Showtime

by Jason Argo

 

Part 9

 

The next morning Jennifer Hancock went down the stairs with her hair piled on top of her head and wearing a crumpled pale-blue linen overall to be amazed when Amber said she looked as fresh as a daisy. Madame was talking on the telephone, and when Jennifer appeared in the sitting-room she clapped her hand across the mouthpiece.

"I've been negotiating things with Mrs Van Damme. She'd like to have a few words now with Marianne now, would you fetch him from the kitchen?"

When Marianne arrived he took the stem of the phone in one hand and cupped the mouthpiece with the other, reverently raising it up as if he was about to kiss a pair of testicles.

"Marianne speaking."

He didn't say much after that, but an occasional timid "Yes, yes." and a lot of emphatic nodding of his head signified he was paying great attention to something being said. After a short while he murmured a soft "Thank you Mrs Van Damme. See you soon. Bye, bye."

When he put down the phone a wide toothy grin was stretched across his face.

"Mrs Van Damme says I'm going to have a white wedding in church, and then have a honeymoon in Torquay." His grin turned to Jennifer, "That's on the south coast."

Madame sighed in her extra-specially patient fashion. "The lady didn't say Torquay, dear. Mrs Van Damme said she would take you to Tuscany. Tuscany is in Italy."

Looking slightly confused, Marianne straightened up and jangled his earrings. He looked from Madame to Jennifer and back again, then finally shrugged his pale-pink shoulders in dismissal. "I don't really care where it is, as long as it's near the seaside."

The moment he'd gone from the room Jennifer gave the other woman a look of disbelief.

"She can't possible mean to marry someone like Marianne in church. It must be at odds with all kinds of ecclesiastic law."

Madame Dupont calmly poured herself another cup of tea. "Don't underestimate that woman, Jennifer. She's a pervert, but more importantly she's a rich pervert, and in any day and age that makes a great deal of difference. The Frilly Follies visited her house a little while ago so I know she's wealthier than Bertie Bestable. She could probably pay off the national debt of Venezuela and still have money in the bank, and she's certainly rich enough to have contempt for polite society. She cares only for her own clutch of acolytes, and with friends in government and influence in the church hierarchy she's pretty well unassailable. Also, the local vicar is massively in debt to her, so he'll do exactly as he's told."

Carefully estimating half a teaspoon of sugar she put it in her cup and stirred slowly.

"The telephone's been busy this morning. I had another call earlier, far more devastating than anything Mrs Van Damme could ever say.

It was from the people acting on behalf of that wretched man Horace Pratt informing me that he's had an offer for the house ten percent above the price I've agreed to pay, and if I can't match it the deal with me is off."

Jennifer caught her breath. "Horace can't do that, surely."

"Yes he can. The sale hasn't been finalised yet, so he can do as he wishes. I don't have any ten percent to give him. The price I agreed was as much as I have. I've just tried to speak to Horace on the phone but he's not at his shop today. Toby Parkin says he's gone for a nose transplant."

"A what?"

"Toby was being flippant as usual. He says Horace had an accident last night and hurt his nose. But I can't help thinking it's all just an excuse to avoid speaking to me."

Jennifer looked at Madame and sensed her deep disappointment. She was not vindictive, merely self absorbed. She was a Londoner, and all her life she'd felt a cockney's proprietorial pride in the city. To be at the show business hub of the centre was her greatest passion and to live cheek by jowl with it her greatest dream. Now her chance of realising that dream had been snatched away from her.

She attempted to jolly her out of her melancholy, even if that was like looking for rainbows when it was bucketing down. "Something will turn up. You're more capable than you think. And when mummy sells all that pottery-stuff you'll be rolling in money."

Madame sniffed morosely. "By the time that happens - if it happens - the house will have gone to someone else." She gave a small shrug. "I guess it's back to Golders Green for me this winter, but I'm really not at all concerned."

The pallor of her face clearly indicated otherwise.

"Madame, you're kidding me. I know you had your heart set on buying this house." Jennifer replied.

The woman turned her gaze full on her own. "Yes. Just goes to show how dangerous it is to fall in love, doesn't it?"

 

It was noon before everybody else was up so Marianne took both jam and cheese as well as bread to the dining area up the stairs.

"Mrs Van Damme says I'm going to Tuscudy for my honeymoon." he told everyone sitting there.

"Tuscudy! Do you mean Tuscany?" asked Bambi.

Marianne's mouth twitched. "Erm, it could be the same place. People call it different names."

"Tuscany is in Italy. My gran' once went there." said Pompom, slotting a slice of bread into the toaster. "She said it was all mountains."

Marianne nodded. "Yes, there's probably some hills there," he conceded, "but I think there'll be a seaside-bit too, with a funfair on the beach." His mouth suddenly wreathed into a beaming grin. "The Big-Dipper roller-coaster ride scares me and makes me squeal, but I love it."

He began telling the others how Mrs Van Damme was sending him an engagement ring in the post, real gold with real emeralds on it, and when Bambi mentioned that it was rather unusual for a boy to be the wife of a woman Marianne became as cross as anyone had ever known him and began berating him like an irate hen.

"Every girl needs to get married at least once, it doesn't matter to who. The trouble with you young people today is you see everything in black and white and make no allowance for change." he chunted with a wag of his finger, "I'm grown up now and I can make my own decisions, thank you very much. I'm old enough to think about things properly."

The sentiments he expressed had clearly been scooped out of a magazine or a movie, but they certainly fitted his mood at that moment.

"No one tells me what to do anymore ...'cept Madame - and Jennifer - and Mrs Van Damme."

Bambi sucked a jammy finger. "And policemen, and the Queen. And ..."

Marianne threw back his chair, and flushed with annoyance he brought up his hands like a pair of spiked talons. "Shut up, Bambi. If you keep making fun of me I'll scratch you."

With that dire ultimatum ringing in everyone's ears he swivelled on his heels and flounced from the room.

Pompom finished buttering his toast. "Mmm, yum. Where's the jam?"

Dolly pushed a pot of jam across the table and spoke for the first time. "Marianne's sweet. I'll miss him if I come back for next years Follies. Will you miss him, Bambi?"

The younger boy thought for a moment. "Yes," he said with a little wobble of his head, "no one else is so easy to beat at Scrabble."

 

Madame declared she had no intention of going anywhere prior to the next performance of the Follies later that day, so Jennifer wangled a few hours off to go and visit Angela Magoogle. She wished to give her mother a full account of the kind of people in London who admired her, and she had a burning curiosity herself to find out what kind of set-up that particular woman had. Angela lived quite nearby in Bloomsbury, so she was able to walk there.

The house was one of a terrace, not quite as well maintained as those in Fox Mews, but far superior to anything in Nob Street.

She went up the porticoed steps and pressed a bell-button, and a few moments later the door was opened by the beguiling Jubilee decked out in a very complimentary French maid outfit. The sheer girlishness of him was impressive. Time had not diminished the reality; he was still as beautiful as she remembered him. The delicately rouged cheeks were the same, his seemingly permanent startled expression unchanged. She noticed around his slender throat was a slender black slave-collar thinly disguised as a choker.

"Oh!" the delectable girly-thing exclaimed when he saw her.

"Hello Jubilee. I've couple of hours free this afternoon, so I thought I'd pop round and see Miss Magoogle. Is she in?"

Jubilee seemed a little confused and he quickly stepped back and deferred to the woman who had come up behind him. "Someone's here, Miss Magoogle." he explained in a faint voice.

"I know someone's here, you silly creature." Angela Magoogle said in a playful, patronising way. "It's Jennifer. Come inside Jennifer."

She followed them through into the house. "I've managed to smuggle myself out of number nineteen for a few hours, so I had the idea to visit you."

Miss Magoogle nodded. "You want to see what I take on as a hobby in my spare moments. I'm rather flattered."

Angela was a minimalist. Her house was functional and quite handsome without being elaborately furnished. The drawing room Jennifer entered had plain, mushroom coloured walls pierced by a couple of six-panelled sash windows that were draped with venetian blinds rather than curtains. There were a couple of narrow padded chairs and a low slung coffee table, but the place was devoid of frivolous ornaments, the only concession to the bleak decor coming by way of a disused stone fireplace with a heavy duty wooden lintel and a huge Rothko-type painting in different shades of yellow that dominated the opposite wall.

To Jennifer, who enjoyed seeing bungles of knickknacks dotted around, it was anathema. Nice enough for a railway station buffet-room, but no place to live. Its only redeeming factor was the fragrance of wild flowers and hybrid bouquets that permeated everywhere from an unseen source. Natures own perfume that reminded her of her mothers house.

Once inside she noticed that Jubilee went and stood on a small, raised plinth, a little platform about two inches high that had been placed against a wall and was obviously his place to go when not being actively employed.

The redoubtable Angela was imposing. Not beautiful, but nevertheless eye-catching. Her black hair was tied back behind her head that day and she was wearing a black cat-suit, its close fitting constriction gripping her pencil slim body so severely it denied it of much of its shape, although it gave her a kind of sinewy allure. She looked a little bit laddish; only her high heeled shoes emphasised any real femininity.

"Cup of tea or something?" she asked.

Jennifer shook her head. "No thanks, I drink enough tea with Madame Dupont to float an ocean liner."

Angela smiled handsomely. "Of course you don't want tea. You've come here to see what I do, and you've come at an opportune time. I've just taken on a fresh batch who are only part-way through their initial training. I offer little wrongdoers a place here as an alternative to spending time in a borstal for young offenders. They think they're in for an easy time when they arrive, but they're always disappointed. Allow me to show you. Come through into my inner sanctum."

She produced a key, then indicated a door that led off into another room and led the way.

When the door swung open Jennifer noticed its solid construction and that it was far heavier than the usual kind of interior door. She stepped forward and then stepped back, an involuntary reaction to an unexpected sight.

On the floor inside the connecting room and mounted on a plush rug, knelt a young adolescent boy, naked except for a lacy black garter-belt and dark stockings. He had his feet tucked under him, arms at his sides, the wrists tied to his ankles with lengths of nylon rope, and he was slowly bucking up and down.

He had also been gagged. A black rubber ball-gag the size of a hen's egg had been pressed into his mouth and the resultant forced gape distorted his face into a desperate grimace.

She ventured further into the room to stand immobilised. Her experience of boy training was extensive, but in this place she perceived an element of dedication that verged on cynical professionalism.

"One as to detach them from their past and crush their pride, so I have to be quite heavy-handed with new arrivals at first." explained Angela Magoogle, "But once they accept their fate physical punishment becomes a more intermittent thing that's doled out for stupidity rather than defiance."

She waved her hand vaguely at the boy on the rug.

"I don't concern myself too much with clothing during the first few days. Dressing them will come later." she said, "They never go out from the house, so for the moment stockings and suspenders are enough to encourage burgeoning femininity."

Pausing for a moment she glared down at the distraught figure before her who had ceased moving. His penis was protruding from between his thighs and was slavering from the tip, but a rubber band wrapped around the base of it restricted the flow of vital fluids and denied any possibility of an early conclusion.

"Come on, Marigold. Don't stop your exercise just because people are watching."

The boy looked up with helpless washed-out eyes and obediently leaned slightly forward and slowly began to rise, and then just as slowly settle again. Soon he was repeating the movement, over and over.

"Marigold is part way through a session of do-it-yourself with an anal probe." Angela went on, "I insist they all do it once a day. Exercises that stretch their fundaments and accustom them to deep penetration are invaluable when contemplating their future."

