tagNovels and NovellasA Sissy Saga Ch. 22

A Sissy Saga Ch. 22


By mid-afternoon Open Day for many was adjudged over, but while prospective clients and the purely curious were encouraged to depart the most valued of Miriam Hancock's supporters were skilfully spirited away elsewhere for tea and cakes. While the men went to the gymnasium, the ladies were assembled in one of the classrooms on the second floor where the desks and hard seats had been replaced with plush-padded chairs.

The room resounded to a cacophony of genial chatter and the tinkle of china cups as a dozen women took tea. Most of them were broad in the beam, middle-aged and middle-class matrons whose conversations were loaded with words like 'marvellous', 'wonderful' and 'darling', adjectives easy to use in a world given to insincere exaggeration. They were all paragons of virtue when in the public eye, but in the seclusion of Fairyfield Grange that day there was an air of preoccupied expectancy about them. It seemed they were determined to relax and let their hair down.

All except Joanna Toppingham perhaps, who was nursing an inexplicable black-eye that was developing the appearance of a purple plum, and was slumped silent in a chair amid a rising pall of something that wasn't real tobacco smoke.

On the fringe of things Hyacinth Glossop displayed enormous amounts of marbleised flesh and complained about her varicose veins whilst helping herself to a third slice of Dundee cake. By her side Mrs Boroclough concentrated on the coconut macaroons and sympathised. "You don't have to tell me, my dear. I'm a martyr to 'em myself. A martyr I tell you."

At length Miss Hancock installed herself on a narrow carpet that started at the door and ostentatiously spanned the room "If I could have your attention ladies, it's show time and we're ready to begin."

The women put down their teacups and turned towards her, keen interest etched on each heavily made-up face.

"You are all aware that my intention here is to adjust the nature of young men and develop them into becoming the finest of housemaids," began Miriam. "And since you are the core of support for my work and you all aspire to own a pantyboy-servant of your own eventually, you're deserving of a little instructional entertainment. Here at Fairyfield we specialise in the training of effeminate panty-boys. Sissies who wear skirts and act like simpering girls are primarily used by men of course, but they can be an endless source of amusement to women too."

"As you will discover in due course if you don't know already, my sissies all look delicious when decked out as French-maids, but when a days chores are done there are a myriad of other recreational outfits in which they can be dressed to charm, stimulate and titillate the imagination of ladies. Today I intend to show you some of them."

The seated women stirred and dragged their chairs into a row along the edge of the carpet, and a titter of delight fluttered along their ranks.

"Just a word of thanks to Margaret Pardoe who provided the sartorial savoir-faire for the gorgeous costumes to be displayed," continued Miriam, "And to Nanny Jennifer and Gloria who's support as been magnificent."

There was a ripple of applause for the absent ladies who were occupied in last minute details outside the room.

"Ladies and gentlemen, it's ShowTime, and for your entertainment we now present forty-five minutes of speculation and wonder."

Miss Hancock made a hand signal towards the door and took a pace back as music from overhead speakers began to throb with the beat of Bizet's 'Bolero'. The audience seemed to freeze in their seats as Daisy sprang out from the wings to take centre stage.

He made a lithe figure with bird bones and eyes as bright as a robin, hair hanging in pretty bangs and ringlets and adorned with a posy of Parma violets. His face was pale and pointed and had a mouth that was pursed a little in consideration, as pink and rosebud-like as anything portrayed in a sentimental illustration.

Daisy was the smallest of Miriam's students, and he was naked but for the silver high-heeled sandals on his feet, light and strappy. His unclad body was as smooth as butter, but much of it was obscured by an enormous ostrich-feather fan both at front and back. The audience gazed silently in disbelief, lips compressed, eyes wide open like bystanders in a street.

Perfectly delectable, hips swaying, he swung into the rhythm of the music which provided the stuttering tempo for abrupt changes of pose, engaging wiggles and solicitous prancing. He turned about and then turned back, gyrating his body, skipping one way and then another, the silky-smooth nakedness of his sissy body absolutely apparent, but faultlessly guarded.

Feeling sweet, feminine and unbelievably naughty, every few seconds or so he would throw out his arms and conduct a swirling series of semaphore signals, but only doing it when the choicest portions of his body were concealed. The soft silken bag dangling at the root of his perfectly constructed popsy was constantly shielded all around by the practised strategic movements of the fans he operated with his hands.

