Showtime

The Summer Season took off smartly following the sparkling hit the Frilly Follies had enjoyed at Dovecott. Bookings for the show arrived at a steady rate and soon totalled three evenings every week for the next month. With responses from her circular still arriving daily it seemed certain Madame Dupont would soon be able to fill in the blank dates to the level she desired.

"Well, here we go again." remarked the lady as she looked out from the door at the two white vans parked at the curb side. "It's always the same. Once the Season begins there's very little respite." "North London to night," she pondered cynically, "After-dinner show for a hen party." she sighed. "All-women occasions can be a trial. After just two glasses of Asti Spumante everyone seems to loose their sense of morality and become quite loud and shameless. The hussies will be out to grope my darlings at every turn and Samson will fairly well have to fight them off."

Jennifer knew the woman well enough by then. Madame would never be one of those who enjoyed doing nothing. She found perverse entertainment in pushing rocks up mountains, and when there was nothing to do 'now' she occupied herself thinking about what to do 'next'. When no one was expecting anything from her she dwelt upon expecting things from herself.

She was feeling slightly caught out by the remark, because Marianne was standing beside her and one of her hands was absently fondling the rounds of the sheboys delicate bottom, the soft flesh quite easily defined beneath the shapeless tracksuit trousers he was wearing. To Marianne perhaps more than any of the others Jennifer had become something of an icon and he worshipped her as if she were a strict elder sister, whilst being in awe of her as he would be in awe of a bossy girl-next-door who took what she wanted and pleased herself all the time. "I know you said I needn't go with you on this one, Madame Dupont, but if you feel you need some extra help..."

The other woman screwed her mouth slightly. "No, no, Samson and I will manage perfectly well enough." She reached out and pressed something into the hand that wasn't fondling Marianne's bottom. "Take some time out, dear, you may like to see a show in the West End." She glanced at her watch. "Where are those silly creatures? We have to be there by six if we're going to be set up in time."

Jennifer gave Marianne's bottom a parting little rub-pat and went over to the well of the stairs to shout upwards. "Get down here now you prissy little queens. If I have to come up there to find you, I'll throw you all down."

A rapid trampling and scurrying of feet on the stairs and they all came bounding down in single file, tracksuits giving them the appearance of a schoolgirl sports teams on their way to evening training. Tracksuits were standard wear for the performers travelling to and from venues since they curried minimal attention.

Jennifer waited until the two white vans had rolled quietly away down the street, then she shut the heavy front door and gazed at the money in her hand. A generous amount taken from the petty-cash. It was extremely good of Madame to make such a gesture, but that evening she knew she wouldn't need it. She'd already arranged other things. She'd invited Freddie the newspaper boy to visit her.

Having decided to put the money back in the tin box in Madame's room, she went up the stairs. Elise Dupont's bedroom was unremarkable. There were hand pegged rugs on the linoleum covered floor; a plump chinz eiderdown on the bed with a folded blanket laid across the bottom. A chimney breast and fireplace dominated one wall; redundant now, a victim of new technology and the impersonal diktats of smokeless fuel legislation. Everything neat. Not at all like her own room.

On one side of the fireplace stood a dressing table covered with books and papers. The rest of the room looked like a theatre zone, its panelled walls decked with photographs and old playbills, some of which must have belonged to her mother. Scenes from the London production of 'Oklahoma' and Noel Coward's 'Separate Tables' and autographed photographs of various old-time thespians and music-hall artistes. A large framed poster depicting a half naked young woman took pride of place and seemed to say all that was necessary, the stark figure was sandwiched between lines of bold calligraphy that declared:

REDFERN'S REVUE BAR Striptease Nightly Gorgeous Girls, Delicious Dollies, Tantalising Tarts featuring the FABULOUS JUDY 'FLAME' BUNTING

During her time at Number 19 Jennifer had come to know that Madame Dupont's real name was Bunting. The poster was years old, a momento of Madame's youth recalling a time in her late teens and early twenties when she'd specialised in erotic dance routines and peeled off her stuff. It was a reminder to everyone who saw it that she'd gravitated up from the sleazy side of town and had once been top-of-the-bill at many of London's finest watering-holes.

A fat photograph album lay beside the petty-cash box on the dresser. Casually Jennifer flipped it open to find it revealed the portrait of a pretty blond-haired schoolgirl, about 12 years-old, eyes shining with youthful effervescence, mouth set in a smile of tender, sweet radiance. Obviously it was Madame's daughter Sophie, and was not unlike countless other school portraits that decorated the walls and mantles of proud parents houses throughout the world. Turning the pages she found others - Sophie on the beach - Sophie in a new party frock - Sophie holding the bridle of a pony - and a number of immaculate pictures of her posing on a plain background and wearing a variety of smart clothes. Sophie had probably been a child model for a clothing catalogue at some time. However, when she turned to the back of the book she found a picture that came as a baffling surprise. The same sweet girl posed wearing high heels and an outfit that seemed to be comprised of black, body clinging rubber - a tight tunic-dress with a broad belt and very short skirt with clingy rubber gloves up to her armpits, and black rubber hose. Her face had been made up to seem impressively adult, and intriguingly she was clutching a leather riding crop. Now what should someone make of that?

The sound of a car drawing up in the street diverted her attention. She put the album down and looked down from the bedroom window to see a shiny white Aston Martin pulling into the curb. The driver, a woman wearing an expensive chocolate-brown suede coat, climbed out, and from the offside passenger door Freddie was emerging. Goodness gracious! She recognised the woman. The woman on the train to London and the self-centred actress-creature Madame had drawn her attention to whist at Dovecott Manor were one and the same. Freddie's mother was the feted Annalisa Gordeno.

When she reached the front door and opened it she was uncertain of what to expect, and her doubts were not erased by the woman on the step. Annilisa Gordeno had good features and a square pale face with something of a marble monument about it, but the face was frowning. "So, you're the friend that's invited Freddie to visit - a girl! Well at least that's better than some of the boys he sees sometimes, they're always into mess and mischief. And men! One can't trust them. Men have strange ideas about him, unhealthy ideas, if you know what I mean."

Jennifer was struck by the sound of her voice - she'd never heard a voice quite like it, refined, Wagnerian and aloof, containing a range of subtle meanings that weren't altogether clear. The woman took a step through the door and halted, stared hard at what she could see of the interior. She sniffed, nose twitching like a cartoon mouse before turning to glower, all scarlet lips and quivering bosom. "This house is a slum. I'm not sure I should leave my boy here after all."

Razor-sharp, unapproving inflection seemed to be her speciality, and it made Jennifer bridle and become defensive. "The decor is due to be put right soon, and everything inside is spotlessly clean." Annilisa was being true to her reputation of a bitch. She suspected she was the kind of lady who found the term 'woman' vulgar, and would expect to be addressed as 'darling' by friends and 'madam' by everyone else. Jennifer looked at Freddie standing at his mothers side - an altogether different kind of personality. Her eyes darted from his feet to the top of his head and she recalled the generous smile that made his face so beautiful, and the taste of his skin and mouth that made him so erotic. As always he was wearing sneakers and Levi's but a proper shirt this time rather than a T-shirt, none of which detracted from his underlying good looks. "Freddie is very attractive." she said.

"That's the trouble." Annalisa Gordeno replied dourly, "But at least you're quite a bit older than he is, and being an older girl you're likely to have a sobering influence on his behaviour." The woman wore pink Chanel sunglasses stylishly up on her head and clearly found a thrill of satisfaction in displaying the most must-have accessory of the summer. For her, expensive superficial things were a mark of superiority. Extending her arm she made an ostentatious show of the eighteen-carat-gold Bulgari watch on her wrist, a thing the girl in front of her would never be able to afford, ever. "I have to get on to Drury Lane for an evening performance. I'm featuring in My Fair Lady." Her face twitched in perceivable vexation, "Just a character part you understand, not a lead - do you know the story?"

"Yes, I..."

"I doubt that you do. Flighty young girls these days pay no attention to such things, and perhaps they're right. This one is just a frivolous pastiche on Pygmalion, an unlikely load of romantic twaddle created to appeal to mushy-minded people." Somehow Jennifer suspected she wouldn't have been so critical if she'd been given the star role in the show.

Annalisa gave the house another scathing look. "Even if I do disapprove of this place it's too late to change my evening arrangements now." Stooping slightly she aimed a pursed mouth at her sons brow, but didn't pursue any contact in case it necessitated having to retouch her lipstick. "Toodle-pip, Freddie darling. Just remember to wash your hands when you return home."

