A Sissy Saga Ch. 20

Greg dropped down and scrambled forward towards her doglike, on all fours, with his flaccid penis swinging beneath him, and with the hard floor scuffing his knees.

Emma watched him carefully for a moment or two, allowing him to get halfway across the room before stopping him abruptly. "No, no, you dizzy prick - you're far too slow. Go back and start again."

The second time he scuttled even more rapidly, heedless of the carpet scouring his knees, and with an almost thankful sigh dumped himself across Emma's lap, face down, back dipping to raise his bare bottom. Emma's hand immediately came down on the offered anatomy with a palpable CRACK! One blow bounced from his right buttock and a second lashed the left, the intensity of the slaps making the resulting sting they delivered almost visual.

SMACK, SMACK! "Gggnnn!" Greg bleated. The smarting on his pale flesh was quickly apparent.

SMACK, SMACK! "Hardly a virgin bottom, but a nice one to punish all the same," Emma murmured.

Greg twisted and writhed, his buttocks dancing and flinching as tears began to stream over his cheeks. "Nnnrrr - nnnrrr!"

"Dear, oh dear! I've known little children make less noise than you Greg. You really are abysmal - quite a pathetic nancy-thing. But you're getting no more than you deserve, and no more than you need to make you a good subject for the bedroom."

She plumped up his bottom and massaged the cheeks with both hands, rolling and pushing them into various shapes before casting a smirk at Jennifer and parting them to show her his anus. "You're quite hairless between the cheeks, Greg," she told the subjugate, "That's rather clever of you. However did you manage it?"

"M-me sister Pauline did it for me, miss." Greg sniffed.

"Your sister is such a sweet girl, how on earth did you persuade her to shave your arsehole?"

"She knows I 'as to be smooth when I come to see you, miss."

Emma gave a despairing glance at Jennifer. "Greg is the sort of pervert who enjoys shagging his sister, so I'm not really surprised." Turning back she gave the distraught youths rump a resounding whack! "Pauline will be a tight little madam at her age. Too nice to resist, eh Greg? You can't hold back from squirting your cream into her young puss, can you?"

Greg avoided giving an answer and Emma didn't pursue one. She just patted his buttocks. "Never mind. Up you get. There are other things to think of now, and Jennifer and I will ensure you pay due recompense to womankind for your depravity. Are you in the right frame of mind to co-operate, Greg?"

The youth seemed slightly desperate, but he couldn't help looking at the brace of strap-on dildo's Emma was extracting from her sports bag. They appeared hefty, and their bulbous tips looked callously businesslike.

"Yes, miss." he replied faintly.

"Both Jennifer and I intend to bugger you and I want you to put on a good show. I expect you to apply yourself properly and put-out like a randy whore. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Miss Emma."

She handed him a bottle of baby oil. "Good, now run along. Off you go to the bedroom. Remove the rest of your clothes and lubricate yourself, then get on the bed and wait for Miss Jennifer and I to join you."

Greg scurried away in the manner of a thoroughly scourged child, clutching the baby oil in one hand and rubbing his crimson bottom with the other.

Emma looked at her younger companion. "Are you ready for this?"

"Why shouldn't I be? I was surprised when I caught you with Greg in the tool shed up at the Grange." said Jennifer taking a sip of gin, "Not surprised about you, but about him. He's always put himself about as being so macho, and a world away from fem-dom. He's the last person I'd expect to find allowing a woman ram the shaft of a hammer up his ring-piece."

"One needs to know how to handle young fellows like Greg." Emma replied offhandedly, "Where he's concerned 'M' stands for masochist rather than machismo. Actually, I been stalking his arse for a while, and when he looked at me there was something about his expression that confirmed I was in with a chance. It wasn't lustful, it was the look of reverence I'd seen in other men when they wished me to take control. Once I'd got him in the shed I just slapped his face a few times and he was as good as gold about dropping his pants."

She took a handful of other items from her bag. "We may decide to gag him and tie his hands later. Perverts such as him love the illusion of being anally raped by beautiful women." As she leaned forward the swell of her breasts all but overflowed from her bra, causing to pass the tip of her tongue over her lips.

