Showtime Part 5 free porn video

SHOWTIME Part 5 Daylight cutting in between ill-fitting curtains awoke Jennifer Hancock early, but it took several moments for dormant cogs of concupiscence to crank into motion. Eventually she wiped the back of a hand over her eyes to brush away a wisp of hair before rolling from her bed and lurching across to the window. Rain was falling; fat wet drops bouncing on the sills outside as she gazed out on the closely packed roofs and chimney-pots opposite, all standing on top of uniformly dismal houses. Not at all like Yorkshire, she thought, succumbing to an acute attack of nostalgia. Oh how lovely it would be just for a few hours to again view her mother's sissy schoolgirls in their smart gymslips, and to wake with the morning sun in her eyes, winter or summer. Woodcocks. Pheasants. Apples and plums, the song of the skylark and the harsh chack-chack of a merlin falcon. She'd become sort of fond of Madame Dupont, but like a swallow she had only come for the summer, and fondness couldn't compensate for not being at home. There was a serenity in the dales of Yorkshire. The high fells enclosed everything in their shadows and barred the noise of traffic, aircraft and emergency sirens that were all such a part of life in London. She turned to survey her face in the spotted mirror on the dilapidated dresser, then brought up her arms and flexed them. She was still in good condition. Not much muscle showing, which was good. Too much muscle made a person lose dexterity and speed. Muscle was weight that needed to be carried around and it could clutter up the joints. After she'd showered, she dressed, tidied her hair and straightened her skirt before going down to the sitting room. There she found Madame was not alone. A tall very slender woman was standing in the room, in her early thirties Jennifer guessed. Her face was long and narrow, made interesting by a high forehead and tawny eyes the colour of sherry, while her dark hair had been teased over her ears and drawn into a French knot at the back. Her hands were narrow too, as were her ankles. She had a great deal of style. Madame Dupont almost leapt towards her. "Ah, Jennifer, may I introduce you to Miss Magoogle, our local child welfare officer." Constant practise in dealing with alarming situations aided Jennifer in not showing emotion when surprised, but all the same she felt her tummy flip. "Welfare officer! A Child Welfare Officer?" The woman had alert eyes set wide above high cheekbones under high- arched eyebrows. Her hollow cheeks led to a gently pointed jaw which gave her the appearance of someone not easily fooled. Miss Magoogle smiled. "Call me Angela. This isn't an official visit, more of a curtesy call really. A tattletale at the council offices told me that Madame Dupont had young people boarding with her for the summer and I thought it appropriate to make myself known. Madame tells me you're helping her to put on a theatre production." "Yes, a sort of touring show." Elise Dupont hurriedly inserted herself again. "I was explaining to Miss... to Angela, that the house is rented and the furniture somewhat run down, but everywhere is scrupulously clean." The visitor smiled nobly. "Yes, I can see that someone as put in a great deal of effort recently. Everything as been cleaned to within a inch of its life. It's quite obvious without pressing the matter that your young boarders are in very capable hands." "Oh yes. Our hands are very capable," Jennifer confirmed. "You've not met my daughter, Sophie, Jennifer," Madame said, indicating a second visitor. Coolly Jennifer turned to take in the young girl seated on the red sofa, panning up from her white socks and trim firm calves to her straight knee-length pleated skirt. She was wearing a one piece day dress with a low-slung hipster waistband, and she had a very pretty pendant suspended by a gold chain around her throat. "I'm very pleased to meet you, Sophie," she said. The girl lifted her head when she spoke and she found herself gazing down into a charming if somewhat wilful countenance framed by the sweep of a wind-tossed fringe of dark hair that fell halfway down her long, tapered neck. Two large brown eyes, light and merry, met hers with a rueful twinkle, and a roguish dimple hovered at the corner of a sensuous young mouth striving to preserve some gravity. The eyes she noticed most of all, a sort of golden brown of a colour she'd never seen in other people. They were alert eyes too, something like her own would have been at her age, constantly assessing people, seeking out sympathy, courting admiration, looking for any hint of frailty or weakness that may prove useful to herself in the future. Such an observation didn't darken her ultimate sweetness. After all, such a thing was probably caused by her being overindulged by a rich father and being sent to the best schools. "Mummy says you're from Yorkshire, but you don't sound like Yorkshire." the girl chirped, "I've school friends that live in Catterick and they don't sound anything like you." Jennifer smiled benignly. "My own mother's home is near a little place called Peasmarsh, but we did a lot of moving around before she settled there, and I was never in one place long enough to carry away an accent." "Oh yes, moved around like gypsies, did you?" Jennifer clenched her fists. With comments like that it was clear the wretched girl was attempting to belittle her, and the impudence was so blatant Jennifer had an impulse to grab hold of her hair and twist her head round a full three-hundred and sixty degrees. But she couldn't do that, could she? Not while the girls mother was in the room anyway. Instead, she fumed forcefully. "My mother is very eminent in the north of the country. She OWNS a school." Turning to Madame Dupont she switched on a smile. "I'm absolutely starving, so you'll excuse me if I go off into the kitchen and make myself some toast." Madame followed her out into the hall and lightly tugged at her sleeve. "Jennifer dear, " she hissed in a whisper. "Would you look after the dancers for a while? Miss Magoogle hasn't asked to see them so I think its better to keep them upstairs until she's gone. I can't possibly start a rehearsal with her and Sophie here. It makes for a rather - erm - delicate situation." Jennifer grimaced for a moment as if in pain. "Miss Magoogle may have been a surprise, but don't you think it inappropriate to have your daughter here when the house is full of effeminate boys?" "I didn't invite her," the other woman answered defensively, "I never invite her to visit during the Summer Season. But she's staying with friends in town whilst her father is away on business, and as her mother I can hardly ban her from coming here. "She's already a photo-model for junior fashions, you know. She's a very good girl, pluck to the backbone, even if sometimes lacking in judgement. Keep the dancers upstairs - get Marianne to bring a pot of tea for the guests, and for heavens sake make sure he's wearing pants today." Jennifer was quite happy to keep herself out of the way for a while. She had a feeling that Madame's little girl wasn't entirely the placid little doll her mother thought her to be, and she needed a little time to work her out. For instance, hadn't she once allowed herself to be photographed wearing a tight rubber suit that was more in keeping with a bondage and domination magazine than with junior fashion? The lessons she gave to the sissies during free time varied. Sometimes she concentrated on the best use of cosmetics, at other times on hair- care or nail-care, but that morning she decided on deportment. She began by telling them to sit on the floor, and most of them felt it rather degrading to be seated cross-legged on the floor like a load of little junior girls, but no one dared complain. Dolly had once complained to Jennifer about something and she'd hit his hands with a leather strap until he cried. They were in awe of her. She was gutsy and strong