A Sissy Saga Ch. 17bySnurge©
Titled people were a weakness with Miriam Hancock. She frequently spoke of them with harsh condescension, but the snob in her heart secretly rated them higher than wealthy businessmen, and so it was with some delight she agreed to the visit of the ennobled Marchioness of Wiggleswick. The delight had doubled when she discovered that in both Debrett's Distinguished People and Burke's Peerage the lady was ranked far higher in importance than Diana Chance-Barton.
She was extremely old, in her eighties, shrunken and frail, and her bony frame was slightly stooped at mid-chest as if perpetually ready to absorb a blow to the stomach. She needed to rely on a stout Malacca cane for support as she made her way through the front entrance, but if her body was failing her mental senses were still razor sharp. She took in the headmistress's study at a glance, disapproving of the style of décor but noting the high quality of everything.
"You seem nicely set-up, Miss Hancock. One wonders why you don't advertise your services more widely." she murmured haughtily.
Miriam was struck by her voice - she'd never heard a voice quite like it, refined, Wagnerian and aloof, containing a range of subtle meanings that weren't altogether clear. "I rely on word of mouth and a good reputation to do that kind of work." she replied, "I'm blessed with good contacts, and our local lady of the manor, Diana Chance-Barton is patron to the school. You'll know her of course."
She thought a little name-dropping may help to impress, but it seemed to have the opposite effect. The old woman's frosty features drew into a disdainful grimace, and when she spoke her words became elongated, with virtually no movement of her lips. "Diana Chance-Barton? No, I don't know the woman but I know of her. She's a floozy who spends every waking hour playing up to photographers with the idea she's some kind of leading light. Such behaviour wasn't acceptable in my day. When I was a girl we knew how to behave and were content just to know we had a high station in life."
She turned to the young woman who accompanied her, and who was now seated at her side on the chintz draped sofa. The companion was a little over five foot six wearing a lightweight shift-dress, about eighteen years old with long blond hair, and although she had a disturbing clever foxy face and a sly gleam in her eyes she was by any definition drop-dead gorgeous.
"This is Miranda, my favourite granddaughter and an individual I spoil outrageously. It's at her behest that I came here today. Miranda as a passion for dolls, you see. She's been fond of collecting them since her childhood and now has hundreds. She loves to undress them and put them into new outfits, and for her birthday this year she tells me she would like a live doll. That's a difficult gift to find and is the reason I contacted you. Hearsay as it you can provide what we're looking for."
Brimming with confidence the previously panciloquent girl quickly put in, "It must be a pretty doll or I'll hate it and refuse to have it."
The octogenarian grandmother at her side gave the headmistress a belligerent stare. "I hate imperfection myself, so I hope you've chosen something commendable. Freaks and deformity, clowns and midgets, animals dressed up as humans and vice versa. They are all abominations to me, and I have no sympathy."
Miriam nodded sagely. "I'm certain we can accommodate your requirements." She clicked a button on a table top intercom. "Send in Fifi, matron."
Her first impulse had been to offer this client Poppy who was waiting for a placement, but following some careful inquiries she'd concluded that he would be too dizzy and unpredictable to suit the old dowager. That being the case, she considered her choice of Fifi to be an inspired one.
A moment later the door opened and his small, timid figure, looking a bundle of pink skirts and white taffeta petticoats, squeezed into the room. His hair had been put into little-girl bangs and tied with enormous pink ribbons, and his cute feminine face had been perfectly made up, rouge on cheeks, lips red and glossed, and his huge liquid eyes ringed with mascara.
For the visit of her illustrious guest she had elected for the selected she-boy to be dressed in the latest of Margaret Pardoe's creations. It was a wondrous example of a dressmakers skill and artifice - a lovely primrose pink crinoline frock, fine and delicate in composition, cut to the thigh and flaring out. The bodice had been encrusted with bugle beads and garnished with embroidery, while a tiny waist, subtle and graceful, exaggerated the hipline. The cleavage was cut low but stopped short of immodesty to accentuate two delicate breasts compressed against the inside of the material. The dress was accompanied by a divine satin matinee coat of matching colour.
Fifi was dizzy with delight as the multi-layered drapes of silk-voile floated against the tops of his legs. His small hands, clad in white velvet gloves, were clutching a little purse that shimmered with sequins, and he wore high heeled shoes with cross-over straps that made a feature of his shapely ankles.