Taken aback as she was Jennifer stole a moment to look around. On one wall was a wrack holding various scourges, canes and leather belts, on another a selection of cock-shaped vibrators and dildo's in different sizes and colours. There also hung the only photograph she'd yet seen in the house; a large, long panoramic view of a row of glowing, cruelly punished bare bottoms slumped slavishly over a wooden trestle. It was a warning, a promise, a fearful indication to those that were brought there as to what to expect.

Still trying to become familiar with her surroundings she glanced over her shoulder and noticed what had escaped her as she entered the room. Another of Angela's androgynous subjects had been fastened into the straps of a body harness and hung on stout hooks behind the door like an old raincoat. His penis hung down impotently, an uncooked pork sausage slumped over a scrotal bag that had been shackled at its base by a slender leather strap. Attired and gagged just like the one in front of her he was raised several inches clear of the floor. Arms dangling impotently at his sides, head bowed, he had to contend with being swung back and forth as the door was opened and closed.

"I have a mission in society." enthused Angela, "My role is to take the violent and workshy and give them a purpose, a thing that meets with greater success if one catches them young. So many, despite their outward aggression, have an underlying interest in homosexuality, and I capitalise on that with promising specimens by introducing them to a girly life. I remove all their inhibitions and turn them into raving shag-hungry tarts who are gentle and appreciative of beauty and will submit to good order and discipline."

Jennifer's host crossed the floor and threw open another door to draw her attention to a deep old-fashioned porcelain bath in which two more of her 'guests' had been tied into a face-to-face embrace and laid full length inside the tub on top of a pink latex lilo. Jennifer followed into what was a tiny bathroom.

Naked but for stockings and gags the two in the bath may have begun by resenting such an ordeal, but eventually, after an extended period of being strapped together, boredom had evolved into hot passion and they were now enthusiastically rubbing against each other. A selective peek revealed their cocks to be swollen to a robust stiffness, solid and drippy and skidding up and down, one against the other.

Angela introduced them. "Here we have Pussy and Willow, once a blight on the streets and the terror of their neighbours. When they leave me they will be transformed and far from being disruptive individuals they will be eager to offer nothing more than entertainment and pleasure to whoever shows an interest. A number of others are already street-walking for me, and their frequently cum-filled backsides brings me in some badly needed extra income. As you will appreciate running an enterprise such as I have here entails a good deal of expense."

She frowned as she studied them. "Tying them together is a useful precursor for later in the day when I allow everyone to mount each other, but these two are getting carried away with things too soon."

Saying no more she lifted a pail full of cold water from the corner of the bathroom and deliberately threw it over the two individuals laying in the tub in the way some people would to deter dogs from rutting in the street.

The two teenagers uttered a thin indecipherable wail from their gagged mouths and appeared to shiver and then congeal into a drenched mass, thrashing together like a pair of newly netted wet eels.

Angela smiled with sadistic pleasure. "They're simpletons who please best when under feminine control. But then, that's true of all males, isn't it?"

Jennifer couldn't help feeling there was a certain arrogant vanity about her, but who could blame her for that? She was good at what she did.

"I admire your ingenuity. You have a great deal of imagination, and in a way I regret feeling I must go back to Yorkshire."

"Things are moving on." Angela said, "It's a trifle cramped for me here in the middle of London but meeting Madame Dupont's daughter Sophie as proved to be a boon. Of course the girl's a minx, you'll know that already. But despite her young age she's blessed with sadistic tendencies that are ideal for intimidating and managing effeminate boys. I've had a long talk with her. Her father has a nice big house in Esher, and because he's very receptive to his daughters demands I may be able to move my base of operations there soon. A secluded place in the sticks would be perfect for me, a nice big garden too, so I'll be able to air everyone out in the open on occasions."

She led the way back towards the entrance room. "It would solve other difficulties for me too. The girl will make a useful understudy. Jubilee isn't fit to control anyone, you see, so at the moment I have to lock everyone in cupboards at night or when I'm not in the house. Everyone but Jubilee, that is. He's completely placid and servile now."

She paused thoughtfully for a moment.

"Shame on me. I've given you no hospitality since you arrived, so let me make amends. Would you like to take Jubilee to bed? I can provide anything you need by way of equipment."

"That's - er - rather a nice idea, but how would Jubilee feel about such an arrangement?"

The sissy looked embarrassed, his gentle features rendered even softer by the poor light against the wall. Tongue-tied and slightly scatty like all the most appealing effeminates, he was slow in answering, so Angela Magoogle scoffed and callously answered for him.

"It doesn't matter what he feels. He has no choice in the matter. He'll give his arse to whoever I say."

 

Early in the evening Madame and her darlings departed to put on a show in town, but Jennifer didn't worry. She enjoyed her solitude at times, and that evening she was in the mood for self-indulgence. Her encounter with Jubilee earlier in the day had been tremendous fun and she really had gone to town on him. Such a compliant young sissy when stripped to the buff, squealing so softly, squirming so helpfully as she pillaged his most desirable attributes. No doubt about it. If all Angela's trained bitch-boys put it out like he did the lady was soon going to be very wealthy.

Yet, despite the way Jubilee had whimpered and moaned and screwed for her like a whore, it had only served to increase her ardour. The moment everyone else had gone out that night she took a bath then sat in the sitting room to brush her damp hair while thinking of Freddie. Through the curtains the street lights flashed their sodium into activity and a lorry thundered past, rattling the windowpanes. It was still early, too early to think of bed, and she knew her androgynous schoolboy chum would be eager enough to spend some time with her.

She went over to the phone and dialled the number, rubbing her hair while she waited for Freddie to pick up at the other end. It rang and rang and she was about to put it down when a woman's voice said, "Hallo."

Hearing Annalisa's simpering voice on the other end of the line came as an unexpected shock.

"Annalisa! It's me, Jennifer. Aren't you doing the show at Drury Lane tonight?"

"Ah, Jennifer - er - no, I'm taking a little time off, there's plenty of others that can do the bit-part at Drury Lane. I'm busy in negotiations for a star role elsewhere."

"Congratulations on the new role - erm - can I have a quick word with Freddie?"

"Oh, I'm afraid that's not possible, dear. I put him on the train this morning and sent him back to school. I think it's for the best, don't you? I mean, he was becoming so bored here in London."

The news of Freddie's abrupt departure came like a bombshell. Of all the things that made life bearable in the big city she'd begun to think of Freddie as the most precious.

Ominously Annalisa wasn't alone. Amid the background noise on the other end of the phone someone else was muttering contemptuously, "Tell the silly chit to bugger off."

The voice carried a familiar lisp and was compatible with pronouncing 'a's with an open mouth as it exhaled. It was unmistakable. It was Bertie Bestable.

Annalisa uttered a tiny squeak and a laugh of the kind women make when someone gooses them intimately. "Can't talk any more at the moment, Jennifer. I'm entertaining a guest tonight. Toodle-pip, dear."

When the phone went dead Jennifer's wet hair trailed down over her shoulders, leaving damp patches on her T-shirt as she slumped in a morose lump back onto the sofa. When the instrument rang again almost immediately, she froze. Now what?

She was in a sulk and purposely ignored it for a moment, but after several rings she snatched up the handset, shook her tousled hair and shoved the earpiece underneath. .

"Yes!" she snapped.

"Hi, Jennifer, glad you're in," Miranda Delahaye chirped, "Listen, I've got some gossip for you."

"Juicy, cheerful or just plain silly gossip?"

"Depends on you point of view I suppose."

"Go on."

"After you mentioning how Horace Pratt owns that house you're in I got talking to some people at the Tattler, and guess what?"

"I'm no good at guessing games, Miranda. Just tell me."

"Well, it seems Mr Bertie Bestable is involved with it too, and he's a bit of a scallywag."

"Bertie! Just how can he be involved? I'm intrigued, Miranda so you need to go on."

"Well, as you probably know the patch of London where Nob Street now stands was originally given to the Earls of Dewy as a gift by the king ages ago."

Jennifer tutted in irritation. "I'm a stranger here, Miranda. I don't know any such thing."

"Well trust me, it was." The other girl continued with the pitch of her voice unabated. "Charles II made a present of it in 1660, something to do with rewarding loyal service and helping to restore the monarchy. Anyway, the succeeding Earl's of Dewy developed the area, but they never sold any of it. Not until a couple of years ago when Bertie Bestable began to manage things on behalf of his uncle."

"You think he's cheating the old earl? Selling off property without his knowledge?"

"Without doubt he's robbing him blind. Selling stuff and pocketing the loot."

"Where does Horace fit in?"

"Mr Pratt likes to act the big-man but he's not got the brains to handle a property swindle. Make no mistake, Bertie is the boss. Horace is just a puppet he can work with his foot. As his uncles agent Bertie can't buy any houses from himself, so he gets Horace to buy them at peppercorn prices. He lets him rent them out for a while as an earner, then tells him to sell them at the premium rate. Naturally Bertie puts the profit in his own pocket."

Information went into Jennifer's head like pennies in a slot. It explained a lot. She had always possessed a well-tuned perception for other peoples personalties and something about Bertie Bestable had always nagged at the back of her mind.

"What do you intend doing with this story?"

"Can't do anything with it. Everything I've told you is anecdotal, it's no better than third-hand office gossip really. An independent audit on the earl's London accounts would be the only way to turn up proof. I simply thought you'd be interested.

"Listen, I'm enjoying a little juice of the vine before going out on the town later. Do you want to come along? I know a couple of places full of hot dick and pussy, you can choose whatever you fancy."

"Thanks for the thought, Miranda, but I'm underage for getting sozzled, and you're forgetting I prefer to be in command of my senses when it comes to sex."

"Okay. You can't say I didn't offer."

When she put down the phone Jennifer realised she was feeling furious and she had to get up and pace up and down for a while to try and make sense of her emotions.

Her heart seemed to shrivel within her. Quite apart from feeling betrayed by Annalisa Gordeno herself she was now angry about the way Bertie Bestable was betraying Elise Dupont.

She could envisage him cuddled up with Annalisa right now. That woman was utterly without conscience. She'd flirt with a donkey if she wanted a free ride on the beach, and she hoped Bertie's prick would melt before she got the benefit of it.

Fists clenched by her side, she paced for a few moments more to gather her thoughts.

Madame's disappointment had struck a raw nerve in her. She felt fiercely protective towards her employer - a woman who had been so often exploited, scorned and dumped, and she felt a surge of hatred, not for the small-time wheeler-dealer Horace, but for the real villain, Bertie Bestable. She'd thought him to be a chinless wonder when he was actually a cut-throat bandit. How much simpler life would be if people stayed in the pigeonholes one gave them. How could anyone be as callous as he was? If there was any truth about reincarnation, next time round Bertie Bestable would come back as a dung beetle.

She couldn't think of anything else to do. She could hardly think sensibly at all. Consumed with venomous thoughts she went straight to bed.

 

Jennifer Hancock brooded into the early hours. She heard the vans returning and heard everyone chattering. She heard them go to bed and still she brooded. She lay staring at the ceiling until sleep claimed her at last, and when she slept she was full of dreams.

In her mind she soared like an eagle in an azure blue sky before plunging down to skim in the manner of a jet plane over a shimmering sea. She had learnt from her previous experience, and now she knew she was not simply dreaming about making a journey across water, but was once again piercing the portals of time and visiting the past.