and emitted a 'don't mess with me' attitude. And hadn't she given Horrible Horace a fine uppercut on the snozzle recently! On a blackboard she chalked three headings; POISE, ELEGANCE and EXPRESSION. They were all, she explained, prime qualities that any sissy worth his salt should seek to understand and perfect. In her opinion poise, the ability to look under control and never appear panicked or flustered, was vital and gave a girl dignity. Elegance was just as important. Moving around with grace and assurance impressed people and created an aura of charm, but just like a dance it required unstinting practise. Never slouch. Always be aware unseen people may be watching you. Experiment in front of a mirror, she advised, and invite comments from friends. Expression she said, incorporated both body language and facial contortions, each of which could relay unspoken messages. A conjured stance could be assertive or helpless depending on what seemed best for a given occasion, while a simple turn of the head, a dip of the eyes or a fleeting smile could make a statement that was unmistakable. Some people fell head over heels for an innocent virgin or damsel in distress expression, but the same faculties could also generate a mischievous come-and-get-me look, or one that said 'I'm playing hard to get but don't give up, because I'll be worth it in the end.' Prudence put his hand in the air. "Excuse me, Jennifer. but we're not going to be girls forever. When we get older we'll probably get married." There was a hush as the teenagers mouth dropped open in a show of amazement. She knew the sissy regime off by heart and marriage didn't figure in it. Late each evening along the bedroom landing one could hear snatches of laughter, whispers and giggles. A door would open and an agitated voice would exclaim, "Don't! Don't you dare." And the door would shut softly. Had she been small-minded enough to stand outside and listen she didn't doubt she would have heard the soft gasps and sighs the permissive young inevitably make when corralled together. For a moment she was taken aback as she gazed at Pru's sweet sissy mouth, a delicate morsel that so often gave immense pleasure to all the sissy-pricks around him. How could that same mouth come out with the ridiculous nonsense it had just uttered? "Married! To a woman? I'm flabbergasted Prudence. Are you mad? Do you really believe you could ever be a bridegroom?" "Well, not right away of course. But one day," Prudence answered, feeling just a tiny bit deflated. Jennifer scoffed. "I can't believe what you're saying. Women won't wish to marry you, they'll simply want to smack your pretty bottom all the time. They're likely to do it harder than I do, and do it just to make you cry." She glanced down at the rest of the pupils. "Now isn't that true, dears. Women are a mystery to you. You'd much rather be chased and squeezed by big boys, wouldn't you? Don't you always feel fluffy and safe in their strong arms?" She smiled at Prudence as if to conclude the matter. "Much better if you didn't waste your time thinking of such things and concentrate on wearing a garter belt and stockings and learning how to swish your hips properly. "Come here. Out to the front. Take the chalk and write on the blackboard, 'I'm a silly fuddle-headed pantywaist who doesn't know the difference between margarine and butter.' Write it ten times." Unwisely Prudence protested. "But, Jennifer..." Irritated beyond measure by his impertinence, the girl scowled at him. "You're not taking this lesson seriously, Prudence. Perhaps you don't wish to be a girl." The she-boy saw the threat in her eyes and tried to retreat. "I do, Jennifer. Honestly I do." It was no good, she had already decided on a course of action. Without any further words of explanation she scooped him forward under her left arm and pushed him down over her hip before raising the back of his skirt. Since she'd recently persuaded Madame that the dancers would be better served by wearing dainty little thong-pants under their dresses there was no problem about giving him a feisty knickers-up spanking. "Always the one with the smart mouth, aren't you Prudence? Well, I'm going to make your backside equally smart." She began by rubbing her hand across his exposed bottom, caressing each cheek. Two delectable plates of soft, pliable meat neatly separated by a narrow thong. A first-class smackable rump, she thought, rolling them and spreading them before allowing them to spring back into a conformed shape. Once she felt good and ready she drew her hand back and let fly with a hefty SMACK! "Ouch!" Utterly startled Prudence squawked and jerked forward, hurriedly shifting his body to one side to avoid whatever may follow. "You're not allowed to move," Jennifer told him severely, "Get back in position and push your bottom out. Plump it right back." Reluctantly Pruey did as he was told and nervously waited. SMACK! Jennifer delivered another blow with a hard slap of her palm which generated another discomfited "Oow!" From the sissy. With each impact the strength of her blows seemed increasingly intense and tears began to form in his eyes as the full sting on his bottom began to register. WHACK, WHAP, WALLOP! Her right hand swept rapidly up and down to provide the necessary final touches, making young Pru yell and giving his defenceless bare buttocks some instant colour. When the bottom was nicely patterned with red blotches she changed the tempo, flicking slaps hard on the heels of the one before. Pru's sissy squeals ran into one another, each vocalisation as much an acknowledgement of acceptance as a cry of pain, and although his lower body twisted and writhed he always ensured it came back to dutifully present itself. The other sissies watched, cringed and shivered, but none of them was foolish enough to intervene. Unconsciously some of them reached up under their skirts to cosset their own vulnerable rumps. All were in empathy with poor Prudence for they'd all felt the teenager's stern hand belting their tender behinds plenty of times in the past, but no one had a wish for Jennifer's harsh treatment to turn in their direction. Prudence began bawling quite openly, soft eyes brimming with tears. His expression was enough to soften the hardest heart, but the girl showed no compassion. "This may remind you not to be so free with your stupid ideas in the future," she scolded as she stood him up and pinned the back of his tiny skirt up above the fiery radiance of his buttocks - a precaution that ensured the result of her corrective discipline would remain on display as a deterrent to the others. Afterwards she stood him in a corner of the room and made him face the wall, completing his humiliation by crowning him with a pointed paper cone onto which she'd inscribed the word DUNCE in broad felt-tip. "A hat for a know-it-all who knows nothing. Suck your thumb and don't dare move until the end of the lesson." Scowling at the others she added, "Anyone else who comes up with a cleverer-than-you notion like Prudence had better watch out, because I'm in a mood to put their balls through a laundry mangle." Everyone else sharpened up their attention perceptively after that and she watched carefully as she told them to practise their strutting, much of which was based on the pas de bourree; a ballet movement were one foot was swiftly placed in front or behind another. Chorus-girl tap shoes were no real substitute for high-heels, but for the moment they had to suffice. "Walk towards me, toes pointed out, heads up, shoulders down. That's it. Tummy in, bottom nipped. Stop! Stand still and grasp the hem of your skirts. Bend your knees and dip a little curtsy. Good, Lulu, but some of your friends haven't quite got the hang of things yet, so we'll try it once more. Around you all go again, and this time remember to swing your hips a little." She stood still herself to admired how they shook their slender hips and wiggled their tiny bottoms, just