"My students are taught to make their own outfits," explained Miriam proudly, "and while lace petticoats are much out of fashion these days there's no denying the pleasing froufrou effect they give to a skirt.
Bemused and more than a little awe-struck Fifi approached the three females and his skirts bounced and rustled when he performed a perfect deep curtsy. The short skirt swept round his thighs revealing the tips of garter-straps clipped to the dark welts of stocking tops.
The girl inclined her head and amusement danced in her eyes as she watched the slender legs under the floaty dress that barely covered Fifi's bottom, but the older woman's expression gave nothing away. "What do you think, Miranda? Do you like her?"
Fifi stood still as the girl scrutinised him, his only movement being the batting of his large appealing eyes. "You promised it would be a boy doll, grandmamma. I want a boy doll."
The old woman's fingers, like a soft and wrinkled bunch of loose carrots, drummed her knee. "It is a boy. It's a boy in girl's clothes."
Fascinated, Miranda grinned. "Hm, a girl-boy. That's interesting." She immediately leapt to her feet and began to examine him. Closing up behind him she began to pet him like a kitten, revelling in the freedom to run her hands over his shoulders and down his hips. "Nice and slender. Very dainty."
The old woman looked on indulgently as her granddaughter stood back and eyed up the length of Fifi's legs, trying to judge how high the skirt would go before the gusset of his pants would be revealed. Taking her grandmother's cane she tucked the tip under the hem of Fifi's frock and hoisted it up to expose his underwear - tiny pink panties with a ruffled front panel.
She stepped back again, but only a pace, and she never took her eyes off Fifi. His stocking-clad legs were bared for virtually their entire length, the pale pink plumpness of his knicker-gusset just visible between the very tops of his thighs where a suggestion of delicate lace trimmed the rim of each leg.
"Turn around." the girl told him curtly.
Everyone watched as he turned, and Fifi peering anxiously back over his shoulder. The tiny panties were no more than a G-string and left the whole of his bum cheeks uncovered, the fullness pushing insolently out under the lace and creasing in an intriguing line where his buttocks met his thighs. The narrow strip of nylon tucked intimately into the division of his bottom added the finishing touch to a charming pose.
Fifi squirmed enchantingly. The girl purred. "Yummy. I want him, grandmamma. Buy him for me. When he's my dolly I'll put him in new underwear every day."
The plumy old woman shuffled in her seat and offered a thin patronising smile. "That appears to be settled then. We'll take the he - she - whatever it is. He can go with us now."
"It will take an hour to pack."
"Don't bother packing anything. Everything needed will be provided in his new home."
Closing up behind Fifi, Miranda purred. "Are you pleased? You do want to be my new dolly, don't you?"
"I - er - suppose so."
"You'll love it. It will be dreamy. You'll have nothing to do but look sweet and wear pretty dresses every day. I'll bathe you at bedtime and tuck you in, and I may even shake your girly cock sometimes when it gets stiff and drippy. All my friends will be so jealous. None of them have a live dolly and they'll be amazed when they see your boy parts, so I'll create some outfits that have your bits on show all the time. They'll want to change your pants when you wear them, and they'll all want to take you to the toilet and aim things for you when you have wee-wees. Sometimes if I get in a bad temper I'll smack your botty of course. After all, you'll belong to me and I can do whatever I wish, but all in all it's not a bad deal is it?"
The crusty old marchioness observed her granddaughter dourly, then turned to Miriam. "People of good breeding don't speak of money and certainly don't stoop to haggling. All the same the price you ask for pleasing a genteel girl are exorbitant, Miss Hancock. I could arrange to use someone from one of the families on my estate for a fraction of the cost, but they tend to be rather uncouth and oafish. I believe yours are tutored in good manners."
"Indeed. We place a great deal of emphasis on polite behaviour here."
"The youthful thing will have relatives. I take it I won't have the nausea of a distressed mother pursuing me as to his fate."
The old dear was on guard, Miriam observed. She may be ancient and batty but she was covering all the necessary bases. "I have an arrangement with relatives and I'm allowed carte-blanch with most of my students when it comes to the matter of disposal." she replied hurriedly.
Seeming satisfied with what had been organised the starchy marchioness leaned towards her. "Miranda will become bored with this doll-thing eventually. You know how girls are, keen on fluffy bunny-rabbits one day and ponies the next. But when that happens I intend to employ the creampuff in my household, so I hope he's made of sturdy stuff. The male members of my staff are likely to pay a good deal of attention to a pretty creature such as him."
