Quinn s Saga
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A Sissy Saga Ch. 21 free porn video
The next morning Jennifer Hancock went down the stairs with her hair piled on top of her head and wearing a crumpled pale-blue linen overall to be amazed when Lulabelle said she looked as fresh as a daisy. Her mother was talking on the telephone, and when Jennifer appeared in the sitting-room she clapped her hand across the mouthpiece.
‘I’ve been negotiating things with Mrs Boroclough. She’d like to have a few words with Poppy now, would you fetch him from the kitchen?’
When Poppy arrived he took the stem of the phone in one hand and cupped the mouthpiece with the other, reverently raising it up as if he was about to kiss a pair of testicles.
‘Poppy speaking.’ He didn’t say much after that, but an occasional timid ‘Yes, yes.’ and a lot of emphatic nodding of his head signified he was paying great attention to something being said. After a short while he murmured a soft ‘Thank you, Mrs Boroclough. See you soon. Bye, bye.’
When he put down the phone a wide toothy grin was stretched across his face. ‘Mrs Boroclough says I’m going to have a white wedding in church, and then have a honeymoon in Torquay.’ His grin turned to Jennifer, ‘That’s a holiday town on the south coast.’
Miriam sighed in her extra-special patient fashion. ‘The lady didn’t say Torquay, dear. Mrs Boroclough said she would take you to Tuscany. Tuscany is in Italy.’
Looking slightly confused, Poppy straightened up and jangled his earrings. He looked from Miriam to Jennifer and back again, then finally shrugged his pale-pink shoulders in dismissal. ‘I don’t really care where it is, as long as it’s near the seaside.’
The moment he’d gone from the room Jennifer gave her mother a look of disbelief. ‘She can’t possible mean to marry someone like Poppy in church. It must be at odds with all kinds of ecclesiastic law.’
Miriam calmly poured herself another cup of tea. ‘Don’t underestimate that woman, Jennifer. She’s a pervert, but she’s a rich pervert, and in any day and age that makes a great deal of difference. I’ve insisted that it should be done directly after Open Day. Next week, before the school breaks for recess.’
She’s some kind of squillionaire and probably wealthier than Lord Chance-Barton. She’s certainly rich enough to have contempt for polite society. As for the wedding, Parson Roper is massively in debt to her, so he’ll do exactly as he’s told.’
Poppy took both jam and cheese as well as bread to the dining area up the stairs. ‘Mrs Boroclough says I’m going to Tuscudy for my honeymoon.’ he told everyone sitting there.
‘Tuscudy? Do you mean Tuscany?’ asked Bambi.
Poppy’s mouth twitched. ‘Erm, it could be the same place. People call it different names.’
‘Tuscany is in Italy. My gran’ once went there.’ said Pompom, slotting a slice of bread into the toaster. ‘She said it was all mountains.’
Poppy nodded. ‘Yes, there’s probably some hills there,’ he conceded, ‘but I think there’ll be a seaside-bit too, with a funfair on the beach.’ His mouth suddenly wreathed into a beaming grin. ‘The Big-Dipper roller-coaster ride scares me and makes me squeal, but I love it.’
He began telling the others how Mrs Boroclough was sending him an engagement ring in the post, real gold with real emeralds on it, and when Bambi mentioned that it was rather unusual for a man to be the wife of a woman Poppy became as cross and began berating him like an irate hen.
‘Everyone needs to get married at least once, it doesn’t matter to who. The trouble with you younger people today is you see everything in black and white and make no allowance for change.’ he chunted with a wag of his finger, ‘I’m grown up now and I can make my own decisions, thank you very much. I’m old enough to think about things properly.’
The sentiments he expressed had clearly been scooped out of a magazine or a movie, but they certainly fitted his mood at that moment. ‘No one tells me what to do anymore …’cept the headmistress – and Jennifer – and Mrs Boroclough.’
Bambi sucked a jammy finger. ‘And policemen, and the Queen, and anyone who shouts loud.’
Poppy threw back his chair, and flushed with annoyance brought up his hands like a pair of spiked talons. ‘Shut up, Bambi. If you keep making fun of me I’ll – I’ll scratch you.’
With that dire ultimatum ringing in everyone’s ears he swivelled on his heels and flounced from the room.
Amanda finished buttering his toast. ‘Mmm, yum. Where’s the jam?’
Sammy pushed a pot of jam across the table and spoke for the first time. ‘Poppy’s sweet. I’ll miss him if I come back for next term. Will you miss him, Bambi?’