She zoomed in over a vast river delta smudged with grassy islets and mud banks, then swooping lower she followed a wide river where papyrus plants and stands of mangrove formed high walls on each side. Even in her dream she knew she was not the master of her movements. A power she could put no name to was drawing her on, faster and faster, mile after mile. Veering to the side she discovered the river gave way to a trackless land of open flood plains, verdant with long grass and crops of wheat and barley and dotted with peasants hovels. Her route went over it and across open forests that bordered wide ranging savannah beyond, and now there were great herds of small cattle grazing side by side with spiral horned antelope.

Then there appeared multi-habitation; a town, a city of mud brick houses. She'd never been abroad in her life and it was not the kind of place she'd ever seen before. A white citadel erected on rising ground to dominate the countryside around. A sprawl of poor properties lay densely clustered on its outer edges - the dwellings of labourers and artisans - then towards its centre, grander houses, mini-palaces behind high walls and closed gates with palms groves and stunning gardens. At the hub of the city in the precincts of its own open plaza stood a mighty step pyramid - the ziggurat of the temple, huge, elegant and mysterious.

Suddenly she was gripped by the gloom of the dark room she had visited previously whilst dreaming, only this time she was alone. Alone apart from the red goddess on the wall who was illuminated by a ring of burning tallow candles.

A disembodied female voice - no, not a voice really, a mere intonation in her head - declared;

"There are secrets here. So much yet to be revealed. You who have come so far are now with me. Heed my words. In your time I am dust, but in my time I was a giant in men's minds. I tell you to fear nothing. You shall have all you desire. Go forth and be strong."

When Jennifer awoke it was daybreak and the dreaming had ceased. It had been crazy stuff, nonsensical, but it had stimulated her mind and in the moment of awakening an idea came to her, uncurling and feeling the air like a butterfly's damp new wings. She sat up. Her thoughts became galvanised and electricity bucked through her nerves to free her from the previous evening of numbing stasis.

Jennifer Hancock had settled on a plan of action that her dreaming had inspired in some odd way, and she now realised it was important to attack. Decisive action was called for, not shilly-shallying. In life, just as in sport, one could be penalised for being passive.

She tripped out and went down a flight of stairs to Samson's room to tap on the door.

"Get up Samson. Get up and get dressed. I need to see you downstairs."

Returning to her own room she started to ready herself. Unusually for her she dressed with some thought that morning, taking almost an hour to make up her face. Then over black suspender belt, panties and bra, she chose to put on a puppy-soft black leather waistcoat, sleeveless, that zipped snug down the front and could be left partly open at the top to reveal just a hint of the bra underneath. She coupled that with a matching short leather skirt with a wide belt that cinched her waist tightly. Sitting on the edge of her bed she then smoothed on a pair of dark stockings and slipped her feet into some elegant high heels.

Finally, from her travelling bag under her bed she extracted an item she'd brought with her from Yorkshire but had refrained from using in London - a three pronged Scottish tawse. It was vital to appear formidable and forceful that morning. Imperative to look like she would entertain no nonsense and no fobbing off.

Standing in front of a mirror she surveyed her image. Smart, yet threatening. Exactly right. With a practised flourish she hooked the tawse onto her belt and went down the stairs to find Samson fully dressed and waiting. The gods were with her that morning it seemed. The brute of a manservant didn't always do as she asked, but that day he was co-operating.

It was full daylight when they left the house. The sun was rising over London and a short distance away the traffic would already be nose to tail along the Tottenham Court Road. It was still too early for visiting the parade of shops there, but in fact she had no intention of going anywhere near any shops. She knew exactly what to do that morning, and once out of the house her route led directly to Fox Mews.

From the looks she attracted from other early morning strollers in the street she knew she had chosen her clothes wisely. She received a number of gratifying looks, but no one said anything to her while Samson clumped heavily at her heels.

Annalisa Gordeno's home loomed before her, impressive in its magnificence, but her fitness and her expertise in domination made her fearless, so she took the four stone steps up to the door in elegant strides and didn't think twice before raising the ornate brass knocker to deliver a percussive rap.

She waited several moments before she heard light footsteps approaching from inside, and then Annalisa opened the door. Even in the early morning she had a full face on - her eyelashes sagged under the weight of mascara and the eyeliner was loaded so thick she looked like a panda - a sure sign she hadn't spent the night alone.

The woman's lips stretched in what passed for a smile, though no warmth reached her eyes. "Jennifer, I hope you don't want to come in. It's really most inconvenient at the moment and far too early to receive visitors."

Her mouth was pursed as if she'd just been sucking lemons, and she was wearing a mustard-coloured dressing-gown with purple beading as she barred the doorway, tugging the top of the it tight across her chest to betray she wasn't wearing anything beneath.

Jennifer's mind was clear and alive with energy and she ignored the woman's pettishness.

"Now then, what kind of greeting is that to give a friend?"

Annalisa's impressive chest heaved and she faltered, stopped by Jennifer's inimitable frown and the mean look in her eyes. The girl was only seventeen, less than half her age, but ever since that time in the bedroom when she'd behaved like a dog's bitch on heat and Jennifer Hancock had proved such a masterful lover she'd regarded her as a sort of authority figure. She still felt intimidated by her, like as if she were a charismatic schoolteacher of the kind she used to have a crush on.

Jennifer pressed her lips together, determination making her jawline pronounced. She took a step forward and the older woman backed away, intimidated by the younger firebrand.

Suddenly she had the face of a cornered rodent and a muscle ticked the plain flesh below her cheekbone. Her tone mellowed and she wheedled. "Jennifer, I..."

The visitor grasped her the arms to throw her off balance, wheeling her to one side as she stepped over the threshold and into the hall.

"I wish to come in." Jennifer said, beckoned the hefty manservant to follow. "I know Mr Bestable is here and I need to have a few urgent words with him."

Pausing, she half turned to her bodyguard. "Wait here by the door, Samson. I'll call if I need you."

The big man just blinked. He was a puzzle. When she looked into his eyes it was hard to know sometimes if there was any thinking machinery behind them.

"Samson. Did you understand what I said?" she asked again.

The huge man swayed slightly from one foot to the other. "Yus." he replied in his usual dull monotone.

Now the visitor was in her home Annalisa conceded defeat and bustled in front of her, all false bonhomie and charm. They entered a chintz-hung drawing room where a small bowl of bronze-coloured chrysanthemums stood on a marble mantelpiece, their burnished petals reflected in a gilt-framed mirror behind them on the wall. Bertie Bestable was standing in the middle of the room wearing a set of pale blue silk pyjamas under a loosely tied dressing gown, which made it obvious that he and Annalisa had spent the night together.

"Bertie, it's Jennifer, the young girl who works for Elise Dupont." Annalisa explained, "She wants to speak to you about something."

The man's eyes latched onto the visitor and he stretched his mouth into a stiff smile. "Fascinating." he said flatly.

On a side table he had a silver tray with a big pot of coffee. Beside it were two Limoges cups and saucers, and an assortment of extras. "Would you like something to chase away the morning chill." he asked.

Jennifer's chin jutted defiantly and she folded her arms in the combative way she adopted when things displeased her - an assertive gesture she'd acquired as a schoolgirl.

"You mean like, a mink coat?"

The man smothered a guffaw and accepted her jibe with philosophical indifference. "You're a caution, you are. That's not a bad for a little girl from the countryside whose barely potty-trained."

Jennifer returned his penetrating gaze. "You mean for an uncouth working-class oik from the grimy north?"

Bertie grinned without trying to hide a hint of malice. "If you like. You said it."

His cold fish eyes stared at her for a long moment as the smile spread over his self-indulgent face. "You need to have a word with your dressmaker, girl. You look like a cockroach in all that black armour."

Turning away he took his time preparing a cup of coffee for himself, topping it with a large dollop of cream and a dusting of powdered chocolate. His hands were elegant, clean and pale, like those of a concert pianist or a surgeon, when the only instrument they occasionally operated was a fountain-pen.

"Ah, Vienna," he sighed, "So out of date, so passé, so decadent. Yet coffee such as this reminds me of how enchanting that place is." He sipped appreciatively. "Spiritually I'm Viennese you know."

Jennifer smiled thinly. "You'll probably wish you were living there soon, unfortunately its unlikely you'll be able to afford it." she remarked with the conversational charm of a snowplough.

The man snorted. "What an impertinent little baggage you are. Say what you've got to say and get out."

There was silence and Jennifer stared around the room, feeling the strange perspective given by her vantage point percolate in her mind like a form of power.

"This won't take long." she said into the silence. Something in the way she spoke made the phrase sound like a threat, which is exactly what it was. The silence deepened, her audience pricked by a tiny bolt of tension.

"Mr Bestable, I know you're a thief."

The man barked a laugh, and eyes that moments before had been half closed with indifference became suddenly dark with anger. "Bilge." he snorted.

"Yes you are. You're the Earl of Dewy's representative as far as the London part of his estate goes, and I know you've been selling off pieces of his property without his knowledge and pocketing the proceeds."

Bertie's face became criss-crossed with theatrical-angst and contrived despair and for a moment he didn't move but just studied her with heavy-lidded speculative eyes. It suddenly occurred to him that the girl did know something, but so what?. At last his features hardened and there was a distinct frosting to his voice. "Is that all?"

She noticed the guilty glimmer in his eyes and buoyed up by initial success she continued. "No, there's more."

The man dumped his coffee cup down on the table. "Now I warn you, don't get out of your depth, girl. It's more complicated than you think. Anyway, my uncle is ill and effete. To put it crudely he's likely to die soon, and he doesn't give a damn about the London property."

"No, but Milly does. As Lady Dewy she's due to inherit everything when the old man finally pops off, and she won't be pleased to know you're already robbing her." She calculated a moments pause, and then added, "Then there's Dovecott Manor..."

Bertie shrank back, his eyes showing the alarm of a man who knows a guarded secret is no longer a secret. How did she know? How much did she now? How would she use her knowledge? Helpless to hide the sudden panic in his voice he retorted stiffly.

"No one can take that away. That house was given to me. Well, sort of given to me."

Jennifer returned his malevolent stare with studied impunity. "It's part of the Dewy estate and only on loan to you by grace and favour. You could be deprived of it at the drop of a hat if you upset the wrong people. Could be Milly will be angry enough to snatch it back even before she sets her lawyers on you."

Bertie Bestable's expression became mutinous. "That worn-out old showgirl! You've no proof about anything you've said and she'll never believe you."

Jennifer fixed him with a glare that could have dissolved concrete. "Maybe, maybe not. But she'll believe Madame Dupont. She and Madame have struck up rather a close friendship lately - affinity with the theatre and all that, kindred spirits as it were - she trusts her word implicitly, and when she hears this little story she'll have a team of auditors into the London accounts as quick as a knife."

Annalisa shuffled nervously, her eyes darting back and forth between the girl from Nob Street and her affluent, influential manfriend. Not sure of what they were talking about and not confident enough to voice an opinion in such a cutting exchange, she felt rather weak and helpless, just like the personality she put on so often when seeking sympathy.

Bertie was shocked into a momentary silence, his face suffused with rage. He was a well educated, widely travelled man with years of experience of the world and it was difficult for him to acknowledge the girl could best him so smoothly. A vain man, he could hardly bear the biting scorn in her voice, and even worse, the threat she presented. If that old bat Milly even heard a whisper of what she said, he was sunk. He felt as if everything important in his life could easily slide away. It felt uncomfortably like that little nonentity of a girl from the sticks was tugging the carpet from under his feet.

