A Sissy Saga Ch. 03

"I knows what's the matter wi' you, newcomers is allus the same. You're upset with being left among strangers an' having no friends. Come an' sit on Gloria's lap an' have a cuddle for a bit."

"I-I don't want a cuddle."

The housekeeper stretched her broad neck out from the tight starched white collar that bordered her dress, then inclined her head just slightly as she grabbed his arm and yanked him forcefully down by her side. "O' course you want a cuddle. Young people allus need a cuddle at times like these." She cradled him affectionately against her massive bosom while gazing into his bright blue eyes. "You're sweet looking an' bound to make friends quick, but in the meantime you's just got to relax."

Smiling, she regarded him a moment longer before running her fingers over his shoulders. "There. That's it, settle yerself down. The first day away from home is allus a trial. I's had a lot of experience wi' people like you, so I knows all about it. I was nanny to the headmistress's own kiddies when they were small, an' I helped out when Miss Hancock worked for the Social Services a'fore she came here."

Slowly her hands began to move licentiously over his body, and then her podgy fingers drifted up and down his nylon-clad legs, spiralling inwards towards the apex of his thighs and relentlessly encroaching until they were rolling the plump amoebas shapes in his flannel underwear. A single broad arm encircled him, hugging him with the strength of a bear as he attempted to wriggle away, and he squirmed as he felt her fingers and thumb take a grip and begin an indecent massage, stoking up and down to make his penis stir and tingle.

"You needs to have a nice feelin' so you can forget about all the 'orrirble ones." Gloria murmured as she blatantly drew up the flesh within his pants and pumped it, pulling on his hidden parts and making him blink. Despite his embarrassment his penis was rising up.

"No, Gloria. You mustn't..."

The only response his meek protest received was to feel the woman's fingers accelerate their movements into a frantic, rapid jerking. He could feel her thumb and forefinger boldly massaging the outline of his penis, giving special attention to his knob-end, skinning his prick-hood up and down inside his knickers and making his toes curl from the unrequested infliction of physical pleasure. He couldn't break free from her. The woman may not have been well educated, but if the school she had once attended had awarded an annual prize for Sumo wrestling she would have won it every year.

"You're a bright young thing." Gloria declared, whilst delicately squeezing the shape of his testicles with her stubby fingers. In her experience there wasn't a man alive who didn't like having his balls played with. "Yer a darling thing what enjoys havin' a bit o' fun with his wormy, I reckons. Don't pay too much attention to what matron said about askin' permission. I knows lads your age have to pull on their puddin's whenever the moods on 'em, whether they're in a frock or not. I likes to help out, an' I knows all about giving nice feelin's."

She remained impassive as his moans became rasping and more strident, but her fingers never slowed in their rhythm. Faster and faster she caressed that important part of him, her thumb instinctively finding the most sensitive portion of the anatomy in his pants and rubbing it up and down. Muffled groans spewed from his throat as his chest began to heave.

"No, nooo - please, Gloria." Shaking his head from side to side he groaned, tensed and quivered. His mother had only just left him and already a fat old woman was blatantly rubbing him through his pants. And the awful lady was going to make him do something. He couldn't stop her. She was going to make him do it in his knickers.

And she did. The tingle evolved into an all consuming throb and he felt his flesh judder under her caress, making him crush his face against her neck in a futile attempt to mask the involuntary noises that erupted in his throat as he writhed. "Uhhhh!" It was horrible. Aaaaahhhh. And wonderful. Ohhhhhhh. His cock throbbed and ached, then there was a sudden wet RUSH of pleasure and instant relief as his body jerked, then jerked again.

When a large patch of vacid moisture soaked through onto her fingers Gloria stopped and beamed a smile. "What a wicked angel you are. I knowed yer lovely peg would come up nice and have more to it than matron reckoned. I'll have to keep my eye on you."

***

The following morning, and six miles away Diana, Lady Chance-Barton, with little else to occupy her time, was fuming at a perceived discourtesy, and when in fuming mode she was something even her husband was disinclined to meet in combat.

She was wearing a high-necked silk blouse under a beige suit with a mini-length skirt which showed off her long legs. She looked a succulent item of woman-flesh drawn up against the sitting-room window and Nigel, Lord Chance-Barton wondered how such an elegant girl could bear to look so severe. Then he noticed it was her hair; short, styled with a tight curving wave at the front. It would have taken a hurricane of wind to knock it out of place and it did nothing to soften her face. She was always startlingly attractive and promoted a dimpled sweet lamb smile when the news media were around, but as soon as the cameras had gone her countenance became that of tough mutton.

"That Hancock woman is infuriating." the woman sniped, "She's been in the area for a year and not once as she thought to come and introduce herself to us. Twice I've invited her to a garden party, and each time the insignificant little oik as pleaded she's too busy."