The other she-boy thought for a moment. ‘Yes,’ he said with a wobble of his head, ‘no one else is so easy to beat at Scrabble.’
***
At the end of August each year heather blooms in riotous colour across the dun-tinted hills of the West Riding. Waves of purple and magenta swathe the Pennines in such stunning magnificence that even the most jaundiced of eyes fill with admiration. Such a vista was a fitting backdrop to the one day in the year Miriam Hancock felt more important than any other. It was Open Day at Fairyfield Grange.
The rejuvenated gardens were in prime condition in flagrant defiance of the restrictions on the use of water during the summer drought. They were defined on all sides by old stone walls covered with climbers which at the far end scrambled up into two ancient trees, their blossom shining among the dark foliage of the branches like spun silk. Below, in the wide borders under the walls, floribunda roses clustered together in dense blocks, and in the centre, surrounded by gravel paths was the lawn upon which Mr Hardwick now conducted the opening display.
Stepping out in perfect formation the aerobic dance team bounced, skipped and cavorted onto a wide piece of decking set out on the lawn. Heart palpitating the gym instructor dug his fingernails into his palm in an effort to calm himself as he observed them. ‘Come along, dear things. Try to look animated! – No, not like that Dolly, that just makes you look half-witted – remember what you’ve been taught, all of you, heads up and smile, and don’t let anyone get close enough to get into your knickers.’
‘We’re not wearing any.’ piped Lulabelle.
It was such pleasant weather that the guests spilled outside to watch without being urged. Gathered in small groups, lounging in teal chairs or simply loitering on the York-stone steps, they stared, bright-eyed and earnest, smiling and gesticulating as the children swivelled their hips, caressed their bodies, wiggled their bottoms and humped the air.
A moment later they were high-stepping like drum-majorettes. Six young men wearing very short little-girl outfits that made the most of their superb bare legs. Some had dark hair, others were golden blond, reflected light framing their heads and playing on the edges of curls and ringlets.
They were all beautiful, each in his own way, their faces lightly made up to retain the lush aspects of youthfulness, their bodies slender and supple, attired in diminutive dresses of purple plush trimmed with gimp cord and black Spanish lace. Jennifer had been keen to dress them in nothing more than a pink ribbon tied around their testicles, but her mother had vetoed that idea. A little decorum was required for the first part of the day.
Even so, they presented a sight to make dead men sit up, and it was impossible to disguise the stirring of loins among those who viewed them. They were tricked out with beads, earbobs, frills and furbelows, but no underwear – not a stitch. Miriam hadn’t objected to some titillation, and to the amazement of all those watching the front hem of their tiny skirts had been pinned to the waist to form an outward flowing drape beneath which their lush, creamy thighs and well proportioned genitals had no hope of taking shelter.
Their cocks, each one an individual soft sculpture, were clad with onl
y a narrow bow of pink ribbon, and while their scrotums varied in size and shape they were uniformly soft sacs of pink skin in which the outline of their testes were clearly defined. A ripple went around the people there has they gazing in astonished disbelief at the plethora of femmed-up boycocks on girls.
Extending into line abreast they began with tap in the Irish style, arms motionless at their sides, chins in the air and legs moving rapidly, hop-tapping and heel kicking below. The audio-accompaniment this time consisted of a lively fiddle, a reedy sounding pipe and a lambeg drum, while the rhythmic clack of shoes provided both music and melody of their own.
The tune crashed to a stop and almost instantly the invisible fiddle changed key and launched into a faster jig allowing Candy to spring forward, knuckles on hips, to give a virtuoso display of jazz-jive.
When he dropped to the rear Amanda and Trixie took centre stage in a whirling, synchronised, foot stomping pas de deux that had their skirts swirling in dizzying circles and provided ample opportunity to observe pretty bare bottoms and exposed boy parts.
In a daring move they spun round, back to back, lifting their skirts, bewildering the spectators, taunted them, tormented them, their soft high-pitched squeals hammering like nails into their attention as they wriggled and rubbed their bare bottoms together, while laughing at the intimacy.
There were no hoots and hollers and no stamping of feet, but the tumultuous applause at the end declared it a great success, even if no one had foreseen that some of the guests would afterwards invite the whole troupe in through the front doors for a glass of lemonade.
Inside the house bright sunshine poured in through the tall windows to wash the entrance hall with rafts of pristine light, making the dark stained pine panelled walls take on a lighter hue as if shot through with mahogany, while a set of crystal lamps with cream silk shades added their own glow. The ambience was cheerful.
