Date: Fri, 27 Aug 2004 20:36:11 +0100
From: jason argo <jacklloyd22@hotmail.com>
Subject: Fairyfield Grange  part 13

The lady from the National Trust announced herself warmly as Pamela Upduff.
Miriam assessed her behind a polite smile as she led her into her study. She
was smartly dressed, about fifty and had no rings on her fingers, so she was
probably unmarried. She also had a well-boned face which had probably been
lifted. Miriam was quite certain it had been lifted.
Gloria brought in coffee and Miriam, not in the mood to be civil,
ostentatiously served herself first.
"Well!" she said, reclining in her chair and glaring.

"I should like to say," Pamela began with a smile - as she always began,
"how deeply the Trust appreciates your willingness to hear its point of
view. It really is the best way forward with them and will pay dividends in
the future."

Miriam grimaced her hostility. "I'm not about to give in to them. I intend
to fight their claim to my house. I've enough funds to invite Sir Gordon
Pettifore to present my case in court and he's the best there is."

Her visitor offered her a sad smile. "Yes of course, but you won't know yet
that you've been gazumped. Sir Gordon as already accepted a better offer
from The Trust to represent them."
She shook her head soulfully. "Lawyers! However eminent they become they're
always so avaricious, aren't they? What would you do with them?"

Miriam clenched her fists. Right at that moment she could list a number of
nasty things she'd like to do with Sir Gordon Pettifore, but the woman
didn't give her time to dwell on them.

"It's par for the course, you see. The Trust always win in cases such as
this so it would be wiser to accept the inevitable and concede before
wasting a great deal of money. And it really would be the best way to signal
Albert Fairyfield's generosity."

"Generosity!" Miriam spat. "Uncle Albert was never generous to anyone in his
life. He was a shallow-minded scrooge and a devious bastard."

Ms Upduff's smile showed no sign of wilting. "The Trust understands how you
cherish this house and what a shock news of your uncles endowment to an
organisation such as ours must be. All of us at the Trust appreciate that."

Miriam's shoulders sprang forward. "His WHAT?" Her mouth remained open. "Did
you say 'endowment'? Are you telling me he left money? Are you claiming
money as well as the house?" She waved her arms about as if to suggest the
very air she breathed was being stolen from her.
"Endowment!" she repeated. "Endowment for what, for Christ's sake?"

Pamela's smile withered a little, but only a little. "Miss Hancock. The
expense ..."

Miriam gave a snort. "You mean you'll except the gift of the house only if a
gift of money goes with it. It's outrageous. Such an endowment rightly
belongs to me. This is MY house."

"Yes, yes. We at the Trust understand your feelings and you may go on living
here, you and your family in perpetuity. That's always been the policy with
us. And by the way my name is Pamela."

Miriam ran a hand over the back of her neck and bellowed a rye laugh. Her
uncle had made a fiasco of his last will and testament, no doubt purposely
making it sketchy and ambiguous and subject to legal interpretation. No
wonder the women at the care-home had said he died content. The decrepit old
git probably laughed himself to death.

"I have to tell you Ms Upduff," she remonstrated, ignoring the woman's plea
for first name intimacy, "I may not possess a Nobel Prize-winning brain. In
fact I've probably only got one more O-level in education than most of the
Royal Family, so you'll have to bear with me. Are you seriously telling me
my own uncle left YOU a sum of money to allow ME to live in my own house? Is
that what you're saying?"

"If you don't oppose us you'd be assured of a rent-free home, Miriam.
Unfortunately if you dispute the matter the outcome may not be so sweet. Be
sensible. Fairyfield Grange could prove quite a viable tourist attraction
and everyone could benefit. Naturally the Trust will meet all structural
costs to facilitate the house being open to visitors, and you'd only have to
meet the annual running costs, which are unlikely to exceed œ30,000 for a
property of this size."

Miriam did what she always did when she felt at a disadvantage. She buried
her emotions, sucked in a deep breath and pretended everything was under
control. Control was important she reminded herself, and if she didn't have
feelings she couldn't be hurt. It all came down to control.
She shuffled uncomfortably. "We're well off the beaten track and too far off
from established tourist routes. No one would ever come here."

"I'm certain that won't be the case when we put our minds to it." Pamela
smiled blithely, "We can easily promote a flavour of Jane Eyre romance about
this location and even suggest it was obliquely mentioned in the Bronte
novel. That would have people pouring in, they'd love it.
Chance Hall isn't far off, and stately homes always whip up bags of interest
too, and there's also some ruins of an old Saxon church at Peasmarsh that I
have to investigate. That kind of thing isn't important as far as the Trust
is concerned of course but it's all grist to the mill of tourism."

She glanced about and simpered slightly. "I've done a little research on
Fairyfield Grange in the Bodeian Library already and although the Fairyfield
family were business people and much lampooned in their time for putting on
airs and graces, they did come into prominence towards the end of the 19th
Century. The Prince of Wales brought shooting-parties here once or twice
before he became Edward VII, and there's an indication Queen Victoria may
once have visited. Any suggestion of royalty is good fodder for visitors,
the American's especially love that kind of thing. When the legal issues are
done with my instinct would be to redecorate and furnish all the apartments
in the late Victorian style."

Miriam sat down and no longer participated in the conversation, but Ms
Upduff didn't seem to notice and managed quite well to continue on her own.
On and on she prattled, making it obvious that in her mind the ownership of
Fairyfield Grange had already been settled.
She wasn't bad looking for a middle-aged woman and would probably have made
a good shag, but her verbosity meant any partner would need to stuff her
knickers in her mouth before doing anything else.

Pamela said she wouldn't return until things were finally settled, but then
there would be some things to arrange. Such things as insurance, a
structural survey of the building and an inventory of its contents. Extra
toilets would doubtless be needed and there would have to be special
facilities for the disabled to meet current standards for tourism.
She would put forward a case for retaining the school of course, but frankly
running schools didn't benefit the Trust and it was invariably felt that
educating children was best left to other organisations.

By the time she was ready to depart Miriam felt shattered, but she was not
spared the coup-de-grace.
"Your garden is a masterpiece," remarked Ms Upduff, "Unfortunately much of
it will need to be sacrificed. It will be imperative to have good hard
standing for motor-coaches and cars."

When finally alone Miriam mused dismally about the future. It seemed that
the whole world had stopped. The silence that now descended felt like
shell-shock, and beneath the brittle surface of her exterior she was in
broken pieces. She had a premonition that however well her case was
presented in court, she was going to lose, and in essence the Upduff
creature had said that her school, her only source of income, would be
closed, but she'd still need to find œ30,000 each year if she wanted the
discretionary right to live in the museum that replaced it.
To add insult to injury she would also be expected to play host to
coachloads of tourists, or pay someone else to do it for her. That wasn't
the kind of future she'd envisioned for herself when coming to Fairyfield
Grange and it wasn't one easy to settle for. It was both repugnant and
financially unsustainable.

For what seemed an age there was no sound in the room except for the faint
ticking of a carriage clock on the mantleshelf and the pacing of her feet up
and down on the carpet. A caged animal seeking escape.
She needed to clear her head and think things through. Something would turn
up and save her. Something always did. Until then she had to keep her nerve,
remain calm and maintain normality. The school routines must not suffer and
Open Day must go ahead exactly as planned.
The room suddenly became claustrophobic. She gave a long sigh, then picked
up a folder marked 'Solicitors' and flung it to the floor. She glared at it
for a moment, then deliberately put her foot on it as she went out the door.

Outside she skirted the lawn where Hardwick was rehearsing with the ten
sissies chosen for the aerobic display she'd planned for Open Day. They were
all naked except for tiny thong-pants and were high-stepping and swinging
about to a tempo called out by the tutor.
"One, two, three. Up, two, three." sang out the ageing dancemaster
rhythmically.

Still feeling irritated, Miriam paused. "Mr Hardwick, I do hope we aren't
going to have to put up with that wretched shouting on the actual day."

Hardwick called his dancing troupe to a halt, and they  stood quite still,
legs together, arms down by their sides.
Unrequested, he then jogged across the grass towards her.

"I shall provide the beat of taped music eventually headmistress but
initially I find it best to call out the time." He smiled. "Actually, I
wanted to have a word with you about their appearance. They're all lovely as
you can see and they'll use lipstick and make-up on Open Day of course, but
I was thinking of enhancing things with some additional items. Cocktail
gloves would look rather splendid, and a chest harness would accentuate
their little puppy breasts delightfully."

Miriam felt in no mood to make promises and gave him a grim look.
"I'm not prepared to lay out great expense on this Mr Hardwick. Chest
harness's would need to be custom made for such creatures, but you may speak
to Gloria about acquiring gloves at the local jumble-sales if you wish."
She cast a critical eye over the group standing on the lawn, then added.
"Also speak with Mrs Pardoe about their posing-pouches. They should be
minimal and made of nylon. Such items should be delicate enough and tight
enough to give broad hints as to the shape of the anatomy they contain."

Desperate to find some other distraction she headed for the gymnasium where
Jennifer was entertaining Lady Diana. Hardwick had been told to take his
class outside to free-up the facilities, and her daughter, her vicegerent in
that days business, was in charge of her visitor.
They were the only people present when she arrived. Jennifer, dressed in
skirt and high-heels stood out in high contrast to Diana who was wearing the
schoolgirl gym-kit of blue serge knickers and white singlet, and who was
looking rather hot-eyed and tearful. Her unhappiness probably had a lot to
do with the way her vest had been looped up over her handsome bare breasts,
and the fact that the breasts themselves appeared pink and sore, as if they
had recently been the target for several sharp smacks.

Miriam recalled how Diana had pleaded not to be given over to the stern
attentions of Jennifer whom she considered a mere child. Being disciplined
by a girl half her own age would humiliate her terribly, she'd said, but
Miriam had explained that humiliation was part of the process she wished to
inflict, and she must submit to anyone nominated to take her own place.

"I've tried exercising her ladyship, but she's absolutely useless in the
gymnasium mummy." Jennifer remarked testily when she arrived. "She can't
climb ropes, can't jump over a twig, and she runs around with her hands
flapping like a pregnant fairy. I've had to hound her from start to finish."

Diana hung her head and gazed dismally at the floor, but Miriam grabbed her
chin and pulled her face up.
"I need cheering up your ladyship, and I know you have connections with the
Prime Minister's office, so I've been giving some thought to the New Years
Honours List. I want you to propose me for something. An OBE will be good
enough for the moment, it will add to the prestige of the school if I've a
few initials behind my name."

