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SHOWTIME Part 1 The train raced south though a late spring morning. Clickerty-clack, clickerty-clack, wheels making music of their ride over hard steel rails. Jennifer Hancock wedged herself tight into the corner of her seat by the window to gaze with growing boredom at the green fields and tops of houses that had been the scenery for most of the time since her journey from York had begun. On the surface there seemed little chance for sexual intrigue on such a trip. The passenger carriage in which she sat was packed with people, some reading, a few quietly talking, but most sitting silent and weary just as she was, staring glumly out of the windows and yearning for the tedious journey to end. Separated by a narrow table a woman and a boy sat facing her. They'd boarded the train at Derby but had said few words to each other and none at all to herself. The woman, mother, aunt, guardian, whatever she was, was fortyish, smartly dressed, her face officious and bossy with a petulant scowl. But although she herself looked severe and unapproachable the boy with her made an altogether more pleasant sight, a smooth-faced lad in his early teens, slightly built and perhaps only thirteen. It was the 1970s, a time when it was fashionable for boys to grow their hair long, and he looked sweet, almost feminine in appearance with his doe-like eyes and sweeping long lashes. His hair was cut in pageboy style just below his ears and had a cute fringe that gave him a sort of elfin appearance. His eyes were the colour of honey and his lashes long, thick and batting like those of a girl. A nice looking boy. An earthbound angel who couldn't stop looking at Jennifer Hancock. He was wearing a school blazer and tie, probably being taken home from a residential place of learning for the summer holidays, but where most boys let out from school quickly became ragamuffins, this one was neat and immaculate in his attire. Likely that was a great deal to do with the woman who sat with him, she thought. She opened the paper bag on the table in front of her and dragged out a cheese sandwich. Its appearance was deceptive. It emitted the flavour she associated with the innards of an unwashed milk churn as soon as she bit into it. Why were even simple things in life so often a letdown? Discarding the sandwich she looked at the boy again. Jennifer knew he'd been furtively looking at her for all the two hours she'd been sat opposite him. Perhaps that wasn't surprising, because she was a very attractive girl and one young enough to appeal to someone his age. With his hormones racing wildly the lad was clearly mystified by the emotions she stirred up and probably uncertain of everything to do with his burgeoning adolescence. From time to time he glanced up at her beneath his long lashes. Furtive, fascinated, mesmerised, he repeatedly tore his gaze away, gazing abruptly out of the window if their eyes chanced to meet, but after a minute or two they would compulsively turn in her direction again. He was an absolute prize, Jennifer concluded, and far from being annoyed by his constant observation she felt warmly flattered. The journey had given her a chance to access him thoroughly. Now she was sure of his infatuation she was certain he'd never go telling tales. There were times when Jennifer Hancock pictured herself as a predator, a sharp-toothed cat whose most attractive prey were young boys entering into puberty. And if those boys had little experience with girls in the past that made them all the more tasty. The physical and chemical changes within boys entering their teen years made them sexually aware but offered no clear route to follow, and sometimes, if the selection was accurate, it made them susceptible to imposing personalties such as herself, who had a talent for pushing them in whatever direction suited themselves. The one in front of her was a delicious looking morsel and a prime example of what she liked best. Delicately made with girlish looks, there was no telling what kind of fun she could have had with him but for the po-faced bitch at his side. Interest stirred in her anew when the woman rose up and told the boy, "I'll be back in a minute." and strode off down the central aisle of the passenger carriage. The train jolted and swayed slightly as it mounted a set of points and changed direction. Jennifer could have remained immobile and silent, but eventually the temptation to interact with the boys thoughts proved too strong. She was prodigiously good looking and could also be quite charming, both of which qualities were an asset when contemplating seduction. She lifted the dark hair from under the collar of her blouse and her gaze flicked over to his face thoughtfully, making him intensely aware of her scrutiny. "You've been looking at me for a long time," she said. He squirmed slightly in his seat and a dimple appeared in his cheek as he smiled shyly back. "Sorry, I didn't mean to be rude." Moving deliberately the girl put her elbows on the small table between them and hooked a finger in a cryptic beckon. The lad drew nearer, timidly but not unwillingly, undeniable curiosity making him move. When he leaned towards her she said, "I know why you keep looking." His mouth dropped open in wonder. "You do?" "Yes. You're young and you probably think about girls all the time, imagining what it would be like to be close to them - imagining what it would be like to do things with them. You're old enough now to appreciate good looking girls, and I'm good looking, aren't I?" "Yes, you are." "You like to look at girls. I mean it thrills you to look up their skirts and see their panties I expect. Would you like to put a hand in my blouse and feel my breasts? Would you like to undress me?" The boy blushed pink. "No, no I couldn't. I wouldn't know what to do. It sounds sordid." Jennifer kept her voice level. It was vital at such times to be in control. "Certain types of boys, boys like you, can't keep their eyes off me, I think they sense I can give them what they need. I'm strong you see. I'm only seventeen but I'm as strong as any boy my own age." She slid her hands across the table, wrapped them about his slender wrists and tightened them like shackles. When an initial heave to break her grip failed the boy didn't resist and ceased struggling. He could have cried out and drawn peoples attention, there were plenty of others around so he could have shouted for help. But he didn't, and she knew he wouldn't. She'd summed him up correctly right from the start.. "There, now you can feel how strong I am, I'm much stronger than you are. You're a wimp, a rather dainty and weak wimp, but although you're probably quite used to being hounded by strong ladies, you'd really prefer a pretty girl to protect you and look after you, wouldn't you?" The train hurried pell-mell through a short tunnel, and when it came out the other side she pulled him nearer and let her hair brush his flushed cheek as she whispered close to his ear. "I'd like to undress you. I'd like to get you alone and do it very slowly so you could really enjoy the sensations. First your shoes and socks, then your shirt, and finally your trousers and your pants." "Please don't say things like that." Remembering the imperious looking woman who was accompanying him she suspected he was already quite used to being ordered around and disciplined by her, so maybe he was at least partly conditioned to accept discipline from other females too. She found the idea delicious. He was probably thirteen-years-old, but he was blushing and struggling in her grip in the manner of a ten-year-old girl. "You're being coy, but I know you'd love it. But then of course I'd have to smack you because with no pants on I'd be able to see what a naughty boy you are." The boy trembled. That strange girl's indecent soft-voiced words excited him, but he didn't know why. There was something about her - her looks, the calm inflections of her tone. He didn't know her, yet he was already willing to do whatever she suggested. It was important to please her. There seemed to be fire in her eyes. He was sure sparks were coming out of them, just like a bonfire. "Would you have to smack me? Would you really?" "Yes, of course. Boys who are naughty get their bare bottoms spanked whilst they're stretching over my knee. That's only proper, don't you think? Correction for bad manners. Punishment for unseemly thoughts. I'd smack your bottom until it glowed red." "Oh, Goodness. I'd die of shame if you did that." "You'd feel shame, and rightly so, and you're a delicate little pet so I'd probably make you cry, but you wouldn't die, and afterwards I'd allow you to do nice things, I'd make you do things to make you feel better. You'd stand obediently in front of me and do them whilst I watched." Her eyes swung away from her captive and she released him when she noticed the female sourpuss making her way back down the train. With an innocent, butter-wouldn't-melt-in-the-mouth smile she settled back in her seat. The woman flashed her a suspicious glance when she arrived, which she then turned towards the boy. "What on earth's the matter with you? Your face is as red as a beetroot." "I'm hot. Can I open a window?" "Not now. Sit up straight. Get your things together, we'll be in London shortly." Later, Jennifer followed behind the crowd when they clambered out onto the station platform. By nature she was a hunter. In a wolf-pack she would have been the kind of alpha-bitch who enjoyed stalking her prey before consuming it, and those intense few minutes on the train had been so intoxicating they alone had almost made the dreary journey worthwhile. At egotistical times such as that she rather did fancy herself as a dangerous woman who might someday take over the world. Pity it all had to end flat like that, she rather fancied a nice little session with that sweet boy-toy thing. By the time she'd collected her bags and clambered from the train herself the woman and the boy were nowhere in sight, lost among the scurrying mass of other people. Goodness! She and the sweet thing had not even exchanged names. As she joined the crowd and scurried with them she decided it didn't matter. There would be others. She was in a city. There were certain to be plenty of others. *** A grey day, threatening rain but thick and hot, dewing the young woman's face with sweat as she gazed forlornly at the house. The air was heavy and oppressive and it matched her mood. Surely this wasn't the place. She checked the address in the letter she was carrying. 19 Nob Street, off Tottenham Court Road. No mistake about it, and she'd already paid off the taxi and her bags were standing on the pavement. It was a large but unimposing Edwardian terraced house in a street of equally unimposing houses, and not what she had expected. A narrow frontage, four storeys high with a garret window in the roof. The windows were heavily curtained and a set of stone steps led up to a porticoed door. She dragged her suitcases up the steps and studied a brass plaque on the wall. MADAME DUPONT'S ACADEMY OF ARTISTIC DANCE. It was the right place all right. Grimly she clacked the heavy iron door-knocker and stood back No doubt of it being the right place. Less elegant than she'd hoped for, shamefully run down in fact. There was patchy discoloration in the edifice over the door, much of the stonework needed repointing and repainting, and the steps had cracks in their surface and were worn uneven. Eventually the door was opened a few inches by a swarthy, bald-headed man of huge proportions. "Yus, wad'ya want?" His appearance made her gasp. She'd met plenty of unusual people in the past, but no one had been as awesome as this one. The size of his head was enormous, the largest she'd seen on a set of shoulders, while his face was a slab of meat, the nose having been broken and squashed flat, while a half of one ear looked like it had been bitten off. "I'm Jennifer Hancock," she told him quickly, "Madame Dupont is expecting me." The man seemed to pause overlong as he collated the information, but then the door swung wider. "Right! Y'd better come in. I'll goo tell her yer here." Jennifer hung back a moment hoping he would offer to carry in her suitcases, but he stood unmoving in complete disregard and she ended up swinging them through the door and stacking them against the wall herself. The door closed behind her. It was solid and heavily draught-proofed, so it made a sound like a bank-vault closing. The entrance hall of the house was gloomy, its dingy painted walls only adding to a lacklustre atmosphere. A set of ill-carpeted stairs led upwards, and from a floor above she could hear the jangle of a piano playing a jaunty melody - stopping - and then starting again, the notes jostling and tumbling over each other as if hurrying for shelter. The man who had greeted her had a huge spread of shoulders and a chest like a barrel which gave him an imposing presence, but he seemed to be a person of few words. He pointed at a door and mumbled, "Wait in the sittin' room while I fetches her." While she waited the girl looked about, searching for something familiar to anchor against - the china dog, the patterned rug, the old red sofa. The little room in which she stood was cool and dim behind shadowing curtains, and there was a smell of a lady's powder-room about the place, lipstick and perfume and the astringent that went with nail varnish. And oh, how at that moment Jennifer Hancock longed to swap it for the smell of wax furniture polish and dried lavender in big china bowls she'd left behind at home, and above all the scent of the fresh flowers her mother always had in her study. So much for Madame Dupont's Academy, she thought. She and her mother had both been duped into believing it was a swish London dancing school, when it was really just a tired, ill-maintained house shrieking for attention from every corner. In a room two floors above, a practise was in progress. "One and two, and three and four," a voice brayed above the thump of a piano. "One and two, and three and four." Six of them were arranged along the length of the room adjacent to the woman calling the beat, young dancers, faces elaborately made-up like china dolls. Hair fastened back into a severe knot behind their heads as decreed by their mentor for dance practise they could have been just so many lissom little girls. But they weren't girls, they were boys. Dust leapt up from between the bare floorboards and none of the dancers knew if it was the dust or the way their feet and ankles ached that made their eyes run. Obediently they repeated the steps as the counting continued, but now a boy called Amber stumbled and nearly bumped into one named Bambi, who dug an elbow into his arm. The woman at the piano shouted. "Amber, if you intend to dance, let me entreat you to keep time with the music, and not race half a beat ahead. Pull yourself together ... and for goodness sake get rid of that Friday face." The others tittered and Amber's eyes became wetter. If she wasn't careful he'd start crying properly, and that would be dreadful. Despite the exercise everyone was cold, because apart from their chorus- line tap-shoes with strap-over fronts and small block heels, they were naked. The only other item to embellish the slender contours of their bodies was a small pink ribbon tied in a bow about each penis. They were not all equally endowed, and some were circumcised and some were not, but all had a delectable roll of boy meat hanging between their legs and they were uniform by the fact that there was not an hair on any of them below the neckline. It was part of Madame Dupont's routine. During the build up to her Summer Season she practised her youthful troupe four or five times each day, and one practise was always done naked, all the better for her to monitor