Showtime Part 4 free porn video

sweeping up and down while you give them a naughty come-and-get-me look, and hoping they're carrying a strap-on in their handbags." She grasped his hair and hauled his head back. "You may finish off now. Take hold of your prick and jerk-off whilst I kiss you. Just be careful not to squirt any of your messy gooies onto my skirt." At last allowed the freedom to touch himself he set to, holding his swollen erection in the full ringing of a hand he pounded himself enthusiastically, and a result wasn't slow in coming. His body became taught and he arched his back slightly. Jerking and sighing, wanking and moaning. The intensity of his ejaculation when it came was almost painful. Secretions that had been bottled in for hours suddenly evacuated in a scorching few seconds, and the pulses of his orgasm ripped along the length of his penis like bolts of lightening. Hand pumping, hips humping, he squealed into her mouth as he ejected several warm, whirling strands of white girly-goo over his fingers. "Jennifer, I think I'm in love with you," he panted. "Hmph! Love," she said, referring to it as if it were an outbreak of head lice. "I've no time for boil-in-the-bag emotions. Love is just a romantic blend of lust and infatuation. Still, I don't suppose there's anything wrong with indulging in some of that. After all you do make a gorgeous little lesbian, Felicity." *** The shop bell jangled in 'Pratt's Bollocks' and Toby Parkin glanced up from the counter top as a customer came in. Marmeluke Dobbs entered the pawnshop in Hook Lane reluctant to reveal immediately the reason he was there and wanting to ensure there were no other customers present. Trying to look like a person merely browsing and seeking nothing in particular, he surveyed the display of unclaimed items that had been put out on sale idly for a moment before making his way over to a selection of wall-clocks. Marmeluke was a wide-bodied man - weightier than the average man, and his face had a high colour and broken veins which were typical of someone who imbibed too frequently in port wine. His suit had been made for a thinner figure, possibly himself at a younger age. Now the cloth strained like skin across his shoulders, and the buttons on his jacket wouldn't even meet the edge of the cloth on the other side let alone the buttonholes. Even his thighs looked like a pair of bloated sausages ready to burst from the rind of worsted that held them in check. A few feet away from him the shop staff were slumped on the sales- counter, Mrs Gitty ignoring everything but the magazine she held in one podgy hand was stuffing sugar-coated doughnuts into her mouth with the other. Conversely Toby Parkin observed the big man closely. "Them clocks is antiquities, but they're all in workin' order," he called out usefully, "None of 'em lose more than an hour a day." As he spoke a cuckoo at the back of the shop flung itself out of a clock and squawked. It was twenty-two minutes past the hour. "I think you mean they're antiques - which they're not. For the most part they're plastic," sniped back Marmeluke who, unable to stop himself shot across a superior glance. "Antiquities allude to items made prior to the Roman Empire, although certain facets of them remain with us today. The ancient Babylonians for instance counted in 60s rather than 100s which is why we still gauge portions of time in sixty minutes to the hour." Toby looked impressed. "Cor! Fancy that. And here was me thinking it was because clock makers couldn't cram enough spaces onto a clock dial." He looked sideways at Mrs Gitty who was hoiking lumps of doughnut to her mouth and tamping them in with the tip of a broad finger. "Useful them Blabberlonians, Mrs Gitty. We'd all be walkin' around with wristwatches the size of Frisbees if it weren't for them." Tiring of banal chatter the visitor became suddenly emboldened and revealed the real intention of his visit. "I'm Marmeluke Dobbs and I believe you sell certain types of - erm - photographs. A friend of mine - Bertie Bestable -recommended you to me." "Marmeluke!" pondered Toby, "That's a strange name." The big man walked forward and impatiently drummed his fingertips on the counter top. "The Marmelukes were an Asiatic warrior caste that dominated Egypt for centuries." Satisfactorily enlightened, Toby took a pace back and opened the stockroom door behind him and poked his head through the gap. "Oi! Horace, there's a friend of Bertie's here, a foreign geezer called Marmeluke who wants to buy some mucky photo's." Horace appeared at once, smiling keenly and rubbing his hands together in the manner of a Fagin. "Any friend of Bertie's can be trusted as far as I'm concerned. What's yer interest, sir? I cater for all tastes." Marmeluke's face went slightly pink. "I - erm - I'm doing an academic study of gender confusion. Mr Bestable said you'd have a set of photographs taken recently at Madame Dupont's Dance Academy that may be useful to my work." "Indeed. Indeed I have," beamed Horace, "An' I know exactly where they are. Come through into the back. I's got plenty o' fruity stuff in there," he gave his nose a tap with his