Showtime Part 9 free porn video

she sets her lawyers on you." Bertie Bestable's expression became mutinous. "That worn-out old showgirl! You've no proof about anything you've said and she'll never believe you." Jennifer fixed him with a glare that could have dissolved concrete. "Maybe, maybe not. But she'll believe Madame Dupont. She and Madame have struck up rather a close friendship lately - affinity with the theatre and all that, kindred spirits as it were - she trusts her word implicitly, and when she hears this little story she'll have a team of auditors into the London accounts as quick as a knife." Annalisa shuffled nervously, her eyes darting back and forth between the girl from Nob Street and her affluent, influential manfriend. Not sure of what they were talking about and not confident enough to voice an opinion in such a cutting exchange, she felt rather weak and helpless, just like the personality she put on so often when seeking sympathy. Bertie was shocked into a momentary silence, his face suffused with rage. He was a well educated, widely travelled man with years of experience of the world and it was difficult for him to acknowledge the girl could best him so smoothly. A vain man, he could hardly bear the biting scorn in her voice, and even worse, the threat she presented. If that old bat Milly even heard a whisper of what she said, he was sunk. He felt as if everything important in his life could easily slide away. It felt uncomfortably like that little nonentity of a girl from the sticks was tugging the carpet from under his feet. He bristled malevolently. "Now listen here you surly young whippersnapper, you're not much more than a kid and you're getting too big for your boots. You don't understand the situation." "Well explain it to me. I'm a kid who's willing to learn." The man muttered something scathing under his breath then leaned forward, his manner openly abrasive now. His fleshy face had gone dark and the very pigment of his skin seemed to have altered. His jaw tightened, and just below the surface Jennifer could see violence bubbling up. She watched as he lifted half closed hands and knew he was tempted to grab her by the throat. He wasn't a particularly muscled man but he was a heavier build than herself, and because she could have had trouble throwing him off she called in her cavalry. "Samson!" When he heard the clumping of boots in the hall Bertie paused and then drew back. His arms slowly fell to his sides and his jaw dropped when the gorilla-like figure of the manservant appeared, seeming as wide as he was tall, a huge block of muscle and sinew that filled the doorway, glaring, a pugnacious set to his jaw, a forward thrust to his broad body. Bertie tried to remain calm and not be panicked into anything, or get wrong-footed, which wasn't proving easy with this girl. His face settled into grim lines of frustration as he sought appeasement. "Let's not get carried away with what's no more than a trifling affair. What does all this matter to you? Money? What do you want? What's your price for keeping schtum about this business?" Jennifer regarded him thoughtfully. The fact that she didn't like Bertie made her, in a perverse way, warm to him. She felt in control. She knew exactly where she stood, with no risk of emotions rising up to surprise her. He couldn't do anything to hurt her, but the arrogant, and not particularly intelligent man was at her beckoning and she could do whatever she liked with him. The power was all hers. With a delicate movement she tugged the leather tawse from her belt. "Hold out your hand." "What! Hold out my ...!" Bertie gazed at her incredulously. "This is ridiculous. Do you intend to strap my hand like I'm a naughty schoolboy?" "Something like that." The martial look in her eyes suggested she wasn't kidding. "Put your arm out straight and keep your hand flat, palm upwards." Bertie Bestable's face twitched. No way was he going to submit to such silliness. But incredibly his arm seemed to move on its own account, stretching out to the side, level with his shoulder, and with an open hand turned upwards. The girl raised the tawse, flicked it back until the thongs flapped over her knuckles, then brought it down in a resounding smack on his outstretched hand. He heard the strap swoosh viciously through the air, WHAP! He had to clench her teeth to stop herself from crying out as the instrument cracked down. The leather sizzled his hand and his head jerked up. Recovering rapidly Jennifer repeated her effort. WHOP! It made him wince and suck his teeth as a searing pain bit across his palm making his whole body freeze in tension. For a moment he wheezed miserably and his nostrils expanded and contracted like sea anemones. He swung his hand down and tried to ring some comfort into it with his uninjured hand. "Oww! Bloody hell. Steady on." "Other hand," Jennifer demanded, and a pale-faced Bertie raised his good hand. He knew she would be accurate. The next blow would strike across his fingers or the flat of his hand. It would fall precisely where she wished. SPLATT! Bertie clenched his teeth. "Uugh!" He flinched as the strap swung down but he didn't pull away. TWACK! Another strike. He made a choky sound and his face contorted. Red-faced now, slightly breathless, he clutched his punished hands together. "Is that it? Have you finished?" "No, I haven't explained my conditions yet. Nothing is finished until you agree to my conditions. Other hand again. Put it out." She swung the strap once more. SPLAT! on Bertie's uplifted, submissive paw. "Aaah!" This time it brought forth a howl of rage and pain. "Just what are your damned conditions?" "Okay! First, you'll resign as the earl's London agent. You'll do it immediately." "Yes, yes, yes. Of course. Of course I will." "Second, you'll reduce the price of number nineteen. You'll sell it to Madame Dupont for half the price you sold it to Horace Pratt." "But - but that was chicken-feed to begin with. The house is in the middle of London." "To cluck or not to cluck, is that the question? It's your decision, but unless you agree there's nothing settled." The strap swung down again to deliver another cruel swipe. WHACK! She beat each obediently raised hand systematically in turn and as the leather thongs came down they began to sting like branding irons. The strapping continued carefully and deliberately on alternating hands, each strike keenly applied following a pause which allowed them to appreciate its full effect. "Horace Pratt has the house, not me," Bertie blurted desperately. "You hold the deeds. You control everything. Horace is a toady, a lightweight middleman who follows your instructions. You see, Bertie, I do understand the situation." Jennifer beat his hands uncompromisingly. Six lashes on each. Twelve times he was made to endure the scalding swipes of leather on his palms and across his fingers, and twelve times he needed to suppress a yell. In the end Bertie Bestable was all too willing to cry uncle. "Okay, okay. I agree with whatever you want." When the girl stopped her voice was as severe as the strap. "Face the wall," she instructed. And he turned to face the corner, silently cursing her, but obedient. With a swirl of skirt Jennifer turned to the manservant who had accompanied her. "Samson, take Mr Bestable into another room. I've some private business to conduct with Ms Gordeno." At once the big man grasped Bertie Bestable by the collar of his pyjamas and Bertie ignobly submitted to being frog-marched away. Jennifer beckoned Annalisa. "Follow me girl, you're a good for nothing waste of space and I'm going to teach you a lesson. I'm going to thrash you." The woman's vacuous face drained of colour and she looked at her with an expression of despair and incomprehension. "But ..." she floundered, "But Jennifer, I've have nothing to do with Bertie's business deals." She fixed