With the deal concluded the headmistress now felt confident enough to offer a smile of reassurance. "Have no fear of Fifi not being up to that kind of thing. He is capable of being a girl in almost every way."
The marchioness nodded and replied in the way Miriam Hancock was becoming accustomed, enunciating each word with the precision of an elocution teacher. "Yes, of course. He's probably very accomplished already."
The old bridle path through the spinney was deserted except for butterflies dancing amid the lilac. It was another hot day of summer and everyone longed to see cinereous clouds roll in over the crest of the implacable limestone moors. Lack of rain could be a disaster when weather was usually the opening topic for strangers pressed into conversation, but while its absence could be a colloquy, no rain for more than two weeks in Yorkshire resulted in a drought of biblic proportions, and for the past three months there had been none at all.
Gloria had dropped Jennifer and Poppy off on the ridge behind the village leaving them with a short walk to the back door of Monica Braithwaite's home. At least the sun was in retreat for that day as Jennifer dragged Poppy along quickly at her side, and a walk in the shade of the elms didn't seem too onerous.
Better than going through the town, thought Jennifer. Discretion was what she sought and she knew men would too easily notice Poppy's tiny, black micro-skirt, while his body, especially his bare legs would make his passing very memorable. She also knew Poppy loved being taken for a beautiful girl and he could be tempted to playact to a gallery of drooling males.
It was always risky taking pupils into the village. The sissies of Fairyfield were feminine masterpieces and whether men knew the truth about them or not she didn't doubt cock's rose up hot, stiff and throbbing all over town when they were about. Did girly-boys exude some kind of pheromone? They did something, because men were drawn to them before knowing their perfumed panties were full of cock, and usually they weren't inclined to leave in a hurry once they'd found out the truth.
Anyway, the woodland walk had a twofold purpose that day. Besides taking her to see Monica it gave her an opportunity to practise a little thing she'd been musing on for ages. She'd developed a fascination for the idea of leading sissies around by collar and lead, a thing her mother disapproved of either at school or in public, but which in a little used leafy byway she could practise to her hearts content.
She paused Poppy and made him stand still whilst she fastened a dog-collar about his slender neck, a lovely strip of black leather with a stainless-steel buckle. He was looking particularly lovely that day, with his small, barely perceivable breasts sheathed in a white sarsenet blouse decorated with tiny pink bows. She knew there would be no trouble from him. The girl-boy was a limp-wristed bimbo who's mild temperament allowed him to accept most things with ease, and she just adored the deer-in-the-headlights look in his eyes whenever she scolded him.
Poppy didn't object. Jennifer was a clever, strong-minded girl, and although her arguments were often diffuse she could always baffle him and make them sound plausible. She also had a skill in twisting his own words until he found himself agreeing with something utterly at odds with what he'd first intended.
Jennifer clipped a dog leash to the D-ring on the dog collar and yanked Poppy into motion. Steeply below them and just a little further on snoozed Peasmarsh, a random clutter of grey stone houses linked together by sinuous narrow thoroughfares.
Normally little more than ten minutes would have seen them at Monica Braithwaite's house, but Jennifer had not foreseen meeting Greg Totter. He appeared on the twisting path in front of them pushing a wheelbarrow. A youth, tall and long-legged, wearing patched and faded jeans tucked into rubber boots, and a frayed and baggy sweatshirt.
"Fuck!" exclaimed Jennifer in irritation as she hurried to remove Poppy's collar. She wasn't going to let a bumpkin like Greg Totter share in any of her private perversions.
"Hi." Greg called out. His dark brooding eyes regarded them curiously as he drew nearer. Greg was a grinning oaf of an odd-job labourer who reckoned himself a bit of a jack-the-lad. That day he was swaggering cocksure and smelling of stale beer. "You lasses looks luvely close up. Proper angel's." he said boldly, "An' that dainty thing you're takin' for a walk looks especial mouthwaterin' Jenny. I bets her lil' knicks' is pulled up luvely an' tight around her hot, little slot. I reckon she'd make a fine bit o' ruttin'"
Poppy giggled, putting his hands to his cheeks to hide the blush that crept up from his neck to his pretty face, but Jennifer showed no sign of being flattered or amused. Greg Totter had been employed a few times to assist the gardeners at Fairyfield to do landscaping, so she knew him well enough to be confident as she elbowed her way beyond him on the path.
