A Sissy Saga Ch. 20

Mrs Boroclough lived alone, but her house was the biggest in Peasmarsh. It had tall windows with ornate guards, and a polished copper plate fixed on the wrought-iron gate engraved with her name - as if everyone for fifty miles around didn't know who she was.

It was far too big for a widow-woman who's children had grown-up and departed, but she insisted that someone of status - a person such as herself - needed to maintain a home that impressed. And anyway, Boroclough's had lived there for so long it was now something of a family heirloom.

The inside of the house was like the outside, solid, perfectly ordered, polished. Bowls of potpourri gave the spacious rooms a smell of attar of roses, and everywhere was decked out with Chippendale furniture and decorated with antique Chinese porcelain and collections of period jade and ivory. It was the aesthetic home of a woman who'd married well, but who had always been financially independent in her own right.

Poppy was accommodated in a ground floor bedroom that was once reserved for Mrs Boroclough's visiting grandchildren. It was gorgeous. Never before had he known such luxury.

When Mrs Boroclough had gone out that night she'd told him to rest since she may required the attendance of a servant later, so left alone he'd undressed and stretched out on his bed atop a cream-coloured cashmere blanket with his head on a large, soft feather pillow trimmed with ecru lace. A lovely combination of euphoria and drowsiness had rolled over him, and rapping his penis in his hand he'd settled down to daydream.

On being told Mrs Boroclough wished to borrow him for a few days he'd been alarmed. He didn't know what to expect from a cranky old widow and he thought it ridiculous to be sent away. But that's the way it had worked out, and off he'd gone.

The reality was better than he'd feared. When he'd arrived the woman had noticed his slender ankle-bracelet and told him to display it at all times to remind him of his place in things. It was a tiny chain, and he was canny enough to know that a chain was the symbol of a slave, but as it turned out his duties weren't strenuous at all. What it really meant was he wasn't allowed beyond the front door.

He'd cleaned the house room by room during his first day there, sometimes getting a spanked bottom for not doing it well enough, but that was to be expected. He suspected Mrs Boroclough could be mean and hurtful if she was in a foul mood because she kept showing him a wooden spoon which she said was very stingy on tender bare thighs, but she hadn't used it yet, and she hadn't smacked him hard enough to make him cry yet either - well, he hadn't cried very much, anyway.

He had no skill in cookery, so she had made their meals, leaving him to scrub the pots and wash the crockery afterwards. He also had to eat at the kitchen table after serving her in the dining room. At least she kept him daintily frocked. During the daytime when he was being used as a domestic he wore a second-hand gingham dress and beige tabard that Mrs Boroclough had acquired from the church bazaar. It was a precaution to maintain his housemaid outfit, since in the evening she said she liked to entertain, and when she had guests she wanted him immaculate in black and white.

That night he was laid on his lovely bed daydreaming he was owned by a rich American cowboy who'd taken him to live as a fuck-puppet on a big ranch in the wild-west. Like the men who owned him in most of his daydreams the rancher was jealous, and usually objected to other men using him, but after the annual cattle drive he would reward his ranch-hands by letting them have him for a night in their bunkhouse.

Oh golly. His eyes became half-shut while his full pink lips quivered and formed a lazy half smile. A dozen big, brawny cowboys with jutting jaws in need of a shave would fuck him and fuck him. They'd pass him from bed to bed and screw him mercilessly all night long. Wicked men with huge cocks would cum in his mouth and in his bum, and later he'd have to lay down and stretch out naked while they wanked-off all over him.

"Oh," he breathed, "Oh." His pulse rocketed and he scrabbled around like a beached fish, flailing at the bedcovers. Awful! Mmmm! He moaned, his hips snaking has he used both hands to make his cock twitch.

Better not do anything. Safer. Mrs Boroclough insisted her house was kept pristine clean and she had the eyes of a ships-rat. They saw everything, and he just knew she'd notice if he left the tiniest smear of a cum-stain on his pretty bed covers. It was dangerous to play with himself in her house, but what else could a sissy do if he had no company? He wasn't in the habit of being alone. There'd always been plenty of others chasing after him at the school, and he'd always had company.

He remembered the clients his mother had organised for him. The retired factory managers who offered him cake and lemonade before they shafted him, the professor's from universities who were much too clever to talk with, and the black men with big cocks who's dearest wish was to plunge them between creamy-white buttocks. Some of them were good at what they did, but mostly it was only business.