the woman with a basilisk stare. "I know that, but you did send Freddie back to school without consulting me. And anyway, you're such a stuck-up obnoxious tart you deserve a few smacks. In a way you're worse than Bertie. He was born a snob, but you probably took lessons." She led the distraught woman towards a small table. "I think you've been a very naughty girl recently, Annalisa. Haven't you?" "Yes, yes I have, Jennifer," the woman mumbled. "You need to be punished. It will help cleanse your conscience and make you feel better." "Yes, yes. I've been a bad girl and I deserve to be smacked." "Bend over. Get over the table," the teenager instructed. She pressed her between the shoulders, and the woman had no choice but to lean forward and present her bottom. "More. Surrender to me." Annalisa obeyed, pushing her buttocks out, and then glanced over her shoulder to see Jennifer's eyes fixed rigidly on her exposed flesh. She heard the strap swoosh and winced at the furcate lash of leather, and then her head jerked up from the polished mahogany surface and she had to clench her teeth to stop herself from crying out as the supple thongs lashed her plush behind. A searing pain bit across both buttocks and her entire body squirmed, but she remained in place. When it was finished she knew her backside would be a mottle of pink and purple flesh, but as her forehead dipped onto the hard top of the table she dare not ask if it was over. "You're behaviour lately as been selfish, underhand and deceitful, Annalisa. I know full well that the only reason you sent Freddie back to school early was because his little backside was proving a distraction to all the randy cocks you covet for yourself." "Bertie's just made an agreement and you must make an agreement too," the girl told her. Annalisa lifted her face, her cheeks reddening. "Yes, Jennifer. Whatever you say." "You must take Freddie out from whatever school he's in at the moment and enrol him at Fairyfield Grange. That way when I return home I'll be able to monitor his progress regularly." "Yes, of course. It'll be reassuring to know someone is keeping an eye on him." She felt a warm hand on her thighs, going between them, stroking them and easing them farther apart. The hand slid upward, making a slippery furrow through the lips of her sex and onward until it reached her anus. There it paused to tease and probe indecently with a delicate finger. Annalisa closed her eyes, aware only of the burning sensations on her bottom and the erotic tingle provided by the finger. It dallied for a moment then embedded to the second knuckle, churning inside inquisitively before withdrawing. Unbeknown to the older woman Jennifer had changed her position so that she stood between the parted legs. Deftly she reversed the tawse in her hand and forced the tip of the handle into Annalisa's unsuspecting backside. Annalisa felt its visit, something broader in girth than a finger that was stiff and not to be denied. With a single strong thrust it overcame her resistance and the visitor had sheathed the hard leather object neatly in her back passage. The woman lifted her breasts from the desk, gasped and arched her head back, astounded at the depth of her feelings and the depth of the penetration. An initial resistance proved futile and easily overcome, and now her sphincter muscles clamped around the odd penis. Jennifer used the weight of her body to ease it forward, forcing its way deeper into the other female's rectum. Annalisa closed her eyes and her mouth grimaced. Oblivious to everything else around her she sighed. Nothing, no one had ever possessed her like she was being possessed at that moment. Jennifer was shagging her in the arse, and Oh god, nobody had ever done that to her before, nobody had ever fucked her so intimately... well, only that big black stud on the beach in Jamaica that time, when she'd been squiffy on Bacardi. He had taken her like an earthquake, and it was the same with Jennifer now. Slowly the teenager began to slide the handle back and forth, ploughing the woman, each thrust pitilessly given, jabbing left then right with such vigour that Annalisa practically melted. Seismic shock waves rippled through her body. The girl was better than a man. Better than men in general anyway, who were usually vain, ignorant and unimaginative. Better than Bertie who was big, but vain, ignorant and lacking in technique. Without warning Jennifer drew back, leaving the woman gasping. "Stand against the wall. Press your nose to it while I have a final word with Bertie." She called Samson, she had to call him twice before he eventually appeared dragging a craven, hangdog Bertie with him. He was holding the doleful man by the collar like he was a reluctant hound, and he thumped him forward up against the wall on the opposite side of the room to where Annalisa was standing with her face pushed against the wallpaper. Bertie was red-faced, and because he was now only wearing a pyjama jacket she could see he was red-bottomed too. "Samson spanked you?" Bertie cringed. "Y-yes. The brute had me over his knee. Spanked me as if I were a child." Samson's unbuttoned fly hadn't gone unobserved by Jennifer's sharp eyes. "He did other stuff too?" Bertie snivelled and kept his face turned away. "He's so strong, Too strong for me. I couldn't stop him." The man's mean predicament rated no sympathy from Jennifer Hancock who merely pursed her mouth. "Well, I suppose that means you're useful for something. It must have been an ordeal for you though, so you'll do well to bare in mind that if you go back on any part of our agreement, I'll instruct Samson to track you down and give you a double dose of what you've just received." Giving a cold fish-like glance at the manservant she said, "Come along Samson. Here endeth today's lesson. Let's go home." *** On the day of the wedding it was as perfect as it could have been. A pierceing clear and glorious day in late August; a grey-stone church with a tall spire ringed by chestnut trees; a fat brown stream bubbling haphazardly through silky tufts of meadow grass nearby, and a hamlet taken from a storybook; a handful of honey-coloured houses half hidden behind fields of golden corn and Michaelmas daisies. It was set in Little Lush Bottom, the idyllic small village that served the estate of Mrs Van Damme. The village was recorded in the Domesday Book but had developed little in a thousand years, consisting of a pub, a row of cottages and the church, St Cuthbert's, the footings of which had been laid in Norman times. Marianne looked endearingly gooey-eyed and moony in his trousseau, which Mrs Van Damme had bought, and which was an extremely expensive Schiaparelli design straight from Paris. It was a slim-fitting understated floor-length tube of ivory shot silk, an Empire styled, high-waisted creation in which his tender bosom became effortlessly elegant and properly majestic and pivotal. Tilted back on his head he wore a dainty garland of silk marguerites and in his hands he clutched a small posy of fresh orchids and gypsophilia. The preparations had taken a fortnight, the dressing that morning three hours, the journey from London an hour, but the wedding ceremony took less than forty minutes. At 2-0-clock in the afternoon, as if primed by a starting pistol, a small crocodile of people entered the church and made a slow, dignified progress down the aisle in tempo with the stately rhythm of Mendelssohn's Bridal March playing on the organ. The interior of the church had been festooned with orange blossom and lilies, and the vicar of Little Lush Bottom led the way followed by Marianne clinging to the arm of Madame Dupont who was decked out in a broad brimmed Ascot hat and a smart peacock-blue two piece suit. Moving solemnly, legs shaking, body aglow, bearing a smile of dazzling delight, Behind them trailing in two files came the