Miriam Hancock stood back against a wall, smiling inwardly as she surveyed her guests and the glittering scene spread out in the voluminous room. She was in a good mood, her high spirits attributable to a number of factors of which a fine start to Open Day was only one. The atmosphere was friendly, almost jovial, and everyone appeared to be at ease.
It had been a long time since the walls of Fairyfield Grange had resounded to so much genial chatter, and it filled her with a sense of gratification. Undoubtedly her status was rising up in the estimation of the great and famous.
The beginning of the day had found her feeling uneasy since a mistake would cost her money. In one location she had chanced to bring together all her best sponsors and most influential well-wishes, as well as a number of good quality people who had expressed an interest in owning a transvestite servant, so it was vital for things to go well.
The bulk were a motley lot of middle-class types she had known from her time in Harrogate, bank managers, solicitors and corporate officials. Many were accompanied by their pushy wives, pillars of their local communities, who invariably supported some Town Guild or Women’s Institute, but who had become bored and jaded by their unchallenged way of life.
On arrival, and while still sober, they were like many others gathering at soirées in country houses during the summer. Clever men and women immersed in debates about theatre, literature, politics and travel, but there was no doubt in Miriam’s mind as to the real reason they had come. All too easily their eyes strayed and lingered on the emasculated young men who fussed about them bearing trays of white wine and soft drinks. Those upright guardians of public morality had come to view the products she had on offer.
Because dissatisfaction at the start of events would have rumbled throughout the day and could have an effected on her entire enterprise, she’d elected to set the tone early with the aerobics, a light-hearted, raunchy little romp that would stir the imaginings, and the pants, of the august get-together. The carefree gaiety that now surrounded Miriam lifted a burden from her mind, and her voice bubbled with theatrical vivaciousness each time she spoke.
Jennifer flitted by looking smart and ladylike in a blouse of crepe de Chine with a bow at the neck. ‘How’s it all going, mummy?’
‘Like a dream. Everybody’s hard at work.’
‘Not you I hope.’
‘Me? I’ve done everything except cook the bouchees.’
‘Roads!’ she suddenly exclaimed. Glee bubbled from her. She wanted to giggle and laugh and hold her sides, and although the laughter seeped out of her abruptly the glow of delight continued in her cheeks. ‘I’ve just finished speaking on the telephone with old Mr Sugar, my solicitor, and he tells me the National Trust have withdrawn their claim to Fairyfield Grange – and all because of roads.’
When she noticed her daughters puzzled expression she explained that The Trust had petitioned the County Council to upgrade some roads vital to support the passage of juggernaut motor-coaches into the area of Peasmarsh, and when Lady Diana had heard the main highway would pass close to Chance Hall and her home was on Pamela Upduff’s list of ‘Sites of Tourist Interest’ her objections had gone into overdrive.
She’d pulled every string to which she had access in the Council’s Highways Department – and probably every dick she could get hold of too – and had managed to kill the idea. Without decent roads tourism couldn’t develop in the way the Trust wished, so they’d dropped the whole notion of acquiring Fairyfield Grange.
‘Dear Diana came up trumps in the end, and since I’ll also benefit from Uncle Albert’s endowment eventually I feel I should do the right thing and give her those silly photographs at the end of term.’
Jennifer nodded, but then said, ‘You may find that she’ll still want to come here afterwards. I’ve an idea she’s developing a secret passion for being smacked and pushed around.’
Her mother straightened her blouse. ‘If that’s the case you must tell her to write me a polite letter in her best handwriting requesting a continuance. In future she will have to pay a fee for each attendance. After all we’re not a charity and we may have to task other staff with her discipline.’
She gazed at the crowd of people gathered around the aerobics’ team bunched inside the main door with some irritation. Men and women alike were studying the clutter of hot, near naked sissy bodies and becoming increasingly invasive with caressing the exposures of bare bottoms and thighs.
‘Do try to get the dancers out of here, darling. Since they’ve allowed themselves to be enticed inside they’re in danger of having their best parts plundered in broad daylight.’
Jennifer scowled and nodded. ‘They’ve no reason to be here. They’ll be needed for other things soon.’
As her daughter made off Miriam turned to fuss with a vase of flowers and give a withering smile to Parson Roper, who’d told his wife he was off to a Diocesan meeting. ‘Do admire my freesia’s parson. Aren’t they precious?’
‘Er um, er what?’
She indicated the floral decorations. ‘The flowers parson. The purple pelargonium and the freesia’s look divine, don’t they?’
