A Sissy Saga Ch. 15bySnurge©
A fine day, thick and hot making Miriam Hancock's face dewy with sweat. She gazed at the house. Was this the place? She checked the card in her hand. No mistake. It was an unimposing Edwardian terrace house in a street of equally unimposing houses, narrow fronted, three stories high, the windows heavily draped. She went up a set of steps to a porticoed door and pressed a bell-button. On the wall at the side of the door was fixed a brass plaque bearing the name, Angela Magoogle BSc. PhD. The qualifications were utter fiction, she knew that as a certainty, but having them at her door probably gave Angela kudos with some people.
The door was opened by the beguiling Jubilee decked out in a very complimentary French maids outfit. The sheer girlish of him was impressive. Time had not diminished reality; he was still as beautiful as she remembered him. The delicate rouged cheeks were the same and his seemingly permanent startled expression remained unaltered. She noticed that around his slender throat was a slender black slave-collar thinly disguised as a choker.
"Oh!" the girl-thing exclaimed.
"Hello Jubilee. I promised to visit Miss Magoogle before I returned home today. Is she here?"
Jubilee seemed a little confused and he quickly deferred to the woman who came up behind him. "Someone's here, Miss." he explained in a faint voice.
"I know there is, you silly creature." Angela Magoogle said in a playful, patronising way. "It's Miriam. Come inside Miriam."
She followed them through into the house. Once inside she noticed Jubilee stood on a small wooden plinth, a little platform about two inches high that was placed against the wall and was obviously his place to go when not being actively employed. "Curiosity wouldn't allow me to go home without first seeing what kind of a setup you have here." she explained.
Miss Magoogle nodded. "I'm rather flattered."
Angela was a minimalist. Her home was functional and quite handsome inside, but not elaborately decorated. The drawing room had plain mushroom-coloured walls pierced by a six-panelled sash window. There was a couple of narrow padded chairs and a low slung coffee table, but the place was devoid of frivolous ornaments, the only concession to the bleak décor coming by way of an unused stone fireplace with a heavy wooden lintel and a huge Rothko-style painting in different shades of yellow. To Miriam who enjoyed seeing a few knickknacks dotted around it was anathema. Nice enough for a railway station buffet-room but not a place to live in.
The redoubtable old friend was imposing in her den. Not beautiful, but nevertheless eye-catching. Her black hair was tied back behind her head that day and she was wearing a black cat-suit, its close fitting constriction gripping her pencil slim body so severely it denied it much of a shape, although it gave her a kind of sinewy allure. She looked a little laddish; only her high heeled shoes emphasised any real femininity. "Cup of tea?" she asked.
Miriam shook her head. "I've had enough tea these past two days to float an ocean liner."
Angela smiled handsomely. "Of course you don't want tea. You've come to see what I do, and you've arrived at an opportune time. I've recently taken on a fresh batch and they're only part-way through their induction training. With the assistance of some friends on the local judiciary I offer youthful wrongdoers an alternative to prison. They think they're in for an easy time when they come here, but they're always disappointed. Allow me to show you. Come through into my inner sanctum."
She produced a key, then indicated a door that led off into another room and led the way.
When the door swung open Miriam noticed its solid construction and that it was far heavier than the usual kind of interior door. She stepped forward and then stepped back, an involuntary reaction to an unexpected sight. On the floor and mounted on a plush rug was a young man, naked except for a lacy black garter-belt and dark stockings. He had his feet tucked under him, arms at his sides, the wrists tied to his ankles by a length of rope, and he was slowly bucking up and down. He had also been gagged. A black rubber ball-gag the size of a hen's egg had been pressed into his mouth and his resultant expression was a desperate grimace.
She ventured further into the room to stand immobilised. Her experience of sissy training was extensive, but in this place she perceived an element of dedication that verged on cynical professionalism.
"This is Marigold," said Angela, indicating the figure on the rug, "As smart as a runner bean, isn't he? One as to detach such males from their past and crush their pride, so I need to be quite heavy handed with them at first." She waved a hand at the helpless effeminate. "I don't concern myself too much with clothes during their first few days, dressing them will come later." she said. "They never go out from the house, so for the moment stockings and suspenders are enough to encourage burgeoning femininity."