bridesmaids, Marianne's sissy-dance friends from Nob Street, who had likewise been treated by Mrs Van Damme. They all wore soft silk-georgette dresses, crushed strawberry pink all over, sleeveless, with elegant little ruffles drifting over the shoulders and low sweetheart necklines. Their ankle-length skirts lined with white petticoats swirled and floated like clouds, and long, white cotton gloves gave them the appearance of Regency princess's. Waiting before the alter stood Mrs Van Damme, her whippet-thin head adorned with an extraordinary flower smothered hat the size of a satellite dish and wearing a cream silk frock with fringes of amber beads at the neck and cuffs. When Marianne joined her he peeped beneath lowered lashes to steal a swift, appreciative glance at the tall, dark figure nearby. Mrs Van Damme's nephew, Percy, was acting as best man and wearing a grey morning suit that tactfully broke up the all-female assembly at the point of blessing. His tall commanding presence emanated an aura that was compelling. He was devastatingly handsome, broad-shoulders, chiselled jaw, piercing dark eyes and he emitted an aroma that was rich, woody and intoxicatingly masculine. He was a man who instantly and totally besotted Marianne and one he gazed at with something verging on idolisation. Things proceeded without a hitch. Mrs Van Damme had no respect for the clergy and never troubled the Almighty for favours. A Marriage By Common License short-circuited the need for the reading of the banns and the woman had successfully trampled on any other rules that got in her way. "Dearly beloved," said the vicar. "We are gathered here today ... " he observed everyone dolefully as he went mechanically through the preamble of the ritual. He held onto the unremarkable view that humanity was composed of two genders which in the course of time fused to form a whole. Anything outside this uncompromising idea was incomprehensible to him. Marriage was important, which is why it shouldn't be taken lightly, wantonly or inadvisably, and yet there he was, about to bless a woman in wedlock with a boy dressed as a girl. He had no choice but to please Mrs Van Damme. She had the power not only to bankrupt him but also by dint of her influence with Church authorities to deprive him of his cosy little niche in the countryside. He recoiled at the thought of ending up on the fringe of a grubby industrial town where he'd need to watch his church building every night to prevent his parishioners from rolling up and carrying away the lead flashing from the roof. At the recognised moment he felt bound to ask the assembly - "Does anyone here know of any legal impediment to the marriage of the two people before me?" His eyes scanned around. What a joy it would be if someone made an objection. He could stop the proceedings there and then and it wouldn't be his fault. The congregation became instantly hushed. There were more than a score of people sitting in the pews, but they were mostly villagers who prized Mrs Van Damme's patronage and who wished to continue in her good favour. Mrs Van Damme gave the vicar a cursory glance as she ran her tongue over the top row of her teeth and her eyes turned upwards. Woe betide anyone rash enough to ruin her day. 'Off with their heads' she seemed primed to quote. The ceremony droned on. Marianne liked churches, especially old ones. He liked the coloured glass windows and the flowers and the candles. He didn't know much about religion but it was okay, except that vicar-men always talked too much. Unconcerned about what was being recited he watched a beetle crawl over the toe-cap of the vicars shoe, and then suddenly the man was speaking to him. "Do you - em - Marianne - take Lolita Van Damme as your lawfully wedded - erm - spouse, to live together according to Gods law in the Holy estate of matrimony?" Marianne nodded politely. "Yes please, sir. Thank you very much, sir." The woman at his side tutted. "Say, Ai du, deah. This is vairy important. The correct response is, Ai duu." Marianne returned a melting apologetic smile. "Sorry, Mrs Van Damme." Then he looked at the vicar. "I do, sir." "You may - er - kiss the bride," proclaimed the vicar a little later. Mrs Van Damme bent forward and pressed her prim lips against Marianne's brow, and it was done. As they left the church to the organ struck up the triumphant strains of the Prince of Denmark's March. Mrs Van Damme's house, Axton House, was old and picturesque, an imposing neo-classical residence concealed from the road by a short, forested drive of ash, hazel and oak and ringed from the world by an old stone wall mottled with moss and fringed by flops of ivy. Beneath clouds that sailed in great galleons of cumuli across a sailor-boy blue sky a light breeze ruffled a set of drooping willows and their long delicate fronds floated sideways, like a girl's long, fine hair. The gardens looked lush, and outside the countryside rolled, fields of corn and barley with hedgerows in between sprouting joyous green flags and tendrils topped by feathery whirls of late blossom. Everyone mingled in the garden. Pimms-drinking ladies in Jasper Conran hats and gentlemen with roses on their lapels chattered in time-honoured wedding fashion inside a pink-and-white-striped marquee pitched at the side of a small lake and which featured a dreamy inside with fairytale spindly gilt tables and chairs. Music fluted from a state of the art amplifier and an area of wooden decking had been laid on the grass in case people wished to dance. On the lake a pair of swans, startlingly white on carbon-grey water, paddled to and fro. "A lovely wedding breakfast," remarked Mrs Carter-Plackett. "Yes, lovely," agreed the repressed, downtrodden little man at her side who was her husband, and who was wearing a rather ancient Monticristi panama that sported a raffish leopard skin hatband and a strong smell of mothballs. Mrs Van Damme's companion, Clementine, tutted. "It's a champagne reception, not a breakfast. Breaking-the-fast is from the days when the Church dictated no food should be taken before consuming the Communion bread. Mrs Van Damme doesn't accept dictates from anyone." "What a gorgeous man!" the small and elderly Mrs Quinlan remarked suddenly. Jennifer Hancock glanced over her shoulder to follow the woman's line of sight, but could only see Samson standing at the mouth of the tent looking slightly awkward and bewildered. "Surely you don't mean him, not Samson. He's, erm ... He's hardly a girl's ideal." Mrs Quinlan frowned disapproval. Her sharp features belied her sentimental belief in romance as portrayed in cheap novels. "Rather bone-jarring attractive in my opinion. A widow woman like me couldn't help but feel safe with someone like him in the house." Her eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "Now Madame Dupont's Summer Season as come to an end I wonder if she would allow the dear man a holiday. He could stay with me. I'd love to pamper him for a couple of weeks." The troupe of dancers from Nob Street divested themselves of their bridesmaid gowns and stripped down to their long cotton gloves and their G-strings to perform an impromptu dance routine on the decking. A sense of decorum dictated they retained their pants, but apart from their tap-shoes that was all they wore. The vocal number chosen by Madame Dupont that thrummed out from the amplifiers reflected an unexpected upturn in good fortune, since she'd recently purchased her house for a remarkably low price. The sheboys went straight into their routine as a chorus of female voices, jaunty yet mellifluous, boomed out from the nearby speakers: "We're in the money. We're in the money. We've got a lot of what it takes to get along! We're in the money, that sky is sunny, Old Man Depression you are through, you done us wrong." The dancers swayed with the melody and went at it full