A Sissy Saga Ch. 05

Mrs Pardoe groaned. "Heaven's sake Emma, don't go suggesting another fucking late night duty for us. Late nights looking after effeminate fuckwits are killing me. You've no idea what they do to my blood pressure."

"It would be a straightforward task that Gloria could do." Emma answered defiantly.

"Why yes," Gloria puffed eagerly. During her time as a nanny she'd developed an enthusiasm for certain unsavoury games. "I's got no objection to settlin' the dear girly-gentlemen of an evenin'. I already inspects 'em sometimes after showers anyway, makin' sure their bum-holes is clean and their winkies as been washed proper." She returned the expressions of slight amazement on the faces gazing at her with an unbending stare. "It's better than standin' around like a churn a'dryin'."

"Gloria can't possibly do it every night," Mrs Pardoe said crossly, "And anyway, such a thing would destroy matron's little sideline in supplying them with oils and lotions."

Matron looked up frostily. "If the dears are determined to do certain things it's as well for them to do them without risking injury. Anyway, the rule about masturbation is impractical. The urge to touch themselves is overpowering in males, and they'll always find some way of doing it without asking permission."

Miriam smiled patiently. Emma Twist was comparatively new at Fairyfield, and in her eagerness to have an impact she'd ignored an important premise. The purpose of the school wasn't simply to turn boys into girls, it was also aimed at turning them into shameless sexpots. After all, none of the clients she was cultivating for future placements would wish to take on a GOOD girl, and turning a blind-eye to lewd dormitory antics and allowing leeway for experiment was vital. Leaving them to their own devises was preferable to bringing in men to teach them. Hardwick was the limit she could tolerate of such people. Of course she would never publicly admit such a thing. That wouldn't be genteel.

"The rule will remain," she said firmly, "An establishment such as ours stands or falls on discipline, and the more rules we have the more chance we have to apply it."

"An intriguing concept, headmistress." murmured Hardwick.

Matron looked puzzled. "It as a certain logic, and I think I understand what you mean."

Miriam, to which nothing sifted through to oblivion, took stock and smiled at Emma. "You've clearly given this matter great thought, and are to be commended for it, but you see what controversy it arouses. When we're able to open the east-wing we'll have additional staff, and perhaps then we'll review the matter, until then I'm going to leave it in abeyance." She took a breath, then looked across at Gloria. "Would you bring the coffee over now?"

***

When the meeting broke up Miriam remained in the common-room sitting alone. From the pocket of her jacket she took a letter, a brief missive written on a piece of pale pink, heraldic-headed notepaper that she had already scanned several times before. It read:

'Dear Miss Hancock. You have made a home and business of Fairyfield for sometime now and it is my regret that we have yet to meet despite the invitations I have offered. Of course I understand just how busy your enterprise must keep you, indeed I am no stranger to a hectic, high-pressure life style myself, but a topic as arisen that I feel needs some intimate discussion. Consequently I have made myself available to visit you Wednesday p.m. Please make no special arrangements and do not inform the press. I'm rather well known and I need a little rest from media attention.'

It was signed modestly, Diana.

She did know of the person who had written it of course, everyone knew of her. Diana, Lady Chance-Barton was forever a feature in the Sunday supplements' and the cheap and cheerful celebrity gossip magazines. Her vanity had no boundaries and she was unequalled in its promotion - naming ships with champagne, offering out public counselling on healthy eating, and pouting sweet affection at underprivileged children whom she almost, but never quite touched.

She mixed with the highest social set of the county - no, not just the county but the entire country, and she was a totem for thousands of mentally inadequate people who needed someone glamorous to coo over. The woman and herself had nothing in common at all. Diana Chance-Barton was more inclined to rub shoulders with statesmen and show business glitterati than people like herself, so why did she wish to see her so urgently?

Carefully she folded the note and slipped it back into its envelope. It was silly to be suspicious. Relations with local people had been strained recently thanks to Mrs Boroclough's antipathy towards the kind of school she had set up. She needed friends now more than ever, and influential people such as Diana should be welcomed.

***

When Emma left the meeting she went along the landing to spend some time alone. At intervals along the second floor corridor recessed mullioned windows looked out onto the gardens, and in one of these she paused. It was a favoured place. It allowed her a view of the gatehouse where Hardwick was accommodated, and sometimes through the window of the gatehouse on a fine summer evening she was able to witness the disreputable gym-teacher porking one of the sissy-boys. Having the only man-dick in an establishment with so many soft, scantily clad bottoms the anally fixated rogue must have thought heaven had come to earth.