forefinger, "An' I ain't talkin' about apples or oranges." Horace was always smarmily charming to customers who declared themselves ready to spend money. He led the way and pulled down a number of shoe- boxes from a set of shelves. "Close the door, Marmeluke. Don't want anyone ear-wiggin' do we?" He dumped the shoe-boxes onto a small table and pulled off the lids. "Now then, cross-dressing, tranny stuff..." "Not just anyone. My requirements are quite specific," reiterated Marmeluke, who had been haunted by certain images ever since his visit to Dovecott Manor. "O'course. You want the kids from Nob Street. And here we are, a brand new batch. Madame Dupont had my assistant Toby take these to generate some cash for herself. Naturally I kept back a few sets of prints as my fee." Marmeluke picked up the postcard sized items that Horace offered and rifled through them, his eyes focusing at once upon the static nude figures of young boys with girlish hairstyles in effeminate poses, looking at their smooth faces, trying to read the expressions in their alluring eyes, comparing them to Greek statues, Minoan art, and underaged girls. Conscious of his burning cheeks, he peered at others who at least wore a visage of clothing, trying to concentrate on the props, the strings of beads, feathers, and wisps of gossamer scarves that drew attention to, rather than concealed what Madame Dupont so disarmingly called 'assets'. Saucy schoolboys wearing fancy costumes, wearing bras, wearing skimpy skirts that hid hardly anything properly, all pantiless and making a lurid show of things. He felt a familiar stirring in his loins. There was no contradiction with gender and clothing in his mind. Boys dressed effeminately and acting effeminate while stretching out in brazen sexy poses provided a statement that didn't need words. They were declaring they were willing to be taken as girls and be shafted like girls. "Good stuff, eh!" Horace chortled at his side. "Plenty of sweet lil' schoolgirls with pricks an' balls. Weird but nice. Madame wouldn't let my man Toby photograph any action stuff or even any 'stiffies' this time, but I reckon I'll be able to talk her round to lettin' him do it eventually. There's nothing quite like our old friend sex, pulling back its foreskin an' penetrating the bashful, is there?" Marmeluke cringed at the graphic metaphor. "Erm, yes sex. Sex as always been the gentleman's, erm, er..." "Cock up!" suggested Horace helpfully. The visitor gave up any attempt at conversation and gazed back at the photographs. His bushy eyebrows went up, then knitted together and he felt his testes draw up too and then tighten as hard as peachpits. When studying paintings or glamour photographs Marmaluke had always rejected the sharp angles and muscular planes of the mature male figure. Women were far too rounded to interest him, but the soft contours of young adolescent boys were perfect. Especially their bottoms. It was probably down to aesthetics. Boys bottoms were the most beautiful part of the human anatomy, beloved by the sculptors of ancient Greece and appreciated by artists, poets and lecherous pederasts in every age. He pulled a forefinger and thumb over his chin and he stared at one particular photo, struck dumb in a moment, a rainbow of expressions flicking across his face. It was a display of surprise, noticeable by a quickening of breath and a drawing in of thin lips. His eyes bulged and the sinews strained in his neck. He'd come to Hook Lane to find items that would interest his jaded sexual appetite, but had become confronted with something else entirely. Horace leaned over to ascertain what his client was so interested in. "Hah! That's that Marianne filly - nice, huh? Got a clanger of a cock and one I've observed closely in my time. Fine chest too, natural, not one stuffed with silicone. I can tell the difference." The big man slowly recovered his breath. "The urn that girlified faggot drapes against. It - it looks remarkably similar to items of Ubaid I've seen, but few have survived in the perfect condition as this one seems to have done." Horace let out a derisive laugh. "It sure is somethin' but it's 'ardly Crown Derby is it? I's stubbed me toe on that monstrosity plenty o' times in the past." For a moment Marmeluke Dobbs seemed beyond further speech and near paralysed. A series of deep-throated grunts combined with a high-pitched nasal wheezing eventually emerged from the gasping mouth in the lower middle of his face. "Mr Pratt you have no idea of the absurdity of the situation and you're missing the point. Were these photographs taken at 19 Nob Street?" Straight faced now, Horace nodded. "Does it not occur to you that the acclaimed archaeologist Sir Grenville Dander once lived there? He was known to be dotty when he returned from his last expedition and he may well have left an item such as this laying around undeclared and uncatalogued. The fact that its still undamaged after all this time is remarkable." "Looks like a bit of old tat to me," Horace murmured. The big man snorted. "Ubaid pottery was produced by the tribal groups of Mesopotamia ages ago. When they settled between the Euphrates