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e amaze each other, Jennifer, but I'm going to amaze you the most. I have a passion to live within easy reach of Shaftsbury Avenue and the rest of theatreland. Footlights and greasepaint are part of me and I constantly need to feel the pulse of the West End. That being the case I'm going to make Horace Pratt an offer for this house." "You're going to buy number nineteen?" Jennifer asked incredulously, "But how? You're always so short of money. You never have two brass pennies to rub together." "I've come into a sort of inheritance recently - my father." "You've suffered a bereavement. I'm so sorry if I offended you just now. Please accept my condolences." The woman shook her head. "I won't make a drama of it, we were never very close. He spent most of his time down the road in Pentonville - as a convict in the prison. Daddy was a banjo player once, but when big bands went out of fashion he turned to armed-robbery, and whilst we never enjoyed a good relationship he was at least good enough to tell me where he'd stashed all the loot he never had a chance to spend. "Apparently he was helping to refurbish the prison-governor's garden when a concrete flamingo fell on his head." "A tragedy." "Yes. Death by concrete flamingo can't have been a nice way to go. Killed him outright though, so I all his stuff belongs to me now. Quite a lot really. Enough to buy Number 19 anyway, I think. I should get it at a good price. I had a couple of builder friends of mine convince Horace it will probably begin to fall down soon, so he'll want to get rid of it quick." "You don't rate Mr Pratt very highly, do you?" Madame pursed her lips and replied in a voice that was as crisp and even as the snow of King Wenceslas. "I've run out of strychnine, so I'll put ground glass in his whiskey next time he comes here." She opened a second piece of mail, a lilac coloured envelope. "From my friend, Connie Lingus," she said with a smile. "She wants my dancers to perform at a Girl Guide jamboree." "A joke, surely." snorted Jennifer. Madame chuckled. "Yes, of course it's a joke. My darlings would fall to pieces if they had to show themselves off for a gang of squealing bobby- soxers. They'd be utterly bemused and helpless in front of real little girls." She put that letter to one side and picked up a stiff brown envelope, long and thin, an old fashioned shape from the days of quarto paper and sealing wax. The address was typed but the name written by hand. Tearing it open her eyes appeared to expand and become very alert with a feverish kind of brightness.. "Goodness gracious! It's from Bertie Bestable at Dovecott. His handwriting is so illegible he should have been a doctor, but he clearly wants to see a show. I have the first booking of the Season for the Frilly Follies." She glanced up to explain. "I first met Bertie when I did the clubs south of the river. He's rich, careless with money and considered a bit vulgar, but he'll make an ideal first client. A success at Dovecott Manor will guarantee a successful full season for the Follies." "I'm so pleased things are moving on in a good way." said Jennifer. Madame seemed overcome by a faint dreaminess. "I've created the most exciting dance company ever. I've trained them, guided them, encouraged them to make the most of their potential. Now they're world-class. Further rehearsal will only serve to maintain their edge. Right now they're ready to perform." Suddenly her eyes stared wildly and she began to shake. "Saturday evening! That's just two days away. Oh dear! The first show of the Season always makes me tense. It sets the tone for everything that follows, you see." She gave her teenage assistant a look of fierce urgency. "I won't expect you to accompany us on every outing Jennifer, Samson and I can manage most things without additional help and you're deserving of some free time, but I'd value your support on this first one. The first one is always so vital." Agitated beyond endurance she rose up and went to the door to call along to the kitchen. "Marianne, bring a fresh pot of tea - and bring some chocolate biscuits. We're going to celebrate." *** Jennifer held the road map open across her slim knees and chattered with delight every mile of the way since they'd left London, enthusing about everything whilst passing through a countryside that had slipped into the parched silence of a corn-scented summer. It was a land of quiet distances beyond deep hedges of haw and sloe, and of potato fields lined with willows, their shining leaves rippling in the sunshine. There were butterflies too - browns, yellows and Vanessides, and the grass was truly green. Not at all like Yorkshire really, but the rural feel of things gave her warm remembrance of her mother's home in the north. She sniffed the air like a young colt savouring an open spring meadow. "Do you smell it?" she asked Madame Dupont, "Everything is so clean here." Madame wasn't convinced. "There's more muck in the countryside than you'll ever find in the