Date: Wed, 26 Jul 2006 16:03:39 +0100
From: jason argo <jacklloyd22@hotmail.com>
Subject: showtime  part 2

The following morning whilst the students were at their first practise,
Jennifer went out to buy a packet of tea she could hoard in her room - a
precaution against having to endure the kind of pallid, insipid brew that
Madame Dupont seemed to prefer. At such an early hour she hoped to get in
between the early panic shoppers in dire need and the immovable browsers
with time they couldn't fill and purses they never opened.

By then she had realised that some time would be needed for her to become
accustomed to the way things were done at 19 Nob Street. At her mother's
school in Yorkshire strict attention was always paid to modesty, but in
Madame Dupont's house the students little skirts were in a constant careless
flow of movement that offered unseemly displays of knicker-gussets and
pretty, panty-clad bottoms. She knew it would never be any different there.
Even she knew that such indecorum was integral with show-business.
Intriguingly, Madame didn't expect any of her students to wear a gaff or
anything else to disguise their true gender, the whole point with her seemed
to be to exhibit them for what they really were - boys dressed as girls.

She admired Madame's skill in finding and assembling such a clutch of
loveliness - boys who wore skirts and scanty underwear and who used girlish
mannerisms so effectively. The notion of promoting a troupe of all-boy
dancers was certainly novel and was bound to stir up a lot of interest.
Not having not the least idea of how to conduct herself yet she had been
pondering what she could impart to Madame's pantywaist disciples when they
became her responsibility, then in a flash of inspiration it had come to
her. There was no need to dwell on geography, quadratic equations or the
evolution of life on earth. Whilst most of the time she paid little
attention to make-up and fancy clothes herself, she was a past master at
dressing up boys in promotion of femininity. When they were duly powdered
and painted she actually took pleasure in instructing them in how to
promenade with a swish and a sway, so it seemed sensible that such things
should form her main theme.

She enjoyed the walk along Nob Street in the grey rain-threatening morning.
Even at an early hour it was a street full of strange and interesting people
all bustling for their own purpose, and a complete contrast to the serene
calm of the Yorkshire dales.
Her only knowledge of London's geography came from playing Monopoly, and
although she'd not encountered any of the places mentioned in the board game
yet it was clear that it wasn't at all like it was in the Mary Poppins
story. It was a cosmopolitan place and rather more exotic than she expected.

The shop on the corner of the street was small and crowded and smelt
wonderfully of tobacco and chocolate. Patchouli drifted on waves from the
voluble stout woman in a bursting blouse standing at the counter and talking
in fast Italian to the man behind it, while from across the street came the
aroma from an Algerian coffee-shop and sauces rich with herbs cooking in a
neighbouring restaurant. Jennifer lifted her nose to it and took a deep
breath of excitement.
This part of London may be a little worn, but it was going to be quite an
adventure.

A newspaper delivery boy was in the corner depositing his satchel on having
finished his round, and has he turned about their eyes met for a moment.
Fantastically, unbelievably, it was the same boy she'd encountered on the
train on the journey down, and pleasingly he'd not lost the potential for
submissiveness in his behaviour that she'd encouraged previously. He seemed
mesmerised when he saw her, like a rabbit paralysed by the stare of a
weasel, and it was a while before their eyes broke contact. By then he was
blushing vividly, and she could tell he admired and respected her without
her even speaking.

A woman swung in front of her, smiling.
"Hi, I'm Miranda Delahaye. You're new around here, aren't you? You're that
girl just moved into number nineteen."
Courteously she returned the smile. "Yes, I'm Jennifer Hancock. Were you
watching the house when I arrived?"

"Of course not, nor especially anyway," the woman said, "But I often glance
at nineteen when I pass. It was once the townhouse of Sir Greville Dander
you know, and was quite a smart place in its day. Tottenham isn't a bad
area, but the houses in Nob Street suffer these days from being owned by
unscrupulous landlords who collect vast rents without spending as much as
tuppence on the upkeep of their property."

"That sounds about right. Nineteen isn't smart at all."

"No, I expect it's a bit of a nightmare inside, but it appears to suit
Madame Dupont well enough."

"Do you know her?"

"No, no, but I'd like to meet her. She runs a rather radical dancing school
I believe."

Jennifer's eyes narrowed. "Are you a detective, Miranda?"

The other woman's eyes glimmered. "Gosh no, I work for the local rag. Daddy
owns the 'Tottenham Tattler' and I work for him. But journalists can be a
bit like detectives in some respects I suppose, they investigate, and I'm
always on the lookout for items of local interest. But I promise I'm quite
benign really."

A journalist, Jennifer pondered. From what she knew of such people they were
all dishonest, devious and without conscience, and since they were the very
qualities that could take a woman to the top in a male dominated world she
didn't disapprove, she just had to be on her guard.

Miranda Delahaye was a smart lady. Early twenties. Lovely. Tall, almost too
slender with dark, near black hair pinned neatly back, and large
well-fringed brown eyes. She was nearly a beauty, only her over-wide mouth
prevented her from being fashion-plate material.
Jennifer couldn't help but wonder if she did lezzy stuff.
At seventeen Jennifer saw no point in being shy. Unseen blooming got a girl
nowhere and she had long been partial to hands-on girly scenes. Not just
lipstick kissing and titty feels in the back of a taxi after a night on the
tiles, but real bedtime capers. When at boarding-school she'd lezzied around
with all the most luscious girls there and even some of the
schoolmistresses, and she couldn't help wondering if Miranda shagged with
girls. She was well educated lady so she would certainly know how to put the
lingo into cunnilingus.
"If you want to interview Madame Dupont why not knock at the door?" she
said.

Miranda flapped a hand. "I've tried that, but a man-ape in a butlers outfit
always slams the door in my face, and the silly lady herself won't even
speak to me on the phone. I got to thinking the next best thing - probably
the better thing - is to talk with someone who lives with her and is easier
to reach."

Jennifer smiled again and shook her head. "If you mean me, I can't tell you
anything. I've only just arrived and I don't know anything about the place
yet."

"Well, perhaps after a few days we could meet again. I'll give you my card.
Must dash now. I'm doing a killer piece on St Mungo's school dinners. It'll
hardly make the broadsheets but the Tattler thrives on trivia."

When Miranda had gone Jennifer tucked the business-card in her purse and
looked about for the boy she'd been observing previously, but he'd gone too.

***

Later, when it was morning proper and a decorous time to meet the day,
Lionel followed Timmy along the upstairs landing while downstairs his mother
and Timothy's Aunt Fiona talked with Madame.
Timmy and himself were the last of Madame Dupont's resident dancers to
arrive. Lionel was slightly younger and more inexperienced than his
companion and feeling in need of some support he'd been following him for
half an hour all around the house, but Timmy insisted in pretending he
wasn't there.

Earlier, when everyone else had popped out of the sitting room for a moment
Lionel had even sneaked a sip of rhubarb wine when Timmy did, but he'd
coughed it up all down the front of his pretty pink frock.
Lionel noticed enviously that Timothy had red fingernails, as red as the
slinky dress he was wearing. He was a little siren in his little red Lycra
thing, especially with the rhinestone earrings.

Disconsolate, he smoothed his hands over his own pink taffeta, hating the
ruched bodice and frills, hating the horrible satin sash and the awful Mary
Jane's his mother always insisted he wore.
He wasn't allowed to choose anything himself and had given up trying.
'Mother knows best' was a regular maxim in his family, and if it wasn't his
mother saying it, it was granny, and they both smacked his bottom if he
complained too much. Everyone knew best accept himself.
He despaired of his dad. His dad didn't seem to know what boys his age
should wear anyway.
Oh dear! If only just three of his relations died his father would be rich
and he'd be rich too, and then no one would dare tell him what to do.

Where the newel-posts ended on the short landing of the second floor, two
thick horizontal rails served as balustrades. Half hidden by the balustrades
Timmy stood very still and peeped over to get a view of the two women
standing in the vestibule below. Lionel's mother and his own Aunt Fiona,
talking together before departing and leaving them in the care of Madame for
the summer.

Below, Madame went back into the sitting room and on the landing Lionel
moved up and stood at Timothy's side, following his gaze down to where the
two women now had their arms around each other.
"Your aunty looks pretty today." he said.

Timmy nodded glumly. "Yes, but she doesn't know she's pretty. I don't think
she ever looks in a mirror. She never as the time. She's always too busy
doing other things."
Suddenly he drew in a deep breath.
"Oh, my goodness. Your mother is kissing my Aunt Fiona - on the mouth!"

"You mean your aunt is kissing my mum." Lionel retorted.

"Aunty doesn't kiss other ladies. Not on the mouth." Timmy insisted.

Lionel leaned forward to get a better view. "Well, it looks like that's what
she's doing, and it looks like she's enjoying doing it."

"How would you know? Have you ever been kissed?"

"No - well yes. In party games. That counts doesn't it?"

"Hmp!" Timothy frowned, his own experience was somewhat greater. "So you
don't know."

The two women below drew apart, went out the door and slammed it behind
them.