unsightly spots and blemishes on their skin and for ensuring their nubile physique was suffering no detriment from diet. Doggedly Amber went on repeating the sequence of steps as they were called out. Ball change, heel down, toe down, ankle flick, tap, kick; ball change, heel down - right foot, left foot, right foot again. He wanted to be anywhere but in that cold bare room in Nob Street with feet and ankles aching awfully and shoes that felt as heavy as coal miners boots. Madame Dupont continued playing regardless and added her voice to the melody. "Come and meet those dancing feet. On the avenue I'm taking you to. Forty-second Street..." She was a bright, vivacious dark-eyed lady, more French than English in type, but one who had never gone on more than fleeting visits to the continent. There was a certain arrogant vanity about her, but that only lent to her a kind of noble arrogance. Imperious pride and haughtiness was an essential part of ladies who successfully supervised sissy dancers. "Heads!" she ranted keenly, "On the fourth step all heads must swing sharp to the right - snap them round - and back again. Get it together for goodness sake." Her blouse was short-sleeved and showed her bare arms tanned a tawny- gold; as was all her skin. She was a somewhat skinny rail of a woman, but her arms, and her legs were they showed beneath a long severe black skirt displayed a wealth of supple sinew and rippling muscle inherited from a lifetimes dedication to dance discipline. "No, no, no, Pompom! Do not gallop. You are not a horse! Move like a bird - a feather - lightly!" Amber went on with his own practise; ball change, heel down, toe down, ankle flick, kick, and realised that, amazingly, he'd been doing it without thinking for the last minute or so. Suddenly he felt better as the tinny noise of the sit-up-and-beg piano thumped out; he was getting it right at last, it was all coming together. And soon it would be time to rest a little. He turned his head slightly to glance at his companions and at once Madame's voice bawled. "Keep your eyes to the front, and SMILE all of you - you must never stop smiling. You must always appear to enjoy your dancing or no one else will enjoy it either." Her fingers struck the piano keys once more and again her voice fluttered lightly in song: "Little 'nifties' from the Fifties, innocent and sweet. Sexy ladies from the Eighties. Who were indiscreet - Oh! They're side by side, they're..." Across the bare room the door opened and the skipping line faltered as everyone looked to see who had arrived, eager for anything to break the tyranny of practise. Madame swore under her breath and banged her hands down hard on the piano. "What is it, Samson?" The huge, ungainly manservant lumbered into the room. "That girl you wus expectin'. She's 'ere." *** "Good morning, Miss Hancock" Madame Dupont said as she entered the sitting-room. The newcomer hauled round to face her. "Uhh ... Please, call me Jennifer," was all she could find to say. "The house is - er - quaint." Madame Dupont raised an eyebrow. "You mean decrepit. The cost of accommodation anywhere near central London is astronomic, so when I gather in my little flock for the Season everyone must make do with what is affordable. The dancing is the important thing, all else must take second place." She turned to the manservant who had waited by the door like a bronze statue. He was dressed in a long-tail coat as befitted a butler, but his entire apparel seemed to be out of tune with his body. The sleeves of his jacket were a little too short, his trousers slightly too long and his collar and tie maintained a permanent askew position. "Samson, you've not yet taken the young lady's coat. Take it away and hang it in the hall, and then find Marianne and tell him we'd like tea." Jennifer felt a little more at ease when the manservant disappeared. In normal circumstances she had no respect for men unless they were carrying a tommy-gun, but she found just the immense size of this one threatening. "You call him Samson - a good name. He's a little - er - intimidating." The other woman nodded. "Used to be a bareknuckle prize-fighter until that turned most of his brain into mashed potato, but he's exactly what I need. Keeps away the nuisances you see. An establishment that houses a clutter of pretty boys in the middle of a town attracts all sorts of weird types, but none bother us here while Samson is around. "Don't be in awe of him. You'll notice that like the biblical Samson he's bereft of hair, and just like his namesake he can be easily swayed to do the bidding of a resourceful woman." As she spoke the woman surreptitiously observed the new arrival, tilting her head to one shoulder to scrutinise her. She stood about 5'6" and was in her mid-teens. Her high breasts swelled against a plain, buttoned blouse and her skirt was long and loose, flimsy and gaily patterned. Long dark hair fell in contrived tangles to her shoulders, and her eyes, set wide above high cheekbones, matched its colour. Hollow cheeks led to a firm but gently pointed jaw and her nose, while still feminine, was strong, the nostrils slightly flared. When she smiled there was an implicit challenge that went well with the gentle, amused mocking of her dark gypsy eyes. It was a striking face, handsome, rather pretty, and sensual rather than beautiful. The look in her eyes was perhaps a little too knowing, but it was seductive enough. "I'm rather indebted to your mother for her enquiry. In all the right social circles her reputation for producing elegant girl-things marches before her like a band." Jennifer kick-started herself. "She's keen for me to broaden my horizons and see something of life beyond the Yorkshire dales. I had the option of a finishing-school in Switzerland, or of coming here. Realistically that was only one choice. The idea of spending time cooped up with a load of fluffy, air-head girls goes against my instincts, and I've no ambition to end up as a mindless Hooray Henrietta." Madame smiled graciously. "I'm more than pleased to have you as my assistant, your arrival relieves me of some anxiety. Most of the time I teach dance up in Golders Green, but in the summer I suspend all that to put on a production of my own. The new social season means my annual production of Frilly Follies will be going on tour soon - well, if not exactly on tour, certainly on frequent excursions out. Only to the finest venues of course, nowhere seedy or sordid." A slight crease of concern furrowed her brow. "Your mother assured me you were experienced. You are aware that the dancers I select for my Follies are all effeminate boys who have been groomed to accept the role of girls." Jennifer smiled. "I wouldn't have agreed to come here if it had been different, and don't worry about me being unable to cope with such things. I may be young in years, but I'm very wise in the handling of boys who wear frocks. What I'm still not sure about is my own role. You told my mother you needed an assistant, but in what manner can I assist?" "Some of my day pupils - my chosen ones with the greatest flair - board with me during the Season, and since my own time is fully accounted for in meeting people, making arrangements, and rehearsals of the Terpsichorean Art, I need a good person to keep an eye on things. You know, manage things, keep tabs on the dancers, you'll know how silly they can be - pretty girly-boys in frocks - easily led astray by unscrupulous types. And then when the Follies goes on the road someone will need to keep the books -nothing fancy, just keeping check of what's paid out and what comes in. Most importantly though I shall rely on you to supervise my 'darlings' during their free time." On the train-journey down Jennifer had wondered what title she would be given - nanny, nursemaid, house-mistress, governess? Incredibly now she had to add bookkeeper to the list. "Madame Dupont, you must surely know that