tagNovels and NovellasA Sissy Saga Ch. 10

A Sissy Saga Ch. 10


"Disgusting!" exclaimed Miriam Hancock lightly as she examined the photographs Emma Twist handed her. It had taken Hardwick most of the day to produce the prints, but they were well worth waiting for. The headmistress went through them as if shuffling cards, and having glimpsed each one viewed them a second time, more slowly and with greater concentration. "Disgusting but marvellous. Exactly the kind of thing I need. Who is that grotesque old hag wearing the strap-on?"

Emma didn't need to look. "She's a local slattern with no scruples. Don't worry about her saying anything, I have complete control of her."

Matron moved behind Miriam and peered at the photographs over her shoulder. "Are you sure Diana didn't know what was happening? She looks fully awake in some of these pictures."

Emma smiled. "She does look lively and alert, doesn't she? But she was full of the barbiturate you provided and totally unconscious the whole time."

"Then how...?"

"You know what a poseur she is, always getting her photographs in the Conde Naste type magazines. Hardwick is a dab-hand at photography, so I got him to superimpose some magazine images onto a few of the close-ups to jolly the scenes up. That may be a bit cheeky, but the coat-of-arms on the bed-head is real enough and you know how people love to think the worse. Everyone but herself will take it that she is revelling in the worse kind of gutter-slut orgy."

Matron shook her head. "You're playing a dangerous game. Diana could have you thrown into jail if she knew about them."

Miriam's face tightened. "The photographs are vile enough to deter her from legal action. She may be innocent to everything, but she couldn't endure the ignominy of having to present such things as evidence in a court-of-law. Even though they're fiction they would taint her precious public image more than she could bear, and without doubt copies of them would soon filter through to be published in some scurrilous pornographic magazine somewhere. In fact I would arrange that matter myself."

"They'll go into a bank vault for the time being. The only copies I will send out for the moment will be to the lady herself, under confidential cover and with a brief note telling her to call off her lawyers and keep her nose out of other peoples business. She'll realise who the message is from, and what it means."

A sudden look of concern crossed her face as she scanned the pictures a third time. "That dreadful crone is stretching Diana wide enough to park a car. It looks extremely gynaecological and rather vulgar, I trust she wasn't injured in any way."

"Of course not, unless you consider Lulabelle's generous string of semen across her nostrils to be bodily harm."

Miriam slipped the photographs into a large manila envelope and handed it to matron. They represented something more than simple triumph over an adversary, they stood for security of status and the sanctity of her beloved house. To everyone else a house was just a building, a thing with four walls, a roof and a door, but to Miriam Hancock Fairyfield Grange symbolised something ethereal that was far removed from the mundane.

"Right now there are things of more direct importance," the headmistress rumbled, "The Historic Buildings Commission are refusing to list the Grange as a top grade historical site, the bastards, so no money in grants from them, and the Inland Revenue are questioning my accounts. Unfortunately both are departments I have no influence with."

A skill for spending money came to Miriam Hancock as easily as swimming came to a fish, but acquiring enough of it always seemed to be a problem.

"Compose a letter to all parents and guardians, matron," she suddenly said in a flurry of passion. "Explain that the cost of pony-trekking and boating have risen sharply, and if they wish their young people to continue benefiting from such weekend activities their monthly allowance must be increased by - erm, twenty pounds." She sighed heavily, oblivious to the fiction she'd just improvised. "Money, money. Everything is expense."

The financial burden of operating her school always preyed on Miriam Hancock's mind, and along with major headaches she had to contend with a constant rash of smaller ones. "There is more bad news," matron replied, "Our stock of oestrogen has all but run out and our usual supplier refuses to provide any more."

The headmistress accepted that news calmly. "I foresaw this may happen soon, so I've already taken steps to rectify things. At least with this matter I can be reasonably optimistic."

"I hope you haven't called me out on a wild goose chase Miss Hancock," Doctor Arkwright huffed grumpily when Miriam greeted him an hour later. "I'm a busy man and I've enough sick people in the village to see without trailing about making house-calls to places ten miles out."