Pausing for a moment she glared down at the distraught figure who had ceased moving. His penis was protruding from between his thighs and was slavering at the tip, but a rubber band wrapped around the base of it restricted the flow of vital fluids and denied any possibility of an early conclusion. "Come on, Marigold. Don't stop your exercise just because people are watching."
The individual on the floor looked up with helpless washed-out eyes and obediently leaned slightly forward. Slowly he rose up, then just as slowly settled again. Then he began repeating the movement, over and over.
"Marigold is part way through a morning session of do-it-yourself with an anal probe." Angela continued, "I insist they all do it once a day. Exercises that stretch their fundaments and accustom them to deep penetration are invaluable when contemplating their future."
Taken aback as she was, Miriam stole a moment to look around. On one wall was a wrack holding various scourges, canes and leather straps, on another a selection of cock-shaped vibrators and dildos in different sizes and colours. There also hung the only photograph she'd yet seen in the house; a large panoramic view of a row of glowing, cruelly punished bare bottoms slumped slavishly over a wooden trestle. It was a warning, a promise, a fearful indication to those that were brought there as to what to expect.
Still trying to become familiar with her surroundings she glanced over her shoulder and noticed what had escaped her as she entered the room. Another of Angela's androgynous subjects had been fastened into the straps of a body harness and hung on stout hooks behind the door like an old raincoat. His penis hung down impotently, an uncooked pork sausage slumped over a scrotal bag that had been shackled at its base by a slender leather strap. Attired and gagged like the one in front of her he was raised several inches from the floor, a placid little doll, arms dangling at his side, head bowed, he had to contend with being swung back and forth each time the door was opened and closed.
"Society as entrusted me with a mission," enthused Angela, " I take the violent and workshy and give them a purpose in life. They are simpletons who respond surprisingly well under feminine control. But then, that's true of all males, isn't it? So many of these people, despite their outward show of macho-aggression, have an underlying interest in homosexuality, and I capitalise on that by introducing promising cute specimens to a girly life. At the end of their training they will be returned to the world as shag-hungry tarts who will submit to good order and discipline."
Crossing the floor she threw open another door to draw Miriam's attention to a deep old-fashioned porcelain bath in which two more young men had been tied into a face-to-face embrace and laid full length inside the tub on top of a pink latex lilo. Naked but for stockings and gags she knew they would have resented the ordeal at first, but eventually, following an extended period of being strapped together, boredom would inevitably evolve into hot passion and they were now rubbing enthusiastically rubbing against each other. A selective peek revealed their cocks to be swollen to robust stiffness, solid and drippy and skidding up and down, one against the other.
"Here we have Pussy and Willow," said Angela, smiling with sadistic pleasure, "Once a blight on the streets and the terror of their neighbourhoods. When they leave here they will join a host of others who already walk the streets for me, and their frequently cum-filled backsides will bring me some badly needed income. You can appreciate that running an enterprise such as I have here entails a good deal of expense, so they must play their part in its upkeep."
Miriam didn't altogether disagree with her point of view. In Harrogate she had learnt that most people think young people rented themselves out because they were abused, or forced into it. But a lot of them did it simply for the money. With limited skills for the legitimate job market, they were never going to make a decent living, so they hooked for a few years because it was the best paid job they could find. She wondered just how much of their earnings Angela allowed her sissies to hang onto.
Her friend frowned as she studied the two in the bath. "Tying them together is a useful precursor for later in the day when I allow everyone to mount each other, but these two are getting carried away with things far too soon." Saying no more she lifted a pail of cold water from the corner of the small bathroom and deliberately threw it over the two amorous individuals laying in the tub. It was a way some people would have deterred dogs from rutting in the street. The two young men piped a thin, muffled wail from behind their gags and appeared to shiver and congeal into a drenched mass, thrashing together like a pair of newly netted wet eels.
As they departed from the scandalous inner room Miriam couldn't help feeling there was a certain arrogant vanity about Angela Magoogle these days, but who could blame her for that? She was good at what she did. "I admire your ingenuity." she said, "You have a great deal of imagination, and in a way I feel regret at having to go home so soon. But I must get back to Fairyfield today."