He bristled malevolently. "Now listen here you surly young whippersnapper, you're not much more than a kid and you're getting too big for your boots. You don't understand the situation."

"Well explain it to me. I'm a kid who's willing to learn."

The man muttered something scathing under his breath then leaned forward, his manner openly abrasive now. His fleshy face had gone dark and the very pigment of his skin seemed to have altered. His jaw tightened, and just below the surface Jennifer could see violence bubbling up. She watched as he lifted half closed hands and knew he was tempted to grab her by the throat. He wasn't a particularly muscled man but he was a heavier build than herself, and because she could have had trouble throwing him off she called in her cavalry.

"Samson!"

When he heard the clumping of boots in the hall Bertie paused and then drew back. His arms slowly fell to his sides and his jaw dropped when the gorilla-like figure of the manservant appeared, seeming as wide as he was tall, a huge block of muscle and sinew that filled the doorway, glaring, a pugnacious set to his jaw, a forward thrust to his broad body.

Bertie tried to remain calm and not be panicked into anything, or get wrong-footed, which wasn't proving easy with this girl. His face settled into grim lines of frustration as he sought appeasement.

"Let's not get carried away with what's no more than a trifling affair. What does all this matter to you? Money? What do you want? What's your price for keeping schtum about this business?"

Jennifer regarded him thoughtfully. The fact that she didn't like Bertie made her, in a perverse way, warm to him. She felt in control. She knew exactly where she stood, with no risk of emotions rising up to surprise her. He couldn't do anything to hurt her, but the arrogant, and not particularly intelligent man was at her beckoning and she could do whatever she liked with him. The power was all hers.

With a delicate movement she tugged the leather tawse from her belt. "Hold out your hand."

"What! Hold out my ...!" Bertie gazed at her incredulously. "This is ridiculous. Do you intend to strap my hand like I'm a naughty schoolboy?"

"Something like that." The martial look in her eyes suggested she wasn't kidding. "Put your arm out straight and keep your hand flat, palm upwards."

Bertie Bestable's face twitched. No way was he going to submit to such silliness. But incredibly his arm seemed to move on its own account, stretching out to the side, level with his shoulder, and with an open hand turned upwards.

The girl raised the tawse, flicked it back until the thongs flapped over her knuckles, then brought it down in a resounding smack on his outstretched hand.

He heard the strap swoosh viciously through the air, WHAP! He had to clench her teeth to stop herself from crying out as the instrument cracked down. The leather sizzled his hand and his head jerked up.

Recovering rapidly Jennifer repeated her effort. WHOP! It made him wince and suck his teeth as a searing pain bit across his palm making his whole body freeze in tension. For a moment he wheezed miserably and his nostrils expanded and contracted like sea anemones. He swung his hand down and tried to ring some comfort into it with his uninjured hand.

"Oww! Bloody hell. Steady on."

"Other hand." Jennifer demanded, and a pale-faced Bertie raised his good hand.

He knew she would be accurate. The next blow would strike across his fingers or the flat of his hand. It would fall precisely where she wished.

SPLATT! Bertie clenched his teeth. "Uugh!" He flinched as the strap swung down but he didn't pull away.

TWACK! Another strike. He made a choky sound and his face contorted.

Red-faced now, slightly breathless, he clutched his punished hands together. "Is that it? Have you finished?"

"No, I haven't explained my conditions yet. Nothing is finished until you agree to my conditions. Other hand again. Put it out."

She swung the strap once more. SPLAT! on Bertie's uplifted, submissive paw.

"Aaah!" This time it brought forth a howl of rage and pain. "Just what are your damned conditions?"

"Okay! First, you'll resign as the earl's London agent. You'll do it immediately."

"Yes, yes, yes. Of course. Of course I will."

"Second, you'll reduce the price of number nineteen. You'll sell it to Madame Dupont for half the price you sold it to Horace Pratt."

"But - but that was chicken-feed to begin with. The house is in the middle of London."

"To cluck or not to cluck, is that the question? It's your decision, but unless you agree there's nothing settled."

The strap swung down again to deliver another cruel swipe. WHACK! She beat each obediently raised hand systematically in turn and as the leather thongs came down they began to sting like branding irons.

The strapping continued carefully and deliberately on alternating hands, each strike keenly applied following a pause which allowed them to appreciate its full effect.

"Horace Pratt has the house, not me." Bertie blurted desperately.

"You hold the deeds. You control everything. Horace is a toady, a lightweight middleman who follows your instructions. You see, Bertie, I do understand the situation."

Jennifer beat his hands uncompromisingly. Six lashes on each. Twelve times he was made to endure the scalding swipes of leather on his palms and across his fingers, and twelve times he needed to suppress a yell. In the end Bertie Bestable was all too willing to cry uncle.

"Okay, okay. I agree with whatever you want."

When the girl stopped her voice was as severe as the strap.

"Face the wall." she instructed. And he turned to face the corner, silently cursing her, but obedient.

With a swirl of skirt Jennifer turned to the manservant who had accompanied her. "Samson, take Mr Bestable into another room. I've some private business to conduct with Ms Gordeno."

At once the big man grasped Bertie Bestable by the collar of his pyjamas and Bertie ignobly submitted to being frog-marched away.

Jennifer beckoned Annalisa. "Follow me girl, you're a good for nothing waste of space and I'm going to teach you a lesson. I'm going to thrash you."

The woman's vacuous face drained of colour and she looked at her with an expression of despair and incomprehension.

"But ..." she floundered, "But Jennifer, I've have nothing to do with Bertie's business deals."

She fixed the woman with a basilisk stare. "I know that, but you did send Freddie back to school without consulting me. And anyway, you're such a stuck-up obnoxious tart you deserve a few smacks. In a way you're worse than Bertie. He was born a snob, but you probably took lessons."

She led the distraught woman towards a small table. "I think you've been a very naughty girl recently, Annalisa. Haven't you?"

"Yes, yes I have, Jennifer." the woman mumbled.

"You need to be punished. It will help cleanse your conscience and make you feel better."

"Yes, yes. I've been a bad girl and I deserve to be smacked."

"Bend over. Get over the table." the teenager instructed. She pressed her between the shoulders, and the woman had no choice but to lean forward and present her bottom.

"More. Surrender to me."

Annalisa obeyed, pushing her buttocks out, and then glanced over her shoulder to see Jennifer's eyes fixed rigidly on her exposed flesh.

She heard the strap swoosh and winced at the furcate lash of leather, and then her head jerked up from the polished mahogany surface and she had to clench her teeth to stop herself from crying out as the supple thongs lashed her plush behind.

A searing pain bit across both buttocks and her entire body squirmed, but she remained in place. When it was finished she knew her backside would be a mottle of pink and purple flesh, but as her forehead dipped onto the hard top of the table she dare not ask if it was over.

"You're behaviour lately as been selfish, underhand and deceitful, Annalisa. I know full well that the only reason you sent Freddie back to school early was because his little backside was proving a distraction to all the randy cocks you covet for yourself."

"Bertie's just made an agreement and you must make an agreement too." the girl told her.

Annalisa lifted her face, her cheeks reddening. "Yes, Jennifer. Whatever you say."

"You must take Freddie out from whatever school he's in at the moment and enrol him at Fairyfield Grange. That way when I return home I'll be able to monitor his progress regularly."

"Yes, of course. It'll be reassuring to know someone is keeping an eye on him."

She felt a warm hand on her thighs, going between them, stroking them and easing them farther apart. The hand slid upward, making a slippery furrow through the lips of her sex and onward until it reached her anus. There it paused to tease and probe indecently with a delicate finger. Annalisa closed her eyes, aware only of the burning sensations on her bottom and the erotic tingle provided by the finger.

It dallied for a moment then embedded to the second knuckle, churning inside inquisitively before withdrawing.

Unbeknown to the older woman Jennifer had changed her position so that she stood between the parted legs. Deftly she reversed the tawse in her hand and forced the tip of the handle into Annalisa's unsuspecting backside.

Annalisa felt its visit, something broader in girth than a finger that was stiff and not to be denied. With a single strong thrust it overcame her resistance and the visitor had sheathed the hard leather object neatly in her back passage.

The woman lifted her breasts from the desk, gasped and arched her head back, astounded at the depth of her feelings and the depth of the penetration. An initial resistance proved futile and easily overcome, and now her sphincter muscles clamped around the odd penis.

Jennifer used the weight of her body to ease it forward, forcing its way deeper into the other female's rectum. Annalisa closed her eyes and her mouth grimaced. Oblivious to everything else around her she sighed. Nothing, no one had ever possessed her like she was being possessed at that moment. Jennifer was shagging her in the arse, and Oh god, nobody had ever done that to her before, nobody had ever fucked her so intimately... well, only that big black stud on the beach in Jamaica that time, when she'd been squiffy on Bacardi. He had taken her like an earthquake, and it was the same with Jennifer now.

Slowly the teenager began to slide the handle back and forth, ploughing the woman, each thrust pitilessly given, jabbing left then right with such vigour that Annalisa practically melted.

Seismic shock waves rippled through her body. The girl was better than a man. Better than men in general anyway, who were usually vain, ignorant and unimaginative. Better than Bertie who was big, but vain, ignorant and lacking in technique.

Without warning Jennifer drew back, leaving the woman gasping.

"Stand against the wall. Press your nose to it while I have a final word with Bertie."

She called Samson, she had to call him twice before he eventually appeared dragging a craven, hangdog Bertie with him. He was holding the doleful man by the collar like he was a reluctant hound, and he thumped him forward up against the wall on the opposite side of the room to where Annalisa was standing with her face pushed against the wallpaper.

Bertie was red-faced, and because he was now only wearing a pyjama jacket she could see he was red-bottomed too.

"Samson spanked you?"

Bertie cringed. "Y-yes. The brute had me over his knee. Spanked me as if I were a child."

Samson's unbuttoned fly hadn't gone unobserved by Jennifer's sharp eyes.

"He did other stuff too?"

Bertie snivelled and kept his face turned away. "He's so strong, Too strong for me. I couldn't stop him."

The man's mean predicament rated no sympathy from Jennifer Hancock who merely pursed her mouth. "Well, I suppose that means you're useful for something. It must have been an ordeal for you though, so you'll do well to bare in mind that if you go back on any part of our agreement, I'll instruct Samson to track you down and give you a double dose of what you've just received."

Giving a cold fish-like glance at the manservant she said, "Come along Samson. Here endeth today's lesson. Let's go home."

 

On the day of the wedding it was as perfect as it could have been. A pierceing clear and glorious day in late August; a grey-stone church with a tall spire ringed by chestnut trees; a fat brown stream bubbling haphazardly through silky tufts of meadow grass nearby, and a hamlet taken from a storybook; a handful of honey-coloured houses half hidden behind fields of golden corn and Michaelmas daisies.

It was set in Little Lush Bottom, the idyllic small village that served the estate of Mrs Van Damme.

The village was recorded in the Domesday Book but had developed little in a thousand years, consisting of a pub, a row of cottages and the church, St Cuthbert's, the footings of which had been laid in Norman times.