Facial expressions complimented the enticing movements of his body. A coy over-the-shoulder pout, the tip of a pink tongue showing, a glorious saucy grin to display immaculate white teeth. Everyone applauded vigorously as the fan-dance concluded and he made his exit, and none applauded more vigorously than Dorothea Boroclough.

A moment later a multitude of sparkling bright lights pieced the dim gloom of the auditorium in a pyrotechnic display that in itself was an auroral ballet. Slowly the colours became sharper and more vivid as they began weaving, diving in arcs and loops. The spectacle - the greens, the blues, the purples and then the mauves, indigoes and violets became a kaleidoscope of colour that were invigorated by Bambi, so very like a dusky peach himself, who appeared next.

Fists on hips he strutted out confidently beneath the lights, adding a vitality and a kind of glow of his own.

He looked particularly splendid that day, and he knew it. A string of pearls around his neck, matching earrings and a bracelets on each wrist, fully clothed - sort of, looking radiant in a powder blue high feather head-dress and skimpy matching bra-top, a bare midriff and silk-clad legs.

He wore no panties. The drape of his tiny skirt was splayed open at the front and he wore nylons to demonstrate just how glamorous a penis and testicles can be when garnished around with stocking tops and suspender straps. Behind him a magnificent spray of blue feathers appeared to erupt from the region of his small, high-set bum-cheeks, rising up in a vast fantail before drooping down to almost meet the floor.

The music mutated with the mood, and a lively melody began to pipe from the audio-speakers as he cruised to a stance in the centre of the floor, where the voices of a feminine chorus began to chant the words of a timeless number from 'Forty-second Street':

"Keep young and beauty-full. It's you're duty to be beauty-full. Keep young and beautiful, if you want to be loved..."

Promoting an unremitting Hollywood smile he started around the floor on a scintillating promenade of glamour, strutting with the elegant vanity of a peacock, taking measured steps in high heels to accentuate his magnificent legs, each swing of his pelvis, every vivacious flashing glance calculated to draw the attention and button observers to their seats.

"Take care of all your charms, and you'll always be in someone's arms. Keep young and beautiful, if you want to be loved..."

Hips gently rounded, thighs slender and straight, he moved slowly at first, then kicked and whirled and increased his pace, arms stretching, hips gyrating, feet flashing in a permutation of classic movements. His hair had been twisted, braided with beads and interlaced with cream-coloured silk roses before being wound into a chignon behind his head. His features remained serene as he spun, his skirt following his movements with disciplined ease.

Fabric shimmered in liquid motion as he twirled in harmony with a momentary heady rumba beat, enacting a tribal dance of primeval decadence long ago born around bonfires on the African plains. Every motion of feet, legs, arms, even fingers, was made with precise consideration.

He was in his element. It was what he was made for; to perform, to thrill. Every turn of his head, every flash of his eyes was done expressively. Here was a person who excelled at giving heart-stopping, ball-breaking messages with his body, and all those in the room gave him their undivided attention, eyes adhering to him like chewing-gum stuck to a pane of glass.

He became immobile and statuesque. An alluring provocative creature. Beneath his sooty lashes he had eyes that could enchant, but he seemed oddly unaware of their mesmerising effect. His smile became suddenly pouty and playful while his hands stroked up from his bare midriff and over his ribs, to slide up beneath the skimpy bra as if to unfasten it.

But suddenly the Busby Berkley number receded, Bambi glided away into the wings, and Miriam reinstalled herself.

"And so you see just how perfect emasculated young men can be for entertainment. Now allow me to invite Nanny Jennifer to demonstrate the kind of personalities into which a caring owner can mould them."

A moment passed in which the women smiled rather self-consciously at each other, then a gasp went round the room as a sibilant rustle announced the arrival of an adorable boy in dainty little-girl mode holding Jennifer's hand.

Jennifer was dressed in a powder-blue overall with a smart leather tawse dangling from her belt. The model who accompanied her was Zoë, wearing a little girls party-dress of yellow chiffon with puffy short sleeves and masses of petticoats.

The dress was all white lace accentuated by delicate pink bows across the bodice, and around his waist was a four inch wide satin sash tied behind by a huge bow. Little white lace gloves graced his hands, and Susan's feet, clad in white Mary-Jane's were complimented by white ankle socks trimmed with a lacy turned down cuff. But if anything was the point of focus it was his skirt, a high, wide bouncing concoction of petticoats that showed off more than his lovely legs.