Smoking cigarettes had once been anathema to her, but in her year out before university she'd spent some time in Central America and had become accustomed to the recreational use of reefers and cheroots. 'Grass' she only used in her room, but occasionally she enjoyed a small cigar by an open window when there was little chance of being disturbed. She had just touched the cheroot to her lips when her solace was interrupted by a clatter that may have been mice in the walls. Ignoring it she lit her cheroot and turned back towards the window.

The monstrosity of Fairyfield Grange had horrified her when she'd first seen it. It seemed to her the architect had given it a forbidding facade with grotesque, imitation baroque excesses and gothic-like turrets that had no real purpose. She'd disliked the extravagance of its great maw of an entrance, and the ghastly oeil-de-boeuf which ornamented the roof-line. It gave the whole house a menacing many-eyed appearance - as if it were a sentient and hungry thing watching for someone to gobble up.

The place seemed to suit her nevertheless. Once she'd become a member of staff she'd settled in rather comfortably. There were close on thirty 'girls' in residence, most of whom would remain until they had completed two terms and were ready for placement as cock-sucking transvestites, utterly subservient to women and willing to drop their pants for men. They were divided into three groups, each of which revolved between herself, the rather grumpy Mrs Pardoe, and Hardwick in the gym. Lessons ended at 4 p.m., but that was never the end of responsibility. Miss Hancock refused to allow Outsiders above the ground floor, so each afternoon the pupils fastened pinafore smocks over their gymslips and spent the two hours prior to supper cleaning the facilities in the upper storeys. Officially it was known as Domestic Practise, but everyone dubbed it 'shine-time'. It was a function the headmistress maintained was invaluable experience for prospective servants.

Supervision duties seemed endless, though in the evenings the staff were assisted by Miss Hancock's daughter Jennifer, a physically strong girl with a waspish disposition that was Gestapo-like. And of course in the dormitories the head-girl, Abigail, could be relied on to maintain some kind of order when assisted by one or two prefects.

A social life for herself was out of the question, but that hardly seemed to matter. The school operated a plethora of regulations designed to extinguish all independent thought in the pupils, and corporal punishment, thinly disguised by the term 'correction', was the unwanted reward for any poor soul who unwittingly transgressed a rule. Habitually now she herself prowled like a big cat everywhere, eyes bright with expectation, waiting for her prey to commit an error.

Ah yes! It was the prospect of practising 'correction' that had attracted her and now held her fast there. She'd never really pinned down when such behaviour had started with her, although all her girlfriends in college would testify that she was the dominant one; never the spankee - always the spanker. She had taken a year out to visit central America and while there had developed her passion, but at Fairyfield she didn't even have the expense of the can of Coca-Cola that the youthful peasants of Mexico demanded before allowing themselves to be spanked beyond tears.

The drippy sissyboys Miss Hancock accepted for her school really did look like girls externally when put into frocks, and she loved the awe she inspired in so many youthful creatures. In class she was pitiless in smacking their hands and legs and spanking their bottoms, and she'd become a terror to avoid in the corridors. She owned their souls, she could make them do anything. The power she had over so many individuals was an aphrodisiac in every sense of the word, their very helplessness causing her arousal and exciting her imagination. In most places one would be hounded for merely twisting a student's ear - people in general were so politically-correct about such things - but here at Fairyfield there was never any such problem.

She was suddenly startled from her reverie by the noise of the rodent pest. From a cupboard on the landing that had barely enough room to hold a few buckets and brooms emanated first a scratching and then a sharp clatter. She didn't discount that vermin may still have a run of the old house, but that idea soon faded. Neither rats or mice opened doors!

Emma stood very still and watched as the cupboard door inched open and a morbid eye peered out from the tar black interior. Some kind of lark by one of the buildings inmates? If it was someone would soon regret such tomfoolery.

She strode over and wrenched the door wide open forcefully to reveal not a sniggering sissy, but the figure of a small, dishevelled, middle-aged woman wearing a grubby overall and an expression of shock. She had a large, aquiline nose that gave her face the hawkish appearance of a bird of prey, and she looked like she'd been standing there a long time, too long, until she looked like an exhibit in a museum that someone had neglected to dust. Her skin had an indoors pallor and her shapeless brown hair hung around her face like curtains detached from their fastenings.