Marianne looked endearingly gooey-eyed and moony in his trousseau, which Mrs Van Damme had bought, and which was an extremely expensive Schiaparelli design straight from Paris. It was a slim-fitting understated floor-length tube of ivory shot silk, an Empire styled, high-waisted creation in which his tender bosom became effortlessly elegant and properly majestic and pivotal. Tilted back on his head he wore a dainty garland of silk marguerites and in his hands he clutched a small posy of fresh orchids and gypsophilia.

The preparations had taken a fortnight, the dressing that morning three hours, the journey from London an hour, but the wedding ceremony took less than forty minutes. At 2-0-clock in the afternoon, as if primed by a starting pistol, a small crocodile of people entered the church and made a slow, dignified progress down the aisle in tempo with the stately rhythm of Mendelssohn's Bridal March playing on the organ.

The interior of the church had been festooned with orange blossom and lilies, and the vicar of Little Lush Bottom led the way followed by Marianne clinging to the arm of Madame Dupont who was decked out in a broad brimmed Ascot hat and a smart peacock-blue two piece suit.

Moving solemnly, legs shaking, body aglow, bearing a smile of dazzling delight,

Behind them trailing in two files came the bridesmaids, Marianne's sissy-dance friends from Nob Street, who had likewise been treated by Mrs Van Damme. They all wore soft silk-georgette dresses, crushed strawberry pink all over, sleeveless, with elegant little ruffles drifting over the shoulders and low sweetheart necklines. Their ankle-length skirts lined with white petticoats swirled and floated like clouds, and long, white cotton gloves gave them the appearance of Regency princess's.

Waiting before the alter stood Mrs Van Damme, her whippet-thin head adorned with an extraordinary flower smothered hat the size of a satellite dish and wearing a cream silk frock with fringes of amber beads at the neck and cuffs.

When Marianne joined her he peeped beneath lowered lashes to steal a swift, appreciative glance at the tall, dark figure nearby. Mrs Van Damme's nephew, Percy, was acting as best man and wearing a grey morning suit that tactfully broke up the all-female assembly at the point of blessing. His tall commanding presence emanated an aura that was compelling. He was devastatingly handsome, broad-shoulders, chiselled jaw, piercing dark eyes and he emitted an aroma that was rich, woody and intoxicatingly masculine. He was a man who instantly and totally besotted Marianne and one he gazed at with something verging on idolisation.

Things proceeded without a hitch. Mrs Van Damme had no respect for the clergy and never troubled the Almighty for favours. A Marriage By Common License short-circuited the need for the reading of the banns and the woman had successfully trampled on any other rules that got in her way.

"Dearly beloved," said the vicar. "We are gathered here today ... " he observed everyone dolefully as he went mechanically through the preamble of the ritual. He held onto the unremarkable view that humanity was composed of two genders which in the course of time fused to form a whole. Anything outside this uncompromising idea was incomprehensible to him. Marriage was important, which is why it shouldn't be taken lightly, wantonly or inadvisably, and yet there he was, about to bless a woman in wedlock with a boy dressed as a girl.

He had no choice but to please Mrs Van Damme. She had the power not only to bankrupt him but also by dint of her influence with Church authorities to deprive him of his cosy little niche in the countryside. He recoiled at the thought of ending up on the fringe of a grubby industrial town where he'd need to watch his church building every night to prevent his parishioners from rolling up and carrying away the lead flashing from the roof.

At the recognised moment he felt bound to ask the assembly - "Does anyone here know of any legal impediment to the marriage of the two people before me?"

His eyes scanned around. What a joy it would be if someone made an objection. He could stop the proceedings there and then and it wouldn't be his fault.

The congregation became instantly hushed. There were more than a score of people sitting in the pews, but they were mostly villagers who prized Mrs Van Damme's patronage and who wished to continue in her good favour.

Mrs Van Damme gave the vicar a cursory glance as she ran her tongue over the top row of her teeth and her eyes turned upwards. Woe betide anyone rash enough to ruin her day. 'Off with their heads' she seemed primed to quote.

The ceremony droned on. Marianne liked churches, especially old ones. He liked the coloured glass windows and the flowers and the candles. He didn't know much about religion but it was okay, except that vicar-men always talked too much.

Unconcerned about what was being recited he watched a beetle crawl over the toe-cap of the vicars shoe, and then suddenly the man was speaking to him.

"Do you - em - Marianne - take Lolita Van Damme as your lawfully wedded - erm - spouse, to live together according to Gods law in the Holy estate of matrimony?"

Marianne nodded politely. "Yes please, sir. Thank you very much, sir."

The woman at his side tutted. "Say, Ai do, deah. This is vairy important. The correct response is, Ai do."

Marianne returned a melting apologetic smile. "Sorry, Mrs Van Damme." Then he looked at the vicar. "I do, sir."

"You may - er - kiss the bride." proclaimed the vicar a little later. Mrs Van Damme bent forward and pressed her prim lips against Marianne's brow, and it was done.

As they left the church to the organ struck up the triumphant strains of the Prince of Denmark's March.

Mrs Van Damme's house, Axton House, was old and picturesque, an imposing neo-classical residence concealed from the road by a short, forested drive of ash, hazel and oak and ringed from the world by an old stone wall mottled with moss and fringed by flops of ivy.

Beneath clouds that sailed in great galleons of cumuli across a sailor-boy blue sky a light breeze ruffled a set of drooping willows and their long delicate fronds floated sideways, like a girl's long, fine hair. The gardens looked lush, and outside the countryside rolled, fields of corn and barley with hedgerows in between sprouting joyous green flags and tendrils topped by feathery whirls of late blossom.

Everyone mingled in the garden. Pimms-drinking ladies in Jasper Conran hats and gentlemen with roses on their lapels chattered in time-honoured wedding fashion inside a pink-and-white-striped marquee pitched at the side of a small lake and which featured a dreamy inside with fairytale spindly gilt tables and chairs. Music fluted from a state of the art amplifier and an area of wooden decking had been laid on the grass in case people wished to dance. On the lake a pair of swans, startlingly white on carbon-grey water, paddled to and fro.

"A lovely wedding breakfast." remarked Mrs Carter-Plackett.

"Yes, lovely." agreed the repressed, downtrodden little man at her side who was her husband, and who was wearing a rather ancient Monticristi panama that sported a raffish leopard skin hatband and a strong smell of mothballs.

Mrs Van Damme's companion, Clementine, tutted. "It's a champagne reception, not a breakfast. Breaking-the-fast is from the days when the Church dictated no food should be taken before consuming the Communion bread. Mrs Van Damme doesn't accept dictates from anyone."

"What a gorgeous man!" the small and elderly Mrs Quinlan remarked suddenly.

Jennifer Hancock glanced over her shoulder to follow the woman's line of sight, but could only see Samson standing at the mouth of the tent looking slightly awkward and bewildered.

"Surely you don't mean him, not Samson. He's, erm ... He's hardly a girl's ideal."

Mrs Quinlan frowned disapproval. Her sharp features belied her sentimental belief in romance as portrayed in cheap novels. "Rather bone-jarring attractive in my opinion. A widow woman like me couldn't help but feel safe with someone like him in the house." Her eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "Now Madame Dupont's Summer Season as come to an end I wonder if she would allow the dear man a holiday. He could stay with me. I'd love to pamper him for a couple of weeks."

The troupe of dancers from Nob Street divested themselves of their bridesmaid gowns and stripped down to their long cotton gloves and their G-strings to perform an impromptu dance routine on the decking. A sense of decorum dictated they retained their pants, but apart from their tap-shoes that was all they wore. The vocal number chosen by Madame Dupont that thrummed out from the amplifiers reflected an unexpected upturn in good fortune, since she'd recently purchased her house for a remarkably low price.

The sheboys went straight into their routine as a chorus of female voices, jaunty yet mellifluous, boomed out from the nearby speakers:

We're in the money. We're in the money.

We've got a lot of what it takes to get along!

We're in the money, that sky is sunny,

Old Man Depression you are through, you done us wrong.

 

The dancers swayed with the melody and went at it full tilt, feet, hands and bodies moving as one, and in between verses they put on a display of spry and rapid synchronised footwork that would have had Fred Astaire applauding. The summer season had honed them into a unit of precision that was immaculate to behold.

Stimulated with lecherous interest a crowd gathered to observe the engagingly stuffed panties clinging to their hips, all very conscious of the way their tiny white G-strings looked so precarious. Their gaze inevitably paused there, where the last wisps of delicate material still covered pretty sheboy genitals. It required no imagination to define the outline of what lay inside, the pouch of their thongs was no more than a minute snugly-fitting patch of delicate white gauze edged with scalloped lace from which the contents constantly threatened to spill out.

Barefoot, slightly built and impeccably proportioned their lightweight figures served to emphasis their spy youthfulness, as did their legs. Their dark and merry eyes and the long bright ringlets that spilled down over their ears together with the flush of excitement on their cheeks, gave an impression that was not unbecoming.

We never see a headline about bread lines today.

And when we see the landlord, we can look that guy right in the eye.

We're in the money, come on, my honey.

Let's lend it, spend it, send it rolling along.

 

Sunlight played on glossy thighs that were smooth and shapely with an enticing butterscotch tan. Each dancer's spine had enough curve to generate immense sauciness to its attached gyrating bare bottom cheeks.

They were untouchable in the present situation, but more than a few people groaned in frustration and all the men looked like they'd got a car trailer attachment stuffed down the front of their trousers.

When the music stopped Jennifer swept them away to get dressed. All that is with the exception of Lulu, who darted off in search of a toilet, and almost barged headlong into Hyacinth Glossop. Hyacinth was a short, corpulent, woman who he'd seen on his previous visit, almost as big across as she was tall and with a head that seemed to rise directly out of her ample cleavage. Her peroxide blond hair was caught back in a bun so severe that her pencilled eyebrows were arched high, giving her a perpetual look of surprise. That day she wore .tortoiseshell glasses and an insipid yellow dress which was fighting a losing battle with her figure.

The gentlemen were not the only ones to appreciate the display of pantied penis's. The woman moved round to stand in front of him, regarding him thoughtfully, half-hooded eyes like those of a predatory bird, peering down to mentally devour his cotton covered groin with all its interesting shapes, the boy-cock inside the minuscule smudge of girlish-panties bending the material outwards, and the bulge in the crotch where the small wrinkly bag of his scrotum was cradled.

The young darling was small, but perfectly proportioned, she noticed, with large innocent eyes and a rose and ivory complexion. He looked carbolically well scrubbed and the honey sweet smell of newness about him drew her forward like a wasp to ripe fruit.

"How d'y'do. What's your name?"

"Lulabelle... Lulu." he answered, looking at her suspiciously.

"Are you planning to stay long?"

"I'm... I'm not sure... Madame Dupont decides things like that. Where are the loo's, please miss?"

Hyacinth pursed her mouth and looked towards the house. The edifice seemed to smile beneath eaves warped by time, its complexion mellowed by two hundred summers.

"The loo's? Everyone as permission to use the toilets in the 'ouse today. Come with me, I'll show you."

Lulu, flushing slightly and shook his head. "No need to show me. I've been here before."

The woman was not to be deterred. Her brow knitted, she took one of his hands in hers and drew him forward. "Yes, of course you 'ave, I remember that night. H'all the same, best if I show you the way." she said, moving him away from the garden and steering him purposefully towards the house.

He wasn't sure he wanted her to take him, but she was so overbearing he didn't know how to refuse. He trailed indignantly at her side into the rear door and along a neat, carpeted passage.

"'Ere we are. There's the toilet." she remarked, indicating a door. "Can you manage, or shall I come in with you? I don't mind 'olding an' aiming things for a cutie like you."