When Annalisa at last departed Jennifer closed the door, still feeling slightly shocked from being pebble-dashed by the woman's vitriolic attack on the shoddy appearance of the house. Freddie was clearly embarrassed by his mother's blatant rudeness, so she gave his hand a sympathetic squeeze as she led him into the sitting room. "Quite a dragon, isn't she? I'd no idea that you were related to the celebrated Annalisa Gordeno. One doesn't expect the son of a West End musical revue star to be delivering newspapers."

Freddie humped his shoulders. "Mother says it's character building to have a little job, and I enjoy it. She hates it if I invite friends round to the house in the school holidays, so delivering newspapers is the only way I can get away and see people."

"What about you father? You must have a father."

The boy shrugged again. "Goodness only knows who he is, or where he is. Mother never talks about things like that." For a second Jennifer pressed against him and enveloped him with her perfume, she could have sworn he detected the beat of his heart. "Do you go with girls?" she asked. There was something in her tone that made Freddie start to burn. He shook his head, wanting desperately to be honest with her. "Mother says I'm not old enough yet. She gets angry if I mention things like that. She won't let me."

"But I'm a girl."

"Hmp! You're older than I am. She thinks of you more as a baby-sitter."

Jennifer smiled attentively. "You're not a baby any longer, but I'm certainly going to look after you." She slid her arm down to cup his waist. "Such a tiny waist," she said in admiration, "Look at that, I can very nearly get my arm all the way around it. You swish around so lightly and so prettily, and I bet you've got superb legs. Have you got lovely legs? Do you like to show them off when you go swimming? Personally I think boys who have nice, shapely legs should wear short, revealing skirts."

Freddie suddenly felt uneasy. When she pulled back she left him with the impression of strength and power that excited a curious quivering awareness throughout his whole body. He noticed how she focused on him, one eyebrow raised in cynical amusement at his blushes. It was easy to read that look now, and he remembered the terrible demands she'd made of him the last time they'd been alone. That night he knew with certainty that it was all going to happen again. Slender, lithe and only shoulder height to herself he was compelled to look up. "I could never wear a skirt." he mumbled softly.

Standing in the centre of the room Jennifer smiled inwardly as she stroked a finger tentatively up the side of his face. His features were deliciously androgynous, like those of so many boys before they grew up. His modesty didn't fool her. The sweet lamb knew exactly how luscious he looked, but was reluctant to admit it. "It's a promise." she laughed, "No skirts tonight."

Abruptly she leaned down and kissed the side of his neck, her teeth biting and pulling gently at tender skin. Freddie flapped his hands and his 'too pretty for a boy' eyes took on a vague unfocused look. "Oooh! Jennifer, what..."

She didn't quality her behaviour, instead she pushed him down to settle into the corner of the big red sofa, noticing how his meagre weight barely depressed the stiff cushions. Ideally she knew she should have sacrificed a little time to court him and put him at ease before starting anything special, but her eagerness refused constraint. Squeezing down beside him she carefully unbuttoned the cuffs of his shirt, and then the front of it all the way down. Peeling it back to reveal his bare chest she then reached inside to trace her fingers along the bare skin of his sides and across his back. Alarmed, Freddie flinched. "Jennifer, you're undressing me!"

"That's right. Lovely things like you shouldn't spend all evening buttoned up to the neck."

"Okay, but honestly, I can manage. I don't need a nursemaid."

Jennifer grinned. "Oh, but I think you do. You need a girl to look after you." The boy shuddered as she pushed the shirt from his shoulders and cradled his naked upper body in her arms. Madame Dupont became so sniffy at times by the way she treated the young dancers at Nob Street, but she couldn't complain about the way she treated Freddie. This dear little thing was her very own discovery to do with as she pleased.

She urged him to throw his hands about her neck and the boy panted as their lips touched, suddenly kissing - tonguing - "Uuummph, oooh!" - tenderly at first and then more robustly. A moment later the whole of Jennifer's tongue was thrusting into his mouth and Freddie felt hot liquid heat race through his body as he melted in her arms. Her body felt strong and her grip was a ring of steel, and when her lips turned and screwed against his mouth and her tongue slid onto his own tongue he groaned helplessly and became limp.

As the heat of passion expanded she smeared her lips across his flushed face and ran a tongue tip along his jawbone. The moist tickle under his chin made him lift his head and enabled her to lap lecherously at the white skin of his swanlike throat.

The scene was set. Her planning had been meticulous and she was committed to continuing what she'd started the last time Freddie and herself had been together - him in subservience, herself in control. Pulling him forward, crushing him with a thoroughness that left the boy breathless, her hands smoothed his body curves against her own figure with devastating effect. Freddie was experiencing the kind of high-octane sensuality he'd never known with girls before and made only a tiny protest as her hands clamped over his chest. Bare titties. Boy titties. Only little bumps and not real breasts, but quite enough to thrill. Her mouth went down and she put a liplock on his pretty right nipple which was erect and tender, kissing it and sucking it and giving it a little love-bite with just enough hint of teeth to make him whimper.

Predictably Freddie started squirming and mewling like an excited schoolgirl, and since he responded so nicely to titty-love Jennifer knew he was going to be a gem. Predictably also, he made no attempt to dominate things as most boys would. There was no disrespectful groping for her own breasts or of hands caressing her knees. He was suitably overawed, docile and tame.

She gave a little laugh. "No girls for you, eh? But I expect you make up for everything by having lots of boyfriends instead. Do you let them kiss you the way I kiss you? Do you like boys to snog you?"

"Jennifer!" Embarrassed by his own excitement he raised his knee in a weak attempt to hide the impudent bulge rising in the front of his jeans. But his arousal was obvious. Undeterred by his exclamations her fingers stroked his belly and began to fiddle with the waistband of his trousers. The button and zip became unfastened and she noticed right away the pink scalloped trim of the panties she'd given him previously, and which were now distorted by excitement. Freddie gulped. The emotions inside him - the tumble of dread, nervousness, shame - were not discussed. He was allowing her to dominate. He was letting a girl undress him, letting her see he was wearing pink panties and allowing her to see that he was aroused in the lewdest way possible.

"You're very obedient, and that pleases me." she told him as she moved the zip down over his straining bulge. "Does dainty girls underwear excite you? Do you enjoy feeling your boy parts rubbing inside it?" Freddie almost panicked. Without speaking - without asking - she hauled his jeans down his legs until it became a puddle of blue denim around his feet. Oooh, he felt so helpless and at her mercy, and when he made an effort to stop her going further she just slapped his hand away. "I want to play a game."

"A game? What sort of game?"

Jennifer smiled a feline smile. "I'm thinking of a dressing-up game. I want to dress you up."

"Oh - er - do you mean fancy-dress - pirates and cowboys and that sort of thing?"

"Stupid boy! Don't be so obtuse, Freddie dear. While we're alone I think we should have more imagination. I've got some things ready for you to try on." She indicated some items on a chair opposite. Items of feminine apparel.

Aghast, he turned to her. He couldn't blush any harder, the heat of embarrassment glowed in his face. "You - um - want me to put that stuff on? You want me to dress as a girl?"

Jennifer smiled. "You'll be my date. You'll be my sweetheart."

Freddie felt himself quake all over, and if he hadn't been sitting down he would have fallen down. There was no fear, only nervousness in the pit of his stomach and a strange trapped feeling in his head. Her words instigated imaginings that were shocking, exhilarating and nerve-racking all at the same time. More than anything they were unacceptably wicked. "I - I can't... I mean, I won't dress as a girl." he said firmly, "You mustn't make me dress like that. I won't do it."

The girl was prepared for a little rebellion, she was used to such things in the first phase of a plan. With the flat of one hand she laid a sharp smack onto his soft, flushed cheek, not hard, but hard enough to bring his teeth together with a click. "Oh!" "Don't make a fuss, or I'll start being cruel." she told him. "When you're with me you must be obedient. I thought you would have realised that by now."

Freddie's moist eyes held her gaze for a moment, then looked away. She had such a commanding voice it never occurred to him to refuse a second time. Rubbing the sting on his face sheepishly, he capitulated. "Okay, as long as you don't make me wear a skirt."

Jennifer reviewed things. "You don't need a wig," she told him in a businesslike way, "Your hair is okay. The pageboy cut will be fine with just a ribbon. A bit of make-up though. Rouge and shadow to plump out your cheeks, masacra to lengthen your eyelashes and something to push up your little tits. It won't be a problem. The house is full of the sort of stuff we need."

Quivering and docile in his pink panties Freddie sat uncomplaining and immobile as the girl set about transforming him. Opening a compact she daubed powder on his nose and crooned softly. "A little dab of powder, a little dab of paint, makes a little lady what she really ain't."