Looking suitably stressed Miriam led the way up the stairs. "I employ a wonderful matron who excels in dealing with skinned knuckles and sprained ankles, but she's helplessness when it comes to infections. She'd convinced Fifi may have contracted chickenpox, and since that is contagious I rejected the idea of taking her into Peasmarsh. Instead isolated her in my guest room. That was sensible, wasn't it? After all I do have a duty of care to the young people under my hand as well as concern for the community at large."

She took the doctor up to a room on the second floor landing, and the man peered round the door at the young person sitting up in the bed inside. A girl. It was Fifi. He wore only a lace-frilled bed jacket closed at the front by a single tie of ribbon. "Do you have a rash anywhere?" he asked briskly.

Fifi shook his head. The doctor went across and thumbed each of his eyes wide and glared into them, then pulling his mouth open he peered down into his throat. Not trying to hide the fact he was irritated and that his examination was cursory, he turned and took a couple of items from the bag he carried with him, then pushed a thermometer under Fifi's tongue.

Annoyed at having to conduct a house call he may have been, but he considered himself a connoisseur of girls and Fifi's collar-bone and neck were extremely elegant, while she had the kind of face that could keep a man awake at night. But such appreciation held no value when he came to considering the woman standing behind him.

Withdrawing the thermometer he checked its reading and a twinge of frustration coloured his voice. "This is preposterous Miss Hancock, just what kind of matron do you employ? There's absolutely no indication of illness here. I've rarely examined a more robust, healthy young lady."

Miriam feigned surprise together with a tad of helplessness. She knew men liked to see that in a woman. "But Fifi was complaining of aching bones. Isn't that a symptom of fever?"

Arkwright snorted and pulled Fifi's bed jacket open to reveal a stomach that was delectably flat and with a cute indented navel. The narrow chest was also flat except for two small nipples which seemed impishly prominent. Her skin was creamy, flawless and sleek, while her hips flared ever so slightly to create a gentle curve. A perfect creature, the doctor thought, well proportioned and bathed in a delicious aroma. Not a specific perfume, but a clean fragrance with the faint scent of freesias.

His fingers brushed up under her armpits to check the lymph-glands, then trailed down the shape of her sides towards her hips, probing the soft flesh as he went like a blind man reading Braille. "Is that uncomfortable?"

Fifi shook his head.

His fingers flitted across the smooth stomach before moving up to visit the ribs. "Do you feel any pain here?"


It was a body without equal, a harmony of muscle, bone and tendon without an ounce of unnecessary fat. Realisation then began to dawn on him. Beneath the coiled tension of the girl's sleek body there was something amiss. There was something about her, something different. The set of the ribs and the hips - something.

His pulse raced. Breathless, stunned, he turned the bedcover down and stepped back to appraise the girl from head to toe. Such slender legs. A narrow waist, but the shape of the pelvis was wrong. The pants - thong pants of the type worn by girls - were pointed at the front as if the nylon material were dragging across the tip of something inside. It startled him and excited him too.

"This - young lady - this young lady isn't a young lady." he slowly blurted out.

The man's characteristic hesitation snagged Miriam's full attention and looking helpless no longer she squared up to him in a sudden show of strength. "You're right of course, Dr Arkwright. And that leads me into seeking your assistance in a related matter. Matron is treating the entire school with certain medications - you know - hormones - but she's finding it increasingly difficult to obtain them in the amounts she requires. The pharmaceutics industry is so touchy these days about supplying things without the authority of a registered medical practitioner."

It was the doctors turn to look amazed. He looked horrified. "You don't know what you are saying, madam. Do you expect me to collude with you in some kind of diabolic scheme of your own devising? I'm a professional man of principal. The very idea is ridiculous, even grotesque."

Miriam did know what she was saying. The chickenpox was just a story to get him into a situation where she herself could feel at ease and where there was no chance of interruption. There were other doctors she could call on in the event of real sickness, but she was taking a calculated risk with Arkwright. He was the only one with a reputation for medical misconduct and sexual perversity. Nothing had ever been proven against him, but since the stories persisted some of them were probably true. If so it was a weakness, and in Miriam's mind such weakness should be used for the benefit of her school.