Lionel looked longingly at his companion. Girls were such soppy creatures
and he bet Timmy only let boys kiss him at parties, just like he did.
He wanted to know more about kissing, and about where Timmy got his clothes
and about Timmy's life that was so much like his own, only different.
They were both going to stay at Madame Dupont's academy for the summer where
boys wore girl's clothes, and he wanted Timothy to be his friend.
"I love your dress." he said.

Timmy accepted the compliment without questioning it. An hour before he'd
been walking along the street with his arm looped through his Aunt Fiona's,
swinging his hips and swishing his little skirt - much to the delight of
gentlemen passers-by who were greatly taken with his show of fine legs. Now,
still entrapped in throes of vanity he turned his head and looked Lionel up
and down. Looked at the silly, fluffy outfit he was wearing.
"Where did you get THAT? You look like a bridesmaid."

"I know." Lionel replied gloomily.
He was silent for a moment, then he said, "How do you keep your hair like
that? Keep it so neat I mean?"
"Easy," Timothy's eyes lit up and he suddenly grinned. "Want me to show
you?"

Lionel's eyes sparkled. "Really? You'll show me? Really?"

Timmy nodded. "Sure I will.." he said, throwing a friendly arm around his
shoulders. "You can't go through life looking like Pollyanna, so I'll teach
you all my tricks. It's important to dress right. After all, you don't want
to be taken for a slut, do you?

"Um, no."

"Do you know what a slut is?"

"Of course."

What is it then?"

"It's a strip of wood."

"That's a slat, you prune."

"What's a slut then?"

"A woman without decency. A prostitute, a tart, a slattern."

"Ha, a slattern! There you are. I knew a slat would be included somewhere."

Timmy grimaced. "God a'mighty! The way your mind works you're certain to be
thought of as a genius one day."
"You're beautiful though," he said, "Pretty face, pretty body - and your
bottom is so sort-of - erm - girlish. Everyone here will love you."

Lionel offered no objection as the other boys hands slowly moved up to
caress his sides, but he gasped a little bit as Timmy held him close, one
hand low on his back, his beautiful face hovering.
Timmy was so close he was making him tremble.
"Oww!" he whimpered. It was just like - oh, golly ... So sexy.
Inside his ruched little dress his chest felt tight and his nipples were
straining and sensitive inside the bodice. His willy was reacting too,
swelling and becoming stiff inside the little perfumed panties his mother
had put on him that morning.

"Hah! There you both are."
The voice came from behind Lionel and he whirled and stared, then took a
deep and rather shaky breath. A woman was standing there - not really a
woman, a teenage girl actually, rather pretty, but she was scowling like
women do and she looked very formidable.

"I'm Jennifer, the chaperon here. You're the last of Madame's sissies to
arrive. Didn't she tell you to report to me?"

"Erm, yes. But we didn't know where to find you."

"This house isn't Epping forest." Jennifer snapped, "There are only so many
places I could be. Stand up straight and tell me your names?"

The two young girly things pressed their knees together and gazed up at her
in awe.
"I'm Timothy," said Tim.
"And I'm Lionel," said Lionel.

Jennifer rolled her eyes with impatience. "No, no you silly tarts. Only your
stage-names apply whilst you're here. What are your stage-names?"

"Trixie." Timmy replied dismally.
"Lullabelle." answered Lionel. "I didn't choose it. Mummy chose it. She
chooses everything for me."

Jennifer glared. "You'd better buck up your ideas, my girls. As your
chaperon I'm responsible for your behaviour, and idleness and time-wasting
are on my list of 'must-not-do's'. I punish little creampuffs who annoy me
and I can be quite harsh sometimes, so I hope neither of you are
cry-babies."
Lullabelle looked suitably sorrow for himself because he knew he was a bit
of a cry-baby.
"Come with me," Jennifer told them huffily, "I'll show you to your room."

The accommodation they were taken to was Spartan in the extreme. Just a bare
little room with four narrow beds and a yawning alcove in one wall with a
coat rail on which to hang clothes.
"You'll share here with Pompom and Dolly. The others in Madam's troupe are
in the room next door." Jennifer told them. After a severe glance at what
they were wearing she added. "Get changed at once. Everyone here wears the
same picture frocks. You won't need your own clothes again until you return
home."

When she'd gone Lionel, now Lullabelle, glanced around. The only touch of
real colour in the room came from the duvet covers on the beds. He rather
liked the one with primrose motifs, but Trixie went over and claimed it
straight away and he had to settle for one decorated with ducks.

There was the sound of a low wolf-whistle from the doorway and the new
arrivals turned to see where two figures had just entered. Pompom was
wearing an open silk robe and a blue G-string. Behind him stood Dolly
similarly attired, tawny brown eyes full of fun.
"Hi, you two. Welcome to the Ritz Hotel." Pompom said.

"It's no hotel, it's more like a prison." commented Trixie acidly.

"It is a prison." Pompom replied, "We're never allowed out on our own, and
boyfriends can't visit. No men either."

"Hardly ever see men." put in Dolly.

"There's Samson, our horrid doorman of course."

Dolly nodded. "Yes, make sure your bum's bolted shut when he's around.

"We're on a break between practise." explained Pompom, "The next rehearsal
is in an hour and Madame will expect you two there. Better get ready, you've
got some catching up to do."

"I'm not sure about the girl who brought us here." Lullabelle said, "She
seems very stern, and she's a real girl, isn't she?

"Jennifer? Yes, she's a real one." Pompom confirmed, "Quite fierce isn't
she? And she smacks us, you know. Not just on the back of the legs like
Madame does sometimes. Jennifer takes our pants down and spanks us on the
bottom. She had us all blubbing yesterday."

"I never cry." said Trixie airily.

"Never?" asked Pompom.

"Never what?"

"Cry."

Trixie thought for a moment. "Well, obviously not completely never."

"I bet you'll cry when Jennifer smacks you. I bet you'll shed buckets of
tears and beg for someone to give you a cuddle."

Trixie tossed his head defiantly. Keen to show off his swish red dress
before he had to store it away he fell in with Dolly who he already knew,
and together they went to visit the room next door, leaving Pompom and
Lullabelle to assess each other.

An expression of despair flickered on Lullabelle's cherubic face. "Oh dear,
wherever I go people spank me. It's so jolly unfair."
He noticed Pompom staring at his frock and felt annoyed. "I know it's got
lots of freaky frills. I hate the way I look. I hate being mummy's little
girl that she shows off at parties. I'm not the perfect little lady and I
don't want to be. I want to be like Timmy - er, I mean, like Trixie. He said
he would show me how to be different."

The other boy assumed a lofty air. "Phooey, I know Trixie better than you
do. He's only interested in games that involve cheating and big prizes."
Standing back he admired the newcomers innocent yet sensual face with its
neatly brushed dark hair and dark liquid eyes. His gaze took in his smooth
arms and legs while his mind tried to imagine how his young body would look
beneath his little-girl dress.
"If you want some help I'll give you some. Shall I be lady's maid and help
you take your frock off?"

Flattered by such close attention Lullabelle demurely dipped his eyelashes.
"You could unfasten the buttons at the back for me. They're always so
awkward."

Obligingly Pompom did that, standing behind him, carefully unlooping each
small button and peeling back the garment as he progressed, noting the lack
of any under vest and admiring the structure of youthful bare skin on bone.
Eventually and without asking he scooped the dress from Lullabelle's narrow
shoulders and drew it down his body to reveal a slim, underdeveloped chest
and flat belly. Beneath the dress Madame's latest recruit was wearing just
white cotton knickers, the boy part of him made obvious by the way it was
shaped in the front.
Busily he stooped down to help Lulabelle step out from the puddle of fabric
at his feet, aware of how the other boy was watching him and how his
breathing had quickened.
Lullabelle giggled nervously, feeling like a piece of fruit that had just
been peeled.
"Don't you like people seeing you getting undressed?" asked Pompom, "Are you
scared of them seeing your popsy?"

"I'm not shy."

"Good job, because Madame expects everyone to show their willies at practise
sometimes. Anyway, lots of people like looking at boys willies. Men do, and
plenty of women do too, especially if boys are pretty and wearing a dress
and pretending to be girls."

He did a slow twirl and slipped the robe he was wearing from his own
shoulders,  letting it slide to the floor before turning back to shake his
bare chest from side to side. It was a chest on which two small bumps had
blossomed.
"It's my second season with Madame and I'm growing tits this time. My mother
says boys my age sometimes develop tiny breasts, but they disappear after a
while. Nice while they last though, eh? Do you like them?"

"Yes, they're sweet."

"You'll probably grow them too if you enjoy being a girl. Do you like being
a girl?"

"Well, sort of."

"I know what you mean. Some people think boys in frocks are weirdo's, but
not all of them do. Men pamper little girls and protect them, especially if
they're pretty and look a bit helpless like you do. They love to hold them
and cuddle them, and perhaps have a few secret feels."

"Yes, I know."

"You do! Gosh, you're not so innocent after all."

Lullabelle blushed. "Nothing special. My Uncle Leo likes to squeeze me and
rub against me."

