Fairyfield Grange

by Jason Argo

 

part 11

 

When not on duty on a Sunday Margaret Pardoe sometimes found herself at a loose end, and that particular Sunday she'd used up what enthusiasm she had for her embroidery project in the morning and had to settle for a stroll in the garden after lunch.

Emma was on duty, but that didn't prevent Margaret from being watchful of the school rules or for taking remedial action of her own if they were infringed. She cuffed a child for wearing his hat in a sloppy, crooked fashion, and slapped the legs of another who was bounding about with excessive energy and making a show of his underwear. It was the only way she could wile away time on a hot, dreary day without formal lessons.

Just like any other day Sundays always provided plenty of scope for smacking girly-things, and she didn't doubt that several would have their pants taken down and go over Miss Twist's hurdle before teatime. She herself had already surprised four naked urchins in one of the upstairs washrooms engaged in - what was it the wretches called their shameful activity? A circle-jerk, that was it. A most reprehensible and all too common habit with sissies as well as real boys.

She'd soon had them regretting their disgraceful conduct. She'd had all four kneeling up on the couch in her room with their bottoms pushed out, but had decided that a mere spanking was an insufficient award for their sin, and had teased their fat little balls out from between their legs and laid into them with her ruler. Boys hated having their bollocks smacked with her ruler, and they were all weeping beautifully in no time. While Miss Twist was quick witted and may have unplumbed talent, she reckoned even her Mexican-hurdle couldn't have coped so expediently for such a number.

Uncharacteristically Miss Hancock came out from the house a little later and decided to take everyone off on a nature ramble. The entire school was assembled in double-file and told to hold hands with their partner, then with Jennifer swishing a stick at the rear to intimidate stragglers the mini-skirted schoolgirl crocodile was led off across a cultivated paddock towards a nearby coppice.

Margaret wasn't about to join in with any of that, Miss Hancock's nature walks were too much like route marches for her taste.

Desperate for some other distraction she latched onto matron who was off to catalogue the Fairyfield family archive, and who seemed glad of some company.

They went to the unused east-wing and entered a small, windowless room littered with boxes and crates all of which had been opened for investigation. They revealed a huge stash of household goods that had fallen from grace over a number of generations; broken tennis rackets, a glass cabinet of bird's eggs, boxes of cutlery, a walking stick with a brass pommel, piles of letters and photographs and half empty bottles of Parisian scent. At the side of the door lurked an ancient Russian samovar looking rather lopsided and in need of repair, while smaller pieces of bric-a-brac lay everywhere.

Matron led Margaret to where a pair of tall stools and a small table stood in the centre of things. "Miss Hancock is constantly asking me to make a list of the items stored here. There's hoodles of stuff as you can see, and Sunday's are the only days I'm free to do it." she explained.

Margaret's nose twitched at the musty, stale smell of the room. "There's no rush is there?"

Matron arched a sardonic eyebrow. "Miriam's desperate for money."

"Ha! That's nothing new. She's never got enough of that."

"She wants me to separate out anything of value that will raise cash at auction."

"Totting up her treasure is she? The woman's obsessed by money." observed Mrs Pardoe as she side-stepped a pair of vases with oriental motifs that stood on the floor by her feet - one of them she noticed was already cracked from top to base. "All these bloody knickknacks look like old junk to me."

Matron smiled patiently. "Most families have a attic to store away items that are out of style or beyond favour, and I suppose this room must have become an attic to the latter-day Fairyfield's. Many of the items in here are certainly junk and wouldn't fetch a button at a boot-market," She sat down and raised up a heavy Victorian silver teapot. "But there's plenty of stuff over a hundred years old that would do rather well at auction. There's some nice pieces of Meissen china and some silver, London and Bristol, fully hallmarked."

"Must be a job to know what's what." remarked Margaret.

"I like art, good music, books; and I've always had a passion for antiques, that's why Miriam asked me to make the list." replied matron, "None of it as ever been catalogued before so no one knows what could turn up." She stroked the exquisite teapot affectionately. "I'd be quite happy if I found one or two more of these."

She gave Mrs Pardoe a sideways glance. "You really should broaden your own interests Margaret. Free-time is such a rare thing here during the term. You should get out and about when you have the chance."

"Out!" snorted the other woman, "And just where should I go out to?

Peasmarsh is no livelier than a graveyard on a Sunday."

Matron's thin lips crinkled. "I hear old Larkin sometimes puts on a show at he back of his shop at a weekend - erotic striptease performed by local girls, young ones. Personally I don't see the fascination in peeping between the legs of little schoolgirls as they peel down their knickers, but I know you have something of a taste for it."

Margaret's face twitched. "A woman can't sit with a bunch of stiff cocked men and watch that kind of thing. Anyway, Miriam would explode if I did. She'd have me out on my ear in a second. You know how sensitive she gets if staff tarnish the name of her precious school."

She drew her stool closer to matron. "You're a fine one to talk, you never go anywhere yourself. What on earth made you settle here? You're not a secretary, you're a nurse - you should be working in a hospital. The nearest you get to nursing now is giving enemas to poncey little sissy-boys."

"Colonic irrigation is important to those who spend so much time admiring each others fundaments, but I do more than that. Miss Hancock relies on my medical knowledge to extend the cute appeal of her pupils - to delay the growth spurts of puberty and increase the duration of their treble-octave, so my advice is constantly sought on matters of hormonal balance and diet."

"Everyone as the impression you once had something to do with breast-enhancement."

Matron smiled with a touch of pride. "I was a senior grade in my profession and I specialised in a number of things. I assisted in so many breast operations I could do them myself in the end."

"It's a shame to waste such skill. I'm getting old and frumpy, and I've started to sag a bit around the top. If you had the right stuff could you do something for me?"

"I could give you a choice of breast shape and I could even remodel your nipples if you wished. But, frumpy Margaret? That's ridiculous, you're rather well preserved. What are you, thirty-one, thirty-two? Still a good figure - and divorced. Well, unattached anyway. I'm typical English and blotchy, but I reckon there's some Latin in you. Your bosom stands out nicely and you don't even have to wear a bra most of the time. It's the children who really need my attention. I could do a really good job on some of them. Their dainty bodies would undoubtedly be enhanced by a couple of pert boobs."

Margaret snorted. "Kids shouldn't be messed about with. They look a whole lot sweeter without breasts."

Matron regarded her with one of the sour looks she was noted for, and thought cynically, 'Yes, and you'd think of them as even sweeter still if they didn't have pricks,' but she didn't say it.

"It must remain a fantasy anyway. Miss Hancock will never take up the expense." She paused a moment, then continued sulkily. "And the truth is I'm a nurse no longer. I was struck from the nursing register last year following my supposed misconduct."

"Misconduct!" I'd heard you'd had some trouble, but -"

At that moment matron looked exactly what she was, a lean woman over forty and an obsessive hardened spinster.

"I used the facilities at the clinic in which I worked for a sideline business of my own - putting breast implants into men."

Margaret Pardoe's mouth dropped slightly. "You gave men tits?"

The matron nodded, forcing a smile to her lips. "Wimpy-types, you know the sort, the one's with forceful and tyrannical wives who force their husbands to do housework whilst wearing frocks and aprons. As I've mentioned I knew the procedure backwards so I knew exactly what I was doing. The doctor's knew about it too, and they raised no objections if they got a portion of my fees. Everyone was happy until one of my patients experienced some disfigurement."

Mrs Pardoe unconsciously clutched at her bosom and seemed to become increasingly startled as the word 'disfigurement' percolated in her mind.