tilt, feet, hands and bodies moving as one, and in between verses they put on a display of spry and rapid synchronised footwork that would have had Fred Astaire applauding. The summer season had honed them into a unit of precision that was immaculate to behold. Stimulated with lecherous interest a crowd gathered to observe the engagingly stuffed panties clinging to their hips, all very conscious of the way their tiny white G-strings looked so precarious. Their gaze inevitably paused there, where the last wisps of delicate material still covered pretty sheboy genitals. It required no imagination to define the outline of what lay inside, the pouch of their thongs was no more than a minute snugly-fitting patch of delicate white gauze edged with scalloped lace from which the contents constantly threatened to spill out. Barefoot, slightly built and impeccably proportioned their lightweight figures served to emphasis their spry youthfulness, as did their legs. Their dark and merry eyes and the long bright ringlets that spilled down over their ears together with the flush of excitement on their cheeks, gave an impression that was not unbecoming. "We never see a headline about bread lines today. And when we see the landlord, we can look that guy right in the eye. We're in the money, come on, my honey. Let's lend it, spend it, send it rolling along." Sunlight played on glossy thighs that were smooth and shapely with an enticing butterscotch tan. Each dancer's spine had enough curve to generate immense sauciness to its attached gyrating bare bottom cheeks. They were untouchable in the present situation, but more than a few people groaned in frustration and all the men looked like they'd got a car trailer attachment stuffed down the front of their trousers. When the music stopped Jennifer swept them away to get dressed. All that is with the exception of Lulu, who darted off in search of a toilet, and almost barged headlong into Hyacinth Glossop. The gentlemen were not the only ones to appreciate the display of pantied penis's. The woman moved round to stand in front of him, regarding him thoughtfully, half-hooded eyes like those of a predatory bird, peering down to mentally devour his cotton covered groin with all its interesting shapes, the boy-cock inside the minuscule smudge of girlish-panties bending the material outwards, and the bulge in the crotch where the small wrinkly bag of his scrotum was cradled. The young darling was small, but perfectly proportioned, she noticed, with large innocent eyes and a rose and ivory complexion. He looked carbolically well scrubbed and the honey sweet smell of newness about him drew her forward like a wasp to ripe fruit. "How d'y'do. What's your name?" she asked. "Lulabelle... Lulu," he answered, looking at her suspiciously. Hyacinth was a short, corpulent, woman who he'd seen on his previous visit, almost as big across as she was tall and with a head that seemed to rise directly out of her ample cleavage. Her peroxide blond hair was caught back in a bun so severe that her pencilled eyebrows were arched high, giving her a perpetual look of surprise. That day she wore .tortoiseshell glasses and an insipid yellow dress which was fighting a losing battle with her figure. "Are you planning to stay long?" "I'm... I'm not sure... Madame Dupont decides things like that. Where are the loo's, please miss?" Hyacinth pursed her mouth and looked towards the house. The edifice seemed to smile beneath eaves warped by time, its complexion mellowed by two hundred summers. "The loo's? Everyone as permission to use the toilets in the 'ouse today. Come with me, I'll show you." Lulu, flushing slightly and shook his head. "No need to show me. I've been here before." The woman was not to be deterred. Her brow knitted, she took one of his hands in hers and drew him forward. "Yes, of course you 'ave, I remember that night. H'all the same, best if I show you the way," she said, moving him away from the garden and steering him purposefully towards the house. He wasn't sure he wanted her to take him, but she was so overbearing he didn't know how to refuse. He trailed indignantly at her side into the rear door and along a neat, carpeted passage. "'Ere we are. There's the toilet," she remarked, indicating a door. "Can you manage, or shall I come in with you? I don't mind 'olding an' aiming things for a cutie like you." Horrified, Lulu raced into the cubicle and slammed the door. He hoped that she would be gone by the time he'd finished, but his hopes crashed when he opened the door again and she immediately grabbed hold of his hand. "Let's not go outside yet," she said hurriedly, as if trying to pin down a butterfly before it escaped. She smiled and tilted her head to one side. "I watched you dancing - you boys - h'all that to-ing an' fro-ing an' stamping yer feet. You were h'all squiggley and sexy. It was very - um - entertaining." As if following a predetermined plan she ushered him a little way down the corridor before guiding him through French doors into a small conservatory set out like a walled garden. It was a botanical wonderland full of tiny flowers dashed with colour and abundant with purple clematis. "This is perfect," she declared. Lulu wasn't so sure. "Oh ... er ... couldn't we go somewhere else? Everyone is outside." The woman seated herself on a wicker chaise-longe, piling a mass of cushions behind her and patting her tight coiffeur complacently. "No, no, m'dear. This is h'ideal. I like it because it's private." She leaned back against the cushions and watched him covertly. A strange ardour darkened her eyes and an indefinable hunger sharpened the angles of her round face. Up to that point the tenor of conversation between them had been breezy silliness, a light-hearted exchange of nonsense. Now things changed. "Naughty little mademoiselle, that's what you are. Disgraceful. Does yer mother know you prance about practically naked in front of people? Does she approve of you showing-off like you do?" "I - I think she knows." "Awful! Some women these days have no sense of decency. You're a bad boy, makin' people feel sexy like you do. If them that looks after you won't sort you out, I'll have to do the job for 'em. You're... um... little outfit suits you perfectly, but I think we need to 'ave it off." Hyacinth couldn't resist it. She got hold of him and pulled him forward, letting her hands run the length of his spine until they reached the waistband of his skimpy G-string and then she hooked her fingers under it. She felt Lulu tense as she pushed the tiny garment downward over his legs, hearing his gasp as the elastic scraped the tender pink tip of his cock head as his sheboy lovestick sprang free, stiff and drippy. But she didn't stop. She didn't pause until she'd dragged the garment over dimpled knees and working the thongs off over his ankles and feet. Then Mrs Glossop cleared her throat and breathed heavily. "I know h'all about you. I saw you when you were here last time. You're a lovely thing. A vamp. Narrow little limbs, just like a toy. How old is you?" Lulu looked at her sheepishly. "Th-thirteen." "You don't look that old, but I 'spect that's coz you're a frilly pantywaist shemale." She glanced down. "Nice knob though, a good looking pair o' balls too. It all seems odd somehow. Still, live-an-let-live I allus say. The world would be a boring place h'if everyone was the same." Lulu felt her stroke his bottom very slowly, tantalising herself, letting the line of his legs lead her to the site of her fascination. "Are you in love?" "I love Pompom and Prudence, and I love Trixie sometimes too." "Course you do. 'Spect they give you lots of nice kisses an' plenty of dick. 