city." she replied dourly. Much of the journey was on duel-carriageway, and Madame Dupont, a capable driver, made good time even on the minor roads. She was driving a minibus carrying Jennifer and the dancers, while Samson followed behind in a transit-van with everything else they needed. She would have made better time still had she not needed to keep consulting the rear- view mirror to ensure her manservant wasn't veering off in the wrong direction at every junction and fork in the road. "The bluebells are out." said Pompom in the back of the van, pointing at a dusting of colour beneath an elm tree. "They aren't bluebells, silly, they're violets." Marianne told him. "Same difference." "No it's not," Marianne said indignantly, "Violets are smaller and sweeter." Pompom gave him a vindictive glance. "Oh yes, eat them, do you, cleverclogs?" It was after five in the afternoon when they arrived at Dovecott Manor. The smooth tarmac of the road stopped abruptly and became dirt. At this point the community responsibility ended and an area of private property began; fifty acres of wild greenwood allowed to grow unhampered and untamed. This was in contrast to the grounds of the house it surrounded where the lawns were deep and thick, manicured and cut through by flagstone paths. A succession of anonymous people waved the two vehicles around the side of the house to a door at the back, where a very ancient and decrepit looking man in a morning-suit stood waiting. "There's a room inside you can use." he told them without emotion. "Where do we perform? And at what time?" asked Madame crisply. The old man shook his head to indicate he didn't have a clue. "Where is Mr Bestable?" "In with the guests." was the effete reply. Whereupon the old fellow turned about and walked away so slowly and solemnly Madame fancied he was contemplating commit suicide. "This is really too bad of Bertie," she complained to Jennifer bitterly, "He assured me he would be here to fill me in on all the arrangements - venue, time, entrances and exits, sound system and lighting. We know nothing. Good Lord, we're strangers here and utterly lost. He expects perfection to simply blossom while he stands in the front of the house carousing." Her expression became one of desperation. "Supervise the unloading Jennifer whilst I go and find the wretched man." Dovecott Manor was imposing. When Madame first stepped inside it seemed a mysterious place, filled with old furniture and the remnants of other peoples lives. The entrance hall ran the entire width of the house, with sets of French windows at the far end leading onto a terrace where people were milling about, glasses in hand. Local girls in black dresses and frilled organdie aprons offered silver trays of hors d'oeuvres, a man in a a white dinner jacket played cocktail piano in the hall, and a string quartet gave out strains of Mozart on the terrace. In a gazebo on the back lawn, couples gyrated to disco music. The party was already in full swing. Women falling upon each other with such enthusiasm when they arrived that she thought it must be the reunion of long lost friends, until she realised the kissing women never sullied their lips with fleshy contact, and used the brief moment to scan over each others shoulders for guests more fascinating, or gazed at their own immaculate reflections in one of the gilded mirrors on the wall. Madame Dupont felt a little out of place. The men were all black bow-ties and dinner suits, and the women made-up to the eyeballs with not a catalogue dress between them - the cost of the simplest outfit there would have paid her rent for a month. "My dear," a voice said loudly close by, "Isn't this the most heavenly little shindig?" Elise Dupont jumped involuntantarily. A woman was standing at her elbow almost drowning her in heavy perfume. She took a step back and took another look. It was quite a sight. A dumpy woman, dressed in a haphazard way with flashy ornaments dangling here and there, but she had taken great care with her large face, which was painted out of resemblance to humanity, and was topped with an enormous wig lacquered sufficiently enough to withstand any typhoon blowing across southern Essex. "I'm Lady Dewy," the woman explained, "Milly to my friends and those who knew me before I married the old earl and came up in the world. I'm the showgirl made good. Straight from theatreland to having my own big show. Mistress of an old man to being mistress of his estate - acres of land going that way, that way and that way - more acres than you could count. Though now of course much of it as been sold off with those dinky little farms and cottages people term as 'desirable residences'. And Dovecott as been given to Bertie, the earl's nephew - grace and favour - an enormous house at very nominal rent. It's the kind of thing us lah-de- dah's do, y'know." She stopped talking for a second and peered at her, making her feel a bit like a specimen in a bottle. "And who are you, my dear?" "I'm Elise Dupont." Madame replied, taking her in. She was