Her husband, Nigel, smiled a humourless smile. He knew his wife enjoyed the limelight and believed herself to be the centre of the known universe. She was forever preoccupied by big social ambitions and she readily detested those that didn't immediately bow and scrape before her. He was plump, bronzed, with clear blue eyes, sharp features and thinning hair, and he was more easy going. He could have been any age between forty and sixty, but in fact he was in his late fifties. The age difference between them was marked, but Diana and he shared common duplicity. She had married him for the status of his title, while he had courted her into it because of her youthful good looks and perpetual Condi Naste appearance.

"I don't suppose she feels the need. And we're not royalty who can demand her tribute, dear; we're a tiny remnant of faded nobility." he offered.

She gave him a tight little smile that travelled nowhere near her eyes, which was a shame, because they were beautiful, the lids long-lashed. She could devour most men with the bat of one lid like a Venus flytrap, but she never owned up to any flaw in her character. She considered that being a fashion icon was a worthy full-time occupation, while adoration and the reverent tugging of forelocks in her presence was a rightful reward for her celebrity.

Her husband suffered a scathing look. "God, what an ineffective man you are, Nigel, what's the point in being a lord if you don't lord it over people a little bit. The hicks in the sticks around here expect it. The name Chance-Barton once filled people with awe in these parts, and we're faded now only because you are incapable of being assertive. People should respect our position in the community."

Her husband didn't reply and tried to hide himself in the pages of The Times, but Diana persisted. "I believe you knew that Hancock woman in the past, didn't you?"

He grunted. "I knew her slightly. She was with the Youth Probation Service in Harrogate some time ago, and I assisted her with some charity work."

"Charity work? I thought I was the only one involved in charities. My agent says they make good PR. What kind of charity was she running?"

"She was working with errant young adults - getting them to engage in a more acceptable and meaningful kind of life. I've not seen her since then and I don't wish to press the matter."

Diana's arrogant chin lifted as she slowly walked around the room, all make-up and beatific smiles, touching things here and there, adjusting them and stopping to view each new juxtaposition. As she moved she paused in front of various mirrors, knowing well enough how beautiful she was but unable to resist the temptation to confirm it repeatedly.

Everyone in the world adored Diana, Lady Chance-Barton. People as faraway as Japan admired her beauty, tried to emulate her chic and attempted to copy her perfection. Everyone in the world except that ignorant peasant who had taken over the Grange anyway. And that bitch would soon discover the danger of being outside the common herd, because Diana was a huntress with sharp teeth, and non-conforming strays were her special prey.

Eventually she went out of the door, a flame of curiosity now burning along with her mood of discontent. Nigel may constantly spurn the idea of influencing things but that was something that she never did, and his reluctance to discuss Miriam Hancock struck her as suspicious. He was hiding something. No, more than that, he was evading the whole subject; therefore she would make some enquiries. She had nothing better to do until the next gala dinner in Leeds and with no other distractions she could buckle down and get on with that kind of thing. The relationship between the woman and her husband could be intriguing.

***

Diana Chance-Barton was not the only woman suffering from discontent that morning. At the rear of Fairyfield Grange Mrs Amos leaned her broom against the wall and stuffed a banister brush into her overall pocket. Fishing about for the wristwatch with a broken strap she kept in the same place she tutted as she checked the time. The watch had stopped, but she knew sweeping the stairs had taken longer than she'd anticipated, and she knew the awful Gloria wouldn't even contemplate paying any overtime money. It was unfair that the back stairs were included in ground floor cleaning; there were three flights of steps all higher than ground level, and although she was expected to clean them she was forbidden from entering any part of the house above.

She's seen the best of her thirties. Mrs Amos was now a misshapen lumpy slattern with a mop of untidy flyaway hair folded up and inadequately pinned behind her head, while the skin of her face was pouched and slack and beginning to wrinkle. She was a selfish and not especially bright woman who was unenthusiastic about work, and who invariably slumped around expending the least amount of energy possible while doing just enough to prevent her losing her job.

Fairyfield Grange was supposed to be a school for girls, she mused, but there was something odd about the place. The pupils were confined to the upper levels during early morning cleaning and were rarely seen, and there was a reluctance by the tutors to talk to other employees, just as if they had a wicked secret they didn't wish to share. She'd heard rumours of course. When Gloria wasn't around the whispered gossip was that the girls weren't really what they seemed. People reckoned they were really boys wearing skirts.

Mrs Amos stroked the front of her thighs. That would be disgusting if it were true. It would be too weird. Such things didn't ought to be allowed.

At that moment there was a rapid clattering of shoes on the stone steps. The stairs at the back of the house were narrow and uncarpeted and sloped up to veer away at right angles, so a moment passed before she saw someone appear; negotiating each turn by sharp swings on the handrail whilst descending. In a hurry to get down the last flight of steps a short, dark blue, gymslip swirled and flounced to display bare legs tanned to a warm honey colour and a brief glimpse of white knickers.

