Fairyfield Grange

A year passed, and Mrs Blankette's car roared along beneath an overcast grey sky that gave no hint of the hot, dry summer that would soon descend upon the entire country. The breeze through the open window wasn't cold though, and birds sang in the hedgerows.

Perched in the passenger seat at his mother's side Simon Blankette remained silent for much of the journey north, his mind preoccupied with his destination. His face was scrubbed to a shiny cleanliness and glowed with youthful vigour, as did his blue eyes set beneath thick lashes. His fair hair had been styled in a neat page cut, the fringe of which flew about lightly from time to time to highlight an aura of cuteness when caught by the wind. The effect was a compliment to the navy-blue serge gymslip his mother had recently purchased in Leeds, a style of smock that had once been the hallmark of a good girl's school, but which was now rapidly loosing favour in all but the most conservative of establishments. His new outfit, simple though it was, enhanced his arresting good looks, but equally important was the subtle change in his demeanour it introduced. It was a contrast to the puffy-sleeves and flaring skirts of the dresses he had worn so often in the past, and a reminder of the serious business that lay ahead.

"I wish you weren't going to America, mummy. And I wish I didn't have to go to a new school."

"Don't be silly, darling. Mummy needs to travel so she can make pots of money. The people at your new school will take good care of you whilst I'm away."

Simon had fretted about being taken on a journey dressed as a schoolgirl and was terrified that people would realise he was a boy in a frock, his unease being only partly pacified when his mother told him that all the boys at Fairyfield Grange wore skirts. That would need to be seen to be believed.

They paused at a wayside tea shop and he found himself alone, standing by the car awaiting his mothers return. There his concern almost whipped into hysteria when his brief little skirt billowed in the blustering Yorkshire breeze and a passing gang of roughneck boys wolf-whistled and called out, "That's it, tootsie. Show us yer knickers!" It had alarmed him, but in a strange way it pleased him too. It demonstrated how convincing he must appear in a dress and gave him some much needed confidence.

"Shall I go to America one day?" he suddenly asked on a long boring stretch of road.

His mother had then changed gear quite unnecessarily. She would have preferred to have used her humble Uno instead of the large unwieldy Bentley, but appearances were important to her that day. "That's unlikely dear. Why?"

"Daddy once said I'd probably like America. He said I'd like to see cowboys."

"Your dear father said lots of things he didn't mean, Simon. The only cowboys in Manhattan wear grey suits and creepy smiles. Let's just concentrate on your education for the moment."

That year the government was into its stride of creating motorways everywhere, but for much of their own journey they needed to make use of the long established Great North Road. Eventually even that was of no use and they were forced onto a narrow country byway that left behind the featureless flat fields and meandered up into forbidding hills. Within a short while the hedgerows disappeared to be replaced by gaunt dry-stone walls.

At intervals they passed through sleepy grey villages full of stone-slated cottages with smoking chimneys lorded over by small old churches with square towers, but the quaintness of such places was lost on Mrs Blankette. She was a career woman of mature years earning a multiple figure salary and was more of a Mayfair lady than a country girl. If pressed to appreciate rural life she much preferred the South of France or Tuscany to the bleak outposts of northern England, and having gone through various lovers and husbands her facility to enjoy quaintness had long ago retired. She spent money lavishly, but never squandered her cash or time on the antiquated and unfashionable.

South of Skipton, the Pennine Hills are composed of millstone grit, only good for growing coarse grass and oats and the short-haired sheep that can exist on such things. There, immense high fells stand poised at precarious leaning angles to cast great dark shadows over the moors, and in one or two of the broader isolated dales some of the 'new rich' of the industrial revolution had once built their homes. It was in one such valley, dun-coloured with dusky charcoals and earthy browns, that they eventually found the school.

"That's it! That's Fairyfield Grange." Simon's mother murmured as they topped a ridge. She slowed the car down and pointed along the dale, and together they gazed at a big grey house with high chimneys disgorged plumes of smoke.

Simon felt a knot grow in his stomach. "Looks like a loony-bin to me."

His mother was slightly alarmed too. At first sight it did appear to be an odd looking place. Like an idea from an drunken architects cranky dream it didn't seem to gel as a single structure and could easily have served as a Dickensian institute for the insane. "Don't be silly," she chided, "One can't judge a book by its cover, nor the quality of a house by its exterior." She glanced up at the scudding clouds. "It probably looks rather picturesque when the sun shines."

Following an uneven road along the dale they eventually approached a fence of tall iron railings surrounding private grounds. A title board by a set of great iron gates proclaimed: 'Fairyfield Grange, Preparatory School for Girls' And below that, 'Headmistress - M Hancock.' The gates lay open and a circular driveway led directly to the front of the main building, a house crouching like a monster amidst neat yet oddly incongruous gardens.

Rooted long ago as a Jacobean manor, the Grange had been imposing long before being enlarged to an unwieldy extend by the Fairyfields in the !9th Century. That family had been owners of the wool-spinning mills at Opton and Peasmarsh as well as major shareholders in the lead mines at Castleford, and being extremely affluent but quite bereft of taste they had lavished a great deal of money on gaudy edifices and unnecessary gothic spires. The structure may have retained some semblance of balance had not additional wings been thoughtlessly added to it in later years, but now, like the industries that spawned it, it's grandeur had gone, leaving behind a bastardisation of Georgian, Victorian and Edwardian ideas - a chaotic hodgepodge of diverse tastes competing with each other to offer a facade that lacked proportion, symmetry or beauty. Too young to realise the technical reasons that had caused such a thing, Simon Blankette only knew it looked ugly.