fifty if she was a day, A hefty lump raised on towering high gold heels, with her plump thighs squashed into a skin-tight Pucci silk capris and her breasts flattened by a sparkly sequinned tank top. She wore a rope of real emeralds around her thick neck and obviously belonging to the school of 'if you've got it, flaunt it' was weighed down by massive diamond and ruby rings. "Bet you've never seen anything like me before, have you Elise Dupont?" "No, I certainly haven't." "And I haven't seen anything like you. My dear, this is supposed to be a party. Girls are supposed to dress up. That's how they catch their men." "Is that right?" "Trust me," she nodded. "I caught four of 'em, each one richer than the last. You want to know my secret? Just be yourself, my dear. Forget about their pompous titles, just stick out your tits and shake 'em. They'll fall at your feet, and that's the best place for 'em. At your feet, I mean. A girl can never have too much of that." "I'm looking for Bertie Bestable." Madame said as she surveyed the room for a familiar figure. Helpfully Lady Dewy pointed to a small group. "He's there. He's the younger one and he's an awful flirt." "Is he?" "Oh yes. Anyone would need three heads to a stink of skunks to stop him making a pass when he gets the chance. He's an awful flirt, with boys as well as girls. Around here he's considered what they call a regular dash. But avoid that woman with the yellow hair and velvet bow standing with him, she thinks she's kipper's knickers and she's licensed to kill." She recognised the woman at once from photographs she'd seen in The Stage and other show-bussiness magazines. Annalisa Gordeno, once known as Annie Green, was an acclaimed diva of musical revues in the West End and by all accounts a prima-donna in every other way too. She was wearing a dress that night which in Elise Dupont's opinion was a huge mistake, glaring bright pink like cheap bubblegum, and strapless, which was also a mistake if one had collarbones that looked like someone had shoved a coat-hanger sideways down their throat. At that moment she looked like the kind of brassy woman who picked men up on cruises. Forty-something now and fighting to stave off a thickening waistline it was said by those who knew Ms Gordeno that she had cultivated her voice to sound somewhat drippy, frequently referring to herself as 'little me', so silly, so very much in need of a strong man to sort out horrid things. But her prettiness was all bubbles. She ate men, who were usually prepared to be eaten. She was a snob who didn't care for women much, and if thrust too long in their company got a headache without delay. Lady Milly immediately began to point out other notable guests and regale her with salty stories of their exploits. It would have been entertaining had Madame not been in such a hurry. Bertie Bestable was enjoying his party, looking well fed and well- upholstered he was strolling around, greeting everyone and pausing for brief conversations now and then. He knew most of them of course because he'd invited them himself, but there were a few strange faces, guests of guests, hangers-on and the odd gatecrasher. He greeted them all the same, with an air of boyish devil-may-care and scintillating charm, laughing at their jokes uproariously even when he didn't catch the punchline. Madame walked over and inserted herself delicately into the group of people surrounding him, avoiding looking too hard at Annalisa Gordeno who was thoughtfully studying a half tomato on a plate that she's taken from a sumptuous buffet at the back of the room. Elise thought to intervene quickly to get Bertie's attention but was thwarted by a woman barging past her. Stiff-necked and proper, she was painfully thin and tall, wearing a dress of bilious green, her face a humourless white tulip in steel-rimmed glasses. "Bertie deah," the woman said, "I've just seen a number of children arrive, no more than schoolgirls by their looks. Surely you don't intend to foster them on us as entertainment? Pitiful amateurs! They've likely had no training whatsoevah. It will be a torment for them and an insult to the theartah." Bertie's face turned slightly pink. "Mrs Van Damme, I assure you they're professional entertainers." The woman's narrow head shook lugubriously. "Poor creatures," she said in a voice rich with sympathy, "Mothers! Some people reelly ought to be shet up in boxes for treating their deah offspring so dreadfully." Instead of bridling at such criticism Madame Dupont became fascinated by the woman's mixture of punctilious tones and strangled vowel sounds. She thought the accent so refined her words must have been squeezed through a laundry mangle. Bertie Bestable was an avid collector of ancient curios, the walls of the anteroom forming a gallery of frescoes peopled with angels and fabulous creatures. Shelves held a collection of Coptic altarpieces and statuettes, and there were other items too. On one level a carved stone xoanon from Sumatra, at another a cycladic idol from the Aegean. There