She walked past him towards the door. It irked her to sacrifice one of her girls to an Outsider, but the needs of Fairyfield Grange took precedence over individuals. "Please think about it Doctor Arkwright. There are special rewards for people who co-operate with me. Perhaps you'd like to examine Fifi again. She's quite often a naughty girl and today she's primed to allow a modicum of indiscretion. I'll go down stairs and leave you alone to get on with it, but please pop in and say goodbye before you leave."

Arkwright tried to remain cool and detached as the door closed. Staying cool was a prerequisite for a medical man, but still... Another flicker of irritation ran through his mind. Who did that obnoxious woman think she was, inviting him to make a further examination? What was going on? And 'indiscretion.' just what did she mean by that?

He licked his lips and breathed through his mouth as he studied the luscious form stretched out on the bed. His heart lurched, or was that just his glands reacting? Of course he knew exactly what she meant. She meant the youthful beauty had been forewarned to expect some lascivious sexual attention.

Most of his misconduct in the past had been with female patients, and like many men he made a big show of lusting after big-titted females, but there were times when something happened to men like himself. Sometimes women faded from his menu of carnal desires and his dick thickened at the sight of a slim-hipped young lad. Married men, fathers, and yes even doctors could on occasions yearn to unzip and ram their dicks into a fuckable male backside.

He turned towards Fifi, seeking the source of the delicate floral scent that drifted from his skin. Fifi had a promiscuous talent and he had taken up an inviting pose, bed jacket thrown back to reveal dainty, bare curves. When he breathed he inhaled deeply to make his undraped chest expand.

Temptation had the best of Dr Arkwright. Fifi was a beautiful thing of no more than eighteen summers. Irresistible to his mind because he was a sucker for a beautiful boy dressed as a girl. The opportunity he now had was too good to pass up. Sliding his hands up and down the sissy's body he began a second tour, caressing and stroking the pantywaists wondrous hips before moving up to his exposed chest to toy with his nipples.

Fifi's eyes became fixed on the doctor, blatantly teasing, piercing blue eyes that should have been innocent, but weren't. Languidly his tongue slid across the front of his teeth only to stop at the corner of his mouth, and there a lingering, delicate moist tip of pink protruded slightly.

Arkwright groaned. He had barely started and yet he suddenly needed to turn away in desperation to extract his penis from the front of his trousers. It was as stiff as a broom handle and already drooling.

Blast! He was going to boil-over in a second, he knew he was, he could sense it. And that without even having a peep inside the fruitcakes pants. It was unfair. What chance was there to enjoy so much lusciousness properly in a single fleeting visit?

The solution suddenly became clear. Of course. The headmistress wanted a favour of him, so he would comply and take a favour in return. All he had to do was tell her that his initial diagnosis had been too hurried and had been faulty. Fifi's condition was rather more severe than he had first thought and he'd need to make several more visits, maybe even stay overnight to ensure the sweet thing had the best attention a doctor could provide. She'd know precisely what he was really saying, she excelled in such double-talk herself. Yes, yes. There was no need to rush, there would be plenty of time for everything.

With a smile he turned again. "Open your mouth sweetness, this won't take long." he said, holding the base of his swollen penis with one hand and guiding Fifi's head towards it with the other.

The sissy's eyelashes fluttered cutely. "Doctor, you're using such a big thermometer this time."

"It's a special treatment," Arkwright told him, "You require some medicine, and since I'm likely to dispense it in a rather large dose on this occasion it's best if you take it orally." He gazed down at the sissy's shining face. "Do you understand?"

Fifi did understand. Miss Hancock had told him what to expect and he was ready to be a good girl and take on the deluge of sticky goo about to leap from the doctors stout, drooling meat.


Sunlight blazed through the tall window in Jennifer Hancock's room to glorify it's drabness and disorder. The carpet and curtains were chestnut brown, the walls and paintwork grey. On one side of the room stood shelves stuffed with books and magazines piled in disarray, while on the other, garnished with coffee stains, stood a radio cassette player and a heap of music cassettes.