She dosed him liberally with lipstick and musky smelling perfume, then brushed metallic bronze powder onto his eyelids with a large bushy brush. After the make-up came the accessories. There was plenty of stage-jewellery in Madame's costume cupboard. Clip-on earnings, bracelets, necklaces, and she delighted in adorning him like he was a girl going to the Oscars. Long false nails varnished to a colour that matched the lipstick on his mouth were added to his fingertips, and there he was, with makeup flawless, eyes mysterious, his glossy pink lips parted slightly in apprehension to give a hint at the pleasure they could offer.

Three inch heels would complete the feminine look, she decided. He was smaller than her, but even if the shoes gave him additional height he'd still remain where she wished him to be - below her. In the past Jennifer's lovers had always been girls, or emasculated boys serving as girls in a subordinate, feminine way. Turning a boy, helping him find his way into sissyland and projecting him into girlhood had always been on top of her list of pleasures. She enjoyed kissing them and feeling them up when they were in girls clothes, and putting them into a bra and getting them trained in wearing stockings and high heels were desirable first steps.

She had other ideas too. After searching through the items on the chair she approached him from behind and, with a practised manoeuvre drew a satin garment around his middle and began to lace it up in a criss-cross fashion behind his back. Freddie gasped as she pulled things tight and tied them in place, and only then did he fully realise she had put him in a corset, an aubergine coloured strapless bodice, brief enough to leave his chest on show and even with the satin ruffles around the bottom rim, brief enough to expose everything below his hips. Four garter straps dangled down from the bottom edge to skim his hairless, creamy thighs and buttocks. "It will pronounce your girlish shape and give you a better waist." Jennifer told him.

The proceedings baffled Freddie. "No skirts. You promised." he reminded her almost fearfully.

"No skirts tonight," she assured him, "But the corset as suspender-straps, so I expect you to wear stockings and high heels." Her hands moved down behind him and he didn't move as she smoothed them over his slender buttocks and playfully patted his lean little rump. "Before that though, your pants must come off." she told him.

Freddie gasped a little as she put her fingers into the waist elastic of his panties and eased them down over his thighs. The tone of her voice had been uncompromising and he didn't dare argue, and against his expectations he became beguiled by the persuasive caressing as they slid over his legs. Despite his embarrassment, or perhaps because of it, his penis was stiff and distended. It was standing out from the hairless soft curve of his underbelly and the white unblemished flesh of his thighs, swollen and visually straining, raised above a right-angle, a tender bone wrapped in silk that bounced when he moved, with a blushing little bell-end straining out from its tip.

"My, my!" murmured Jennifer approvingly, "You could do damage to the furniture with a thing like that. Better watch where you go." She drew him forward by his hips, taking his penis in her hand to savour the texture of its spongy tissue and tensed sinew for a moment before stroking its length a couple of times. It was primed and ready to be worked over by a knowledgeable hand. But not yet, not for a long while yet. There were things to do before he deserved any pleasure of that kind.

When Freddie murmured a breathless little 'oh' at the caressing, she stopped. "And no touching yourself," she told him crisply, "I'll be angry if you touch yourself without my permission. Let me see you put the stockings on."

She produced a wispy pair of black nylons and sat by his side, instructing him as he slowly, sensuously, pointed his feet into the open ends and slid them over his legs, delicately smoothing them up his coltish limbs in what could only be interpreted as a caressing motion before anchoring the dark welts at the top to the clips on the dangly suspender straps. Young legs sheathed in nylons. Excellent! thought Jennifer. She picked up a bra, wondering if she could make it fit. He was a girl with a cock and no tits and he would need something to lend him more shape. Something that would give him a shape between Marianne's gorgeously squashy buns and Bambi's pimples.

Already thrilling in a typical sissy way by the stretch of the garter-straps over his tender bottom-cheeks, Freddie squirmed and sucked in a sharp breath as she fastened a little girls starter-bra to his chest. She knew he would soon succumb to the wearing of it. The snug fitting cups would give each of his breasts a sense of separate existence, and the soft cotton-wool padding would gently coddle his swollen nipples. "Now stand up and let me see you strut." she demanded.

He stood, teetering on preposterous high-heels, thrilling to the sensation of tight female garments. Burning with shame, nervous but radiant he sashayed around the room, eyes wide in the manner of a startled colt, a girlish young boy in a waspwaisted girdle that accentuated his hips and bottom, while a snug little bra cosseted his titties in the most delightful way. "I feel funny." he said.

"You mean you feel peculiar," corrected Jennifer. "Don't worry. That's not unusual if you've never gone beyond wearing girls panties in the past. Putting on stockings and a bra takes things to another level."

She could see he was excited. Not simply because he was exposed, and not just because he was being observed by a girl. There was something else. The delicious sensation of nylons on his legs, the tug of suspender straps over his thighs, the firm hug of the little bra that harnessed his bosom. Unfamiliar sensations intoxicated and confused him. Whatever was that girl going to demand of him next?.

Obediently he rolled his hips and pouting over his shoulder in the manner of a precocious tart when the oh-so-bossy Jennifer demanded it. His stiff, unrestricted penis, bouncing above his testicles and wagging about ridiculously in front of him as he minced back and forth did nothing to cool the heady erotic nature of things, and secretly he sort of wished he'd been given a skirt if only to cover up the sign of his embarrassment.

Eventually Jennifer called a halt, beckoned him forward to stand in front of her. He shuddered slightly when she stroked her fingers lightly under his ball-sac. His upstanding penis slavered slick, clear juice from its tip, but there was yet to be no release for its impatient main cargo. "Stand up straight, heels together, arms by your side, and tell me your name?" Jennifer suddenly husked.

"F-Freddie." he bleated. He was breathing so hard by then that half the neighbourhood was probably looking out of their windows in consternation, but Jennifer was having so much fun she really couldn't have cared less. "That's the wrong answer when you're dressed as a girl, so I'll ask again. What's your name?"

The boy melted with blushes. "Oh, um oh! F-Felicity, Jennifer. My name's Felicity."

"It's gratifying to find you accepting sissyhood so gracefully, Felicity. What a stunning beauty you are with that demure-eyes-cast-down look. You could become a fashion model. Men will fight to coo over you and hold you in their arms. Girls will want to smack you for looking so sweet. But there remains one final test to undertake before I'm completely convinced."

Everything had been prepared. Off with her wrap-around skirt to reveal she wore nothing beneath, then on with the handsomely moulded strap-on cock she'd brought with her from Yorkshire. Freddie's cheeks glowed with feverish hot flushes. "W-what are you going to do?"

"This is a cock," she told him, "It's a stiff cock. What do stiff cocks usually do when they get near you?"

The sissy nervously clamped his hands over his vulnerable bottom. "Oh goodness... are you going to...? Jennifer, you can't. You mustn't."

She paused, pushing out a hip as she pulled the harness about her thighs. "Can't! Mustn't! Those are words I don't expect to hear you say again. Come here. Fasten the buckles for me. I want everything to fit nice and tight."

Freddie did it. He knew precisely what she was planning yet incredibly he helped her. He slumped to his knees, kneeling before her in lingerie, stockings and suspenders and without any pants, attending to her with the subservient attitude of a handmaiden while assisting her to fasten on the thing she intended to use in his ravishment. While he was doing it he glanced nervously at the unnatural object. Not over big - average size really, he thought - but realistically moulded in a solid form that thrust out aggressively above the horizontal.

Jennifer shrugged it into position on her mound, feeling a special thrill as the pliant rubber swung beneath her stomach and its weighty balls settled against her thighs. She flicked the arrogant bulbous tip with her thumb and made the whole length bounce. It wasn't a toy, it was a tool. It was a fuck tool.

She swung her eyes down to meet Freddie's astounded gaze. "I want you." she told him as she lathered her attachment with lubricant. He swallowed hard His expression was of disbelief - horror, and his words came out as a croak "Want me! Please, Jennifer... I..." .

She pulled him to his feet and turned him. Gripping his shoulders she forced him to be still and made him feel weak as she savoured the appearance of his buttocks. Soft little bum cheeks that had no defence. "Give in," she murmured heatedly, "Surrender to me my little bantam or I'll put you back in the hen house." Her words came hot on Freddie's neck as she grasped him. "You probably get lots of attention wherever you go." she added. "I mean, you look so nice, that would be natural. Boys - men even - they doubtless all enjoy your company. But you're too good for just them. Girls should be allowed to enjoy you too."

Jennifer rejoiced. For her making a boy surrender his masculinity and put on frilly things, and then forcing him to submit to her as a girl provided the ultimate thrill of dominance. Even so, she wanted him to be very hot and bothered when she fucked his tight virgin bottom, so she parted his bum-cheeks with her thumbs and played with his hole for a few moments while she spread lubrication between his rosy buttocks. "Oh!" Freddie muttered into his hands, puffing and panting and becoming all of a dither. "Not my bottom. Not that."