Horrified, Lulu raced into the cubicle and slammed the door. He hoped that she would be gone by the time he'd finished, but his hopes crashed when he opened the door again and she immediately grabbed hold of his hand.

"Let's not go outside yet." she said hurriedly, as if trying to pin down a butterfly before it escaped. She smiled and tilted her head to one side. "I watched you dancing - you boys - h'all that to-ing an' fro-ing an' stamping yer feet. You were h'all squiggley and sexy. It was very - um - entertaining."

As if following a predetermined plan she ushered him a little way down the corridor before guiding him through French doors into a small conservatory set out like a walled garden. It was a botanical wonderland full of tiny flowers dashed with colour and abundant with purple clematis. "This is perfect." she declared.

Lulu wasn't so sure. "Oh ... er ... couldn't we go somewhere else? Everyone is outside."

The woman seated herself on a wicker chaise-longe, piling a mass of cushions behind her and patting her tight coiffeur complacently. "No, no, m'dear. This is h'ideal. I like it because it's private."

She leaned back against the cushions and watched him covertly. A strange ardour darkened her eyes and an indefinable hunger sharpened the angles of her round face. Up to that point the tenor of conversation between them had been breezy silliness, a light-hearted exchange of nonsense. Now things changed.

"You're... um... little outfit suits you perfectly, but I think we need to 'ave it off."

Hyacinth couldn't resist it. She got hold of him and pulled him forward, letting her hands run the length of his spine until they reached the waistband of his skimpy G-string and then she hooked her fingers under it.

She felt Lulu tense as she pushed the tiny garment downward over his legs, hearing his gasp as the elastic scraped the tender pink tip of his cock head as his sheboy lovestick sprang free, stiff and drippy. But she didn't stop. She didn't pause until she'd dragged the garment over dimpled knees and working the thongs off over his ankles and feet.

Then Mrs Glossop cleared her throat and breathed heavily. "I know h'all about you. I saw you when you were here last time. You're a lovely thing. Narrow little limbs, just like a toy. How old is you?"

Lulu looked at her sheepishly. "Th-thirteen."

"You don't look that old, but I 'spect that's coz you're a frilly pantywaist shemale."

She glanced down. "Nice knob though, a good looking pair o' balls too. It all seems odd somehow. Still, live-an-let-live I allus say. The world would be a boring place h'if everyone was the same."

Lulu felt her stroke his bottom very slowly, tantalising herself, letting the line of his legs lead her to the site of her fascination.

"Are you in love?"

"I love Pompom and Prudence, and I love Trixie sometimes too."

"Course you do. 'Spect they give you lots of nice kisses an' give you plenty of dick."

Hyacinth felt heat in her knickers. Like an addict in urgent need of a fix she drew him closer.

"Down! Get over my lap, yer naughty tranny princess."

Lulu looked startled. "Oh, no. Not my bum, please miss."

"Oh yes." she replied gruffly. "You're not going to throw me off as easy as that, me cherub. It's time you learned a bit of 'umility. A young thing like you shouldn't go around teasing respectable ladies like you do. My kids is all grown up and its not often these days I have a chance to tan a pretty arse. I's gonna spank yours 'til it's cherry red."

She was not about to hurry her pleasure. Breasts swelling inside her bra she settled back, hoisting the front of her cotton skirt up above the welts of her tan stocking before positioning him across her broad lap, drawing him close until his thighs made contact with her knees and then pulling him into the familiar 'bottoms up' position. She felt his penis nudge against her bare thigh and fancied it had extended an extra inch.

Her eyes travelled down hi back to observe how his muscles stretched and his spine indented. His waist was so narrow she was sure she could span it with her hands, and his bottom lifted up like an apple yet to acquire a rosy burnish.

"You have a beautiful bum dear, so soft, perfectly shaped for spanking h'and for sex."

With the minimum of fuss she established his position, bottom in the air, legs straight, hands touching the floor. The pose was right, his helplessness right, the surrender of his most intimate parts to a older, wiser person the natural way of things.

SWAP! She smiled and smacked once, a weak flick at best but enough to make Lulu catch his breath as it landed. "Oh!"

Then she left his mouth-watering little marshmallows alone for a moment and spanked his thighs, beginning with the back of his knees and working slowly up to the soft flesh beneath the crease of his buttocks.

SNICK, SMACK, SPLAT! "Eeeer, Nnnnrrr, Ooooeuf!"

At last the bottom, thrusting upwards, the cheeks round and soft, the skin the colour of ivory touched as yet by just a blush of sunset.

SWIT! Her palm bounced off the juddering backside and the tendons of Lulu's shapely legs tightened as his girlish backside gyrated.

"Yyyaaahhhh!" He wallowed and squirmed in showy histrionics, his face twisting as he attempted to clutch at his bottom.

SWAT! "Yeouch, oh, oh, oow!"

Hyacinth had managed to control her erratic breathing, but now a crooked smile distorted her mouth. Opening her handbag she took out a pot of skin cream and scooped some out to grease her fingers.

Lulu's heart raced and his mind whirled. He closed his eyes, aware only of the sting of his bottom and the new sensations being introduced. A hand touched his thighs, wormed between them and eased them apart, then fingers slid up to claw wide his perfect sissy cheeks.

"Oh, miss..."

When she observed his anus she thought the pulpy rosette to be nicely taut. She kneaded his buttocks, giving attention to the crevasse between and rotating a fingertip around his bum hole until the pucker opened up. Then, placing the tip of her finger against the youthful pucker she gave a little push to establish it beyond the ring of muscle.

He felt the hardness. It snouted like a blind animal as it made its way. Her probing finger skewered boldly and flexed amid the satiny warmth within, producing a parody of the masculine penetration of a girl.

"Uph!" In a fraught movement Lulu titled his head back as he grimaced, but the woman ignored him. A little jigging around to open things up, then another shove to get in get in another inch. The lubricate made it easy. Her finger penetrated beyond his sphincter to loosen the ring of his anus. Burying it inside him she turned it left and right as if she were trying a key in a lock

The finger dallied for a moment, embedded to the second knuckle and moving about inquisitively in the moist, mushy confines. When she withdrew it she replaced it with two fingers, and Lulu uttered a little moan as they began to fuck his narrow passage. Every centimetre of her fingers entered, and his tiny butternut bottomhole began to slither around them, letting them go deep. Tight young buttocks, bunching and changing shape as she dug between them.

"Oooh!"

"There we are my little lover. You manage h'everything so nicely."

"It - it feels so big."

"No bigger than some of the things that 'ave ploughed you in the past, I'm sure."

Inspired, Hyacinth leaned over and applied her weight, moving her fingers with increasing piston-like efficiency, romping them in and out joyfully, fucking him with a frenzied sleazy passion that felt almost out of control. Her fingers were sturdy and delivered swifter, harder strokes.

"Is that okay for you? Does it feel like a boy?"

"Gggnnn! It feels bigger than a boy."

He twitched inside, and an enormous shiver of tingling pleasure rippled through him.

She heard his high-pitched tranny squeal as the warm soup his cock slopped out. It splashed onto the bare thigh above her stocking tops and dribbled slowly downwards like melting ice cream.

It proved a trigger for herself. Her tortoiseshell glasses slipped down her nose as hot sensations raked through her own body. Gasping out a sharp cry she clamped her legs together as orgasmic bliss swept through her. Her facial expression told its own story. Her normal high colour intensified into deep puce while her entire body seemed to deflate, draining the tension from her neck and shoulders. It had been such a long time since she'd enjoyed such uninhibited pleasure, and in answer to the excitement in her loins she withdrew her fingers, dropped Lulu between her thighs, and crammed his face against the warm, slick swamp that had formed in the gusset of her pants.

"Oh, oh, yes. Now make a meal o' that yer dirty little girl." she whinnied while heaving her aching genitals against his mouth.

 

On that last day of the Summer Season Jennifer had felt it unimportant to supervise them closely, and some of them proved slothful in putting on their dresses. Bambi was still capering around in his tiny pants when Mrs Fawcett's schoolboy son approached him.

"I don't think I know you." he said coquettishly. Of course he knew him in a way - he'd seen him watching the dancing as avidly as everyone else, and they were both aware of it. "I mean, I think I've seen you... I saw you looking."

"I'm Roger." the boy said.

Bambi half turned his head and their eyes locked. He considered he could be drawn into Roger's dark limpid eyes the way heroines did in romantic novels. He could tell he was older than himself. He was taller, broader, but the smoothness of his face said he was probably no more than thirteen.

They looked at each other for a moment and exchanged a sort of wordless ping-pong before Roger said, "You and the others. You're boys."

A little laugh. "Yes." He really did find him sort of innocent and nice.

"You're all dancers. You're good at it too. I didn't think boys could be so good at dancing."

"Madame Dupont says people are good at deferent things."

"I'm good at carpentry and not bad at algebra, but I can't dance for toffees."

Bambi looked away. Sunlight was bathing the top of the marquee in molten light and tucked inside the open end of it Marianne was being all lightness and warmth. Not content with just playing the diligent new bride to perfection he stood, still in his trousseau, pouring tea and serving tiny sandwiches to the wedding guests, recommending the ones with eggy filling while quietly throwing away all those stuffed with slices of orange coloured fish which he thought tasted disgusting. It was an occupation he was familiar with. Like a child he was a creature of simple pleasures.

Out of sight, a Champagne cork popped and some women giggled.

Bambi was resilient to flattery but not necessarily resilient to good looking boys. Roger was not a country bumpkin, he was good looking and had a nice round face with clear skin, thick dark slightly windswept hair and a lean physique. In fact he thought Roger was the probably the most gorgeous thirteen-year-old boy there had ever been since time began. A thrill gripped his heart when he looked at him.

"It's nice around here."

Roger shrugged. "Okay for kids who enjoy catching tadpoles and putting them in glass jars. I've grown out of that. Want to go for a walk round the lake?"

The afternoon sun struck across Roger's face, lightening his amber eyes. Bambi regarded him suspiciously, wondering why anyone would want to go for a walk with a boy who was only wearing a tiny pair of thong pants.

"It's okay. I'm not gay." Roger assured him.

Bambi couldn't quite believe that. As the two of them moved off he wondered why a straight boy want to go with a sissy wearing blond sausage curls and make-up? Why would he want to go for a walk with a boy who was practically naked and had smooth legs and toenails painted fuchsia pink?

They went towards the lake and started off along the narrow path that circled the water. Because he seemed immune to treading on twigs and stones and preferred to go without any shoes Roger dubbed him 'Henny Penny' because he said he was like the hen in a Beatrix Potter story who lost her stockings and had to go 'barefoot, barefoot.'

A coolness settled over Bambi's shoulders as they passed beneath a huddle of trees and unconsciously he started looking for shafts of sunlight shimmering through the branches. He should have put on a coat, he thought. He should have put on something. And the question still persisted; why did that boy Roger want to go walking with a beautiful and all-but naked dancing boy if he wasn't gay? There was something odd about that. Something didn't add up.

He walked on a little ahead with a practised seductiveness, unaware that his assault on Roger's senses had slowed him down. When he did notice he paused and waited, allowing his bare bottom to thrust out a little towards his new friend. Glancing back over his shoulder he noticed Roger's eyes rigidly fixed on his body. His tiny thong pants left nothing to the imagination, the merest tuck of flimsy white material at the front to conceal his youthful treasures and nothing at all behind save the string that disappeared between the bare, high-cheeks of his boyish behind. Roger wanted him, he was certain of that. Boys loved sissies.