enough to make their meagre rehearsal skirts swirl and make a show of tight white G-strings with just a hint of boy cock-bulge in front. Between the ages of eleven and fourteen some boys could be just as physically striking as the prettiest girls, and Madame small set were in prime condition, probably more beautiful now than they ever were or would be later. Such sleek, graceful limbs. Such fine torso's too, with flat bellies and firm chests. And those darling little mouths, so tempting, each one a tender testament to youth, eternally inviting kisses. And of course when they danced there was the titillation of their genitals, cock and testicles, unassuming and apparently innocent, but stirring the imagination of all who viewed them. Sometimes she was drawn to ponder the perversity of it all. Why should such beautifully made boys wish to purport themselves in such a way? Why would they wish to imitate the appearance of girls? Asking them such questions would be pointless, because they probably wouldn't know themselves, but she suspected that their beauty itself was the main culprit. They loved the attention it brought them and that seemed to strengthen the assertion she'd made about marriage They loved the admiration and flattery they received and had learnt that girlish clothes and girlish mannerisms enhanced their attractiveness. It certainly gave a savoury taste to her own deviation. She loved being able to strip away their boyishness and emasculating them. She adored being able to transform such lovely looking young things into pretty fuck-dolls. "They're all boys, aren't they? They're freaky boys in frocks," said a voice behind her. It came in through the open door, and Jennifer whirled round to see Sophie gazing into the room observing the sashaying she- boys with undoubted curiosity. Immediately she put a firm arm around the girl and gently steered her away. "They're wearing costume, dear, they're dressed for a theatre production. It's not unusual in show business, and anyway boys in ancient Greece and Rome always wore skirts. Now, I really don't think your mother would be happy to know you were up here. Best if you go back downstairs." "Mummy's still talking with that woman. I was only having a look around," Sophie explained. Then she added unexpectedly, "Boy's in Greece and Rome didn't waggle around like they're doing. Those boys are queers, aren't they?" Jennifer tensed, but refused to be thrown by such speculation. "They like to be appreciated by everyone. They may be bi-curious like many lads their age, but who cares what they are? Who truly cares about the inclinations of others these days when shame is no longer a barrier? Boys and girls can swing which ever way they wish." "Legally they have to be a certain age first," the girl replied cutely. Her mouth was a puckered cupid's bow, but her voice carried a definite tone of censure. "People in authority are supposed to give children guidance and keep them safe, but you're teaching them to be prick- teasers." Her manner was half apologetic and seemed to beg forgiveness, but there remained a flirtatious gleam in her eyes that betrayed that as a lie. She had the slyness of a cat, and could be just as heartless and cruel. "Go back to your mother." responded Jennifer huffily, giving the girl a somewhat over-enthusiastic push to help her get started out the door. Little bitch! What an obnoxious child, she thought. But then she could remember what she was like herself at her age, when no boundaries in life were perceivable and when everyone claiming to be adult was considered to be geriatric. All the same she couldn't help wanting to give the impudent little Miss a good slap. The precocious little know- it-all was annoying, and she knew the pantywaists would find her extremely disconcerting. If not watched carefully she was likely to lord it over them like a school bully. *** Miranda Delahaye rapped the iron door-knocker with a positive rat-a-tat- tat and rang the doorbell too for good measure, then she calmly stood back to await a response. After a few moments the heavy door of Number 19 swung open and Jennifer Hancock revealed herself. Miranda grinned, showing a line of fine white teeth. "Ah! I'm not being greeted by the Whitechapel Strangler after all." "If you mean Samson, he's not here. Nor is anyone else. They're all away doing a show at a private club in Pimlico tonight." The journalist grudgingly acknowledged she wasn't going to get very far. "Oh!" she frowned, a cynical smile curling her lips. "So, no one else is on the premises, so I can't meet anyone but yourself. I came her expecting a story about the academy, and I hope your not going to let me down. Rumour as it that Madame Dupont only caters for boy dancers." Jennifer scoffed as she closed the door and ushered her into the sitting room. "Boys! Take a look around the house. You won't find anything associated with boys here. Madame is buying Number 19 from Horace Pratt. Would that be a story?" "Horace Pratt!" The other woman looked at her with a half-serious, half- quizzical expression on her face that was impossible to read. "Interesting, but hardly a story. I've always thought of Horace as a cheapskate wide-boy. I've never reckoned him as having the wits or the wherewithal to get into the property market in central London." "Would you like a drink? Tea, whiskey - or rhubarb wine," Jennifer asked. Miranda seated herself on the red sofa. "Oh yah! Rhubarb wine sounds quaint. Let's have a dollop of that." The teenager went over to the bottles at the side of the room, looking back over her shoulder as she dealt with the refreshment. Her eyes took in the fullness of the woman's breasts beneath the blouse she wore, nothing beneath it, no bra, the low neckline providing alluring glimpses of bare skin. She didn't know her very well, hardly at all really, but there was no denying how attractive Miranda Delahaye was. She had the kind of looks men went overboard for, the kind that attracted women too. "I'm very grateful you agreed to help at such short notice," she said as she poured a generous measure into a tulip glass and offered it. "I can't find a mention of Ubaid pottery in any book on ceramics I've looked at." "Crikey love, you won't," Miranda said lifting the glass of wine up against the light of the window to gaze at its pale-pink translucence. "Ubaid is ancient stuff from the Middle East and hasn't been produced for thousands of years." As Jennifer settled on the sofa beside her she pulled a sheet of paper from the bag she'd brought with her. "I haven't had time to do any research on the subject since you phoned to ask about it. But as it happens Daddy did Early Mesopotamia as a dissertation when he was at university, and I've managed to get hold of some of his notes. They're not very current naturally, but hey, it's only ancient history, isn't it?" "Mesopotamia?" Jennifer queried. "Once called Persia. Generally known as Iraq these days," Miranda told her. Quaffing her drink, she grimaced and then held the glass out for a refill. "Ugh! A person could run an outboard-motor on this stuff. It hits the stomach like a bomb." She suddenly looked up imploringly. "You will go to university next year, won't you Jennifer? You simply must. All those that don't end up being mere donkeys for those that do." Jennifer couldn't help but admire the woman's mouth. As sensuous as that of a sissy, and probably just as ready to go down on a man's prick. "Just tell me what you've got." "I take it you don't know much about ancient history?" "Not a sausage. When I was at school I never paid much attention to things like that. I was more of a sporty type." "Well, let's begin by filling in some details." Miranda glanced down at the papers in her hand and waded into her notes. "Archaeological evidence suggests there were climate changes in the Near East following the last Ice Age, and large areas that had once been arid became watered by rivers and covered in forest. This encouraged