Diana looked startled. "B-but headmistress, I-I'd need to qualify such a
recommendation, and I - I ..."

"Invent some appropriate fiction, you've always been good at doing that."
Miriam snapped in bad temper. She half turned away, then turned back. "And
while you're at it, and since you're involved with The National Trust, get
them to stop challenging Albert Fairyfield's last will and testament."

"A will? A bequest? I'm only a patron of the Trust, I just attend an
occasional banquet. I don't have anything to do with its administration. I
don't actually DO anything."

"Really! Well, you're going to have to change the habit of a lifetime
milady, because its my home they're threatening to take from me, and if I
end up suffering you're going to suffer along with me."

"Honestly, Mir ... Headmistress, I'd help if I could, but contesting wills
will be managed by a department quite separate from anything I know about."

Miriam's strong slender fingers grasped her by the hair, hauling her head
back and making her wince, then she leaned forward until their faces were
only inches apart. All the venom she'd pent up during her meeting with
Pamela Upduff was now vented on Diana.

"You've always been fond of crowing about the influence you can exert on
events, so start putting it to some use. Threaten people. Lie, cheat, charm
them, but do something. Murder them, you useless bitch, kidnap their
children or seduce them, but get them to quosh all this legal rigmarole, you
fucking ratbag."

The impact of her temper shook Diana forcibly. There was sufficient violence
in her eyes to make her aristocratic pride evaporate and she became ashen
white, staring in horror, her bare breasts shaking while her hands clenched
and unclenched. For a moment she thought she was going to be sick, but
suddenly Miriam's voice took on a more consolatory tone.
"Afterwards, if you're successful, I'll give you the photographs that cause
you such embarrassment, and you'll free never to come here again. But as
sure as eggs are eggs if I lose my school you'll lose your reputation, so
you'd better think carefully before you insist on saying you can't help me."

Jennifer moved up beside Diana and pulled the distraught aristocrat nearer
as her mother stormed out through the door, and purposely neglectful of
offering an explanation she smoothed her fingers up the back of her legs.
Her hand slid high, stroking across the seat of the woman's pants, dallying
in the crease between her cheeks and then tickling at the insides of her
thighs.
"Mummy's upset. I think it would be wise to try and help her, don't you?"
she said.

"Yes, yes. I promise to try" Diana replied heatedly.
Little by little the elastic of her schoolgirl knickers was dragged down
from her waist, then came the slither as they dropped from her hips and
descended to her knees. Diana stood stock still and a funny little feeling
floated around inside her tummy as she allowed them to fall to her ankles.

"You don't need them," Jennifer told her, patting her trembling bottom, "I
think you agree, don't you?"

"Oh - yes, Jennifer."

"Yes of course you do. You're a big girl now, you know your own mind."

"Yes, Jennifer."

"What a pity a big girl like you as to be treated like a little girl, eh?"

"Um - y-yes Jennifer."

"Yes of course. Mummy was rather short with you, and rather brutal. Pulling
your hair as if you were a naughty little girl."
A final pat on the bare rump. "At least she didn't cane you. You've not been
caned yet, have you? Do you want the cane?"

Diana had a job making her words come out. "N-no, not really."

"No, and there's no reason why you should be caned. You're a lady and you're
not used to it, and you've been a good girl so far. But we haven't quite
finished and I may have to cane you afterwards.
Tell you what - since mummy was so nasty to you I'll let you have some fun.
IF you agree and make a good job of it, and if you're a VERY good girl -
I'll let you off with the cane. All right?"

Diana grabbed at the chance. If there was one thing she dreaded it was
getting caned, and she especially dreaded the prospect of being caned by a
girl half her own age.

With a blizzard of stinging smacks she was told to climb down onto her
knees.
"Hands on head, Diana." Jennifer told her as she went off to find a chair.
Sitting down and elegantly draping one leg over the other a strange smile
lingered on her face.
"Kneel in front of me - " she demanded, flexing her foot at the subservient
woman's smoothly shaven thighs, "- then straggle my shoe."

A flush of uncertainty glowed on Diana's face and her hesitancy brought a
swift response from the teenager.
"Do as I say or I'll cane your tits as well as your bottom, you
over-privileged, useless cow."

Diana wilted and awkwardly shuffled forward to mount her self on the pointy
toe of the girls shoe. She wasn't sure what was happening and caught a sharp
breath as the hard patent leather dug into her soft, intimate parts.

"I'm not often so obliging," Jennifer remarked glibly, "but today I'm
feeling magnanimous, so as long as you're not too long-winded about it you
may jerk yourself off with my foot."

Lady Diana's face burned hot and she was loath to admit to the tingle in her
swollen clitoris. How could the girl - a stripling juvenile - expect her to
humiliate herself in such a shameless way?
The answer was obvious. She'd already allowed her to smack her bottom and
her breasts, and she'd made no forceful protest when the girls inquisitive
fingers had undressed her and touched her up. Nevertheless she felt bound to
say something.
"Jennifer, I'm not a lesbian."

The girl remained unimpressed. "So you keep saying. But even if you're not
you'll do as I wish. You're not as pure white as you like to paint yourself.
I know exactly what you pay Monica Braithwait to do in the stables at Chance
Hall."

Diana's face drained. "That girl - I'll - I'll -"

Jennifer leaned forward. "You'll never sack her. You'd never find someone
else to do the same kind of thing, and you'd miss that."
Enjoy watching Monica toss-off horses, do you? Do you like to see them shoot
into her face? Do you pay her extra if she swallows stuff?"

Diana struggled to rise above shame. "She's never pressed into doing
anything. S-she thinks it a lark."

"Does she take equine cock in her pussy?"

"Not the stallions. Only a pony or two. See here Jennifer, I really can't -"

The woman stopped talking abruptly as Jennifer gripped her chin and brushed
some strands of hair from her eyes.
"Don't start answering back Diana. You don't want the cane - do you?"

Diana didn't, not one little bit. The toe of the shoe twitched and nudged
her straining clitoris, tormenting her with a touch of sensual electricity
and changing her protests into subtle little moans.

"There! Reminiscing as rather stirred you up I think." Jennifer mused, "I
bet it's beginning to feel quite pleasant, isn't it?"

"Oh - oh, yes Jennifer." Diana's thighs seemed to melt and she began to pant
and squirm down on the hard point of the shoe. Yes, suddenly it was feeling
utterly wonderful. Could it be that the humiliation was exciting her?

Her tormentor put on a pretence of being thoughtful. "Em! Perhaps I'm being
too stern. Maybe I'm demanding too much of you. Have you had enough? Do you
want to stop?"
Diana rolled her eyes dementedly. "N-no - no - please -"

"You're making my shoe quite sopping, girl. Are you sure?"

Her ladyship groaned. "No - not now - don't m-make me stop yet - please."
Damn the girl. She was teasing her. She knew very well she didn't want to
finish yet. She couldn't call a stop until the tingle between her legs had
developed into a mighty explosion.
Her heated breath pumped from her mouth in rapid little gasps and she had an
impulse to grasp the shoe and heave and scrape solidly against it.

Jennifer seemed to read her mind.
"Keep your hands on your head Diana - and DO get your porky little clit' to
show some urgency about this or we'll be here until suppertime."

Then Diana's pelvis began to plunge and jive as she frantically dragged her
slushy wet vagina back and forth across the toe of the girls shoe, carefully
ensuring her throbbing clitoris sawed purposefully against its hard tip.
"Ooh, Jennifer - oooh, yes. I'm trying to hurry. Oooh, thankyou Jennifer.
Thank you."

***

That evening Miriam Hancock called everyone into the staff common-room to
explain the kind of threat Fairyfield Grange was now under. Her words were
ordinary enough and it wasn't the first time she'd used similar ones, but
everyone could see that this time she was truly concerned. They had worked
with her long enough to know every phase of her reaction to practically
every kind of situation and they could tell that whatever the trouble was
this time, it was bad.

She didn't actually say the school would close if the National Trust took
control, but the air of gloom that followed her opening statement told her
they all knew what it would mean. It would mean Fairyfield would become
nothing more than a venue for visiting tourists.

"Of course I intend to fight like blazes to keep things as they are, but I
must survive, and if I fail I must find œ30,000 each year just to remain
here."

"No school!" mouthed Mrs Pardoe in stupefied horror. "I've always worked
with children. I don't know anything about doing other kind of work."

"Even if the worse comes to the worse there will still be a requirement for
staff here," Miriam added in an attempt to mollify, "There will be a need
for various tour-guides and assistants." She gazed down at the table around
which they had all gathered. "Of course I can't guarantee the kind of
salaries such posts will merit and that may cause some of you concern."

Emma Twist slumped in her chair. "Ice-cream kiosks and souvenir shops! I
couldn't stay here if they turn the place into a funfair. I'll go. I'll just
go."

She stared fixedly at her hands and no one else moved for a moment. Then
Hardwick leaned forward.
"It may not be so bad. The Grange could be used as a conference centre in
the closed season. Lot's of places do that. Medical conferences for
instance, paediatricians for example. Children's health is all the rage
lately."

"Or a rural craft show," suggested matron, trying to warm to the subject of
alternatives. "There's battalions of potters and weavers who'd want to come
here. Yorkshires stiff with people doing things with their hands."

"Most of 'em are wanking." Mrs Pardoe said glumly.

Matron tried again. "A music festival then. How about that? We could have a
rock festival in the grounds at Halloween and Christmas."

"You've forgotten what winter on the Yorkshire moors is like, matron. It's
proper arctic sometimes." Gloria put in.

Matron tutted. "Well at other times of the year then. Goodness are we
completely bereft of imagination?"

"Such affairs inevitably turn into drug-fests." remarked Hardwick, gloomily
shaking his head.

"Tourists, eh!" Gloria chipped in again thoughtfully. "I wonder if them
Nationalists have had a proper look at the roof-line yet. Them carvin's up
there will have to be screened else they'll have some old pensioners chokin'
on their peppermints."

Miss Hancock looked at her watch. It was 8-0-clock and the pupils had been
without any supervision except that provided by Jennifer for half an hour,
while the debate in the common-room was beginning to deteriorate.

"Nothing's going to happen before the end of term," she said fiercely, "The
legal business won't get a ruling for six weeks or more, and since my Uncle
Albert was pretty much gaga much of the time before he popped his clogs his
will is certain to contain some ambiguities that could turn in my favour. I
want our routines here to continue as normal until the outcome is known, and
that includes preparations for Open Day. So let's get back to work."