Jennifer couldn't help but admire the sight. "You've got nice tits, Emma. Don't be surprised if I give them a grope when things warm up." The older woman returned a crooked smile. "Most things are acceptable in a orgy, but if you start on me I'm likely to take a turn with you own little bubbies."

Jennifer unclipped her bra and removed it, fluttering her eyes in encouragement as her small pointed breasts sprang up. "No need to stop there. With only one man to share there's bound to be moments when we both need to be occupied with something else, and rubber dicks are very adaptable. Best make the most of it. Open Day is on Saturday and we're going to be run off our feet getting ready for it from tomorrow."

Alone in the bedroom Greg Totter lay naked on top of the bedcovers silently contemplating the soreness of his bottom. It had evolved into a warm rosy glow, and all thoughts of rebellion against his ill treatment had receded. But he anticipated the rest of the evening with querulous anxiety. He'd already oiled himself and put on a pair of nylons and a garter belt he'd found laying on the pillow. The scene was set, and for him there could be no escape.

His ears felt like they were burning, because he knew that no matter how pathetically he moaned and groaned those two pitiless women were going to roll him back and forth between them and take it in turns to fuck his arse for the next two or three hours.

***

That same evening Mrs Boroclough's guests were on their fifth round of drinks, and all of them were very merry by nine o'clock. A group of ten in a normal-sized family home would have split it to the seams, but Mrs Boroclough's home was an old country mansion, large enough to imprison several normal-sized dwellings within its walls.

Vast expanses of the place went unused, but the woman's family had owned the property for two hundred years and she refused to give it up. No one ever argued about that. She was eminently wealthy enough to hang onto it. Two centuries of marriage alliances in Europe, South America and South Africa had increased her families core fortune, and among recent generations, infertility, war and homosexuality had whittled everyone down to such an extent that incredible amounts of money had been funnelled directly back to herself.

Pamela Upduff felt her face redden. It was the first time she'd been invited to Mrs Boroclough's home and she was the youngest woman there. She'd stayed on in the village to get some local background for the Trust, and her landlady, Mrs Tichborne had encouraged her to come. It had seemed a good idea because Mrs Boroclough was rated as a very influential person.

It would have been stretching the imagination to call her host attractive. In addition to an unusual dental arrangement that gave her a bucktoothed smile, she had a skinny build, a slightly hooked nose and tight wavy hair, but the party had been fun at first. Collectively the women there were all rather similar - well over thirty, predominantly pink-beige in colour and wearing ditsy little cardigans in sugar-almond hues. The small talk had been lofty when she arrived, the vocabulary studded with words like 'exorbitant', 'the Maldives', and 'Sardinia', but as the wine went down so did the overblown pretensions.

Mrs Boroclough had organised the evening for her staunchest women allies, it was the kind of party where men are never allowed. Carmine Wilcox, the impeccably made-up girl with the case had started off by just showing lacy negligees' and silk briefs, but after everyone had drunk a couple of glasses of wine out had come the other knickknacks which were all well received as they passed from hand to hand. Vibrators and dildo's, large and small, some stiff and smooth, some flexible and snakelike and others incorporating inexplicable rubber spikes or knobbly bits.

Pamela was hot with embarrassment over some of the things she'd been asked to handle, most of which seemed to have the shape of a mans penis.

"It's all part of a girl's education," Mrs Titchborne had said between giggling.

One of the other women had shrieked with laughter. "Once you've felt one, you've felt 'em all, darlin'."

Pamela had half scowled. "If they all feel the same why do I need to touch them all?"

Everyone fell about, and an over blown woman called Hyacinth Glossop spilt a glass of wine down the front of her dress and went off in a fit of high-pitched hysterics.

Consciously not attempting to dominate the proceeding Mrs Boroclough and Clementine, the young woman who had been her previous maid, sat to the side, and while they examined each item offered around just like the other women their main delight seemed to be in watching the shameless antics of their guests.

Mrs Titchborne had told Pamela that Clementine had been an odd kind of maid, in fact she'd hinted that she wasn't actually a girl at all, but one of those awful transvestite things - a boy who dressed-up as a girl. But that couldn't be true. Clementine was clearly a girl from top to toe, anyone could see that. She talked like a girl and preened all the time just like attractive girls are apt to do, and she had a large, spectacular pair of bosoms that jiggled when she moved and were if anything far too big for her spindly frame.