the Neolithic hunter- gatherer tribes of the Zagros mountains of Kurdistan to slowly begin transferring to the Mesopotamian lowland plains, which were probably very lush during this period. She glanced up. "The regional word for 'plain' at that time was edin, the very word from which the biblical Eden is most likely derived." Taking a sip of rhubarb wine she dipped her head again. "The men continued to hunt, but the women began to augment food gathering by harvesting wild varieties of cereal crops. Eventually they planted the same crops in extensive garden plots, an innovation that produced unprecedented amounts of food but which was best managed by staying in one place." She raised her head yet again. "Fixed settlement was the key to everything. Apparently we must hold women to account for inventing civilisation." She took another sip of wine, coughed and blinked hard. "Good god! Drink this only if you want to hallucinate." "Do go on, Miranda," Jennifer urged impatiently. The journalist smoothed down her skirt. "When food production increased, so did population, and by 7000 years BC small villages were expanding into towns that eventually became cities." "Enough of that. Get to the point. Pottery! What about pottery?" The journalist's head dipped again. "Breakable items were of little use to nomadic hunter-gatherers, but settled life made pottery manufacture an industry. Ubaid pottery was among the best of the earliest work. Most common goods of this type were monochrome painted in geometric designs, hatched and crosshatched triangles within plain horizontal bands...." "Okay. I'm bored already. Tell me about stoneware?" Miranda shook her head. "Daddy doesn't say anything here about stoneware." "Is that it, then? Is that everything you've got about Ubaid pottery?" Jennifer said. "Um, yes, 'fraid so. Is it any help?" "It's okay. It's more than I knew." Miranda sipped her wine. Even though she'd already consumed a glass and a half her face still rebelled against its stringency. "Is there a story for me in the pottery?" "I don't know. Maybe one day." "It's always later with you. I don't know why I've wasted my time coming here. No story about Madame Dupont's school, no story about the pottery. Working for the Tattler as I do, I only ever cover things like council meetings and school sports days. I want to work for the Guardian or the Telegraph, but I'll never do that unless I can push out some decent cutting-edge copy now and again." With a calculated grin she delved into her handbag, brought out a photograph and wagged it in front of Jennifer's face. "I think I could be onto a story without your help. I got this from a bloke in a pub. He had a whole set that he'd bought from a shop in Hook Lane, but he had an idea they originated from here." Jennifer looked at the glossy picture and caught her breath. It was a full frontal image of Pompom, features crisp and evocative complete with little-girl bangs and a winning smile, and he was as naked as a pin. She gaped at the woman, her surprise close to shock. Miranda's face, meanwhile, remained triumphant. Dark eyes twinkling, lips parted and shiny with gloss, she continued to grin, ignoring Jennifer's stony expression as she wafted the print in front of her again. "Nice little body on this one, eh! At first glance I thought it was a young girl, but then quite obviously it wasn't." Her voice oozed like melted chocolate and she had the supercilious smugness of a schoolgirl winner of a spelling competition. "Got anything to add to that?" she asked. Jennifer had always suspected it was rather naive of Madame Dupont to ask Horace Pratt to get involved with indiscreet photographic studies of her dancers. The photographs had been intended exclusively for mail order magazines, but it stood to reason that a man like Horace would salt away a stack of copies he could sell for his own profit. Once they were in the pockets of drunks in pubs it was only a matter of time before a journalist got hold of one. Miranda's knowing grin and sly teasing caused anger to ripple in Jennifer's veins, but she maintained an outward show of indifference. "I don't want you to write a story about it, Miranda," she said, "The authorities would come down of Madame Dupont like a ton of bricks. It would ruin her." Bolstered by wine Miranda put down her empty glass and looked the younger woman up and down. "Be reasonable, Jennifer. Working for the Tattler is my bread and butter, but it's as dull as ditch water. A nice juicy scandal will get me noticed by the nationals, so come on now, admit it. The woman encourages young boys to pose around like precious little tarts. She's up to her ears in dodgy smut of some kind and you know something about it. If you won't give me the story I'll have to get it from somewhere else. Maybe I'll start in Hook Lane." Clearly Miranda would take vicarious pleasure in relating every salacious detail of life at number nineteen, and what she couldn't prove she'd invent and wait to be challenged. That way she'd get everyone's attention, and once the story was out and proper investigations were made Madame Dupont would be crucified for compelling boys to wear frocks and dragged through the courts to answer all kinds of scurrilous allegations. Whatever the outcome, such a thing would deal a death blow to the Summer Season and put an end to the Frilly Follies. Just for a moment Jennifer remained motionless in surly concentration, then her limbs galvanised into motion. Before Miranda could blink twice a hand shot up to clamp around her jawbone in a grip she found impossible to shake off. Jennifer's palm became firmly locked under her chin as the claw of her fingers squeezed her face. Once she'd got the woman immobile with her head wedged in the corner of the sofa Jennifer leaning against her and ran a finger down the side of her neck. "I've done judo, y'know. I've got medals for it. I'm touching your mastoid muscle with my finger at this moment. It protects the carotid artery, which supplies blood and oxygen to the brain. If I move the muscle aside and apply pressure to the artery, here, you'll be unconscious in five seconds and a dead duck in half a minute." Miranda began to panic. Rage had suddenly boiled up within the girl and it was not what she'd expected, and nor did she have a clue about how to spin out of the steely grip that was frightening her. Jennifer Hancock had become a crazed thing. There was madness in her demon-dark eyes and a maniacal expression on her face, and she was strong - she was terribly strong. She was capable of doing as she said. She was capable of anything. She could easily have been the Whitechapel Strangler. Unable to fight her off Miranda went limp, letting herself go loose to show she wasn't struggling. "Let go of me," she pleaded desperately, "Oh, please let go." Jennifer relaxed slightly, but the hand stayed in place. "In a moment, but first let's you and I come to an understanding." Petrified with terror and squashed into the corner of the sofa Miranda gasped in reply. "An understanding? What do you mean?" Jennifer forced the woman's chin higher, pushing her head back. "Just simply understand that I don't need a university degree in order to practise violence. If I ever see a word of this story in the Tattler or any other newspaper I'll seek you out and be very harsh. First I'll break both your arms, then I'll go off and burn down your Daddy's house. Have you got that?" "Okay, Okay. God-yes-absolutely-of-course-no-problem," Miranda squawked desperately. Jennifer opened the claw of her hand flamboyantly, making a show of releasing her, and Miranda Delahaye slumped down, speechless for a moment, confusion crinkling her smooth features. Eventually her chin quivered and her voice softened into a placatory tone. "Good Lord. When you've a point to make you don't do it by halves, do you? I never thought you felt so strongly about the matter. Are you fond of that woman?" "Madame Dupont is obsessive and she