***

That evening Parson Roper took a stroll after choir-practise.
"Physical activity is a prerequisite for a healthy mind,." he was fond of
declaring, "the languishing of sinew and muscle is all too relevant to the
degeneration of the brain."
Not that he was overly extravagant with his own exercise. He was small and
unctuous and his lump-like bulk was too ungainly to carry him far beyond the
village boundary, so he partook of his constitutional in the small wooded
spinney behind the church.

He had never come to terms with the poor opinion his wife had of him. The
two of them had not enjoyed any kind of marital relationship for years. Not
since he'd suggested doing something other than an act for possible
procreation at bedtime. The idea of sodomy had appalled her, she'd called
him a pervert and had actually suggested he was homosexual.

Stuff and nonsense of course. A cruel jibe and blatantly untrue. Everything
he did was driven by circumstance. The fact that he always kept a young lad
behind after choir-practise and had his pants off was purely a circumstance.
Girls were not as accessible as boys. There were some fast young ladies in
the village but a parish priest could hardly associate with those, and
people tended to watch over the younger, deliciously unsullied ones, like
hawks, still maintaining the belief that a good girl's maidenhood should
remain intact until marriage.

He paused in his stride to contemplate the wonderful load of manly cum he'd
so recently dispatched into Alister's lovely squirming bottom that evening.
For the first time Alister had worn stockings to please him, and that had
added extra spice to the experience. Some boys were adorably pretty when
dressed as girls, and it had been his habit to use them in the way other men
used females since his time as a curate. But his service with the Bishop of
Castleford proved he wasn't homosexual.

The bishop had a kind of deal with the nearby catholic convent school, and
all the intimate ecclesiastic seminars he held with his cleric friends were
visited by sweet little girls.
My! Those occasions had been bacchanalian orgies of the most degenerate
kind. It was a truism that man's greatest challenge was to pursue pure
thoughts while ignoring the dictates of his cock, but so often the pure
thoughts emerged as losers.
He'd never dared ask the ages of the dear things brought in to provide the
entertainment, but certainly they were small, flat-chested and smooth all
over when their clothes were removed, and their delicate pussies were
exquisitely tight for the first two or three cocks that entered them. His
performance at those parties should leave no one in doubt as to his true
sexuality.

Rising out from his reverie he became aware of two people a short way ahead
of him on the woodland path. Mrs Boroclough and Mrs Tichborne.
He tutted in irritation. They had paused  to gossip, and on drawing level he
would be obliged to pass the time of day, and of course that would give Mrs
Boroclough the chance to harangue him yet again about the unsatisfactory
affairs at Fairyfield Grange.

Veering off to avoid them he took a less used path through the trees, and
the leafy track took him past the crumbing remains of an ancient Saxon
church.
Saxon church! That was pure hokum used by the locals to try and drum up
tourist trade. The truth was in the parish records, which described the
building that had once stood there as a commodious cottage that had been
erected by the Fairyfield family in the 19th Century as a refuge for local
waifs and orphans. Apparently it had been a place of great ill repute for
the whole of its existence, a location frequented by wealthy farmers and
anonymous, cloak shrouded gentry during the failing light of each evening.

The broken walls of the ruin loomed to the side of him like the stump of a
gigantic rotten molar, barely shoulder height now and covered with lichen
and every other kind of natures sepsis.
Overhead a black and white jay screeched its annoyance at being disturbed,
but it wasn't himself that had disturbed it. He heard other noises,
indistinct muffled sounds that he interpreted as somebody up to no good.
Amorous frolicking, marital treachery with a neighbour perhaps, or randy
young teenagers surrendering to lust.

He threaded his way forward to where the trees gave way to a thicket and
then his piggy-eyes widened and brightened as he saw the first expanse of
bare flesh.
Finding a patch of bush that would screen him form those he was observing he
parted it to gain a better view; and then his mouth fell open in a long wide
gape ... he saw the figure of a man laying prone against one of the derelict
walls. It was Mr Larkin, and so wide was his frame it took a moment or two
to realise he wasn't alone. Beneath the shopowners bulk lay the
spread-eagled form of a young girl. A very young girl.
Goodness! thought Roper, the disgusting man was fornicating with a child!

Larkin's trousers had been hitched down and his bare rump and thighs were
rising up and plunging down between her legs with great vigour. The girl was
naked, the calves of her small legs resting on the mans shoulders as he
pushed his considerable assets in and out of her very stretched, hairless
little pussy-hole, and rolled his head in the moist agony of breathless
pleasure.
Hunkering down Parson Roper sheepishly began to monitor the event, moving a
branch of gorse out of the way to gain a better view. The idea of Larkin's
fat cock ploughing a little girl's tight pussy was deplorable, unacceptable.
Lovely!


The girl was moaning and sighing, but she wasn't being raped. Her slim arms
were clutching at the mans back and holding him rather than struggling, and
her noises were comparable with the gasps of the boys who's backsides he
pumped so often in the vestry. Moreover, the girl's slender bare knees were
bent up and splayed out each side of the mans humping thighs and she was
moving her hips in a subtle suggestive shunt. She appeared to be accepting
his lust and meeting every lung.

He couldn't see every detail, but he could imagine the child's juicy, little
pink pussy stretching wide and sliding up and down the shopkeepers big,
porky rod. His own cock gave a couple of spasms in his pants and stood up
like a truncheon as he watched the man's palyderm dick stabbing up and down;
in and out. It was a raunchy scheme that soon had his own randy peg
stirring, and almost thoughtlessly he hauled his it out from his trousers
and slowly began to milk it.

Larkin made a noisy finish, and a few moments later extracted his deflating,
elephantine penis.
As he lifted up from between the girls legs she gave a plaintiff gasp.
"Ooow, Unkky! Ooooh, Uncle Larks!"
It was then the parson recognised the girl as Pauline, the daughter of the
shopkeepers own sister.
The disgusting man had been having sex with his niece.

Larkin said something to the girl, took a moment to fasten his trousers,
then walked off alone, leaving her sitting on the ground with her dress
fully open at the front and her underwear several feet away on the ground.
Roper eased his erection back into his trousers and prepared to slink away,
but the girl's previous distraction had departed and now she saw him.

"Parson!"
Her shocked exclamation struck him like a bullet and he shuddered. Having
been spotted he now felt obliged to play out a farcical game of righteous
indignation, and he wheeled about and walked towards her.

"Was you watchin' us parson?" the girl asked, climbing to her feet and
pulling her dress across her body.

"Not from any desire to do so, I assure you," growled Roper, "But only
because the Lord set my foot on the path to witness abomination. I saw
everything, and what you were doing with your uncle was vile and
reprehensible. Have you no shame child? Have you learned nothing from Sunday
School?"

He thought to shroud his own guilt in a ponderous, pious sermon, but his
words suddenly stuck like jam in his mouth.
The girl swung her face away to avoid his stare. "Uncle Larks give me
presents, an' mum says its all right to do stuff with him as long as we're
careful."

Roper made a desperate face and ran his fingers through his thinning hair.
These modern young girls were different to the one's he'd known as a child.
All the anatomical secrets of a male were known to them even before they
left school.
"I despair child. How am I to save you?"

Unruffled by his upbraiding, Pauline's eyes turned back and scanned the
front of his trousers, at once noticing the unmistakable tenting. She
studied it sceptically before allowing the front of her dress to fall open
and reveal a generous portion of the slender naked child-body within its
drapes.
She was an extraordinarily attractive thing, smooth and bewitching. The
vulval cleft at the apex of her thighs was well defined and still devoid of
pubic fluff, while two immature breasts no bigger than half lemons and
looking soft and malleable, stood out from her chest.
When she raised her eyes they were unafraid and immediately locked onto his.
"D'yer wanna have a go with me, sir?"

Unable to respond quickly to such unexpected candidness from one so young
Roper licked his lips. Her words ate at him like acid, not resting until
they laid bare the excitement he was trying to conceal.
"Well, erm - er, perhaps just for a little while, if you've no objection."
he replied, glossing over the husky catch in his voice.

Suddenly in a hurry he brushed the dress from her shoulders and ogled her
small, young body, naked now but for little socks and a pair of sandals.

"Me uncle likes me to suck his knob 'fore he starts. Do you want me to do
that?"

"Oh, erm, er -"

"It's all right sir, I don't mind doin' it." she said as she clambered down
onto her knees and set about dragging the stiff flesh from the front of his
trousers.
The moment his penis was liberated she grabbed hold of it and jinked the
solid meat in her small hand whilst observing the flaring meatus of its fat,
round tip. She then wiped the broad bulb up and down her cheeks.

The girl appeared to smile as she played games with the parsons manhood, but
she applied her lips quite firmly when she placed the tip into her mouth.
Then her head bobbed back and forth, and she proved herself just as adept as
Mrs Amos or any of the boys in the church choir.
"Does yer wanna slop over me face, sir?" she asked as she drew her head
back.
Larkin had taught her to perform in an exemplary manner and she was utterly
without any sense of shame, and it was a great temptation to hose-off over
her sweet upturned face and spread a trail of cum around her little nose and
mouth.
Perhaps another time, thought Roper. Unfair cruel criticism of his sexual
orientation compelled him on this occasion to prove he was still capable of
fornication with a female.

Pauline's bald charms became exposed and he stroked the tip of his penis
down the crack of her hairless split peach and rolled it insistently against
where instinct directed him.
The entrance of her gash was slightly open as a result of her uncle's recent
monumental visit, and as he pushed forward and wormed his stiff member
against it the delicate flesh parted to embrace the head of his penis with
moist, clinging heat.

A breathless sigh evacuated between his lips. Conscious only of his own
elation, the parson burrowed forcefully, and as his flesh slid deeper he
felt the girl's flesh expand to form a cloying ring about the its girth.
"Oh, umm - umm!" Pauline nibbled her lip and squinted up at him as the
exocrine composition of her vagina surrendered to his advance, its flesh
seeming to grip him and mould around every nodule and indentation of his
penis with semi-liquid tenacity.

Roper grunted too. It had been ages - years since he'd had carnal relations
with a female, and as his manhood slicked in and out of her all
encompassing, narrow tunnel he realised he'd almost forgotten how pleasant
it could be. More than pleasant with having the use of the tender bodied
little darling he was squeezing into at that moment. Such a slender young
body. Such a tight, smooth chute gripping his thick, watering stalk.
As his penis slid easily back and forth he recalled seeing Larkin's mammoth
tool slimed with gooey juice, so he realised that things were doubtless
lubricated by that man's considerable ejaculation.