was also an Ibo fertility truncheon from Central Africa, and a sealed gold casket said to contain a toenail of St Barnabus, smuggled out from a monastery on the Iberian peninsular. When the woman with the strange voice drifted away a pot-bellied, balding man, clearly an academic, launched into what he hoped was a shared sphere of interest. "I'm delving into the antediluvian, Bertie - you know, after Noah's flood - and I've recently had a good look at the Khafaje bowl in the British Museum." Bertie gave him a droll sideways glance. "I'd be a rotten liar if I didn't admit I'd rather study something more to my taste at the moment, Dr Dobbs." "Oh, indeed. And what would that be?" "Why, epidermal photochromatology in youthful antipodean anthropoids, of course." The plump man's face reddened. "What the heck are you talking about?" Bertie's eyes twinkled in merriment and Annalisa Gordeno roared with laughter. More of a shriek than a boom, but whenever she laughed she ensured she drew attention to herself. "He'd rather study pretty bottoms, Dr Dobbs." she said, her body shaking as if Bertie had said something unbelievably funny. "He's a dirty lecher." "The Oxford English Dictionary lists forty-nine words to describe buttocks." Bertie added joyfully. "Fascinating," remarked Dr Dobbs dryly, "That's exactly the number of terms the Inuit Eskimos have for snow." "What's the matter with the food?" Bertie asked Annalisa as he observed the solitary half tomato wobbling on her plate. The woman sighed and the tip of her nose twitched like a rabbit. "I can't decide whether to eat it or not." "Why?" "Tomatoes are full of fluid which will make me fat. But they're also full of antitoxidants which are anticarcinogenic." Bertie's brow creased. "But, do you want to eat it?" Anilisa looked at him as if he were mad. "What's WANTING to eat it got to do with anything?" In desperation the little fat man turned to Madame Dupont. "I'm Marmeluke Dobbs by the way, Lecturer in Antiquities at Verton. Bertie pointed you out when you arrived. He tells me you use the house once owned by Sir Grenville Dander." "I believe I do, I've heard his name mentioned." Madame replied vaguely. "Fine fellow by all accounts, but one with a colossal ego. Got his nose pushed out in the 1920s when he was doing digs in Mesopotamia. Found some useful stuff apparently, but at that time the newspapers just wanted to know about Caernarfon's discovery in Egypt - y'know, the Valley of the Kings and the tomb of the boy-king Tutankhamun. When he came home old Sir Grenville had an immense sulk and shut himself away like a recluse. Never spoke about what he'd found." Taking advantage of a convenient moment Madame gave an urgent little tug on Bertie's sleeve. "You really MUST spare me ten minutes to explain things." Fifteen minutes later when Madame returned to her Company she was desperately trying not to hyperventilate. Nothing was going right, was it? Arrangements for her arrival had been minimal, the program she'd been given was sketchy at best and the host so laid-back he'd fallen off the edge of the planet, just like a bloody Nero, plucking on his ukulele while things fizzed and popped around him. When she got among her troupe everyone was delving into the hampers that the panciloquent Samson was carrying in from outside and panicking to get into costume. Jennifer was literally spitting out feathers from something that had burst on the journey, whilst Prudence was struggling into a outfit that was a size too small because it had a small waist that would exaggerate his hipline. "I know the bodice is a little tight, but it gives me more of a figure." he was explaining to anyone who would listen. Bambi laughed because he was small enough and slim enough to get into any costume. "If you cough or eat a pea all the buttons will ping off." Madame wiped her brow with the back of her hand. She would be fine, she decided. She would be calm, mature, serene, tranquil, sophisticated. But most of all calm. A few minutes later she took a trip to the toilet where her insides imploded. *** The music-room in the house, a tall, handsome, pillared octagon, was filled with the triumphant first movement of Locatelli's C major quartet. The players, thin men in dinner suits pinned against the far wall by rows of little round guilt chairs, were playing with passionate conviction as they mounted towards the penultimate crescendo. Within seconds of the deep liberating final cord Madame stepped regally out from a side entrance into the cleared space that had been nominated as a performance area. It was some four hours after the pandemonium on arrival and during that time as things began to take shape she had managed to compose herself. Now, with the sanguine exuberance of a circus ringmaster she commanded everyone's attention. "Ladies and gentlemen, it's showtime, and for your entertainment we now present forty-five minutes of - Frilly Follies." The instant she disappeared music from overhead speakers began to throb with Bizet's 'Bolero', and the audience seemed to