Emma instantly thought her ugly. Not just without beauty as some women are, but actively ugly, with a face devoid of make-up or any attempt to use feminine wiles to address the problem. She stared at her, eyes hard and curious, her own expression at first puzzled then angry. "Who the hell are you?"

"Oh, um, 'scuse me miss, I's Mrs Amos, miss. I's one o' the cleaners."

"The cleaning staff went off duty ages ago."

"Yes, I know. But I got lost."

"Lost! How can you be lost, even in a house this size? The stairs are only ten paces away." Her eyes narrowed. "Anyway, cleaning staff are forbidden to come above the ground floor, just what are you up to?"

"I cleans the back stairs miss. I come up for just a minute an' I got lost."

"Rubbish! You're either a spy for someone, or a pervert wishing to peep at young girls in their dormitories - and I don't think you've got brains enough to be a spy."

A sly look flickered in the woman's squinting eyes and she sniggered as if she enjoyed being privy to a dark secret. "Them lasses here - none of 'em's lasses at all, them's all lads wearin' frocks."

Emma Twist's expression hardened. "I think the best thing I can do with you is give you over to Gloria and ask her to sack you and expel you from the grounds."

The threat at once had a sobering effect and knocked away the strange woman's inane smugness. She may not have had much in the way of intelligence, but she could recognise danger looming. "No, dunna do that miss. She's a right brute is Gloria. She chucks folk down the stairs."

Emma nodded. "I've heard some women in the past have lost their footing on the steps whilst in her company."

The two women stood eye to eye, but Emma said nothing more. Instead she reached slowly, with cold deliberation, for the swell of the other woman's cheek. Mrs Amos couldn't see her own cheek, of course, and thought for one crazed moment that she was going to pat her, but she didn't. She didn't slap her either - but then, horribly, she felt fingers dig in and twist her flesh. Although she wasn't insensitive to pain being inflicted, she didn't try to bat a hand or fight back, she merely mewed like a cat would when seeking sympathy.

Emma's voice, syrup and lead, said, "You're a captive of your own curiosity, Mrs Amos. It's either Gloria or myself you must suffer, and I just wonder if you've picked wisely."

Here was an opportunity to dominate in a different realm. Why should her pleasure be reserved for just Fairyfield sissies? The horrible little woman was coarse, dull and witless, and her lack of struggle hinted at abject submission and a facility to put up with abuse. Releasing her grip she spoke sharply. "Put your hands on your head."

The woman reacted to the abrupt command instantly, raising her arms and clasping her fingers in the unkempt thatch of her hair. Encouraged by such dumb obedience Emma became fascinated by just how much humiliation she could inflict before the woman put up some resistance.

She glanced along the landing, and satisfied no one else was about, she swung Mrs Amos about and gave her a push. "We'll go to my room. Come with me."

Mrs Amos heard the no-nonsense in her voice and at once found it more shocking than even the odd, fierce face-pinching she'd just suffered. It was so shocking that she waddled off in the direction indicated like a forlorn and docile prisoner-of-war without a bleep of protest.

The contents of Emma Twists apartment were as brash as she was herself - the furnishings of the living area consisted of an old steamer chair, a round brass table supported by four wooden llamas, an ethnic woven rug in browns and reds, several Guatemalan wall-hangings, and in the centre of the room a very suburban G-plan sofa in screaming mauve. In one corner stood an item she called her 'hurdle', a strange contraption that looked vaguely like a workman's support trestle, but was made of varnished mahogany and had thick padding wrapped around its central span. She had acquired it from a convent on the outskirts of Monterey where the nuns never thought to spare the rod when dealing with young sinners.

She stood Mrs Amos in the middle of the carpet. "Take off your coat." she told her.

Uncertainty flickered in the woman's face as she removed her scruffy overall to reveal a baggy old T-shirt and equally scruffy skirt underneath. Her lack of a bra was evident by the outline of breasts that drooped almost down to her waistline.

"What time are you expected home?"

"Oh, I ... er ... I dunno. Me ole man goes straight down the pub when he finishes work. I hardly ever sees him."