I'm barely out of school myself, do you think I'm the right person ..." "Tush, tush! Jennifer. I understand you to be a girl of quick wit and intelligence. There will only be six students requiring supervision - well, eight when the last pair arrive tomorrow. I'm sure a girl like you will manage them easily." Marianne appeared carrying a tea-tray, a circumstance which made Jennifer wonder if she, or he, were one of Madame Dupont's dependants. Certainly Marianne was a girly-boy, and he was startling and really rather beautiful. His hair was honey blond and simply arranged with pink ribbon threaded through the locks, while his petite face was extremely pleasing, its best features being dark eyes, well open and straight gazing. His figure was trim, although in consequence of his youthfulness it lacked height. Being still something of a tomboy at heart Jennifer was not as well versed in the niceties of female costume as other girls, but it seemed to her that Marianne was dressed with rather more impropriety than most. His dress of white sarsnet had a pink bodice and long sleeves buttoned tightly at the wrist and was adorned by frills of lace and floss. It should have given him a certain quiet elegance, but on the other hand the skirt was very short and the bodice was cut low across his small bosom to accentuate a fine pair of little dumplings on his chest. Without glancing to right or left, the young charmer brushed past and dumped the tray on a low table, while Jennifer remained standing, transfixed. Only her eyes followed his movements, noting the shoes he wore. High-heels to tip the pelvis and create a sexy curve in the lower back, while also lending a pleasing shape to his calves and slim ankles. She caught a whiff of his scent as he went by and, although she was no connoisseur of perfumes herself, she decided she liked it. Subtly floral, distinctive, teasing. Whatever it was it stimulated. Neck so graceful, limbs so sensual, hands so delicate in their task, Marianne didn't speak, he simply stooped and poured tea into two china cups, ceremoniously using the same priestly gestures as a girl, same droop of the wrist, the same grave concentration. The pouring done he straightened up and stood back, body slim but wonderfully moulded, with those small breasts and gently rounded hips. Totally emasculated and moving stiffly with his head bent at an angle of subservience he reminded her of a loveable, faithful spaniel, passive, head down like some soft-eyed dog waiting to be taken for a run. And then Jennifer noticed something else. Something odd below the hemline of his little skirt. It looked like - it could only be the tip of a penis, fat, round and purple, but if that were true it would mean Marianne had a length that hung halfway down to his knees. Madame Dupont noticed the expression of disbelief on her face. "Marianne dresses like the Queen of the Fairies and as real little titties to increase the effect, but you'll have noticed his uncommon attribute. He has an unusual monster between his legs, it's special, something of a showpiece? It persuades me to use Marianne as a solo performer much of the time, unfortunately he looks quite untidy in panties, so I frequently allow him to go without whilst in the house." She gave the girl-boy an affectionate little pat on the backside. "Off you go, Marianne. Run along and find something useful to do, and do try and find a dress with a more suitable hemline. Exhibiting your assets to all and sundry can't be considered at all ladylike." The fairy queen gave a faint little smile as he went out the door. When he had gone Jennifer studied the tea, weak and milky, which was obviously the way Madame preferred it. She tried to think of a reason to avoid drinking the ghastly brew and was saved from doing so by a sharp squeal emanating from the hallway outside. Madame Dupont strode rapidly to the door and threw it open, and the cause of the commotion was then evident. Samson had intercepted Marianne as he was leaving and had sat him on a pedestal of white marble in the angle of the hall. It was at least five feet high and so slender the skirted pantywaist had trouble balancing on it. He was poised with feet dangling, face convulsed with alarm and screeching like a bony parrot, not daring to move for fear of falling. "Samson, let me down, oh please let me down," he was wailing. Jennifer's gaze quickly descended from the look of distress upon Marianne's face to what Samson was doing with his own face stuffed between the creampuffs spread open legs. With two hands wrapped around Marianne's overlong penis the big man's head was bobbing back and forth, and it wasn't difficult to conclude that he was giving a lusty mouth-job to Marianne's monstrous dangle, accompanying his efforts with a constant stream of gluttonous sounding 'oomph's' and 'mmph's'. Madame Dupont harangued the big man fearlessly, wagging her finger at him as if he were no more than a naughty child. "Behave yourself, you wicked thug. Help poor Marianne down this instant. I'll tell you when you're allowed a treat." There was a slight pause of sulky protest, but then slowly, reluctantly, the big man stepped back, wiped the back of a burly hand across his mouth and left the she-boys enormous penis lolling against his thigh. Only now was Jennifer able to get a generous view of the sexy package. It was long and thick and seemed to be veinless, although the tip was large and glistening with juice. It wasn't exactly stiff either, it was rather bendy like a garden hose, which led her to conclude there probably wasn't enough spare blood in his body to bring such a vast weapon up to a proper erection. After a moment Samson took Marianne down as if he'd been a canary, at which the delicate thing glanced at Madame with a soulful, kicked puppy expression before scurrying away down the hall into the back of the house with his hands flapping. Madame Dupont smiled reassurance at her new assistant. "Marianne doesn't object to amorous attention, but the silly creature doesn't like to be taken by storm, if you know what I mean. Like any girl he likes to be wooed and courted." Noticing the pile of luggage stacked by the front door she used it as an excuse to divert her manservant's thoughts. "Show Miss Hancock up to her room Samson, and take the bags with you." Turning to Jennifer again she smiled more graciously. "Get settled in and then come along and meet my darlings. Afternoon practise ends at 5- o-clock. I'm no great shakes as a pianist, but I can vamp out a tune when needs must. To find us just home-in on the terrible racket I make." Jennifer went up the stairs, Samson clumping before her, a big panting, slightly asthmatic gorilla. It was a long haul up to the top floor, to the particular self-contained eyrie to which she had been assigned, and which had no doubt been constructed by the houses first tenant to gain a view that inspired. The taxi-driver who had driven her from King's Cross train station - who seemed to know a great deal about everything - had told her that Nob Street had originally been called Noble Street, and Nob had been merely a colloquial reference to the 'posh people' that lived there. It was posh no more. The buildings inner staleness saturated the atmosphere. The long, dusty drapes on the windows were half closed against the dismal light from the road, making the gloom almost sepulchral. A worn carpet, colours faded to a monotone grey, stretched the length of the hallway at the top of the stairs, which because of the narrowness of the house ran from front to back. Every door she passed was closed against enquiry, and at the far end of the landing a tall longcase clock ticked away with deep sonorous strokes. As she passed it the minute hand shifted and she heard the solid 'clunk' of the movement and only then noticed that the hour hand was missing. Like everything else in the house, it was timeless, neglected and decrepit. Samson banged