"I'm not as big as your uncle." he gasped almost apologetically.

The girl's small, waif-like frame wriggled under the bulk of his belly.
"That's all right parson, you feel okay to me," she panted while starting to
pump with her hips, "Move it inside me. Ooow, yes. Shove it right up, sir!
Uncle Lark's gets me pills from America wot means I won't have babies, so
you can fill me up to the brim with your spunk-stuff."

Roper pushed his hands under her arms and hooked his fingers onto her
shoulders to hold her steady while he humped her . The delicious in and out
jigging soon had him sucking his teeth.
"My word, you're a right hot little sausage-taker an' no mistake. Good job
you're taking something, 'cos I'm likely to fill you with a lot of little
Roper's soon."

Perhaps it was just habit, but he couldn't entirely put aside the attraction
which fascinated him most, that being the indisputable allure of the
underage bottom. Larkin may have stolen his young nieces virginity, but he
was prepared to wager a Sunday service collection the shopkeeper was yet to
visit where he himself longed to go.
Gently, carefully, he extracted himself.
"Turn over and get onto your knees, sweetheart. Let's try something else."
he urged.

"Is you gunna do me the doggy-way, parson?"

"The doggy-way? Well yes, a sort of doggy-way." he assured her as she
clambered onto all fours.

Installing himself behind her he stroked her slim hips before drawing his
hands back to find her lovely little cheeks were as soft as butter. Small in
his broad hands, they were tempting, inviting. Just a small amount of
superfluous young flesh to spread open in order to expose her little anus to
the whim of his straining boner.
His fingers brushed across her little pucker, stroking and caressing it.

Pauline wriggled and her body jerked nervously. "Hey!"
Undaunted he hauled her back and traced his swollen knob around the tiny
rosette before pressing against it.

"Ahh, oh parson, what are you doin'? I don't like that. I don't want it in
my arse."

"Relax and you'll come to enjoy it, I assure you."

"Unnh! Wait 'til I get used to it then, an' don't do it too fast."

Lubricated only by a cocktail of the girls vaginal juice and Larkin's semen
Roper gave it his best effort, screwing in slowly but surely at first and
loving the narrowness of the previously unsullied junior orifice.

Anguish registered on Pauline's small face because he wasn't entirely
gentle. He moved in close, his hands taking a rough grip on her hips while
his big tool pushed insistently into her bum-hole. The girl tried to let it
in with minimal discomfort, but too slowly, and she squealed as six inches
went in with one thrust.

The parson made a noise too. Breaking in fresh little bottoms was a chore he
never despised. Innocent pussy-holes certainly had some attraction, but he
had to admit he particularly loved shagging young, virgin arse.
"Oooow parson," wailed Pauline, "It hurts. Hurry up and finish."

Roper rejoiced. He was entirely wedged in the place he favoured most, and
his excitement was suddenly unendurable. The girls rear end was as snug as
that of any virgin alter-boy, and ecstasy permeated every nerve ending as he
grasped her hips, heaved back, then shoved his cock as deep as it would go.

Pauline squirmed and tried to stretch away, but he hauled her back and
started to pump rhythmically.
He was unable to hold things in long. The excitement was too intense. He
felt his cock twitch inside the little-girl bum, and he groaned with
perverse relish as a rush of elation quivered through his limbs. In no more
than a few moments a flood of semen gushed the length of his randy stem and
proceeded to squirt a large sticky deposit into Pauline's newly breached
rectum.

For a while afterwards he convulsed and churned his thighs as raw pleasure
consumed his consciousness, but when his senses began to recover his vision
unaccountably focused on a tiny glint of shiny metal wedged in the dirt and
rotten mortar binding the stones of what had once been the doorstep of the
old tumbledown cottage.
It seemed insignificant at that time; a mere piece of debris inadvertently
dropped and trodden underfoot countless years ago, and obscured by nature
and exposed by rain on numerous occasions since.
But something inside Roper urged him to investigate further. Pauline gave a
thankful groan as he extracted his softening penis from her bottom, then
free to move he scrabbled with his fingers around the item he'd seen.

Wonder of wonders! Out from the grasp of the crumbling brickwork he prised a
large, slightly misshapen signet ring. It was surmounted by a cryptic
cypher, and he sensed at once he'd found the long lost Claudia ring of the
Fairyfield's.
It was astounding, yet it made perfect sense. The Fairyfield family had paid
for the construction of the building that had once stood there, and some of
them had probably been frequent visitors. The ring had undoubtedly slipped
unnoticed from a finger nearly a century ago and been ground between the
bricks by the trample of feet.
It was perhaps remarkable that had it not been for a humble village
clergyman wishing to experience the delights of a young girls bottom it may
have laid undiscovered forever.

***

The following day Miriam was surprised when the sun had the nerve to shine.
She felt older than her years, and although she'd always prided herself on
being a pragmatist her mind had become a desert lately. She knew that all
that could be done was being done, and all she could do now was try to live
through it.
Seeking to get away from the Grange for a morning and find some distraction
from the threat the National Trust presented, she accompanied Gloria into
Peasmarsh, and whilst the housekeeper was employed in Larkin's placing the
grocery order she wandered across the street to Moffet's tea-shop.

It was Saturday, and the village was a paradigm of rural Yorkshire. Small
grey houses and church bells at practise. Cobblestones. Blue sky. The smell
of beer and lunch.
Moffet's was invariably crowded at mid morning. Not because of any great
multitude of customers, but because it was so small that any more than a
dozen people made it chock-a-block. Not being a frequent visitor she knew
few of the people there, but she nodded stiffly to Mrs Tichborne and her
lodger, a rather dazed looking young schoolteacher called Eleanor Merrydew,
and to the old man who worked in the shoe shop, a middle-aged spinster she'd
seen around, and to the pale dyspeptic-looking man who worked at the
post-office.

Fortunate enough to claim a table by the window, she ordered morning coffee
instead of tea, and since she'd eaten no more than a bird at breakfast she
asked Miss Moffet's girl if she could find her some cheese and a few
crackers. The sweet thing was about Jennifer's age, with superb legs and a
short skirt, and the swing in the front of her blouse advertised the fact
she wasn't wearing a bra. Miriam couldn't help wondering if the lovely
creature sometimes entertained women during her free-time.

Through the window the life of Peasmarsh dawdled along in its innocuous way.
On the far side of the road Larkin had put out a display of apples, oranges,
rhubarb and melons, and the riot of their contrasting shapes, hues and
textures inadvertently competed with the velvety pansies, glowing dwarf
marigolds and multicoloured polyanthus outside the florists shops next door.
Among the passers-bye investigating these products she noticed Dorothea
Boroclough. She was stooping over the boxes, her tweed skirt immodestly
high, and with some dread Miriam hoped the awful woman had no intention of
taking tea at Moffet's.

Unfortunately it appeared that was exactly her intention. Mrs Boroclough
straightened up and suddenly plunged across the road, the movement so abrupt
that she nearly swept an elderly farm labourer off his bike. The man
complained in vain, for her only response was a dismissive flick of her head
and an expression of contempt as she stormed in through the door of the
tea-shop.
The matriarch of Peasmarsh entered like the Queen of Sheba on a royal
progress, with a smile and a little wave to everyone in the room, then to
Miriam's considerable horror she made a beeline straight towards her table.
It was a surprise too, since in the past the woman had cut her dead if their
paths crossed, but this day she seemed to be actively seeking her out.

In the village and for miles around Dorothea was a force to be reckoned
with. She was leader of the Peasmarsh Mafia who under the guise of the
Women's Guild met weekly to gather, dissect and pass judgement on all local
affairs. She was wealthy and dominated the Guild in the style of a feudal
tyrant. The diktats she issued, whether directly or by subtle hints and
innuendo, were slavishly adhered to by all the Guild members and their
spouses. Her opinion mattered, her grievances were sympathised with, and her
abhorrences always viewed as justified.
For months her self-righteous intolerance to the kind of school Miriam was
running had necessitated herself having to face enmity and invective from
all kinds of people, and at a time when everything about the future of
Fairyfield Grange was in the land of topsy-turvy the last thing she wanted
was a public row with her.
But if the overbearing bitch wanted one Miriam was in the mood to give as
good as she got.

To her surprise the woman's expression was not one of hostility. There was
no sign of pique, no hint of antipathy.
"Would you mind terribly if I joined you?" Mrs Boroclough asked, smiling.

Miriam gave her a blank stare, neither welcoming nor offensive. She was
curious more than anything. Puzzled as to why the leader of a gang of
narrow-minded harridans now wanted her company.
She nodded, and pushed down on the Stilton, cutting a thick crumbly slice
which she carefully loaded onto her plate.
"Please do."

Dorothea took a critical glance at the nearest chair and dusted it with a
slap of an handkerchief before sitting. Other than that her mood was
friendly and conciliatory.
"I feel I owe you an apology, Miss Hancock. I've been somewhat offhand
lately, and I have to concede I was in the wrong. You operate an unusual
establishment - it's unorthodox, and it takes people such as I time to
adjust to radical ideas. The parson says I'm too critical of change and
should be prepared to embrace innovation."

She turned to click her fingers at the serving-girl, then went on. "I've
concluded there is nothing strange about having young boys trained up to be
servants. Everyone finds in hard to get staff theses days and shortages can
make life rather difficult. Young girls just don't want to go into domestic
service the way they once did."

Miriam buttered a biscuit and scooped some Stilton onto it.
"Clerics have always been a trial to people of reason, but for once our
revered incumbent appears to speak some sense. You've been listening to
lurid stories about me Mrs Boroclough, and sometimes stories have no
relation to reality."

The serving-girl wheeled up a tea-trolley and Mrs Boroclough helped herself
to a gingersnap filled with cream whilst a cup and saucer and a pot of Earl
Grey were being placed on the table. The delicate aroma of oil of bergamot
permeated the air as she poured her tea.
"You've every right to reprimand me Miriam. In small communities such as
ours entertainment is too often comprised of malicious gossip."

As the tea-trolley departed Mrs Boroclough stared at the backs of the
serving-girl's legs.
"A shameless hussy, that one," she confided, "I have it she was seen in the
spinney last night, in the back of a car with TWO men."
She licked her lips. "Another account says it wasn't two men at all, but old
Jessup the Postmaster and his WIFE!"

