totally in control, and the more she pushed the limits the more aroused she became. Her own bluntness and crudeness turned her on.

But it was no more than Annalisa deserved. She was a domineering and selfish woman who caged her son whenever she could and did everything to meld him into something to suit her own purpose.

The other woman's breasts were swollen domes, the teats standing rigid. Her gaze widened as she rotated her thighs and began to squeal. "Oooh, that cock! That big plastic thing is shagging me to heaven. Oooh, Jennifer, do it harder. Squeeze my tits, twist my nipples. Fuck me rough, I love it like that."

Her orgasm increased in strength and intensity until the walls of her pussy throbbed in impossible spasms and she tripped into a climax that hadn't been matched for years.

"Oh yes, fuck my pussy. Fuck me! Fuck me hard... harder! Oh, please..."

Jennifer did her uttermost to oblige. That night she was feeling decadent, rude and unbelievably liberated. She wondered how many people would go to their graves with a mindful of unfulfilled fantasies. How many would wish they had just thrown their briefcase into a bin and jumped on a plane bound for Kathmandu at 5 o'clock in the afternoon, or rode a camel over the Sahara at the weekend, or shagged the daylights out of a mother and her son on the same night.

Life in London was turning out not too bad at all, she realised. Not only was it not too bad, but she was actually beginning to enjoy herself.

 

Jennifer and Samson departed in one of the vans for Yorkshire the following morning and Madame Dupont was determined to spend her housebound time catching up with things, making telephone calls, checking the accounts, paying bills, writing belated replies to correspondence and generating letters of her own.

She didn't enjoy such stagnant business. While supremely adept at thinking on her feet and organising things in her head she was not a natural born office worker. In a rational moment she'd tried to divide her neglected mail into three separate piles marked, 'Urgent', 'Boring' and 'Fuck off', but her organisation had floundered quickly and soon all the furniture in the sitting room was littered with open files, piles of paper and scatterings of notes reminding her to write more notes.

The mess didn't matter. When she'd finished Marianne would come in and within an hour the room would display an almost obsessive neatness and order. The pencils would be sharpened and perfectly lined up on her desk, and the letters and folders would lay in symmetrical rows.

All the same, life for her seemed rather hectic during such periods of necessary administration, so she was not in the best of moods when the door bell rang.

She crept to the bay of the window and peered around the curtain to see who was calling, but her attempt to remain hidden and avoid answering the door was blown when the woman outside turned and caught sight of her. She smiled and gave a wave and Madame felt compelled to smile in return.

Mrs Gitty was standing on the step, hair uncombed and disordered, her squat form and massive breasts and buttocks shrouded by a dress that looked like a bell-tent.

"Good afternoon, Madame Dupont. I's come to collect a big stone vase or something. Horace sez you know all about it."

"Yes," Elise Dupont replied with an expression of slight toothache, "Come in. It's been cleaned out and it's in the back yard."

The visitors thumb indicated over her shoulder at the two young teenage boys standing behind her. "O'course I's not built for liftin' stone vases or carryin' 'em about, so I's brought Pinky and Ben with me. That's only right, ain't it? What I mean is, I's a lady, ain't I? Healthy young lads don't mind a bit of labour, an' them two owe Horace a favour.

"I wuz expectin' to meet that cheerful old bugger Samson at the door. It's unusual for you to answer it yourself."

"Samson is away on a trip with Jennifer." Madame explained, "I'm the only person here at present who is allowed to answer the door.

She led the way into the sitting room. "I don't see why Horace had to send around a squad of agents. He could have managed that stone urn himself or asked Toby Parkin to pick it up."

"Aha! They're a pair o' soft puddin's them two. They wuz arguing and sulkin' all morning about who should come here, so I said I'd do it if I could have the rest of the day off."

She flopped onto the sofa, almost crushing with the wide spread of her buttocks a pile of correspondence Madame had left there.

 

Upstairs Jennifer's absence from the house had given everyone the kind of freedom they had not experienced before. With her not constantly threatening them they felt at liberty to indulge themselves by dressing up in some of the outlandish clothes that could be found in the costume cupboard.

Lulu had made his face up using eyeliner, mascara, purple eye shadow and a generous smear of candy-apple lipstick, and felt free then to spend some time concentrating on his nail varnish. One stroke down the middle of each nail and then one each side. The pale lavender colour was going to look splendid with the outfit he'd chosen.