'Spect you do loads of wankin' together. Bet you do great big dollops over each other all the time." Hyacinth felt heat in her knickers. Like an addict in urgent need of a fix she drew him closer. "Down! Get over my lap, yer naughty tranny teaser." Lulu looked startled. "Oh, no. Not my bum, please miss." "Oh yes," she replied gruffly. "You're not going to throw me off as easy as that, me cherub. It's time you learned a bit of 'umility. A young thing like you shouldn't go around teasing respectable ladies like you do. My kids is all grown up and its not often these days I have a chance to tan a pretty arse. I's gonna spank yours 'til it's cherry red." She was not about to hurry her pleasure. Breasts swelling inside her bra she settled back, hoisting the front of her cotton skirt up above the welts of her tan stocking before positioning him across her broad lap, drawing him close until his thighs made contact with her knees and then pulling him into the familiar 'bottoms up' position. She felt his penis nudge against her bare thigh and fancied it had extended an extra inch. Her eyes travelled down hi back to observe how his muscles stretched and his spine indented. His waist was so narrow she was sure she could span it with her hands, and his bottom lifted up like an apple yet to acquire a rosy burnish. "You have a beautiful bum dear, so soft, perfectly shaped for spanking h'and for sex." With the minimum of fuss she established his position, bottom in the air, legs straight, hands touching the floor. The pose was right, his helplessness right, the surrender of his most intimate parts to a older, wiser person the natural way of things. SWAP! She smiled and smacked once, a weak flick at best but enough to make Lulu catch his breath as it landed. "Oh!" Then she left his mouth-watering little marshmallows alone for a moment and spanked his thighs, beginning with the back of his knees and working slowly up to the soft flesh beneath the crease of his buttocks. SNICK, SMACK, SPLAT! "Eeeer, Nnnnrrr, Ooooeuf!" At last the bottom, thrusting upwards, the cheeks round and soft, the skin the colour of ivory touched as yet by just a blush of sunset. SWIT! Her palm bounced off the juddering backside and the tendons of Lulu's shapely legs tightened as his girlish backside gyrated. "Yyyaaahhhh!" He wallowed and squirmed in showy histrionics, his face twisting as he attempted to clutch at his bottom. SWAT! "Yeouch, oh, oh, oow!" Hyacinth had managed to control her erratic breathing, but now a crooked smile distorted her mouth. Opening her handbag she took out a pot of skin cream and scooped some out to grease her fingers. Lulu's heart raced and his mind whirled. He closed his eyes, aware only of the sting of his bottom and the new sensations being introduced. A hand touched his thighs, wormed between them and eased them apart, then fingers slid up to claw wide his perfect sissy cheeks. "Oh, miss..." When she observed his anus she thought the pulpy rosette to be nicely taut. She kneaded his buttocks, giving attention to the crevasse between and rotating a fingertip around his bum hole until the pucker opened up. Then, placing the tip of her finger against the youthful pucker she gave a little push to establish it beyond the ring of muscle. He felt the hardness. It snouted like a blind animal as it made its way. Her probing finger skewered boldly and flexed amid the satiny warmth within, producing a parody of the masculine penetration of a girl. "Uph!" In a fraught movement Lulu titled his head back as he grimaced, but the woman ignored him. A little jigging around to open things up, then another shove to get in get in another inch. The lubricate made it easy. Her finger penetrated beyond his sphincter to loosen the ring of his anus. Burying it inside him she turned it left and right as if she were trying a key in a lock. The finger dallied for a moment, embedded to the second knuckle and moving about inquisitively in the moist, mushy confines. When she withdrew it she replaced it with two fingers, and Lulu uttered a little moan as they began to fuck his narrow passage. Every centimetre of her fingers entered, and his tiny butternut bottomhole began to slither around them, letting them go deep. Tight young buttocks, bunching and changing shape as she dug between them. "Oooh!" "There we are my little lover. You manage h'everything so nicely." "It - it feels so big." "No bigger than some of the things that 'ave ploughed you in the past, I'm sure." Inspired, Hyacinth leaned over and applied her weight, moving her fingers with increasing piston-like efficiency, romping them in and out joyfully, fucking him with a frenzied sleazy passion that felt almost out of control. Her fingers were sturdy and delivered swifter, harder strokes. "Is that okay for you? Does it feel like a boy?" "Gggnnn! It feels bigger than a boy." He twitched inside, and an enormous shiver of tingling pleasure rippled through him. She heard his high-pitched tranny squeal as the warm soup his cock slopped out. It splashed onto the bare thigh above her stocking tops and dribbled slowly downwards like melting ice cream. It proved a trigger for herself. Her tortoiseshell glasses slipped down her nose as hot sensations raked through her own body. Gasping out a sharp cry she clamped her legs together as orgasmic bliss swept through her. Her facial expression told its own story. Her normal high colour intensified into deep puce while her entire body seemed to deflate, draining the tension from her neck and shoulders. It had been such a long time since she'd enjoyed such uninhibited pleasure, and in answer to the excitement in her loins she withdrew her fingers, dropped Lulu between her thighs, and crammed his face against the warm, slick swamp that had formed in the gusset of her pants. "Oh, oh, yes. Now make a meal o' that yer dirty little girl," she whinnied while heaving her aching genitals against his mouth. On that last day of the Summer Season Jennifer had felt it unimportant to supervise them closely, and some of them proved slothful in putting on their dresses. Bambi was still capering around in his tiny pants when Mrs Fawcett's schoolboy son approached him. "I don't think I know you," he said coquettishly. Of course he knew him in a way - he'd seen him watching the dancing as avidly as everyone else, and they were both aware of it. "I mean, I think I've seen you... I saw you looking." "I'm Roger," the boy said. Bambi half turned his head and their eyes locked. He considered he could be drawn into Roger's dark limpid eyes the way heroines did in romantic novels. He could tell he was older than himself. He was taller, broader, but the smoothness of his face said he was probably no more than thirteen. They looked at each other for a moment and exchanged a sort of wordless ping-pong before Roger said, "You and the others. You're boys." A little laugh. "Yes." He really did find him sort of innocent and nice. "You're all dancers. You're good at it too. I didn't think boys could be so good at dancing." "Madame Dupont says people are good at deferent things." "I'm good at carpentry and not bad at algebra, but I can't dance for toffees." Bambi looked away. Sunlight was bathing the top of the marquee in molten light and tucked inside the open end of it Marianne was being all lightness and warmth. Not content with just playing the diligent new bride to perfection he stood, still in his trousseau, pouring tea and serving tiny sandwiches to the wedding guests, recommending the ones with eggy filling while quietly throwing away all those stuffed with slices of orange coloured fish which he thought tasted disgusting. It was an occupation he was familiar with. Like a child he was a creature of simple pleasures. Out of sight, a Champagne cork popped and some women giggled. Bambi was resilient to flattery but not necessarily resilient to good looking boys. Roger was not a country bumpkin, he was good looking and had a nice round face with clear skin, thick dark slightly windswept hair and a lean physique. In fact he thought Roger