"Everyone here will love doing that." Pompom said. "Their cocks will stand
up like gateposts when they rub against you."
Unashamed, he pushed forward his chest. "Would you like to touch my tits? I
don't let everyone touch them, only people I like, and I think I like you."

Tentatively Lullabelle put the flat of his hands over the other boys
pectoral plums.
"No, not like that." admonished Pompom, "When you're feeling tits you should
hold them between your fingers and thumb and pull them a little bit. You can
roll them about whilst you're doing it, but only gently." Fluttering his
eyes he moved closer and added. "It feels extra-specially nice if someone's
kissing you at the same time. Would you like to do kisses with me while you
play with my tits?"

Lullabelle squirmed slightly, but he didn't express any shock or horror.
"I'm a boy and you're a boy. Why would you want to kiss another boy?"

"We're both boys, I know, but while we're with Madame we'll always be
dressed as girls. That means we can be what we like. Anyway, you're
gorgeous. Good enough to eat. Better looking than a real girl."
He was stroking Lullabelle's back again, drawing him closer, rubbing the
front of his little pants against his own pants and toying with the seat of
his knickers.
Pompom smiled sweetly. "You've got gorgeous looks, but you know that, don't
you?"

Lullabelle gazed at him with moist-eyed innocence. "Have I. Have I really?"

"Of course you have. It's the reason Madame picked you for her show."

"She says she picks people because they understand rhythm and have a natural
flair for dance."

"That as well, but she chooses mainly for good looks. Her show relies on
eye-catching good looks, and you know you have them. You've noticed how men
watch you - study you - admire you, haven't you? It excites you. It makes
you want to flirt with them sometimes. We all do it. It's what we're best
at."

Lullabelle knew Pompom was more experienced than himself and he felt
excited.
"Okay. How do I go about flirting?"

"Well, use your eyes for one thing. You have good eyes."

"Use them for what?"

"To look at other peoples eyes, and flutter the lashes a little bit to show
how long they are."

Lullabelle experimented at fluttering his eyelashes, then giggled. "I look
stupid."

"Not to someone else. Not to men. Men love that sort of thing."

"Are you sure?"

"Positive. And another thing. Men like to know you like them, so tell them
they're strong or brave or clever, even if it's not true. They fall for it
every time. And tell them you love them even if it's a lie. If you're clever
and pretend to be weak and helpless they give you presents and do all kinds
of favours."

He slid round and stood in front, his eyes peering down to devour his new
friends cotton covered groin with its interesting shapes, the boy-cock
inside the girls-pants bending the material outwards, and the little bulge
in the crotch where his scrotum was cradled.


With his head cocked sympathetically to one side he gazed at the new
she-boy. He had the most fathomless, brown-black eyes of anyone he'd ever
met, each pupil merging invisibly into the darkness of its iris, always
moist, as if on the brink of tears.
"You've let boys kiss you before, haven't you?" he said, "I bet loads of
boys kiss you at school."

"Maybe they have. But I've known most of them for ages and I've only known
you for a few minutes."

"What's that got to do with anything?"

Young Lullabelle felt his heart flutter. His eyelids drooped lazily and he
tilted his head sideways as Pompom's mouth moved towards his own.
"No one will see us, will they?"

"Course not, and it doesn't matter if they do. But I won't tell if you don't
want me to." Pompom pressed forward. "Let me," he whispered enticingly.
Before Lullabelle knew it their noses bumped and Pompom's lips were grazing
his own.
His new friend was going to kiss him and he wasn't sure how to kiss properly
with someone who seemed so experienced. But then his eyes closed all by
themselves and his mouth was linked to Pompom's and he was dying of love ...
or whatever else he was feeling.

Even so, even though Lullabelle wanted it to happen he didn't attempt to
embrace the other boy, not at first. His hands dangled limp by his sides,
because he was the lamb being led, wasn't he? - not to slaughter but to an
exciting girly-wonderland - and if he felt guilty about it afterwards he
knew he'd feel better if he could blame someone else.
"You taste brand new." breathed Pompom as he drew back. "Let's do it again,
and open your mouth this time."

Oh, goodness! The next kiss changed everything. It was a real kiss. He felt
his lips part, felt the moistness of his new friend, and then he felt
Pompom's hand sneaking right around the back of his neck and pulling him
forward. An electric shock jolted through his veins and points of light
flickered behind his closed eyelids. His knees became as wobbly as a kittens
and his willpower melted into a warm-hot glow between his legs. Inevitably
he threw up his arms and looped them about Pompom's neck.

Pompom's lips were soft yet sort of firm too, gliding against his own,
tasting and teasing, pressing onto his mouth while his tongue explored
inside, exploring him gently until he couldn't help but respond, and ...ooh,
it was all making his little pricky twitch and swell inside his panties.
And, oh, golly, he knew he should never do it on a first date - kiss with an
open mouth. But he wanted Pompom to do it, just WANTED him to. He wanted
more. More kissing, more feeling, more of everything.

Silence. Lullabelle half turned his head and their eyes locked and he
thought he could drown in Pompom's dark, limpid eyes the way heroines did in
romantic novels. Pompom did seem to have romance on his mind and just
knowing that made his stomach do a little flip-flop and made his cock rise
up in his pants.
"Um, um..." He didn't dare reply, couldn't admit he wanted his friends hot
mouth on his breasts - wanted to feel his naughty hands dip into his pants.
But suddenly anyway, they were groping each other, stroking the front of
each others pants and feeling the strength of arousal that distorted their
clothes.
Glorying in delicious honeyed sensations that made his little nipples stand
up Lullabelle lifted up his chest to offer it to a descending mouth,
writhing with pleasure as Pompom fiercely sucked one breast and then the
other.

He shuddered as Pompom rubbed his own gauzy nylon panties against him to
feel the heated bulge of his little package, but courageously he himself
then used the same technique to drag his stiffness over the contours of his
friends tumescent erection, feathering it up and down the outline of the
rigid pole.
Pompom gazed at him with big bright eyes and a saucy grin. "Naughty girly.
Randy girl. You're ready for some real fun now, I can tell. Your girly-cock
is stiff."

Exchanging some small exclamations they clutched each others hips and rolled
their skimpy pants intimately together. Toe to toe, belly to belly, nipple
to nipple, with tiny teats distended and nubbing one against the other they
became enveloped in each others arms they kissed again while stroking each
others bottoms, all the time pressing forward to enable their pelvis's to
jive hard together.

They gasped into each others mouths. Panting and squirming, their panty
bulges scrapped up and down, and then ... then they did it. With a strangled
"Ooooh, OOOH!" of girlish rapture they spurted sticky gook in their pants
and slithered the gooey wetness together, sliding the twitching shapes
against each other like slippery mating eels.
"Mmmm. Gorgeous!" exclaimed Pompom heatedly. "I did a super, snotty wet cum,
and you did one too, didn't you?"

Lullabelle raised his chin and lazily opened his eyes. "Mummy would be angry
if I did that at home."

"Mothers are a pain, but you can do it all the time here. There are plenty
of places to go if you want to be alone - or if you want to do things with a
special friend. Don't make any arrangement with anyone else yet though. I
want to get in bed with you tonight."

"Oh, I don't think ..."

"Everyone does it here. There isn't anyone else to do things with, so we
have fun with each other."

"Okay, " agreed the new arrival, "but you must agree to do something special
for me."

The other boy-girl grinned saucily. "What have you in mind?"

The newest sissy pulled a concerned face. "Call me Lulu, not Lullabelle."

***

Madame Dupont was of a sanguine temperament; she liked most people and was
surprised when they didn't like her. This readiness to please had been
damaged many times in the past, but it remained intact as far as horses,
dogs and sissy-boys were concerned.
When Jennifer looked at her she felt something blurred and undefined about
the woman. She had an unremarkable yet amiable face, but when she tried to
assess it she found it gave no clue to her age or what she was thinking.
During a moment of tranquility that evening in the sitting room Madame sank
back in her chair, sipped her tea and gave her new assistant a beady,
reproachful glance over the fluted edge of the cup.
"I fear I may be nurturing a viper in my bosom, bringing you here. You smack
my darlings, Jennifer. I know I smack the backs of their legs sometimes
myself if they're being inattentive, because I demand dedication and insist
on total single-minded commitment to the gruelling discipline of dance. But
you take down their pants and spank their bottoms."

Jennifer looked back at her with a wide-eyed expression of slight shock. She
was no doormat, and although she had some respect for the woman who was
hosting her she refused to grovel. She was crazy, she thought. She had given
her responsibilities and she must know how demanding they were.
"Yes, or course I do." she replied, "I'm only trying to do my best for them.
They need to be handled with a firm hand and mild spanking is a method used
by my mother and one that guarantees good conduct. To forbid it would
undermine my position here.
"I don't have your own advantage of having them in a close class of
instruction, Madame Dupont. They are running free when you give them to me
and they lack any kind of self-discipline. When they're bored they give vent
to silly male boisterousness that as to be constantly quelled."