The car drew up before an impressive front entrance where three stone steps led to a large dark panelled door beneath a porch. His mother climbed out and took him by the hand. "It's a grand place." she said, clearly out of step with her son's thoughts.

She rang the bell, which clanked and clattered deep within the house, on and on, before gradually dying away into silence. Eventually came the trip-trapping of feet and the door swung open to reveal a slim, dark-haired teenage girl.

"Good morning, I'm ..." Mrs Blankette began.

"I've been expecting you," the girl said briskly, "I'm Jennifer, the daughter of the headmistress. Mother told me to watch for you and take you directly to her study when you arrived." She glared at Simon, her face smiling without humour. "And this must be our new boarder." She immediately swivelled round. "Leave your bags in the car, I'll have someone collect them."

Inside, the entrance hall had a lofty ceiling and a floor of polished oak, while a great curving staircase led to an upper floor. An immense stained-glass window blazed with jewelled colours above the main door to cast hues of the spectrum into the cavernous hall below it. The boy shivered unexpectedly. Everything looked alarming, even gruesome in such unearthly light. The girl took them across the hall and tapped on a set of tall mahogany doors at the far end, then Simon and his mother were ushered into the room beyond.

Miss Hancock's study had once been the parlour of the house and the acme of genteel refinement, and while the years had blunted its original grandeur some attempt had been made recently to refurbish it. Renovating an old house to serve as a residential school had been expensive and money was tight, but Miriam Hancock refused to stint on her own apartments. There was an air of quality promoted in the room she viewed as her headquarters, for while she was parsimonious in many small ways she disliked anything shoddy or crude to touch herself. The dark polished floor gleamed around an exquisite Ushak carpet that splashed patterns of tomato red into the centre of the room, while the pastel yellow walls gave the place a sunny, airy feeling, as did the mellow patinas of a handsome Edwardian writing desk.

Two long sofas faced each other across a low walnut table in front of a large fireplace. They were covered with floral chintz in pink, yellow and blue entwined among trailing green vines. On the Pembroke table and on consoles around the walls stood bowls holding fresh hyacinths, jonquils and daffodils.

The headmistress indicated for them to be seated on one of the sofas, while she herself sat opposite, leaning slightly forward. Miriam Hancock was in her mid-thirties, but nearly six feet tall and with the slender figure of a woman ten years younger. Despite her hair, which she wore in a very stern bun, her long, regal face was relatively wrinkle free. Her eyes were emerald green and the gaze shining out from them was one of utter conviction and confidence. It was a gaze Simon found himself fearfully avoiding. The woman's cherry red lips seemed to curve in a rather cruel smile at the sight of his shyness, and in awe of the strange room and new people around him he placed himself excessively close to his mother.

"Did you have a good journey?" Miriam asked.

"Rather irksome I'm afraid," Simon heard his mother confess, "I'd no real idea how deep in the wilds you are. The roads are simply atrocious, and you're at least ten miles out from the nearest village."

"We are an oasis in a desert; a haven isle in a stormy sea," smiled the headmistress, "Compared with the weed-infested world outside Fairyfield Grange is a garden, and the pupils here are flowers within it. Being so isolated can be a nuisance if one is used to convenience of course, but then such a situation means we are rarely disturbed."

Mrs Blankette craned her neck as she looked about. "You have some lovely objects here. Everywhere you have something to admire - the paintings, the flowers, the furniture ..."

Miriam smiled and bowed her head. "I'm so pleased you approve, I do enjoy having beautiful things around me." She fixed a stare on the child. "It's Simon, isn't it?"

"Um, y-yes Miss."

"Do you like being a little girl, Simon? Do you enjoy wearing girl's clothes?"

The boy cast a quick apprehensive glance at his mother. He hadn't wanted the woman to speak directly to him. She inspired awe and he didn't know the kind of answers she expected to her questions. He racked his brains, eventually clearing his throat and replying in a shaky voice. "I-I like it a bit. Mummy says I'll get used to it here."

"You certainly shall. Today you will join the other students at Fairyfield on the road to a new and more productive life. You will be subjected to a rigorous programme of feminisation designed to make you the daintiest, sissiest and most beautiful she-male imaginable. Do you play games?"

"Erm - I like football."

"We have little time for field sports here, and football tends to be a little - er - loutish for my tastes, but we do have a first-class gymnasium and a fine fitness instructor." In an aside to his mother she remarked, "It's so vital for children to maintain a healthy body, don't you think? And Mr Hardwick will ensure Simon attains and stays in tiptop condition." Returning a good natured smile to Simon she added, "I dare say he'll also stretch to a game of team croquet occasionally. That's a far more acceptable game for a sissy."

Simon was confused. "A sissy, what's that?"

"A sissy is a feminised male. They're usually more feminine than real females, and they always love boys and men, never girls. While you're here you'll be taught to be a sissy, do you understand?"

The boy looked bewildered, and his mother took the opportunity to interject. "Simon understands about dressing as a girl and being admired by groups of ladies, but that's as far as he's progressed." She appeared slightly embarrassed and quickly changed the subject. "On the matter of Simon's allowance. I've agreed the amount you advised and arranged it's payment into the account recommended on the first of each month."

"A wise decision. Children can be frivolous with pocket-money, and if I can control their use of it there's a better chance of it being spent more thoughtfully. Not that a great deal can be purchased at the school. Matron stocks a few toiletries, but most purchasing is done by my housekeeper. She goes into the village quite frequently, but as instructions to limit the amount of sweets and confectionery brought here." She smiled at the boy. "Simon is a trim little fellow, and we wouldn't want for him to develop into a horrible fatty with spots and bad teeth."