"Don't be a baby." Jennifer scolded playfully. Ensuring he was properly in position with his buttocks thrusting back, Jennifer attended to her replica penis, smoothing lubricant the full length of the rigid column and then slicking her hand up and down. Gripping the strap-on tenaciously she cocked her weapon and aimed the tip onto the crinkle of the lissom young boy-pussy that was so sweetly framed by garter-straps and stocking tops.

Freddie accepted things without a struggle and she entered him slowly and gently, giving him a chance to wince as her extension went beyond his sphincter. "Oooh!" He groaned as he felt the plastic thing burrowing insistently. He protested, he really did, but words sounded weak and lacked any conviction. "Nnnhhh!" He clawed at the sofa and threw his head back as he felt it go in, but he shamelessly rotated his bottom to absorb its thrust, letting it spread him open, allowing it to violate him and make him burn inside, just like a real cock. "Okay?" she asked.

"Uuuh, oooh!" His well lubricated muscles couldn't grip and they failed to control the penetration, but then; "Oh-oh!" He was giving in to her. Jennifer clenched her teeth and pushed with her hips, feeling a thrill run through her as she pressed her impatient boystretcher between the creamy mounds of his bottom, expanding his pussy and going deeper. "That's it. Good girl! Halfway now. I can tell you want to please me. I can tell you want to be a good fuck."

"Aaaaah!"

"Just a bit more!"

"Ooooh!"

"There! You've got it all. You've got a full length in your naughty pussy-arse."

"Please... Ooh, Jennifer, ooooh!" He squealed helplessly as she began to move, the phallus jammed back and forth inside his tight anus, pushing left and right and skimming against mysterious erogenous places he never knew existed. He was in the throes of previously unknown sensations and he could barely utter a sound above a whimper. With each shove into him his head swayed like that of a doll.

Not for the first time Jennifer felt the twinges of penis envy, but she was a girl and as such could never know the tightness or the moist heat of flesh around her cock, nevertheless she derived a glorious sensation from the apparatus she was using. It was wonderful. The inversion of roles so forbidden. She was doing with him what a man would do with a girl.

Within moments she had found a rhythm and she kept it going, ramming him with forceful pelvic slaps, sodomising him with all her body weight and holding him tight as she bounced against him. She knew well enough that the feeling of being totally taken and being utterly debased pleased some people beyond measure. "We'll try a few different positions now." she told him. "You on your back with your legs in the air - you bending over the arm of the sofa with me taking you from behind - you sitting on top and doing all the work. It'll be good fun."

She shagged him all around the room, testing each item of furniture for its suitability, with Freddie helplessly speared on her loins, moaning and grimacing but accepting each indignity in docile collaboration. After a while he no longer made futile objections and gave his anus to the intruding prong, accepting the harsh treatment it delivered with tearful sobs and admitting he was a bad girl who deserved everything he was getting.

When Jennifer withdrew and slumped back on the seat of the sofa he shuddered at the sight of her slick upright equipment, but merely winced as he turned and respectfully remounted it when she told him to. He took it all the way and the girl was impressed with the tempo he set as he worked himself up and down. He was becoming passionate. Just like a girl submitting to a stud. "Good girl! Good girl, Felicity. You know I'm the boss and you want to please me, don't you?" She gripped the back of his head and pulled his hair as she levered with her hips. "That's the way, my little honey. Oh, yes. Give me that pussy. Move with me. Give pleasure to my girl-cock."

Freddie groaned as she heaved with her thighs. Jennifer was holding him and MAKING him take it. The girl's rubber cock was plunging deep and stuffing his bouncy little backside to the limit. Jennifer smiled in satisfaction. She was fucking the sweetest, prettiest girl ever and making him whimper and swoon with joy. "You're a wonderfully tight shag, darling, a real hot little bunny. You're going to be such a treat for countless cocks in the future."

She intended to make the evening memorable for both of them, but when it came to enjoying a sexual climax she ignored her partner completely. The buffeting of her instrument on her pubis excited pulses of pleasure between her legs, making her clitoris rise up into a point of tense gristle. Sexual electricity sizzled around it and became relayed to every nerve-ending in her body, and despite wishing to preserve a persona of coolness and self-control she grunted like a rutting boar. "Ooh, ugh, oh! You sexy little cow! Aah, aah, ooow!"

Afterwards, radiant with an afterglow, she treated Freddie exactly how a naughty girl should be treated, by making him stand in the corner of the room, facing the wall, with his hands on his head, and with the rosy rounds of his well-fucked bottom on display. With her own lust sated for the moment, she got properly dressed and settled down to bring Madame's business accounts up to date, sternly reprimanding the sissified Freddie if he moved, and repeatedly warning him not to dare touch his willie no matter how much it dribbled and ached. Twice she lead him from the corner to smack his legs and his bottom. Just to show she hadn't forgotten him and to demonstrate who was still in command. Just to remind him what a shameless little fuck-puppet he was.

After some considerable time when the daylight began to fade and the street-lamps came on, she decided it was time to take him home. And that night it meant taking him home still dressed as a girl. Freddie was fastened into an extremely short, pink PVC coat that had once been worn by Amber on a visit to Regent's Park. It wasn't entirely long enough to cover the dark welts of his stocking tops or the clips of his suspenders, but at least it did shield the embarrassing outlines of his still unpacified erection.

The statuesque young teen walked him home with her arm about his waist in the familiar way a boy walks a girlfriend home after a date. Down Nob Street and along a dimly lit alley with high fences that led into Fox Mews, his skyscraper high-heels accompanied her in a hurried trip-trapping at her side. Embarrassed by the way Jennifer had dressed him and used him, but incurably infatuated by her firmness Freddie was still enmeshed in the character of Felicity and was feeling wonderfully helpless, weak and ultra-girly in her embrace. "Will your mother be home yet?" Jennifer asked as they walked.

"No, not for ages."

"Just as well, but I won't come in. You'll need time to bathe and change or she's call out the army to hunt me down when she returns."

Fox Mews was a foreshortened pattern of Nob Street, but was visually more elegant and prosperous. Not there any peeling edifices or crumbling facades, its sturdy structures and clean lines spoke of affluent residents such as ex-politicians and stockbrokers who'd received a golden handshake. People with wherewithal enough to put wrong things right swiftly. Everything screamed money. They stopped before Freddie's mothers house. Just like all the other houses in the road its front door was a glossy black, the windows clean as gin, and every tile, stone and gutter in perfect condition. To escape the illumination of the porch light she led him down into a small concave beneath the porticoed steps. "Goodnight kisses," she explained, "That's the usual way to end a first date, isn't it?"

Moving against him she traced a trail of wet kisses along the slender line of his throat, her tongue tasting his eyelids, his cheeks, the gentle tilt of his jaw line before finally reaching his mouth. With her romantic gypsy eyes and scorching kisses she was passion personified and Freddie went limp in her arms as she pulled his lower limbs forward to intensify his pleasure. As lipstick coated lips scudded against each other she opened his coat and pushed his bra up in order to grip his chest, squeezing and kneading his revealed flesh and rotating the nubs of his nipples with her thumb. When Freddie sighed with unscripted wanton pleasure Jennifer smiled. "You're a girl, aren't you?" she incited him softly, "You want to be a girl, don't you?"

The boy shivered. "Please don't make me say things like that."

"We're alone, but you can whisper it if you're shy. Tell me you want to be a girl."

Blushing profusely Freddie sagged against her neck. "I - I want to be a girl, Jennifer. I want to be your girl."

"That's better. You're a very, very naughty girl who should be ashamed of herself, but of course you will be my girl. You'll be my slave girl to use as I please. But I bet you'll soon start flirting with other women too, eyelashes sweeping up and down while you give them a naughty come-and-get-me look, and hoping they're carrying a strap-on in their handbags." She grasped his hair and hauled his head back. "You may finish off now. Take hold of your prick and jerk-off whilst I kiss you. Just be careful not to squirt any of your messy gooies onto my skirt."

At last allowed the freedom to touch himself he set to, holding his swollen erection in the full ringing of a hand he pounded himself enthusiastically, and a result wasn't slow in coming. His body became taught and he arched his back slightly. Jerking and sighing, wanking and moaning. The intensity of his ejaculation when it came was almost painful. Secretions that had been bottled in for hours suddenly evacuated in a scorching few seconds, and the pulses of his orgasm ripped along the length of his penis like bolts of lightening. Hand pumping, hips humping, he squealed into her mouth as he ejected several warm, whirling strands of white girly-goo over his fingers. "Jennifer, I think I'm in love with you." he panted.