He glanced at the window. Daylight had gone, but the moonlight made it almost as bright as day. It was too warm to sleep and he didn't feel tired, he just felt slightly bored. He preferred the word 'bored' to 'frustrated'. Frustrated smacked of what men thought a boy to be if he was bold enough to wear a little dress or raise a flirtatious eye. It meant 'available' and 'all he needs is a good fucking'.

On impulse he threw aside the bedclothes and slipped on the pair of pink panties with scallop lace trim he'd been given as night wear, then he padded out from the bedroom.

In the sitting room he looked about for a magazine with which to wile away some time, but found only a copy of the Yorkshire Post at the side of an armchair. On a small console stood a photograph of Mrs Boroclough's grandson Alistair, a dashing, handsome young man. Mrs Boroclough had said he was studying horticulture so he would be interested in flowers. Which was nice.

Poppy put his hands on his hips and did a little wiggle, then he stuck out his tongue at the photograph and slowly curled it back in a solicitous beckon. Alistair was a hunk, he thought, and it certainly wouldn't be a trial to play games with him.

Suddenly he was shaken from his musing by a noise at the door, and he knew it wasn't Mrs Boroclough because he would have heard her car drawing into the drive. He stood stock still, both hands pressed to his face, eyes peeping through open fingers. It was scary to be left in a strange house alone. Squeezing his eyes shut, he pretended the noise hadn't happened and pretended there was no horrible brute lurking outside in the dark. After all, he was only a boy in pink panties, so what chance had he of deterring a burglar?

After a moment or two some courage returned and he apprehensively went up to the sitting room door, opened it a crack and half opened one eye to peer out into the front hall. Nothing was there. The strange old house was merely settling in its footings.

Suddenly the telephone on a table adjacent to the armchair buzzed with activity and he almost panicked. Pale with shock and with guilt rippling in his belly, he moved over to pick up the handset.

"H-hello. This is Mrs Boroclough's house."

"Poppy!" Mrs Boroclough's voice snapped into his ear from the other end of the line.

"Yes, Mrs Boroclough."

"Were you sleeping?"

"Um, no Mrs Boroclough. I - er - I was reading, Mrs Boroclough."

"If you've finished your chores you should sleep when I'm not there. I want you fresh and alert when I return home."

"Yes Mrs Boroclough. Sorry, Mrs Boroclough."

"I'm at Mrs Tichborne's house now. I'll be home in an hour, so there's no point in you sleeping now."

"Yes, Mrs Boro - I mean, no Mrs Boroclough."

"I want a cup of malted milk before I retire tonight. I'm utterly exhausted, so make sure I don't have to wait for it. I want it ready when I arrive."

"Yes, Mrs Boroclough."

"Do you remember how to prepare my malted-milk?"

"Er, yes I think so. Erm - two spoons of er, er..."

"I explained it to you earlier quite clearly. Three heaped teaspoons of Horlicks powder and two of sugar, thoroughly mixed with hot milk - not boiled milk. You really must get into the habit of remembering things Poppy. Life will be a lot less painful for you if you do."

"Yes Mrs Boroclough."

"I'll see you about 11pm."

"11pm. Yes Mrs Boroclough. Thank you Mrs Boroclough."

A click on the other end of the line meant it was safe for him to hang the phone back on its cradle. Phew! Good job I'm quick with answers, he thought.

He glanced down and realised he'd unconsciously been playing with himself the whole time he'd been talking. His erection, enormous and dripping at the tip, made him feel silly, but he stood and admired it for its beauty. He was in love with it after all, in love with the pleasure it constantly gave him. Eleven o' clock was an hour away. Plenty of time to get everything ready for Mrs Boroclough's return.

***

He'd not intended to sleep, but nevertheless he dozed and floated away into a sissy wonderland where he was part of a consignment of sylph-like slave boys, locked in the hold of a sailing ship and bound for the harem of some immensely wealthy oriental potentate.

The headlights of Mrs Boroclough's car blazed through the window curtains as it turned into the drive, and the sudden illumination, so like the sweep of a prison searchlight, awoke Poppy with a start. He'd not intended to sleep, but he'd dozed whilst awaiting

His eyes scanned the room. Nothing to feel guilty about. His mind jarred as another thought entered it. She'd be expecting her malted-milk to be ready and he hadn't even started it.