was the probably the most gorgeous thirteen-year-old boy there had ever been since time began. A thrill gripped his heart when he looked at him. "It's nice around here." Roger shrugged. "Okay for kids who enjoy catching tadpoles and putting them in glass jars. I've grown out of that. Want to go for a walk round the lake?" The afternoon sun struck across Roger's face, lightening his amber eyes. Bambi regarded him suspiciously, wondering why a lad who was of an age to begin seeking company with girls would want to go for a walk with a boy who was only wearing a tiny pair of thong pants. As the two of them moved off he wondered why a straight boy want to go with a sissy wearing blond sausage curls and make-up? Why would he want to go for a walk with a boy who was practically naked and had smooth legs and toenails painted fuchsia pink? "It's okay. I'm not gay," Roger assured him. Bambi couldn't quite believe that. They went towards the lake and started off along the narrow path that circled the water. Because he seemed immune to treading on twigs and stones and preferred to go without any shoes Roger dubbed him 'Henny Penny' because he said he was like the hen in a Beatrix Potter story who lost her stockings and had to go 'barefoot, barefoot.' A coolness settled over Bambi's shoulders as they passed beneath a huddle of trees and unconsciously he started looking for shafts of sunlight shimmering through the branches. He should have put on a coat, he thought. He should have put on something. And the question still persisted; why did that boy Roger want to go walking with a beautiful and all-but naked dancing boy if he wasn't gay? There was something odd about that. Something didn't add up. He walked on a little ahead with a practised seductiveness, unaware that his assault on Roger's senses had slowed him down. When he did notice he paused and waited, allowing his bare bottom to thrust out a little towards his new friend. Glancing back over his shoulder he noticed Roger's eyes rigidly fixed on his body. His tiny thong pants left nothing to the imagination, the merest tuck of flimsy white material at the front to conceal his youthful treasures and nothing at all behind save the string that disappeared between the bare, high-cheeks of his boyish behind. Roger wanted him, he was certain of that. Boys loved sissies. "Are you okay?" he asked when he saw him frown. "Yeah, I think so. But I've got an odd feeling." Bambi sneaked a little peek at the very nice bulge in the front of his new friends trousers and offered a trampy smile. "That's probably because it's chilly in the shade. I'm quite cold. Would you put an arm around me?" The last of the summer butterflies flitted through the dark backdrop of the rhododendrons as they strolled along, and the trees bordering the lake were a blaze of glory; emerald, saffron, gold and deep olive green. Eventually they flopped down on a mossy slope by the waterside, causing a family of moor hens, clearly annoyed at being disturbed, to paddle abruptly away. "Let's sit here and see what we can do about your odd feeling," said Bambi. He settled on the grass and an outstretched hand invited Roger to join him. When the other boy was seated Bambi cagily swung round on his bottom and placed the back of his head on Roger's lap, and then his hazel eyes teased up from beneath long lashes as he fixed him with a sparkling smile. "Do you think I'm pretty?" The other boys lips tightened in disapproval, but nevertheless he replied in a slightly husky voice. "No, I don't think your pretty. I think your perfect." Encouraged by the flattery he threw an arm about the lads neck, drawing his head down and presented his soft, velveteen lips upwards. They hovered a mere breath away from the other boys mouth, close enough to kiss; which his just what Bambi did next. Finding Roger hesitant he took the initiative and kissed him, softly, lightly and tenderly. The other boys lips received him without any kind of passion, and Bambi felt rather confused and disappointed. He wanted Roger to be assertive and master him, wanted him to take him. Umh! Perhaps Roger really was straight. But then he thought, no. He simply didn't know how to kiss. He'd probably never kissed anyone on the mouth, ever. Even if he wasn't gay he was gay-curious about boys and he was looking for an experience. He'd never been put in charge of anything in his life before, but Bambi decided he needed to take charge of Roger immediately. He may have been older than himself, but he was a complete novice when it came to sex. His tongue snaked out to lick Roger's face, nuzzling his chin, his nose, trailing up each cheek and into his ears. He was taking the lead, and he was doing it in style. "W-what are you doing?" Roger panted. But his own voice seemed distant even to himself by then and there was no rejection in his tone. He was hot and tingly and the tingles were spreading all down his body. Bambi unfastened the top button on his shirt and spread the collar open. The hand lingered and then started to undo the other buttons, touching each newly revealed inch of skin as he did so. The older boy quivered uncertainly. He had acquired a sort of tense look, like a high-voltage cable that might give off sparks if someone touched it. "What are you doing?" "You'll find out." Roger's blush deepened, but resistance seemed to melt from him, which encouraged Bambi to grin impishly. "Do you like cuddling boys who aren't wearing clothes? Would you like to cuddle me? What do you think? You're a big boy. You could do anything you wished to me and I wouldn't be able to stop you." Roger's breath quickened and a pulse drummed in his ears has he looked into the vivacious eyes observing him. Bambi's face dipped and he slid his mouth across the smooth, bare chest. Perky boy-nipples brushed his cheek encouraging him to lick the pectorals, press onto them, playfully teasing and tasting and mouthing each nipple in turn. His hands slued down to unbuckle Roger's waist belt and he heard the sharp intake of breath as his hands worked against his belly. With a flick of his fingers Bambi unhooked the top and unzipped the front, leisurely brushing his hand onto the swollen shape behind it. But it was Roger who, as his desire mounted to match his own, frantically raised himself to allow his pants to be tugged under his buttocks. And there was his cock, rearing up like a tower, a shaft of prime silky steel. Bambi gave a little laugh. "You think I'm crazy, don't you? When I touch you here..." He leaned forward to touch the boys chest, his fingers pressing a nipple. Roger almost howled with delight. "And here..." He touched his stomach low down... and here... His fingers circled his erect penis, making Roger suck in a sharp breath. Without the slightest hesitation Bambi's hand slid over the smooth flesh of the inner thigh and wrapped his fingers around of the uncircumcised penis in a full handed grip. It was slightly curved, quite thick and with an impressive length. When he stroked it and his hand moved up and down he watched the blushing pink tip disappear and reappear as the soft fleshy foreskin melted against the shaft. Bambi grinned. "Is that okay. Do you like what I'm doing?" He didn't even wait for an answer. His lips and tongue moved up the smooth shaft, teasing it, making it wet, making it throb. And then he took it into the lusciousness of his soft mouth, sucking firmly, but never gripping, never biting, then he removed it, licking it again and coating it with saliva. Roger lay absolutely motionless, and Bambi sensed it was the right time for the next move. Smoothly he scooped off his wispy thong to expose a slender but beautiful sissy candlestick and a petite soft-skinned bag of spherical goodies, then he straggled the other boys thighs as if he were mounting a horse, and grabbing Roger's erection between his slim fingers he tucked