The bed was still rumpled and unmade from her previous nights sleep even though it was five-o-clock in the afternoon, and discarded clothing and undergarments lay in piles on the floor. Clothing also draped the chair in the corner and gave an impression of utter unconcern with the mundane aspects of life such as tidiness. The only decorations favoured appeared to be several posters on the walls that depicted beautiful young women with cruel eyes and contemptuous smiles.

Like many teenagers Jennifer showed no concern about living amid disorganisation and mess, and only when her clean clothes became entirely mixed with soiled laundry did she feel a need to sort out the shambles. It was an annoyance, but it caused her no real effort, for she saw no point in exerting herself doing chores whilst there were so many precious sissies in the building who could do things for her, and a short walk along the second floor landing always produced what she needed.

Indeed, late afternoon was the part of the day when the house entered into its Domestic Practice or 'shine-time' routine. When she reached it some half dozen effeminate residents were ranged along the landing, engaged in sweeping and polishing under the supervision of Margaret Pardoe, who maintained the sombre expression of a Russian gulag-guard.

She paused in front of Zoë, who was busy with a broom and who was affecting a pleasing feminine swing to his hips. His arms were slender and girlish, and no wiles of powder or paint were needed with him. His cheeks held the natural blush of a rose and his lips were deep red on their own account.

"YOU, come here." she barked. He gawked at her, not sure of who she was addressing.

"I mean you, you stupid pansy - come with me." Impatiently she stormed over, grabbed him by an ear. "I've a special task for this one." she explained to a sullen Mrs Pardoe as she dragged him away.

Her choice wasn't as ad-hoc as it seemed. She'd chosen Zoë, an individual who was habitually neat and tidy about everything, and who would require only minimal direction to make order out of chaos. Ignoring his look of horror when faced with the state of her room, she put him to work, then reclined on the unmade bed where she could read a magazine and still be available for advice on where to put things.

She rarely punished a sissy for any other reason than self- indulgence anymore, or because they were morons who couldn't follow instructions properly. Once they'd experienced her capricious nature they never argued or questioned too much, and although they sometimes whimpered or sulked they certainly never defied her. Doing as she said was always the most comfortable way of dealing with Jennifer. Sometimes their abject submission made her feel sexy. She became intoxicated by it. Their squirming hesitation and indecision made her feel powerful, and it reaffirmed her belief that they could never be her equal.

She knew that in the opinion of some people she should be at least entertaining a boyfriend, or even better, be deeply involved with a husband and children like some of her contemporaries' from school already were. But in Harrogate she had seen a couple of her former classmates heaving huge double pushchairs up and down the shopping precinct, and it had horrified her.

Despite being sexually aware for a number of years she was still a virgin in the sense she'd never copulated with a man. Right from the start she'd been determined that no male who couldn't beat her in a fight would be allowed to fuck her, but by her nineteenth year she was still waiting for him to appear. She had always been physically strong, and she maintained her fitness with habitual gym-work. Being seen to be so capable frightened men away, but she had no emotional need of them, and her biggest thrill came from dominating their puerile minds whenever she had the chance.

On a small bookshelf she horded several publications on human psychology, a subject she intended to study at university. At the moment she was single-minded in private study. She did not rate herself an academic, or an intellectual, but felt no need to compensate for that by sheer slog either. She had an intuitive sense for what people were thinking and what motivated their actions.

Zoë was extremely efficient. Half an hour to tidy up. Fifteen minutes with a vacuum-cleaner and another fifteen with duster and polish and her room took on an ambience of wholesomeness. Everything was in perfect order, the clothing sorted; clean in the closet, dirty in a bag for the wash, shoes reassembled in pairs and laid tidily in the bottom of a cupboard.

Jennifer found herself glancing up at him, watching him longer and longer each time. There was something enchanting about the precise, fussy way he did things, quickly tucking, folding and smoothing. There was definitely something erotic about him too. His slender bare legs were a focal point that introduced a trim figure that wore a skirt well. And he was a tease when he leaned forward, the little skirt repeatedly sliding up the back of his thighs, promising a glimpse of underwear and a show of glabrous bum cheeks, but never quite doing so.

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