can be a miserable curmudgeon. But she's okay and I won't allow you to harm her. I want you and I to remain friends, Miranda, so tear the picture up. Tear it into small pieces." Without any protest Miranda rapidly shredded the photograph. "Fine, we'll be friends. But for goodness sake don't offer me another drink. You've already made me wet my knickers." Jennifer cast a sly glance at her and noticed a red flush had spread up from Miranda's chest to creep up around her neck. "Well done! That's good. It pleases me when people show a wish to co-operate. But I need you to prove your obedience is not simply a fleeting thing, so kneel on the floor in front of me and show me your tits." The journalist was astounded and looked at the girl as if she were mad... silly really because she already knew she was mad. But she was mad too, and recent events had made her unconditionally compliant. Blushing deeply she climbed down onto the carpet and presented herself like a slave, not attempting the disguise what she was doing when she dipped her hands into the wide, elasticised top of her blouse to utter a short, sharp breath, a kind of gasp as her fingers scoop under her soft lush breasts and lifted. "Aaah!" Her bare bosom spilled out, and stimulated by such uninvited bold action the nipples peaked at once. "Jennifer, what... Please, I..." "Shush, Miranda. Relax. I don't intend to hurt you," Jennifer whispered as she leaned forward to study the revealed flesh. "Quite the reverse in fact." Miranda felt her heart leap. For the first time since her arrival the girl's face was alive with amusement, and it suited her. It made her look devastatingly pretty. It was a face she probably showed to all her potential conquests and no doubt they all succumbed. Miranda too could feel the pull of her attraction. For a moment Jennifer played outrageously with the naked breasts, smoothing her fingers over the warm skin and testing the pliancy of each fleshy orb, making Miranda arch her back and clutch at air. "You have a very nice bosom and a very nice body too. And you are about to find out that doing what you're told begets a very nice reward when dealing with me. Slip your panties down to your knees and open your legs." Miranda uttered a gasp of disbelief and Jennifer monitored her expression closely. There was some hesitance and the merest flicker of renewed defiance. "Do it, Miranda," she told her solemnly, "Do as I say or I'll be tempted to twist your tits like doorknobs and smack them until they fall off." All thought of refusal evaporated. Quivering with shame Miranda reached under her skirt and lowered her underwear, and Jennifer immediately placed a hand smoothly on the woman's knee and moved up the legs and under her skirt, softly without pressure, making it a caress of promise. Recriminations began to burn inside the journalist. What was the girl thinking of? Miranda Delahaye wasn't a lesbian. On the point of indignantly pushing the other girl away she hesitated. There was something about those lean hands... she was afraid of those fingers, she knew what they could do. And anyway, it wasn't so bad. Her skin began to tingle and a motorbike seemed to race around inside her belly, it was an unnerving sensation, startling but oh-so-pleasant. It was shocking too. It was shocking to feel so vulnerable to a younger girl, both mentally and physically. She almost drew back, horrified to feel her vulva flaring open, appalled to find her pulse racing at an indecent touch that stirred indecent thoughts. Instinctively she knew Jennifer was going to nudge up her skirt and find that warm, tingling melting place between her legs; a 17 year old wanting to get her fingers on a 23-year-old clitoris. No girl had ever done that to her since her days at Uni. It was reprehensible, but at that moment every fibre in Miranda Delahaye's body was calling out 'Go on... do it'. Jennifer glowed. A potentially dull evening was becoming an interesting one. She recalled the delightful looking vibrator she'd recently confiscated from beneath the mattress of a bed in one of the spare rooms, an object far too big to give joy to any of the sissy-dancers, but which Miranda would learn to appreciate - both front and back - when she'd been heated up sufficiently. *** Madame Dupont's Summer Season entered into another week and despite her ignorance of show business Jennifer Hancock found herself regularly closeted with Madame and her sissies, discussing, try on, discarding and altering any number of costumes. The silks and taffetas, slippers and shoes, hats and gloves and the why's and where fore's of wearing a stole with crinoline had become items of stock conversation. Sometimes she was even asked to make suggestions or arbitrate; this shade of blue or that one, leopard skin or pink marabou, although in the end Madame always made her own decision. Directness on a personal level was easier than it had been. There even passed between them a hint of friendship on occasions. On the morning after Miranda's Delahaye's visit Jennifer was sent on a mission whilst Madame had the dancers in rehearsal, and for the first time since coming to London she was able to walk into the middle of the city while the shops were open, browsing the windows of the chic stores in Oxford Street before drifting down to Piccadilly Circus. It was barely a full generation beyond the austerity years of the 1950s, yet there was an air of vibrance and vitality everywhere. There was music and colour and not a single instance of the archetypal English bowler hat she had expected to see. Instead the pavements were thronged with Hippies and their imitators, those youthful 'flower-people' who espoused the attitudes of the earlier, mostly middle-class social dropouts called Bohemians. She smiled at a street-cleaner and wiggled her fingers at a taxi that stopped to let her cross the road, then went to Soho to pick up some costume accessories. She knew nothing of the city's streets and landmarks or its idiosyncrasies, but that didn't matter. It was a beautiful day and the pavement cafes along Old Compton Street were crammed with people, the air reverberated to pop songs in shops and South American pipe music played by itinerant buskers on the pavements. She bought the items she needed from an open-air stall in Berwick Street market, which under the summer sunshine had taken on the feel of a sweaty bazaar where tourists and shoppers mingled as if in a Middle Eastern souk She was in a good mood and even smiled at the old stall holder when she called her 'darlin'. The market was a surprise. Not just a source of vegetables and flowers, but a treasure trove of crystal bead necklaces in jewel colours; of chic dresses - inexpensive copies of the latest high fashion, and of silk panties, T-shirts, sandals, belts and bags. Madame certainly knew the right place for a girl to do shopping. Afterwards she paused for coffee. She was no good hand with a camera and anyway had no time during the day to travel the tourist routes of London, so while window shopping she'd bought a handful of picture postcards depicting the kind of places the people at home would expect her to visit during her time in the capital; The Tower, Westminster Bridge, Buckingham Palace, Parliament Square. Big Ben she discovered was the name of the bell in St Stephen's tower and not the clock tower itself. She realised there was rather a lot she didn't know and a great deal she hadn't seen. She wrote a brief message on each of them and posted them off of the way back to Knob Street. It was all a bit of a cheat really, to describe everything so graphically when she'd not seen anything, but at least it saved her from several days of traipsing around the city. When she arrived back an unusual melody was being jangling on the piano up the stairs, a sort of American-cowboyish tune. When she went up to investigate she found the sissies were all practically naked. They had cowboy boots on their feet, white cowboy hats on the