When his nails had dried he unfurled cream silk stocking up his legs, admiring his shapely calf muscles in a mirror as he did so. He'd already spent an hour on his hair, brushing the riotous curls until they gleamed, then sweeping them up into a mass at the crown and pinning them there with pearl combs that matched the pearls fastened to his ears.

He ended up wearing a teasing little dress of spider-gauze in bold lavender, as light as thistledown, and only made decent because of the silk slip worn beneath it. The sensation of cool material sliding over his nipples and swirling against the front of his panties were delights he had only come to appreciate fully in the past few weeks. Little secret thrills tingled up and down his spine from the touch of the girls clothes and the slick feeling of the hose as he caressed it upwards.

His last wisps of boyishness had gone and he was now a fairy-tale princess wishing there was a virile young Prince Charming there to admire the tightness of his bottom, which he realised looked good as he pirouetted in front of a mirror. The clinging outfit looked good on him, he had a pretty bum and he had good legs. He'd always had good legs.

His previous experience had been limited. Sometimes his mother had dressed him in a party frock for the church fete and volunteered him to take a turn at selling kisses from a booth. What was supposed to be a chaste peck on a flushed upturned cheek often became mouth on mouth ravishment with long, wet lizard-like tongues wriggling down his throat. Villainous people were always chased away of course, but they always left him shivering and wanting for it to happen again. He wanted their hands to feel his body, wanted them to undress him. He wanted them to scoop him up and carry him off to do rude things.

That hadn't happened then, but in the few weeks he'd spent in Nob Street he'd learnt a lot about being a girl. He was no longer the shy little Miss. He'd leant what to wear and how to wear it, how to stand and how to move, and he'd learnt about expressions and body language and how to make himself noticed and look kissable. Also, he'd learnt about sex, and his neat little bottom was now quite experienced.

Trixie came rushing in through the door full of coltish eagerness.

"Come here, oh come on you silly fuck-puppet or you'll miss them." he implored, excitement etched persuasively over his face.

His friend was dressed even more adventurously than himself in a slinky red chiffon dress that was demur at the front but cut deep behind, so that it showed most of his shoulder blades and back. Short, to show off the curve of his legs, it also had slits up the sides display his white stockings and suspenders.

Without pausing to explain anything Trixie set off along the landing wondering if they were already too late for whatever it was, and Lulu followed him like a pet dog.

They both skidded to a halt against the balustrade at the top of the stairs and stared down at Pinky and Ben kicking their heels in the vestibule below.

"See - Boys!" announced Trixie eagerly.

Lulu's tummy churned. "Oh dear, we don't know them, they may be rough boys."

"I don't care if they are a bit rough as long as they're up for some fun." his friend told him, and with complete disregard to propriety he leaned over the balustrade.

"Coo-ee! Yoo-hoo, boys. Do you want to have your wicked way with us?"

The two young teenagers glanced up. "You what?"

"Do you wanna come up here an' play willy games? Trixie added.

Ben's face screwed up as he snapped out of a slack-jawed trance. "Waddayer mean?"

Offering a wide grin Trixie seductively scooped up the hem of his little skirt, baring inches of supple white thigh, then quite brashly extracted his penis from his pants and waggled it through the rails of the balustrade. "Do some diddling and some other stuff."

Pinky and Ben looked at each other briefly, and then... "Were comin'"

Trixie chortled wickedly. "I expect you will be soon."

"Stand by for lift-off." he murmured to Lulu as the pair of visitors clambered up the stairs.

Lulu didn't hear, he was miles away. His whey face fixed wide-eyed has he gawped full force at Ben, the boy coming up the stairs towards him. Wow! Look at him! That youth! What lovely eyes, he thought. With a face that was fresh and handsome. No acne, with clean hair the colour of a wicker basket, older than himself. A gorgeous dreamboat.

"Hullo?" Ben said to him as he reached the landing.

"Hey," Lulu clasped his hands in front of him and kept looking, his expression trying to give nothing away. But he softened quickly and the corners of his mouth began to lift and he became suddenly aware of how his young cock was pinking inside his tiny thong pants.

"Hi," Pinky said as he came up the stairs to claim Trixie.

Off to Lulu's left Trixie was daintily raising the front of his tiny skirt to expose his minuscule panties for the benefit of Pinky. The contents of his pants wasn't big, but it wasn't small either, and it was stirring.

"I'm not wearing anything that won't come off." he was whispering flirtatiously.

Pinky scratched his head in confusion. "Are you bits of fluff girls or boys?".

"We're boys really," Trixie told him, "but we can do anything a girl can do."