The clergyman returned her smile languidly. ‘You’ve a good many blossoms here today, Miss Hancock, and they’re all quite lovely.’
‘Preferable to a roomful of moonfaced bishops, I dare say.’
The parson wiped his ruddy face with an handkerchief. ”Eminently so. And if the church fete could be as appealing I’d be a happy man indeed.’
‘I’m so glad you approve. Later in the day I’m providing some exclusive entertainment for those people who’s help I especially value, and I invite you to stay on and enjoy it.’
The parson smiled his gratitude, then his disingenuous eyes darted over the assembly, observing every scantily clad girly-b
oy within range while checking who among the visitors was eminent enough to enjoin in conversation. ‘Well, must trek forth. Ever onward and upward as they say.’ he chortled.
Miriam caught the attention of Miss Moffet, owner of the village tea-room and a member of Peasmarsh parish council. The woman gushed at her immediately. ‘Everyone in the village thinks your girls is right luvely things, Miss ‘ancock, an’ I reckons they’re right. They’ll all be breakin’ lads hearts before too long.’
Miriam smiled patiently until she drifted away, and then found herself approached by Mrs Boroclough, who gave a bright laugh. ‘I do believe Miss Moffet still thinks the students here to be girls, Miss Hancock. I told the silly woman to wear her spectacles, but she’s too full of vanity to heed advice.’
Moving a step closer to provide some intimacy she added, ‘She’s right about them being lovely though. They’re quite delightful.’
Walking on Miriam then nodded to Larkin. At the time Fairyfield Grange had been built a lowly tradesman such as he would never have been invited to a social event at the house, but times had changed, everyone knew that.
The rich man was still in his castle with the poor man at his gate, but somewhere in between there was a confusion that had never been there before. It was important in modern times to accommodate everyone who could be of use, and old Larkin did have his uses.
Even in the darkest hours of establishing her school he’d never withdrawn his goodwill, and he had a rather shady but useful web of contacts throughout the country. Moreover, in return for an invitation that day he’d been agreeable to his bitch-boy Judd participating in some of the entertainment.
Interested in everyone and everything, Sammy stood on the far side of the room clutching a flat silver serving tray while gazing up at the old oil paintings that had recently been hung on the walls. They all portrayed stern looking ladies and gentlemen wearing old-fashioned clothes, and it had been explained to him they were some of the Fairyfield’s, representatives of the family that had built the Grange, and of which the Hancock’s were the only surviving line.
He’d been moving around constantly for an hour offering drinks and snacks, but since he wore a short black underslip with shoulder straps no wider than spaghetti, and dark stockings and high heeled shoes, he was feeling glamorous and was enjoying the promenading.
Mrs Pardoe had fumed when Miriam had rejected the idea of the serving girls wearing their parlour-maid outfits, but the headmistress had been adamant that something rather more risqué was appropriate for the occasion, and Jennifer had jumped at the chance to dress as many young men as possible in costumes that was mainly comprised of girls lingerie, paying particular attention to ensuring the drop of the skirts weren’t too long and didn’t entirely obscure the dark welts of their stocking tops.
The recent applause signified the dancers had met with approval, and the students, ever responsive to an audience’s mood were buoyant as a result, sharp on cue and flirting with witty ripostes among themselves.
Candy ambled over while still adding lipstick to an already vivid mouth. ‘Have have you seen that frayed looking man on the sofa who looked like a travelling salesman? His was flashing something from the front of his trousers, and it wasn’t a wallet. He’s watching you all the time. I think he fancies your arse.’
Sammy paused in fastening the tops of his nylons to the straps of a suspender belt and gave his neat rump an affectionate pat. ‘You never know. This could be his lucky night.’ he grinned.
When Candy drifted away Sammy sniffed. An odour hung in the air. What was it? Cannabis? Coke? LSD? He’d never done drugs, and didn’t know the difference. Perhaps it was a mixture of them all. He was only allowed to sip barley water, and that had to be done behind a tall screen where Gloria filled flutes of champagne for the guests.
Turning away from the wall he fluttered his eyelashes in a suitably coy fashion at the gentleman nearby who was scrutinising him closely. The man was elderly with a deep tan and wings of white hair, but looked slim and athletic. He wore a grey suit with a white shirt set off by a grey silk tie, but it was his eyes that Sammy noticed most. They were staring with enough desire in them to make a sissyboy slide off the edge of the planet, while the front of his smart grey trousers were distorted in a way that he was very familiar with.
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