and Tigris they raised mankind's first cities. Artefacts such as the one in this photograph mark the very dawn of human civilisation." Suddenly Horace Pratt took an interest. "Erm, it may be valuable then? "I'd need to examine it first, but if it's authentic it certainly will be valuable. Stone items as opposed to earthenware are rare, and most artefacts of this period are found smashed and in fragments and need to be reassembled like a vertical jigsaw. This one appears to be in perfect condition, and in an open sale most prestigious museums would lose out to some eccentric billionaire who'd want it for his private collection." The shop owners eyes narrowed. "This 'ere Sir Dander chappie, he'll have relatives, descendants so to speak. Could they claim it?" "That would be difficult if Sir Grenville never declared it as a possession." "Then that there arty-fact belongs to me." Horace declared triumphantly, "That house, Number 19, I owns it an' everything in it belongs to me." "Really! Well, I'd be very interested in having a look at it in closer detail. I'll be in town again a week from Saturday." Horace tapped the side of his nose. "Consider it done Marmeluke. It'll be here in my shop as quick as a blink." So pleased with what had transpired Horace uncharacteristically allowed Marmeluke to take a set of photographs away at a remarkable discount, then when he'd departed he dropped into an armchair and did some serious thinking about what had been said. He reckoned himself to be an enterprising man and a crafty one. Gone were the days when he was new to business, like when he'd once bought a first-edition of Hamlet autographed by the author in ball-point. Like most men who saw themselves as business-mogul's he couldn't be bothered to make any effort unless there was something in it for him, but there was a metallic taste in his mouth about this affair - the taste of money he always got when he was onto a good deal. From the way Marmeluke spoke, selling that ugly old pot would make a Sotheby's auction look like a car-boot sale, and that thought lingered in his mind like a maggot in an apple. In a despondent cloud of gloom he folded his arms, creased his brow and put a tuck in his top lip. He had to go to Nob Street and get that stone vase. Trouble was he was only a collector of rents and didn't own the house as he liked to boast. He needed to move quick and get that pot out of number nineteen before this story got around, but he wasn't going there to be terrified by that monstrous mad doorkeeper Elise Dupont employed. While he fancied himself as a manly man he wasn't big on adventure. Most of what he'd gained in life he'd acquired by gift-of- the-gab, and his life was mostly composed of conversations that never had anything to do with adventure. Horace Pratt was a chat-in-the-bar- and-make-a-deal kind of person, as opposed to, say, a macho - abseil into the embassy - shoot all the bad guys - rescue the hostages and shag six chicks before teatime sort of manly-man. After being banged on the snorkel by that bastard Samson so recently he wasn't keen to set himself up for more of the same. Much better - far easier if Elise Dupont and her rent-a-thug were out of the way. Toby popped his head around the door. "Tea, Horace?" "What good will that do?" "Coffee then. Coffee will perk you up." "Oh, how do you work that out? Does coffee come with fuckin' jump-leads or somethin'?" But strangely the intrusion did invigorate him. He sparked and sat up briskly. "I'll have to make another visit to Nob Street in the next couple of days, Toby. Get on the phone - no, have Mrs Gitty to get on the phone, she may be built like a diplodocus but she's a better gasbag than either of us. Tell her to have a chat with Madame Dupont and find out when she and her loony bodyguard will be out of the house. I can handle anybody else when I get there." When Toby disappeared he took a cigar from his pocket, but merely twiddled it between his fingers and remained deep in thought until his assistant returned. "Hell! Can that woman talk?" said Toby, "Mrs Gitty could talk the hind legs off a chicken." Horace glanced up eagerly. "What did she find out?" "She says Madame Dupont an' Jenghiz Khan will be out of the house on Thursday afternoon. She's takin' him to the dentist and holdin' his hand 'cos he's scared o' the needle." "Mrs Gitty's done good work. She's got kids ain't she?" "Got a couple of little Git's at 'ome." "Give her a quid from the shop-money and tell her to buy 'em a lollipop." Toby leaned forward. "She found out Madame an' the monster will be out both evenings over the weekend too, Horace, so it may be better to wait until then." Horace lit his cigar and puffed on it airily, eventually blowing out smoke in a long shuddering sigh. "No, no. I don't want to hang around, I intends to 'seize the day' as they say. The trouble with you Toby Parkin is you always hesitate too much. You've got no sense of adventure." *** Mundane business, sometimes tiresome and unpleasant but vital, frequently punctuated the tranquil routine in Nob Street. His time as a prize-fighter had deprived Samson of all his front teeth, but Madame was adamant