The other woman nodded. "That's a shame, and shame on me, I've given you no hospitality since you arrived, so allow me to make amends. Would you like to take Jubilee to bed? I can provide anything you need by way of equipment."
Miriam glanced at the fairy housemaid still mounted on his tiny plinth. "That's - er - rather nice idea, but how would Jubilee feel about such an arrangement?"
The sissy looked embarrassed, his gentle features rendered even softer by the poor light against the wall. Tongue-tied and slightly scatty like all the most appealing effeminates he was not so naïve he didn't know how to respond with charm. His voice was delicate and quavering, with a cadence that spoke of hyacinths and roses, but before he could compose a complete reply Angela scoffed and callously answered for him. "It doesn't matter what he feels. He has no choice in the matter. He puts out his arse for whoever I say."
For Jennifer the new day began in a whirl. No sooner had Mitzie's newly repaired motor car carried her and Patricia away down the drive, when a white van appeared baring two male occupants. Perhaps her mother had forgotten to tell her, or maybe she had got the date wrong, but she suddenly found herself having to accommodate a photographer and his assistant.
When her mother had begun to scratch her head about raising extra income it had been Jennifer's idea to sell photographs. There was no shortage of glamour at Fairyfield, and Hardwick was an avid snapper of the sissy form. Over the past year many of the students had posed for him and he had a whole cupboard full of libidinous pictures, but while Miriam agreed that selling some of them was a fine idea, she rebelled at the time needed to tout such things around magazine publishers. Instead she had offered the facilities of the school and the models in it to a professional who was willing to pay a fee to produce his own artwork.
His arrival, and the clutter of equipment he had brought with him, had taken her by surprise, and it was fortunate that with Open Day looming one of the classrooms had been cleared for redecoration.
It was 11-0-clock in the morning and the sunlight streaming through the windows of the room was coming in at an unsatisfactory angle for the photographer. He had introduced himself as Monty, and he was walking around pulling down blinds and switching on lights. "I need light. That's what photography is all about, using light to paint pictures. But the light as to work for me, not against me." he grumbled.
A back projection screen in glorious dusky red had been installed at one end of the airy room and Amanda and Bambi were standing before it in their skimpy deportment picture dresses.
"All this farting around for goodness sake, why couldn't your mother just have just sent some of her people to my studio in Harrogate?" Monty moaned. His name was Tristan Montague, but he liked to be called Monty. He was tall, five feet eleven tall, with hunched shoulders and a narrow chest. His conical shaped head set on a scrawny neck was crowned by a mop of unruly black hair which lacked any style and flopped in a fringe over his low forehead. He would have looked moronic but for his eyes, two startling features that would cling to the memory when the rest of his face was forgotten. They were enquiring eyes; always searching, examining and criticising.
His caustic aside was snapped at his assistant, a pimply-faced sparrow-like youth with bristled hair, who was trying to take light readings from a meter in his hand, but it was covertly intended for Jennifer Hancock. Jennifer was sat on a chair at the end of the room by the door with her arms folded over her chest, and she didn't answer. The arrangements had been determined by her mother who didn't want her darlings straying around in the care of Outsiders. She herself was only present to supervise the shoot and was already bored. Having provided the models there was nothing she could do while they were setting up.
"Miss - erm - Miss Whatsyername," Monty's voice said, "I was promised four models."
Jennifer pursed her mouth stubbornly. "I was told two would be sufficient." It was a lie. She had been given permission to use her own judgement, but she had no liking for the brash photographer and resented the imposition he represented, so she was more in a mood to impede than be helpful.
Jennifer looked at the set-up. She had decked out Bambi and Amanda in a neat little concoction reminiscent of ancient Greece. Bare feet and an apricot one-piece, very short to make the most of their superb legs with two small knots to tie the material over their pale shoulders. The neckline had been cut low to allow a show of delicate skin, and the folds over the rest of their bodies only just hid the flesh inside. It was purposely calculated as false modesty, for the effect was more tantalising than nakedness. At a distance it was hard to judge their height. Neither were tall but both were perfectly proportioned. Certainly they were small enough to be reckoned as petite and pretty enough to break hearts.