Returning her gaze to his mother she went on, "Children will try to exist on chocolate and cornflakes if left to their own devises, but you'll know from my brochure that at Fairyfield we strive to implement a regime of good diet and healthy exercise." She crooked her finger. "Stand up, Simon. Let me have a proper look at you."

Reluctantly the boy inched forward to the edge of the sofa and climbed to his feet, wishing he were not the centre of such inquisitive attention. The headmistress smiled. "You have a natural stance that will please Mr Hardwick, he being responsible for the development of deportment and figure training. Do a little twirl for me."

He felt his cheeks colour and risked a glance at his mother, but she merely answered with a acquiescing twitch of her hand. Hoping he was doing it right he performed a quick whirl that made his short skirt billow around the tops of his legs.

"Ah, gorgeous!" Miss Hancock approved. "Good thighs and a pert bottom are to be treasured, and you're blessed with both."

"I'm not gay." the boy announced urgently.

"Of course you aren't. A young boy doesn't have to be - em - 'gay' to delight with his shapely legs."

"I only wear girls clothes because mummy says I must."

"It's pleasing to know you're so compliant with her wishes. You must try to maintain the same commitment with your tutors here. Again! Twirl once more, Simon."

"I thought the skirt a mite too short." ventured the boys mother.

"No, no ..." The other woman watched the boy spin, and when his clothes settled she shook her head. "It's exactly right for his height. Short skirts are an aid to elegance since one is required to stoop rather than bend when picking objects from a low level." She offered Simon a good natured grin. "Showing the seat of ones knickers is considered indecorous and meets with disapproval."

The door opened and there was a rattling of cups on a tray accompanied by an announcement. "Yer tea, Miss Hancock." The voice emanated from an immense dumpling of a woman with shoulders as broad as a beam. Her face was particularly plump with small porcine eyes so pale they seemed almost colourless, and set so close together they looked even smaller than they were.

"Darjeeling!" explained Miss Hancock to Mrs Blankette as the large woman deposited a laden tray on the table between them. "We spoke obliquely of tea during one of our telephone conversations, and I recall you approved of Darjeeling."

"You've a remarkable memory."

She chuckled. "I've a passion for detail, and one must keep ones faculties sharp when dealing with children." Whilst arranging a pair of china cups and saucers she looked up at the large woman who had delivered the tea.

"Thank you, Gloria. I'll pour myself, but I'd be grateful if you could take our newcomer up to see matron when you leave." She leaned towards Simon's mother. "I think it less stressful for farewells to be said quickly, don't you?"

The authority in her voice seemed as absolute as any governess and Mrs Blankette capitulated at once. "Yes, I suppose you're right. Best to get the hard part done with." She gave her son a kiss on the brow and patted his hand. "Go with the lady. I'll return to collect you at the end of the school term. You will be good, won't you?"

"I suppose." The boy muttered half-heartedly.

"You must be good, learn your lessons and behave, darling. The ladies here will smack your legs for silliness."

Miriam smiled mildly. "Do you have a pet name for Simon when you put him in frocks?"

"Well, I do have little names for him, but nothing permanent. Sometimes he's Heidi, sometimes Katie, and at other times he's Anne of Green Gables. I take the names from the books I allow him to read."

Her son flustered. "Don't say Simone, Mummy. Everyone will call me Semolina if you say that."

"May I suggest we call him something with less risk of a pudding and of more classical flavour," said Miss Hancock, "I was thinking of the name, Cassandra."

Mrs Blankette rolled her mouth. "That sounds rather grand, tho' somewhat clumsy and old fashioned. I'd prefer something more modern, like Amanda. When I was a girl I once had a goldfish called Amanda."

Gloria heaved a sigh that rippled her great bosom, eyes peeping out above puffy cheeks roving swiftly over the small figure of her young charge. "That's settled then. Come along wi' me, me little beauty."

The hulking woman led Simon out into the dusky entrance hall and together they ascended a flight of stairs that were so unexpectedly steep the boy had to hold tight onto the polished oak banister and newel posts. On the landing above they entered a corridor that was gloomy and wreathed in amorphous shadows, and where the pieces of ornate Edwardian furniture that punctuated its length were like nebulous shadows. The room to which he was taken was small and crowded with old fashioned furniture.

"Let's get some o' yer togs off," said Gloria, tugging at his shoulder.

His eyes fluttered uncertainly. "Do I have to get undressed?"

"Matron'll want to have proper look at you, mi dear," she told him, "Y'know - a medical inspection - that's the routine here." Her hand tightened perceivably. "Come on now. Yer mum warned you about misbahavin', an' yer don't want to be smacked so soon after arriving, do you?"

The gymslip was lifted off and the blouse beneath removed, then Gloria gave him a piece of type written text. "Have a study o' the school rules while I go an' find matron." she advised as she went out the door.

Standing in a vest and a pair of waist-high, blue flannel knickers, he gazed glumly at the paper she'd handed him.

Monday - Saturday : Breakfast 7 am. Schoolroom 8 am. Lunch 12 noon. Resting in dormitories 1 pm. Exercise and deportment 2 pm. Domestic practise 4 pm. Supper 6 pm. Lights out: juniors 8 pm. All others 9 pm

'(1) Children will conduct themselves with decorum at all times. (2) The school timetables must be strictly adhered to and punctuality is expected. (3) There will be no running in the halls or corridors, and no conversations will take place in those departments until suppertime. (4) Silence will be maintained at meals unless children are addressed by a member of staff. (5) Sunday is free time and pupils may walk in the garden if they are smartly dressed and wearing hats, but none may go beyond the school grounds unless accompanied by a member of staff. (6) Correction is applied to pupils who disobey school rules: School prefects are authorised to punish children on the hand with a strap. Tutors have liberty to punish the bare bottom, either with a hand or a slipper.'