back of their heads and scarlet bandanas looped about their scrawny necks, but their only other item of clothing was a nylon scarf tied about their hips which added a of touch glamour to their appearance but hid nothing. While she watched, Madame nodded to her troupe and hit the opening notes on the piano for what must have been the umpteenth time that morning. "One, two, three, go." she chanted has her fingers flashed along the keyboard to make the old sit-up-an-beg instrument imitate the rapid plucking rhythm of a guitar. "Toe, heel, ball. Toe, heel, ball... turn towards the audience Candy, not away from them, you should know that by now. And for goodness sake, SMILE or you'll have everyone going home in tears." The sissies were individually spaced in a grid formation, but moving in unison and employing identical steps and synchronised hip bumps, hand claps and boot slaps. "This isn't ballet Dolly, so don't flail with your arms," chaffed Madame Dupont, "Keep them behind you when you're not using them. The keynote of good theatre is managed simplicity that allows characters to shine. In straight drama dialogue is everything, but in musical revue such things are of secondary importance. "Turn in, turn out, turn in, turn out. STOP!" Trained by endless fraught rehearsals, all the dancers froze while Madame jabbed with her finger. "Pompom, you're the shortest, you go in front. Candy and Prudence, you're next. Amber, bring up the rear. That's it, and let's try it again one more time... One, two, three..." Rehearsals were always 'let's try it again' and 'one more time' with Madame, but after a few more minutes she stopped and looked at her watch. "Take five, everyone. In fact go and have lunch and be back here at 2-0-clock." "That's something different you're trying," Jennifer remarked when Madame met her at the door. "Yes, it's a recent trend blossoming in America called Line Dancing, a kind of formation routine with Country and Western accompaniment. That makes it unlikely to ever catch on here of course, but it as all the necessary glitz and showbiz pizzazz to make a catchy additional number for the Follies. There are steps to learn, but really only a few. They can be taught in an hour, but only through rehearsal will they be remembered." "An additional number? Why are you inserting additional routines into the show in the middle of the season?" Madame led the way down the stairs. "All stage productions change over time, they germinate and then evolve. One must never allow improvement to be impeded by one's first ideas. That's always been the way of theatre. A performance can lose its edge if it's allowed to stagnate. Anyway, I'm being pestered by people to make the Follies into an hour long event and putting in an extra routine is the easiest way of doing that. The only problem is with so many costume changes it will be difficult to make it all go together smoothly." Jennifer couldn't hold in a snigger. "Costume changes! Why, apart from the a hat and boots they're only wearing handkerchiefs." Madame didn't see the humour and frowned. "Don't be cynical, Jennifer, you know what I mean. Apart from the costume changes they need a few moments to re-orientate themselves between routines." "It's not that fop Bertie Bestable pestering you, is it? I know he was keen on some changes." Jennifer asked more seriously. She disliked the man. Behind his polished veneer she reckoned him a flint hearted savage. She detested his loudness, the moist bread-dough texture of his hands, the way he thought everything was available without effort from himself. Especially she hated the way he said his 'a's by opening his mouth as wide as it would go and breathing out. Madame shook her head. "Bertie? Good Lord no. He's not pestering me about the length of the show anyway. He's keen to have another performance at Dovecott Manor, only he's insisting that next time all my darlings should show, you know - erections. I still retain some artistic integrity and refuse to agree to that of course, so he can go and fish for his second performance." "I thought once that Annalisa Gordeno and he had a thing about each other. I sort of hoped they'd get married and do enough rude, dangerous things to kill each other off." "Bertie and Annalisa! Oh no. They're mutually incompatible - quite dissonant, they think in an entirely different key. They may share the same bed from time to time but as individuals they're as unlike as Gluck and Mozart." She paused and put a finger to her chin. "Marlene Dietrich said something that would fit Annalisa. She once said, 'She may have the body of a woman but she's never read the instruction manual.'" On their first meeting Jennifer had thought Madame Dupont to be a rather over-fussy, straight-laced individual, but she now found her to be far more interesting than that. She was ever-so slightly vague about normal everyday matters, but she compensated for such a shortfall by displaying boundless energy and immense determination in pursuit of things that were important to her. She was ruthless in capitalising on her dancers sissy charms and was frequently negligent of guarding their morals, but she never abused them in any way beyond rehearsals. Indeed she seemed to have retired from sex in any form. She was an exploiter of it and not a participant. Everything around her was sacrificed to her all encompassing need to be part of that great grey abstraction called show- business. Booking for The Frilly Follies had begun to flow in steadily after the show at Dovecott Manor. Most of Madame's business revolved around private gentlemen's clubs at various places around the town, but there had also been some performances for well known celebrities at get- togethers in their country retreats, and even one for a party on a boat on the Thames. There were also gay clubs that enjoyed drag acts of course, but she insisted on quality venues, a demand brought on by her own early experiences of freezing halls, tuneless pianos and stuffy rooms with windows nailed shut. Not for her darlings the smell of mildew or the fear of scenery collapsing on their heads. Even so, such was her passion for theatre Jennifer suspected she'd put on a show in a leaky hut if she had to, and still love every minute of it. On reaching the bottom of the stairs Madame turned and shouted down the passageway towards the kitchen, "Tea, Marianne," then went directly into the sitting room. She'd barely got through the door when the phone rang. "Hello, Madame Dupont speaking... Oh, hello Horace... Yes, Horace..." A pause as she listened, then, "Yes, Horace... Of course Horace, I quite understand... No, no, there won't be a problem. Come whenever you wish... Of course I'll mention it to Samson... Yes, I'll tell everyone." "That was Horace," she said as she settled the phone back into its cradle. "I gathered that much," Jennifer said. "What does he want?" "He said he wants to come and collect a plant-pot from the back yard, and since there are so many mad people here he wanted to be assured he can come in safety." Jennifer bridled. "Madame, you mustn't allow him to take that pot." The other woman ran a hand abstractly through her hair. "Why shouldn't he have it? The horrible old thing belongs to him." "Do you have any interest in history?" "Theatre is all tradition and everything to do with history. Henry V, Hamlet and Richard III were historical subjects when Shakespeare wrote them. He made a living from writing about the past. The King Lear in his play came from Llyr, a pagan god. The Romans gave the same name to the midland town of Llyrcester, which is now called Leicester." "Yes, yes, that may be so, but I've recently discovered that the stone pot in the yard is probably one of the relics Sir Grenville Dander brought back from Mesopotamia. It's very likely to be very old indeed, and extremely valuable." "But it belongs to Horace now, dear. The house and contents are still his until the sale of the property goes through. If I