She watched through half closed lids as Bambi and Amanda smiled coyly at the spotty-faced assistant. Untroubled by oily skin or ache themselves they were mischievously flirting with him under their lashes, their bodies stretching sylph-like and acting up on his behalf as he looking at them through the viewfinder of a camera.
Pimples was not the most handsome lad in Yorkshire, in fact he was geeky-looking and he seemed to have a mind as broad as a thread of cotton, while his conversation never seemed to rise above his navel. He had a tongue that rarely stopped wetting his lips and had been making blatant overtures for sissy favours since his arrival.
Jennifer watched with open distaste. He was dressed in black leather trousers with a rhinestone belt and a skin tight black T-shirt, and he had one of the stupidest haircuts she had ever seen. He may have thought he looked slick, but he had a long neck on which his head was set too far forward and his hair was cut in the style of a lavatory brush.
"Hi dollface." he called to Bambi. He had a hand in his trouser pocket, a weak attempt to hide his depraved interest, since he was clearly massaging a hard-on. "Do you believe in love at first sight, or do I have to walk past you again?"
Bambi laughed out loud at the acne face framed with overgrown, untidy hair. The lad was a nightmare, but no more of a horror than anyone else from the outside he'd seen lately.
"You two look like handmaidens to the Queen of Sheba. Come here." the spotty one said.
Bambi tossed his head and stuck his nose in the air. "What for?"
"I want to show you the camera's."
Bambi's tinkling laugh sounded again. "Not likely." And looking provocative and incredibly mischievous he skipped away.
"Oho, someone else is there?" The youth pressed a hand to his chest. "You've broken my heart."
Bambi swung around, swinging his hips saucily. "Maybe Amanda will help mend it."
Amanda had been at Fairyfield long enough by then to have lost his inhibitions, and he spluttered his disapproval. "Tell him to fly off and crash in a distant forest."
Revelling in their cheeky impudence the two lovely look-a likes collapsed in each others arms, chuckling with singsong laughter as the young man emerged from behind the camera looking all flustered and cursing all 'fuckin' prick teasers.'
"Times getting on, and it's time I've paid for." grumbled Monty. "And there ain't no bed in here. Some of my best work is of fella's without pants stretched out on a bed."
"I've had some duvets and pillows collected from the bedrooms," snapped Jennifer, "You can make up a padded platform like a bed from them."
The photographer turned grumpily away. "I'll take a few general ones with the wide angle first, so everyone but the models should keep out of the way." He fiddled around, changing the light filters and shooting off test pictures, getting into his photographer mode. By the time that was done Amanda and Bambi were looking garish yet cute. Without any urging they raised their arms and put hands behind his head, eyes glittering, a flirtatious tilt of their heads and a devilish smile on their lush mouths as they swivelled their hips like showgirls in a revue.
Without any tutoring at all Bambi arranged his arm along the line of his thigh and smouldered at the hovering camera. "Hold it. Keep still." said Monty.
"We are still. It's your hands that are shaking." replied the she-boy.
"Aye you're right." Monty agreed reversing to frame his shot. "Anyway, that's grand. Just a bit further back maybe." He adjusted the tripod, peered through the lens, and then, using a cable switch, he tripped the shutter. The flash flared, and at once the slave units flashed too, bathing the whole room in white light while the camera's automatic reload produced an insectile whine.
Pimples was still trying vainly to engage with Amanda. "Cool dresshh. Where do you come from?" he slurred through sharp, pointy little teeth reminiscent of a piranha.
"Mars." Amanda said, trying to ignore him.
"North or south?" he slurred. But no one paid him any attention.
"That slave on the far side didn't go off." Monty complained bitterly.
The callow faced, spotty youth pulled his hand from his pocket. "Fuckin' thing's fuckin' fucked, Monty." he replied, using the full array of expression known to him.
"Okay, we can do without it." the photographer grumbled. He turned to Jennifer. "I'm ready to start, I guess. But the outfits those pantywaists are wearing are just plain boring. I'm gonna have to do something about 'em."