"Hmph! Love," she said, referring to it as if it were an outbreak of head lice. "I've no time for boil-in-the-bag emotions. Love is just a romantic blend of lust and infatuation. Still, I don't suppose there's anything wrong with indulging in some of that. After all you do make a gorgeous little lesbian, Felicity."

The shop bell jangled in 'Pratt's Bollocks' and Toby Parkin glanced up from the counter top as a customer came in. Marmeluke Dobbs entered the pawnshop in Hook Lane reluctant to reveal immediately the reason he was there and wanting to ensure there were no other customers present. Trying to look like a person merely browsing and seeking nothing in particular, he surveyed the display of unclaimed items that had been put out on sale idly for a moment before making his way over to a selection of wall-clocks.

Marmeluke was a wide-bodied man - weightier than the average man, and his face had a high colour and broken veins which were typical of someone who imbibed too frequently in port wine. His suit had been made for a thinner figure, possibly himself at a younger age. Now the cloth strained like skin across his shoulders, and the buttons on his jacket wouldn't even meet the edge of the cloth on the other side let alone the buttonholes. Even his thighs looked like a pair of bloated sausages ready to burst from the rind of worsted that held them in check.

A few feet away from him the shop staff were slumped on the sales-counter, Mrs Gitty ignoring everything but the magazine she held in one podgy hand was stuffing sugar-coated doughnuts into her mouth with the other. Conversely Toby Parkin observed the big man closely. "Them clocks is antiquities, but they're all in workin' order." he called out usefully, "None of 'em lose more than an hour a day." As he spoke a cuckoo at the back of the shop flung itself out of a clock and squawked. It was twenty-two minutes past the hour.

"I think you mean they're antiques - which they're not. For the most part they're plastic." sniped back Marmeluke who, unable to stop himself shot across a superior glance. "Antiquities allude to items made prior to the Roman Empire, although certain facets of them remain with us today. The ancient Babylonians for instance counted in 60s rather than 100s which is why we still gauge portions of time in sixty minutes to the hour."

Toby looked impressed. "Cor! Fancy that. And here was me thinking it was because clock makers couldn't cram enough spaces onto a clock dial." He looked sideways at Mrs Gitty who was hoiking lumps of doughnut to her mouth and tamping them in with the tip of a broad finger. "Useful them Blabberlonians, Mrs Gitty. We'd all be walkin' around with wristwatches the size of Frisbees if it weren't for them."

Tiring of banal chatter the visitor became suddenly emboldened and revealed the real intention of his visit. "I'm Marmeluke Dobbs and I believe you sell certain types of - erm - photographs. A friend of mine - Bertie Bestable - recommended you to me."

"Marmeluke!" pondered Toby, "That's a strange name."

The big man walked forward and impatiently drummed his fingertips on the counter top. "The Marmelukes were an Asiatic warrior caste that dominated Egypt for centuries."

Satisfactorily enlightened, Toby took a pace back and opened the stockroom door behind him and poked his head through the gap. "Oi! Horace, there's a friend of Bertie's here, a foreign geezer called Marmeluke who wants to buy some mucky photo's."

Horace appeared at once, smiling keenly and rubbing his hands together in the manner of a Fagin. "Any friend of Bertie's can be trusted as far as I'm concerned. What's yer interest, sir? I cater for all tastes."

Marmeluke's face went slightly pink. "I - erm - I'm doing an academic study of gender confusion. Mr Bestable said you'd have a set of photographs taken recently at Madame Dupont's Dance Academy that may be useful to my work."

"Indeed. Indeed I have." beamed Horace, "An' I know exactly where they are. Come through into the back. I's got plenty o' fruity stuff in there," he gave his nose a tap with his forefinger, "An' I ain't talkin' about apples or oranges."

Horace was always smarmily charming to customers who declared themselves ready to spend money. He led the way and pulled down a number of shoe-boxes from a set of shelves. "Close the door, Marmeluke. Don't want anyone ear-wiggin' do we?" He dumped the shoe-boxes onto a small table and pulled off the lids. "Now then, cross-dressing, tranny stuff..."

"Not just anyone. My requirements are quite specific." reiterated Marmeluke, who had been haunted by certain images ever since his visit to Dovecott Manor.

"O'course. You want the kids from Nob Street. And here we are, a brand new batch. Madame Dupont had my assistant Toby take these to generate some cash for herself. Naturally I kept back a few sets of prints as my fee."

Marmeluke picked up the postcard sized items that Horace offered and rifled through them, his eyes focusing at once upon the static nude figures of young boys with girlish hairstyles in effeminate poses, looking at their smooth faces, trying to read the expressions in their alluring eyes, comparing them to Greek statues, Minoan art, and underaged girls.

Conscious of his burning cheeks, he peered at others who at least wore a visage of clothing, trying to concentrate on the props, the strings of beads, feathers, and wisps of gossamer scarves that drew attention to, rather than concealed what Madame Dupont so disarmingly called 'assets'. Saucy schoolboys wearing fancy costumes, wearing bras, wearing skimpy skirts that hid hardly anything properly, all pantiless and making a lurid show of things. He felt a familiar stirring in his loins. There was no contradiction with gender and clothing in his mind. Boys dressed effeminately and acting effeminate while stretching out in brazen sexy poses provided a statement that didn't need words. They were declaring they were willing to be taken as girls and be shafted like girls.

"Good stuff, eh!" Horace chortled at his side. "Plenty of sweet lil' schoolgirls with pricks an' balls. Weird but nice. Madame wouldn't let my man Toby photograph any action stuff or even any 'stiffies' this time, but I reckon I'll be able to talk her round to lettin' him do it eventually. There's nothing quite like our old friend sex, pulling back its foreskin an' penetrating the bashful, is there?"

Marmeluke cringed at the graphic metaphor. "Erm, yes sex. Sex as always been the gentleman's, erm, er..."

"Cock up!" suggested Horace helpfully.

The visitor gave up any attempt at conversation and gazed back at the photographs. His bushy eyebrows went up, then knitted together and he felt his testes draw up too and then tighten as hard as peachpits. When studying paintings or glamour photographs Marmaluke had always rejected the sharp angles and muscular planes of the mature male figure. Women were far too rounded to interest him, but the soft contours of young adolescent boys were perfect. Especially their bottoms. It was probably down to aesthetics. Boys bottoms were the most beautiful part of the human anatomy, beloved by the sculptors of ancient Greece and appreciated by artists, poets and lecherous pederasts in every age.

He pulled a forefinger and thumb over his chin and he stared at one particular photo, struck dumb in a moment, a rainbow of expressions flicking across his face. It was a display of surprise, noticeable by a quickening of breath and a drawing in of thin lips. His eyes bulged and the sinews strained in his neck. He'd come to Hook Lane to find items that would interest his jaded sexual appetite, but had become confronted with something else entirely.

Horace leaned over to ascertain what his client was so interested in. "Hah! That's that Marianne filly - nice, huh? Got a clanger of a cock and one I've observed closely in my time. Fine chest too, natural, not one stuffed with silicone. I can tell the difference."

The big man slowly recovered his breath. "The urn that girlified faggot drapes against. It - it looks remarkably similar to items of Ubaid I've seen, but few have survived in the perfect condition as this one seems to have done."

Horace let out a derisive laugh. "It sure is somethin' but it's 'ardly Crown Derby is it? I's stubbed me toe on that monstrosity plenty o' times in the past."

For a moment Marmeluke Dobbs seemed beyond further speech and near paralysed. A series of deep-throated grunts combined with a high-pitched nasal wheezing eventually emerged from the gasping mouth in the lower middle of his face. "Mr Pratt you have no idea of the absurdity of the situation and you're missing the point. Were these photographs taken at 19 Nob Street?"

Straight faced now, Horace nodded.

"Does it not occur to you that the acclaimed archaeologist Sir Grenville Dander once lived there? He was known to be dotty when he returned from his last expedition and he may well have left an item such as this laying around undeclared and uncatalogued. The fact that its still undamaged after all this time is remarkable."

"Looks like a bit of old tat to me." Horace murmured.

The big man snorted. "Ubaid pottery was produced by the tribal groups of Mesopotamia ages ago. When they settled between the Euphrates and Tigris they raised mankind's first cities. Artefacts such as the one in this photograph mark the very dawn of human civilisation."

Suddenly Horace Pratt took an interest. "Erm, it may be valuable then?

"I'd need to examine it first, but if it's authentic it certainly will be valuable. Stone items as opposed to earthenware are rare, and most artefacts of this period are found smashed and in fragments and need to be reassembled like a vertical jigsaw. This one appears to be in perfect condition, and in an open sale most prestigious museums would lose out to some eccentric billionaire who'd want it for his private collection."