"What's your name?" Ben was asking Trixie's companion.

"Lulu," replied Lulu. His face was open, his lips parted and his eyes could not keep still.

"You look fantastic. I like the blue outfit."

"I'm glad you like it. But it's not blue, it's lavender really."

Ben stood in front of him and drew him close. "You're mine." he said.

Lulu uttered a tiny gasp, involuntary, unaware of how seductive it sounded as he rolled his eyes and drooped his hand suggestively at the wrist. Oh, yes. I'm yours, he thought.

They stared into each others eyes, and Lulu knew that was it; he'd never been intimate with anyone from outside before and he realised he could go along with what was going to happen or run off and hide.

He decided he wasn't going to run or hide. With a shy smile he took hold of Ben's hand then turned and led him toward one of a row of dingy brown painted doors further along the windowless landing, while behind him Trixie gave the same invite to his own Beau.

Utterly neglectful of the reason they'd been brought there and of the woman who had accompanied them, the two older boy went willingly.

The moment they were in the room Pinky pulled Trixie down onto the narrow bed and jammed his mouth on his, sliding his hand up his body and cupping his palm around the yielding warmth of his left breast. Trixie gave a little moan, squirmed in pretend protest, then pushed himself against the pressure.

Pinky's hand eased away and sneaked down to the sissy's thighs, up under the little skirt until he was touching the tenuous protection offered by a pair of tiny pants. Trixie stiffened and opened his legs when he felt fingers sliding over the smooth nylon.

Lulu leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes. He could just feel the whisper of Ben's breath on his cheek, and it made him feel beautiful. Warm noses touched and soft lips lightly sucked at his mouth, and saturated with excitement he accepted a kiss, the contact turning from tenderness to one of passion as their mouths opened and they gorged on each others taste.

Pressed against a wall, Lulu felt perfectly safe and deliciously vulnerable at the same time and he gladly welcomed Ben's leg between his own and was gently riding his thigh as they kissed. He could feel the boys erection, as hard as a brick, poking through his jeans at his belly, almost as if it was trying to penetrate his belly button or gouge out his appendix. Then his hands moved up under his clothes, tugging his small breasts out from the stretchy little cotton bra and pushing it up so he could lick his nipples.

Being a sissy had its downsides, like being scolded and smacked quite a lot, but there were benefits too, Lulu decided. Ben was making gulpy and groany noises stifled only by his lipwork, and Lulu was generating similar sounds an octave higher himself. His little quaking penis felt ready to burst and he didn't even dare touch it.

 

Down stairs Madame was desperately trying to deter Mrs Gitty from staying too long.

"I need some taghairm." she told her wearily.

"Some what?" gawped the other woman.

"Taghairm, it's a word Sir Walter Scott used in Lady Of The Lake. It means inspiration sought by lying in a bullock's hide behind a waterfall."

Mrs Gitty shook her head and smacked her wet violet lips. "Oh aye. I could do wi' a bullock hide meself sometimes. I'd like a rest. You theeaytre people have such a nice way of saying things. Everything else is just about sex these days. Sexy undies, sex toys, sex on TV - yer can't move for sex."

Mrs Gitty was partial to a bit of gossip, especially about sex. She enjoyed a good old chinwag of a nefarious kind and she was ready to go into full spate. With only Horace and Toby Parkin to bounce words off at the shop she missed out on a nice natter at work. Men were never forthcoming with talk and they always seemed to want to keep secrets, so it was lovely to have a chat with Madame Dupont.

Madame Dupont herself however was feeling besieged and annoyed at her visitors interruption. Unfortunately neither her look of irritation or her terse responses deterred Mrs Gitty from incessant blather, so she was thankful when the telephone rang.

By the time Madame had uttered three oh, no's and several groans Mrs Gitty realised the conversation on the phone was going to be as lengthy as she'd intended her own to be, so she reluctantly lifted up her bulk and headed out into the hall.

She gazed about looking for Pinky and Ben, and not seeing them waiting there she barrelled through the house like a pig sniffing out truffles. No Pinky or Ben in the kitchen at the back either so she tried the yard outside that was no bigger than a Ping-Pong table, and where Marianne was watering the seedlings that had been recently transplanted from the big stone urn nearby into a large plastic plant-pot.

Jennifer had bought him a little red plastic watering-can when she'd purchased the plant-pot, a child's toy really, but it was quite large enough to irrigate his diminutive garden. Marianne was wearing clunky scholl sandals but otherwise his legs were bare to the top of his thighs above which he wore a very brief, black pleated skirt as may have been worn by a fantasy figure of an English schoolgirl, together with a sleeveless white top with a low neckline. On the front of the top was sewn a large red love-heart, and apart from lipstick, his face looked scrubbed and pink with health.