From outside somewhere below the window he heard his mothers car start-up and slowly draw away, and he felt utterly desolate. He stood there in the strange room listening until the sound became swallowed in the warmth of the spring morning and receded into silence. She was gone and he was on his own.

He felt no better when a tall skinny woman wearing a white overall-coat and a scowl appeared through the door. She had a brief muttered conversation with Gloria trailing behind, then glared at him hard, cold fisheyes scrutinising him thoughtfully. Although some boys became long and gangly at the onset of puberty, this one was small and fragile and still retained the graceful beauty of childhood. His hands and feet looked slightly too big for his body, but that merely made him seem younger and sweeter.

"It's the start of the summer term. Why are you wearing a full length vest?" Her voice was vinegary and accusing, making him glance down at his singlet guiltily.

"Mummy - my mother dressed me this morning. I suppose..."

"Halter-tops are sufficient for the summer," the woman interrupted peremptorily, "They are on the list of items you were required to bring with you. When you unpack your luggage ensure you get properly dressed."

She squinted down. "And the pants too. White knickers are worn in the summer months here, unless Mr Hardwick requires blue flannel for exercises in the gymnasium." At last she seemed to compose herself. "You're Amanda?"

"Simmy - Simon really, but..."

The woman's scowl instantly reinstated itself. "That's a boys name and this is a girl's school. Are you Amanda or not?"

His cheeks flushed. "Yes, I am Amanda, miss - matron."

"A fetching little addition to the others." put in Gloria.

The matron ignored her. Leaning forward she brusquely hiked his vest up under his arms. No hint of undue corpulence, the outline of his ribcage was surmounted by a flat boyish chest and tiny, pale nipples, and his abdomen was straight and firm She thumbed the tiny nipples thoughtfully, then pulled a stethoscope from her overall pocket, and having fixed the earpieces she place the other end against his bare chest. A moment of auscultation passed before she seemed satisfied, then she hitched the instrument about her neck and produced a small sterile wooden spatula. "Say, aaa!" she demanded.

As his mouth opened she pressed his head back and used the wood to hold down his tongue whilst she peered into his mouth, curling back his lips with finger and thumb to scrutinise his teeth. Having completed her inspection of his mouth she stooped slightly and pulled down his knickers, using the spatula this time to lift his lolling penis to one side in order to gain an unimpeded view of his testicles.

"Do you play with yourself?".

"Oh... I ...oh!"

"Never mind, you almost certainly do, but like most new arrivals you'll be reluctant to admit it. Nevertheless, you should remember that at Fairyfield Grange you should always ask permission from a member of staff before you rub your willy."

She stepped back and observed the boys near nakedness with an experienced eye. He was handsome, rather thin and small. With each anxious breath his nostrils flared, and if anything his slightly upturned nose, like his ears, were too small, but he well formed and healthy. Miss Hancock was always intuitively faultless in her selection of pupils, choosing them for innate sissy potential as well as for health and beauty. She herself was wasting her time with a prolonged examination.

"Bend forward and touch your toes." she ordered crisply while circling around behind him. Simon's eyes widened in horror as he became aware of strong fingers grasping his bottom and spreading his buttocks. It was ghastly to realise that the two strange women were looking at his bum-hole.

Rising up matron glanced at Gloria. "Put her in with the juniors for the moment. I'll assess her again later in the week."

"I's a'ready got a space for her, matron." beamed the big woman.

Clearly the matron hated her decisions being assumed in advance and she offered a frosty smile. "How astute you are, Gloria."

"I's been among chil'ren a long time, matron. I's hopes to have learned a bit." The matron at last released him, and Simon hurriedly adjusted his underwear. But he didn't dare speak until the woman declared there was nothing else to do and then departed.

"Can I get dressed now, Miss Gloria?" he asked timidly.

The big lady closed the door and stood with legs astride, hands on hips with her face twisted in a dark disingenuous smile. "We'll wait a while 'til your luggage comes up in the hoist. That way you won't get into trouble for being dressed wrong. An' there's no need to call me, Miss. Just plain Gloria will do for me."

Simon pouted, his small eyes flashing with indignation. "What that lady did - that was rude."

"Oh, you shouldn't worry about it. Matron's a medical lady, like a doctor. She's allowed to do things like that."

She sat down, fixed her bulk into one corner of a black horsehair sofa, and then studied the newcomer. His knees looked slightly knobbly and swelled ever so slightly up his thighs to connect with slender muscles that rippled when he moved. His upper body was pretty, small collarbones prominent beneath a slender neck and no noticeable muscular development in a shape that went straight up and down, but interestingly, his chest bulged in tiny delicate mounds beneath the cotton singlet and seemed to inadvertently invite caresses.

"I knows what's the matter wi' you, newcomers is allus the same. You're upset with being left among strangers an' having no friends. Come an' sit on Gloria's lap an' have a cuddle for a bit."

"I-I don't want a cuddle."

The housekeeper stretched her broad neck out from the tight starched white collar that bordered her dress, then inclined her head just slightly as she grabbed his arm and yanked him forcefully onto her knee. "Now then, me dear, o' course you wants a cuddle. Little boys an' girls all need a cuddle at times like these." She cradled him affectionately against her massive bosom while gazing into his bright blue eyes. "You're sweet looking an' bound to make friends quick, but in the meantime you's just got to relax."

Smiling, she regarded him a moment longer before running her fingers over his small shoulders. "There! That's it, settle yerself down. The first day away from home is allus a trial. I's had a lot of experience wi' children, so I knows all about it. I was nanny to the headmistress's own kiddies when they were small, an' I helped out when Miss Hancock took on the orphanage a'fore she came here."