The shop owners eyes narrowed. "This 'ere Sir Dander chappie, he'll have relatives, descendants so to speak. Could they claim it?"

"That would be difficult if Sir Grenville never declared it as a possession."

"Then that there arty-fact belongs to me." Horace declared triumphantly, "That house, Number 19, I owns it an' everything in it belongs to me."

"Really! Well, I'd be very interested in having a look at it in closer detail. I'll be in town again a week from Saturday."

Horace tapped the side of his nose. "Consider it done Marmeluke. It'll be here in my shop as quick as a blink."

So pleased with what had transpired Horace uncharacteristically allowed Marmeluke to take a set of photographs away at a remarkable discount, then when he'd departed he dropped into an armchair and did some serious thinking about what had been said. He reckoned himself to be an enterprising man and a crafty one. Gone were the days when he was new to business, like when he'd once bought a first-edition of Hamlet autographed by the author in ball-point. Like most men who saw themselves as business-mogul's he couldn't be bothered to make any effort unless there was something in it for him, but there was a metallic taste in his mouth about this affair - the taste of money he always got when he was onto a good deal. From the way Marmeluke spoke, selling that ugly old pot would make a Sotheby's auction look like a car-boot sale, and that thought lingered in his mind like a maggot in an apple.

In a despondent cloud of gloom he folded his arms, creased his brow and put a tuck in his top lip. He had to go to Nob Street and get that stone vase. Trouble was he was only a collector of rents and didn't own the house as he liked to boast. He needed to move quick and get that pot out of number nineteen before this story got around, but he wasn't going there to be terrified by that monstrous mad doorkeeper Elise Dupont employed. While he fancied himself as a manly man he wasn't big on adventure. Most of what he'd gained in life he'd acquired by gift-of-the-gab, and his life was mostly composed of conversations that never had anything to do with adventure. Horace Pratt was a chat-in-the-bar-and-make-a-deal kind of person, as opposed to, say, a macho - abseil into the embassy - shoot all the bad guys - rescue the hostages and shag six chicks before teatime sort of manly-man. After being banged on the snorkel by that bastard Samson so recently he wasn't keen to set himself up for more of the same. Much better - far easier if Elise Dupont and her rent-a-thug were out of the way.

Toby popped his head around the door. "Tea, Horace?"

"What good will that do?"

"Coffee then. Coffee will perk you up."

"Oh, how do you work that out? Does coffee come with fuckin' jump-leads or somethin'?"

But strangely the intrusion did invigorate him. He sparked and sat up briskly. "I'll have to make another visit to Nob Street in the next couple of days, Toby. Get on the phone - no, have Mrs Gitty to get on the phone, she may be built like a diplodocus but she's a better gasbag than either of us. Tell her to have a chat with Madame Dupont and find out when she and her loony bodyguard will be out of the house. I can handle anybody else when I get there."

When Toby disappeared he took a cigar from his pocket, but merely twiddled it between his fingers and remained deep in thought until his assistant returned.

"Hell! Can that woman talk?" said Toby, "Mrs Gitty could talk the hind legs off a chicken."

Horace glanced up eagerly. "What did she find out?"

"She says Madame Dupont an' Jenghiz Khan will be out of the house on Thursday afternoon. She's takin' him to the dentist and holdin' his hand 'cos he's scared o' the needle."

"Mrs Gitty's done good work. She's got kids ain't she?"

"Got a couple of little Git's at 'ome."

"Give her a quid from the shop-money and tell her to buy 'em a lollipop."

Toby leaned forward. "She found out Madame an' the monster will be out both evenings over the weekend too, Horace, so it may be better to wait until then."

Horace lit his cigar and puffed on it airily, eventually blowing out smoke in a long shuddering sigh. "No, no. I don't want to hang around, I intends to 'seize the day' as they say. The trouble with you Toby Parkin is you always hesitate too much. You've got no sense of adventure."

Mundane business, sometimes tiresome and unpleasant but vital, frequently punctuated the tranquil routine in Nob Street. His time as a prize-fighter had deprived Samson of all his front teeth, but Madame was adamant he should take care with the teeth he still had, so after lunch that sunny Thursday afternoon she took him off to see a dentist. It was really on the dentist's insistence that she accompanied him, since Samson was quick to start swinging his fists about at the sight of a hypodermic full of Novocain, and she was known to be his most calming influence.

When they'd gone Jennifer made a patrol around the house to ensure all the girly-boys were gainfully occupied. A summer of persistent hard work had been rewarded by a pleasing result. The place felt cosier than when she'd first arrived, and if a house could be a sentient thing she would have sworn it was responding with affection to all the attention being lavished on it - and perhaps to Madame's desire to own it and love it. She herself felt a kinship with Number 19 too, almost a kind of compassion for it. The house was shaped by the space it fitted. Standing alone it would have seemed weird and out of place, but held up by its surroundings it had a definite identity as a fine town house. True, it was in desperate need of redecoration, but with the woodwork polished and the grime removed from the paint work the place was beginning to smile. Yes, somehow it had changed. After forty years of decline that had taken it to the brink of decrepitude it had begun to sparkle like a long neglected woman given the opportunity to flaunt herself. It had once been a splendid house, and it would be splendid again.

She shook Amber and Prudence by their ears when she found them leaning against a wall and talking, and she smacked the back of Lulu's legs when she discovered him daydreaming when he should have been scouring the washbasins in the bathroom. With her authority once more established and made memorable for a while she felt happy to go into the sitting room downstairs and flop onto the sofa. She recalled there were times when she had relished keeping such creatures anxious and on the hop, but at number nineteen the unrelenting nature of it sometimes made her feel just plain bone-weary. Her shoes slipped from her feet and dropped noiselessly onto the worn brown carpet and within minutes she was sleeping.

"Lah, lah, lah - lah, lah, la, lah!" In the kitchen Marianne was singing softly to himself whilst seated in his little armchair and surrounded by mounds of strawberries. A large napkin was laid over his lap to catch any mess that could emerge from leisurely plucking out the green stubs from each piece of fruit before he dropped it into a large steel saucepan at his feet. His shiny gold tresses were pulled back into a chignon, and he was dressed for a sunny day in a cream tank top and tiny pink skirt that he wore without stockings or shoes. Everybody liked Marianne and he accepted that with the equanimity of the beautiful. His pretty face was made-up to the nines of course - it was always made-up to the nines. Despite bring raised by nuns in a strict catholic school, whenever he had the chance he dolled himself up like a screen goddess. Making himself glamorous was an important part of Marianne's daily routine, but once it was done to his satisfaction he was quite content to sit on his own hulling the green calyx from strawberries. A pleasant, warm breeze from the open back door feathered across his face and he paused to wiggle his bare toes and admire the pink lacquer on the toenails. "Lah, lah, lah - lah, lah, la, lah!"

All the other sissies were summer people, but he'd been with Madame for the past three years as her sort of helper and servant. She didn't pay him any money - Madame rarely had money to pay anybody most of the time - but she looked after him in a motherly kind of way and much of her passion for the colour and excitement of musical theatre had rubbed off onto himself. Blond and with a complexion of pale gold, dressed in silk, with a mannequins waist, he enjoyed playing the role of princess in his very own fairy tale. His eyes were greeny blue, but he insisted on describing them as emerald or sapphire. He enjoyed looking glamorous and he loved to sing and dance, but he didn't complain about kitchen work either, especially on a summer day when he could sit with the back door open and see the sunshine bouncing off the concrete of the pocket-handkerchief sized yard outside and view the plant-pot that held his newly planted seeds.

Like others who are favoured by nature he had an innocence about him that projected a protective envelope to seal him into his own sunny climate. He was incurably optimistic and his eyes transmitted a vivacious sparkle when he smiled, and just like minced-beef he was versatile. He knew how to cook things, he'd learnt how to make super jam, and he was good at cleaning too. When he did the sink he got into all the corners, and didn't miss out the scuzzy bit around the overflow or ignore the underside of the taps. He also knew how to sew and how to knit bed-socks for the winter, and because he was never lazy he pleased Madame.

In addition to his heart-wrenching beauty Marianne had an engaging personality and he liked pleasing people. He was a pretty pantywaist and he pleased lots of people. He'd certainly had sex with more men than anyone else he knew, and because of that some people said he was a slut. What they didn't realise was that when he did have sex with a man, even if it was just giving a blow job in the pantry to the nice one who brought the groceries, he only did it to please them. He planned to do things for 'nice' men until he fell off the planet.

At that moment Candy came into the kitchen, softly tiptoeing up behind Marianne to put his hands over the other sissy's eyes. Marianne sighed in the manner of a world-weary traveller. "Stop messing about. I know it's you Candy, I heard you whispering to Dolly in the hall.." When the hands were removed Dolly joined them, clicking his shoes on the linoleum floor and swinging his small hips testily. "You're a Lemon, Dolly." Marianne told him derisively.