Mrs Gitty's eyes narrowed. She liked what she saw and studied him up and down. A pretty specimen, she thought. Trim body and nicely turned legs, bending forward with the watering-can, the back of his little skirt hoisted so high it revealed the under curve of his bare buttocks.

"Oi, sweetlips, 'as yu seen Pinky 'n' Ben?" she asked as she stepped out though the open door.

Marianne glanced over his shoulder at the women's enormous whale-shaped hulk, at her greedy eyes and lascivious wide mouth.

"Er, No, 'spect they've gone up the stairs."

"Where upstairs?"

"In one of the rooms."

"How many rooms are there?"

"Um, dunno, I've never counted 'em."

He rose up and began counting off on his fingers. "There's some bedrooms that are being used and some bedrooms that aren't being used. There's the big studio room and the small lounge room, and there's the washroom and the bathrooms, we've got two of those. And there's..."

Mrs Gitty snorted irritably. "Shut up wi' yer rattle y'silly little gender-bender. You can come and show me - better than me hollerin' and screechin' while Madame's trying to concentrate on business."

She noticed then the flaccid dangle of his cock showing below the hem of his skirt. She'd heard about the size of Marianne's remarkable cock from Horace and Toby Parkin. It was by no means a microbe, indeed it was as big as a large stranded cod.

The woman's bosom, as big as a pair of mammoth marrows, juddered unrestrained beneath her dress, and without giving any warning she stooped slightly and gripped the penis in her hand.

She was oddly bull-like for a woman, strong, big-boned and wide hipped. It was impossible to argue with her and Marianne uttered a desolate little "Eik!" when with a swift movement she moved off towing him solicitously half a pace behind.

They stomped up the stairs together to the mezzanine level, the woman thumping the banister rail and heaving on the newels with the flat of her hand to hoist herself upwards to the second floor landing, Mrs Gitty needed to pause at intervals to catch her breath and, ( rub, rub) casually, almost thoughtlessly she jinked the hefty young penis she held in her hand.

They went up a second flight to the dance studio. No one there at all.

Rub, rub, rub Puffing, red faced the woman looked at him. "Where now?"

"There's the empty rooms on the landing below."

Rub, rub She hauled Marianne behind herself as she descended, still slicking her hand up and down his cock which was starting to feel more and more like the tiller on a boat.

They found themselves on a short landing boasting a number of doors. Mrs Gitty made for the first one and when she turned the doorknob and eased the door open the scene beyond was not a complete surprise.

Four half-undressed bodies were in mid-writhe on top of the bed, and Pinky and Ben, like starving leeches high on teenage passion, were sucking the faces off a couple of Madame's young pretties.

"Yikes!" blinked Trixie at the appearance of the mountainous Valkyrie that had Marianne's aroused penis braced in her hand like a sword. With her appearance frantic bare arms scrabbled for clothing, but lots of naked flesh remained glaringly apparent.

Mrs Gitty drank the scene in and found it as heady as black stout.

"Sluts!" she hissed, letting everyone feel the depth of her authority. Her eyes became porcine slits between clenched brows and plump cheeks and they glittered with something just short of anger. "Whores! Dirty little slutters!"

Brandishing her dockers arms she went striding towards where the four bodies lay sprawled on the mattress. She was intending to give Pinky and Ben a piece of her mind for wandering off, but after a step or two she relented and every sign of a rumpled temper deserting her.

Bless 'em! They can't help it, it's their hormones gettin' to 'em, she decided. Lads like them just couldn't hold back when they had a chance with a bit of pretty arse.

The steely glint remained in her eyes as he scanned Trixie and Lulu. "You two want some rumpy, do yer?"

Trixie giggled and dimples appeared in the middle of his cheeks. Lulu looked at her with fallen-angel eyes, but he gave up trying to recover his panties. His heart was stuck somewhere in his throat. Light-headed and tongue-tied he tittered in the nervous way he had when he wasn't sure of what he was expected to say.

"Oh, I suppose ...."

"Oh, jus' get on wi' it." Mrs Gitty scoffed impatiently.

Ben at once unbuttoning his shirt and peeling it off and she watched mesmerised as he unzipped his slacks. His exposed, taut erection made his thoughts obvious.