He pushed himself up. Oh no! He'd got an erection - his stonker hadn't diminished at all, and even when he hauled on his panties it remained rigid and made the front of the garment stand out like a bell-tent.

Racing into the kitchen he slopped half a pint of milk into a pan and put it on the stove to warm up before grabbing a tall china mug. Hurriedly he scooped three teaspoons of malted-milk powder into it, then dosed two teaspoons of sugar on top. His heart sank and his knees trembled when he again noticed the unabated thrust in his pants. What could he do with it? She'd be furious if he didn't present himself right.

He heard a key turn in the front door lock. "Poppy, are you awake?"

"Yes, Mrs Boroclough, I'm in the kitchen."

"Where's my Horlicks?"

He dashed back to the stove and stuck his finger in the milk to test its temperature. It was still tepid. "Erm, I'm just pouring it, Mrs Boroclough."

A lie like that wouldn't hold her off for long. She was already in the sitting room taking off her coat and her earrings, and he wouldn't get away with greeting her with a stiff cock. He was going to be spanked for sure, probably spanked very severely. She wouldn't be beyond belting the backs of his legs with her wooden spoon if she was tired and feeling grumpy.

Oh dear, oh dear! How could he get out of this jam? The kitchen was spotlessly clean and Mrs Boroclough's eyes scanned every inch of space when she entered a room. Gazing down at the front of his pants he simply knew he'd got a double load to get rid of, but he daren't masturbate in there - dare he?

"Naughty cock, you're forever getting me into trouble." he murmured scathingly.

Mrs Boroclough soon lost patience waiting for him to appear in the sitting room and made a beeline for the kitchen.

"This is NOT what I expect when I arrive home, you wretched servant," she snapped sharply when confronted by his near nudity, "A maid should be properly dressed to greet her mistress at the door, and how on earth can you deliver a curtsy whilst wearing only knickers? This is awful! Most unsatisfactory!"

Poppy's head drooped. "Sorry, Mrs Boroclough."

Quite unexpectedly, and very swiftly for her age the woman grasped hold of his ear and gave it a cruel twist. "How many times must I tell you that the lady of the house must always be addressed as 'madam'? If you weren't such a sweet looking little thing I'd pack you off back to the Grange this instant, but as it is I'll persevere and attempt to train you to do things as they really should be done. Don't bother putting on more clothes now. As soon as I've had my night-cap you're in for a jolly good spanking over my knee. Now, where's my malted-milk?"

She moved up to the stove with cool authority, hard annoyance lingering in her face. Poppy forced a smile and raised her cup of beverage up from the work-top where he had been stirring it, only to be treated to yet another tut of disapproval.

"Drinks should always be served from a tray. Didn't they teach you anything useful at that so-called school?"

As she sipped her drink her scowl at last began to recede. "You're a scatterbrain Poppy, but never mind." She patted his pantied bottom and stroked it appreciatively. "At least you have a nice little bum and some of the ladies I invite to my home have a distinct bottom fetish. It would be a shame to deprive them of yours. Do you enjoy dancing?"

"Yes, I'm very good at dancing, Mrs Boroclough."

"Good." The woman said no more, she took the drink in her hand and strutted away into the sitting-room, while Poppy's fingers twisted together as the flutter in his stomach finally began to dissipate. He hadn't escaped getting smacked completely, but at least she wouldn't swat his legs with her zingy wooden spoon.

He was a little apprehensive about her hot-drink, but he'd given it a really good stir and she had no reason to suspect he'd tossed-off into it.

****

The following evening Jennifer met Emma Twist in the village. "It's rather a nice bungalow." she remarked, padding barefoot between the rooms wearing only her underwear, a bra and pants. It was a warm summer evening and the lack of clothes didn't seem inappropriate. "All mod cons. Only the sitting room is a mess."

"The place is unoccupied at the moment," replied Emma voice from the kitchen, "Like most of the property in the village it belongs to Mrs Boroclough, and she's having it redecorated with a view to renting it. That's how I got the key. Greg Totter is doing some work for her."

"I couldn't believe it when I found out you were involved in an affair with that gormless turkey Greg. Mummy would have a blue-fit if she knew."

"It's to avoid offending her that I meet him here." replied Emma amid a tinkle of glasses. "No offence to your mother, but she does tend to want to control everything around her and I can't do with that. I'd be lying if I said she wasn't the main reason I invited you here tonight. You're less likely to let anything slip if you're involved too."