Slowly her hands began to move licentiously over his elfin body, and then her podgy fingers drifted up and down his smooth young legs, spiralling inwards towards the apex of his thighs and relentlessly encroaching until they were rolling the plump amoebas shapes in his flannel underwear. A single broad arm encircled him, hugging him with the strength of a bear as he attempted to wriggle away, and he squirmed as he felt her fingers and thumb take a grip and begin an indecent massage, stoking up and down to make his penis stir and tingle.

"You needs to have a nice feelin' so you can forget about all the 'orrirble ones." Gloria murmured as she blatantly drew up the flesh within his pants and pumped it, pulling on his hidden parts and making him blink. Despite his embarrassment his penis was rising up.

"No, Gloria. You mustn't ..."

The only response his meek protest received was to feel the woman's fingers accelerate their movements into a frantic, rapid jerking. He could feel her thumb and forefinger boldly massaging the outline of his penis, giving special attention to his little knob-end, skinning his little pricky hood up and down inside his knickers and making his toes curl from the unrequested infliction of physical pleasure.

"You're a bright little thing ." she declared, whilst delicately squeezing the shape of his small testicles with her stubby fingers. In her experience there wasn't a boy alive who didn't like having his balls played with. "Yer a darling little thing what enjoys havin' a bit o' fun with his wormy, I reckons. Don't pay too much attention to what matron said about askin' permission. I knows little lads have to pull on their puddin's whenever the moods on 'em, whether they're in a frock or not. I likes to help, an' I knows all about giving nice feelin's."

She remained impassive as his moans became rasping and more strident, but her fingers never slowed in their rhythm. Faster and faster she caressed that important part of him, her thumb instinctively finding the most sensitive portion of the morsel in his pants and rubbing it up and down. Muffled groans spewed from his throat as his chest began to heave.

"No, nooo - please, Gloria." Shaking his head from side to side he groaned, tensed and quivered. His mother had only just left him and already a fat old woman was blatantly rubbing his willy through his pants.

And the awful lady was going to make him do something. He couldn't stop her. She was going to make him do it in his knickers.

And she did. The tingle evolved into an all consuming throb and he felt his flesh judder under her caress, making him crush his face against her neck in a futile attempt to mask the involuntary noises that erupted in his throat as he writhed. "Uhhhh!" It was horrible. Aaaaahhhh. And wonderful. Ohhhhhhh. His little cock ached, then there was a sudden wet RUSH of pleasure and sudden relief as his body jerked, then jerked again..

When a small patch of vacid moisture soaked through onto her fingers Gloria stopped and beamed a smile. "What a wicked angel you are! I knowed yer little peg would come up nice and have more to it than matron reckoned. I'll have to keep my eye on you."

The highly polished writing table was uncluttered, the only item encroaching its pristine surface being the letter of application Miriam Hancock had received from Emma Twist, the young woman who now sat stiff backed in the chair facing her.

Miss Hancock folded her hands over the pieces of paper and gave the impression of ignoring them as she assessed the candidate. She was smartly dressed and rather good looking. Although not beautiful in the accepted sense of the word, she was so vital she gave the impression of beauty, a vividness of colour contributing to that effect. Her ink-black glossy hair was styled in a coif about her head, coming to a peak above a face so clear and luminous it might have been carved from pale polished marble. The rather elongated face, with its prominent cheekbones and wide brow were impressive, and there was a hint of restlessness in her chin. Her eyes were her most spectacular feature, large and intelligent and of a cornflower blue so deep they appeared almost violet.

From her application it transpired she was in her early twenties and unmarried, and from her bearing Miriam thought she'd probably been thoughtfully spoilt as a child and was used to having her own way, which wasn't altogether an undesirable quality to find in someone wishing to be a tutor at Fairyfield Grange. "Perhaps I should begin by explaining the concept of this school. It's somewhat unique." she began.

"I know a little about it already,." The other woman put in immediately.

Miss Hancock raised her eyebrows. In her serge skirt and high-necked white lace blouse with leg-of-mutton sleeves she looked the epitome of the elegant school ma'am.

"Indeed! That's impressive since I never promote what we do here widely."

"It wasn't easy. Everything seemed to be rumour and gossip, and word of your staff vacancy only came by chance conversation."

Miriam nodded. "We're not a mainstream institution or an ostentatious private one, we're rather a special school. What exactly did you learn?"

Emma curled one knee over the other and began to relax. "That you operate a school for young boys who you dress as girls and train to be feminine."

The older woman allowed herself a half smile, the lack of denial only serving to confirm what had been said. Her fingers toyed absently with the large cameo broach on the neck of her blouse. "We're expanding. There are places for thirty-six boarders at Fairyfield and we already have upwards of two dozen, so I need extra help. That's the reason for the vacancy."

For the first time she glanced down briefly at the sheets of paper under her hand. "You're a year out of teacher-training, and experienced in ..." She left the question open, awaiting a response.

"I'm currently employed at a primary school in Leeds," Emma flashed a fierce smile, "It's not proved ideal for me."

Miriam cleared her throat. "Well, I must be frank with you. The object of this establishment is to teach boys lessons of quite a different nature to those offered elsewhere. Apart from a little reading and writing the education here is perfunctory and consists mostly of skills suitable for use in domestic service. I would rather my students could recognise a jam-spoon than solve a problem in trigonometry. The overriding function of the staff I employ is to eradicate their undisciplined boyish traits and establish in them a gentler, more feminine personality. Such work requires a tutor to constantly apply stern correction and frequently impose an element of humiliation."