Calmly she poured herself a second cup of tea, more as a diversion than as a
need. She decided it best not to mention the fact that she secretly became
sexually aroused from games of domination and control.
"Trust me Madame, I may make them squeak and cry a little, but I love them
even when I'm doing it. It also gives them a sense of security knowing
someone cares about them enough to inflict discipline, and pantywaists in
frocks constantly feel naughty and know there's a need to be punished. The
bonus is that boys who submit to being bare-bottom spanked over a girls knee
become truly humbled and are invariably far easier to train afterwards."

Against such a tirade of determination Madame Dupont had no defence, she
could merely acquiesce. "Yes, I suppose they will be, but you mustn't be
unduly excessive Jennifer, and you must never do it without good reason."

The teenager smiled warm reassurance. "There is always a good reason, and my
hand, or the back of a hair brush on occasions, that's all I use. I follow
my mother's teaching in matters of correction and she would be horrified if
I were heavy-handed or brutal."

Madame breathed a tiny sigh of surrender and clasped her hands in her lap.
Her tea now sat untouched at her side. "You'd think they'd learn your
routine quickly. You'd think they'd know how to avoid chastisement."

Jennifer grinned. "That's sissies for you, Madame - dizzyheads - always
needing reminders."

They sipped their tea silently for a moment, Madame her favoured dishwater
brew and Jennifer an infusion from a separate pot which she'd taken pains to
instruct Marianne in how to make. Then the older woman opened up a
completely different subject.
"I told Horace yesterday that I'd got a whole list of bookings for the
Follies, when I really don't have any at all. None of the people who seemed
so eager to see the show weeks ago have yet given me dates."

Jennifer frowned in sympathy. "They probably don't know you're ready, so you
must remind them. Get on the phone - send out some circulars. You're in
business Madame Dupont, so you must promote what you have." After a moments
thought she added, "May I suggest that while your waiting you could engender
a little income by having the dancers pose for some - erm - tasteful
photographs. My mother enjoys quite a nice sideline from selling such things
to certain publications and I'm sure she'd provide some useful contacts."

Madame nodded. "Photograph's, em, yes, I hadn't thought of that. I suppose
it's wasteful not to utilise my little darlings fine looks in every way
possible. I'll get something organised."

At last the newcomer felt established enough to put forward some thoughts
that had occurred to her as soon as she'd arrived.
"I must speak to you about the house, Madame Dupont. It's ill maintained of
course, but most offensively of all it's grubby. My hands fairly stick to
the grime on the banisters whenever I come down the stairs."

The older woman looked slightly offended without taking umbrage. "But I have
no money for cleaning staff, Jennifer. You must be aware that my finances
are quite restricted."

The girls confidence blossomed visibly in her smile. "The problem can be
inexpensively solved. We have mops and brushes and plenty of soap and
scouring powder, so your residents must be persuaded to clean the house
themselves. After all, they have no television and nothing else much to fill
their evenings, which can only lead them into mischief. I propose, with your
permission, to devise a cleaning programme for them. Within a week everyone
will be able to appreciate the difference."

Madame nodded, grateful to have someone undertake responsibly for such
mundane aspects of life. "Yes, yes of course. You're at liberty to use the
young people as you wish in the evenings."

***

Horace Pratt always felt comfortable when seated in the stockroom of his
pawn-brokering emporium in Hook Lane, not withstanding that he was
surrounded by vast amounts of miscellanies clutter. In his stockroom he was
a king in his counting-house. Everything around him he could interpret as
gold, for he loaned desperate people only a fraction of the value of any
item they brought to him, and he could sell it on at a good profit if the
owners failed to redeem it in the time agreed. His empire was one of
furniture and fob-watches, diamond rings and dumbbells, heirlooms and vital
tools-of-trade.
He himself traded in the misery of the masses, making a business of dealing
in other peoples failures and inadequacies. He took in bankrupt stock when
it suited him too, and also used his premises as a convenient front for
deals he struck with minor criminal riffraff who wanted a little quick cash
in exchange for items they'd purloined.
Horace was held in cynical esteem by the people in Hook Lane. When
night-time revellers had destroyed one of the three brass balls hung outside
his door he'd neglected to replace it, and his shop and gained the
unflattering name of Pratt's Bollocks.

He was feeling quite content in his secluded stockroom, a small medicated
plaster stuck laterally across his nose gave evidence of his encounter with
Madame Dupont's man Samson the previous day, but the thug had only split the
skin and not broken his nose as he had feared. Lounging in a well padded old
armchair he took an item from a shallow stack of slender paperback
novelettes that had lurid titles such as 'Underage Rentboys' 'Barebottom
Ride' and 'Sucking Off Daddy'. He was soon engrossed in one entitled
'Naughty Boys at School':

"... It was a humid summer night when matron slipped into the dormitory,'
ran the text, 'and with just the light of a waning moon beaming in through
the open windows she could see a dozen naked young boys laying on top of
their bed covers. Unsleeping and restless with the summer heat they were
caressing their hot, slender bodies with sluggish sweeps of their hands;
stroking bellies and breasts and tugging pert boyish nipples.
Matron stood motionless for a few moments just watching, but when several
youthful hands reached down to linger on smooth, bare thighs, her fingers
flexed. She knew the signs.
Ah yes. So many little soldiers all aching to get on parade and unpack their
haversacks.
Time to give the little loves some dedicated matronly attention, she
thought. Without that they would undoubtedly fall victim to providing
attention to each other, and that would be disgraceful. The task she
contemplated would be time consuming and rather wearying with so many to
deal with, but they would all be so very grateful in the end ..."

Horace shifted in his chair and began fumbling with the buttons on his
trouser fly. His own muscular hooded-knight was swelling and throbbing and
already standing to attention.

The door suddenly opened and Toby Parkin, his shop manager, poked his head
through. Toby was a tanned man with tussled artificially blond hair and an
earring. It was hard to age someone so lean and yet wrinkled like a raisin
and with such a tobacco-husky voice, but in appearance he was the antithesis
of urbane Horace.
"Pinky and Ben are here, Horace. D'you wanna see 'em?"

Horace put his book to one side. "May as well. Nothin' much else to do at
the moment. Send 'em in."
Pinky and Ben were young teenagers, enterprising local lads who regularly
cadged bits and pieces from him to sell from a suitcase down at the weekly
open-market, and deals with them were often an highlight of his day.
When two slim figures came through the door Horace sat up straight.
"Come in boys, come in. I's got some good gold bracelets for yer today.
First-class stuff. Don't turn the skin green for forty-eight hours. You'll
make a killin' wi' 'em."

Pinky and Ben were a ideally matched pair of school friends, nicely put
together, sweet features, faces flawless not having yet reached the stage of
oily skin and acne, but their beguiling looks were a facade for cunning
little minds and an definite asset for selling junk. People just couldn't
believe such innocent looking babes would swindle them.

Horace rubbed his hand over his orderly hair and stroked his neat moustache.
"But yer knows yer have to pay when you want a bite of my apple. Have you
got any cash?"
Pinky and Ben looked at each other, then looked back at Horace and shook
their heads.

In a parody of self-importance Horace thrust out his chest and stood up, his
hands stroking at once down the front of each boys jeans. Pinky and Ben
stood perfectly still while he unzipped their fly's and fished around inside
their pants. Within moments the shop owner was holding a sturdy, well
proportioned penis in each hand.
"I's a martyr to all this. But okay, we'll settle for the usual. Get yer
togs off." he said.

"All of 'em?" enquired Pinky.

"Sure, all of 'em," said Horace, "You've got time ain't yer? The market
ain't until tomorrow."

He lit a cigar, outwardly showing no interest as the two boys kicked off
their shoes and started to strip. But of course Horace was too canny to
allow such things go completely unobserved.
Slowly their bodies were revealed, nothing remarkable for young teenagers.
Just a slender expanse of young naked flesh, a modest sprouting of hair
around their genitals and none yet under the arms or on the chests, and
their arms just carried a fine down.
In unconscience unity Pinky and Ben stroked their hands over their bellies
and offered a wan smile as they displayed their nudity. Nice cocks, their
scrotums hanging loose between their thighs, the balls looking full and
heavy.

Vain little bastards, thought Horace, smiling to himself. Must think they're
the only decent boy-pussy meat around.
Puffing on his cigar, he pondered for a moment. What would it be today? He
could suck them both off, that would be nice - and then they could suck him
off. He was partial to a double-header from a pair of good looking boys.
But no, he decided. He'd fuck them today. They always made such lovely
little noises when he fucked them.

"I've come up with a special idea for today," he said, "There's some nylon
stockings and a couple of ladies garter belts over by the window. Let's see
what you look like wearing 'em."

Both youngsters looked shocked and rather disenchanted with the idea of
having to put on feminine clothing.
"Mr Pratt, you've never asked us to do that kind of thing before."

"Things change," Horace told them, "I's been inspired recently, an' variety
is the spice of life, y'know."

While they were getting ready he went out into the shop where Toby ran
things with the help of a very fat and very nearly witless woman of fifty
summers called Mrs Gitty.
The place was otherwise empty. No customers at all.
"The shop's quite this afternoon, Toby."

"Dole day at the Job Centre, Horace." Toby explained, "People will have
money of their own to spend for a couple of days."