"Nothing's better than the real thing," assured Mrs Fawcett, planting a heavy hand on Pamela's knee and chuckling until her whole fat frame wobbled. She was nearly sixty years old with greying hair and she looked the epitome of a kindly grandmother, but that evening she wasn't acting like one. She picked a plastic object up from the table, thumbed the switch on the base of it and tittered when the thing began shuddering in her hand. Peals of laughter started again.

Mrs Carter-Plackett, a homely looking tweed-clad woman with an iron-grey perm who was known to smoke a pipe when alone, was telling a joke about a man's anatomy while stroking a large plastic cock that incorporated an anal probe. "If my Colin had something like this we wouldn't be sleeping in separate beds." she declared.

Carmine Wilcox unboxed another item and held it in her hands. "This is the squirty model and it's very popular. It includes rubber testicles that can be filled with liquid which a little light pressure will send coursing along the shaft. Warm water is okay, but anyone who buys such an item tonight will receive a complimentary quart bottle of replica semen."

Mrs Glossop, broad bodied and fruity with a ringing laugh, leered with approval. "If h'I ever saw a fella with something like that h'I'd divorce my darling 'ubby tomorrow."

By her side Mrs Quinlan guffawed. "If I know you, you've already done a lot of lookin' over the years."

Pamela cringed.

"Relax m'dear. We like to think of ourselves as an innovative, cutting-edge little community in the village. We're here to enjoy ourselves." Mrs Carter-Plackett said.

"I'm not used to it." explained Pamela, "My mother said I should maintain some principles of decency."

Mrs Titchborne tossed a handful of salted almonds into her mouth and crunched them like an industrial machine churning gravel. "Oh, I quite agree," she murmured spongily, "We all have to maintain standards - or something."

Pamela sipped more wine and began to feel a little faint. She tried not to notice the items the other women purchased. She herself bought a small teddy-bear decorated with a little spotted blue bow-tie.

Eventually Carmine Wilcox packed her case and departed. Mrs Boroclough then stood up and indicated for her guests to follow as she led the way out of the drawing room and through into the rarely used Long Gallery, a more spacious place lit by crystal chandeliers and paved with black and white tiles in Battenburg style. Garnished with tapestries and green malachite vases it was the focal point of the house. The dimensions of the room were awesome, with lofty ceilings and huge curtained bay windows.

"Great 'ouse you've got here." enthused Mrs Fudge. "Haunted is it? I allus wanted to be scared out of my wits by a ghost."

"This room is said to be haunted," explained Mrs Boroclough's companion Clementine in a silky voice. "A Bride in a Box story of the most vivid kind. In the past brides used to play hide-and-seek during their wedding celebrations, and it's said one hid in an old iron chest in here and couldn't get out. No one found her at the time, and her remains were only discovered years after the event."

"A terrible thing to happen." remarked Hyacinth Glossop with a shiver. "It's enough to make my gastritis play up, so before we go h'any further can we agree t'talk about something else?"

Mrs Warburton agreed. She had a tiny mouth that reminded Pamela of the spout of a teapot. "Aye, bad enough after the wedding-night, but for a girl to be done in before she gets her nookie - that's horrible."

There was a row of little round guilt chairs placed informally at one side of the room and everyone seated themselves in preparation for what their host promised as additional entertainment. The end where they sat was dimly lit, whereas the other end of the room was brightly illuminated.

Everyone had suspected they would have to submit to some sort of musical soiree at the end of the evening, but they didn't suspect that their hostess had arranged something brighter and punchier than just chamber music. What they actually got surprised them all. They knew Mrs Boroclough was a rather quirky independent-minded person who treated social prudishness with disdain when it suited her, but what they got when the woman turned on the sound system was totally unexpected.

In the wings Marianne straightened the lace of his electric-blue outfit, chosen because it matched his eyes and brought out the honeyed highlights in his hair. As was usual he was astonishingly beautiful. His golden tresses sparkled in the lamplight. Mrs Boroclough had assured him that he'd never looked lovelier, and he felt it was true.

A vocal group called ABBA were popular that year, and Poppy's had a routine that blended with a recent hit entitled 'Dancing Queen'.

"Friday night and the lights are low. Looking out for a place to go..."