On the other end of the bed Pinky was quickly established in Trixie. He knelt between the young charmers legs, grabbed his ankles and pushed them up towards his shoulders. No need to tell the creampuff what to do, he helpfully raised his feet, wrapped them around Pinky's back and dug in with his heels.

Mrs Gitty watched as a nicely turned length of teenage dick melted into young Trixie's hot, cloying hole, sinking into the soft flesh up to its root and inviting the young shemale to scrunch his backside up and down as it slammed into his eager bum-pussy.

In close proximity to them Lulu lay on his back across the mattress beneath an eager-to-rut big boy, and Ben was in the process of mounting him. Heels went up either side, and Ben put Lulabelle's feet up on his own shoulders and was bringing his penis forward.

Hot for each other, thought Mrs Gitty. Oh, yes, she thought as she reached out and grasped Ben's erection and aimed the oozing bell-end towards Lulu's vacant bum-hole.

"Goo on. Get in there yer randy sod. Give it a good poke. The little luv's gaggin' for it."

With a lusty shove she stuffed the rampant tip against the waiting orifice and screwed it in. Once the older boys throbbing member had penetrated beyond the anal ring there was no resistance. Lulu's legs had been levered up and back, allowing for no defence, no obstruction to the depraved partner who was heaving with his thighs, forcefully shunting his rammer deep and going at him like a sewing-machine.

The woman watched intensely with a pang that could have been envy - or just indigestion. Both tender-bodied sissies lay side by side, their pink curves moving slowly to generate muffled noises, breathless panting and soft groans, their slender rumps being ruthlessly seen-to by a pair of randy big-boy dicks. Both Pinky and Ben were rather well endowed for their age and it fascinated her to see how nicely the dainty sissy bottoms accomodated them. They were both reacting like perfect girls, eyes screwed tight shut, mouths drawn back in concentration, needy and sexy and loving everything they were getting.

After a short while both upturned bottoms began to rotate, muscles squeezing and clutching greedily around the throbbing tools that were embedded in them, moved wildly back and forth to press onto the sturdy boy-meat and meet each sawing cock-thrust.

Mrs Gitty's eyes bulged and her thick lips were wet where her tongue had flicked out between them. She felt gratuitously entertained each time a penis slid halfway out, then plunged in again.

Then she saw the muscles tighten in Ben and Pinky's legs and knew they were both about to come, and suddenly all four of them were groaning and rolling around in fitful ecstasy as the two teenagers pumped out their virile hot juice.

The woman's gelatinous buttocks wobbled, and she clamped a firm grip on Marianne's penis. Rub, rub. "Let's you an' me go use a bed in another room. You may reckon yourself a gal, but I ain't come here to stand around like an unemployed pox-doctor's nurse. I'm not passin' you by today wi'out tryin' out that between-the-legs spittin' cobra somebody give you."

Marianne gaped in horror. "Mrs Gitty, I don't do things with ladies."

The woman snorted in contempt. "Don't act the prissy queen wi' me, my fragrant little weed. You've got a dick that should be hung on a mule and I's gonna have some of it."

 

Outside, at the other end of the landing, Pompom was innocently looking for someone to admire him. He too had spent quite some time prettying up that day and he was determined it should not go unnoticed. He was not totally unaware of the devastating effect his looks had on people, and he loved making heads turn.

His hair shone and hung in small braided loops about his ears; a Grecian style that suited his low cut frock and made a show of his long neck and narrow shoulders. It made him feel quite the little Miss, and the rich chestnut brown of his hairdo was a perfect compliment to the dark stockings and the sleeveless, tight-waisted dress of mulberry-coloured poplin that he wore. As a finale touch he'd pulled on a pair of lacy white gloves and now, buoyant with satisfaction he gave a frivolous swish of his hips that made his little skirt ripple.

Unexpectedly, it was on the landing that Madame's daughter, Sophie, found him.

"Well, are you not the prettiest thing I've seen today?" she grinned.

"What are you doing here?" he asked apprehensively. He squirmed openly, hoping she would move on. His cheeks felt hot as he recalled how she and her ghastly friend had mastered Amber and himself in the past, and although he had set out to impress he had no wish to attract HER attention.

"Mummy says I can come here whenever I wish as long as I don't disrupt things." purred the girl. She straightened her face, but it was no good, the grin came again. It didn't matter. A sweet little girl smile was useful for penetrating a creampuffs dull wits.

"Mummy's busy and that Jennifer-girl is in Yorkshire with Samson. Is there no one else around?"