Horace rolled his cigar in his mouth. "We should take advantage of slack
periods. You're good wi' cameras so I want you to do a special job for me
later. Go up to Nob Street and take some snaps of Madame Dupont's little
pantywaist faggots. Y'know the sort o' thing I mean. Pretty faces an' pretty
poses with plenty o' pretty cocks showing under frocks."

Toby regarded the plaster on his employers nose and he suddenly looked
worried.
"Oh, I dunno about that, Horace. I'm not a violent man an' she's got Attila
the Hun as a doorman, ain't she?"

"This will be okay, no danger." Horace assured him, "She requested it
herself, so she'll have arranged things properly."
He looked over at Mrs Gitty whose enormous bosom was slumped on the shop
counter, and who was absorbed in a copy of 'Teenage Romance.'
He gave Toby a nudge with his elbow. "Here, come through into the back and
have a break. Pinky an' Ben are putting out for a poke, an' I don't mind
sharing 'em today. Mrs Gitty can look after things here."
When Toby looked a bit reticent he gave him another nudge. "What's the
matter? Don't you fancy a treat?"
Toby at last stirred. "Of course I do. I don't use me where-with-all with
the missis much these days, but I won't turn down a chance with either of
them shirt-lifters in there."

A moment later the two men shut the door of the stockroom behind them.
Toby's eyes glittered when he saw Pinky and Ben, standing naked except for
the skimpy apparel of nylon stockings and suspenders which, not to be
outdone by Horace's fertile, deviant imagination, they had each augmented
with ladies court shoes.
"They're a-fuckin'-mazin'!" approved Toby. "Ere Horace, Pinky an' Ben don't
'alf make horny business outta wearing suspenders an' stockings. Proper
little bunny-boys they are."

Pinky was a little embarrassed, but squared up bravely.
"Hi, Toby. Didn't expect to see you here."

"I liked the show you're puttin' on, it's your best yet." Toby said. He
turned to Horace. "Y'know they're better than girls.

Pinky posed a little and the men appeared to drool.
Ben walked with a seductive swish towards them. "We are," he said
precociously, "We are better than girls."

Both men laughed. They made a badly balanced pair, each well worn in their
own way, but while Horace was wiry and almost graceful Toby was younger,
ruddy in the face, weak somewhere inside perhaps, but powerful looking on
the exterior. Privately he fancied himself as a man for the ladies, but he
never turned down a nice bit of boy-arse, and the feminine garb Pinky and
Ben wore at that moment seemed to bring together all the essentials for a
raunchy episode.

"Are yer both oiled-up?" Horace asked the two boys.
When Pinky nodded he indicated a waist-high stack of duvets at the side of
the room. "Stretch over them me little lovelies, an' let's get started."
He looked at his shop-manager. "You have Ben and I'll take the delightful
Pinky," he told him, "We can always do a swap after a while if you fancy a
change."

The two youngsters had been in the stockroom plenty of times in the past and
they knew what was expected of them. Without waiting for more directions
they leaned forward and settled across the pile of bedding, heads down,
their smooth, white derrieres and boyish nylon-clad legs forming up side by
side, ready to accept the lust of two degenerate men as the price of Horace
Pratt's favoured treatment.

The two men didn't take their eyes away from them as they moved up behind.
Those backsides were youthful, smooth and enhanced by a smattering of
girlish apparel. They seemed almost feminine in appearance, and they were
clearly prepared to be dutifully subservient to a manly invasion.
Pinky flinched just a little as Horace's firm fingers spread open his soft
bottom cheeks to expose the enticing pink whorl of his anus.
Toby purred with degenerate glee as he watched. "Boy! Look at the little
tease. Clean as a whistle and ready for action."

Horace leaned forward, his eyes taking on a fierce glow as his lips thinned.
"Is that right Pinky? Is you prepared for some action?"

"Er, um, I ain't sure, Mr Pratt. Your thing ...it's so ...it's so big."

Delighted by the comment the man smiled in mock disbelief. "Oh come now
m'lad. You've been at his game long enough. You must have developed some
endurance by now."

Almost in unison Horace and Toby heaved the tumescent male appendages out
from the front of their trousers and rolled back their foreskins, thumbing
apart the lads buttocks to get a look at where they were going before
pumping themselves up to maximum arousal, smearing the blunt tip of their
knob-ends over the inviting little starbursts revealed, then screwing them
around insistently until each dimple gave way and expanded.

Horace was slightly envious of his shop-manager because even when he was as
stiff as a neat whisky Toby always showed a slightly bigger cock, but he
consoled himself with the thought that size wasn't the be-all and end-all of
things.  It was the way a fellah rooted a lad that counted, and he could
make them squeal and moan and bite lumps out of a pillow - no problem.
"Phoaw!" He grunted has he established himself fully inside Pinky's backside
with no more than two or three forceful shoves, then while he paused to
enjoy the constriction of the narrow tube he'd occupied he looked across at
Toby.

His shop-manager took slightly longer getting started with Ben, pushing his
length in with slow deliberation, but going equally as deep while enjoying
the lads whimpering. Not as experienced as Horace Pratt he gripped Ben's
hips and stood for a moment unmoving until he was sure the lads dinky bottom
was fully impaled.
Horace grinned at him. "Wow! You're a wild thing when you're let loose, Toby
Parkin. A bit of a ragin' bull you are. G'on y'randy bastard, ram as hard as
you like. He ain't made o' china."

At last Horace started to plough Pinky, pumping in and out of his young arse
like a jackhammer, while Toby followed his example with Ben.
"What would yer missis say if she could see you know, Toby. Up to yer balls
in a lad an' giving him the benefit of yer dick?"

"One shudders to think." said Toby helplessly spitting between clenched
teeth. "But there's nothing to equal a nice bit of young arse, is there?
Tight as a drum. Tighter than his mouth I bet. This little character fucks
like a bitch."

"They are bitches Toby, they love it an' they stretch like rubber bands, so
don't hold back with yer ball-juice."

Holding onto Pinky's hips Horace started to heave back and forth with his
thighs, angling to left and right then quickening the pace as he began
lunging straight down the middle.
The two youngsters began mewing and yowling softly, for while each had
considerable experience in dropping their pants for men neither was yet
completely attuned to the stretching of anatomy and the lustful, deep
pounding such situations encouraged.
Right from the start they began giving out the soft groans and whimpers that
Horace Pratt enjoyed, the noises that relayed to him that they could detect
the size of the thing in their anal tracts and could appreciate its vigorous
movements.
"Oooh, oooh, oooohhh!"
Ah yes, Horace thought, they squirmed so helplessly and scratched around
exactly like breathless maidens when they had a good cock spearing them
briskly in their cute little fundaments.

Genially Toby paused for a moment and waited until he felt Ben humping back
against him in response, slowly opening up and accepting more and more.
And suddenly there was more. Ben was horrified it may split him, and it was
none too soon that his anatomy adjusted to cope with things. A thick wedge
of gristle-like sinew, irresistible, going further and deeper on a velvet
journey.
OOOhh, ugh! So smooth. He was huge now, bigger than he'd been with his wife
for years, and he was burying his cock to the hilt.

Toby could sense intangible power surging out from his groin. His penis was
a rod of tingling nerve ends and his balls were aching to release their
cargo. He could feel his cock head swelling deep inside Ben's backside.
"Oooohhh! Here I go." he gasped. "You get first-prize from me Ben m'darlin'.
Uuuuhhh, ooooohhh! Oh yeah!"
His cock convulsed suddenly inside the anal snare and he grimaced as a huge
jet of cum evacuated his glands.

Pinky and Horace were only a little way behind. Pinky felt the shop-owner
tensing up, gripping his hips more firmly, pumping back and forth more
vigorously, using every inch of his hot, narrow tunnel to stir his liquid
seed.
"A gennelman could get used to this," Horace grunted as he forced Pinky's
legs further apart in order to elevate his beautiful bottom.
The tightness of the boys rosette squeezed his thick rod fitfully and quite
suddenly he was emptying out.
When Horace finally ejaculated he did it with untypical calmness, eyes
bulging like marbles, but uttering no more than a series of faint 'aaah,
aah's' as he unloaded a mighty lathering of manly cream into the lads
rectum.

The rumble of a petrol-engine came from outside and a dark shadow passed
across the small, unwashed window on the other side of the room, and at once
Horace rumbled with irritation like he'd been interrupted midway through a
cup of tea.
"Dammit, that'll be the lorry from Babbington's warehouse. It wasn't due
until later."
With his lust sated his mind homed-in on business and he tucked his penis
back into his trousers.
"Come on Toby, you old hippy. Playtime's over an' it's back to work. Let's
go see what it's got onboard."

When the two men left the back room to go outside to the lorry Mrs Gitty's
porcine eyes narrowed slyly. She was enormously fat; an enormous hank of
flab, the size of a paddle, hung from her upper arms and her eyes had to
strain to see through the adipose that threatened to engulf them
There would be some bartering to do with the driver and the men would be
away for at least twenty minutes, and she reckoned that was time she herself
could utilise nicely.