The woman gaped in stupefaction and her sly black eyes narrowed. In the past she'd only ever seen the students at a distance and she relished the chance to satisfy her curiosity about them. When this one screeched to a halt in front of her she didn't try to conceal her inspection, but stare as much as she might she couldn't detect any obvious sign of maleness. She visually scanned the face and took in every detail. Late teens probably. Sensuous lips turned down ever so slightly at the corners, the lower lip full and soft, the upper lip pressing down in a symmetrical curlicue that caused the flattened point to accentuate a small nose with tiny nostrils. The pupil, whatever it was, was pretty and looked like a girl, but it was difficult to make a judgement on superficial scrutiny.

"What are you doin' 'ere? Yer not allowed down the stairs a'fore mid-mornin'." she said gruffly. The young persons eyes were full of surprise, but that didn't prevent a smile that made a show of scrupulously clean teeth and pink gums. Girl-like fingers dabbed at a Swatch strapped to a slender arm. It had a pink dial with white numerals.

"You're the one who shouldn't be here. You should have gone an hour ago."

Mrs Amos threw out her chin and rammed her fists down on broad hips. "Don't you be so cheeky. What's yer name?" she demanded.

"I'm Daisy. I say, have you seen Trudy Jones? I want Gloria to buy me some stuff in the village, but I won't have the dibs if I can't find Trudy."

Pushing beyond the woman's bulky frame Daisy hurried to the door that lay open to the yard outside, only to turn back in frustration. "It's not fair. I think Trudy's hiding from me." Then with a sudden burst of alacrity a pair of large bright eyes gazed up at Mrs Amos from beneath long, lush lashes. "Look here, can you lend me fifty pence?"

The expression was a heart-stopper. It would have drained the balls of a man and even received sympathy from a woman with any sensitivity. But Mrs Amos had no sensitivity. She waddled forward, allowing a lank strand of hair to escape all restriction and hang down the side of her face. "You brazen Miss. Don't you know it's bad manners to beg for money?"

"Trudy owes me fifty pence, so I can pay you back."

"That's beside the point." She took another pace forward, gazing at the long honey-coloured legs, soft and smooth, and the mini-skirt that barely covered the necessary bits. "'Ere, is you a boy or a girl?"

Daisy skipped easily away, skirt billowing as nimble limbs mounted the stairs. "It costs fifty pence to find out."

Such cheek, fumed Mrs Amos. Never heard the likes of it before. A woman her age shouldn't have to put up with it. Anyway, she hadn't got fifty pence with her.

Sharp irritation combined with an unwavering curiosity made her rush forward to pin the slender figure against the stair rail, then as one hand grasped Daisy's arm the other swept under the skirt to clutch at the pants beneath and fumble with shapes that had no place in a real girls underwear.

(Rub, rub) "I knowed it, I jus' knowed it," she crowed in jubilation, "You's a pantywaist faggot jus' like thought." The young sissy wiggled his perfect bottom desperately, but she held him close as her fingers dipped lower to massage the unambiguous spheres in his teenage ball-bag. "Nice couple o' pearls you's got. An' you'll be fully loaded too, I bet."

Daisy struggled, pushed furiously and burst from her grip, red-faced and indignant, "I'm going to tell someone about you."

"You'll do knowt, else I'll say how you were askin' for money to show yerself. Everyone will believe me, 'cos I'm a lady an' you're just a sissy."

Refusing to be drawn into an argument that didn't make any sense Daisy scampered away rapidly, back up the stairs and out of sight. Shamelessly Mrs Amos gazed upwards to attain the best possible view of his little white pants until the turn in the stairs cut off the view.

"Phoofter!" she mumbled disparagingly. So it was true, she thought when she was once more alone. Here was a big house full of lads all wearing frocks. Disgustin' it was. Not 'xactly decent anyway. Whatever next?

She ran the tip of her tongue across her lips. Chances was there were lots of disgustin' things happening here, all locked away from prying eyes. Chances were them naughty lads had never learnt how to shove their willy's up lasses. Chances were they were all 'on the other bus', as they said in Yorkshire, an' just did wicked things with each other.

She felt heat between her legs and realised she was becoming wet. Shame she couldn't give them powder-puffs the right kind of experience. She moved towards a nearby broom-cupboard, stepped inside and shut the door behind herself. Maybe she could train some of 'em, she pondered. Then maybe she could use two of them at the same time - have two excited sissy-pricks squeezing in her hole together. She'd need to show them queers how to do it of course, but that wasn't a problem. She'd shown dicks of all kinds how to do things in the past.

Amid buckets and dustpans and drums of scouring powder she hitched her skirt about her hips and sent an exploratory finger to find the juicy, firm nodule between her legs, then she sighed with delight as she made it circle.

"Come here me little darlin'." she muttered to the banister brush as she positioned the tip of its handle between the puffy lips of her vagina.

Easing it up into an eager aperture she groaned as she spit herself on lacquered wood which instantly became eccine with her body fluid. For several minutes she crouched in the dark, stabbing the brush handle up and down inside herself, thighs undulating in fits of exquisite sensations as her mind became entirely occupied with images of enormous spurting cocks.