"You will have noticed that all the pantywaists here no longer cry and stamp their feet when told to put on a dress." Miss Hancock purred, "Their dull male brains have been made to surrender to delicious girly feelings and they adore being soft and feminine. Zoë is dressed as a eight-year-old girl, helpless, trusting and virgin-sweet. He'd be any mother's Pride and Joy and every daddies darling."

"And every dirty old man's wet dream." added a wry vice from the audience.

A wave of consternation swept over Zoë when everyone chortled with amusement, but he was given no time to dwell on things.

The headmistress gave him a little push in the middle of his back. "Do a little promenade." she told him. "Mince back and forth a few times and don't forget to move your hips as you've been taught. Be the precocious little madam I know you are. The ladies want to see your petticoats deliver a good sway and swish."

Crimson faced Zoë sashayed forward with practised, lissom grace. He was nervous and aroused at the same time, and as he sissied to and fro his adrenaline rushed as a dozen pairs of eyes scanned the slim honey-coloured legs that descended below the bouffant cloud of his frothy petticoats. He bounced in a nimble little dance and curtsied sweetly, before thankfully Jennifer took his hand again and led him away towards the door.

There was spontaneous applause. Genuine appreciation. The sissy fashion-parade seemed to be going well, but then without warning the lecherous tension in the room suddenly cracked.

"This is boring," moaned Joanna Toppingham who had remained truculent and remote in an alcohol induced torpor until then. "We want to see pricks. Loads of them. Why won't you show us their pricks? Make the brainless tramps take their pants down and jerk on their meat."

She was so far out of it she couldn't appreciate the disruption she had caused. A kind of shocked paralysis settled on everyone except Miriam, who appeared to be unflappable. Quick to respond to her mothers signal, Jennifer, who was standing at the door, went off to find Gloria, and the beefy, heavyweight housekeeper came in at once to glare at Joanna.

"You's being loose wi' yer language again, miss. Best if you leave the room I think. Best if I gags yer mouth an' locks you in a broom cupboard for a while."

The colour drained from the woman's face and her mouth drooped like warm trifle. Knowing already how persuasive Gloria could be she mumbled faintly and mysteriously, "Yes, nanny. Sorry nanny," then rose up and sullenly followed the housekeeper out through the door.

Miriam smiled at her daughter. "Thank you, Nanny Jennifer. Bring in the next exhibit."

Miss Hancock continued in a silky tone as before, quite unabashed. "Now then ladies, while some sissy's like to wiggle in pretty 'little girl' frocks with frothy petticoats and Mary-Jane shoes, others can be encouraged to try new roles.

A sigh of satisfaction rose up from the assembly as Amanda appeared in the room. He was portrayed as a slave-girl - or possibly a slave-boy since his appearance would have suited either. His neck, arms and ankles were strewn about with strings of baubles, bangles and coloured beads, but he had no real costume, not even a pair of pants. His only clothing consisted of a silk headscarf that had been folded into a triangle and tied about his hips, and since the scarf had been craftily draped over to one side there was very little to guard his modesty at either front or back.

He stopped and stood before Miriam, feet together, his gaze offset to the side and hands clasped behind his back as if he were expecting a reprimand. That gave many of the women a chance to strain forward to gain a better view of his half-obscured penis and charming pink bag.

Miriam's hand stroked his delicately formed face. "Every lady would appreciate one of these." she said, "Obedient, long-suffering, hard working, but constantly pretty. A joy to the beholder I think you'll agree. A mere male, but with the skills of both a skivvy and a harem maiden. I dare say the Amazons of Greek myth would have had whole seraglio's full of such sissy beauty."

Her hand moved up to stroke the top of his head. "Many of the pupils of Fairyfield have featured in magazines, and some of you here may recognise Amanda as the most recent centrefold model in BOYS IN PANTIES."

Out in the audience Mrs Tichborne smirked sideways at Mrs Gannet who was an intimate associate. The named magazine, commonly referred to as 'Pricks in Knicks' regularly circulated among a number of the women around them.

