Fairyfield Grange

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Oh - yes, Jennifer."

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

"Yes, Jennifer."

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

"Um - y-yes Jennifer."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Does she take equine cock in her pussy?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Oh, erm, er -"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"It will take an hour to pack."

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

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

"I-I suppose so."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Greg gulped. "Yes, Emma."

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

"Y-yes."

Emma glared. "Yes, what?"

"Oh - er, Yes, Miss Emma."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes, miss." he replied faintly.

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

"Yes, Miss Emma."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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