The newest arrival stopped prancing. "A Lemon?"

"Yes. You follow Candy around like one of those little furry hamster creatures that jump off cliffs."

Dolly chuckled. "Oh, THOSE sort of Lemons. Yes, I guess I am a bit like that."

"What are you two doing here anyway?" Marianne asked, "You're supposed to be cleaning things. Jennifer will have a blue fit if she finds you mooching about in here."

Candy shrugged in unconcern. "She's snoozing on the sofa, so we're taking a break." He was disenchanted. He thought it was going to be a lovely adventure to spend the summer with Madam Dupont. Madame put on classy acts that were a far cry from the sleazy striptease his father asked him to do in front of men in pubs. But lately he'd changed his mind about everything. No one warned him he'd be a slave when he came to dance at the academy, no one had said that whenever he wasn't doing practise he had to wash something. Madame didn't chase anyone to clean things, but mean Jennifer never stopped, and she was always so dreadfully exact and finicky about detail. 'Toilet's today, Candy' - 'Walls next, Candy' - 'Don't forget your rubber gloves, Candy'. Phooey! He always forgot his gloves and his nails were on the point of being ruined.

He'd agreed to come to Nob Street to do dancing, and what had cleaning got to do with that? And however hard everyone worked Jennifer never seemed satisfied. She had a voice as sharp as a whip. She was a Mary Poppins with fangs and claws, as fierce as a tiger and just as pitiless. She'd spanked Dolly once for not coiling up the flex on the electric iron when he'd finished with it, and she always seemed to find a reason to smack his own bum until it looked like a polished red plum. "What's happening with all these strawberries?" he asked.

"I'm making jam," Marianne explained, straightening the napkin on his lap. "I'm a good jam-maker. I make jam all the time, you know that. You lot eat loads of it."

"Can we eat some of the strawberries?"

"Oh stuff! I can't stop you, but it means there'll be less jam." Marianne told him with a sulky pout. He may have been the senior sissy in the house, but the idea of using his authority to subdue the others never occurred to him. Being bossy was quite alien to his nature.

Candy picked up a strawberry intending to eat it, but found the plump fruit rather too squashy in his fingers to whet his appetite. "Ick! They're vile."

Marianne tittered. "Madame got them as a job-lot along the Tottenham Road. They're a bit over ripe now, but okay for jam."

"I've got a much tastier idea than eating strawberries." Candy said with a lopsided grin, studying Marianne's figure which was girlish with nice hips, and of course small breasts. "Why don't you show us your tits?"

The pantywaist stuck his bottom lip out in a pout. "I will not. You two have no right to come bothering me just because you're bored with touching each other up. I've got better things to do. I'm already busy."

"Hark at Miss Crabby." mewed Candy. Unconvinced by what had been said he followed his own inclinations, and giving a smirking Dolly a sly, dark-eyed wink of mischief his fingers brushed the back of Marianne's neck. Marianne turned a pettish shoulder. "I'm not going to be sexy for you. I'm really not." he declared solemnly. "Some of us still have work to do."

He was adamant. His words were slow and determined, but the others took them as no more than a little absurd spoken by an infant. The senior sissy's eyes dipped down and the lashes became spiky against his cheeks, but he remained still as Candy's arms locked around him, and slowly his reluctance began to melt as the younger boys slim fingers dictating the course of events. Irritation ebbed as a tickle of electricity ran down his spine. The touch of warm hands began to relax him, soothe him, lull him into a wonderland of sensation before they moved around to caress his cheek. Pulling Marianne back in the chair Candy's leaned down and gently bit at his neck, inhaling the scent of his skin overlaid with the fragrance of roses. "You're just as I imagined you to be today. Soft and sweet. Lovely!"

Candy's smile was teasing and so was his touching, and the sissy continued to stroke him in soft movements that made him shake with delight. All Marianne's objections collapsed and he turned his face upwards. The two of them tongue-licked juicily, and such a show of enthusiasm proved infectious to Dolly whose desire to have a share was unstoppable. Uninvited he inserted himself into the action by hoisting up the front of the she-boys blouse. Everything about Marianne was slim and milky, not an ounce of fat anywhere, and immediately his two breasts, small and perfect, fell into Dolly's hands. The hands then closed and squeezed the lush mounds until the nipples stood erect.

Marianne's back arched and he threw back his head as Dolly shamelessly toyed with the aroused nubs and ran his tongue in circles around the teats, smothering them with his lips, wetting them, sucking them and making them swell. Two of them now, Candy and Dolly, two sissy lovers squeezing, sucking and feeling. No wonder Marianne's early reluctance had now evaporated. "Cows!" he squeaked, "You shouldn't be doing this in the middle of the day. Jennifer will smack all of us if she finds out."

Overcome with excitement Dolly stood up. Both he and Candy were past caring about being smacked. Closing in on each side of the senior sissy they each reached for the hem of their little skirts, flipped them up at the front, and hoisted forth a stiff penis from their pants. Feeling utterly depraved they deliberately stroked the smooth tips around Marianne's face, up his cheeks, over his nose and across his mouth. Marianne lay passive only for a moment, then he took a rampant member in a full handed grip with each hand and jiggled them, shifting his gaze from one to the other.

By this time they were all panting, pink with suppressed joy and overwhelmed by the excitement of mutual sexual stimulation. "S-suck me." Dolly pleaded. "Me too." chorused Candy.

"You're both Lemons." observed Marianne solemnly, but he didn't pause to query anything. He went down on Dolly first, taking the offered tip into his mouth, lathering it with saliva and drawing it in, pushing against it and sucking gently but mainly moving his lips to stimulate the most sensitive first few inches. Whilst he did that with his lips one hand still continued to masturbate Candy

After a moment he swapped over and repeated the process with Candy, giving the end of the sissy-cock a little kiss before bending his head and slithering his tongue around the firm wet tip and enveloping it with his moist warm mouth. Back and forth he moved, his mouth mounting each cock alternately, gliding up and down, eventually taking them both down to the hilt. Then again. And again.

While he was fully engaged Marianne raised his eyes to look at the two breathless pansies, his smile now mocking and somehow adding to the eroticism. He was extremely accomplished at things he enjoyed doing, and given a chance at higher-education he would have earned a first-class degree with honours for cock sucking. He knew everything one needed to know about erogenous zones and was moving his mouth in a way that he'd become practised at. Firm and slick, his lips massaged each boyish morsel with immense skill, giving a little extra attention to either one that seemed to lag in order to bring them on together, every to and fro movement of his lips and fingers behind the drooling crests encouraging yet another hot sigh.

Dolly and Candy felt the ripple of his tongue probe their pee-holes and slide around the unhooded tip of each distended shaft, each uninhibited lap and swirl instigated a moan of pleasure. The two junior sissies could only offer hot breaths as they watched his head bobbing back and forth, watching his face swing left then right, cheeks dimpling as he sucked, and licked their slavering flow.

Eventually Dolly became misty-eyed, then he tensed and gave his thighs an abrupt shove forward as his face creased almost as if he was in pain. He ejaculated, and Marianne uttered no more than a faint muffled grunt as he accepted the sudden offering. With slimy goo still slopping around in his mouth he swung over to satisfy Candy and caught a second job-lot, the virile juvenile juice rapidly spurting out from his throbbing cock and spitting into his mouth to mingle with Dolly's still unconsumed deposit.

He finally gulped. "Will that do?" he asked as he freed up his mouth and licked his lips..

Dolly sagged. "We have to pay you back for that." he said mysteriously. Keeping his back straight, he bent at the knees, wickedly reaching out to run the palm of his hand up Marianne's leg, beginning at the ankle and caressing up to the knee. When Marianne didn't object he moved the hand slowly higher, stroking the insides of his thighs right up beneath the hem of his skirt. He was intent on returning some pleasure, and at once Candy joined in. With a cheeky, tonguey grin he slid his hands slowly down Marianne's belly as he gracefully sank to a squatting position. As was not uncommon Marianne wore no panties, and beneath the napkin on his lap and his always too-short little skirt his cock was already bare and throbbing.

Questing hands went down between his legs and cupped his testicles, caressing them and massaging them and stirring their sissy treasure, just as he himself did with the good looking butcher's boy who always made deliveries with a spare pork chop and plenty of gravy in his pocket. Marianne wasn't unused to peoples fascination with his cock. During his time at the convent school the young novice nuns frequently amused themselves by shutting him in a cupboard and making him thread his penis through a hole in the door so they could masturbate him anonymously.