"Are you okay" he asked when he saw him frown.

"Yeah, I think so. But I've got an odd feeling."

Bambi sneaked a little peek at the very nice bulge in the front of his new friends trousers and offered a trampy smile. "That's probably because it's chilly in the shade. I'm quite cold. Would you put an arm around me?"

The last of the summer butterflies flitted through the dark backdrop of the rhododendrons as they strolled along, and the trees bordering the lake were a blaze of glory; emerald, saffron, gold and deep olive green.

Eventually they flopped down on a mossy slope by the waterside, causing a family of moor hens, clearly annoyed at being disturbed, to paddle abruptly away.

"Let's sit here and see what we can do about your odd feeling." said Bambi. He settled on the grass and an outstretched hand invited Roger to join him.

When the other boy was seated Bambi cagily swung round on his bottom and placed the back of his head on Roger's lap, and then his hazel eyes teased up from beneath long lashes as he fixed him with a sparkling smile.

"Do you think I'm pretty?"

The other boys lips tightened in disapproval, but nevertheless he replied in a slightly husky voice. "No, I don't think your pretty. I think your perfect."

Encouraged by the flattery he threw an arm about the lads neck, drawing his head down and presented his soft, velveteen lips upwards. They hovered a mere breath away from the other boys mouth, close enough to kiss; which his just what Bambi did next. Finding Roger hesitant he took the initiative and kissed him, softly, lightly and tenderly.

The other boys lips received him without any kind of passion, and Bambi felt rather confused and disappointed. He wanted Roger to be assertive and master him, wanted him to take him.

Umh! Perhaps Roger really was straight. But then he thought, no. He simply didn't know how to kiss. He'd probably never kissed anyone on the mouth, ever.

Even if he wasn't gay he was gay-curious about boys and he was looking for an experience.

He'd never been put in charge of anything in his life before, but Bambi decided he needed to take charge of Roger immediately. He may have been older than himself, but he was a complete novice when it came to sex.

His tongue snaked out to lick Roger's face, nuzzling his chin, his nose, trailing up each cheek and into his ears. He was taking the lead, and he was doing it in style.

"W-what are you doing?" Roger panted. But his own voice seemed distant even to himself by then and there was no rejection in his tone. He was hot and tingly and the tingles were spreading all down his body.

Bambi unfastened the top button on his shirt and spread the collar open. The hand lingered and then started to undo the other buttons, touching each newly revealed inch of skin as he did so. The older boy quivered uncertainly. He had acquired a sort of tense look, like a high-voltage cable that might give off sparks if someone touched it.

"What are you doing?"

"You'll find out."

Roger's blush deepened, but resistance seemed to melt from him, which encouraged Bambi to grin impishly.

"Do you like cuddling boys who aren't wearing clothes? Would you like to cuddle me? What do you think? You're a big boy. You could do anything you wished to me and I wouldn't be able to stop you."

Roger's breath quickened and a pulse drummed in his ears has he looked into the vivacious eyes observing him.

Bambi's face dipped and he slid his mouth across the smooth, bare chest. Perky boy-nipples brushed his cheek encouraging him to lick the pectorals, press onto them, playfully teasing and tasting and mouthing each nipple in turn.

His hands slued down to unbuckle Roger's waist belt and he heard the sharp intake of breath as his hands worked against his belly. With a flick of his fingers Bambi unhooked the top and unzipped the front, leisurely brushing his hand onto the swollen shape behind it.

But it was Roger who, as his desire mounted to match his own, frantically raised himself to allow his pants to be tugged under his buttocks.

And there was his cock, rearing up like a tower, a shaft of prime silky steel.

Bambi gave a little laugh. "You think I'm crazy, don't you? When I touch you here..." He leaned forward to touch the boys chest, his fingers pressing a nipple. Roger almost howled with delight. "And here..." He touched his stomach low down... and here... His fingers circled his erect penis, making Roger suck in a sharp breath.

Without the slightest hesitation Bambi's hand slid over the smooth flesh of the inner thigh and wrapped his fingers around of the uncircumcised penis in a full handed grip.

It was slightly curved, quite thick and with an impressive length. When he stroked it and his hand moved up and down he watched the blushing pink tip disappear and reappear as the soft fleshy foreskin melted against the shaft.

Bambi grinned. "Is that okay. Do you like what I'm doing?"

He didn't even wait for an answer. His lips and tongue moved up the smooth shaft, teasing it, making it wet, making it throb. And then he took it into the lusciousness of his soft mouth, sucking firmly, but never gripping, never biting, then he removed it, licking it again and coating it with saliva.

Roger lay absolutely motionless, and Bambi sensed it was the right time for the next move.

Smoothly he scooped off his wispy thong to expose a slender but beautiful sissy candlestick and a petite soft-skinned bag of spherical goodies, then he straggled the other boys thighs as if he were mounting a horse, and grabbing Roger's erection between his slim fingers he tucked the tip between his buttocks.

"Golly! You - you can't." exclaimed Roger.

"Yes I can. It's easy-peasy." insisted Bambi.

His eyes flickered momentarily as he pressed down, young belly undulating, narrow hips screwing right then left as he slowly opened up and eased the tip of Roger's dick through his outer sphincter. Although he was small in stature, Roger's erection went in smoothly. It was as if their bodies had been made to fit each other.

"Aaak!" He gasped a little as he struggled to get more and more cock into his narrow hole, and slowly, little by little Roger's shaft sank right in, Bambi's sheath proving a perfect fit for his teenage sword. His body flexed and lifted slightly, contracting and clamping tight before settling.

Pausing for a moment to allow his bum to get used to being stretched and occupied, his anal muscles then fluttered and he began to jockey up and down. Bouncing to savour the full extent of penetration he began to gasp and squawk and pant out his love for his boyfriend.

"Nnnngh! Oh yeah! You like this, don't you? You enjoy a boy-bum moving up and down on your prodder, don't you?"

Roger was breathing heavily. He did like it. He liked the heat and the friction and he loved shafting that playful featherweight kid that was mounted on his dick.

Oh how degenerate his new little friend was. Oh how he loved the clever sweet thing.

He sighed, and a breath rippled through his body like a small wave preceding a bigger one, a wave that was going to pull him right under.

Bambi was sitting upright and his own cock was completely hard too. He took it in his hand and began to massage it, sliding up and down, making his body tremble with joy.

Faster and faster Bambi moved, and the flesh trapped inside him pulsated, seemed to grow and become even bigger. Roger's back arched and his heels dug into the ground, and his mouth opened wide as things spiralled out of control. A noise, something like a gurgle welled up from the back of his throat and intensified as it travelled outwards.

Then he felt it, felt the sudden spurting.

"Oh, yes," enthused Bambi when he felt the throb inside. "Fuck me, Roger. Fuck me. Love your little sissy. Your girlfriend wants you to fill her with hot juice. She wants to have your babies."

 

Outside Mrs Van Damme strolled with Madame Dupont in the garden for a while, admiring the rose bower and listening to the plans woman had for renovating the fruit orchard.

When she returned to the tented area she was feeling quite serene.

Jennifer, wearing a rose pom-pom chiffon dress with a bow on its wide swathed collar was feeling the model of sartorial elegance which was so different to her usual couldn't care tuppence attitude. The previous day she'd also had her hair styled. She'd gone along the Tottenham Court Road and found a salon with black walls and the kind of music everyone associated with class A drugs, and had emerged looking so much like a rock-chick she'd had to spend the rest of the day subduing the extremes of her spiky new coiffure. Still, a thing like that was a good way to advertise to everyone at home that she'd been to London.

"Beautiful weather. Beautiful ceremony in the church too." remarked Madame Dupont, "Shame Bertie Bestable couldn't come today. I know Mrs Van Damme invited him."

Jennifer stifled a wicked grin. "Mr Bestable is a busy man. I expect he just couldn't fit us into his schedule." Picking up a folded newspaper, she thrust in front of the older woman.

"That number you chose for the dancers to perform earlier..."

"An old tune, from Gold Diggers of 1933."

"Yes, well it was particularly apt. There's a small item on page three of The Times this morning that will interest you."

Intrigued, Madame fished in her handbag for a pair of spectacles, then took the newspaper and peered at it.

The article was headed; TREASURE IN THE ATTIC, and continued:

'A large horde of ancient earthenware as been discovered in the attic of a house in rural Yorkshire. It consists of thirty perfectly preserved pieces of pottery created more than five thousand years ago in Mesopotamia.

The finder, Miriam Hancock said, "My home is rather large and I had no idea such things were stored upstairs until I decided to do some tidying up. How they got there remains a mystery, my uncle was the previous owner of my house and he was an eccentric man."

After examining the items, Ian Patterson-Jones, a specialise in antiquities from Verton College, Oxford, said, "This is a significant discovery. It marks a period of human history when men ceased to be nomadic hunter-gatherers and took to constructing the worlds first permanent cities. It's on a par with discovering Noah's Ark"

The British Museum and the Smithsonian Institute have already expressed interest in this discovery, and a spokesman for Sotheby's auction house predicts the collection is so well preserved it could generate in excess of half a million pounds if put on the market.

Miss Hancock commented that any money she received from such a sale would go to a worthy charity.'

Jennifer tapped the page with her finger. "That's your pottery, and the charity mummy indicates is you. You ARE in the money. You're going to be rather well off."

"You must have a share too, Jennifer. But for your shrewdness and crystalline thinking all that stuff would still be full of jam and sitting in a pantry."

Jennifer laughed light-heartedly. "Don't worry about me, Madame. My dreams tell me I shall always have what I desire."

The woman gave her a quizzical look. "Your dreams! Well, as far fetched as it may seem I'm inclined to agree with your dreams. I always said there was a mystical twist to you. You're something of a gypsy witch and I believe you'll always have whatever you want.

"Personally I've never known such good fortune before. All that money on top of getting the house. I was amazed when Horace Pratt told me he'd had a stroke of good luck and could afford to let me have number nineteen at a rock-bottom price. It turned out to be below rock-bottom. It was unbelievable."

Madame gazed around in alarm at the absence of sissies.

"Where are they? The wicked imps have scampered off. I've lost track of all my darlings." she complained, "Get Samson to help you, Jennifer. Go and find them at once. Go and find them and send them back here."

Jennifer dashed along the outside of the marquee in a temper. All the summer season she'd kept tabs on Madame's pantywaist menage without them giving her any trouble, and now on the very last day when she though she could relax with a glass of champagne the little trollops had taken advantage to go off on escapades. She should have known better. She should have tied their feet when she had the chance.

To top it all Samson was nowhere to be seen either. He usually hung around looking vacant and lost until required to do something, but he seemed to have vaporised.

Two of the dancers were easily found. Percy, Mrs Van Damme's nephew, was sitting in a wicker chair behind the marquee, and Dolly and Candy were kneeling worshipful and gaga between his knees, allowing him to spoon-feed them with ice-cream.

It was no mystery why they were attracted to Percy, he was very dark and wicked looking in a thoroughly piratical way, with the perfect shape of his head tilted with the arrogance of a Roman god. With the right provocation he could have made James Dean look like a beatific Noddy, and from the satyr-like expression on his face and the enormous bulge in his trousers he was certainly contemplating dosing his two adoring admirers with a different kind of cream to the chilled variety.