Drunken lout, she fumed. ANGEL'S indeed. Girl's hadn't been called angel's since they stopped wearing girdles and seamed stockings. She increased her pace without replying or looking back.
With a raucous laugh the youth abandoned the wheelbarrow and pursued them, skipping in front to block their way he opened out the blade of a jack-knife and twirling it in his hand in a way that was meant to be intimidating. Cupping her fingers under Poppy's elbow Jennifer hurriedly propelled him forward, again bustling past the moronic teenager.
Greg stumbled round and followed. "Ain't yu gunna give me summat? I's got plenty to give you. I can easy manage two of you."
"Give you something? Don't tempt me." Jennifer hissed softly.
Alarmed, Poppy stared up at her. "Oh dear. Are you sure he won't hurt us?"
The girl's face was grim and she had spots of bright colour staining her pale cheeks. "Hold my hand and you'll be okay. Greg's more mouth than trousers."
Still on their heels the youth grin broadened another notch and he cackled in amusement. "Hey Jenny, sell me that girl's knickers. I'll pay extra if they're still warm with pussy heat."
Poppy gulped. "Shall I give him my panties?" he whispered fearfully.
"Certainly not, you silly queen." fumed Jennifer in a fierce voice. Suddenly her eyes flashed with sudden intensity, she stopped, and with fury mounting swung around. "Look Greg Totter, just leave us alone and piss off."
Greg butted up close, then paused and levelled his gaze. "That's not a nice way for a lady to talk, is it? I reckon yer posh mummy would be disappointed with the language yer usin'. Relax an' 'ave some fun wi' me. I'll shag the two of you side by side, or if you like I'll stack the other un on top of you and do it that way."
Jennifer's body went rigid and her eyes gleaming dangerously. Totally in command of herself she stared at him. Greg was a simple-minded, foul-mouth bumpkin attempting to bully someone he'd gravely underestimated. Without giving any indication of her intent her two hands closed like talons and latched onto his shirtfront, while her right knee snapped sharply upward and crashed into the crotch of his trousers.
For a fleeting moment she was able to relish the way the shape of his balls seemed to bulge and spread out under the impact, then Greg's eyes bulged too, and he wailed. His head slumped down as he groped at his battered testicles and the girl took advantage of his lack of defence. Her arm flashed out and he let out a squeal as she closed his mouth with a fist as solid as a wet sandbag.
Howling, stunned and disorientated, the youth first staggered, then gave a hot yellow roar as his knees gave way. Before he could make sense of what had happened Jennifer was behind him. Eyes glaring with manic fury she raised a foot and stamping it between his shoulders, knocking him flat on his face.
"Glurk!" An indefinable noise escaped Greg's mouth as he hit the ground.
Flabbergasted at such sudden violence Poppy could only watch with his legss shaking as Jennifer held Greg down with a foot in the middle of his back and took up his jack-knife.
"Bloody 'ell, dunna hurt me, Jenny." the youth pleaded in a rush of terror, "I'll give you anything if you don't hurt me."
"You've got nothing I want, dumb-brain," Jennifer replied coldly, "but I think your dizzy thoughts can do with something to occupy them when I'm gone.
With a few swift movements she slashed through his waist belt before slitting his trousers down to the bottom of the seat, then she stood up closed the knife and pitched it down the hillside.
Poppy gazed at her with admiration. He was a weak thing and very glad to have a strong girl protecting him, and he felt quite happy to have the collar and lead attached to him again.
Leaving Greg bleating Jennifer and the sissy walked the rest on the way in silence. The path wound through the trees where clouds of gnats swirled beneath the branches, down a short way, past clumps of bushes and into an orchard at the rear of the house where Monica Braithwaite lived.
Ducking beneath linen draped on a washing line they were greeted by the girl who had apparently seen them approaching. "Hi, Jen'. Who's this with you then?
Jennifer made her voice light. "Mummy promised you a reward for helping Miss Twist with the photographs, so I chose Poppy for you."
Poppy's hair was shining and clean, and his face, sweet as an apple, was innocent of avarice, save of course for his sweeping eyelashes which never failed to give a hint of hot promise. Monica beamed. "Scrumptious! I like him very much. I like him for the way he looks and for the way he is. He's cute."