he should take care with the teeth he still had, so after lunch that sunny Thursday afternoon she took him off to see a dentist. It was really on the dentist's insistence that she accompanied him, since Samson was quick to start swinging his fists about at the sight of a hypodermic full of Novocain, and she was known to be his most calming influence. When they'd gone Jennifer made a patrol around the house to ensure all the girly-boys were gainfully occupied. A summer of persistent hard work had been rewarded by a pleasing result. The place felt cosier than when she'd first arrived, and if a house could be a sentient thing she would have sworn it was responding with affection to all the attention being lavished on it - and perhaps to Madame's desire to own it and love it. She herself felt a kinship with Number 19 too, almost a kind of compassion for it. The house was shaped by the space it fitted. Standing alone it would have seemed weird and out of place, but held up by its surroundings it had a definite identity as a fine town house. True, it was in desperate need of redecoration, but with the woodwork polished and the grime removed from the paint work the place was beginning to smile. Yes, somehow it had changed. After forty years of decline that had taken it to the brink of decrepitude it had begun to sparkle like a long neglected woman given the opportunity to flaunt herself. It had once been a splendid house, and it would be splendid again. She shook Amber and Prudence by their ears when she found them leaning against a wall and talking, and she smacked the back of Lulu's legs when she discovered him daydreaming when he should have been scouring the washbasins in the bathroom. With her authority once more established and made memorable for a while she felt happy to go into the sitting room downstairs and flop onto the sofa. She recalled there were times when she had relished keeping such creatures anxious and on the hop, but at number nineteen the unrelenting nature of it sometimes made her feel just plain bone-weary. Her shoes slipped from her feet and dropped noiselessly onto the worn brown carpet and within minutes she was sleeping. "Lah, lah, lah - lah, lah, la, lah!" In the kitchen Marianne was singing softly to himself whilst seated in his little armchair and surrounded by mounds of strawberries. A large napkin was laid over his lap to catch any mess that could emerge from leisurely plucking out the green stubs from each piece of fruit before he dropped it into a large steel saucepan at his feet. His shiny gold tresses were pulled back into a chignon, and he was dressed for a sunny day in a cream tank top and tiny pink skirt that he wore without stockings or shoes. Everybody liked Marianne and he accepted that with the equanimity of the beautiful. His pretty face was made-up to the nines of course - it was always made-up to the nines. Despite bring raised by nuns in a strict catholic school, whenever he had the chance he dolled himself up like a screen goddess. Making himself glamorous was an important part of Marianne's daily routine, but once it was done to his satisfaction he was quite content to sit on his own hulling the green calyx from strawberries. A pleasant, warm breeze from the open back door feathered across his face and he paused to wiggle his bare toes and admire the pink lacquer on the toenails. "Lah, lah, lah - lah, lah, la, lah!" All the other sissies were summer people, but he'd been with Madame for the past three years as her sort of helper and servant. She didn't pay him any money - Madame rarely had money to pay anybody most of the time - but she looked after him in a motherly kind of way and much of her passion for the colour and excitement of musical theatre had rubbed off onto himself. Blond and with a complexion of pale gold, dressed in silk, with a mannequins waist, he enjoyed playing the role of princess in his very own fairy tale. His eyes were greeny blue, but he insisted on describing them as emerald or sapphire. He enjoyed looking glamorous and he loved to sing and dance, but he didn't complain about kitchen work either, especially on a summer day when he could sit with the back door open and see the sunshine bouncing off the concrete of the pocket- handkerchief sized yard outside and view the plant-pot that held his newly planted seeds. Like others who are favoured by nature he had an innocence about him that projected a protective envelope to seal him into his own sunny climate. He was incurably optimistic and his eyes transmitted a vivacious sparkle when he smiled, and just like minced-beef he was versatile. He knew how to cook things, he'd learnt how to make super jam, and he was good at cleaning too. When he did the sink he got into all the corners, and didn't miss out the scuzzy bit around the overflow or ignore the underside of the taps. He also knew how to sew and how to knit bed-socks for the winter, and because he was never lazy he pleased Madame. In addition to his heart-wrenching beauty Marianne had an engaging personality and he liked pleasing people. He was a pretty pantywaist and he pleased lots of people. He'd certainly had sex