She snatched them away and told them to go back to Madame, then moved along the garden away from the tent. The concentration of people had remained in the vicinity of the tent, but Pompom, Dolly and Trixie had walked off a little way. They were back in their bridesmaid outfits and gossiping and giggling in an all-girls-together kind of way.

Then others began to appear. She spied Lulu returning from the direction of the house and then saw Bambi meandering along the path by the lake, hand in hand with a village boy.

When he saw her looking the village lad guiltily released Bambi's hand and widened the space between them.

It wasn't as bad as Madame feared, only Prudence was missing. But where could he be?

Impatiently she brushed around the intense green leaves of a beech hedge. Beyond it was a topiary of high privet with pleasant narrow walks in between. Coming to a sort of crossroad's in the greenery she came to where a marble nymph reclined in a mossy arbour and had to swerve away to avoid disturbing Samson who was visible in the leafy alcove talking to the elderly Mrs Quinlan who still looked completely besotted by the burly bald-headed giant.

Mrs Quinlan who was engaged in intimacy with Samson. She had extracted his enormous penis from the front of his trousers and was tossing him off for all she was worth, her sublime, slick hand movements comparable with those of a top-rank professional slapper. Samson was savouring the effect but seemed to be paralysed, hardly blinking as he looked down at what was happening.

Making off in another direction she came upon a place where giggles and rustling noises behind the bushes suggested a young person was into mischief, but when she went to investigate she discovered Madame Dupont's daughter, Sophie, sitting astride the thighs of a supine elderly man who had his trousers round his knees.

On the ground beside them lay a pair of girls panties, screwed up along side a panama hat with a leopard skin band, just like the one she'd seen the hen-pecked husband of Mrs Carter-Plackett wearing earlier. He had apparently escaped from his wife for a while, or more likely been lured away. There was no doubt in Jennifer's mind has to who the seducer was in this particular instance.

The man was laying on his back and Sophie's skirt was flipped up over her buttocks. The girl's hair free pussy, that part that should have been reminiscent of a small oyster, fresh, pink and well guarded, was stretched slickly around the girth of a very rampant penis, sliding up and down fiercely, dipping and rising, smothering the vertical prong with the soft envelope of her young muscular flesh.

Sophie gasped each time she crammed down on it, urging the cock to stretch her delicate flesh and cleave her young vagina. Up and down went the girl's thighs on that male appendage, slick and slippery down to the fat balls, pausing to appreciate being stuffed with man meat before lifting up to the base of the mushroom tip.

The man bucked his hips and he gasped and gurgled when again and again she repeated the process, but the young miss wasn't daunted by his urgent thrusts. Sophie was probably never daunted. The girl maintained an energetic panting noise, ardent and rhythmic.

"Fuck me, mister." her voice cracked. "Dirty old man. Shagging a little girl. Stuffing your big willie into her tiny cunt. Yes, that feels nice. But do it harder, you old duffer. Fuck me harder."

Jennifer turned and walked quickly away. She'd been asked to collect in the sissy dancers and had no intention of being drawn into anything else. Her mother had frequently told her it was inadvisable to interfere in other peoples private family affairs. Anyway, Sophie may be misbehaving, but at least today she was misbehaving in an almost normal way.

She exited from the topiary and then slowed. Beneath the shelter of a spreading magnolia there was a wooden gate that led into a grassy paddock. She froze. Beyond the tree and in the paddock stood a small stuccoed gazebo with a domed roof, and between the miniature Grecian-style columns that formed its upper structure she identified the slim-bodied figure of Prudence.

What on earth was he doing there so far away from everyone else?

She tramped noiselessly over the grass and circled round to the doorless entrance to find he was not alone. A woman was with him, a woman was kneeling before him as if in prayer.

She recognised her as someone she'd seen hovering around St Cuthbert's. Marjory somebody. Yes - it was Marjory Nightingale, the vicar's wife.

"Excuse me." she said. "Madame Dupont wants Prudence back at the tent."

It was then she noticed that Marjory's actions were worshipful but far from holy. The woman had one hand curled about the pantyboys erect penis and the fingers of her other were tucked beneath his testicles.

Prudence looked shocked and slightly guilty when Jennifer loomed before him, but he remained standing still. Marjory turned her head to gawk up and the sight of a biker-girl dressed in dolly-mixture hues of Juicy Couture velour, robbed her of breath, leaving her quite speechless for a moment.

A breeze lightly caressed her hot cheeks. Her mind began racing and she laughed shrilly, unable to hide her embarrassment. "The young thing - I was trying to help him - I think he's got a wood splinter in his - er - penis."

Jennifer's lips tightened and her stormy hazel eyes locked with hers. She had never met Marjory Nightingale before but that didn't stop her dominant nature from rising up, and when she was on top she was habitually insouciant and irreverent.

She moved closer and peered over the woman's shoulder, then smiled wryly. "Looks like it's got half a cricket stump stuffed down it to me."

Devilishly she cupped a hand behind the woman's head and urged her face forward.

"But do continue with what you were doing. No one else will ever know, and you do want to taste everything this lovely creature can offer, don't you. You'll only regret it if you don't use the opportunity you now have."

Strangely Marjory felt ashamed, terrified and jubilant all at the same time. She didn't wish to back away and the strange girl was encouraging her, almost giving her permission.

She eased Prudence back against the wall and knelt before him. Giving in to her most licentious appetite she ran her tongue along the upper flesh of his girlish thighs until it could go no higher. With one hand she lifted his scrotum and began to lick his wrinkled sac, inadvertently, or perhaps purposely rubbing her cheek against his jutting penis. Opening her lips wide she gently took his testicles in her mouth, moving her tongue from side to side, and on releasing them she traced the tip of her tongue up feel its contours and the soft vein along the length of his penis until it reached the shiny pink head.

How could she do such a disgusting thing? And with a teenage girl watching every move!

It didn't seem to matter. The girl was right, she had to use the opportunity. Wickedly she twirled the tip of her tongue around the sissy boys fleshy helmet and poked into the tiny slit before she drew her lips together around it to form a warm, moist airtight seal.

Slowly, very slowly so that she could provide the maximum pleasure, she moved her head up and down, filling her mouth with warm saliva to give lubrication. With each movement she swallowed a little more of him, taking in his rigid flesh until her mouth was full of rampant she-boy cock.

It wasn't long before Prudence slumped back and closed his eyes. He croaked, his body stiffened and his muscles tensed, and as he began to pant Marjory eased away.

"Don't stop." Jennifer said, "You've started so you may as well finish." She took hold the sissy penis herself and began to move her fingers up and down the shaft. "You may tease the little cherubs in your Sunday school class with only half the job done, but I won't allow you to do it to this young lady."

Marjory Nightingale quaked slightly.

"Oh dear! I've never - ever - not even with my husband..."

Undeterred Jennifer held the stiff penis in one hand while reaching into Marjory's hair. Forcefully she guided the woman's head, abruptly pulling her face onto the purple plum and urging her to get back to work and try harder.

"I insist you finish what you've started," she nagged, "And I insist that you swallow the result. Drink all of it. And mind your manners and remember not to talk with your mouth full."

Submitting dumbly to the directives given to her, Marjory started again. She did just as Jennifer insisted, she clamped her lips over Pru's vibrant, smeary helmet and sucked avidly. She knew what would eventually happen of course - it was what she wanted to happen, it was a thing she sometimes daydreamed about - but would she accept the reality or be revolted by it?

The sissy-thing make a loud moaning sound of a kind she'd rarely heard before and it made her lips move with increasing frenzy, forward and back, then forward again taking the succulent flesh as deep as it would go.

Caught up in the throes of hot excitement she clasped the sissy's bare buttocks with one hand and burrowing a finger into his anus, feeling the hot insides close around it as she pushed it in and out of his tight, hot tunnel. Then she flinched as the youngster, enfolded in a paroxysm of pleasure, uttered a shuddering squawk and ejaculated his sissy-boy juice into her mouth.

Her former misgivings were settled immediately when she allowed the squirting penis to empty its entire squidgy hot load and didn't make an attempt to avoid any of it. In fact she greedily gathered the bolus of it on her tongue, and shaking with excitement she consumed every drop the pantywaist could deliver, even licking her lips before drawing away.

 

The afternoon drew to a close; clouds were building up over the church spire of St Cuthbert's two miles away in Little Lush Bottom as a chauffeur driven limousine elegantly crunched the gravel at the side of the house. It was a prelude to whisking the newly married Mrs Van Damme and her feminine boy-wife away on the first leg of the journey to their honeymoon retreat.

Marianne came out from the house where he'd been given a chance to change into his going-away outfit, which on this occasion was unquestionably demure and debonair. His face was made-up in feminine splendour and everyone admired the bright turquoise two-piece suit he was wearing, a bolero jacket over a frilly white blouse and a skirt cut just above his knees

"Look after my flowers while I'm away." he pleaded to Madame with a sad, pouty face. "I'll come and collect them when I get back from Tuscudy."

She noticed that Clementine and the woman's raffish looking nephew Percy were accompanying them on their honeymoon, a strange arrangement and one that guaranteed Mrs Van Damme didn't intend to monopolise the blushing bride.

"Marianne will never be anything other than an effeminate sexual slave who may have a few privileges."

"Such an arrangement will suit Marianne well enough. He's quite happy being told what to do, and being faithful to one lover as never been his strong point."

Jennifer knew that. She knew he was in the habit of seducing the delivery boys or any other male that came to the back door, and she could always tell from the glow on his face when such a thing had happened. But marriage! Could such a thing work? she pondered. What if it were only a passing fancy with Mrs Van Damme, a holiday romance sort of fling? She said she loved him. But how could she love him? And why?

The answer was fairly easy when she thought more about it: Marianne was a promiscuous prick pleasing featherbrain, but he was also beautiful and gentle and vulnerable in an old fashioned way. It would be easy for anyone to fall in love with him.

"I do hope things go well for him, but I have the terrible feeling that this so-called wedding has been nothing more than an elaborate amusement for a bored society hostess."

Madame felt just a little uneasy, but she was convinced that being wedded to a woman like Mrs Van Damme would be ideal for Marianne. She offered a superior sort of love - one with a very good bank balance attached, which would replace his previous rather precarious life with a glorious tapestry of comfort, style and opportunity. And what was more, according to Marianne himself, she was a much better lover than most men.

"So do I." she admitted, "But as an insurance against the woman becoming bored and throwing him out I insisted she set up a trust-fund he can access on his eighteenth birthday. He won't be left penniless, and he can always return to me."

As the limousine drew away Marianne's eyes sparkled and he grinned gleefully as he waddled his fingers against the window. Everyone waved and shouted back. "Good luck." "See you soon." "Have a nice time."

"I shall miss the dear creature." declared Madame wiping away the threat of a tear. "We've been together a long time and he's become a sort of second daughter to me. But I think he'll be happy. I think he's found his feet and his home."

"And Mrs Van Damme as probably found her clitoris." added Jennifer.

Speechless for a moment Madame was about to admonish her crude impropriety, but then decided it didn't matter.

The summer season was over. Everyone would go to their own homes in the morning and the Frilly Follies would only be a memory for them. Not for her though. Right away she would need to begin talent spotting during her winter dance classes. Marianne may not be available for next years show, and some of her other darlings would be unable to return for a new production, so she needed to seek out suitable replacements. For her it never ended. For her the whole year was showtime.

  

  

  

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