"Of course there is." he replied meekly, wondering what was going on in her head. "There are people in the end room, and Mrs Gitty and Marianne have just gone into the one next door." He forced himself to sound calm, although he was quaking with nervous tension inside. The girl was always so domineering, and he knew from experience just how wicked she could be.

Sophie gave him a stare, snide and sexual and assertive all at once. "We don't need anyone else." She opened the door to the room nearest to them and peeped inside. It was empty save for a narrow bed and an old dressing table.

"Ideal," she approved, "A nice little havey-cavey place just for the two of us."

He hesitated and then became breathless as she dragged him through the door by an arm.

"Miss Sophie... What...?"

"Don't ask questions, just do as you're told." was the curt response.

He felt his heart sink. She was being bossy just like before and he could only hope she wasn't going to spank him again. He was averse to have anything to do with girls. His mother said he was still too young and immature for that kind of thing anyway. The trouble was, girls sometimes liked him. In the park after school they'd get him down in the long grass, unfasten his clothes and explore him. Sophie was a bit like that, only she never bothered with long grass.

"I was hoping to meet someone like you today." the girl said.

"Someone like me! I don't know what you mean."

"Don't be a dope. I want adventure, and I don't mean rock-climbing. Stand still, feet together and hands down at your sides. I want you to be a good girl for me."

She shoved him inside and he heard a key turn in the lock, then she moved up close to him, deliberately invading his space, and he felt tension - sexual tension, a physical reaction he had no control over. She was standing behind him, motionless.

"You smell lovely. I can smell soap and perfume. It's nice. It's so grown up to be allowed to wear perfume, isn't it? What perfume are you using?"

"It's called 'Parisian Nights'."

Sophie sniggered. "Naughty girl! Naughty boy!" She placed a finger behind his right temple and tucked a tress of stray hair behind his ear. He was stunned by such a gesture, and strangely thrilled by her touch.

Uninvited, she took a gentle bite at his neck as her quick, nimble fingers began to unfasten the tiny buttons on the back of his little frock, one at a time - slowly - wanting him to appreciate that he was being undressed.

Pompom quivered. Feeling utterly docile he made no effort to help her, but neither did he make any effort to stop the girl doing it. Her words were so clever, her fingers so fast and unexpected, he could only feel confusion.

"Please don't tear anything, Miss Sophie." was all he said as she brushed the straps from his shoulders and down his arms.

The fabric slid like a caress down his body while the girls hands clamped on his chest, fondling his pubescent bosom just like boys always fondled it. Indecently.

"You've got little girl-tits, just like Veronica's tits. She likes it when I play with hers. Do you like it? I think you do, because your nips are both standing out."

She didn't wait for a reply. Her hands slid over his midriff and stroked below his breastbone, slowly spreading and moving round.

Slim fingers slid down his spine, their touch sending shivers through his body, before coming to rest on the elastic band of his panties. Her thumbs went into the top and pushed down, sliding the skimpy garment over his hips, over his thighs, pushing down until nothing was hidden. From the moment of their meeting his penis had been stirring and now it sprang to attention, but her hand slipped under sack of his pink bag and she weighed his tiny spheres on the tips of her fingers.

"The last time we were together I sat on your face while you played with yourself, do you remember?"

Pompom cringed with shame. "I... oh... I...I... You made me do it."

"Yes, and I enjoyed it. I love making pretty wimps do things that embarrass them. You sucked my gusset and I did a cum in your mouth. It was lovely."

He was naked save for black stockings and high heel shoes and of course his little lacy white gloves and Sophie was delighted by his raunchy appearance. She grasped the cheeks of his neat little rump and rolled and squeezed them.

"Like marshmallows." she remarked appreciatively. "What a wonderful bit of cock-taggy you are. Men would walk barefoot over broken glass to shaft you."

Something solid buffeted against the shapely rounds of his buttocks, and he felt heat mount his neck and flood his cheeks. She was wearing an attachment, and he knew what it was.

His penis lifted and his heart nearly stopped. He'd seen pictures of women wearing replica pricks.

"What are you doi - Ooh!" Pompom quivered and melted at the touch of the thing. Sometimes he allowed other boys to put their hands inside his pants, sometimes he let them fuck him, but never a girl.

Sophie quietly sniggered. "Girls like me know what boys like you need. You need lots of hard cock, and today I'm set-up to give it to you. I've got a cock. It's not a real one of course, it's only plastic, but it's got the right shape and it can do the business. Are you ready for it? Are you ready for something nice? Are you ready for some action?"