with more men than anyone else he knew, and because of that some people said he was a slut. What they didn't realise was that when he did have sex with a man, even if it was just giving a blow job in the pantry to the nice one who brought the groceries, he only did it to please them. He planned to do things for 'nice' men until he fell off the planet. At that moment Candy came into the kitchen, softly tiptoeing up behind Marianne to put his hands over the other sissy's eyes. Marianne sighed in the manner of a world-weary traveller. "Stop messing about. I know it's you Candy, I heard you whispering to Dolly in the hall.." When the hands were removed Dolly joined them, clicking his shoes on the linoleum floor and swinging his small hips testily. "You're a Lemon, Dolly." Marianne told him derisively. The newest arrival stopped prancing. "A Lemon?" "Yes. You follow Candy around like one of those little furry hamster creatures that jump off cliffs." Dolly chuckled. "Oh, THOSE sort of Lemons. Yes, I guess I am a bit like that." "What are you two doing here anyway?" Marianne asked, "You're supposed to be cleaning things. Jennifer will have a blue fit if she finds you mooching about in here." Candy shrugged in unconcern. "She's snoozing on the sofa, so we're taking a break." He was disenchanted. He thought it was going to be a lovely adventure to spend the summer with Madam Dupont. Madame put on classy acts that were a far cry from the sleazy striptease his father asked him to do in front of men in pubs. But lately he'd changed his mind about everything. No one warned him he'd be a slave when he came to dance at the academy, no one had said that whenever he wasn't doing practise he had to wash something. Madame didn't chase anyone to clean things, but mean Jennifer never stopped, and she was always so dreadfully exact and finicky about detail. 'Toilet's today, Candy' - 'Walls next, Candy' - 'Don't forget your rubber gloves, Candy'. Phooey! He always forgot his gloves and his nails were on the point of being ruined. He'd agreed to come to Nob Street to do dancing, and what had cleaning got to do with that? And however hard everyone worked Jennifer never seemed satisfied. She had a voice as sharp as a whip. She was a Mary Poppins with fangs and claws, as fierce as a tiger and just as pitiless. She'd spanked Dolly once for not coiling up the flex on the electric iron when he'd finished with it, and she always seemed to find a reason to smack his own bum until it looked like a polished red plum. "What's happening with all these strawberries?" he asked. "I'm making jam," Marianne explained, straightening the napkin on his lap. "I'm a good jam-maker. I make jam all the time, you know that. You lot eat loads of it." "Can we eat some of the strawberries?" "Oh stuff! I can't stop you, but it means there'll be less jam." Marianne told him with a sulky pout. He may have been the senior sissy in the house, but the idea of using his authority to subdue the others never occurred to him. Being bossy was quite alien to his nature. Candy picked up a strawberry intending to eat it, but found the plump fruit rather too squashy in his fingers to whet his appetite. "Ick! They're vile." Marianne tittered. "Madame got them as a job-lot along the Tottenham Road. They're a bit over ripe now, but okay for jam." "I've got a much tastier idea than eating strawberries." Candy said with a lopsided grin, studying Marianne's figure which was girlish with nice hips, and of course small breasts. "Why don't you show us your tits?" The pantywaist stuck his bottom lip out in a pout. "I will not. You two have no right to come bothering me just because you're bored with touching each other up. I've got better things to do. I'm already busy." "Hark at Miss Crabby." mewed Candy. Unconvinced by what had been said he followed his own inclinations, and giving a smirking Dolly a sly, dark- eyed wink of mischief his fingers brushed the back of Marianne's neck. Marianne turned a pettish shoulder. "I'm not going to be sexy for you. I'm really not." he declared solemnly. "Some of us still have work to do." He was adamant. His words were slow and determined, but the others took them as no more than a little absurd spoken by an infant. The senior sissy's eyes dipped down and the lashes became spiky against his cheeks, but he remained still as Candy's arms locked around him, and slowly his reluctance began to melt as the younger boys slim fingers dictating the course of events. Irritation ebbed as a tickle of electricity ran down his spine. The touch of warm hands began to relax him, soothe him, lull him into a wonderland of sensation before they moved around to caress his cheek. Pulling Marianne back in the chair Candy's leaned down and gently bit at his neck, inhaling the scent of his skin overlaid with the fragrance of roses. "You're just as I imagined you to be today. Soft and sweet. Lovely!" Candy's smile was teasing and so was his touching, and the sissy continued to stroke him in soft movements that made him shake with delight. All Marianne's objections collapsed and he turned his face upwards. The two of them tongue-licked juicily, and such