her suitcases against a door and pushed it open. "E,yar, this is your room." Left alone Jennifer looked about and wrinkled her nose. A soulless small room greeted her, maybe 8 x10, with greyish lace curtains at the grimy window and a small sagging mattress on a single bed. It definitely wasn't paradise. The room had probably had a romantic overlook at one time and could have been quite grand, but there was nothing very grand now, only faded wallpaper that had probably been put up half a century ago. No adornments, no pictures on the walls, just a bed, a plain dresser with a mirror and a walk-in closet for her clothes. Ah well, at least it'll keep the rain off, she thought. And then it occurred to her that the same thing could be said for a dog's kennel, or a cave. *** Madame's second visitor that day was a tall thin man wearing an expensive looking coat with a heavy fur collar, over which peeped a long face, dark shifty eyes and a small, thin moustache. "Horace, so glad you could make it today." The visitor grimaced as he entered the sitting room. Long fingers complimented his lean features which were not improved by greasy brown hair parted on the left and scooped behind his ears. "I usually enjoys coming here, but I've got a feelin' I'm not going to enjoy this visit." "Don't be so morbid. There's tea in the pot, or something stronger on the sideboard, and I've got some rhubarb wine if you really want a change." Horace Pratt muttered something obnoxious about rhubarb wine, headed straight for the whisky bottle and helped himself to a generous measure. He liked to call himself an entrepreneur, although his business deals were usually very shady and often outside the law. More importantly to Madame Dupont he owned a string of the seedy houses along Nob Street, and at least for the summer she had to content herself with being one of his tenants. "Madame Dupont - " he smirked. "Can I call you Elise after all this time? I'm a friendly type, can't be doin' with fancy airs an' graces, and you don't half put it on. You were plain Judy Bunting when I first met you south of the river, doing striptease an' flashin' yer crack in pubs and clubs." "I'm in show-business," Madame Dupont replied defensively, "One is allowed some flexibility with names in show-business. One has to accommodate the public's imagination." The man supped leisurely and paused to appreciate the kick of the liquor in the back of his throat. "A mere interest in show business don't make you a member of that fraternity, luv. You're not a pro these days, you're just a fan. Pros don't socialise with fans, they just tolerate 'em." "You're underestimating my commitment to the performing arts, Horace. Show business is my passion. It's in my blood." "Oh, was y'daddy a busker? Did y'mummy have a part in a school concert?" "Neither, although my mother wanted to be an actress, and she did appear at the Windmill Theatre in Piccadilly in her younger days. She did a lot of stuff around Soho." Horace sniggered. He didn't doubt that, probably laying on her back with an audience of one man at a time, he thought. "Posing nude at the Windmill for the dirty-mac brigade don't count as acting," he said. Madame Dupont pursed her mouth. "It was considered outrageous in her day, I've always admired her for her daring." The man sat down and crossed his legs. "Never married, did you? Shame. A body like yours wi' no regular cock to rattle inside. It's unnatural. The little faggots you manage probably get more dick than you do." At last the woman began to lose her temper. "Don't start getting smutty with me Horace. With your taste in playmates you need to be careful." Her visitors face creased and went scarlet. "Christ sake, lay off that kind of talk! D'you want to see me in jail?" "I don't see why I shouldn't talk about anything I like." She stared at him over the rim of her teacup. "Talking about you and your special interest can be useful. Makes you obliging, doesn't it?" He gave her a hard look. "What do you mean?" "I mean, unless you're sensible I'll gossip in all the wrong places to the right people. What you enjoy doing with young boys is unacceptable to most, and can get you into nasty trouble." "Bitch!" he said. "You could get into trouble yourself for what you do here - runnin' a school for little pooftah's like you do." "I have a dancing school, that's all it is. My pupils are boys - they just enjoy being treated as girls, they just like to dress-up like girls and behave like girls." "Have the same interests as girls too, I bet." "They like gentlemen to admire them, that's what makes them such good dancers. It's not a crime." "All the same, just be careful with the way you talk to me, else I'll have you out in the street." "I won't need your vile house if I can't put on this years Frilly Follies." Suddenly Madame Dupont realised everything was going the wrong way. She had asked Horace to call in for a special purpose, and a conversation composed of spite wasn't helping her aims. "Let's not fall out, Horace dear. I need money for the Follies, for costumes and transport and the rest of it. I need some of your money before I can start. I promise you'll have it all back and doubled at the end of the season." Horace Pratt's black moustache lifted and a white fang twinkled in a triumphant sneer. He took a moment to light a fat cigar, sucking in like a faulty engine and billowing out blue smoke. He felt strong again, back in control. "I've some spare cash, an' I've a mind to back you, but your routines will have to be good, no wishy-washy mediocre stuff." "They ARE good. All the essence of a Rocky Horror Picture Show, only better. Top class, you won't find better anywhere." "You got clients, customers in advance wantin' to see your show?" "A whole list, good places paying the best fees. Private parties, musical evenings, that kind of thing." He smiled a slow louche smile at her. "Okay, but if my money is backing you, I'm in charge." She shrugged and her eyes narrowed. "Of course you are, Horace." He was grinning now, a self-satisfied little grin, as he looked down at the chewed end of his cigar. "You know you's got a little gold-mine here if you only knew how to work it. What I mean to say is, you's got a whole house full of young, randy queers who like wearin' skirts, an' if you started invitin' a few choice people to visit you'd be surprised how quick the money would come in." "Money isn't everything," Madame replied testily, "I run a dancing school, not a bordello." Horace nodded. "Aye, o'course, you'd rather be a nice Madame than a disreputable Madame. But I'm different from all the others. I'm yer money-man so I get to have a look around the house this evenin'. See what's new, try a few things?" His expression was openly lecherous and left no doubt as to his intention, and Madame Dupont frowned, glowering with resentment as she placed her teacup carefully on its saucer. She'd been neatly ambushed. Horace was contemplating plundering the little treasures in her troupe, and she hated people fumbling with her dancers during the build up to the Follies. It distracted them, made them think of too many other things. Most of all she detested a smug bastard like Horace being able to call the tune, but right at that moment she couldn't afford to refuse him anything. *** Jennifer hovered at the foot of the stairs, head cocked listening to the rap, rap, rap of dancing feet and the tinny jink, jinky-jink of the piano. Rehearsals still in progress, but it was 5-o-clock and time to go and meet everyone. Moving swiftly she went down, tiptoeing on the strips of carpet so sparsely covering each tread and being guided by the incessant musical noise. She stood at the open door of the dance studio, peeping in, wanting to prepare for the main event of the day. The room was the largest she had yet seen in that odd house, but most it was almost a void. Apart from Madame's piano and her stool all the other furniture