She offered an ingratiating smile before changing the subject.
"I enjoyed a discussion with Alec Grimshaw yesterday - I believe you're
acquainted with him being on the County Council - he speaks most highly of
you."

So he should, thought Miriam, after all the fingering and fucking of little
girls she'd organised for him in Harrogate - but where on earth was all this
woman's gobbledegook leading?

"The children at the Grange," continued Dorothea, dropping a slice of lemon
into her cup, "They're all such sweet things, though I - er - suppose you
have to punish them on occasions."

"Naturally. They may have the appearance of blameless angels but they can
display the behaviour of imps."

"Spare the rod and spoil the child is an adage I entirely agree with. When
the flesh is weak firm discipline is usually the only answer. It's a
practise I've often  applied to my grandson, Alister. Unfortunately now he's
entering into puberty my daughter refuses to allow me to take his pants down
any longer. It's so silly, you'll agree - to discontinue chastisement just
at the age when a boy needs correcting the most - when he's constantly of a
mind to fumble with himself. But there you have it. Modern mothers have
their own ideas."

She sipped her tea delicately. "Between ourselves I still spank him
occasionally, but the mercenary little rascal now expects rewards and treats
after he's been over my lap. He expects to be paid for goodness sake, as if
he were providing a service."
Her faced buckled with indignation. "I don't mind telling you, because I
know it will go no further - but, I'm at the point were I need to make some
other arrangement."

Now everything made sense to Miriam Hancock. The overindulged, outwardly
pious leader of the community was really just a degenerate old bat who
wanted to do business.

Having broached the subject Mrs Boroclough opened up with her requirements.
"I have it on a whisper that you are likely to place some of your - er,
pupils, into good quality homes quite soon. I myself am not altogether
penniless, and I'm curious as to - well, as to what kind of fee you'll be
demanding."

Miriam gave no clue as to her troubles with the National Trust. Knowing that
a sign of weakness would encourage various hyenas to begin nipping at her
heels she was determined to refer to the future as assured.
She pushed the cheese to one side. "It will certainly be affordable to
people such as yourself. Look, Fairyfield breaks for recess shortly, but
there will be one or two children who will have to board-on through the
holiday. Perhaps you'd like to borrow one for a weekend and see how you get
on before you take someone permanently."

The woman opposite perched a pair of spectacles on the end of her nose and
delved into her handbag. A pocket diary, a chequebook and a gold plated
fountain pen were then heaped onto the table.
"I like the notion of a trial period. It's an excellent idea. But I have to
visit my sister in St Albans shortly and I'd like the matter settled before
I go. Next weekend would be ideal. I'll give you a deposit right away."

The following weekend would take in Open Day and wasn't the best time for
Miriam to hire out one of her charges, but since Mrs Boroclough was already
busily scratching figures onto a cheque she was loath to stop her. Now, if
she could only somehow get a feel of that serving girl's tits before she
left the tea-shop, she'd reckon her visit to the village time well spent.

***

A new day and a new mood, and soon the difficulties Miriam faced didn't seem
so daunting. Sick of being downcast, it was on with the job.
The unforeseen costs of opposing the National Trust's claim to Fairyfield
Grange had put her in some difficulty but Mrs Boroclough had shown the way,
and she herself had got nothing to lose. If mere money was all that was
required to put things right she'd raise enough to buy the whole
Courts-of-Law, and finding early placements for some of her pupils seemed to
be a good way of raising such cash. After all, they were expendable and they
were there to be exploited.

Originally she'd been adamant that they be sent off to places well away from
the locality when she disposed of them, but now she reassessed things. If
she obliged Mrs Boroclough, others would follow, and perhaps it wouldn't be
a bad thing to accommodate a few of the top people in the immediate area. To
a large extent it would bring them under her influence, and it would ensure
their support instead of risking their acrimony.
It was with some surprise then that she received an inquiry from the
Marchioness of Wigglesworth who lived miles away.

Titled people were a weakness with Miriam Hancock, and because of her
inherent snob values she rated them even higher than wealthy businessmen.
She experienced  great delight when two days later the eminent Marchioness
came to visit in person.
Quite apart from being an aristocrat the lady was extremely wealthy, but at
eighty years old she was a small, frail woman with frosty, drawn features
who relied upon the support of a stout malacca cane to shuffle about on her
feet.
But if her body was fading her senses were still razor sharp. She took in
the headmistress's parlour at a glance, disapproving of the style of decor
but noting the first-class quality of everything.
"You seem nicely set-up, Miss Hancock. That's a surprise when I know you
don't advertise your services."

"I  rely on word of mouth and a  good reputation, and I'm blessed with good
contacts. Lady Chance-Barton, our local lady-of-the-manor is a patron of the
school. You'll know her of course."
She thought a little name-dropping may help to impress, but it seemed to
have an opposite effect. The visitors aged face took on a severe grimace.

"Diana Chance-Barton? No I don't know the woman but I know of her. She's a
floozy who spends every waking hour playing up to photographers with the
idea that she's some kind of glamorous leading-light. That didn't used to be
the accepted way. In my days girls knew how to behave and were content just
to know they had a high station in life."

She turned to the young girl seated by her side on the chintz draped sofa.
Twelve or thirteen years old with bare legs dangling beneath a summer skirt,
and the confident round face of a mischievous brat.
"This is Miranda, my favourite grandchild and one I spoil constantly. It's
at her behest that I came her today. Miranda as a passion for dolls. She's
been fond of collecting them since she was small and now as hundreds. She
loves to undress them and put them in new outfits, and for her birthday this
year she says she'd like to have a live doll. It's a difficult gift to find,
and that's why I contacted you. Hearsay as it that you can provide what
we're looking for."

"It must be a pretty dolly otherwise I'll hate it and I won't have it." the
girl chimed in.

Miriam nodded sagely. "I'm certain we can accommodate you." She flicked a
button on a tabletop intercom. "Send in  Fifi, matron."

A moment later the door opened and the small, timid figure of Fifi looking
like a bundle of skirts and lace petticoats, squeezed into the room. His
hair had been done in little-girl bangs and tied with enormous pink ribbons
and his cute feminine face had been perfectly made up, rouge on his cheeks,
lips red and glossed, and his huge liquid eyes were tinged around with eye
shadow.

The headmistress had made some inquiries of her own, and with an insight
into the reason for her guests visit had elected for the adorable she-boy to
be dressed in a lovely primrose-pink crinoline frock with a prettily
embroided bodice which was complimented by a divine satin matinee coat of
matching colour. The short skirt that swept around his thighs revealed
masses of white taffeta petticoats and the tips of frilly garter-straps
clipped to the dark welts of stocking tops. His tiny hands, clad in white
velvet gloves, were clutching a little purse that shimmered with sequins,
and he wore high  heel shoes with crossover straps that made a feature of
his shapely ankles.
Bemused and just a little bit scared Fifi approached the three females and
his skirts bounced and rustled as he performed a perfect deep curtsy.

"My girls are taught to make their own outfits," explained Miriam proudly,
"And while lace petticoats are much out of fashion these days they
undoubtedly give a pleasing frou-frou to their skirts."

The old woman's expression gave nothing away. "What do you think Miranda? Do
you like her?"
Fifi stood quite still while Miranda scrutinised him, his only movement
being the batting of his large appealing eyes.

"You said it would be a boy, Gran-ma'ma."

"It is a boy. It's a boy in girl's clothes."

Miriam intervened. "He's no longer a boy and never will be again. Isn't that
right Fifi?"
The sissy's mouth trembled and he nodded.

Miranda grinned. Fascinated. "Hm! A girl-boy, that's interesting."
The old woman looked on indulgently as her granddaughter took up her cane
and tucking the tip of it beneath  Fifi's frock. Then she hoisted up the
dress to reveal his underwear, tiny pink panties - a skimpy G-string really,
with a small ruffled front panel.
"Do you have a stiffy in your panties, girl? Tell me the truth."

Fifi squirmed with discomfort. "Er - um - yes."
Inside his underwear the sissy's penis had reared up of its own volition and
he was quite unable to do anything about it.
"Yummy!" Miranda purred.

"That's not a surprise." Miriam remarked, "They're all conditioned to wear
skirts, but new outfits often excite the dear things, especially if they're
told to model them in front of guests."
Miranda smirked wickedly as she drew back the cane and allowed the skirt to
fall.
"When  she's my dolly I'll put her in a new dress every day."

The old woman shuffle in her seat. "That's settled then. we'll take the -
he, she - whatever it is. Can it go with us now?"

"It will take an hour to pack."

"Don't bother with packing. Everything needed will be provided in his new
home."

Miranda immediately leapt to her feet and began to examine her newly
purchased toy, stoking his face and cooing into his ears. "Are you pleased?
You do want to be my dolly don't you?"

"I-I suppose so."

"You'll love it. It'll be dreamy. You'll have nothing to do but look sweet
and wear pretty dresses every day. I'll bathe you at bedtimes and tuck you
in, and I may even shake your little-girl willy sometimes if it gets stiff
and drippy. All my friends will be so jealous. None of them have a live
dolly and they'll be amazed when I tell them you've got a dicky. They'll
want to look at it all the time, and they'll all want to take you to the
toilet and aim it for you when you need wee-wees.
Sometimes if I get bad tempered I'll smack your botty, of course. After all,
you'll belong to me and I can do whatever I like with you, but all in all
it's not a bad deal, is it?"

The crusty old Marchioness observed her granddaughter dourly. "People of
good breeding don't speak of money and certainly don't stoop to haggling,
but the price you charge to please a little girl are exorbitant Miss
Hancock. I could have arranged to use a child from one of the families on my
estate for a fraction of the cost, but they all tend to be rather uncouth. I
believe yours are tutored in good manners."

"Indeed. We place a great deal of emphasis on polite, refined behaviour
here."

"The little thing will have parents. I take it I won't have the nausea of a
frantic mother pursuing  me as to his fate."

"I have an arrangement with parents and I'm allowed carte-blanch with most
of my pupils when it comes to their disposal." Miss Hancock said hurriedly.

Seeming satisfied with the reply the starchy Marchioness leaned towards
Miriam and said softly, "Miranda will become bored with him eventually. You
know how young girls are -  keen on fluffy bunny-rabbits one day and ponies
the next - but when that happens I'll employ the little cream puff in my
household. I hope he's made of sturdy stuff. The male members of my staff
are likely to pay a great deal of attention to a pretty, girlish thing like
him."