Matron offered a sharp look of impatience. "It was a faulty silicon insert that caused the problem not a want of skill on my part. There's a risk in all surgery, but with accusations of illegal practise being thrown about the doctors took fright and disowned me. Since there could have been criminal charges in the offing I thought it best to simply disappear." She shrugged and smiled grimly. "So it was goodbye to London and goodbye to my career. And do you know, I really don't give a damn. I've come to enjoy being a country mouse, it's like returning to the womb."

She stood up and made her way over to a line of framed pictures. Carefully stacked against a wall stood a number of pale green classical prints representing mythological subjects. Salamacis and Hermaphrodite, Diana and Callisto, Leda surprised by the swan, and what appeared to be a representation of Aphrodite masturbating a pair of cupids. Behind those were a number oil-paintings draped in dust sheets.

"For all their wealth the Fairyfield's possessed little good taste with the artists they favoured, but I've an enigma for you. Are you interested?"

Mrs Pardoe frowned. "I don't like puzzles much, but what is it?"

"What do you make of this?" As one of the oil-paintings was solemnly uncovered Margaret rose up and leaned forward to inspect it. It consisted of a trio of women seated in a group, two much younger than the central figure. All were dressed in imposing full length dresses and wearing long gloves. "A family group - mother and daughters probably. Nice looking girls. They're all wearing ball-gowns that date about 1860 or '70." She smiled. Even if she'd never been to university she knew about clothes and took pride in her knowledge of historical costume. During Queen Victoria's reign crinolines gave way to narrow bustles and it wasn't until the 1880s that wider silhouettes and larger bustles came into favour.

"Is it worth much?" she asked.

"Just a few pounds I'd say, but the value isn't what intrigues me here. Look at the title on the frame."

Margaret moved closer and stooped to read the inscription on a small tarnished brass plate. 'Henrietta Fairyfield with Juliette and Constance.' She shrugged., "Just as I said, a mother with her daughters."

Matron beamed gleefully. "The artist dated his work on the reverse of the painting as 1878. You were right about the period, but I've studied the genealogy of the Fairyfield's and at that time there were no daughters. The family was comprised of Mr Henry Fairyfield, his wife Claudia, and their two sons, Julian and Conway."

Her eyes blazed at Mrs Pardoe. "Do you begin to see? Are you getting the idea? Henry - Henrietta! Julian - Juliette! Conway - Constance!" Knowing the other woman to be rather obtuse and painfully unperceptive at times she tapped the canvas with the tip of a bony finger. "This painting portrays a generation of the male members of the Fairyfield family in 19^th Century drag."

"Christ! Who -?"

"You're curious as to why they'd agreed to be depicted as women, and I think that question can be answered by another portrait." With something of a flourish the matron uncovered another painting and turned it towards her visitor. This time the subject was a full length portrait of a single figure. A tall, slim, pinned and primped matriarchal looking woman.

Determined not to be fooled a second time Margaret examined it more intently than the first, but it was certainly a woman, of that there was no doubt. She had raven hair drawn back into coiled plaits set under a wide brimmed hat, which gave her youngish face a rather severe expression. She was wearing the riding habit of the Victorian period, a full, dark coloured skirt down to her ankles revealing only the tips of polished riding boots, and a matching jacket flared over magnificent hips to give contrast to a white silk shirt and black necktie beneath. Significantly the subject had elected a stance that was imposing and authoritative, one of her gloved hands clutching a riding-crop that she appeared to be tapping against her voluminous skirt in an attitude of impatience.

"Meet Claudia, wife of Henry, a lady whom I suspect was the alpha-bitch of 1878." declared matron. "It wouldn't surprise me to find she ruled this house like a Queen-Empress in her time. Forcing her husband and male offspring to pose as females was probably done to emphasis her domination." She pointed with a bony finger. "Do you see the large ring on the gloved hand? That's the Claudia ring. It's supposed to be some kind of lucky talisman that the Fairyfield family lost some years ago. Miriam hopes it'll turn up somewhere among the stuff in this room, but I've had a good scout around already and I think she's due for disappointment."

Fascinated by the mysterious woman from the past Margaret squinted at the portrait, this time paying more attention to the face depicted than the clothes being worn. It was a flawless oval lit by slightly uptilted eyes beneath wing-like brows and sweeping black lashes. A delicately chiselled nose added an air of distinction, but an inexplicable expression of cruel disdain spoilt what was potentially a set of handsome features. "The hard mouth, the high cheekbones and the sharp eyes - she bears a surprising familiarity. She's almost the image of Miriam."

Matron nodded. "I've noticed that too. I suspect some of the ladies genes have been passed down through the generations. Some of her traits too, probably. When one delves into the piles of later photographs of the family one can't help wondering if some of the girls in them were really genuine females."

Mrs Pardoe drew back and sniffed. "If all the men were queers or wimps forced into maidenhood I don't wonder the whole family's died out."

Matron seemed to lose interest in that subject and stepped along to uncover yet another canvas.

"This is the real prize find. A 1930s likeness of some old gent done by Philip de Laszlo, the famous society portrait-painter. Laszlo's are extremely collectable y'know. It'll be worth a bundle - thousands! Tens of thousands!"

Margaret glanced at the crusty gentleman depicted. "Ugly old bastard, isn't he? You'd never believe him to be worth so much just by looking at him." Her eyes suddenly took on a gleam. "Are you sure about the value?"

Matron gave a haughty stare. "I've researched Laszlo's work in great detail this past week and there's no doubt about the painting or its worth."

"And Miriam - does she know?"

"No, not yet. I wanted to be certain before I told her."

The gleam in the school teacher's eyes became a look of slyness. "Why tell her? If she's not got a clue about what's in this room, she wouldn't know if it went missing."

The other woman's face twitched nervously. "Mrs Pardoe, are you suggesting I steal it? Miriam would certainly prosecute anyone who stole from her and the last thing I need is to be dragged up before a magistrate."

"Why should she hand you over to the law if she doesn't even know she's been robbed for goodness sake?" insisted Margaret, heatedly.

A flush of temptation coloured matron's cheeks. "It would have to go to a London auction house to realise the best price, and I'm bound to be recognised by someone if I hang around somewhere like Sotheby's."

"It won't be long before the school goes into recess. I could take it down south for you then if you wish, and we could split the proceeds. Just think! You could have all the medical things you want installed here, and Miriam wouldn't have a reason to object if you paid for them yourself. And I could afford to buy all the diplomas and references I need to get a post in a real girl's school."

The scheme seemed so simple and so foolproof that even matron's cynical logic became enamoured. Several times they discussed the process by which the oil-painting could be purloined and sold, and they failed to fault it at any stage. By teatime the idea of a moment had blossomed into a full scale plan and they both went down the stairs aglow with secret excitement.

In the entrance hall they met Miss Hancock and Jennifer as they returned from their nature rambling.

"Ladies, you look positively inspired." smiled Miriam.

"I've just spent some time with matron and the Fairyfield memorabilia," Mrs Pardoe explained, "It was fascinating. Quite enthralling."

"Ah yes, there's a great deal of history in that room upstairs," agreed the headmistress, "You must both join Jennifer and I for tea and tell us all about the latest discoveries."

"No sign of any antique rings I'm afraid, but there's a lot of rather nice oil-paintings." put in matron, "Some have rather indelicate subject matter, but there's plenty that wouldn't be out of place hung in the entrance hall."

Miriam smiled. "I rather like the sound of that. We'll do it. The portrait of Claudia will make a nice focal point and I'll have old Sylvesta Fairyfield put on the wall behind my desk in the study."

Matron's brow creased. "Sylvesta Fairyfield!"