had been had been pushed into an untidy jumble against one wall. In the centre of the bare floor half a dozen pupils were stamping their feet, skipping and kicking their heels in what could only be a version of Irish dancing. Madame Dupont ceased playing and offered a warm smile as she made herself known. "Your team put on a fine show," remarked Jennifer. The other woman beamed. "Every dance as a pattern, and there is a certain satisfaction in watching a pattern work out to its proper end, is there not?" She turned to her students. "Now my pretties, be still whilst I introduce you to Jennifer Hancock. Jennifer as graciously agreed to stay here with us and spend a great deal of her time looking after you." She stood up and went over to put a welcoming arm about her new assistant. "I've had no time to implement any kind of preparation for you my dear, but I dare say you'll get to know everyone quickly enough." She indicated her students with the wide swing of an arm. "I oblige everyone to use stage names during the Season, so here we have Bambi and Prudence, Amber and Candy, and on the end, Pompom and Dolly. All personally selected by myself to make up the chorus line for this years Frilly Follies." Jennifer smiled politely. "They look sweet in their little frocks, and they seem quite happy yo wear them." Madame Dupont responded with a sharp nod of her head. "There's no time for coaxing anyone out of reluctance when I make my selection for the Follies. They must be acquainted with such things before they join." The six boys were clearly apprehensive, not sure of the situation that was being fostered onto them. Jennifer eyed them carefully, and she could appreciate why Madame had chosen them. They stood in a neat line. All bad boys who wore skirts. As camp as a row of tents. All good girls, bare legged, dressed identically in thigh length picture frocks the colour of whitewashed peaches, which were supported by narrow loops over their narrow, bare shoulders. The whole of each outfit looked like it weighed less than an ounce. Their bodies and limbs showed very little fat and their skin looked warm and smooth, which belied the well developed muscles Madame's dancers would certainly need. Prime material for a girly-show, she thought, and probably all as gay as springtime in Paris, angelic, androgynous features, smooth, trim bodies, and displaying the kind of bare slender legs any real girl would have killed for, all tipped with the ubiquitous dancing shoes. "I suppose it would be best if I left you alone with them for a while, otherwise neither you or they will relax." Madame said. Turning to the line of trim young damsels she wagged a finger. "Now, behave yourselves with Jennifer, or I shall have a harsh word or two to say to you afterwards." There were times when it would seem an advantage to be a hard-faced harridan of forty, and Jennifer guessed that this was one of them. Without doubt the boys were assessing her at that moment, noting her youthfulness whilst estimating her abilities, and eventually they would be thinking that she was too young to keep a grip on their behaviour. Boys or girls their age could run riot if not properly checked all the time and they would be reckoning her incapable of maintaining control. Vitally then, she had to put her stamp of authority on things and have them realise she was in command. And it had to be done firmly and immediately. She waited until Madame Dupont had exited the room, then pushed the piano stool away with her foot and pointed at two individuals on the end of the line. "Go and find me a proper chair." While they strode away to drag something from the furniture at the end of the room she held the others with the look in her eyes, displaying no hesitancy, no giggles or ingratiating smiles, nothing that could be interpreted as weakness. When she spoke her words were deliberate and unfaltering, indicating her utter self-assurance. "You and I have to come to an understanding." she began, "We all need to know who's in charge here, and you need to know that it's me. I may seem at first sight to be a mere slip of a girl whose demands can be easily dodged, but I can tell you I'm not inexperienced when it comes to calling the tune with boys in frocks." The faces of her small audience drained of colour as the resonance of her voice beat against their ear drums. This girl was going to be no soft touch. Her intonations were of the kind that made dogs tuck their tails between their legs. Pompom and Dolly returned with a large hard-backed chair and placed in carefully behind her. Jennifer paused for a moment but remained standing as they had rejoined the line. "I'm stronger than any of you, more cunning than all of you." she went on, "I know all of your tricks and I know all about the questionable little games you devise when unsupervised. I can be pleasant or beastly, warm or mean, everything will depend on your willingness to comply with the things I say." Taking a step forward she glared along the line, challenging all of them, intimidating them. Her greatest thrill was to dominate, and she knew exactly how to do it. "Do you enjoy dancing?" "Yes," volunteered Amber. "You should say, yes Jennifer, when you answer me," the girl told him curtly. "Using my name implies respect and I insist that you're respectful." She moved sideways and faced Candy. "Do you enjoy being girls?" "Please Jennifer, we're not really girls." Jennifer slowly rounded on him. "Dear me. Here we have a little lady who's so sharp she may cut herself. I know what you are, you fool, but you dress like girls and you look effeminate. You probably like gentlemen to admire you too. Do you? Do you enjoy being admired?" Candy looked slightly smashed by her fierce invective, but some of the others giggled. "Just as I thought. You have no shame. You're all as girlish as pink cardigans, so I'll treat you as girls. PUT YOUR HANDS ON YOUR HEADS." Now she seated herself, taking a moment to straighten her skirt. "Form a single file next to me, and slip down your pants." The six boys prevaricated nervously. They were not unfamiliar with some of the disadvantages of being a pantyboy and her order implied she was going to spank them over her knee. Everyone left it for Prudence to speak for them. "But, we've not been naughty. We haven't done anything wrong." Jennifer rose to her feet again and her face changed from ingenious communicative pleasure to an expression of baffled hostility as she strode forward and caught hold of his ear. "Prudence - that's your name, isn't it?" "Owch! um - yes. Yes, Jennifer." "You're a pretty blossom, but you're imprudent, Prudence, and you're not strong enough to give me cheek." He caught the cold, inimical look and heard her whisper as she cruelly twisted. "But - Oouch!" "And of course you've done nothing wrong. I don't intend to punish you, only to emphasis your place in things around here. You have to know who the boss is, and you must learn to obey." Her gaze seared along the line of those watching and she enjoyed their wide-eyed stares of disbelief and horror as she dragged Prudence over to the chair. Quickly sitting down she hauled him forward over her knees. "Hands on heads the rest of you. Stand still and watch." At last Jennifer smiled as she returned her attention to the tense figure stretched over her knees, but it wasn't a warm smile. "Nervous dear? Of course you are, but don't worry, I'll be gentle." She wasn't gentle at all. Flipping up the back of his little skirt she at first merely caressed the curvaceous bottom of Prudence through his skimpy knickers, but then she pushed up her sleeves and drew up the seat of the garment into the central crevice between his bum cheeks. "What lovely legs you have," she said. With evenly paced, deliberate smacks she began the torment, slowly at first, and then speeding up. The first blow hit him on the lower portion of his buttocks with a fleshy sounding SPLATT! "Ouch!" "That's