freeze in their seats as Bambi sprang out from the wings to take centre stage. He was a tiny figure with bird bones and eyes as bright as a robin, hair hanging in pretty bangs and ringlets and adorned with a posy of Parma violets. His face was small, pale and pointed and had a mouth that was pursed a little in consideration, as pink and rosebud-like as anything portrayed in a sentimental illustration. Bambi was the youngest and smallest of Madame's troupe, and he was naked but for the silver high-heeled sandals on his feet, light and strappy. His unclad body was as smooth as butter, but much of it was obscured by an enormous ostrich-feather fan both at front and back..The audience gazed silently in disbelief, lips compressed, eyes wide open like bystanders in a street. Perfectly delectable, hips swaying, he swung into the rhythm of the music which provided the stuttering tempo for abrupt changes of pose, engaging wiggles and solicitous prancing. He turned about and then turned back, gyrating his body, skipping one way and then another, the silky-smooth nakedness of his hairless little body absolutely apparent, but faultlessly guarded. Feeling sweet, feminine and unbelievably naughty every few seconds or so he would throw out his arms and conduct a swirling series of semaphore signals, but only doing it when the choicest portions of his body were concealed. The contents of his soft silken bag dangling at the root of his pink popsy was young, fresh and perfect, but his modesty was constantly shielded all around by the practised strategic movements of the two large fans he operated with his hands. Facial expressions complimented the enticing movements of his body. A coy over-the-shoulder pout, the tip of a pink tongue showing, a glorious saucy grin to display immaculate white teeth. Everyone applauded vigorously as the fan-dance concluded and he made his exit, and none applauded more vigorously than Bertie Bestable. Madame too was in raptures. "Well done, Bambi, they really liked that." she said, stuffing a boiled sweet into his mouth as if rewarding a performing dog. Heart palpitating she dug her fingernails into her palm in an effort to calm herself as she observed the others in her group preparing to spring forward with the next routine. "Come along, dear things. Try to look animated! - No, not like that Dolly, that just makes you look half-witted - remember what you've been taught, all of you, heads up and smile, and don't let anyone get close enough to get into your knickers." "We're not wearing any." piped Lulu. A moment later they were high-stepping like drum-majorettes into the lights. Six young boys wearing very short little-girl outfits that made the most of their superb bare legs. Some had dark hair, others were golden blond, reflected light framing their heads and playing on the edges of curls and ringlets. They were all beautiful, each in his own way, their faces lightly made up to retain the lush aspects of youthfulness, their bodies slender and supple, attired in diminutive dresses of purple plush trimmed with gimp cord and black Spanish lace. They presented a sight to make dead men sit up, and it was impossible to disguise the stirring of loins in the room. Madame hadn't ended it at that. To the amazement of all those watching the front hem of their tiny skirts had been pinned to the waist to form an outward flowing drape beneath which their lush, creamy thighs and young genitals had no hope of taking shelter. They were tricked out with beads, earbobs, frills and furbelows, but no underwear - not a stitch, their slender white cocks, each one an individual soft sculpture, were clad with only a narrow bow of pink ribbon, and while their scrotums varied in size and shape they were uniformly soft sacs of pink skin in which the outline of their youthful testes were clearly defined. A ripple went around the room, people gazing in astonished disbelief at the plethora of femmed-up revealing jail bait and the sight of boycocks on girls. Extending into line abreast they began with tap in the Irish style, arms motionless at their sides, chins in the air and legs moving rapidly, hop-tapping and heel kicking below. The audio-accompaniment this time consisted of a lively fiddle, a reedy sounding pipe and a lambeg drum, while the rhythmic clack of shoes provided both music and melody of their own. The tune crashed to a stop and almost instantly the invisible fiddle changed key and launched into a faster jig allowing Candy to spring forward, knuckles on hips, to give a virtuoso display of jazz- jive. When he dropped to the rear Pompom and Trixie took centre stage in a whirling, synchronised, foot stomping pas de deux that had their skirts swirling in dizzying circles and provided ample opportunity to observe pretty bare bottoms and exposed boy parts. In a daring move they spun round, back to back, lifting their skirts, bewildering the spectators, taunted them, tormented them, their soft high-pitched squeals hammering like nails into their attention as they wriggled and rubbed