"Yes, you've probably come across a Laszlo among the artwork, matron. That'll be Sylvesta. Uncle Albert made particular mention of the old man's portrait in his will. Very valuable, so I need to keep him in a safe place."

The remark left her mouth with all the flat tones of innocence banter and she was probably unaware as she led the way in for tea that it thrust a stake through the heart of the avaricious plans so recently prepared by Margaret Pardoe and the matron.

Thunderstruck, the two women cast an uncomfortable glance at each other as they followed behind. The headmistress had just demonstrated she knew more about the contents of the room in the east-wing than she'd ever before admitted and she'd proved that it was a risky business to make assumptions about her lack of knowledge. She was a woman with eyes that could see around corners. She was always one step ahead.

"Come along everyone," urged Miriam, "Gloria tells me we have crumpets for tea."

 

It was after supper, but the evening sun still shone through the lofty windows of the gymnasium to catch dust particles floated weightlessly in its slanting streams of light. A naked boy stood was stumbling over his words before the seated figure of Miss Twist, groping helplessly for an excuse to explain the persistent stiffness of his penis. Eventually he subsided into silence, eyes frightened, knuckles white as he wrung his hands behind his back.

The teacher raise an ironic eyebrow.

"In other words you don't know why you're in such a state, is that right Nicola?"

His penis was standing erect, swollen and solid as he had ever known it. Earlier he'd secluded himself away and pumped it frantically, but even an ejaculation had failed to diminish its tenacious uplift.

"I-I didn't have the trouble until matron gave me tonic, miss, an - and ..."

"So, you blame matron?"

"N-no miss - only I can't make it go down. I've tried ..."

"Stop your sissy faffing. You're not going to be punished for having an erection tonight. The reason you're here is already defined, and you voted for extra detention instead of time in the dungeon. But if you thought you'd escaped with a soft option by agreeing to come here you may change your mind in a little while."

Nicola had already had some misgivings when he's seen the row of bare bottoms already lined up in front of the wall-bars. Four pairs of naked buttocks pushed out into plumpness, four pairs of knees resting side by side on the wooden bench, and four helpless classmates bent forward, heads down awaiting 'whacks'.

Hands behind his back, he flattened his palms around his own pert rounded bottom in an unconscious way, symbolically protecting them from what he knew was to come.

Miss Twist narrowed her eyes in a way that made her look like a mean cat planning to shred up a canary, then she dipped into the sports bag that never seemed to be far from her side.

"Since you have no control of your body we shall give the portion that offends a little playsuit of its own."

Seeming oblivious to the sexual content of the situation she drew him forward and fastened an Arab-strap onto his genitals. A metal ring slotted down over his penis to settle at its base, and a leather strap connected to the ring was buckled around the root of his testicles. That done she drew a second strap from somewhere beneath to divide his scrotum and make his balls bulge out each side of it like a pair of brussel sprouts. Her knuckles of necessity buffeted Nicola's straining penis as she pulled everything snug and secure and fastened the last buckle. "There! That would appear to make things tidier, don't you think Nicola?"

"Y-yes miss." His voice was a whisper.

"Fine! Go and take your place with the others."

The schoolteacher then produced a plimsoll from her bag and stood up looking somewhat ominous and threatening in a sleek, black body hugging leotard. Threatening was exactly how she wished to be seen. Her movement, and by implication the imminence of discomfort for imprudently presented bottoms, caused consternation among the four other unfortunates who had chosen extra detention as a chastisement for their 'crimes'. Bare thighs squeezed anxiously together and nervous bum-cheeks huddled tight as if seeking security in numbers.

As she approached the line of subjection Zoe, who's flawless little bottom was about to become the target for her first stinger moaned in despair. That was rashness indeed, but he stuttered - "S-sorry miss." - even when he knew it was pointless. An eloquent swish of the plimsoll, a THWACK!, and he was a bungle of wriggling agitation.

"Silence," snapped the woman, " I don't want to hear anything but 'Ouch' and 'Ow'. You can save 'Sorry miss' until the end!"

She moved along to the next compliant figure and with a flourish of her arm brought the rubber-soled shoe swooshing down across Fifi's delectable round bottom. Fifi squealed, squirmed and earned himself a second smack before he subsided into obedient silence, sobs gurgling against a hand he clutched against his mouth.

The teacher paced along the row again and then back, grinning, her expression puckish and mischievous, clearly relishing the helplessness of the sissies under her command. When slapped the gym-shoes playfully onto Trudy's upthrust bottom again her smiled broadened. It made the she-boy bleat and squirm his defenceless little bum beautifully. How nice! They were all so easy to intimidate.

For a moment she dwelt on the cause of them being there. In the outside world their antics would be of little note, but at Fairyfield small deviations came in for big whacks.

Susan and Zoe had been caught playing with their willy's while perusing a magazine entitled MAN-SIZE, and masturbation without permission was of course always a good enough reason for punishment. Fifi and Nicola had been scooped up by Gloria as they exited from the door marked 'prohibited' that led into the unused east-wing. They were only clad in bathrobes, and in the pocket of one she'd found a part-used tube of KY jelly, while in another had been a plastic vibrator with the proportions of a cucumber.

The fifth individual was Poppy - he never seemed to be far from trouble. He'd pestered Miss Hancock to be allowed to water the flower-beds in the garden each evening, but had been caught out when Miriam had inspected the tool shed and found a blanket on the floor on which lay Poppy's bellybutton ring. On interrogation he'd admitted that one of the elderly gardeners - an Outsider - had been giving him tail.

Of course Miriam Hancock's regime at the school catered for all such misdemeanours and there was no real justification for 'special correction', but like Jennifer, Emma Twist relished humiliating and smacking little boys, and from time to time leeway was allowed for some imaginative amusement.

Rising above her reverie she observed the miscreants again. "Okay - now then, what do you lot deserve as 'warmers', eh? How many to make a start? One each, or half a dozen - what do you say?

It was play-acting of course, intended to amuse herself and humiliate the unfortunate pantywaists. When no one ventured a suggestion even of the most timid kind she made an arbitrary decision of her own. "Right - four each!"

Trudy, who's pretty little rump was first in line for the first batch of stingers, and who had already received some, moaned as she laid on a hearty smack that made him squeal and shake. But the shoe descended again before he'd even caught his breath.

SMACK! TWHAT! TWAK!

Leaving him in an undignified posture with a glowing bottom she moved on to Susan, the next in line, and bottom number two began its frantic dance, the shoe not being fooled by either jive or rumba.

Nicola at the end of the line stole anguished glances at his blubbering friends. His was the most unenviable position of all, since he had to wait in agonising suspense while the ghastly shoe moved slowly but irrevocably along the row of others towards him. When the boy next to him jerked tearfully forward under the impetus of a sharp blow his own eyes suddenly brimmed and covering his face with his hands he began to weep sissy tears.

It was unbelievable but he escaped the first round of introductory spanks.

Suddenly Miss Twist ceased swinging her arm and stood back. Jennifer had appeared. She stood in the doorway looking extremely vampish in a loose tank-top and very short buttock-hugging hot-pants, but if the clothes were suitable for a precocious little girl, her temper appeared to be a match. She looked for all the world like a child who had just had a bag of sweets snatched from its hand.

"Really Emma, you go too far! Mummy promised I could take the correction period today."

"Of course, I know that's what she said, but time was getting on and I didn't think you were coming."

"Well, I HAVE come." the girl spluttered, at that moment looking the essence of sulks.

Emma Twist knew she had no choice but to give way gracefully. She'd never been overawed by the teenager like so many others. She knew she was equal to her in callous efficiency and her wider experience of life gave her the edge, but the girl was the daughter of the headmistress and that ensured she would always hold the advantage when it came to doling out domestic correction. Jennifer would always get her way.