Emma Twist moved slightly in her seat. It was no different to what she'd expected - no different to what she desired. "I'm quite adaptable and willing to fit in with whatever program you have. Allow me to be frank also. I'm already disenchanted with the education system and the truth is I'm likely to lose my present job soon on account of me smacking the backs of a few little legs after lessons. There's no avenue left in most schools these days to instil proper discipline, but I had an idea this school may be different."

Miss Hancock drew back. She sensed a undertone of desperation in the younger woman's voice, and she relished desperate people since they were invariably grateful and loyal. She flashed a challenging glance. "We here do not necessarily conform to the world outside. We're a private institution and have ways of getting around most facile regulations. I gather from what you say that you don't disapprove of corporal punishment."

"Children are careless and stupid, especially boys. Boys are impudent and wilful and need to be taught respect." One side of Emma Twist's mouth twitched. "The idea of turning them into girls - or at least into sissies - well, that's quite shaking in its audacity and deserving of some support."

Miriam saw no sign of squeamishness in her expression, instead there was a gleam in her eyes that betrayed other things. A flash of light that hinted at cool judgement and implacable tenacity, and yes - excitement incited by an element of cruelty." All in all she seemed to be a grown version of Jennifer; headstrong and a little selfish, but with the potential to develop into a heartless dominatrix.

The headmistress replied with a slightly crooked smile. "Fairyfield Grange promotes the perfection of a sissy gender. Here the pupils are allowed to know they are boys without ever being allowed to be boys. It's a concept that generates a great deal of appeal to some people."

She rose up. "Look, I find myself at an impasse. I'd envisioned a more mature person for the position here, and while academically you're ideal, your inexperience makes me cautious. People pay large fees to send their children to me, and in return I must assure them of unremitting commitment from those I employ. During term-time there is no possibility of social activity, and that may prove a frustration to a young person such as yourself."

Her mouth twisted as it moulded additional words. "That doesn't mean I find you unsuitable, Miss Twist. On the contrary, I detect in you a spark that could embellish Fairyfield Grange if it were allowed some rein. Perhaps you'd indulge me. It would be reassuring if you'd agree to undertake a small test."

Emma bridled, resenting the notion that her suitability wasn't obvious, but she kept her voice calm and level, after all, she really did want to work there. "A test? Well, I suppose, if I must." she replied somewhat sourly. "What kind of thing have you in mind?"

The older woman's eyes glowed. "The application of discipline, my dear. Physical punishment is the most effective way of controlling sissies, and I must be sure my tutors are competent in such things."

Emma Twist followed her sullenly out through the door. 'Stupid test!' she chaffed silently, ignoring the fact that she herself had the nature of a bully and got a certain kick from dominating anyone around her weak enough to tolerate her manner. She'd always been forceful with her girlfriends, but small boys had been her favourite victims since her time as a student teacher. Despite having cheek and bluster they had such innocent, naive minds, and whilst their young bodies were yet to develop adolescent muscle they were easy to command via a little brutality. Making them cry was a pleasure and humiliating them a joy. And what better humiliation could there be than forcing them to be girls? Why, oh why, couldn't this bitch of a headmistress recognise the dedication she would apply to a post at her school without fooling around?

As she strode into the entrance hall she reassessed the headmistress. She chatted easily and had none of the lisps and drawls affected by the boorish schoolteachers she'd known in the past. Her smile was ready too, but she was certainly an expert at duplicity, because the slightly prim and stately front she presented was certainly a clever facade.

On leaving the study Emma was confronted by a scene that pushed aside her churlish mood. She'd not seen any children anywhere on her arrival, but the departure from the office appeared to coincide with a routine movement within the building and the central stairs that led to the upper floors suddenly became full of schoolgirls.

They descended in orderly procession, two abreast, anxious expressions set on smooth pale faces, each dressed identically in a white blouse with a little Peter Pan collar overlaid with a traditional schoolgirl gymslip. Of course she knew they were all really intensely feminised males, very girlish boys, very delicate young sissies, and there was no pretence regarding their true sex, no clever wigs or padded bras. Their hair was grown long, but uniformly plaited and pinned to the back of their heads. It could have been a scene from any number of public girl's schools of the recent past, the only surprise being the brevity of the skirts which were tailored high up on bare thighs and would have been considered extremely indecent by the more righteous people. The space between the high-riding hems and little white ankle socks was all slender legs, youthful bare calves and dimpled knees.

She felt a thrill rise in her, but tried not to make too much of a show. "They're all lovely. One would never guess they were boys from appearances."

"Standards of dress are rigidly enforced and male clothing is absolutely prohibited." came the brisk reply, "Fairyfield girls always dress in skirts, that's a rule, sissies must never wear trousers."

A tiny smile flitted across Emma's face. "I expect they all hate being dressed that way. Such a thing will be abhorrent to boys entering into puberty."

Miriam nodded dourly. "Some do arrive as haughty individuals, but we conspire to induct them into a gentler, more feminine frame of mind. Often there are tears when they're first forced to wear a skirt, and sometimes attempts at rebellion before they accept the use of a girls name, which is why firmness and strict discipline are so important. Some upheaval must be expected if they've previously been allowed to develop an overt male image of themselves, but once sissification is imposed they play a girlish role well enough."

At the bottom of the staircase one of the pupils in the lead of the procession broke away and stood, arms akimbo, to watch the others file past. The dark stockings he wore opposed to the white ankle socks of his classmates, together with an intensely watchful expression, lent him an air of authority.

"Movements within the house are enforced as silent periods," Miss Hancock explained, "We have no patience with noisy banter or disorderly conduct. You'll appreciate these boys, like so many others in the world, would descend into savagery were it not for close supervision. Tidiness is a concept alien to them, while their nature is to be idle and they would rarely wash or change their clothes if allowed to please themselves. Such delinquency as no place at Fairyfield. Here we have orderly routines, and each child is closely monitored and subject to inspection. Rules are everything, and they must be enforced vigorously."