a good girl," she crooned. A second later another searing SMACK! landed keenly on his undefended rump. "Oow!" And his heels kicked upwards. "Keep still, you silly thing. You're only getting what you deserve." And then; WHACK, SPLATT! "Oooo, oh, J-Jennifer - oow, please ..." WALLOP! "Ooch!" SMACK! "Ouch!" Because he was twisting about so much she hooked one of her legs over his to hold him still. WHOP! Came the another strike, and "Aaaah!" He squealed as the sting electrified his bottom. She was just warming to her task. Hitting harder and faster she spanked the wiggling sissy on each jiggling cheek. SMACK, SMACK! More strokes, resounding loud in the hollow room. SMACK, SMACK! "Nnnnnrrrhh!" Prudence howled, his face now as red as his bottom, visible again as his head jerked up. "Aaa, oh please, please Jennifer..." He twisted on her lap, lifting his head to gasp out his dismay and discomfort, while Jennifer paused to soothe the heated flesh. "And now, the rest of you. Get ready." she snapped. A file of quaking, slim hipped young boy-girl-things now formed a queue on the right of her, fumbling up under their little skirts and fretfully tugging their underwear down to their knees. Jennifer looked up at them and took stock. Six over her lap one after the other was being a little over ambitious she thought. Even she who was as fit as a proverbial fiddle could wilt under their constant weight, and she needed the insulation of a glove on her hand or it would end up just as raw and painful as the anatomy she was treating. "Tuck up the back of your skirts and lean against the piano. ALL of you." she told them. Peeling the sobbing little fairy from her knees she told him to go off and stand against the wall, "Face the wall, and put your hands back on your head. And keep your little pink bum on show." she demanded as she stood up. Now she had to deal with the others in a group that effectively comprised a single row of naked bottoms. "I'm being lenient with you on this occasion because this is only our introduction," she said. At the last moment she changed her mind about the glove. While protecting the hand a glove would also nullify too much of the treatment she was about to hand out, so instead she decided to use a hairbrush. The back of a cheap plastic hairbrush was perfect this sort of work, light and easy to handle with a fine flat surface that could almost raise sparks from a smooth, naked rear end. "Push them out. All of you push out your little botties and show me how brave you are." she demanded as she squared up behind the first in line. WHAP! Full on the shapely buttocks, the boys jolting body giving testimony to his anguish "Ooouuurr!" "You'll always have the choice of doing the right thing and avoiding this in future." WALLOP! The brush swung down again with deep authority. On the back of the legs. "Nnnngghh!" And so it went on. *** Horace Pratt took his time visiting another couple of properties in Nob Street while Madame's sissy students were engaged up the stairs. He was a landlords agent and not the owner of any of the houses, but there was no profit in telling people that. The real landlord was never likely to declare himself, so it was safe to bask in the glory of being the top- man in such matters. A position like that demanded people's respect and it boosted his ego no end. He let himself back in later and wished a wary but cheery hello to Samson who was standing in the hall like a stuffed ape. Predictably the butler uttered something back that registered as 'uff' or ugh', which was probably a reasonable greeting in caveman society. He helped himself to another whisky, then took a leisurely stroll down the passage that led into the kitchen at the back of the house. He'd been bidding his time, in no great hurry now he'd been given the run of the place. After all, how hard could it be to find accommodation for his randy dick in a house full of effeminate lads who enjoyed wearing dresses? The kitchen was fitted with a very old and very large black gas stove. He looked around: and it was furnished with heavy, dark wood pieces, the only light coming from a small window set in the back wall that overlooked a small walled yard, but the place wasn't gloomy. It glowed bright with multicoloured fabrics. Red and blue crocheted cushion covers lay on an easy chair in the corner, and summery, yellow and green check curtains framed the window and screened the doorless recess that was used as a pantry. The stove was spotless with its brass rail and knobs shining like burnished gold, and standing in front of it on a piece of seagrass matting was Marianne. He was an athletic and lithe five foot four. Over the front of his usual skimpy dress he was wearing a long, blue bib- apron emblazoned with a huge white teddy bear and the words I'M CUDDLY. "What are you up to Marianne?" he asked. "I'm cooking dinner for everyone." he said. "It's just porridge and toast and jam in the morning, and bread and cheese at lunch. Dinner is the only cooked meal we have here." "I see, and so what are you cookin'?" "I've got some minced beef, so I can either do meat and potatoes, or meat with spaghetti, or pie, or burgers," As he spoke a single long, elegant finger flicked from side to side in front of him in the graceful, precise movements of a windscreen-wiper on an automobile, "Minced beef is very versatile. You can do lots of different things with it." Horace moved across the kitchen towards him "You're quite talented. I didn't know you had it in you." Marianne smirked. "Most people think I'm stupid, but I'm not." "Course you ain't. How old are you? Thirteen? Fourteen?" Marianne didn't answer. "Bet you've got all sorts of talents. I expect you've got a lot of talent for pleasing men. Have you been with many men?" The she-boy looked at him suspiciously. "A few." "A few? I'm sure you're being modest. I've heard stories about you. I've heard you're quite a little honey when you're in the mood. Are you in the mood now?" Marianne had no misconceptions about himself. He was a fully fledged pansy-faggot, he knew that, and he was a pushover for any kindly, soft- spoken gentleman who courted him with nice words. He'd let a nice man shove a cock up his bum in a jiffy, but he didn't like Horace Pratt. He didn't like his creepy-crawly looks or his creepy-crawly way of talking, nor did he like the smell of whisky. "No." he said, taking a step backwards. Swaying slightly Horace grabbed his arm. Pulling him close, he put his hand under the apron and squeezed one of his little breasts through the thin fabric of his dress. "Come on, loosen up mi' little filly. I ain't exactly repulsive, am I?" Marianne winced. "No, you're not very repulsive. You're just ... you know... unpleasant. Just sort of a little bit repulsive." The man glared. "Ha! You're a cheeky little minx. I'll forgive you, but you'll do what I want else I'll have you out on the street, you an' Madame all. She owes me cash y'see, and she owes me rent, and that means I can do what I like in this house." Marianne repressed a shudder as the man leaned forward and breathed stale whisky fumes in his face. He could tell by the gleam in his eyes that he was drunk, but not sufficiently to be incapable. "Here we are. Don't be coy," Horace leered as his other hand smoothed up his thigh and pushed up his skirt. "A chap as needs. You don't mind, do you? Your a breathtaking little piece who's probably had more pricks than a pincushion. We should get better acquainted. No need to tell anyone. Mum's the word, eh? He pulled up the hem of the dress. "We'll have this off for a start." he added. Spinally-legged spiders seemed to suddenly crawl over Marianne's skin as he desperately tried to think of a way to make the man leave him alone. "Oh - um - er - y-you have to pay me first," he blurted out as he clamped the skirt back down. Horace paused. "You on the game?" His voice registered disappointment. The bitch-boy wore frocks