"And so Jennifer dear, you can take the detention. I'll get out of the way and leave you to it - unless you want some help."

Jennifer laughed sarcastically. "Help? Christ, there's only five of them, and they all know I'll tie a rope around their pretty bollocks and hoist them to the ceiling if they give me any trouble." She gave the row of subservient girl-things a fierce glance. "Isn't that right, my little poppets?"

Five pale faces swivelled about to nod rapidly in unison. "Y-yes, Jennifer." came the stuttering reply.

Suddenly the girl's mood seemed to mellow. Having triumphed in her right to take charge she glanced over her shoulder and smiled amiably at Emma. "You can stay and look after the forfeits if you like. I'd really like some help with that."

Without waiting for a reply she turned back to the boys. "Stand up and get away from the wall. Get in line."

She was at her most imperious, chin jutting, arm outstretched, finger jabbing the air. The small band of sissies immediately scrambled back to form an extended line with their bare toes nudging a chalk mark on the floor.

It was only then that Nicola was able to see that his companions were all suited as he was. Each had a raging erection, and each had their scrotums secured in an Arab-strap.

"No slouching," snapped Jennifer, "Tummy's in, chests out. Let me have a proper look at you all."

She stood like a general reviewing troops, glowering at the line of impertinent, uprisen sissy-boy cocks that were all thrusting above the horizontal. After a moment a flicker of amusement danced about the corners of her mouth. Wow! matron's aphrodisiac concoction had produced amazing results. When first mooted the idea had been for something to cause extreme embarrassment, but it had ended up something more than that. They all had remarkable stands - thick and strong - almost manlike. What a volley they would give if they all went off together! Their pink ball-bags too looked stimulated, plumped out as they were from the straps that harnessed them in a way that made them look like diminutive rosy apples. Why, a girl could almost want to ...

She silently rebuked herself. Enough of that kind of thought. The androgynous little sods weren't worthy.

"Disgusting!" she scolded. "This is not what's expected of good girl's. What on earth have you been up to? Have you all been playing with yourselves or have you been doing it for each other?"

Five flushed faces fearfully shook from side to side, even though they'd all ejaculated at least three times in failed attempts to dissipate the priapism brought on by matron's tonic.

Hands on hips she surveyed them critically, looking directly at the sheaths of skin that still hooded the tip of one or two erections.

"Hmph! Clearly there's still some boyishness to beat out of you all. Slide your foreskins back. Knob-ends should always be on display when sissies show a hard-on to a girl."

She watched sternly and silently while those at fault drew the skin back to expose their swollen red helmets, then she suddenly became animated. "Right! All of you - get over to the wall-bars for warmers."

Four of them scampered quickly but Fifi hung back.

"We've already had warmers, Jennifer."

His remark only earned him a smack on the back of the head from her hand. "Don't question what I say, you sissy-queer. You haven't had warmers from me yet."

Nicola didn't escape warmers the second time, but Jennifer only gave them all two each - one on every upturned buttock along the row of submissive bottoms, and if she noticed his pert backside was still pale and creamy while all the others were rosy pink she didn't make it obvious.

While the daughter of the headmistress was entertaining herself in walloping the hapless boys with a gym-shoe Emma settled onto a low bench nearby. It didn't go easy to serve in a secondary role, but she'd become aroused, and staying at least guaranteed some action.

Her eyes drifted around the gymnasium. Hardwick had been told to provide a simple gym-circuit, starting with a run and leap over a vaulting-box to be followed by up and down ropes. A run to the far wall would extend things, then a gate-vault over a low beam and a monkey-swing along a high one would extract some energy. Each lap would come to an end with press-ups on a rubber mat.

When Jennifer had finished Emma rose up and helped hustle the class into single file ten paces away from the vaulting-box. A slap on his tender backside was the signal for Susan, the first in line, to dash forward, leap onto a small springboard and sail over the box with legs astride. The moment he reached the climbing ropes a sharp whack set Trudy off on the same route. One by one the others were dispatched, a brisk tap on the rear sending them on their way like little comets with red-hot tails, and Jennifer was soon circulating among them, dealing out acid abuse and random smacks at her whim while urging the owner of each shuddering bare bottom to greater effort. Zoe received a smack on his smooth thigh, then Fifi got one across the top of both legs. Next Poppy took a wallop square on his bottom, not too hard, but not too soft either. No one escaped her relentless pursuit.

They went around the circuit like steeple chaser's and noticing how easily they managed it all infuriated Jennifer. She stomped from the floor grinding her teeth in exasperation.

"The little sods are supposed to suffer, but Hardwick's too clever at keeping them fit and he's made the circuit too easy. There's hardly a flush to their cheeks and they aren't even breathless."

Emma smiled thinly. She may have been pushed into second place but she at least had the presence of mind to think the matter through before making a start.

"It'll ginger things up if we gag them. I've got some ball-gags with me."

She pulled a number of items from her sports bag, then took hold of Nicola. "If you approve Jennifer dear, I'll demonstrate with this one, then the others can gag each other."

Jennifer thunderous expression eased and she nodded, and Emma glared at the group of sissies.

"Pay attention, you'll be told to pair-off and do this for each other in a moment."

"Open." she demanded, lifting a small, glossy black ball to Nicola's lips. It was his instinct to recoil, but the action was forestalled by a hand on his neck.

"Aaawthpth!" He gurgled as the powerful woman pushed her fingers between his soft lips to hold down his tongue and lever his jaw down. "You must open wide for this," she told everyone as she forced the ball-gag into the boys gaping mouth with her thumbs.

The object was a solid rubber sphere the size of a tangerine, and it made Nicola's neck strain and his eyes close into a squint as its fattest portion was installed between his teeth. Pushing up against the roof of his mouth and flattening his tongue there was no way to complain even if he felt brave enough to try. He imagined his mouth to be stretched to its utter limit, and was amazed when his jaw had to stretch a tiny bit more as the redoubtable Miss Twist buckled the retaining strap behind his head.

"There! It's done." declared the watching Jennifer. "The rest of you creampuffs shouldn't have a problem fitting them, since your all used to having balls in your mouths."

Zoe and Susan, and Trudy and Poppy were told to pair off and gag each other while the two females stood back and observed. The sissies looked wide-eyed and ridiculous with there mouths wedged open and thoroughly stuffed, but decidedly cute and charming when viewed in their only other garment - the Arab-strap harness that bound their genitals further down.

If the first circuit of the gym had been a piece of cake for them the second was a stone. Since their mouths were efficiently bunged they were unable to pant, and every whiff of air and each exhalation had to pass through their small flaring nostrils. When Jennifer began to harry them again they were soon snorting in desperation.

Around they went, and around again, and Nicola was soon aware of another worry. His penis was stiffer and more swollen than he had ever known it to be, and it felt unnervingly sensitive too. As he made his way from box to rope and horizontal bars to mat, it bobbed about before his thighs in the manner of an unwieldy truncheon. Scrapping it on the ropes made it twitch, tapping it on the bars made it throb and nubbing its tip on the rubber mat whilst doing press-ups almost made him ejaculate. Hot with physical effort and chilled by anxiety he thought it terribly unfair that hitched to all the other humiliations he was enduring was the ghastly possibility of doing a cum in front of the women. He neither knew nor cared that the same affliction he suffered was shared by all the others in his group.