The crocodile of children trailed out through the far door, each member of it walking so delicately there was a noticeable general movement of short skirts swaying saucily across the backs of naked thighs and small, high buttocks. Miss Hancock beckoned to the supervising she-boy. "This is Abigail, the fruit of my own loins, and now my head-girl." she explained.

Emma's gaze moved from the procession of she-boy beauties to the long, black-hosed legs of the lovely Abigail who's perfectly shaped elegance had assumed a feminine stance. 'Crikey! She means it's her son', she thought.

Miss Hancock misinterpreted her expression of amazement and presumed her fascination was directed at the two-pronged leather strap swinging from the sissy-boys waistband. "The head-girl and prefects carry a Scottish tawse as their symbol of authority and may use it to punish the others in trivial matters of discipline, which can be a merciful relief to the tutors." Her eyes turned to the head-girl. "Go and find Poppy and bring her to the staff common-room."

They mounted the stairs in a slow stately manner, Miss Hancock blithely unconcerned with Emma's desire to get on with things. Halfway along the landing they plunged down a dimly lit corridor and found two young children standing motionless adjacent to a closed door. Emma noticed their nervousness as they were approached.

"What are you two doing here?" the headmistress asked them curtly.

Clearly in awe of her, each grasped the hem of his tunic and raised it an inch, then bobbed a small curtsy. "Please Miss. Mrs Pardoe told us to wait here, miss." said one of them in a subdued soprano voice.

"She intends to smack you?"

A tinge of regret ruffled the little upturned face, the smooth features were ingenuous and vulnerable, and their was a simplicity about them that was sweet and rather innocent. "'Spect so, miss."

"Why are you to be punished?"

The face of the child's companion swung down to gaze at the floor. "I'm not sure, miss," said the upturned one, "S'pose we must have been naughty."

"Indeed, I suspect you must have been."

The two women marched on, Emma feeling slightly nonplussed by the words that had been exchanged. "That pair - they didn't appear to know why they were to be punished."

The headmistress scoffed. "Oh, they knew well enough, they just didn't wish to admit it. My pupils are all of an age when their hormones are bubbling, and they spend endless amounts of time thinking about sex. Being isolated from suitable females creates a tendency for them to channel their feelings at each other, and there's a good deal of kissing and touching goes on - and other stuff, too."

Emma Twist raised an eyebrow. "They - er - bugger each other?"

Miriam Hancock's nose twitched to show slight disapproval of the term used. "It's a common enough occurrence among groups of boys living together, and sissies tend to be even more sexually active than other boys in a similar situation. Of course, that doesn't mean we can condone it."

Emma felt her heart beat a little faster. "Oh, certainly not. Naughty sissies should be made to regret their grubby misdeeds."

The headmistress smiled thinly. "When Mrs Pardoe as reprimanded them they'll regret things without doubt."

Swinging left she led the way down another ill-lit passageway, then pausing as if debating something with herself. She then went on. "From time to time - rather often in fact - the little rascals here may misbehave in the way a lady is not used to. They can become - um, rather 'prominent' when their pants are taken down."

Emma held back a smirk. "You mean, they get an erection?"

"Quite so! You must ignore such things. The reason for it happening confounds me, but you must treat all such displays with contempt. It's important for their development that they understand it's unwanted in a girl. If you can endure such sights you'll find their ... erm, ..."

"Erections!"

" ... to be a constant reason for discipline. If the little dears are desperate to sate themselves they must first seek permission from a member of staff."

"They must ask permission to masturbate?"

"Yes, it's a rule."

The staff common-room lay at the end of the corridor, and nothing within it except the electric light seemed to belong to the present day. The blue flocked walls were dominated by portraits of long deceased gentry flanked by neo-classical prints, beneath which stood so many black horsehair sofas and mahogany whatnots as to make the room a shrine to bad taste. A purple chenille cloth covered a small table laden with bric-a-brac by the window, and there was a potted aspidistra lodged against a life-sized replica of a Greek Adonis in the corner. Emma couldn't help but think both those items would have been more at home out in the garden.

No sooner were they installed than there came a timid knock on the door, and Miss Hancock's rather dour features suddenly brightened. "Ah, that will be Poppy. Now we can get down to business."

At her bidding the door opened, and what appeared to be a young girl entered the room, though Emma was wise enough by then to realise that it was no more than one of the pupils; a boy dressed as a girl. The child bobbed a little curtsy and stood silently just inside the door until the headmistress signalled him to move further into the room.

"This is Poppy..." she explained, "Poppy as been here quite some time which makes him an ideal subject for any kind of test. Like many of my sissies he was brought to Fairyfield by his mother. Poppy it seems can be a very naughty little girl, and she quite rightly sought to have his behaviour modified. She feels that the most effective way is to ensure this with her son is to have him transformed into a sweet, obedient and completely submissive daughter."

Emma regarded the she-boy with a hard stare. He was beautiful, twelve at the most, with hair the colour of ripened wheat that started as a cute fringe across his forehead, and had been grown long enough to be fashioned into two neat plaits that were looped up and pinned behind his head. It was delightfully little-girlish style and complemented by gold studs in his ears, and a schoolgirl uniform.

"Miss Hancock, just what do you expect of me?" she asked quietly.

The headmistress drew close to her. "Trust to your instincts, dear. Punish the sissy-creature in some fashion."

"Punish him - her! Punish him for what reason?"