"Let me see your breasts, Mrs Amos."

There was such an expression of chill in the command that the woman made a low, moaning anxious sound as she hesitantly reached for the bottom of her T-shirt.

"No, don't lift the shirt, you slag. Pull the neck down and hang what you have over the top."

The neckline of the shirt was already distorted and enlarged from overuse and Mrs Amos was able to stretch it even wider, plunging a hand down inside to lift out one lump of flesh and then a second, draping them onto the front of the garment in the fashion of a pair of flabby pendulums. Two grotesque breasts swung down, brown nipples studded onto anaemic lifeless sacks devoid of shape or allure. "Is yer gunna smack me tits, miss?" asked the cleaning-woman, wide eyed.

Emma clicked her tongue in irritation. "Don't try second-guessing what I intend. Take off your skirt."

The woman dithered momentarily, then the skirt dropped down - no stockings, and no pants either.

"Don't you have underwear?" Emma asked as she gazed at the woman's closely cropped bush.

"Y-yes miss, but I don't bother with it much. Not usually miss. Not unless I's goin' to a funeral or a weddin'. I finds knickers a nuisance." She offered a moronic grin. "I trims me minge reg'lar tho'. Blokes like to see where they're going, don't they?"

The attempt at ripe sisterly humour only brought a sour expression to Emma's face. "I wouldn't know. I don't have much time for pleasing men's selfish eccentricities. You on the other hand obviously indulge them quite often, don't you Mrs Amos?"

"I's allus enjoyed a bit o' rumpy-pumpy. I went wi' lots o' lads a'fore I married." the woman volunteered.

"I don't doubt that. How many men have fucked you since your wedding?"

"A few - I don't keep count anymore - forty or fifty maybe. I's a lot choosier these days."

"Your curiosity about the young people in this building, is that part of being choosey?

"They's all shirt-lifters here, miss. I thought maybe I could teach 'em how to shag a lady."

"You appear to lack much in the way of morals," Emma commented dryly, "Are you intimate with women too?"

"Women! Well, I's not shy wi' other lasses, an' I does like some slap'n'tickle wi' em now and then. I 'specially likes doin' things wi' pretty ladies."

She risked broadening her grin, but Emma sneered and stabbed the air with a minatory finger. "You'll keep your grotty tongue well inside your mouth when you're anywhere near me, you creaky old slapper."

Swinging about, she left Mrs Amos standing three parts naked and went through into her bedroom to take up the travel-bag she kept there, a bag that contained a number of items she found useful. Alone for a moment, the unsavoury nature of what she was becoming enmeshed in clarified. But so what! she snapped at herself truculently, only dull, small minded people need a nice clean life. In Leeds her existence had been blighted by so many self-righteous types who'd tutted over her rejection of a nice life. NICE LIFE! What a vapid phrase; meaningless! In ignorance she'd tried to live it for a year, resigned to fit with a dreary routine whilst trying to curb the sadistic streak in her nature. She had a passion far too big for small minds to understand. Her greatest need was to dominate, and she needed freedom to do it.

On her return the cleaning woman was still in place, motionless and docile, and Emma smiled her satisfaction. In one hand she now clutched what appeared to be a small pink rubber ball threaded through with a black elastic strap, while in the other she carried a coil of rope. Mrs Amos could only offer a vacuous expression and gape, which suited Emma well enough since it enabled her to stuff the rubber ball into her mouth. The woman glugged like an emptying sink as it was fastened in place, and when she looked at Emma sideways, mouth stretched wide and held open by the stopper of rubber, she looked pathetic, like a skittish rabbit cornered by a stoat.

Eyes sparkling, the tutor grasped her left ear and dragged her wincing towards the hurdle. "Press your thighs against the crossbar and lean down, Mrs Amos. Get over it, you old bag - get right down."

Clearly alarmed Mrs Amos prevaricated for a moment, but helped by a brisk shove from behind she slumped over the cross-spar of the trestle, her pallid, flabby bottom rising up as her head went down, the tips of her slack elongated breasts swinging freely and almost trailing on the floor.

Emma took hold of a heavy leather belt that had once been the property of a coal-miner and slapped the seasoned tip of it in the palm of her hand. She rarely used a belt like that on other people, and the only outings it had seen so far were on girls at university when they were drunk following a night on the town. Now however seemed a good time to give it a further trial.