To an outsider it would have been an extraordinary scene - five boys, naked all but for a few tethers and straps, all running around the gymnasium in various stages of exhaustion, all the time having to cope with the unpredictable swing of an outward thrusting penile erection. There seemed no end to it. Each time one of them returned to the start-point Emma Twist gave him a smack and set him off again. Being unable to breath properly soon had an effect, and they began to falter, which gave Jennifer even more opportunity to slipper them on the way round.

Another lap and they began to stagger, chests heaving, nostrils dilating, every movement needing extra effort to compensate for the restriction of oxygen required by their limbs.

The fifth lap became a fiasco. Zoe leapt bravely at the vaulting-box, but his best effort was laboured and he lacked the momentum to clear it. He crashed, legs straggling the end of it, and he became a barrier that Fifi who was following didn't identify in time. They collided, and in a sprawling mess of bare flesh and flailing limbs tumbled down onto the safety mat.

Jennifer stopped everything to make sure there was no serious injury, but found the only thing shattered to be Fifi's dignity. The sissy bowed his head, shamefaced. His slender itsy-bitsy cock was twitching over the great big unbidden cummy he'd hosed over Zoe's belly during their tangle. "Forfeit!" cried Jennifer, "This limp-wristed gay-girly as made a mess." And Fifi was sent off for a session with Miss Twist while the others were hounded into continuing their exercise.

Forfeits were an unapologetic extension to the bottom stinging warmers each boy had received earlier. A half dozen smacks delivered onto an already painful well-reddened bottom, the only difference this time being they would be provided whilst draped over Miss Twist's infamous Mexican-hurdle. While Emma enjoyed watching Jennifer beat the boys around the room she had been waiting patiently to apply her own skill in more proportion, and she was now thoroughly ready.

"So you've misbehaved!" she admonished as Fifi reluctantly approached.

"Shameless child - doing disgusting squirts whilst ladies are in the room.

There's only one sure remedy for that."

Fifi gurgled behind his hand and glanced dismally at the hurdle. "That's right, it's there for you," Emma confirmed, "Get over it and make your bottom available."

She-boys like Fifi, boys of eleven or twelve, had become quite her favourite since coming to Fairyfield. Pretty, tender-bodied, vulnerable and easy to manage once they'd been cowed and made docile, their gorgeous little bottoms were the perfect subject for the attention of a ladies slipper. Their manner could sometimes be surprisingly knowing for a child, as if they sensed that smacking them made a lady become damp between her legs, and often she'd give them extras for being so unerringly clever.

When the first swipe of the shoe struck Fifi's already sore backside his feet kicked up slightly and his legs parted before he settled into the kind of pose the schoolteacher appreciated - bottom slightly ajar to reveal a glimpse of anus - and his testes, divided by the harness that bound them, bulging between his thighs like a pair of juicy, fat plums. Circling round and loving the way each blow made him whimper, she took special care to aim her slipper at any pale patches on his reddened skin, then finished off with a couple of good stingers across both bottom cheeks.

No sooner had Fifi been returned to the gym than the belly-smeared Zoe fell foul of events. Halfway along the high-beam whilst doing a monkey-swing the frantic gyrations of his legs ceased and he suddenly paused and hung motionless like a pale pink 'Y'.

He couldn't utter a sound of course, but his eyes staring wildly and his underarms, bathed in a slight sheen of perspiration, betrayed whirling emotions. Even in distress he was a gorgeous sight. His smooth slender stomach was made to seem even more delicate by the narrow, hairless chest that heaved above it, while his penis, as rigid as a nail, was pointing straight out and oozing precum. Suddenly the tense little cock twitched, and without the aid of any exterior stimulation it pumped forth a spout of cream.

With an expression of hopelessness clouding his face he dropped lightly to the floor where he was able to grasp the wayward gland in his fist and give himself a few moments of extended bliss before being directed over to Miss Twist.

The boy had only just been draped over the hurdle when Jennifer's voice was calling out again. Susan Yates had lasted only a further half-lap before the tip of his slender member spontaneously bubbled with the juice of boyhood, and he too was sent over to Emma.

The doughty young schoolmistress had no intention of allowing a queue to form or of giving Susan any respite, so she scooped him up bodily and stacked him face down on top of Zoe, pushing him well forward and pulling his legs astride so that Zoe's bottom was exposed beneath his own. With two sets of bared buttocks piled one on top of the other she continued as she'd intended, merely alternating her blows between them, an improvisation that she found so erotic that she did a cum in her pants. But it happened quietly and in secret, of course.

Soon afterwards Nicola too succumbed to the terrible sensitivity that assailed his penis. With the smooth skin of his abdomen taut from continuous repetitious exercise, his young body sagged too low as he strained to fulfil a quota of push-ups, and the tender drooling tip of his young boner dug into the rubber mat. A spasm shot through him, and seized by erotic tremors his fingers clawed at the ball-gag and clutched at his pulsing cock. Breathing raggedly, nostrils flaring as he snorkelled for air, he was quite unable to prevent a copious discharge spurting forth, and even before his ejaculation had finished Jennifer was calling out, "Forfeit!"

Wearily he wiped away saliva forming on the edge of his imprisoned mouth as he staggered across to where Miss Twist waited to upend him over her hurdle. She gazed with secret relish at his helplessness and the endearing way his smooth legs appeared to be about to give way.

"Ah yes. Young Nicola!" the tutor murmured as she hauled him over. "I seem to recall you missed out on the first set of warmers earlier, and that being the case you'll get extra smacks now."

When Jennifer closed the circuit Emma hustled the five sobbing, sore-bottomed sissy-princess's together like a flock of sheep and made them face the wall bars so she could survey their crimson bare bottoms. She was pleased with the result.

"The effects of their, um, tonic is yet to wear off completely," she said, indicating the still upstanding line of young cocks, "I'll run them around the garden until it dissipates."

"Good idea," seconded Jennifer. She grasped Poppy by an arm. "Take all the others, but I want this one for a while. I've some private business with him."

Everyone else departed and Poppy was left looking up at Jennifer's face in something of a quandary since he hadn't been aware of any kind of business at all with her.

When she unbuckled the strap that held his gag in place and eased out the rubber ball he worked his mouth up and down in silence for a moment to test his jaw was still functioning.

"You're not going to hang me by my bollocks are you Jennifer?" he said at last, wiping the stain of recent tears from his cheeks.

The girl's mouth twisted. "Don't be such a cretin. I was about to compliment you on how well you managed this evening. You didn't disgrace yourself and you were the only one to avoid a forfeit."

He smiled wanly with a kind of ill-concealed pride. " I nearly did a cum loads of times, but I didn't want smacks over the hurdle so I managed to keep it in." His smooth features buckled slightly. "Anyway, I'm sure I got smacked more than any of the others without doing a forfeit."

Jennifer's face contorted in an expression of mock horror. "Why Poppy, you should be ashamed of yourself for thinking such a thing. It's just an impression you've got because you always squeak the loudest."

"I wasn't squeaking - I couldn't squeak with a gag in my mouth."

"Well, you know what I mean - you LOOKED like you were squeaking," she told him in a musical voice. "You're being quite horrid, and actually I'm quite put out to think that you believe I victimised you." Actually she was thinking how clever he was to have noticed the special attention she'd provided to his enticing little bum-cheeks. Special treatment because that evening she'd devised a special plan for him before she'd started.

"S-sorry, Jennifer."

"You've no one to blame but yourself if you've experienced discomfort. It's your own fault for bending over to please decrepit old men when you should have been watering daisies."

Poppy dodged the weight of her criticism in his usual fashion. "I don't water daisies. Feverfew look a bit like daisies, but ..." The girl grasped his arm impatiently. "Stop wittering rubbish and come with me. I'm going to fuck you."