their bare bottoms together, while laughing at the intimacy. Surveying them analytically Marmeluke Dobbs leaned across to Bertie sitting next to him. "How old are they?" he asked,. He was a corpulent man of about fifty, who overflowed his chair leaving only a streak of guilt wood to be seen here and there. Bertie shrugged. "They're kids, I don't know how old they are, but they could be twelve or thirteen. Nice legs though, and nice..." The other man narrowed his lips and sniffed. "I don't know what you think of this buggery lark, but I think it's unnatural." Bertie nodded wisely before giving him a impish smile. "My dear old Dobbo, I don't recall anyone mentioning anything about buggery. How on earth did you come up with a thought like that?" The girlie-boys became a sestet team once more, advancing and receding in line abreast, feet moving at a blur - rap, tack, tap - rack, tap, tack -a'racker d'tacker racker, rap, trap-tap - eventually moving sideways to slide like a knife into its sheath as they exited through the door that was draped to accommodate the wings, stage-left. Again the audience applauded loudly, and once more Bertie Bestable clapped the loudest. A moment later a multitude of sparkling bright lights pieced the dim gloom of the auditorium in a pyrotechnic display that in itself was an auroral ballet. Slowly the colours became sharper and more vivid as they began weaving, diving in arcs and loops. The spectacle - the greens, the blues, the purples and then the mauves, indigoes and violets became a kaleidoscope of colour that were invigorated by Prudence, so very like a dusky peach himself, who went on next. Fists on hips he strutted out confidently beneath the lights, adding a vitality and a kind of glow of his own. He looked particularly splendid that day and he knew it, a string of pearls around his neck, matching earrings and a bracelets on each wrist, fully clothed - sort of - looking radiant in a powder blue high feather head-dress and skimpy matching bra-top, a bare midriff and silk-clad legs. He wore no panties. The drape of his tiny skirt was splayed open at the front and he wore nylons to demonstrate just how glamorous a penis and testicles can be when garnished around with stocking tops and suspender straps. Behind him a magnificent spray of blue feathers appeared to erupt from the region of his small, high-set bum-cheeks, rising up in a vast fantail before drooping down to almost meet the floor. A lively melody began to pipe from the audio-speakers as he cruised to a stance in the centre of the floor, and then the voices of a feminine chorus began to chant the words of a timeless number from 'Forty-second Street': "Keep young and beauty-full It's you're duty to be beauty-full Keep young and beautiful, if you want to be loved..." Promoting an unremitting Hollywood smile he started around the floor on a scintillating promenade of glamour, strutting with the elegant vanity of a peacock, taking measured steps in high heels to accentuate his magnificent legs, each swing of his pelvis, every vivacious flashing glance calculated to draw the attention and button observers to their seats. "Take care of all your charms And you'll always be in someone's arms Keep young and beautiful, if you want to be loved..." The Busby Berkley number receded and Prudence glided away into the wings, then the music mutated to a heady rumba beat and Marianne appeared. The audience caught their collective breath, for he was a magnificent sight, scantily clad in stockings and pearl-coloured high heels and just a tiny half-bra covered with spangles and sequins to cradle the small mounds of creamy flesh moving jauntily on his chest. A shallow drape of pale cream peau satin over his thighs formed a quasi- skirt of minute proportions. Hips gently rounded, thighs slender and straight, he moved slowly at first, then kicked and whirled and increased his pace, arms stretching, hips gyrating, feet flashing in a permutation of classic movements. His hair had been twisted, braided with beads and interlaced with cream- coloured silk roses before being wound into a chignon behind his head. His features remained serene as he spun, his skirt following his movements with disciplined ease. Fabric shimmered in liquid motion as he twirled in harmony with the rumba, enacting a tribal dance of primeval decadence long ago born around bonfires on the African plains. Every motion of feet, legs, arms, even fingers, was made with precise consideration. He was in his element. It was what he was made for; to perform, to thrill. Every turn of his head, every flash of his eyes was done expressively. Here was a person who excelled at giving heart- stopping, ball-breaking messages with his body, and all those in the room gave him their undivided attention, eyes adhering to him like chewing-gum stuck to a pane of glass. Quite abruptly the strains of rumba faded to be superseded by the languorous, sultry melody of Gershwin's 'Summertime'. Marianne became immobile and statuesque. An alluring provocative creature. Beneath