"Have no fear with that. Fifi is capable of being a girl in every way."

The Marchioness nodded. "Yes, of course. He's probably very accomplished
already."

***

When his sister came stomping into the washroom while Abigail was in the
shower, her instruction had been clipped and to the point.
"Mummy wants to see you at 5-0-clock. Don't get dressed, just put on a
robe."
She turned to leave and then had another thought. "Best if you see me first.
Come to my room in ten minutes time."

Bossy bitch! Abigail thought, but he didn't say it. He sensed there was
something special in the air and as he dried himself and dusted his body
with talc he couldn't help letting his thoughts dwell on his sister.
Many of Jennifer's younger years had been spent at girls boarding schools,
which was a mercy for plenty of boys in the world, although not for himself
or a number of others in the orphanage in Harrogate. Whenever she came home
on vacation they had all felt the brunt of her bullying matriarchal manner,
and being made to wear girls clothes was only part of it.
Everyone respected her physical strength, but he himself found her voice to
be the most intimidating thing about her. He could never seem to resist the
power in her voice.

He remembered how at a young age she'd ordered him around and made him do
things he knew were wrong. She'd taught him to use make up properly -
foundation, blusher, mascara to give him nice long eyelashes, eyeliner and
eye shadow, and lipstick. And then she'd removed his pants and dressed him
in tan stockings, white bikini pants and a white garter belt before slotting
him into high heeled shoes.
She'd praised his looks, made him feel like a beautiful flower.

He didn't mind it at first. Doing naughty things was exciting, and if he was
being made to do them he was blameless. It wasn't his fault.

When he matured and entered into puberty her demands had become ever more
terrible. Being told to masturbate into his handkerchief in the cinema or
ordered to do it with a hand in his pocket when on a bus journey had been
demeaning, but most of all he'd hated the humiliation of being told to go up
stairs with one of her schoolgirl friends to show her how a boy did it. He
could still recall the excruciating shame of being alone with a girl who was
there just to see him do a cummy in front of  her.
Finally there came the time Jennifer dressed him in his girly stuff and
introduced him to a boy from the orphanage who she'd also trained to
cross-dress. She'd made them get together on a bed and told them to put on a
lesbian show.
That was the first time he'd ever done another boys backside, and he'd taken
to the habit.


"Why does mummy want to see me?" he asked when Jennifer let him into her
room.

His sister prevaricated slightly, but only for a moment, before telling him
the callous facts.
"Your time at Fairyfield is at an end, Abigail. Mummy needs some money
urgently so she's going to sell you. She as a guest in the parlour who wants
a pretty boy as a companion, and she thinks you're the best choice."

Abigail caught his breath. He'd always known his mother didn't intend her
school to cater for boys older than he was, and in the future a number of
pupils would be sold off during the course of each term, but it still came
as quite a shock when he discovered she was selling them now. First Fifi,
and now himself, her own son. He was horrified and surprised, but didn't
wish to show that in front of Jennifer.

Typically she showed no emotion. Her attitude was one of detachment and
ruthless efficiency.
"Remove your bathrobe. Mummy says she doesn't want any undue showing-off
from you when she displays your charms, so I think it advisable if you sit
on the bed and toss yourself off before going to see her."

Abigail had long become used to Jennifer viewing him without clothes, but he
wondered just how many other boys had a vicious sister who demanded they
appeared naked before them, and how many of them would consent to
masturbating while they were being watched.
His bathrobe fell to the floor and reluctantly he sat down, wrapped his hand
around his thick shaft and stroked it until it started to swell and rise up.

Jennifer observed for a while with a vague smile, outwardly showing no hint
of the delicious feelings that tingled in every part of her body. She loved
watching boys wank; it was so excruciatingly humbling for them to put on
that kind of show, and her delight was doubled if she had to make them do
it.
More than doubled if they were shy and unwilling

"I say Jennifer, is this really necessary?" Abigail asked.

She nodded adamantly. "I think so, being in charge of all the other girl's
in this place makes you obnoxious. You don't get spanked much these days, so
you need to be reminded about humility from time to time."
Her eyes suddenly shone with a devilish light.
"I tell you what, let's make it more interesting. Do that thing that no one
else seems able to do. Do you remember the little trick you used to do in
Harrogate?"

"I don't know what you mean."
Her effeminate brother knew exactly to what she was referring, but declined
to admit it.

Jennifer scoffed and went over to him.
"Yes you do." She gripped his hair and rocked his head side to side, and he
groaned, shocked at how weak he could still feel when she had hold of him.
"I can still make you cry. Surely I won't have to smack you before you give
in and do it."

She lifted his balls with one hand and began to stroke the length of his
boner vigorously with the other, grinning as it thickened in her hand.
"Oh, yes! Quite a monster, and it doesn't seem to matter if it's a girl or
boy who does this for you, so I can only think your rather a pervert
Abigail."

Having inserted herself into his company she sat him up on the bed and
pulled his knees up around his ears, which ensured his cock jutted up along
his stomach.
"Bend your head and lean down."

"I can't - I can't do it." Abigail whimpered, knowing all too well that her
intention was to make him suck his own penis.

"Yes you can." she said sternly. "I've seen you do it in the past and
nothing as changed. Your dexterity and the size of your girly prong are both
amazing."

Placing a hand on the back of his head she pushed down and Abigail's spine
curved as his back hunched and the tip of his cockhead loomed inches below
his face.
His expression immediately scrunched into a grimace.
"Jennifer, I ..."

She pushed again and his face dipped lower, and this time his lips grazed
the tip of his moist knob-end.
Inexplicably he then surrendered. He opened his mouth and lowered his lips
onto his cock while his sister continued to fondle his balls and helped to
feed  him his own meat.

"There! Now I've got you started I'll let you do it for yourself. But
remember the rules. We've always had an agreement about this sort of thing."

Abigail's lips opened around the swollen cock-head and his tongue swirled
around it before he took a grip with his lips. Precum oozed onto his tongue,
but that was only a pallid introduction to what he knew was to follow.

In such an unnatural contortion he couldn't manage the whole thing, not the
entire length, but his mouth could take in the fat mushroom-shaped tip and
the top most sensitive inch of the shaft. He began to pump with his face,
his mouth making wet, hollow noises as it moved, while his hand moved freely
up and down the rest of his turgid member.

Jennifer praised him. "I'm proud of you Abigail, dear. You're unique. When I
was at boarding school no other girl ever had a brother who could suck
himself off. Everyone would flip with delight when I showed them the
photographs of you with your cock in your mouth."

Ugh! Jennifer was vile to do such things, Abigail's scrambled mind mused,
but he was silly too. How could he? How could he allow himself to be bullied
into sucking himself off - wanking into his own mouth - in front of a girl -
in front of his sister?
His naughty hand was urging his juices to flow and as thrills began to
shimmer up and down his length he clamped his lips tighter and moved his
mouth up and down. He couldn't help it. She was making him do it. Jennifer
was always making him do disgusting things.

He moaned as his cock throbbed involuntarily, then its tip started to drool
more copiously in his mouth and his whole body started to tremble. His
breathing became ragged as the leaking flesh began to shake. Then he
realised he couldn't let go - didn't want to let go. His mouth clamped
tighter, his lips moved faster beneath the base of his broad arrowhead, and
his hand wouldn't stop pumping.

Jennifer grinned with unholy delight. "There you see! You like it, don't
you? My girly-brained brother's enjoying himself."

He closed his eyes as his cock lurched and a vast glob of cream ejected into
his mouth. Then more. And more. Warm, slimy cum-jets of male seed squirting
in uncontrollable spasms. He'd tasted plenty of cum before from other cocks,
but this was his cum pumping out from his own twitching cock.
Ugh! Eeeaaah, glup!

His sister was unable to resist stroking under his balls again, and she
beamed with approval when she noticed his throat undulating.
"You're swallowing! You do remember the rules after all. That's lovely!
Don't waste any, dear."


Later, when he entered his mother's study he found her standing by the
fireplace with a cup of tea in her hand. Her manner was of that of a lady of
the manor receiving a guest, and the guest on this occasion was a stranger.
A lean to thin, utterly bald-headed elderly man wearing a good quality, well
tailored suit. There were deep creases in his narrow face of the kind that
constant deep thought creates, and webs of fine lines around his eyes that
stood out like cross-stitching. But it was his mouth that drew most
attention, it carried the cynical smile of a debt collector.

"Now," said Miriam, waving her son to the centre of the room. "If you'll
allow me, I'll introduce you to my best recommendation. Abigail is without
doubt a child who excels in grace and beauty. A first-class product of
Fairyfield Grange and a credit to all who've had a hand in training her.

At a signal from his mother Abigail divested himself of his robe, beneath
which he was naked. She had referred to him as a girl, so he playacted the
part as he stood before the old man, hands on hips, head tilted up, blushing
slightly, confident that the man would at once note his boyish anatomy and
show approval. After all, he had a perfect thirteen-year-old body, he was
young and radiant, and his sinuous thick cock hung over a fine dangle of
balls. Aware that a boy on sale should display himself from every angle he
posed briefly, one knee jutting slightly forward, first facing him, then
turning about to offer a back view.

"A lovely phsique, you will agree," his mother continued, turning him around
again, "Small and exquisitely formed, a nice waist, something of a swell to
the hips, beautifully proportions legs and very pretty feet and ankles. 'The
innocent and beautiful have no enemies but time' I once read somewhere, but
you'll find Abigail's looks long lasting. The matron I have is a perfect
whiz and is experimenting with treatments to retard the growth of coarse
body hair and repress the development of the larynx."
She made no reference to his genitals. That would have been too crude and
anyway they were obvious enough.

To Abigail's slight annoyance the visitor didn't say anything for a while,
he seemed to be smiling at something invisible and far away. When he did
speak it was in the crisp well-educated voice of a barrister.
"By virtue of the profession from which I'm lately retired I've viewed many
such, er - laddies in the past, Miss Hancock. Some of the young rapscallions
I met during my service to the Courts of Law were beautiful rough diamonds -
dressed in faded jeans and loud T-shirts and wearing rings in their ears.
All many of them needed was affection, and of course proper discipline.
Unfortunately they constantly mutinied against all efforts to help them."

The man scrutinised Abigail again. "This young person is indeed a fine
looker and a rare commodity indeed, but I need someone who'll never tire of
being both a servant and an intimate companion, and who won't rebel when
awarded a few well deserved smacks now and again. That someone also needs to
be provided at the right price."