The boy's mouth dropped open. "Fuck me? You mean - you mean -"

Jennifer twisted the arm cruelly and levered it up his back. "I mean, I'm going to fuck you, you faggot-creep. You of all people should know what that means. It means I'm going the shag your arse."

Poppy grimaced. "But Jennifer you're a girl, and girl's don't do that to boys."

"You're not a boy, you're a floppy sissy-thing. You're a girl."

"B-but, girls don't do it to girls either."

Jennifer sneered. "You know enough about the world to know that's a lie." With no more ado she forcefully marched him away into the gym-store, and he soon found himself under the coat-hooks by the door, facing the wall, his mind whirling in disbelief.

Not daring to turn around he sucked his lip with embarrassment. She couldn't mean it. She was just a girl - only a few years older than his cousin Harriet. It would be humiliating if she shagged him.

"You're flushed Poppy. How pretty you look when you blush." remarked the daughter of the headmistress, secretly relishing the deepening pink hue of his cheeks.

The sissy gave her a guarded stare. "Jennifer I don't think - I mean what you said - you're teasing, aren't you?"

"I'm not teasing. Or maybe I am, maybe it's because you're such an awful tease yourself, parading your little rump around like a simpering calamite all the time, as if to say, look all you want, but don't touch. It's such a silly show when really you're being regularly shagged by just about everyone in the building."

Poppy raised his head and dared to pout over his shoulder. "But - but that's not right, Jennifer. I - I ..."

"Liar! You love getting a length, and you don't mind who gives it to you. Didn't I dress you up for mummy once, and didn't she shag the daylights out of you? You never made a fuss about that. Boys will be boys, but clearly some of them will be girls and you're one of them, and since you enjoy acting the bride you'll be a fuck-bunny for me when I want you to be one." She gave him a shove and flattened him against the wall, then her hands felt up and down his body, squeezing his sissy-breasts and his bottom just as men did when they pawed him, but making no effort to fondle his stiff penis. That would acknowledge his maleness which was a thing she didn't wish to emphasis.

"I'm going to use your pussy. I'm going to grease it so I can stretch it out and you'll not complain if you don't want an extra-special bum-basting over Miss Twist's hurdle. If you don't do exactly as I wish I'll have you bawling your eyes out and you won't be able to sit down for a week. Now stand where you are and don't move while I get ready."

Her words were hot on his neck while her hands groped him, and although he was intoxicated by the talk of being treated like a girl, what she intended still disturbed him.

Jennifer reached into a bag she'd deposited in the room previously and pulled out a strap-on prosthetic that glistered in the light. Quietly she slipped off her shorts and fastened its harness about her hips before leisurely adjusting the base of the prong against her pubis. Poppy's eyes grew large when he was allowed to turn and observe the bizarre phallic tool. The wicked shaft was rather odd looking. It was a semi-rigid plastic pole, flesh coloured with a bulbous tip, but it had a gentle upward curve and was deeply ribbed with tiny, pointy-warty nubbins along its entire dramatic length.

Jennifer stood, legs apart, hands on hips, her mouth presenting a slightly crooked smile as she basked in the pleasure of possessing such an impressive piece of male-like genitalia. She looked raunchy and wanton. A satyr in the guise of Aphrodite.

Taking a grip on the uplifted shaft she stroked it in simulation of a man masturbating.

"Rather inspiring, isn't it. A lovely fat hot-dog to put between your slim little buns eh? I chose a nice big one for you Poppy. Can you imagine what it will feel like stuffed up your saucy bottom?"

Poppy gulped. It was impossible to argue against her when she was in such a mood. Her masterful, no-nonsense attitude made him feel weak.

Jennifer had always enjoyed embarrassing boys by feminising them, and the cherry on the cream came when she had the chance to humiliate them further. It was only right to outline their place in the order of things. They had to realise they were only useful as a source of amusement to females, and since such ideas were repugnant to boys everywhere it was all the more tasty.

"Such a big cock - such a randy pumper," she continued, "It will give your dainty arse a lovely feeling of fullness, and it as all those raspy, bumpy things on it that will really let you know its in there."

Poppy sagged a little. It was impossible to fight her. She was taller than he was, and stronger too, and he couldn't prevent her from being cruel to him if it pleased her. She was the boss, and if she wanted him as a fuck-bunny, that's what he was going to be. Resigned to an unenviable fate he thrust out his bottom in submission and waited.

Jennifer contemplated his buttocks, marred by a considerable recent smacking but still emitting the lines and texture that made them ever admirable. Small, soft rounds that would separate with the gentlest caress to surrender the enticing little pucker between.

Men would pay handsome sums to know the inherent delights of that sweet young boy-arse and it gave her great satisfaction to know that for Jennifer Hancock it was a gift free for the taking.

Such appreciation didn't mitigate her harshness. She was aware Poppy's compliance was only maintained by her threatening attitude. Ignoring the upturn of his buttocks she grabbed him by his hair.

"You're too small, you little fairy. I'd break my legs trying to get up you in that position."

She dragged him away from the wall by his hair, lifting him onto his toes to dangle like a marionette in one hand while she straightening a blanket over one of the wicker hampers that lined the side of the store. Having tidied it to her satisfaction she slammed the gasping she-boy unceremoniously face down across it.

Ensuring he was helpless with his belly flat and his buttocks poised nicely over the edge she reached between his legs and pulled back his testicles.

"Please, don't ..."

"Are you going to be my girl?"

"Yes, yes. I promise."

She twisted his balls a quarter turn. "Say it. Tell me your going to be my girly."

"Eek! Yes ... Okay ... I'll be your girl. You can do anything you want ...

Only don't ..."

Leaning forward her biceps flexed as she held him down by the neck, gripping him like a predator grips its prey, fierce and unshakeable, accentuating his feelings of helplessness. "That's all I need to know." she cooed.

When certain he was settled and beyond rebelling she drew back and released his balls but remained watchful as she pressed a thumb between his buttocks and rubbed his anus. Eventually she flipped the cap from a bottle of baby oil and liberally dosed his rear end, then placing a hand on each buttock she opened him up. He looked cute and vulnerable with his pink bottom shoved out and his sweet little pucker glistening and available for penetration. "Hold yourself like that." she husked. "Spread your bum open like you do for old Hardwick when he takes photographs."

Gripping the shaft of her strap-on in her fist she guided the broad tip onto the whorl of his anus, a perfect target for cock. For girl-cock. She then took hold of his hips and braced herself.

"Oh, J-Jennifer, oh -" Poppy's pulse raced wildly. Being pulled about and roughly handled had stirred some excitement in him and now his entire body trembled as he felt the nudge of the plastic device pressing onto his splayed bottom. Knowing what to expect helped. He dipped his belly and raised his bum.

Jennifer's thighs tensed and her buttocks knotted impressively as she pushed forward, rubbing one hand along the outside of his smooth thigh while her other hand carefully wedged the tip of her strap-on appliance into its required location. Her teenage face took on a determined expression and she clenched her teeth. Keeping her knees together she angled back, tightened her muscles and pushed with her lean, powerful hips. Glancing down as she squeezed the first inch into the boys lissom young backside, she began to press forward.

How satisfying to see her rugged girl-staff sink into the bull's-eye of a boys pretty arse, she thought. She sensed Poppy's anus was rather a snug little morsel usually, but since she'd basted both it and her tool with plenty of lubricant it proved no obstacle.

Poppy gulped as the intruding length of greased plastic lifted him onto his toes.

"Push back and take it." Jennifer demanded.

Her cock sank in, and his pink anus flared significantly open as his tiny well-greased buttonhole expanded, thinning and dilating salaciously around the invading prong's blunt oily head.