his sooty lashes he had eyes that could enchant, but he seemed oddly unaware of their mesmerising effect. His smile became suddenly pouty and playful while his hands stroked up from his bare midriff and over his ribs, to slide up beneath the skimpy bra as if to unfasten it. A pause of appealing hesitation, and it came off. Now he was free to cup his two small breasts that stood proud and totally unsupported, the pinkness of the winsome erect nipples enhanced by a blush of rouge. He caressed himself for a moment knowing he was being closely studied and admired, but he knew he was beautiful, totally gorgeous, and when he took up another stance the line of his body was exquisitely exact, the turn of his limbs light and stealthy. His was a performance that combined the grace of ballet with the titillation of striptease and spectacle of erotic tableau. Beneath his creamy shoulders and the swell of his hips he was resplendent in seamless tan stockings secured to a lacy garter belt by elastic suspender straps. His golden tresses glistened beneath the lights and his pale body dripped sex, so slim but so wonderfully moulded with his small breasts and softly rounded hips. Neck so graceful, limbs so sensual, hands so delicate, he was a transvestite dream that could corrupt the celibate. Pelvis rolling in lascivious invitation he boldly undid the small drape of shimmering satin covering his thighs and allowed it to drift down. More of his slender body came into view. His belly was flat, his navel only slightly indented, and below lay a ridiculous little G-string front, delicate and nebulous, shimmering like platinum beneath the crazy lights - a whisper of satin, that was no more that a pouch inside of which something mysterious and impossible lay coiled. One hand briefly touched the pink nipples of her perfect little breasts and a shiver flitted over his skin like a tiny incandescent butterfly. Then his fingers reached down and there was an audible gasp throughout out the room as the tiny G-string was stripped away. He was thin with a tiny waist and shapely legs, and he had breasts, and his penis swung down to dangle like a bell-rope from his hairless thighs. Bertie Bestable's breath became tight and his lungs felt like immobile sacs as he force himself to exhale. He could feel his own flesh hardening, body trembling, blood pounding beneath flushed skin. He was a man who adored watching boys get undressed and this was extra special. Marianne was an angel fallen to earth and his enticing little bottom would be a source of interest to men for years to come. And that cock. Wow! The mincing little queen was hung like a horse, he possessed an equine-like monster far too big for a slight body such as his, but it looked all the more thrilling because it was there. He heard a woman behind him whisper to her companion. "Good Lord, do look at her. Isn't she quite delicious? That prick! Surely it must be against the Geneva Convention or something." "Must have escaped from a zoo." retorted another voice. Bertie was the host and he enjoyed knowing his guests approved. The charmer out front certainly did have a capital dangle swinging between his creamy white thighs and dark stocking tops. Nice knob-end and a good bag of nuts too. With a small, sly smile on his mouth Marianne stood with his weight on one leg so that his pelvis tilted up at an enchanting angle, then reaching down slowly he took his gigantic prong in his pretty manicured hands and held it upright as he waltzed around the floor, regarding it with the reverence given to a dance partner, slicking back the foreskin to gaze at the bulbous knob-end as if he really was in love. The moment he danced away into the wings an avalanche of petticoat frills appeared on the floor, a group of three girls dressed as regency dolls, beautiful, like models advertising crinoline ball gowns, pink and crimson off the shoulder outfits that boasted vast shimmering skirts that fell in tiers of ruches down to their ankles. Petticoats beneath projected the width of the skirts and accentuated the narrowness of their waists, and long crimson cocktail gloves that stretched up beyond their elbows highlighted the slenderness of their arms. But it was Madame's innovation that really caught the attention. As with their earlier costumes the skirts were divided at the front and were splayed open to hide nothing and reveal all. The three damsels skimmed delicately around the floor until a trio of 'boys' eventually joined them. The boys were clothed in simpler style. White starched shirt fronts with collars and bow-ties, and long-tailed black coats. Nothing else. Nothing below the waist but the pink ribbon on their willies and kidskin slippers on their feet. The tinkling chimes of a harpsichord introduced a minuet, a routine into which Madame had incorporated much of the intricate choreography advocated in Feuillet's treatise on dance. It was a genteel display in which grace and form were paramount. Girls of the past would have found their social status devastated by