tried to withhold it from him we could have the bailiffs and the police visiting, and letting the law into this house would put an undignified end to the Frilly Follies." Conceding the point Jennifer sat back in her chair. "I suppose you're right. He'll have to have that silly pot. Just don't let him know about the other stuff." The older woman became slightly puzzled. "Other stuff! What other stuff?" "You encourage Marianne to make jam, Madame." "Yes, I do. I buy over-the-hill fruit from the market sometimes and he turns it into very fine jam. It's energy food for my dancers and much cheaper than buying chocolate bars." "He's so dizzy he never thinks to keep you informed, and as long as you keep buying fruit, he keeps making jam. But the point I want to make is, he hasn't enough glass jars to store it all in. I was snooping around earlier, and when I looked in the kitchen pantry I found he had forty small containers full of jam." Elise Dupont was plainly astounded. "Forty!" "Yes. There were only eleven glass jars, but there was also twenty-nine small earthenware pots that he'd found in an unopened wooden crate under the stairs. They're painted earthenware pots, and I'm sure they're another part of the haul Sir Grenville brought back from his last expedition." Madame looked nonplussed and her brow knitted as she tried to grasp the importance of what was being said. Her heart and mind were aggressive organs but were always in a state of flux, and anything not directly connected to the Frilly Follies seemed to escape her. "Do you understand what I'm saying, Madame?" continued Jennifer, "I'm saying that Marianne is storing jam in pots that may be five or six thousand years old." Madame Dupont at last responded. "That old! Goodness gracious, I do hope he washed them out thoroughly." She then gave Jennifer a vacant look. "So, what now?" "You'll be asking me about star-signs next, and I'm not a fortune-teller or a gypsy-witch." Madame's eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "Aren't you? I sometimes wonder about that. You may be young but you radiate an impression of quickness of mind and rapidity of action. Moreover you have the ability to make everyone instantly agree with your own point of view. In my opinion you could easily be some kind of sorceress." The teenager smiled. "Look, Horace has no idea about this other stuff, so may I suggest you keep a couple of days free to allow Samson and I to take it all up to my mother in Yorkshire. It'll be safe with her, and mummy as a good head for business. She'll find you the right market and get you the best price for it, and she'll only take a small percentage in commission." The dance mistress glared, but not disagreeably. "You see, you're doing it again, composing a solution and leading me by the nose. Pearls of wisdom offered in abundance. So young and yet so clever. How can that be?" After a moment she added, "But I could use a little extra cash. When this house is mine I'd love to have a proper floor laid in the rehearsal room." "I'll go and get some more glass jars tomorrow and transfer the jam over," Jennifer said, "And I must find a garden-centre and buy another plant-pot for Marianne or we're bound to have tears again." At last Madame perked up. "Yes, where's the tea? Where is Marianne?" It was a quandary indeed. Marianne was always at hand to make tea, but there was no sign of him at that moment. Curious, Jennifer went through to the back of the house and checked the kitchen only to find the kettle was stone cold and hadn't even been plugged in. Like the literary Alice she became curiouser and curiouser. She went upstairs and looked in the communal day-room before asking all the dancers in the dining area if they knew where he was. No one had seen Marianne since early morning, and there was a general moan because no bread and cheese had been laid out for their lunch. A task he never failed to do. Increasingly alarmed she did a sweep through all the bedrooms, then becoming desperate she looked in all the empty rooms on two floors and even in the broom cupboards. Still no sign of Marianne. In a final despairing effort to seek him out she went up to the garret in the roof of the building. No sign of him in the attic room either, but when she investigated a narrow wardrobe behind the door she discovered the delicate girl-bodied, elephant-cocked Marianne standing inside, trussed up like a Sunday capon. The most senior sissy in the house was tied with several lengths of rope cut from a washing-line, one strapping his ankles together, one just above his knees, others around his waist and chest, all connected by intricate crossovers. Hands strapped tight behind his back, gagged with a large piece of self-adhesive parcel tape, he was done up like a bird awaiting the oven, except of course he was standing upright and balancing precariously in high-heeled shoes - shoes that were his only item of clothing. His big, long cock had been carefully threaded out between his bindings and the end of it tied separately with a length of string that was hitched to a steel bolt on the inside of the cupboard. "What on earth as been going on here?" she snapped at him as she pulled away the gag. "It's not my fault, Jennifer. Sophie, she did it..." Jennifer tutted irritably has she struggled with the knotted ropes. "Are you telling me you let a little girl strip you and tie you up like this?" Silly question she thought. "Yes of course you are. You're a soppy wet lettuce and you probably didn't even struggle. You just accept humiliation." "She said she'd come back and untie me before lunchtime." Marianne murmured dismally. "Well she's gone home and you've missed your lunch. Everyone's missed their lunch." Crestfallen and woebegone Marianne cast his eyes down with every appearance of innocence wronged.. "Sophie fibbed to me, didn't she, Jennifer?" She found it hard to take in his naivety and the way he accepted such degrading treatment, but inevitably his sulky pout would disappear within half a minute and the memory of his ordeal would slide into oblivion. She'd read somewhere that fish in a pond had a memory-span of just three seconds, and on some occasions Marianne could compete with that. Of Sophie she despaired. The girl was a plague to good order and conduct, coming and going as she pleased, and having no sense of responsibility about what she did. She was like a mischievous sprite. When she was in the house no one was ever sure of where she was or what she was doing, and her mother-daughter relationship with Madame gave her immunity from any kind of restraint. "We won't mention this unfortunate affair to Madame Dupont," she told Marianne, "She believes her little girl is an angel, and I don't intend to be involved in spoiling things for her. We'll tell her you got trapped in the loo. The catches on some of the doors are in a terrible state, so she'll believe that." *** Climbing out from under the shower Marmeluke Dobbs wrapped a bathrobe loosely around his paunch and waddled through his bedroom. Beyond the door his dimly lit study was spacious, the walls lined with bookcases full of leather-bound volumes, some of them quite rare. At one end of the room a deep leather armchair butted up against a small table atop of which stood a decanter of port next to a sandalwood box full of fine cigars. A large Victorian partners' desk dominated one corner of the room, a masculine marriage of English oak and Italian leather that reminded him of the interior of a vintage Rolls Royce. Behind the desk the wall was decorated like a shrine to himself. A line of carefully calliographed certificates and gilt-lettered diplomas bore witness to a life of academic studies which had culminated in him being appointed lecturer in antiquities at one of the country's foremost seats of learning. Marmeluke lived in a well appointed two-storey cottage several miles out from the gleaming spires and classical universities of Oxford. He was a rotund bachelor and