a show of enthusiasm proved infectious to Dolly whose desire to have a share was unstoppable. Uninvited he inserted himself into the action by hoisting up the front of the she-boys blouse. Everything about Marianne was slim and milky, not an ounce of fat anywhere, and immediately his two breasts, small and perfect, fell into Dolly's hands. The hands then closed and squeezed the lush mounds until the nipples stood erect. Marianne's back arched and he threw back his head as Dolly shamelessly toyed with the aroused nubs and ran his tongue in circles around the teats, smothering them with his lips, wetting them, sucking them and making them swell. Two of them now, Candy and Dolly, two sissy lovers squeezing, sucking and feeling. No wonder Marianne's early reluctance had now evaporated. "Cows!" he squeaked, "You shouldn't be doing this in the middle of the day. Jennifer will smack all of us if she finds out." Overcome with excitement Dolly stood up. Both he and Candy were past caring about being smacked. Closing in on each side of the senior sissy they each reached for the hem of their little skirts, flipped them up at the front, and hoisted forth a stiff penis from their pants. Feeling utterly depraved they deliberately stroked the smooth tips around Marianne's face, up his cheeks, over his nose and across his mouth. Marianne lay passive only for a moment, then he took a rampant member in a full handed grip with each hand and jiggled them, shifting his gaze from one to the other. By this time they were all panting, pink with suppressed joy and overwhelmed by the excitement of mutual sexual stimulation. "S-suck me," Dolly pleaded. "Me too." chorused Candy. "You're both Lemons." observed Marianne solemnly, but he didn't pause to query anything. He went down on Dolly first, taking the offered tip into his mouth, lathering it with saliva and drawing it in, pushing against it and sucking gently but mainly moving his lips to stimulate the most sensitive first few inches. Whilst he did that with his lips one hand still continued to masturbate Candy After a moment he swapped over and repeated the process with Candy, giving the end of the sissy-cock a little kiss before bending his head and slithering his tongue around the firm wet tip and enveloping it with his moist warm mouth. Back and forth he moved, his mouth mounting each cock alternately, gliding up and down, eventually taking them both down to the hilt. Then again. And again. While he was fully engaged Marianne raised his eyes to look at the two breathless pansies, his smile now mocking and somehow adding to the eroticism. He was extremely accomplished at things he enjoyed doing, and given a chance at higher-education he would have earned a first-class degree with honours for cock sucking. He knew everything one needed to know about erogenous zones and was moving his mouth in a way that he'd become practised at. Firm and slick, his lips massaged each boyish morsel with immense skill, giving a little extra attention to either one that seemed to lag in order to bring them on together, every to and fro movement of his lips and fingers behind the drooling crests encouraging yet another hot sigh. Dolly and Candy felt the ripple of his tongue probe their pee-holes and slide around the unhooded tip of each distended shaft, each uninhibited lap and swirl instigated a moan of pleasure. The two junior sissies could only offer hot breaths as they watched his head bobbing back and forth, watching his face swing left then right, cheeks dimpling as he sucked, and licked their slavering flow. Eventually Dolly became misty-eyed, then he tensed and gave his thighs an abrupt shove forward as his face creased almost as if he was in pain. He ejaculated, and Marianne uttered no more than a faint muffled grunt as he accepted the sudden offering. With slimy goo still slopping around in his mouth he swung over to satisfy Candy and caught a second job-lot, the virile juvenile juice rapidly spurting out from his throbbing cock and spitting into his mouth to mingle with Dolly's still unconsumed deposit. He finally gulped. "Will that do?" he asked as he freed up his mouth and licked his lips. Dolly sagged. "We have to pay you back for that." he said mysteriously. Keeping his back straight, he bent at the knees, wickedly reaching out to run the palm of his hand up Marianne's leg, beginning at the ankle and caressing up to the knee. When Marianne didn't object he moved the hand slowly higher, stroking the insides of his thighs right up beneath the hem of his skirt. He was intent on returning some pleasure, and at once Candy joined in. With a cheeky, tonguey grin he slid his hands slowly down Marianne's belly as he gracefully sank to a squatting position. As was not uncommon Marianne wore no panties, and beneath the napkin on his lap and his always too-short little skirt his cock was already bare and throbbing. Questing hands went down between his legs and cupped his testicles, caressing them and massaging them and stirring their sissy treasure, just as he himself did with the good looking butcher's boy who always made deliveries with a spare pork chop and plenty of gravy