Abandoning the shop counter she quietly slipped into the stockroom to survey
what Horace and Toby had left behind.
Glassy-eyed and breathless Pinky and Ben were sprawled on their backs across
the duvets like a pair of limp popped balloons in a puddle, legs splayed
wide, indolently trying to recover from the frantic rogering and terrific
hosing they'd just received.

Mrs Gitty exploded before them like a man-o-war under sail, her monstrous
melons rising and falling with the intensity of her breathing. "Well now -
just as I thought." she remarked with a discernable tut. "Them 'orrble
blokes have been doin' mucky things with you both. Makin' you wear stockings
like girls while they buggered your little bums without mercy. Disgustin'
they are. I've half a mind to report 'em to the RSPCA."
The woman's gaze descended upon their bare flesh, concentrating upon their
pink bags and their study, still unsated boy-cocks.

She unbuttoned the front of her dress, and not having to contend with any
foundation garments she was able to shake out her two vast, shuddering
breasts - bloated items that were heavy and pendulous and had nipples that
stood out like tent-pegs.
"Mr Pratt's selfish an' Toby's stupid an' imitates him. Left you here
without squeezing out yer spermies, haven't they? A pair o' rascals they
are. I knows you scallywags don't mind finishing things for each other, but
I don't mind helpin' out. You needs is a bit o' comfortin' from a lady to
make things right."
With a big cheery smile she swung about and wheedled her enormous backside
between them as she sat down, and at once she took a cock in each hand.
"Yer deserving of a bit o' pleasure, an' luckily I's in the right mood to
give yer fat little todgers a good wallopin'."

Mrs Gitty was undoubtedly well qualified to do that kind of thing, having
spent her life riding cocks of all sizes she was also no slouch at handling
throbbing dicks that were ready to blow. In addition she'd read all of
Horace's pornographic novelettes days ago, having carefully tucked them one
at a time between the pages of her teenage romance magazines, and at that
moment she rather fancied herself in the role of the matron in 'Naughty Boys
at School' since no one was better able to pump a whole series of slender
young pricks than she was.

Pinky and Ben writhed under her furious ministrations, revolted by her
grotesque appearance and vast bulk, yet intrigued by her lack of shame and
excited by the expert way her podgy hands operated. Her hands were small and
her fingers fat, but her manipulations showed all the deftness of a woman
who had spent a great deal of time in the past slicking foreskins up and
down.
With a rearing erection clenched in each hand she bobbed them up and down,
making the smooth cock-heads appear and disappear into her fist like a pair
of bald-headed jack-in-a-box. Within moments her caresses had graduated from
a gentle joggling to top speed pumping.
"Come on you two. Don't be shy, let go of yer cummies for Mrs Gitty. A lady
like me don't stop 'til she sees a nice result, an' you'll both feel better
when yer get the milk outta yer tubes."

The constant jigging of her hands had the desired effect. As if in answer to
her obscene urging the two boys moaned desperately and each of their pricks
began spurting-off, each erupting like a cream-filled Vesuvius, whirling,
swirling lassos of sticky opaque lava leaping up to slop over the woman's
knuckles.
Mrs Gitty beamed with delight. "Whooo! You naughty boys. Playin' with you
like that as made me do a great big wet in my knickers."

***

The following morning Jennifer was already thinking of getting the house
straight and her critical gaze swept over each shabby aspect of it as she
went down the stairs; the threadbare carpets, peeling wallpaper and the
woodwork that hadn't been repainted for at least fifty years. She had always
despised brown as a colour, and number nineteen was absolutely full of brown
varnish paintwork. Even the wallpaper had autumn colouring, which to her
mind would make living through the summer very depressing. As for the
curtains! They were cheap, nasty things, supposedly Draylon but clearly
nothing more than cotton.
She stamped her foot on a rug in the hall and the cloud of dust that rose up
only served to raise her dissatisfaction another notch.

The large earthenware urn by the front door was her first mark. She thought
it a dreadful looking thing, it stood on the floor bristling with long dead
flower stems and with matchstick-like putti clasping hands encircled its
bulbous belly. It was the opposite of anything beautiful, being used more
often as a doorstop than anything else, and it was probably a safety hazard.

She turned to the emasculated Marianne who had traipsed behind her like an
inquisitive pet poodle. He was the senior sissy who between sessions of solo
rehearsals with Madame Dupont seemed to serve as a downstairs maid.
"Get that monstrosity out into the back yard." she demanded tersely.

Marianne stooped and took hold of the pot, but achieved nothing. He heaved
and tugged mightily, his bare bottom thrusting out under his skimpy skirt
and wagging about fiercely as he attempted to raise the urn from the floor,
but despite his best efforts he only succeeded in rocking it slightly on its
base.
"It's too heavy for me to carry, Jennifer. I can't even lift it up." he
finally weaselled apologetically.

Jennifer tutted in irritation. "Get out of the way you weak little fairy,
I'll do it myself."
A show of her own strength she always considered a good way of impressing
effeminate little faggots who could barely lift a teaspoon without
whimpering, but has she took a grip on this particular object its weight
almost embarrassed her. It seemed to be made of stone rather than clay and
she regretted not first scooping the soil from its innards to lessen the
burden.
Nevertheless, she was not about to demonstrate frailty with a weedy young
pantywaist looking on. She bear-hugged the things, heaved to her feet, and
with tendons, sinews and muscles straining walked rapidly through the house
to the open back door where she summarily dumped it on the step.

There was no garden at the back of the house, and such space that belonged
to Number 19 was small, concreted over and enclosed by high brick walls
pierced only by a latched gate that allowed access for kitchen deliveries.
Marianne stepped out into the yard and gazed bright-eyed at the infernal
urn.
"It's not a bad pot really. Do you think Madame will buy me a packet of
seeds so I can grow flowers in it? Geraniums would be nice."

Jennifer shrugged, dusted off her hands and took stock. "Oh, come, Marianne.
I know you're a soft, silly creature with cotton wool for brains, but even
you must know Madame has more important things to think about than growing
flowers."

The morning was sunlit, with a promise of a good summer. Bougainvillaea
encroaching from a neighbouring property criss-crossed over a nearby wall in
a blaze of purple, hot pink and salmon orange, and below it stood Marianne,
features softened more than usual because they were in shadow.
Marianne, fair-haired, blue-eyed and pink cheeked, was older than the
others, and as senior sissy he was allowed to please himself in the way he
dressed. It struck her how different he was from the rest. Delicate and
slightly awkward in her company his little shows of nervous clumsiness made
him seem endearingly vulnerable.

There was something fragile about him, a tilt of the head, the slight hunch
of his shoulders. Look at him now,  his sweet smooth features with pear
drops dangling from pierced ears, in his simple white teen-pop-diva tank-top
that left his navel bare, and his little skirt.
He was on the small side, the French would have termed him petite. But he
had a slim young body, perfectly proportioned. A rare little beauty, with a
touch of bronze eyeshadow and pale lipstick, and with sandals on his bare
feet and his golden hair haloed by the morning sky there was no other word
to describe his appearance except racy. From the tip of his honeyed head to
the toes of his dainty feet every satin curve of his body tantalised. She
wondered for a moment who he really was, but then decided it didn't matter.
She noticed that today the young queen wore a slightly longer skirt than the
one he'd worn when she'd first met him, but it still didn't hide all that it
should. The bell-shaped tip of his preposterously long  penis still dangled
obtrusively beneath the bottom hem.

He was different from the others, not just by the extent of his cock but by
his attitude. Marianne clearly adored being the leading light in a household
of full of girlishness, he was a mincing, dizzy blond bimbo who was proud of
the fact that he could more than hold his own among such a gathering of
youthful, feminine beauty. But strangely, although he had an enormous cock
he didn't seem to have the faintest wish to use it for anything other than
going to the toilet.
"How often do you have sex?" she asked.

Marianne rolled uneasily from one foot to the other. "Erm, not very often.
Not every day."
He frequently allowed the younger boys to try their stiff prodders in his
backside when they got horny, but he didn't rate that as sex. That was just
pleasing people. Being held down across a bed by someone like Samson and
having a gigantic skin-covered bone screwed up him, THAT was sex.

The girls eyes narrowed as she studied him. He was clearly in awe of her and
that pleased the streak of dominance in her nature. But perhaps something
was required in addition.
"I didn't spank you yesterday when I spanked the others, did I?"

Gathering some courage the slightly made she-boy delicately swivelled his
hips. "I haven't been naughty, Jennifer."

Jennifer conjured up an expression of mock consideration. "Boys who wear
lipstick and skirts are innately naughty and always deserve a smack or two.
And anyway, I think I should give you a little sampler so you can refer to
it in the future."

Unconsciously Marianne's hands flew behind him and he hugged the seat of his
tiny frock. His face dipped but failed to conceal his precociousness. It was
almost as if he were flirting with her.
"You wouldn't spank me hard, would you?"

Amazing, thought Jennifer. Delightful. He was submitting without argument.
"That depends on my mood and your reaction." she told him. "Come along,
there's no set time for spanking girlies with me. We'll go through into the
sitting room where it's more comfortable - more comfortable for me anyway.
It not likely to be at all comfortable for you."