and was obviously as queer as a lead shilling, but he'd hoped the little dick-pleaser would be a hot number willing to give himself for free. Marianne forced himself to look him in the eye. "I may be a tranny, but I still like to spend money." He held out his hand. "Ten pounds, please." The man's jaw dropped. "Ten quid!" "Yes. The men down at the clinic pay me that. They give me fifteen if I let 'em shaft me bareback." "Clinic! What clinic?" "The VD clinic on Hogmere Road. It's the only clinic I know around here." Horace Pratt retreated suddenly while a string of colourful oaths ran through his mind. VD clinic! The little pervert was lying, wasn't he? Yes o'course he was lying - wasn't he? He stormed from the kitchen cursing. It didn't matter. The kid's reluctance and the uncalled for reference to clap-clinics and sexually transmitted knob-rot had killed all his amour for that particular Missy. So many doors, bemoaned Horace as he went up stairs and tramped the landings. The house wasn't particularly big, but upstairs there were countless rooms and so many bloody doors, all with practically identical chipped and cracked paint work. The landing branched off halfway along and led to another staircase, and not knowing any better he took that route. It was one of the properties he looked after, but he'd never examined it before and in the past Madame Dupont had always been reticent about him wandering around when her dancers were there. Now it was becoming rather an irksome trial to find any of them. Suddenly he struck lucky. He came upon a cloistered little place that must have been a communal room with a television, because one of the little urchins was kneeling on the floor clicking the control switches to a black, blank screen. "Got a problem, have you, Dolly? Telly need fixin' does it?" The youngster's mouth curved in a winsome poor-little-me smile, hazel eyes teasing from beneath fluttering lashes. "Can't get a picture. Amber says the tubes probably blown. The whole thing needs replacing." Madame Dupont made no allowances for the true gender of her dancers whilst they lived with her. Both in practise and in free time they were always dressed in sleeveless little picture dresses that showed off their narrow bare shoulders and shapely young thighs. Dolly was but a boy of no more than thirteen summers, but the curves of his body were smooth and rounded and he could easily pass as a girl. Horace had glad-eyed this particular kid plenty of times in the past, but had never managed to get him by himself. He thought the girly- creature exquisite, slender, almost frail, but with wavy blond hair and perceptive blue eyes that made him seem sensual beyond his years. His small face was porcelain pale, delicately pointed, but it had round, flushing cheeks, eyes slightly tilted, their lashes long and dark. Most poignant of all, his lips were pink and moist and very kissable Horace had always had an enthusiasm for boys, and boys who wore skirts really set off the steam in his trousers. Each time he'd visited Madame Dupont during her practise sessions he would single out Dolly for special observation, just waiting for a chance to get closer to him, and the brave little faggot would stare back at him fearlessly in unselfconscious audacity whenever he realised he was watching. With his pallid skin, his smooth legs and his total lack of inhibition who could blame Horace Pratt for wanting him. He had thought he had no chance, but the chance had come now with Madame's sudden need for cash. For a moment Horace hovered, looking like he was wondering whether to go or stay, when actually he was a man who knew to a pinpoint what he intended to do. He sidled casually into the room, wondering if his tongue was visibly hanging out of his mouth with lust. "Don't fret about the television, me little angel. I's got a pawnshop in the East-End that's got hundreds of them old things piled up. If I remembers I'll bring one along next time I call." He took a cigar from the pocket of his coat, pondered about it, then put it away again before sinking to his knees beside the youngster and putting a friendly arm around his shoulders. "So Dolly, how's it going? Enjoying your lessons with Madame, eh?" The lad looked up and nodded, straightening his skirt with an air of condescension, very aware of its row of broderie anglaise trimming. The man with an arm around him wasn't the most glamorous one Dolly had ever known. 'Horrible Horace' everyone called him, and with his sleek black hair that always looked wet and his tightly waisted jacket with its red flower buttonhole he looked a little strange. He smelt strongly of violets and even more strongly of tobacco, and most strongly of all of something like whisky. Not that any of that bothered him too much. Grown-ups were always strange. Smelt strange and acted strange. "So, lessons going all right are they?" "Yes, thank you." he said. "I'm quite fit actually, but Madame makes us work very hard. I just feel a bit stiff sometimes after practise." "I can help you there," the man said shuffling closer, "I's kinda clever at dealin' wi' stiffness." His hand slipped down to the little sissy's narrow waist and gave it a squeeze. "And does your mummy like you dancing?" Dolly looked at him, startled. "Mummy! Do you know mummy?" Horace laughed fatly at that. "Who doesn't know yer mummy? She's a famous French masseur. She's got business cards in every telephone box around here. Warm lady, very warm! Charmin', jus' like yer Auntie Fay. Lovely people, both of 'em." "Mother isn't really French. She made that bit up," Dolly said. The man gave a hollow laugh. "Is that so? I'd never have guessed. How clever!" His expression became a feral grin. "It's nice to talk with you. I notice you all the time, but we've never spoken before, have we? Dolly shook his head, and Horace took the opportunity to study his elfin looks. The tilt of his dark lashes were somehow beguiling and effeminate and he had a contagious smile. It wasn't difficult for a man and his penis to like a honey such as him. He gave him a gentle hug, leaned down and kissed him, his mouth, hot and moist, pressing hard on the boy and trying to force his lips apart. Dolly struggled and pulled his face away. "I'm a good dancer, aren't I Mr Pratt?" "You're the best, sweetheart, the best there is. Got a lot of talent - and I should know. Watched 'em come an' go I have, and more's gone than stayed -got a lot of talent you have." He put an arm around the boys skimpily clad shoulders and stroked a fingertip on his slender neck, feeling the delicate tendons beneath the skin, watching the gentle pulse in his throat. "Am I really good, could I be a star?" Dolly asked. Horace blinked at him in the dimness of the room, squinting, disconcerted, measuring his next move. "Of course you could if you wanted to be. No problem. Lovely face, lovely legs, lovely little body. A girl - erm - a boy like you as everything it takes to be a star." He renewed his embrace and the boy blushed deeply as the man stroked the contours of his face with the back of a finger, stroking his cheeks, his nose the outline of his mouth. "Come here me little hottie, come closer. You needs a bit o' mollycoddlin'. I reckon you could do wi' a nice cuddle, eh?" Horace Pratt's cock throbbed in his pants, it felt massive as it strained and leapt in its taut confinement. He caressing hand dropped down onto Dolly's leg and moved it up under his skirt to feel the seat of his little white pants. "Ouch!" Dolly grimaced and shifted away. "Don't touch me there. That new girl who arrived to help Madame spanked everyone earlier. I'm still sore." "Bit of a tartar is she? Don't stand for any nonsense, eh? Perhaps I can help. I could put some baby oil on yer little bum-cheeks, that would help make 'em feel better." Dolly pouted sulkily. "I'd rather no one touched me there at all for a while." Gamely Horace tried not to let his disappointment show.