the tip between his buttocks. "Golly! You - you can't," exclaimed Roger. "Yes I can. It's easy-peasy," insisted Bambi. His eyes flickered momentarily as he pressed down, young belly undulating, narrow hips screwing right then left as he slowly opened up and eased the tip of Roger's dick through his outer sphincter. Although he was small in stature, Roger's erection went in smoothly. It was as if their bodies had been made to fit each other. "Aaak!" He gasped a little as he struggled to get more and more cock into his narrow hole, and slowly, little by little Roger's shaft sank right in, Bambi's sheath proving a perfect fit for his teenage sword. His body flexed and lifted slightly, contracting and clamping tight before settling. Pausing for a moment to allow his bum to get used to being stretched and occupied, his anal muscles then fluttered and he began to jockey up and down. Bouncing to savour the full extent of penetration he began to gasp and squawk and pant out his love for his boyfriend. "Nnnngh! Oh yeah! You like this, don't you? You enjoy a boy-bum moving up and down on your prodder, don't you?" Roger was breathing heavily. He did like it. He liked the heat and the friction and he loved shafting that playful featherweight kid that was mounted on his dick. Oh how degenerate his new little friend was. Oh how he loved the clever sweet thing. He sighed, and a breath rippled through his body like a small wave preceding a bigger one, a wave that was going to pull him right under. Further back towards the house Mrs Van Damme strolled with Madame Dupont in the garden for a while, admiring the rose bower and listening to the plans woman had for renovating the fruit orchard. When Madame returned to the tented area she was feeling quite serene. Jennifer, wearing a rose pom-pom chiffon dress with a bow on its wide swathed collar was feeling the model of sartorial elegance which was so different to her usual couldn't care tuppence attitude. The previous day she'd also had her hair styled. She'd gone along the Tottenham Court Road and found a salon with black walls and the kind of music everyone associated with class A drugs, and had emerged looking so much like a rock-chick she'd had to spend the rest of the day subduing the extremes of her spiky new coiffure. Still, a thing like that was a good way to advertise to everyone at home that she'd been to London. "Beautiful weather. Beautiful ceremony in the church too," remarked Madame Dupont, "Shame Bertie Bestable couldn't come today. I know Mrs Van Damme invited him." Jennifer stifled a wicked grin. "Mr Bestable is a busy man. I expect he just couldn't fit us into his schedule." Picking up a folded newspaper, she thrust in front of the older woman. "That number you chose for the dancers to perform earlier..." "An old tune." "Yes, well it was particularly apt. There's a small item on page three of The Times this morning that will interest you." Intrigued, Madame fished in her handbag for a pair of spectacles, then took the newspaper and peered at it. The article was headed; TREASURE IN THE ATTIC, and continued: 'A large horde of ancient earthenware as been discovered in the attic of a house in rural Yorkshire. It consists of thirty perfectly preserved pieces of pottery created more than five thousand years ago in Mesopotamia. The finder, Miriam Hancock said, "My home is rather large and I had no idea such things were stored upstairs until I decided to do some tidying up. How they got there remains a mystery, my uncle was the previous owner of my house and he was an eccentric man." After examining the items, Ian Patterson-Jones, a specialise in antiquities from Verton College, Oxford, said, "This is a significant discovery. It marks a period of human history when men ceased to be nomadic hunter-gatherers and took to constructing the worlds first permanent cities. It's on a par with discovering Noah's Ark" The British Museum and the Smithsonian Institute have already expressed interest in this discovery, and a spokesman for Sotheby's auction house predicts the collection is so well preserved it could generate in excess of half a million pounds if put on the market. Miss Hancock commented that any money she received from such a sale would go to a worthy charity.' Jennifer tapped the page with her finger. "That's your pottery, and the charity mummy indicates is you. You ARE in the money. You're going to be rather well off." "You must have a share too, Jennifer. But for your shrewdness and crystalline thinking all that stuff would still be full of jam and sitting in a pantry." Jennifer laughed light-heartedly. "Don't worry about me, Madame. My dreams tell me I shall always have what I desire." The woman gave her a quizzical look. "Your dreams! Well, as far fetched as it may seem I'm inclined to agree with your dreams. I always said there was a mystical twist to you. You're something of a gypsy witch and I believe you'll always have whatever you want. "Personally I've never known such good fortune before. All that money on top of getting the house. I was amazed when Horace Pratt told me he'd had a stroke of good luck and could afford to let me have number nineteen at a rock-bottom price. It turned out to be below rock-bottom. It was unbelievable." Madame gazed around in alarm at the absence of sissies. "Where are they? The wicked imps have scampered off. I've lost track of all my darlings," she complained, "Get Samson to help you, Jennifer. Go and find them at once. Go and find them and send them back here." Jennifer dashed along the outside of the marquee in a temper. All the summer season she'd kept tabs on Madame's pantywaist menage without them giving her any trouble, and now on the very last day when she though she could relax with a glass of champagne the little trollops had taken advantage to go off on escapades. She should have known better. She should have tied their feet when she had the chance. To top it all Samson was nowhere to be seen either. He usually hung around looking vacant and lost until required to do something, but he seemed to have vaporised. Two of the dancers were easily found. Percy, Mrs Van Damme's nephew, was sitting in a wicker chair behind the marquee, and Dolly and Candy were kneeling worshipful and gaga between his knees, allowing him to spoon-feed them with ice-cream. It was no mystery why they were attracted to Percy, he was very dark and wicked looking in a thoroughly piratical way, with the perfect shape of his head tilted with the arrogance of a Roman god. With the right provocation he could have made James Dean look like a beatific Noddy, and from the satyr-like expression on his face and the enormous bulge in his trousers he was certainly contemplating dosing his two adoring admirers with a different kind of cream to the chilled variety. She snatched them away and told them to go back to Madame, then moved along the garden away from the tent. The concentration of people had remained in the vicinity of the tent, but Pompom, Dolly and Trixie had walked off a little way. They were back in their bridesmaid outfits and gossiping and giggling in an all-girls-together kind of way. Then others began to appear. She spied Lulu returning sheepishly from the direction of the house and then saw Bambi meandering along the path by the lake, hand in hand with a village boy. When he saw her looking the village lad guiltily released Bambi's hand and widened the space between them. It wasn't as bad as Madame feared, only Prudence was missing. But where could he be? Impatiently she brushed around the intense green leaves of a beech hedge. Beyond it was a topiary of high privet with pleasant narrow walks in between. Coming to a sort of crossroad's in the greenery she came to where a marble nymph reclined in a mossy arbour and had to swerve away to avoid disturbing Samson who was visible in the leafy alcove talking