Once started it became easier. Further and further it went in until the she-boy groaned. Pain? Pleasure? Maybe a mixture. Jennifer didn't care. All she was aware of was the pleasure she felt from penetrating him so well. Her triumph was that of a conqueror, she was a girl on top in the only acceptable way.

Most of her instrument was soon sheathed, and a brisk jerk with her pelvis quickly forced in the rest. When fully installed she experimented by shaking Poppy's rounded derriere left and right and up and down, making him huff and puff as his bottom was pulled about and contorted into gratuitous shapes. His feet arched and his toes curled as the assault intensified and Jennifer began long-dicking him like a man.

"Wow, oh it's - it's - it's - oh fuck!" The sissy exhaled noisily as his smooth-rounded bum-cheeks bounced and jiggled around on the sliding shaft. He tried to relax, knowing it would be easier to co-operate, but the violent ramming of the full prick inside him forced him to concentrate.

"So you're a squeaker after all," Jennifer quipped heatedly, "Well squeak away, girly-fuck, because I'm going to give your precious little boypussy a truly deep seeing-to. You're in for quite a lovely ride." She redoubled her efforts, pushing the long, warty plastic phallus in and out of his tender bottom with a firm, steady pumping motion. Rocking her hips, hardly moving the thing at all sometimes, she would then surprise him suddenly by stabbing in the entire length with a single mighty shove.

"Oowwwfff!" Poppy gurgled inanely and out loud, tilting his head back and lewdly clenching his anus around the large slippery knob in his backside. He felt the same searing brand inside that all boys feel when a man breaches them, and at that moment Jennifer was as good a man as any he'd ever known.

"Bounce on it," she demanded, "Bounce around on Jenny's cock ... That's it ... Good girl! Good cockslave. You're my girl. You'll drop your pants and be my girl whenever I want you to be."

"Y-yes. Oh, yes..." He surrendered, utterly giving into her demented desire and rocking back and forth in tempo to the rhythmic thump of her latex tool. They were united, a big cock and a submissive bottom - boss and appellant - giver and taker. Now he was humping in lurid response to the girl's thick, slippery length and athletic thrusts. Each time it plunged into his bowls he writhed and gripped it with his muscles, delighting in its movement, willing it deeper. In different ways it felt wonderful for both of them, Jennifer revelled in her act of female dominance while Poppy squirmed around at her mercy, submissive and totally emasculated.

Jennifer seized him by the hair and cruelly hauled his head back. "That's it, move with me you little cow. I know you like it. I know you love it. Being fucked in the arse is all boys are good for - it's all you're good for - you'd love a girl to give you a baby if she could. You'd love me to give you a baby, wouldn't you?"

Perfect in the art of giving and receiving pleasure Poppy reacted in reflex. Every push was now returned with interest, every wild thrust met with a corresponding buck which enveloped the invading plastic down to its root. But eventually Jennifer was fucking him so hard he began to flop around like a rag doll, the only thing holding him in place being the girl's firm grip on his hips and her solid prong in his backside.

Quite suddenly and seemingly of its own accord his penis began to ejaculate sticky semen in fierce splatters against the side of the hamper beneath him, and trapped in the midst of delicious torment his cries were probably a reflex too.

"Mmm, yeah! Give me a baby Jennifer - Oooow yes, give me a baby."

 

Almost before breakfast the summer sunshine was ablaze in a brilliant blue sky. The world was awake early, the luminosity of a new day overlying everything in a gossamer haze.

It was unheard of for pupils to be allowed at ground level before midmorning but Mrs Pardoe had been warned to expect an early morning visitor, and in order to be able to doze in comfort inside the headmistress's study she'd posted Trudy as a lookout at the front door of house.

Trudy Jones was outside when the shiny black Mercedes came down the drive. It drew up at the main entrance and an obviously wealthy middle-aged man climbed out from the drivers side. He wore a cream jacket that certainly hadn't been bought in a chain-store, matching trousers and a pink shirt that had been unbuttoned at the neck to display an expanse of well-tanned skin hung about with a gold chain and large medallion.

The man gave Trudy a wink as he strode purposefully into the Grange to speak with the duty tutor, and Trudy quite forgot to run in and warn Mrs Pardoe or offer to escort him. Instead he gave him a pretty smile in return. He was something of a hunk he thought as he quietly estimated the measure of man-meat in the visitors trousers.

Sitting in the passenger seat of the car Trudy noticed a young, fair-haired boy gazing out from the open window. He picked his way over to the car and studied it in admiration, running the tip of one finger along the polished paint work.

"Hi! Nice motor. Is it your dad's?"

The boy in the car was off the scale gorgeous, with blue eyes that were almost almond shaped and a mane of straight hair that was clean and shining. "Desmond isn't my dad, he's my friend. He just looks after me." he replied, tossing hair out of his eyes.

"Does he love you?" asked Trudy, peering into the car. The boy was wearing only a shirt and summer shorts, so he was able to study his luscious slim build and beautifully sculptured bare knees.

"'Cause he does, and he's very kind, but he managers a rock band and he's got to go away on tour. He says I've to come and stay here while he's away and learn about being a girl. It looks a grim place."

"It's okay when you get used to it." Trudy assured him.

The tiniest of frowns made a shallow dent between the newcomers eyebrows. "Desmond said it was a boys school and I can tell your a boy despite the schoolgirl uniform your wearing. Does everyone have to put on that stuff?"

Trudy nodded. "If you come here you'll have to have a girl's name too.

What's your name now?"

"Charles - Charley!"

Trudy immediately liked him. Not only did he have striking good looks with golden hair and cute dimpled cheeks, but he was obviously already a piece of cock-candy for the hunky Desmond, and seemed not the slightest bit self-conscious about it. That made him even more attractive. He leaned into the car, making a closer inspection of the potential new sissy, and already wondering what his willy was like and if Desmond had played with it whilst driving over the moors. No he decided, he'd more likely have parked-up somewhere and had Charlie's pants off completely. He'd probably shoved a length up his pretty arse and shot a load by way of saying adieu. No one could blame him for doing that.

"Charley's not a bad name. Tell everyone you 'd like to be known as Charlotte, then you can still be called Charley."

"What's your name?"

"Trudy. Rupert really, but Trudy when I'm here."

Charley opened the car door and climbed out and as he leaned back to close it Trudy really enjoyed seeing the rest of him. Smooth legs and very tight short pants pulled high up on gorgeous thighs. But he wasn't the only one inspecting legs.

"That little skirt looks nice on you. I bet it's an interesting thing to wear." the newcomer said.

Trudy smirked. "Plenty of boys hate them at first but they don't have any choice about putting them on. Everyone as to wear skirts so they can curtsy to the tutors."

"Curtsy!" Charley giggled, gripped the bottom of his tiny shorts and did an amazingly graceful practise dip before straightening up with an endearing suggestive wiggle. Then he frowned as he gazed up at the austere walls of the building. "I don't mind curtsying but this is an awful looking place. I don't know if I'm going to like it."

"You'll be bossed about by strict ladies, but you'll soon get used to that. You're brand new and lovely so there's sure to be a swarm of kids milling about wanting to know you."

The boys eyes took on an appealing light, they sparkled and his dimples deepened briefly then disappeared.

"Will you want to know me, Trudy?"

Trudy loved the shining eyes and the dimples and he adored the way the tip of Charlie's pink tongue moved from one corner of his mouth to the other. His hand stroked the car door delicately, perhaps in anticipation of stroking some new candy. The newcomers smile was an absolute dazzler born of undoubting confidence in his own good looks, and aimed at a man - or a boy, it was intoxicating. It was a bedroom smile full of all kinds of secret promises. Charley looked like he was ready to be snogged and have his pants pulled off right then and there.