Miriam responded sharply. No matter that the goods on her stall were her
kith and kin, she was obsessive when it came to success in her enterprises.
"Abigail will be no ordinary member of staff to you. While being competent
in all household duties she as the skills worthy of a geisha and a bottom
well disposed to being spanked. As for expense, although the initial outlay
may be high, this she-boy-servant will never expect wages or holidays. And
in the unlikely event you eventually tire of her I estimate she can be
sold-on with little financial loss."

Abigail was dismissed from the room at that point, for although he fancied a
bargain was being struck it seemed his presence wasn't considered necessary
any longer. The whole business had the air of a slave-market, which was a
fair analogy, since once a placement fee had been paid the client would
virtually own him.

His own future now seemed set. He'd never obtained qualifications that would
lead to a profession, so perhaps it was his destiny to serve as a pet for a
decrepit old man.
Perhaps it wouldn't be too bad. The man seemed almost paternal; slightly
avuncular and not a bit like the idea of a lecherous sugar-daddy. He was old
and as hairless as a chihuahua but neither of those things mattered. At
least there was no sign of dotage or senility.
And at least it would get him away from Jennifer, the sister who'd always
been the bane of his existence.

He'd led an ideal life since his mother had appointed him as head-girl. The
post had given him the benefit of never being a subject for physical
punishment (tutors being banned from smacking the senior pupil) while
allowing him to deal plenty out. Such an exalted position also meant he was
not obliged to give sexual favours to anyone, while it enabled him to chose
any of the other boys as a bed-companion.
Being astute and able to recognise a good thing he'd tried them all.
Yes, he'd enjoyed a good time, but philosophically he realised that all good
times come to an end. His only regret was that in his haste to taste and try
everything ten times over he'd sacrificed stalwarts such as Wendy, who was
probably the truest friend he'd ever had.

Nicola and Susan were standing in the corner when he reached the box-room in
the east-wing where he'd intended to be an hour ago, and he just stood and
watched them for a moment.
They were clad in open-toed high-heeled shoes, black garter-belts and
stockings, but nothing else, not even panties. Their cocks were small, but
very erect and their pink ball bags looked cute and alluring dangling
between the suspender-straps attached to their stocking tops. Although
slightly apprehensive in their manner, each of the little sissy-angels was
peerless in his preadolescent near nudity

Abigail smiled at them whilst observing the sylph-like lines of their
bodies. They had straight up and down figures that were soft, smooth and
hairless, and they looked extra-pretty when their faces were flushed with
expectation. Effeminate sissy treasures with everything boys had, and
willing to surrender their pretty bottoms to cock.
There he noticed for the first time the difference between sissies in
training and those like himself who were ready to be sold. He was still lean
and supple, but a number of clearly defined abdominal muscles betrayed his
advancing maturity, and while his scrotum was still maintained in an
hairless state, it dangled plump and heavy with promise at the base of his
thick, eight inch cock.
At least that commanded everyone's attention.

Nan was there too, beautiful and looking slim and sexy, but unlike the
younger ones he was completely naked. As soon as Abigail arrived he kissed
him firmly on the mouth. A big, lipsticky kiss with lots of tongue.
"I thought you weren't coming. I thought I'd have to see to them both
myself." he added with a grin. "I had an idea to make things a bit special
tonight, so I got this pair of little fuck-puppets to spruce themselves up
in a bit of a girly way."
Nan glanced at the junior cuties. "Spin around and show the Queen Bee what
you're made of."

At his signal the two juniors daintily twisted around to allow Abigail to
give them the once over. Quite apart from their scant clothing each of them
was garishly made-up. It was rare to see sissies fully painted at
Fairyfield, but that evening they had red varnish on their fingernails and
toenails, a hue that matched the blusher on their cheeks and the lipstick on
their mouths. Their eyes had been done with blue eye shadow and black eye
liner, and the lashes had been brushed out to make them appear longer and
thicker.
"Gorgeous," approved Abigail, "Just what I need at the end of a rather
eventful day."

Susan minced forward to allow Abigail a close look. "Nan told us to dress up
like this," he gushed breathlessly. "He said he wanted us to look a bit
slutty."

Abigail grinned. "I don't think either of you stud muffins have any trouble
being sluts."
At that the two sissies giggled and wiggled their little bottoms, well aware
that they were there to be lusted over and eventually thoroughly fucked.
Their minuscule bottoms were a wonder of nature. They had to be if they were
expected  to accept Abigail's titanic attention.

The head-girl climbed down onto the blanket that had been spread on the
floor and leaned back against a cushion, easing back and straightening out
and his legs to let big cock stand up a flagstaff.
The younger sissy's appeared fascinated by the impressive length and girth
of his erection and by the band of foreskin that nestled just behind the
widely flaring ridge of his cock-head.
At once Nicola dropped to his knees and gently scooped his ball bag in his
hand, kissing it as he whirled his very talented tongue around each plump
nut and licked the underside.
Susan scrambled down too to take the great length of throbbing meat in both
hands and rub, his young hands sliding up and down until the bulbous tip
became wet and juicy.

He knew from experience how the two youngsters would continue, and sure
enough Susan took a place the other side of him and started to kiss his
face. His eyes narrowed into slits just wide enough to see them as they
strived to please him. Probing, hot, wet boy-tongues slithered in his ears
and fenced with his own tongue until he was fully aroused and rampant.
He told Nicola to wrap a hand around the unoccupied portion of his shaft. It
made him feel rather special to know that even with three hands holding his
cock he could still make a show with its dripping tip.

In unison they were servicing his erection. Nicola's hands were uppermost
and were doing the skinning back of his foreskin, but Susan was cleverly
used his free hand to squeeze and roll his balls. It pleased him to that it
needed two of them to take care of him properly.
Placing a hand behind each of their heads he pulled them down to encourage
some oral stimulation, and their tongues flicked out to lick his
thick-veined length pole like it was a lollipop.
At first their tongues roamed all over the long, thick shaft, their two
little sissy-pink tongues sometimes sliding together as they lapped and
licked, but then they alternated to take the fat end into their young
mouths.

He patted their heads as they sucked, enjoying both girlish mouths on his
cock, watching them take turns with his bulbous knob-end and enjoying their
giggles each time they made him moan. They were both experienced
faggot-cocksuckers and were both rubbing their own stiff, not-so-small cocks
as they pleasured him.
They would have sucked him dry immediately if told to, but that evening he
didn't wish for a rapid conclusion.

Nanette had been watching everything silently whilst overtly massaging his
penis, but eventually he spoke.
"You're the boss Abigail, so you've got first choice in which one you want
to use."

Abigail considered the matter. "I had Nicola two nights ago, but I haven't
played around with Susan for a fortnight. Tell you what, if you can control
yourself for a while we could do a swap halfway through."

Nan nodded agreement to the arrangement, but the eager way in which he
hauled Nicola to one side and began to oil him up betrayed a certain amount
of over excitement.
Abigail considered himself too canny to rush things. He took his time
putting Susan into the pose he favoured that evening, getting him to kneel
on the floor with his head down and his bottom pushed up so he had a good
view of the dangling balls between his thighs.

The impulse was to push his penis straight into his little bottom, but since
he was so young he thought it best to tongue his naughty hole and open him
up slowly.
His hands gripped  Susan's milky white globes and he pulled them apart with
his thumbs, then he closed his eyes and took a deep breath and began to
anoint soft kisses all over the bottom cheeks, kissing the inner curves and
making him tingle with anticipation.

The bottom was tight and warm and it was wiggling at him. He kissed his
right bottom cheek, then he kissed the left cheek and Susan's cock gave a
little shudder when he felt the tongue lick over his tight anus.
He was sensitive there, and Abigail took that as encouragement. With the
young sissy's hot anus fully exposed he ran his tongue along his smooth bum
crack, from the underside of his dangly pink bag to his tailbone, then his
tongue speared inside, digging deep, penetrating as far as he could make it
go into the tight narrow hole.

"Aaaaahhhhh!" The she-boy convulsed and whimpered, not with pain but with
wonder. He really liked that, so Abigail worked his tongue in and out of his
hole and laved it royally, then he clamped his open lips around it and
rolled his mouth slightly as he sucked.
It had loosened by then, and when he ejected a mouthful of saliva into it,
it became soft and wet and didn't feel like an anus at all. More like a
mouth, like kissing spongy soft, yet firm lips.

He took a moment to glance over to Nan who had already flipped Nicola onto
his back, lifted his hips and impaled him. Nan was boiling to a fever, his
features contorted with orgasmic distress as he fucked the angelic doll.
Still got a lot to learn, thought Abigail. How much better to take some time
to get the little girlies hot and eager and panting for it. Get them sobbing
for a fuck.

Susan's body was glowing, clammy with moist heat his hips started to shake
in the erratic jumping motion associated with anal intercourse. His pretty
pussy was slick with saliva but Abigail still opened a bottle of baby lotion
and slathered some on his hands. He then entered two fingers into the young
girly, running them in and out, opening his bottom for cock and caressing
his tender girlish prostate.
"Are you ready now?" he asked Susan. "Is your cum-hungry little button ready
for some big-boy cock?"

The little glove-puppet looked back at him with large adoring eyes. "Oh, yes
Abigail. Yes please."

He slathered lube on his rampant penis before drizzling a extra dose between
Susan's  bum-cheeks, then taking his thick boner in hand he positioned it at
the entrance of the younger boys love-hole. He didn't intend to be rough,
but he wasn't going to be particularly gentle either. He knew pussy-boys
like Susan loved to feel it moving about inside.

Following an astounding good session his enjoyment was only spoilt when his
mother called him to her study for the second time that day.
She explained that the gentleman who'd shown such interest in him earlier
had confided an enthusiasm for body-percing; he wanted a companion with
nipple-rings and a ring in the tip of his penis, and since that was the only
impediment to a successful placement she'd made arrangements for him to see
matron straight away.
She realised it was a nuisance but it was just unfortunate that such
necessary treatment would curtail his bedtime manoeuvres for a while.

***

"It's rather a nice bungalow."
Jennifer padded barefoot between the rooms wearing only her underwear, a bra
and pants. It was a warm summer evening and the lack of clothes didn't seem
inappropriate. "All mod cons. Only the sitting room is a mess."

"The place is unoccupied at the moment," replied Emma Twist's voice from the
kitchen, "Like much of the property in the village it belongs to Mrs
Boroclough, and she's having it redecorated with a view to selling it.
That's how I got the key. Greg Touter is doing some work for her."