an awkward, careless step, but there was nothing more graceful anywhere now than those six figures on the floor. Pairing off, the boys and girls allowed a ruminative 'cello to utter two phrases of its own and begin dialogue with a viola, then splendidly synchronised and stepping lightly they advanced and retreated, two small paces forward, then one step back, swaying elegantly, legs stretching, toes pointed. Their only contact with their partners being fingertips raised to the height of the chin, heads pushed back, faces turned inward to enthral each other with ravishing smiles. "Discipline!" breathed Madame to herself as she observed them from the wings. "Poise, footwork, grace, balance. Allegro, keep the movements small." Every movement took the breath away, each poised stance of their lithe young bodies formed a sinuous curve, a flowing line of craftily arranged costume and youthful bare flesh that stimulated even the most jaded of imaginations. "Incredible!" someone muttered. Bertie smiled innocuously. The minuet set his head wagging with its insistent beat and some of the people seated on the guilt chairs followed the strains with an intensity that equalled his own. Awe struck, he was wholly unconscious of his hand stirring the pack of pork in his breeches as the delicate promenade orbited the floor, unclad thighs flashing as they paraded by, at times brushing against himself and the others in the front row of the auditorium. And then came the finale. In a flurry of magenta ruffles and showing all their previous exuberance Madame Dupont's little girl's joined together in a familiar repertoire: Chopin's waltz in A flat major, Litz and Debussy etudes, a flourish of Rachmaninov - pieces she had practised to death and to which her students now moved faultlessly. Bambi returned, this time bouncing into the lights looking like a small feminine angel in an extremely short lemon-yellow party frock that could have been made for an eight-year-old. It had bows and lace and lots and lots of petticoats that showed lots of bare legs, and he wore frilly white ankle-socks and Mary-Jane shoes. But no panties. His hair had been combed up and decorated with a large yellow bow, and with credible aplomb he took the lead in singing a vintage Shirley Temple number: "On the good ship Loll-eee-pop It's a sweet trip to a candy shop Where bon bons play, on the sunny beach at peppermint bay...." His youthful voice tinkled clear and sweet, but although the audience listened their eyes ranged ceaselessly up and down his scantily dressed figure. Keeping his head up and his shoulders back and maintaining his hands and arms at a graceful angle, he tapped, pirouetted and swirled. The frugal items that made up his costume had been tailored to show off his petite young body to its best advantage, so when he turned he was able to bump up his bottom until the back of his skirt flounced up to reveal his peerless little bare backside. He oozed with the same cuteness and precocity of the legendary child-star, hopping, bobbing up and down, stretching and dipping and gesticulating so energetically that this time everyone had a chance to see the tender sissy's own confectionery beneath his purposely shortened ruffled petticoats - the flavoursome looking candy-stick and the luscious little gob-stoppers wrapped in their very own pretty pink bag. Finally he swung round, put a forefinger under his chin and gave a deep curtsy. Afterwards, everyone's delight was obvious. Many were physically salivating and Bertie was ecstatic and effusive with praise when he went over to have a word with Madame Dupont. "First-rate show, by Jove. Superb choreography. Great charm. The only thing it lacked was, erm..." Elise Dupont rebuked him acidly before he'd even finished. "I wont have my angels do erections Bertie, if that's what you're thinking. That would be unnecessary and quite crude." "Er, yes indeed," Bertie mumbled, "Perhaps we can discuss the matter sometime." He eyes swung towards Jennifer and looked her up and down. "Miss Hancock is my assistant." explained Madame, indicating towards Jennifer. "Such a pleasure to meet you." Bertie said, offering his hand. Jennifer was prepared to be pleasant, but his gentleman drawl had an unpleasant edge to it that stated without saying, that it was really no pleasure at all. In his book assistants to anyone were rarely worth knowing, and although he enjoyed women occasionally, this one was a drab who didn't dress to the right standard. No breeding and no taste. Afterwards he spared her not a glance. The woman wearing the steel-rimmed spectacles and snot-green dress made a beeline over to where Madame stood. "They're all boys! And all quite shameless too. How original. What an innovation. What a surprise, I'd no ideah. Simply mahvullous!" Her eyes alight with excitement and intrigue. "Eroticism even with inspired choreography can be tiresome. Viewing naughty boys in dresses makes such a refreshing change. "Mai card," she added fulsomely, "Ai can be reached here. Telephone me on a weekday."