Pompom's mind seemed to empty. She was utterly without morals. He had no defence against such a sweet and exciting seduction. They both realised he could deny her nothing.

With practised aplomb Sophie pulled back his head and stuffed a rubber ball into his gasping mouth. It was silly to let her do it, he should have at least struggled a bit. But she was in charge and he knew she would make him take it eventually. She was so pushy and awe inspiring she could make him do anything. He protested, he really did, but there was no way he could prevent that horrid girl forcing that thing between his teeth. It was the size of a hen's egg and held his mouth wide open, but he stood still and docile as she fastening it in place with a leather strap that buckled behind his neck.

"I don't want you making too much noise." she explained.

Suddenly short with him she pushed him forward, not even trying to be gentle, but he conceded timidly. She prodded him into a corner, a dead end, far from any escape route.

"You're taller than I am. Face the wall, crouch down a bit and stick it out."

He consented timidly, wimpishly bending his knees and pushed out his backside in a vampish way. Then he felt like dying, because Sophie was bending down and spreading his buttocks and looking at his bum-hole.

Liquid drizzled between his bottom cheeks. "I found some virgin olive oil in the kitchen," the girl remarked, "I've sometimes wondered why it's called virgin, but I suppose it's never just used for cooking."

At once Sophie gripped his hips and moved into position that would allow her to apply pressure. Her attachment was slick and greasy, and his tender puckered rosebud instantly melted around it as it burrowed forward. Pompom pushed out some muffled groans. "Wwwooo, wharriggghaalliaa!" he gurgled wetly behind his gag. He wasn't new to anal sex. Men, yes. And boys had used him. But never girls.

"Don't start putting on an act," the girl reprimanded mildly as she squeezed forward, "You like it. You like getting it from anyone. A prick's a prick. It's all the same to you."

He wanted to say it wasn't true. He wanted to tell her it was wrong for girls to...

But he was thoroughly gagged and couldn't say anything.

"Keep still, you silly prick." Sophie snorted. "Do as I tell you. Keep still and don't make a noise. Got it?"

Pompom inhaled a lung full of air through his nose and nodded, then clenched his buttocks as tight as he could, he didn't know why, perhaps to try and limit the depth of penetration - but all it did was to provide some extra friction for Sophie's well-oiled plastic boner.

The girl's breathing seemed laboured with lust as he loosened to let her rake around inside. She wasn't hanging about. She was shagging him with pitiless gusto, practising debauchery in a way a young girl shouldn't even know about.

But then abruptly she withdrew. Was that it? Had she finished?

Sophie grabbed hold of him and made him stand up. "I'm removing the ball-gag because I miss not hearing you squeal when I'm doing things. But you must only squeal quietly, okay?"

As the hateful gag was taken away Pompom raised his head a little bit and looked sideways at her through his lashes. "I need to sit down." he said weakly.

"Go! Over there! Get on the bed."

He stumbled over and laid on the mattress, and at once she leaned over him to kiss his breasts and his belly, but completely ignoring his cock, which by then was really ready for some attention. A moment later she slotted herself against the wall so that she lay full length behind him, her hands roughly rolling him onto one hip and moulding him into a position that suited her.

"Ready?" she asked.

"Oh, um..."

"Help me get started again. I can't see where it should go, so guide it in and then ask me to do it."

Shamefully, breathing heavily, he grasped the oily prong and placed the end of it in position. His rear end had known plenty of dicks in the past, but there was something especially hot about getting it from a girl.

"Do it, Miss Sophie. I'm your meat. Fuck me. But please... please don't be rough."

The muscles in the girls thighs bunched and flexed and he whimpered when she entered him again in a surge that took his breath away.

"You mustn't ... Aaahh!" He shuddered against her and his head fell back as he gave her access. How could this be? How could he be so wanton, so ... so ...

It wasn't quite like that, he told himself. She was MAKING him do it.

Sophie gripped him possessively, determined to make him cry out at least a little bit. Pulling him close she began a languid rocking motion, thighs undulating slowly, moving her attachment in and out, spooning him fiercely. Pompom could feel her animal lust, feel her deep inside and mastering him with sex, transporting him to a place that sizzled and burned. She grasped his hips, pulling him further onto her cock, driving forward into his slick warmth, pressing forward to possess him completely.

"How does that feel for you?" she asked. "What's it like being a bit of fuck-fluff for a girl? Is it nice for you? Good, is it? Am I doing it right?"

"It's - it's hard ..." he muttered lamely.