to the elderly Mrs Quinlan who still looked completely besotted by the burly bald-headed giant. Mrs Quinlan who was engaged in intimacy with Samson. She had extracted his enormous penis from the front of his trousers and was tossing him off for all she was worth, her sublime, slick hand movements comparable with those of a top-rank professional slapper. Samson was savouring the effect but seemed to be paralysed, hardly blinking as he looked down at what was happening. Making off in another direction she came upon a place where giggles and rustling noises behind the bushes suggested a young person was into mischief, but when she went to investigate she discovered Madame Dupont's daughter, Sophie, sitting astride the thighs of a supine elderly man who had his trousers round his knees. On the ground beside them lay a pair of girls panties, screwed up along side a panama hat with a leopard skin band, just like the one she'd seen the hen-pecked husband of Mrs Carter-Plackett wearing earlier. He had apparently escaped from his wife for a while, or more likely been lured away. There was no doubt in Jennifer's mind has to who the seducer was in this particular instance. The man was laying on his back and Sophie's skirt was flipped up over her buttocks. The girl's hair free pussy, that part that should have been reminiscent of a small oyster, fresh, pink and well guarded, was stretched slickly around the girth of a very rampant penis, sliding up and down fiercely, dipping and rising, smothering the vertical prong with the soft envelope of her young muscular flesh. Sophie gasped each time she crammed down on it, urging the cock to stretch her delicate flesh and cleave her young vagina. Up and down went the girl's thighs on that male appendage, slick and slippery down to the fat balls, pausing to appreciate being stuffed with man meat before lifting up to the base of the mushroom tip. The man bucked his hips and he gasped and gurgled when again and again she repeated the process, but the young miss wasn't daunted by his urgent thrusts. Sophie was probably never daunted. The girl maintained an energetic panting noise, ardent and rhythmic. "Fuck me, mister," her voice cracked. "Dirty old man. Shagging a little girl. Stuffing your big willie into her tiny cunt. Yes, that feels nice. But do it harder, you old duffer. Fuck me harder." Jennifer turned and walked quickly away. She'd been asked to collect in the sissy dancers and had no intention of being drawn into anything else. Her mother had frequently told her it was inadvisable to interfere in other peoples private family affairs. Anyway, Sophie may be misbehaving, but at least today she was misbehaving in an almost normal way. She exited from the topiary and then slowed. Beneath the shelter of a spreading magnolia there was a wooden gate that led into a grassy paddock. She froze. Beyond the tree and in the paddock stood a small stuccoed gazebo with a domed roof, and between the miniature Grecian-style columns that formed its upper structure she identified the slim-bodied figure of Prudence. What on earth was he doing there so far away from everyone else? She tramped noiselessly over the grass and circled round to the doorless entrance to find he was not alone. A woman was with him, a woman was kneeling before him as if in prayer. She recognised her as someone she'd seen hovering around St Cuthbert's. Marjory somebody. Yes - it was Marjory Nightingale, the vicar's wife. "Excuse me," she said. "Madame Dupont wants Prudence back at the tent." It was then she noticed that Marjory's actions were worshipful but far from holy. The woman had one hand curled about the pantyboys erect penis and the fingers of her other were tucked beneath his testicles. Prudence looked shocked and slightly guilty when Jennifer loomed before him, but he remained standing still. Marjory turned her head to gawk up and the sight of a biker-girl dressed in dolly-mixture hues of Juicy Couture velour, robbed her of breath, leaving her quite speechless for a moment. A breeze lightly caressed her hot cheeks. Her mind began racing and she laughed shrilly, unable to hide her embarrassment. "The young thing - I was trying to help him - I think he's got a wood splinter in his - er - penis." Jennifer's lips tightened and her stormy hazel eyes locked with hers. She had never met Marjory Nightingale before but that didn't stop her dominant nature from rising up, and when she was on top she was habitually insouciant and irreverent. She moved closer and peered over the woman's shoulder, then smiled wryly. "Looks like it's got half a cricket stump stuffed down it to me." Devilishly she cupped a hand behind the woman's head and urged her face forward. "But do continue with what you were doing. No one else will ever know, and you do want to taste everything this lovely creature can offer, don't you. You'll only regret it if you don't use the opportunity you now have." Strangely Marjory felt ashamed, terrified and jubilant all at the same time. She didn't wish to back away and the strange girl was encouraging her, almost giving her permission. She eased Prudence back against the wall and knelt before him. Giving in to her most licentious appetite she ran her tongue along the upper flesh of his girlish thighs until it could go no higher. With one hand she lifted his scrotum and began to lick his wrinkled sac, inadvertently, or perhaps purposely rubbing her cheek against his jutting penis. Opening her lips wide she gently took his testicles in her mouth, moving her tongue from side to side, and on releasing them she traced the tip of her tongue up feel its contours and the soft vein along the length of his penis until it reached the shiny pink head. How could she do such a disgusting thing? And with a teenage girl watching every move! It didn't seem to matter. The girl was right, she had to use the opportunity. Wickedly she twirled the tip of her tongue around the sissy boys fleshy helmet and poked into the tiny slit before she drew her lips together around it to form a warm, moist airtight seal. Slowly, very slowly so that she could provide the maximum pleasure, she moved her head up and down, filling her mouth with warm saliva to give lubrication. With each movement she swallowed a little more of him, taking in his rigid flesh until her mouth was full of rampant she-boy cock. It wasn't long before Prudence slumped back and closed his eyes. He croaked, his body stiffened and his muscles tensed, and as he began to pant Marjory eased away. "Don't stop," Jennifer said, "You've started so you may as well finish." She took hold the sissy penis herself and began to move her fingers up and down the shaft. "You may tease the little cherubs in your Sunday school class with only half the job done, but I won't allow you to do it to this young lady." Marjory Nightingale quaked slightly. "Oh dear! I've never - ever - not even with my husband..." Undeterred Jennifer held the stiff penis in one hand while reaching into Marjory's hair. Forcefully she guided the woman's head, abruptly pulling her face onto the purple plum and urging her to get back to work and try harder. "I insist you finish what you've started," she nagged, "And I insist that you swallow the result. Drink all of it. And mind your manners and remember not to talk with your mouth full." Submitting dumbly to the directives given to her, Marjory started again. She did just as Jennifer insisted, she clamped her lips over Pru's vibrant, smeary helmet and sucked avidly. She knew what would eventually happen of course - it was what she wanted to happen, it was a thing she sometimes daydreamed about - but would she accept the reality or be revolted by it? The sissy-vamp make a loud moaning sound of a kind she'd rarely heard before and it made her lips move with increasing frenzy, forward and back, then forward again taking the succulent