"But oddly enough," continued Miss Hancock, "you'll all have noticed, Amanda wears no panties at all today." She smiled jovially down at him. "Oh dear, it's not very modest, is it? We'll have to ask one of the nice ladies to put you in some knickers, won't we?"

This was a cue for several of the women to make a search of their handbags, and it was Mrs Tichborne seated front-centre of the group who was first to pull out something frilly and wave it furiously at the blushing sissy. "Here darling. These are soft and skimpy." she cooed.

Other women waved items too, and confused and intimidated, eyes, large and sparkling, mouth soft and luscious, Amanda glanced from one to the other. There was a hoot of glee from the excited assembly as the dazed sissy boy then looked anxiously up at Miss Hancock.

"Ah, look ladies, he can't decide which pants to wear. He does so desperately want to be knickered, but having to make a choice is far too difficult for a featherbrained girly." She smiled down at him. "Shall I choose your knickers for you, precious?"

Amanda put his thumb in his mouth and nodded, and the women sighed with pleasure at the weak, submissive creature who could no longer make the smallest decision for himself.

"Mrs Tichborne was the first to show a pair." Jennifer declared helpfully.

The woman, a bright and brassy female packed into a green dress that was far too short immediately leapt up with a squeak and came forward with a pair of minuscule pink panties in her hand. She wrapped young Amanda in her arms and pressed her crimson mouth all over his face before holding the panties at his feet with the elastic stretched out.

The sissy-boy stepped daintily into them and gave a little gasp as Mrs Tichborne drew them slowly upward, pulling out the waistband to ease it over his excited prong and smoothing them snug over his girlish bottom. "There now Amanda. Does that make you feel properly girly?" asked Miriam.

"Yes, thank you miss." he replied softly.

"Good girl. Now go and sit on Mrs Tichborne's lap for a while and watch the other pretty girls parade in their lovely outfits."

He was quickly installed on the woman's fat knees and Mrs Tichborne immediately had a hand on his thighs as she petted him.

The next in the parade of femininity to be led in by Jennifer was Wendy wearing a short aquamarine beach jacket over a matching two-piece bikini of minimal proportions. His legs were slender, smooth and sun browned, dimpled at the knees and with delicate ankles. Emasculated, immaculate, superb, he glided along the catwalk wearing shoes with thin, high heels, walking slowly, allowing a mincing gait to develop in his step.

Two dozen curious eyes gazed at him and kept pace as he moved. When he stopped he pushed a knee forward and stood with hand on hip before turning about to strike the same pose in the other direction.

The stance was designed to accentuate his shapeliness, his girliness, and it created an alluring quality in every limb. He looked straight at the audience, turned his head, then turned his shoulders in a movement that was well practised. Easy, exquisitely engineered, his young body flowing with seductive elegance.

Hooking his thumbs into the front of his skimpy pants he sauntered forward; one foot dead in front of the other.

"Without doubt an indispensable accessory for the beach." Miriam announced. "Wendy is a young Miss capable of tantalising men and women alike, and boys, even straight boys would love to play in the surf with this young thing.

"Such a slender reed," she murmured, " he wiggles so saucily when he walks and as a bottom that's quite irresistible. Without doubt crowds would assemble and queue along the beach just for a chance to rub up against him."

Wendy's hair was pinned back over small ears, his lips, soft and pink were slightly agape, and his eyes were inexpressibly beautiful, dark and long lashed with lids slightly hooded to offer a sultry appearance. In a graceful unconcerned movement he removed his beach jacket and all the eyes panned down to search beneath the contours of his flawless shoulders to appreciate the rise and fall of his young bosom. Obligingly it juddered slightly to intrigue.

No attempt had been made to disguise what his tiny pants contained, and everyone then strived to define the exact outline of his cock and his plump testicles. Someone in the audience generated a low wolf-whistle. Everyone else was too entranced to look and see who it was, but a mixture of stifled giggles and barking laughter rolled around the room.

"You'll have seen a number of my sissies at the reception earlier," said Miriam, "And you'll have observed how each of them can strut with an air of feminine charm. An attractive feature you'll agree."

"That dear thing there can kick sand in my sandwiches anyday." chortled a blowsy red-haired woman.

"By next term I'll have a selection for you to chose from, Mrs. Glossop." Miriam answered.

Accompanied by a chorus of regretful sighs Wendy was finally escorted 'off-stage', and Miss Hancock resumed her commentary.

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