Dolly paused as he felt the tension start to build, marvelling at the size of the gigantic prong swinging up between the smooth thighs in front of him. He and Candy both gazed at it, fascinated, always willing to be impressed by the size of Marianne's endowment. The length was extraordinary and the head the size of an egg. Dolly wrapped his fingers around its gargantuan dimensions and began to roll the sheath of its foreskin back and forth, drawing the loose prepuce over the tip and then hauled it right back. Everything seemed to swell and jump in his hand, its size alone hinting at the power it could generate and the deluge it could offer. He repeated the movement, slowly dragging up his hand while flicking and licking up and down the extended cock-meat with his tongue before driving down his fist again.

Dolly harboured no qualms, when he judged the time right his darting tongue flirted outrageously with the flaring cleft of pee-lips at the summit, stroking around at first, and then wiggling in just a little bit, teased the senior sissy there before smothering the whole weighty helmet with the soft warm blanket of his mouth. Having engulfed the fat, bulbous end he lathered it further with his own drool, then sucked on it as if he were sampling a piece of juicy fruit. Marianne was breathing heavily and his belly was trembling as his monument to misplaced boyhood began oozing with excitement.

Candy slumped down opposite to Dolly, kissing Marianne's upper thighs and massaging his nicely hung testicles while awaiting his chance for something else. Eventually two pairs of velveteen sheboy-lips slid together around the slavering tip, tongues touching as they snaked and circled the swollen helmet. Four hands competing to please the stiffened flesh. Two mouths adoring its tip, teasing and tasting in a classic world shaking double-header. "He's going to do a good one." breathed Dolly heatedly has his wet mouth briefly flirted with Candy's over the top of the drooling crest, finding it to be deliciously hot and slippery.

"Yeah, Marianne always does half a teacup full." agreed Candy, gazing briefly up at the senior sissy's face. "Come on girly, give us something for all the trouble we're taking."

Working in close colloquy they each sucked and licked Marion's enormous prong in a joint attack whilst pumping it furiously with their fists, Candy used his hand to completely unhood the magnificent masterpiece of its mushroom-shaped tip, wrinkling the top of the foreskin up and down as if it were a concertina before tilting it towards Dolly's eager mouth.

Marianne's eyes were half-shut and slumberous with delight, then quite suddenly his face froze in a mask of sheer joy and his body convulsed has his tense stand throbbed and a huge wad of thick semen leapt out from its tip. A rush of warmth seemed to sweep through him as he was shaken by the sweetest of pleasures, all coyness ceased, drowned by the sensations that were consuming his body.

Expecting it, but still taken by surprise, Candy and Dolly's noses nubbed together as they vied with each other to catch the leaping juice in their mouths. While they were busy scooping it up and sharing it, more long ropes of creamy cock-juice swirled onto their cheeks and their chins while their mouths became connected by a broad strand of translucent icor.

At precisely that moment the front door bell began jangling like an irate fire-alarm, making all of them jump. "Oh cripes! That's sure to wake Jennifer." squeaked Candy.

The ringing of the doorbell did awake Jennifer, and she was still blurry eyed when she opened it to find Horace Pratt standing on the step clinging onto a bulky television set. "Thought I'd drop this round," he said, "One o' your young rascals mentioned to me the other day that the telly here is bust, so I fished out a spare one from the back of my shop. Colour picture too, you can't get better for free."

Jennifer swung the door open wide. "For free! That's very sweet of you Mr Pratt, the children will be overjoyed."

Horace huffed and puffed and staggered slightly as he made his way into the vestibule. "Up the stairs with it, I suppose eh!"

Jennifer shook her head. "Er, no. Not right away. Bring it into the sitting and room and put it on the table in the corner. I'll make a space for it." Horace made no demur. He had no wish to carry a television up a set of steep, narrow stairs. People too often did themselves injuries doing things like that.

"Fits rather neatly in the corner." said Jennifer, smiling with delight. "Aye, it does too." agreed Horace. The television was a diversion. His real reason for being there was to collect the stone urn, and now he just had to go and pick it up. "If'n yer don't mind I'll go get a breath o' fresh air in the back yard. Lugging that damn thing about as just about wrecked me."

Fascinated by the new addition to furniture and fittings Jennifer plugged the television lead into a wall socket and spent several minute experimenting with the controls, but her concentration was then blown apart by a yell from the back of the house. She'd not heard the likes of it since she'd arrived in London. It was the kind of sound a cat makes when a twenty stone man steps on its tail, but were a cat usual offers only a single ear splitting shriek, this one continued as a morose wail. When she went into the hall a number of pale faces were hanging over the balustrade above, wondering what was causing such an unearthly noise.

"WHAAAAA!" Marianne came through from the back of the house, a bedraggled chrysanthemum, sobbing, face wet, mascara running in spidery streaks down his cheeks. "What on earth's the matter with you? What's happened?"

"Mr Pratt's being horrible, Jennifer. He's going to tip my flowers onto the floor so he can take away my plant-pot." And the wailing and bawling began again.

"Oh, do shush." chaffed Jennifer. "I need some quiet if I'm going to find out what's going on. There's bound to be a sound explanation for such a thing." She strode through the house and out onto the back stoop, and there was Horace Pratt standing over the old stone urn with a trowel in his hand. "Mr Pratt, what are you doing?"

The man looked up at her in annoyance. "Doin'? Why I's gunna empty this pot so I can take it with me. It's an heirloom, see. It's an old Ubaid thingy me granny give me ages ago, an' it's got sentimental value."

Jennifer felt suddenly petulant. "Marianne as just seeded petunias in it. The idea of having them thrown out so soon as quite upset him."

Horace glanced testily at the still sobbing effeminate standing a safe distance away by the back door. "I'll get the sissy-faggot a nice big plastic plant-pot wi' daisies painted on the sides."

"Where is it, then?" demanded Marianne at once, sounding shrill and indignant between his sniffs of misery, "You haven't brought one with you."

Horace rumbled a subdued expletive and shook his head in exasperation, so Jennifer took a different tack. "I'm given to understand that Madame Dupont as made you an offer for this house and its contents."

"Sure she has, an' I've accepted it." the man snarled, "But nuthin's legal yet. I can take what I like until we exchange contracts."

"I'm sure you're within your rights Mr Pratt, but just the same I'd prefer you didn't remove anything from here whilst Madame is away."

Her persistence caused the last of the man's patience to evaporate. After all, he hadn't come there to be dive-bombed with questions and given ultimatums by Elise Dupont's unpaid, juvenile housekeeper. He raised his head and glared hard. "Just how old are you, Missy Big-Boots?"

Jennifer raised her chin and her jaw tightened. "I'm seventeen, but I don't think..."

"Good!" said Horace. His voice was a verbal shotgun as he waved the trowel in front of her face belligerently, "It's best if skinny bints like you don't think, 'cos I don't take any notice of seventeen- year-old tarts who think they're in touch with their brain. Keep yer mouth shut or I'll give it a smack."

He spared a moment more to glare hard and their eyes locked in a kind of stalemate, then believing he'd made himself plain enough he turned his attention back to the stone urn at his feet. Above, a clutch of small pale faces gazed down from the upstairs windows. By the back door Candy and Dolly peered over Marianne's shoulders, their mouths agape. As he pushed the trowel into the soil, Marianne, mortified, began to wind up like an air-raid siren, and that prompted Jennifer to draw her fingers together and clench her hand. Using all the force she could muster she drove her fist up sharply into the middle of Horace Pratt's face.

WHOP! Bony knuckles smashed into the man's nose and a splodge of crimson jetted out over his trim moustache. "Aw, Fuck!" Horace exclaimed, clutching his face and staggering back. "Jesus Christ! Every time I comes here lately some bastard thumps me on the fuckin' snout."

Jennifer held her ground, fists on the shelf of her hips now, unrepentant and defiant "You're insufferably rude, Mr Pratt, and I refuse to accept badmouthing quietly from anyone." For a moment Horace was tempted to attack her in reprisal, but then he thought again. No, she may be young, but she was a tough cow, strong and agile, and he couldn't risk being beaten up by a girl in front of all those pervy little kids. A man had his dignity to consider.

Dizzy, clutching his nose to stem any chance of more bleeding he felt in no condition to continue what he'd started. He couldn't carry away a big stone urn with one hand, and no one there was likely to help him. Irate, he stormed off back towards the house. "I'll leave it for now, but I'll be coming back f'that thing, y'young hooligan. Don't try hidin'it away else I'll have the police round here, an' if I have to bring in the law Madame can go swim for her house."

When he'd gone Jennifer looked at the stone urn. So much fuss over a piece of mangy pottery! Then she began to feel suspicious. He'd let slip the word, Ubaid. She didn't know what that meant, but she was going to find out.