Jennifer smirked. "I'd be an ass if I hadn't already guessed that."

Eventually Emma came through from the kitchen with two glass tumblers and a half-bottle of gin. Like Jennifer she was clad only in her underwear, her case a half-cup black bra and matching bikini briefs. "I don't know if I should ply you with alcohol. After all, you're still only young."

Jennifer smirked again, snatched the bottle from her hand and poured herself a measure. "Young in age, but mature enough in outlook."

That was true, thought Emma. What a splendid creature she was. A dominant teenager defying all control and lacking an iota of female compassion. She passed herself off with such aplomb that everyone reckoned her unconquerable, and it was her qualities of coldness she herself had come to admire. Instead of being competitors they now conspired as partners.

"When's Greg supposed to arrive?" Jennifer asked.

"Any minute. He knows better than to be late."

"It'll be interesting to see if he's up to managing the two of us together."

"He's not going to be allowed any choice." Emma told her dourly.

A few minutes passed as they sipped their drinks, then the scrapping of a key in the lock of the front door announced the arrival of their expected date. Greg Totter entered cagily like a thief in the night, but came to a sudden stop when confronted by the two semi-naked women.

"Jenny! I didn't expect to see you here."

"My name's Jennifer, not Jenny, and you shouldn't expect anything until you get it." the girl replied coldly.

Emma seated herself on the dust cover of a settee and began unravelling a ball of string. "Say sorry to Jennifer for being discourteous and stupid Greg." she told him crisply.

Greg seemed amazingly humble and showed none of the smart-alec bravado he was so notorious for. His face dipped and he gazed at the floor. "S-sorry, Jennifer."

Only then did Emma take any real notice of him. "That's better. Now, come here to me and get your cock out."

Instantly Greg scuttled across the room , his knees shaking as he obediently lowered the zipper on his dungarees and fished out the fat, limp worm of flesh from its hiding place. At once it began to distend and rear up, but a sharp slap from Emma's hand deflated it again.

"It's a nice dicky, but we've no use for it tonight. I'm going to put a tourniquet around the base of it to stop it being naughty."

Greg was eighteen, but Emma spoke to him in a soft cooing voice more suitable for dealing with an eight-year-old, and incredibly, the youth accepted her condescension without protest. Jennifer observed his penis silently. The hash slap had curbed its instinct, but it was still an impressive size, even when drooping impotently from the front of his slacks.

She grinned. "Why Greg, you've no hair around your 'bits'!"

"Greg isn't allowed to have body hair," intervened Emma, "He has to make himself smooth whenever he comes to see me. Only men have body hair, and we're still deciding when he'll be allowed to grow-up, aren't we Greg?"

The youth hung his head and didn't reply. Emma knotted the string about the base of his penis, then playfully swung the limp length of flesh from side to side with a fingertip.

"That's a good boy. That's how a well-behaved cock should be. If you prove worthy it might - just might - have some hand relief later. But your going to have to earn a reward like that. You'll need to put a lot of effort into co-operating, Greg. Lazy boys who don't try hard don't get treats." She pushed her fingers under his testicles. "Everything nice must be earned, don't you agree?"

Greg gulped. "Yes, Emma."

The lady tutor frowned and inserted a serious note to her voice. "I think tonight we should introduce an element of formality to things, Greg. Using my first name, as you do, sounds too familiar, like we are equals, when in actuality you're very much an inferior. I want you to show proper respect, so from now on you'll address me as, MISS Emma - and Jennifer will be MISS Jennifer - do you understand?"

"Y-yes."

Emma glared. "Yes, what?"

"Oh - er, Yes, Miss Emma."

"Stupid ninny. Now don't forget again. You're such a numbskull, so before we enter into the main event I think you'd benefit from a little lesson in humility. Remove your trousers and stand on the other side of the room. When I say MOVE you'll get onto your hands and knees and crawl quickly across the floor, then put yourself over my lap for a spanking. Clear?"

He blushed with shame and nodded quickly, and as he stepped out from his trousers he risked a sheepish glance at Jennifer. "Don't look at Miss Jennifer with such a dippy hangdog expression." Emma fumed, "She's here to take a full part in the proceedings, so just get used to the idea."

Feeling suitably chastised Greg stumbled over to the far side of the room and stood in dismal submission with his back against the wall. There was a short pause, then - "MOVE!" Emma's voice snapped.