a single storey studio-appartment would have suited him better since he detested having to heave himself up the stairs late at night, but he considered his status at the university decreed he should own a more substantial dwelling. However, the upper portion of his home was hardly ever used since he'd accommodated everything for work and sleep at ground level. Professor to his students, Dr Dobbs to most of the faculty on account of his doctorate in archaeology, Marmeluke or 'Dobbo' to a few intimate friends, he was the overweight and slightly upper-class author of several anthologies and numerous reasoned papers on ancient civilisations. Vainly, he reckoned he was an undoubted asset to any institution that took him on. Of course like any man he had his frailties and the recent show at Dovcott Manor had aroused some of them. The girly-boy dancing had fascinated him. Dance was not solely a phenomena of the human race, that was well known, it was a development of the ritual courtship prancing practised by of a myriad of other animals, and in primitive societies it was the recognised way for girls of child bearing age to exhibit their desirable assets to potential mates. But only humans had extended dance into the realms of pure entertainment. Boy dancers were not unheard of in history either. Right up until fairly recent times autocratic rulers of places in Asia and Eastern Europe had enjoyed the performance of boy dancers, either because social or religious customs disallowed girls from such things, or simply from personal choice. It certainly appealed to himself. Yes, he was an eager fan of boys who expressed themselves like girls, who looked much like girls and moved like them. Boys who didn't shrink from showing off their own desirable assets. "Right on time," he murmured quietly to himself as he looked through a window and observed a well-used Morris Minor pulling up outside. The driver was Clara, the local girl who cleaned his home three mornings every week, but it wasn't unusual for her to call round on the odd evening when he requested it. She was accompanied by what appeared to be a small, slightly built young girl whose slim, bare legs garnished with little white ankle socks slicked down from under a coat that was too big for her, and whose delicate features were spoilt by a rather sulky expression. Marmeluke closed the curtains and perched on the arm of a chair. Up until that point he'd been oblivious to his rather eccentric form of dress for greeting visitors. Grimly he tightened the cord of his bathrobe around his waist. A moment later they were at the front door, Clara pushing it with her hip as she always did, holding the latchkey in one hand and gripping the younger girls arm with the other. "Good of you to oblige this evening, Clara," he smiled, and his smile broadened as he gazed at her small companion, "And who is the radiant young charmer you have with you?" It was his little joke. He knew exactly who it was. He frequently asked her to deliver her young brother Christopher to his home to 'entertain' him, but this was the first time he'd asked her to dress him up in drag. The lad didn't appear to be enthusiastic about wearing make-up and having his hair in ribbons, but he wasn't big enough or strong enough to deny his sisters wishes. Clara was a sturdy, compact Amazon of a girl with blunt fingers and short, thick legs, only nineteen but already beginning to resemble a dray-horse. Her face was diamond-shaped, crowned by a wide forehead over closely set eyes, and whenever she removed the light anorak she wore regardless of the weather, her roundly muscled forearms became prominent. When she'd been at school Marmeluke thought she'd probably excelled at being captain of the sumo wrestling team. The boy stood in the corner shrivelling with shame, and surreptitiously Marmeluke took every opportunity to steal a glance at his clever foxy face which was framed by dark hair in braided pigtails bedecked with meticulous red bows. He was both disturbing and exciting, and Marmeluke found it difficult to ignore the strange mixture of small-girl vulnerability and overt sexuality the lovely creature exuded. His mouth became dry with anticipation, knowing that the tender young thing would soon be his to do with as he wished. "Christopher doesn't look too pleased with what I've arranged," he said. Clara was little more than 5'6'' tall but she seemed to tower over her brother. She glared hard at him and when she spoke her tone was uncompromising. "He'll do as he's told. Call him Christine tonight, that's more girly than Christopher." She unfastened her brothers coat and pulled it off to reveal him in just underwear. Girl's underwear. Marmeluke gaped for a moment before very, very slowly closing his mouth. Even more slowly he shifted his gaze up and down the boys nubile frame. He was exquisitely small and dainty, tiny waist and hands like those of a doll. The underwear consisted of a diminutive white halter top of the style tailored to show off a girls belly, and matching bikini-style pants - a mere back and front held together by little strings - which he gathered was the chic fashion for young juveniles who considered themselves to be little ladies. "Didn't have a dress to fit him," commented Clara, "but I borrowed some undies from the girl next door. They'll have to do." Marmeluke saw himself as a sensualist, a sexual epicure, and he thought they'd do very well for a boy like Christopher. Slender as a reed with a peaches and cream complexion. All in all he looked a rare Queen of Hearts, an adorable girl of pubescent age, with skimpy knickers that held in an enticing boy-bulge. He looked gorgeous and he certainly had an influence over what happened in a man's trousers - or under a bathrobe. A marvel, thought Marmeluke. A rare beauty indeed. Clara didn't take off her anorak, she wasn't staying. She glanced at the watch on her wrist. "I'll be back to collect him at 10-o-clock, can you be finished by then?" Marmeluke nodded absently and the girl went out the door. Before the sound of her car had receded into the distance he had his arm around the shoulders of the youngster who'd been left behind. A beautiful face. Big liquid eyes, shadowed and lined with great care, a delicate, soft mouth and skin the texture of silk. So sweet and desirable. "I hate being dressed like this, I'm not a girl," Christopher moped. Marmeluke glanced down at the telltale boy-shapes in the front of lads pretty panties. "Of course you aren't, even if you're pretty enough to look like one. But we won't call you Christine if it upsets you. Chrissy will do for me." "The knickers belong to Isabelle, the little girl who lives next door to us." Chrissy explained, "Clara said she could bath me if she was allowed to borrow them." "Bathe you? A little girl bathed you?" Chrissy's little rose-petal lips came together in a pout. "I wasn't allowed to refuse. Clara stood there the whole time and made me sit in the bath while Isabelle washed me with a flannel - washed me all over, everywhere. Then Clara told her to get her hands all soapy and rub my prick to get all the stuff out from inside. It was very embarrassing." Marmeluke gave the lads shoulder a reassuring squeeze. "Cheer up, it's not the end of the world and I'm sure you'll be compensated. I give your sister a good bonus at the end of each week when she brings you here. She'll look after you." "She may buy me an ice-cream," Chrissy replied gloomily. "An ice-cream. Is that all? Goodness, that seems a little unfair. And it's my fault for including the money with her wage. I asked Clara to dress you up, too. It's a little fad I'm indulging at the moment. A silly game I wish to play." He never questioned the dysfunctional relationship Christopher shared with his sister. Female dominance was rare but not unknown in antiquity. During his march on India Alexander the Great had captured the city of Caria, to find it had a matriarchal system where women ruled over