"Flatterer!" She laughed, relishing her power. "Shame my friend Veronica couldn't come today. We could have found Amber and fucked you both into sissy-heaven side by side."

Enjoying the reversal of the usual she shortened her strokes, but made each following lung faster, her eyes squeezing shut as she concentrated on pumping furiously and selfishly.

Pompom could have shouted and cried out with distress, but he didn't, he merely panted and squealed softly just as she'd told him to. He couldn't prevent his penis from extending, and the girl couldn't resist playing with it. The physical effect of her fingers strumming up and down made his anus tighten around the thing moving inside.

"Come on," she urged, "Move about more. Make it good for yourself and good for me too. I like it when you squirm. You did a nice load of gooey last time. Are you going to do one now? I bet you ill "

She never lost her precious grip and his body arched as she rode him. He could feel her hot breath on the back of his neck. She was excited and enjoying what she was doing. She was giving it to him as hard as anyone had ever done, and was going to cum in the way girls do. His penis was rigid and drooling, and Sophie had a hold on it and was jiggling it fiercely.

She was making him screw around and she was going to make him spurt..

A sigh of accelerating excitement, a final urgent flurry of flesh on flesh. He felt a stirring in his body as everything seemed to rush to its centre. "Yaaah, ooh!" The angelic doll wilted and his senses swam in wonder. "OOOOH, Miss Sophie, oh yes."

 

Madame Duponte had been watching through the front room window all Sunday morning, but it was 2 o'clock in the afternoon before the white van arrived.

"There you are, thank goodness. I was expecting you much earlier than this." she said when it drew up to the curb.

Jennifer Hancock wiped her neck with a handkerchief as she wearily climbed from the cab of the transit van. "We would have been back much earlier had not Samson's route been so convoluted. I don't communicate well with him and he refuses to accept my advice. Did he imagine someone was trailing us? Why did he drive to Yorkshire by way of Liverpool and return to London via Brighton?"

Madame's mouth twitched ever-so slightly. "That's the way he is. He's just not very clever at understanding road maps. Have a cup of tea, and then we must load the van. We've a performance at Dovecott this evening."

Jennifer visibly sagged. "So sudden! That wasn't on your programme when I left. Samson and I are both fagged-out."

"A great deal as happened in the short time you've been away. Horace as suffered a blow. The police raided his shop in Hook Lane yesterday and took away a large portion of his stock - said it had been stolen from Babbington's warehouse near the old East India Docks. Luckily for him he had warning enough to burn all the pornography he had stored there."

The destruction of the photographs stirred a feeling of satisfaction with Jennifer. She didn't mention them, but simply knowing that indecent pictures of Madame's darlings were no longer going to circulate in the streets and public houses of the city brought a sense of great relief.

"Horace is in trouble with the law?"

"Don't worry about him, he's slimy enough to slide out of any kind of trouble short of genocide - but the affair will leave him badly out of pocket, so he's demanding the repayment of all the money I owe him by next week - back rent, the loan I had from him, interest on the loan - everything.

"Well, you'll know from the accounts we're barely breaking even at the moment. The Follies never runs into profit until the end of the season."

"But, you have a great deal of money."

Madame Dupont sighed. "All with the bank, and all tied up with the house purchase. I can't touch it unless I stop the deal. So you see I'm in something of a dilemma."

"Samson isn't fit to drive again today, he's dead on his feet. He's ex-HAUST-ed." Jennifer said, enunciating an 'h' to emphasis things. "He's been driving practically non-stop for the past two days and if he takes the van out again without having a proper rest he'll mow down half the population of Essex."

Madame observed her manservant staggering slowly up the steps to the front door and saw the truth of it. His eyes were bloodshot, the lids drooping wearily. He was physically shattered but he wouldn't complain, he never did. He'd carry on like a robot until he short-circuited and the machinery inside him ceased up, which was dangerous.

Her head turned and she gazed hopefully at her young assistant. "You don't drive, do you?"

"Hardly safely, and not at all legally. And if I did drive I'd get lost just going down the Finchley Road."

The woman's face became pinched with irritation. "Well if Samson can't come you will have to accompany me. I can't do everything on my own. And there are two vans to go tonight so someone will have to help with the driving. Cancelling the show will destroy my credibility, quite apart from which I'm in dire need of the money."

Indefatigable, practical, constantly inspired, she nevertheless breathed a deep sigh she followed Samson and disappeared inside the house to do the thing she was always so good at. Pushing rocks up mountains.

  

  

  

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