"Of course. I'll be first in line." he smiled.

 

That morning Miriam Hancock stood in the back doorway of the west-wing in her dressing gown, a cup of tea in her hand, watching the early sun burn away the mist which pearled the moorland. It had the promise of another beautiful day and it seemed as if nothing could spoil it, and since her school was no established she felt no need any longer to dash about greeting every new boarder in person.

The past year spent at Fairyfield had been idyllic for her, and sometimes walking upstairs with her fingers trailing along the silkwood banisters she'd become aware of an inexplicable affinity with the house, it was as if she knew it more intimately than her time there could allow. Sometimes the shadows on the walls leapt out at her like the ghosts of unbidden memories.

Yes, she seemed to remember strange things, it was as if she'd lived there in the past. In such moments of deja-vu she felt rich carpet beneath her feet rather than fibre matting, she smelt buffed beeswax polish and had tantalising visions of guilt-framed oil paintings on the walls. All these things were short lived illusions brought on by tiredness maybe, but she was descended from the Fairyfields, and perhaps traits were not the only things passed on by genetics, she thought. Perhaps memories could be passed on too.

After a year her garden was beginning to take shape. She'd got rid of the dour shrubbery of laurels and skimmias and she'd had curves cut into the edge of the lawns to provide a softer, less regimented view. In her minds eye she was applauding the result. She could take pleasure in her garden, at least when it looked good.

While sipping tea and nibbling toast and lime marmalade she thought it looked particularly good at that moment with the green lawns and paddocks rising gently up to merge with the grey, purple, yellow, all colours of the fells behind the house. Next year she would have some of the self-sown trees grubbed out and she'd have pergodas built to create gateways at either end of the garden, with roses and clematis trailing over. And more would be made of the rhododendrons and azaleas. Perhaps a floral avenue.

Lately the persistent hot weather had caused her to review the daywear of her girls and serge gymslips had been stored away to await more inclement times or a trip to the village. They now wore their white blouses with the Peter Pan collar as an adjunct to a short, pleated netball skirt, and as a result of matron's suggestion the small halter-tops that usually covered their chests beneath the blouses had been replaced by training bras. Although the bras were less than 'A' size few of them had much to put into such a garment, but matron was adamant that the psychological affect of wearing them would pay dividends. Having each breast enclosed and snuggled by such an item was sure to make them feel more sissified, she insisted, and it could even encourage the more rapid development of girlish bosoms.

The phone tinkled and she tutted with annoyance at being disturbed on such a serene morning, but on answering it she was to find it carried a message to devastate her confidence and challenge her very right to be in residence at Fairyfield Grange.

The voice of Mr Sugar of Messrs Tate, Lyle and Sugar her solicitors, croaked on the other end of the line. It was a sign of foreboding when he rang out of office hours and a signal of doom if he called at breakfast time.

"Sorry to intrude so early in the day Miss Hancock, but I was just going through some mail I'd no time for yesterday, and I'm in receipt of some rather alarming news. We're both acquainted with the fact that Albert Fairyfield's last will and testament named the National Trust as his sole beneficiary and that your own legal claim came by way of a later codicil...."

 

"There's nothing wrong with that. It was all legally done and above board, wasn't it? It was written in his own hand and witnessed properly."

"Yes yes, but The Trust have decided to contest things. Their contention is that the text of the codicil made no mention of amending the original will, and technically such an omission can make your own claim null and void."

"You're telling me that Albert Fairyfield's dying wishes are worthless. Is that what you're saying?"

"Er, technically they may be."

"That's flimflam! It's legalistic nitpicking!"

"Quite so, I agree, but nevertheless there is precedence for this kind of thing, and I fear the Trust intend pushing the matter further. It's not easy to challenge a legitimate will Miss Hancock unless ..."

"Legitimate!" Miriam interrupted and gave one of her special laughs, "My dear Mr Sugar, nothing about Uncle Albert was legitimate, I doubt even his birth was that."

"I was about to say," the solicitor continued with just a touch of irritation, "Unless one can prove there were 'unacceptable motivations,' for which I'm afraid there is no evidence in this case, the codicil may not stand up to scrutiny. Unless it can be shown Albert Fairyfield was not of sound mind when he made his original bequest to the Trust we're likely to have a hard fight on our hands."

Miriam let out another hoot of ridicule. "Of sound mind! My uncle? You must be joking. He was as nutty as a fruit cake, the old bastard."

She heard the solicitor cough. "There would have to be independent witness's prepared to testify about his mental state Miss Hancock. Doctor's perhaps. The family lawyer. The vicar."

That brought a snort from Miriam. "The god's are not on my side are they? The only sound thing about my uncle was the performance of his dick, but no witness's will testify to that. Look, can you forecast an outcome?"

"It's far from cut and dried of course, but I feel the money and influence an institution such as the National Trust can employ will be a deciding factor."

"They'll win?" She pressed the telephone closer to her ear as if better to hear his voice, concentrating, straining and attentive.

Sugar cleared his throat. "We could save something. They'll need someone to take care of Fairyfield Grange, and who better than a descendant of the original family who built it. We could press for you to retain tenancy at a reasonable rental, although the school would certainly have to go if they decided to open the house to the public."

Words and phrases jangled in Miriam Hancock's head like a knell of bells.

TENANCY! TOURISTS! NO SCHOOL!

"What you're advocating is that I should settle for being a janitor Mr Sugar, and I won't accept that. Get out your law books, sharpen your pencils and get your brain into gear. I don't want to hear any more mention of surrender in this matter."

She was pale as she replaced the phone. Something had jumped upon her that was beyond her control and for the first time in ages she felt utterly helpless and vulnerable. Her whole future now appeared to lay in the hands of lawyers, and she knew how unscrupulous they could be.

Sugar's news had shaken her. There had been an underlying tone of defeat in his manner and a willingness to settle for the inevitable. She needed a good set of lawyer's, she needed the best in the land, but the coffers in her little treasury were empty and all her reluctant benefactors had been wrung dry. Even if Open Day gained her more sponsorship she wouldn't have the benefit of it until the next school term, and by then it would be too late. She could see her greatest dream crumbling, her great love-story with gentility falling apart.

It seemed so unfair. For the last six months of Albert Fairyfield's life she'd given him unremitting attention in order to gain his favour. She had travelled sixty miles every Sunday to visit him in the residential home that had taken him in when his senses began to fail, and she'd employed every wile she possessed to get the cantankerous old man to bequeath Fairyfield Grange to herself, his only remaining relative. Each time she visited she would put on a pretence of geniality and toss the randy old sod off in his grotty little room, and on several occasions, at the wizened deviants own request, she'd taken along children from the orphanage to do the same thing.

Other women she knew had their lives mapped out by the age of twenty, but she had allowed her fortunes to ebb and flow with the tide. She possessed little of value herself. She was thirty-five with nothing to show but a failed marriage, and there was a sense of shame in such lack of achievement. Fairyfield Grange had given her a point of focus. The ownership of a grand house had provided the impetus to be grand herself, and it had produced a strange feeling too. She felt empathy with the bricks and mortar that linked her with the people who had lived there in the past. It gave her a place among them.

They couldn't take the Grange away from her. She was the eclad of its dingy rooms and winding corridors. They belonged together, it was her home, no one could take away her home. It was grey and austere and its style was too assertive to be handsome, but it was her Mansfield Park, her Tara.

IT WAS HER HOUSE.

  

  

  

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