As she strutted back into the house Marianne trotted apprehensively at her
heels, and she noticed that even in flat shoes the little sex kitten trod
little mincing steps as though he were a girl in stiletto's.
"Oh please don't spank me hard, Jennifer. Not VERY hard."

In the sitting room Jennifer hauled the she-boy before her and concentrated
for a moment on the front of his tank-top, or more precisely on the soft,
round shapes it concealed. As she coolly appraised the gorgeous young hottie
she moved closer, and Marianne made no effort to resist when she raised his
top and tucked it under his arms to reveal his chest. His breasts were real
enough; not huge in size, smooth and delicate with a rather engaging little
uptilt. They were a pair of perfect adolescent girl-tits with virgin pink
nipples that were pointy and alert.

His eyelids fluttered while a sweet smiled trembled on his glossy lips. It
was a softening device that sometimes worked with Madame and always worked
with men, but it didn't work with a canny teenager who was so well up on
pantywaist tricks.
"Get undressed. We don't want anything getting in the way, and I like girls
with titties to hang them out when they go over my knee. You don't mind
doing that, do you?"

Looking slightly bewildered the girly-thing shook his head. He was a pretty,
gentle looking creature with lovely eyes, and he shuddered as he removed his
tank top and short skirt, turning slowly to let her appreciate how the lines
of his legs lead enticingly to the sweet little mounds of his rump.
"Not hard," he pleaded while worshipfully looking over his shoulder at the
haughty teenage girl in anticipation of the humiliation she was about to
hand out.

He was a blond-haired sex-pot with a stunning waif-like body, his belly was
flat and his torso tapered until he almost had a waist. Everything about him
was poised in and appealing girlish way. But of course he was a paradox with
his pert girlish bosom and his balls, and his extraordinary elongated penis.
The penis was a titanic thing, quite sturdy and smooth for most of its
length, only blossoming into a broad sculpture about two inches from the tip
where it broadened out to accommodate a fat, purple helmet. For some reason
Jennifer thought of a clapper on a cathedral bell.

With one hand she took hold of his chest and gently contracted her grip,
feeling his flesh take on a shape between her fingers, while with her other
hand she reached around the back of him and squeezed his little backside,
testing the texture of the soft, defenceless young rump.
"Such a naughty girl." she said quietly.

He became as vibrant and skittish as a fawn. "Wha ... What are you going to
do?" he mumbled.
He was standing with his bottom slightly pushed back and Jennifer gave it a
preliminary swat with her hand. SMACK!
"Uumph! Ow, that hurt." he complained.
She let go of him and stepped back. The urge to chastise him was both a
personal compunction and a frivolous pastime and in her it was very strong,
but she realised she had to control it with Madame Dupont's senior sissy.

She was a bully, always the queen pin with a heart as hard as nails. She
always had been. She had a quick tongue with an ever ready response. It was
in her blood, just like it was in her mothers blood. She had to be in total
control of everyone and every situation.
She smiled inwardly. At school she had been compared to Penthesilea, Queen
of the Amazons. Her pleasure was all to do with power, she was the Amazon
hunter who constantly chased submissive bottoms.

She'd been thoroughly spoilt as a young girl. Her mother permitted her to do
just as she wished at home, but at 19 Nob Street it was a different matter.
Madame Dupont was a different matter. She was not free to do exactly as she
pleased while lodging with her. There were limits that had to be observed,
and she suspected that smacking Marianne without just cause was probably
going beyond them, so she had to be careful. If she was sent back to
Yorkshire labelled as unsuitable or unmanageable before the end of the
Summer Season her mothers outwardly mild temper would go pyrotechnic.
She regarded Marianne broodily. Some other method of imprinting her
dominance was needed.
"I'm not going to spank you." she said.

The sheboys eyes fluttered and he almost looked disappointed. "You're not?
Aren't I pretty enough?"

"It's not that. You have all the prettiness needed to make a girl want to
stretch you over her lap and tan your bum until teatime. It's more
complicated. For instance, is there anything you've done lately that you
feel bad about? Anything that gives you a pang of guilt?"

Marianne turned his eyes upward to indicate he was thinking deeply. He'd
been involved in a number of sexy capers with delivery boys at the back
door, but he'd done nothing he regretted. And he'd burnt Madame's morning
toast once, but she'd just said to make some more.
Slowly he shook his head.

"There you are! Just as I thought. There's no point in spanking someone who
feels no shame, and Madame would be extremely displeased if I upended you
without a valid reason."
As she spoke she laid the tip of her finger on his lower lip. It was as soft
as a rose petal. She allowed the moment to draw out, then slowly her thumb
peeled back his lips so she could examine his teeth and gums as one would
inspect those of a horse. All were in perfect condition and scrupulously
clean, just as she had expected. Sensuously she eased her finger into his
mouth to pierce him in a subliminal way.

"For the moment a little display of humility will do." she told him
speculatively, "Something to prove your respect for me and to emphasis your
place in things. You're such an unusual sissy - a girl with a big cock - so
it must be something extra-special."
She moved her finger back and forth in his mouth, probing the soft,
salivating cavity intimately, pushing at the insides of his cheeks and
making them bulge out. When a few moments had passed she inserted three
fingers and worked them back and forth.
Arms at his side, head tilted up, Marianne accepted her invasive treatment
slavishly even though it made him wretch slightly when she lunged towards
the back of his throat.

"You have a lovely mouth." she told him with approval. Her eyes scanned his
face and she thought for a moment before her imagination sparked.
"I've got it." she said, withdrawing her hand and viewing the copiously
slaver on her fingers. "Use your mouth. Over there. Go and sit down in the
corner and suck yourself. I'm sure you can manage it. Suck yourself off.
Okay?"

Marianne uttered a surprised giggle and the fingers of one hand covered his
lips, the long nails making them seem thin and delicate and pointed at the
tips. His eyelashes fluttered and he blushed prettily. "Um, ere ...!"

Jennifer smiled. "Of course you're bound to make a bit of a fuss, but you're
really just drama queen, aren't you?"

"Yes, Jennifer." the sissy-boy agreed. He bit a trembling lip and tried to
hide against her shoulder, but she peeled him off and sent him on his way.
Like a chastised eight year old he moped fitfully across the room, then
sitting on the floor he wedged himself into the corner and braced himself
against the wall. Opening his legs he drew his knees up to the level of his
ears.

Other males would have struggled and failed to effect a manoeuvre they could
only be do by extraordinary contortion, but Marianne didn't rely on
contortion, he was exceptionally lithe of body, and his cock was
exceptionally long. With one hand tucked beneath his ball-sac he was able to
gently caress the tender globes inside while rising them up, while with his
other hand he gripped his serpentine length and guided its spongy, bulbous
end upwards to meet a face that was dipping down.

As his initial coyness evaporated Marianne angled his penis up towards his
face and pulled it towards his lips. Slicking his wet, pink tongue over the
tip he took a moment to explore the large, satiny crown which had begun to
leak precum from the slit at its apex, then his tongue began gliding up and
down the long, smooth shaft, making it wet, making it expand, taking time,
teasing and pleasing, until at last his lips settled around the tip and he
enveloped the fat plum with his mouth.
Having taken in the bulbous tip, he clamped his lips beneath its lower rim
and blithely began to pleasure himself by moving them up and down. Never
gripping, never biting, coating everything with saliva, drawing it in,
pushing down on it, once, twice, again and again.

Jennifer crouched in front of him and watched his activity with suppressed
enjoyment. Her pleasure was covered by a veneer of calm nonchalance, but at
times like this her focus easily shifted and the visual sight came onto her
in a dynamic way, like heat.
She never allowed effeminate schoolboy imps to see the reaction their
submissiveness engendered within herself, and within her pants, to do so
would  be tantamount to admitting a weakness that the faggots may find a way
to use against her one day. Importantly and above all things she liked to
present herself as imperious, unassailable and strong. But she was amazed by
the swelling and extending and rising up. Goodness! It was much bigger than
she ever imagined it could be.

She was surprised also, if not astounded, by Marianne's dedication - of a
pretty boys mouth gratuitously plugged by his own penis.
His member was inside his throat and still he worked his mouth smoothly and
relentlessly, while his lips fought with the incessant, electrified liquid
urges in his thickening meat
This wasn't the first time Jennifer Hancock had supervised young
sissy-things in sucking their own cocks. In the past she'd sometimes
assisted them to get a result, but this girly-thing needed no help. Marianne
had very likely done it before just to please himself, but she knew that
being MADE to do it in front of her would add a lovely extra thrill for him.

Gently she leaned forward and kissed his neck, speaking quietly, softly,
seductively.
"You're very pretty." she said, pressing closer to hear his guzzling,
feeling her own wetness between her legs, the throb inside her vagina, the
stiffening of her clitoris and the swelling of her breasts. The huskiness in
her voice didn't need to be emphasised.

The movements of his mouth quickly became increasingly eager, and lower down
one of his hands was caressing his testicles as if urging his plump
ball-bags to give up their treasure.
Then in an instant his tinted eyelids fluttered and his expression melted
into one of infinite rapture as if in response to some kind of unseen
impact.