"I couldn't believe it when I found out you were involved in an affair with
that gormless turkey Greg. Mummy would have a blue-fit if she knew."

"It's to avoid offending her that I meet him here." replied Emma amid a
tinkle of glasses. "No offence to your mother, but she does tend  to want to
control everything around her and I can't do with that. I'd be lying if I
said she wasn't the main reason I invited you here tonight. You're less
likely to let anything slip if you're involved too."

Jennifer smirked. "I'd be an ass if I hadn't already guessed that."

Eventually Emma came through from the kitchen with two glass tumblers and a
half-bottle of gin. Like Jennifer she was clad only in her underwear, her
case a half-cup black bra and matching bikini briefs.
"I don't know if I should ply you with alcohol. After all, you're still only
sixteen."

Jennifer smirked again, snatched the bottle from her hand and poured herself
a measure.
"Sixteen in age, but mature enough in outlook."

That was true, thought Emma. What a splendid creature she was. A dominant
teenager defying all control and lacking an iota of female compassion. She
passed herself off with such aplomb that everyone reckoned her
unconquerable, and it was her qualities of coldness she herself had come to
admire. Instead of being competitors they now conspired as partners.

"When's Greg supposed to arrive?" Jennifer asked.

"Any minute. He knows better than to be late."

"It'll be interesting to see if he's up to managing the two of us together."

"He's not going to be allowed any choice." Emma told her dourly.

A few minutes passed as they sipped their drinks, then the scrapping of a
key in the lock of the front door announced the arrival of their expected
date. Greg Touter entered cagily like a thief in the night, but came to a
sudden stop when confronted by the two semi-naked women.

"Jenny! I didn't expect to see you here."

"My name's Jennifer, not Jenny, and you shouldn't expect anything until you
get it." the girl replied coldly.

Emma seated herself on the dust cover of a settee and began unravelling a
ball of string.
"Say sorry to Jennifer for being discourteous and stupid Greg." she told him
crisply.

Greg seemed amazingly humble and showed none of the smart-alec bravado he
was so notorious for. His face dipped and he gazed at the floor. "S-sorry,
Jennifer."

Only then did Emma take any real notice of him.
"That's better. Now, come here to me and get your cock out."

Instantly Greg scuttled across the room , his knees shaking as he obediently
lowered the zipper on his dungarees and fished out the fat, limp worm of
flesh from its hiding place. At once it began to distend and rear up, but a
sharp slap from Emma's hand deflated it again.
"It's a nice dicky, but we've no use for it tonight. I'm going to put a
tourniquet around the base of it to stop it being naughty."

Greg was eighteen, but Emma spoke to him in a soft cooing voice more
suitable for dealing with an eight-year-old, and incredibly, the youth
accepted her condescension without protest.
Jennifer observed his penis silently. The hash slap had curbed its instinct,
but it was still an impressive size, even when drooping impotently from the
front of his slacks.

She grinned. "Why Greg, you've no hair around your 'bits'!"

"Greg isn't allowed to have body hair," intervened Emma, "He has to make
himself smooth whenever he comes to see me. Only men have body hair, and
we're still deciding when he'll be allowed to grow-up, aren't we Greg?"

The youth hung his head and didn't reply. Emma knotted the string about the
base of his penis, then playfully swung the limp length of flesh from side
to side with a fingertip.
"That's a good boy. That's how a well-behaved cock should be. If you prove
worthy it might - just might - have some hand relief later. But your going
to have to earn a reward like that. You'll need to put a lot of effort into
co-operating, Greg. Lazy boys who don't try hard don't get treats."
She pushed her fingers under his testicles. "Everything nice must be earned,
don't you agree?"

Greg gulped. "Yes, Emma."

The lady tutor frowned and inserted a serious note to her voice. "I think
tonight we should introduce an element of formality to things, Greg. Using
my first name, as you do, sounds too familiar, like we are equals, when in
actuality you're very much an inferior. I want you to show proper respect,
so from now on you'll address me as, MISS Emma - and Jennifer will be MISS
Jennifer - do you understand?"

"Y-yes."

Emma glared. "Yes, what?"

"Oh - er, Yes, Miss Emma."

"Stupid ninny! Now don't forget again. You're such a numbskull, so before we
enter into the main event I think you'd benefit from a little lesson in
humility. Remove your trousers and stand on the other side of the room. When
I say MOVE you'll get onto your hands and knees and crawl quickly across the
floor, then put yourself over my lap for a spanking. Clear?"

He blushed with shame and nodded quickly, and as he stepped out from his
trousers he risked a sheepish glance at Jennifer.
"Don't look at Miss Jennifer with such a dippy hangdog expression." Emma
fumed, "She's here to take a full part in the proceedings, so just get used
to the idea."

Feeling suitably chastised Greg stumbled over to the far side of the room
and stood in dismal submission with his back against the wall.
There was a short pause, then -
"MOVE!" Emma's voice snapped.

Greg dropped down and scrambled forward towards her doglike, on all fours,
with his flaccid penis swinging beneath him, and with the hard floor
scuffing his knees.
Emma watched him carefully for a moment or two, allowing him to get halfway
across the room before stopping him abruptly.
"No, no, you dizzy prick - you're far too slow. Go back and start again."

The second time he scuttled even more rapidly, heedless of the carpet
scouring his knees, and with an almost thankful sigh dumped himself across
Emma's lap, face down, back dipping to raise his bare bottom.
Emma's hand immediately came down on the offered anatomy with a palpable
CRACK! One blow bounced from his right buttock and a second lashed the left,
the intensity of the slaps making the resulting sting they delivered almost
visual.

SMACK, SMACK!
"Gggnnn!" Greg bleated. The smarting on his pale flesh was quickly apparent.
SMACK, SMACK!  "Hardly a virgin bottom, but a nice one to punish all the
same," Emma murmured. SMACK, SMACK!

Greg twisted and writhed, his buttocks dancing and flinching as tears began
to stream over his cheeks.
"Nnnrrr - nnnrrr!"

"Dear, oh dear! I've known little children make less noise than you Greg.
You really are abysmal - quite a pathetic nancy-thing. But you're getting no
more than you deserve, and no more than you need to make you a good subject
for the bedroom."

She plumped up his bottom and massaged the cheeks with both hands, rolling
and pushing them into various shapes before casting a smirk at Jennifer and
parting them to show her his anus.
"You're quite hairless between the cheeks, Greg," she told the subjecate,
"That's rather clever of you. However did you manage it?"

"M-me sister Pauline did it for me, miss." Greg sniffed.

"Your sister is only a child, how on earth did you persuade an
eleven-year-old to shave your  arsehole?"

"She knows I 'as to be smooth when I come to see you, miss."

Emma gave a despairing glance at Jennifer. "Greg is the sort of pervert who
enjoys shagging his little sister, so I'm not really surprised."
Turning back she gave the distraught youths rump a resounding whack!
"Pauline will be a tight little madam at her age. Too nice to resist, eh
Greg? You can't hold back from squirting your cream into her young puss, can
you?"

Greg avoided giving an answer and Emma didn't pursue one. She just patted
his buttocks.
"Never mind. Up you get. There are other things to think of now, and
Jennifer and I will ensure you pay due recompense to womankind for your
depravity. Are you in the right frame of mind to co-operate, Greg?"

The youth seemed slightly desperate, but he couldn't help looking at the
brace of strap-on dildo's Emma was extracting from her sports bag. They
appeared hefty, and their bulbous tips looked callously businesslike.

"Yes, miss." he replied faintly.

"Both Jennifer and I intend to bugger you and I want you to put on a good
show. I expect you to apply yourself properly and put-out like a randy
whore. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Miss Emma."

She handed him a bottle of baby oil. "Good, now run along. Off you go to the
bedroom. Remove the rest of your clothes and lubricate yourself, then get on
the bed and wait for Miss Jennifer and I to join you."

Greg scurried away in the manner of a thoroughly scourged child, clutching
the baby oil in one hand and rubbing his crimson bottom with the other.
Emma looked at her younger companion. "Are you ready for this?"

"Why shouldn't I be? I'm not a novice at giving anal."

"Yes, of course. I was forgetting you went to boarding school. And you've
shagged Poppy too. Well, he's practically a girl anyway, and when you're
fucking the sweetest, prettiest girl in the world who cares about the cock
and balls!"

"I was surprised when I caught you with Greg in the tool shed up at the
Grange." said Jennifer taking a sip of gin, "Not surprised about you, but
about him. He's always put himself about as being so macho, and a world away
from fem-dom. He's the last person I'd expect to find allowing a woman ram
the shaft of a hammer up his ring-piece."

"One needs to know how to handle young fellows like Greg." Emma replied
offhandedly, "Where he's concerned 'M' stands for masochist rather than
machismo. Actually, I been stalking his arse for a while, and when he looked
at me there was something about his expression that confirmed I was in with
a chance. It wasn't lustful, it was the look of reverence I'd seen in other
men when they wished me to take control. Once I'd got him in the shed I just
slapped his face a few times and he was as good as gold about dropping his
pants."

She took a handful of other items from her bag. "We may decide to gag him
and tie his hands later. Perverts such as him love the illusion of being
anally raped by beautiful women."
As she leaned forward the swell of her breasts all but overflowed from her
bra, causing to pass the tip of her tongue over her lips.

Jennifer couldn't help but admire the sight. "You've got nice tits, Emma.
Don't be surprised if I give them a grope when things warm up."
The older woman returned a crooked smile. "Most things are acceptable in a
orgy, but if you start on me I'm likely to take a turn with you own little
bubbies."

Jennifer unclipped her bra and removed it, fluttering her eyes in
encouragement as her small pointed breasts sprang up.
"No need to stop there. With only one man to share there's bound to be
moments when we both need to be occupied with something else, and rubber
dicks are very adaptable."

Alone in the bedroom Greg Touter lay naked on top of the bedcovers silently
contemplating the soreness of his bottom. It had evolved into a warm rosy
glow, and all thoughts of rebellion against his ill treatment had receded.
But he anticipated the rest of the evening with querulous anxiety.
He'd already oiled himself and put on a pair of nylons and a garter belt
he'd found laying on the pillow. The scene was set, and for him there could
be no escape.

His ears felt like they were burning, because he knew that no matter how
pathetically he moaned and groaned those two pitiless women were going to
roll him back and forth between them and take it in turns to fuck his arse
for the next two or three hours.