in his pocket. Marianne wasn't unused to peoples fascination with his cock. During his time at the convent school the young novice nuns frequently amused themselves by shutting him in a cupboard and making him thread his penis through a hole in the door so they could masturbate him anonymously. Dolly paused as he felt the tension start to build, marvelling at the size of the gigantic prong swinging up between the smooth thighs in front of him. He and Candy both gazed at it, fascinated, always willing to be impressed by the size of Marianne's endowment. The length was extraordinary and the head the size of an egg. Dolly wrapped his fingers around its gargantuan dimensions and began to roll the sheath of its foreskin back and forth, drawing the loose prepuce over the tip and then hauled it right back. Everything seemed to swell and jump in his hand, its size alone hinting at the power it could generate and the deluge it could offer. He repeated the movement, slowly dragging up his hand while flicking and licking up and down the extended cock-meat with his tongue before driving down his fist again. Dolly harboured no qualms, when he judged the time right his darting tongue flirted outrageously with the flaring cleft of pee-lips at the summit, stroking around at first, and then wiggling in just a little bit, teased the senior sissy there before smothering the whole weighty helmet with the soft warm blanket of his mouth. Having engulfed the fat, bulbous end he lathered it further with his own drool, then sucked on it as if he were sampling a piece of juicy fruit. Marianne was breathing heavily and his belly was trembling as his monument to misplaced boyhood began oozing with excitement. Candy slumped down opposite to Dolly, kissing Marianne's upper thighs and massaging his nicely hung testicles while awaiting his chance for something else. Eventually two pairs of velveteen sheboy-lips slid together around the slavering tip, tongues touching as they snaked and circled the swollen helmet. Four hands competing to please the stiffened flesh. Two mouths adoring its tip, teasing and tasting in a classic world shaking double-header. "He's going to do a good one." breathed Dolly heatedly has his wet mouth briefly flirted with Candy's over the top of the drooling crest, finding it to be deliciously hot and slippery. "Yeah, Marianne always does half a teacup full," agreed Candy, gazing briefly up at the senior sissy's face. "Come on girly, give us something for all the trouble we're taking." Working in close colloquy they each sucked and licked Marion's enormous prong in a joint attack whilst pumping it furiously with their fists, Candy used his hand to completely unhood the magnificent masterpiece of its mushroom-shaped tip, wrinkling the top of the foreskin up and down as if it were a concertina before tilting it towards Dolly's eager mouth. Marianne's eyes were half-shut and slumberous with delight, then quite suddenly his face froze in a mask of sheer joy and his body convulsed has his tense stand throbbed and a huge wad of thick semen leapt out from its tip. A rush of warmth seemed to sweep through him as he was shaken by the sweetest of pleasures, all coyness ceased, drowned by the sensations that were consuming his body. Expecting it, but still taken by surprise, Candy and Dolly's noses nubbed together as they vied with each other to catch the leaping juice in their mouths. While they were busy scooping it up and sharing it, more long ropes of creamy cock-juice swirled onto their cheeks and their chins while their mouths became connected by a broad strand of translucent icor. At precisely that moment the front door bell began jangling like an irate fire-alarm, making all of them jump. "Oh cripes! That's sure to wake Jennifer," squeaked Candy. *** The ringing of the doorbell did awake Jennifer, and she was still blurry eyed when she opened it to find Horace Pratt standing on the step clinging onto a bulky television set. "Thought I'd drop this round," he said, "One o' your young rascals mentioned to me the other day that the telly here is bust, so I fished out a spare one from the back of my shop. Colour picture too, you can't get better for free." Jennifer swung the door open wide. "For free! That's very sweet of you Mr Pratt, the children will be overjoyed." Horace huffed and puffed and staggered slightly as he made his way into the vestibule. "Up the stairs with it, I suppose eh!" Jennifer shook her head. "Er, no. Not right away. Bring it into the sitting and room and put it on the table in the corner. I'll make a space for it." Horace made no demur. He had no wish to carry a television up a set of steep, narrow stairs. People too often did themselves injuries doing things like that. "Fits rather neatly in the corner," said Jennifer, smiling with delight. "Aye, it does too," agreed Horace. The television was a diversion. His real reason for being there was to collect the stone urn, and now he just had to go and pick it up. "If'n yer don't mind I'll go get a breath o' fresh air in the back yard. Lugging that damn thing about as just about wrecked me." Fascinated by the new addition to furniture