"Mmoh!" His belly undulated in a dolphin-like ripple and a meaningless
little noise squeezed out from his throat as he balked slightly, but even
though he was clearly ejaculating his lips remained latched in place.
Mouth and hands then worked in unison, rapidly pumping the shaft, teasing
juice along his glands as he wanked into his own mouth and consumed his own
copious discharge with the enthusiasm of a baby at its bottle.
For a while his smooth, slender neck undulated to give evidence of
deliberate swallowing, but at last he lifted his head slightly and his
tongue fluttered over the end of his cock to ensure no trace of secretion
was left behind.

Jennifer needed to monitor her breathing after seeing such a job so well
done.
"That's enough of that for now young lady." she told him, "Any more of it
and you won't want to eat your dinner."


***

At breakfast time the next day Madame Dupont was gushing with revitalised
enthusiasm.
"I'm got some business-cards now." she said. "They're quite cheap if you do
them in one of those little machines outside the railway station. What do
you think?"
She offered Jennifer one of the cards from a deck in her hand.
It read:

A DANCING EXTRAVAGANZA
MADAME DUPONT PRESENTS HER FRILLY FOLLIES
EVERY GIRL A BOY, EVERY BOY A GIRL.
Ideal entertainment for private parties and social evenings.
Book now to avoid disappointment.
THE SHOW OF THE SEASON. ONE NOT TO BE MISSED.

Jennifer nodded her approval. "It says everything you need to say. Who do
you intend sending them to?"

"Why, to everyone." Madame replied jubilantly. "Well, everyone who expressed
interest in the past. I've got fifty cards."

Jennifer pulled on a coat. "I'm going out to the shop at the end of the
road. I was thinking of taking a few of the dancers with me and giving them
a little airing. They seem to be stuck here in the house all the time."

Madame dropped the cards into her lap. She took off her steel-rimmed
spectacles and put them into a black case with a snap.
"Take them out! That's impossible." she said.

"Why impossible?"

"It's for me to decide. I've said it's impossible."

"But Madame, it wouldn't cost anything and they'd ..."

"They are not free to run about."
And that was the end of the matter.

Jennifer went out alone. Early morning was the time of day when the London
air was least clogged with car fumes and the time the time of day she
preferred. It would have been an ideal time to take some of the sissies for
a stroll too.
Runabout! Madame had said. Goodness, why, they never went anywhere. People
once used to stick pins into the eyes of linnets to keep them in their
cages, but Madame Dupont only needed a sharp word.

Perhaps she had some good reasons. The nancyboy dancers were of a like age
to the sissy creatures her mother maintained in Yorkshire, and in some
respects there were other similarities. They had always been beautiful. They
were among the lucky who from birth had been blessed with sunny dispositions
and striking good looks. Relatives and strangers alike had fawned over them
and praised them endlessly. People liked to pet them and cuddle them and
they'd always been confident in their appearance.
They had also become aware that the focal point of their attraction was
inside their pants, so they took every chance to put on the most revealing
clothes in order to pose and lounge about in ways that guaranteed
admiration.

When she thought about it she could understand Madame's reluctance to allow
them out. The woman took her duty of care seriously. While boarding with her
boys were compelled to wear feminine attire constantly and encouraged to
affect female mannerisms, so it would be crazy to let them roam around. They
were cute and utterly seduced by the magic of dressing up like girls.
Madame's students excelled at being extremely feminine, ultra girly-girls,
and would doubtless wish to wear high heels and little dresses with a tight
waistline, which so often encouraged them to jut out their little bottoms
provocatively, while wiggle-walk high heels made it impossible to sashay in
any other way than a sexy mincing swish that made their hips swivel
deliciously.
They were all established sissies and showed no coyness in being attired in
that way. They were too cute for their own good really. Set free they would
set off erections in trousers all along the street.

She was practically at the end of the road when a boy on a bicycle went
speeding past her and she recognised him at once as the newspaper delivery
boy she'd met on the train and again seen in the corner shop a few days
before.
Her inquiring mind observed him carefully as he swung off into an alley at
the rear of the place that employed him, and instinctively she followed the
same route and found the bicycle pushed up against a wall in a small, bland
windowless yard. Obviously it was a safe little nook where the lad
habitually parked his bike when he went to return his empty satchel to the
shop owner.
Having satisfied her curiosity she was about to turn about and leave when
the instinct that had led her there also made her linger, and she was soon
rewarded by being in place when the boy returned.

She stared at him for a long moment. He was immaculate in a white T-shirt
that showed his slim tanned arms. He wore Levis that fit as if tailored for
his narrow backside, and white sneakers without socks. His hair was slightly
tussled but neatly cut at the back and sides and his eyes were wide under
long lashes. Also his mouth was very nice, kind of sensual.

When he went to take hold of his bicycle she gripped the handlebars.
"Hi, I never thought I'd see you again. I'm Jennifer. What's your name?"

"Fred." he replied apprehensively.

"Fred! That's not a very pretty name for someone as pretty as you. You
should be called Felicity."

"That's a girl's name."

"Yes, but it's very apt. You're not very heavily built and you've got a
sweet face. You probably need someone strong to look after you."
She looked at him, her gaze slightly mocking now and not in the least
deferential, observing his entire slight figure, drifting over him with
thoughtful appraisal and lingering like a caress. She knew she was right
about him. She had a intuitive gift for picking such people out in a crowd,
and she found a terrible pleasure in exploiting their vulnerability. Some
would respond slavishly at once to her harsh, bullying words while others
needed to be handled more cunningly at first. She wanted this one to invite
her to take charge.
"Do you live around here, Felicity?"

"In Fox Mews, with my mum. Please don't call me Felicity."

"Okay, I'll call you Freddie, that's a compromise - a halfway house between
Frederick and Frederica. Will that do?"

"I'm not a girl."

"No, of course you're not, but you're as sweet as one. And you know that,
don't you?"
She noticed the quickening of his breath and his reluctance to look her in
the eye. He was slightly afraid, slightly excited.

She took a step towards him and she adored his little struggle that wasn't
really a struggle when she pinned him against a wall, and the soft, oh of
surprise when she gently bit the side of his neck.
His arms hung limp at his sides, unwilling to resist, unable to fend her
off, and of course she'd known from the start he wouldn't resist.

She exercised subtle skill, lulling him into accepting her. She ran her
fingers lightly down his arm, felt him draw back, scared blue eyes in an
angel's face. She stepped closer, put her hands on his shoulders and felt
the delicate bones beneath his shirt, saw the flinching pulse in his throat.
He was a boy of slender build and had the kind of soft, delicate features
that would have stirred the maternal instinct in most women, but which only
aroused the predator in herself. Left alone in her company the dear young
thing would instantly bend to her greater will and slip down his pants. Then
his pale little bottom cheeks would wobble slightly and quickly turn red as
she smacked them.
It was important to make it absolutely plain that she was in charge and that
he was expected to do just as she wished. Control such as that - reducing
young things like Freddie to creatures of unquestioning obedience was her
greatest thrill. Hers was a feudal ownership, her subjects had no right of
appeal, and afterwards, cradled in her arms and sobbing profoundly, he would
meekly agree to whatever other plan she may devise.

Suddenly she wanted to kiss him. In fact she'd been wanting to kiss him from
the moment she'd first seen him on the train. She wanted to kiss him the way
men kiss girls.

She put a hand on the nape of his neck, ran her fingers through his soft
blond hair, felt the heat there. She stepped forward and swept him up in her
arms, giving him a face-full of perfumed lace-covered bosom, saw his mouth
open in a soft oh of surrender, and trailed her mouth down his face,
nuzzling his brow, his nose his chin, but not yet his mouth.

Freddie didn't struggle even now, and as he raised his head to look at her
something passed between them - a look, a flinch of acquiescence - not yet
submission, but that would come, and she relished the challenge.
She smiled, loving the attention the adorable Freddie was giving her.
Placing a hand on his head she curled her fingers through his hair before
taking a firm grip, then with her other hand she caressed his cheek, sliding
a finger beneath his chin to tilt it up.
Their eyes met for a moment before the boy shyly averted his gaze, but
Jennifer leaned heavily against him and softly nozzled his lips with her
own.

Freddie's knees went wobbly and his tummy trembled as the girl claimed his
little mouth. Unable to move because of the grip she had on his hair and the
weight of her pressing against him he merely moaned. At last her mouth
pressed onto his mouth and she was kissing him aggressively, forceful and
demanding, her tongue pushing his lips open and searching inside. She was
always more comfortable in the role traditionally played by men.
Tongues touched and slithered together, but just as he was beginning to melt
against her she drew back and lowered her lips to his neck, leaving him
gasping and panting, his young hard cock now a solid rod in his pants.

"Here," she said, forcing something into his hand, "Put these in your
pocket. They're a pair of pink panties for you to enjoy at home. Wrap them
around your willy and wank into them when you think of me later, but don't
forget to rinse them out afterwards. Next time I see you I want to know
you're wearing them."
Leaning against him she whispered heatedly in his ear.
"Promise me, darling. Promise you'll do a lovely cummy for Jennifer."

Flushing red with embarrassment Freddie whimpered and squeezed out a faint
little,
"Yes, oh dear - I - I promise."