In a swirl of silks and lace he suddenly appeared before a mesmerised audience, silhouetted in the bright lights with the riveting self-consciousness that only experience brings, the soft folds of his outfit draping themselves bewitchingly over his slim figure.

The audience caught their collective breath, for he was a magnificent sight, scantily clad in stockings and pearl-coloured high heels and just a tiny half-bra covered with spangles and sequins to cradle the small mounds of creamy flesh moving jauntily on his chest. A shallow drape of pale cream peau satin over his thighs formed a quasi-skirt of minute proportions.

Any outfit he wore, no matter how elaborate or how simple, seemed to highlight Poppy's trim figure. His skin was a delicate shade of gold from the summer, and that nights blue outfit picked up the blue in his eyes so they seemed to shine from his face like sapphires.

He stretched languidly and began to dance to the high notes of an angel chorus and the plunges notes of a piano. All eyes watched his lissom body as he moved - confident, in control and at ease with his role - lifting and falling with the melody being piped from the audio-system, shoes trip-trapping in tempo.

His slender toned body moved to the beat. His eyes were brilliant, his cheeks as soft as a rose petals when a coloured spotlight flashed across him, illuminating the scanty garments that hid so much and so little. The material pressed against his cock - an enlarged boner now - as his hips rotated to the tempo of the music.

"You're a teaser, you turn 'em on. Leave 'em burning and then you're gone. Looking out for another. Anyone will do. You're in the mood for a dance..."

He turned, slim and alluringly moulded with his small breasts and softly rounded hips. His movements became synchronised with the music. Bumping his hips to the rhythm he turned slowly to display all aspects of his body, then he pressed his fingers to the thin material stretched across his remarkable penis, a patch of cloth that barely covered his ball-sack.

"Dancing Queen - feel the beat of the tambourine..."

His hands snaked up his body, caressing it, stroking it as they moved, then went behind his back to unfasten his bra and expose the small satin globes of his breasts. Poppy was always pretty, but during a performance when he knew a multitude of eyes were riveted him, he became radiant. In a symphony of concerted movement he swept a hand across his body, lightly, all over. His stomach was flat but his waist dipped and his hips curved. His head became up-tilted in a trance of joyous achievement as the music faded, nipples erect, his lips parting as if imploring a kiss.

The song continued: "You can dance, you can jive. Having the time of your life. See that girl. Watch that scene. Diggin' the Dancing Queen."

Pelvis rolling in lascivious invitation he boldly undid the small drape of shimmering satin covering his thighs and allowed it to drift down. More of his slender body came into view. His belly was flat, his navel only slightly indented, and below lay a ridiculous little G-string front, delicate and nebulous, shimmering like platinum beneath the crazy lights - a whisper of satin, that was no more that a pouch inside of which something mysterious and impossible lay coiled.

One hand briefly touched the pink nipples of his perfect little breasts and a shiver flitted over his skin like a tiny incandescent butterfly. Then his fingers reached down and there was an audible gasp throughout out the room as the tiny G-string was stripped away. He was thin with a tiny waist and shapely legs, and he had breasts, and his penis swung down to dangle like a bell-rope from his hairless thighs.

He finished posing sideways on, hands on hips, one knee jutting slightly forward, which facilitated a perfect view of his extraordinary penis, foreskin drawn back to expose a dark purple head. Nature had made him a girl, but had added testicles and a long cock that swung like a weighty pendulum.

Peering along his shoulder his lush eyelashes fanned up and down and his partially hooded eyes exuded a look of pure seduction. His golden tresses glistened beneath the lights and his pale body dripped sex. Neck so graceful, limbs so sensual, hands so delicate, he was a transvestite dream that could corrupt the celibate.

Pamela Upduff's breath became tight and her lungs felt like immobile sacs as she force herself to exhale. She recognised the dancer as the sweet looking maid who had greeted everyone at the door earlier, and who had curtsied so prettily. She hadn't realised then that the maid was a male. That cock. Wow! The mincing queen was hung like a horse, he possessed an equine-like monster far too big for the slight body that owned it, but it looked all the more thrilling because it was there.

She heard a woman whisper to her companion. "Good Lord, do look. Isn't he delicious? That prick! Surely it must be against the Geneva Convention or something."

At her side Hyacinth Glossop visibly swallowed hard. "A thing like that should have a bloody license."