and fittings Jennifer plugged the television lead into a wall socket and spent several minute experimenting with the controls, but her concentration was then blown apart by a yell from the back of the house. She'd not heard the likes of it since she'd arrived in London. It was the kind of sound a cat makes when a twenty stone man steps on its tail, but were a cat usual offers only a single ear splitting shriek, this one continued as a morose wail. When she went into the hall a number of pale faces were hanging over the balustrade above, wondering what was causing such an unearthly noise. "WHAAAAA!" Marianne came through from the back of the house, a bedraggled chrysanthemum, sobbing, face wet, mascara running in spidery streaks down his cheeks. "What on earth's the matter with you? What's happened?" "Mr Pratt's being horrible, Jennifer. He's going to tip my flowers onto the floor so he can take away my plant-pot." And the wailing and bawling began again. "Oh, do shush," chaffed Jennifer. "I need some quiet if I'm going to find out what's going on. There's bound to be a sound explanation for such a thing." She strode through the house and out onto the back stoop, and there was Horace Pratt standing over the old stone urn with a trowel in his hand. "Mr Pratt, what are you doing?" The man looked up at her in annoyance. "Doin'? Why I's gunna empty this pot so I can take it with me. It's an heirloom, see. It's an old Ubaid thingy me granny give me ages ago, an' it's got sentimental value." Jennifer felt suddenly petulant. "Marianne as just seeded petunias in it. The idea of having them thrown out so soon as quite upset him." Horace glanced testily at the still sobbing effeminate standing a safe distance away by the back door. "I'll get the sissy-faggot a nice big plastic plant-pot wi' daisies painted on the sides." "Where is it, then?" demanded Marianne at once, sounding shrill and indignant between his sniffs of misery, "You haven't brought one with you." Horace rumbled a subdued expletive and shook his head in exasperation, so Jennifer took a different tack. "I'm given to understand that Madame Dupont as made you an offer for this house and its contents." "Sure she has, an' I've accepted it," the man snarled, "But nuthin's legal yet. I can take what I like until we exchange contracts." "I'm sure you're within your rights Mr Pratt, but just the same I'd prefer you didn't remove anything from here whilst Madame is away." Her persistence caused the last of the man's patience to evaporate. After all, he hadn't come there to be dive-bombed with questions and given ultimatums by Elise Dupont's unpaid, juvenile housekeeper. He raised his head and glared hard. "Just how old are you, Missy Big- Boots?" Jennifer raised her chin and her jaw tightened. "I'm seventeen, but I don't think..." "Good!" said Horace. His voice was a verbal shotgun as he waved the trowel in front of her face belligerently, "It's best if skinny bints like you don't think, 'cos I don't take any notice of seventeen- year- old tarts who think they're in touch with their brain. Keep yer mouth shut or I'll give it a smack." He spared a moment more to glare hard and their eyes locked in a kind of stalemate, then believing he'd made himself plain enough he turned his attention back to the stone urn at his feet. Above, a clutch of small pale faces gazed down from the upstairs windows. By the back door Candy and Dolly peered over Marianne's shoulders, their mouths agape. As he pushed the trowel into the soil, Marianne, mortified, began to wind up like an air-raid siren, and that prompted Jennifer to draw her fingers together and clench her hand. Using all the force she could muster she drove her fist up sharply into the middle of Horace Pratt's face. WHOP! Bony knuckles smashed into the man's nose and a splodge of crimson jetted out over his trim moustache. "Aw, Fuck!" Horace exclaimed, clutching his face and staggering back. "Jesus Christ! Every time I comes here lately some bastard thumps me on the fuckin' snout." Jennifer held her ground, fists on the shelf of her hips now, unrepentant and defiant "You're insufferably rude, Mr Pratt, and I refuse to accept badmouthing quietly from anyone." For a moment Horace was tempted to attack her in reprisal, but then he thought again. No, she may be young, but she was a tough cow, strong and agile, and he couldn't risk being beaten up by a girl in front of all those pervy little kids. A man had his dignity to consider. Dizzy, clutching his nose to stem any chance of more bleeding he felt in no condition to continue what he'd started. He couldn't carry away a big stone urn with one hand, and no one there was likely to help him. Irate, he stormed off back towards the house. "I'll leave it for now, but I'll be coming back f'that thing, y'young hooligan. Don't try hidin'it away else I'll have the police round here, an' if I have to bring in the law Madame can go swim for her house." When he'd gone Jennifer looked at the stone urn. So much fuss over a piece of mangy pottery! Then she began to feel suspicious. He'd let slip the word, Ubaid. She didn't know what that meant, but she was going to find out.