A wry smile crinkled the older woman's face. "Oh, we have plenty of rules here and he's sure to have infringed some of them today and thought herself clever enough to get away with it. Children can be cunning about such things. I applaud a talent for imagination, so invent a reason if you need to. He's probably been masturbating without permission. They all do it. At their age they can't control their sexual impulses, but at Fairyfield they learn that sexual pleasure comes at a price. And it's helpful to have them associate the wonder of an orgasm with the pain of corporal punishment."

She pulled a slightly sour face. "I would mention now that which you may not wish to ask about: to whit, caning. Sever punishment is not required in the management of sissies, so I don't tolerate rattans or whips. You'll find they respond quite adequately to a strap, slipper or paddle, or just to the smack of a hand. You're free to use whatever of those methods suits you best."

Emma appraised the girlish boy again. He was standing stock still, feet together, arms pressed into his sides. He was small in stature, a waif of a thing, lightweight enough to stretch across her lap without undue trouble, but his looks were winning ones, and the gentle slope of his shoulders only added to his seeming vulnerability. Everything about him seemed to conspire to soften her heart and undermine her resolve. He encouraged gentle cuddles more than harsh smacks.

Miss Hancock glanced at her wristwatch. "Look, I'll leave you with him for an hour. Poppy can be a little madam and he'll squeal when you spank him, but just 'shush' him firmly if he does. Certainly don't allow him to side-track you." Her gaze lifted and she looked Emma full in the face. "You're a handsome woman Miss Twist, and I dare say your looks have often set a male pulse racing in the past, but you must never allow sissies to assert themselves in a male role here, that would be disastrous for their training and ruin your prospects."

When the door closed leaving her alone with the girl-boy Emma grimaced. The last warning was uncalled for. Did the officious headmistress really think she was the kind of woman who fucked with little boys?

She felt suddenly at a loss as her attention became focused on Poppy's androgynous profile, on the soft line of his jaw, the slight upward tilt of his sensuous little mouth and the fluttering eyelashes that graced butter-wouldn't-melt-the -mouth eyes. Lower down the gymslip fitted perfectly, its high-waisted skirt serving to emphasis the boys round smooth thighs, while his legs were bare and slender, graced only by little white socks and brown shoes with a broad, slightly raised heels.

She'd smacked children in the past, reddened their legs up as far as she could haul their little pants to arouse plenty of sorrowful sobs and squeaks. But silliness had always provided an excuse, while watching their naughty antics had invariably aroused her. It was unfair to be expected to start off cold with such a sweet looking creature. What reason could she invent?

"Do you know why you're here, Poppy?

There was a breathless quality to the child's voice as he uttered the first words since his arrival. "When I'm told to come to this room ladies always smack my bum - sorry miss - I mean, bottom, miss."

"I expect that's because you're naughty. You've probably been naughty today."

She wanted to incite some guilt in him that would dismiss her own uncertainties, but instead she faltered. The soft mouth pouting with apprehension, and the shine in his large appealing eyes aroused maternal instincts that were alien to her nature. She became aware of a tightening in her stomach, a symptom of a growing fear that she may not be up to what that infernal headmistress expected of her. Then, suddenly the precious boy failed to conceal a fleeting slant of mouth and sideways glance that betrayed the talent that had so nearly been her undoing.

Cats eyes! she thought as she reassessed the glow about his face. Yes, there was definitely something feline about Poppy at that moment. She was being tricked. The child was deliberately ruffling her emotions and manipulating her with playacting worthy of a thespian. His versatile smooth face could conjure up an expression to suit any situation, and change with the speed of an express train, and that was probably the ability for which the sly Miss Hancock had selected him.

She took a deep breath and leaned back. No one was going to kid anyone, anymore. "Naughty girls need to be punished, don't they?"

"Yes, miss," Poppy agreed, shuffling his feet, "But I haven't done anything wrong."

"You awoke with an erection this morning, and you played with yourself and did a cummy in your hand without asking permission."

"Oh no - honestly miss, I didn't ..."

"Stand still, and don't argue," she said curtly. With a swish of skirt and stockings she turned and moved a token distance away from a delicate situation. This was more like it, the real Emma Twist was back in the driving seat, she thought as a tingle arose in her breasts and heat besieged her lower down. This was why she wanted so desperately to work at Fairyfield Grange, and she was now ready for a little innovation of her own.

She went over to the travel-bag she carried with her and took out an hairbrush, a cheap plastic item, but broad and flat and ideal for her purpose. The back of a hairbrush would be classified as a paddle in Miss Hancock's list of approved tools, and plastic was the perfect material for chastisement. In her experience it provided keener impact than wood or even ivory.

She gripped it in one hand and tapped it into the palm of the other as she returned to the boy, slowly walking around him and ensuring it passed under his vision. "Well, my little lady, it's time to pay the piper."

Poppy gazed at the hairbrush in genuine dismay. "Please don't smack me, miss. I'll do anything you want if you don't smack me."

His words were evocative and calculated to stir the imagination, and Emma could appreciate how successful they often were. Oh, he was good! Such a gift for diversion deserved a place in some theatre, but she was wise to him now. She pointed with the brush to an horsehair sofa. "Sit down."

Settling herself close she became aware of a perfume emanating from him, a fresh floral fragrance of the type so often favoured by young girls, and in an odd way it added to her stimulation. "Lean back and raise your legs." she told him.

"M-my legs?" The boys voice was almost inaudible.

"Don't give me any trouble or I'll make things twice as hard."

As he eased back and reluctantly brought up his knees the woman leaned forward and grasped beneath them, hauling back until the undersides of his thighs and the seat of his knickers were exposed. "That's it. Stretch your pretty legs up, and don't bring them down until I say so. I'm going to smack the backs of your thighs and your bum cheeks quite sternly, but you'll only get extra if you struggle."

His young bottom swelled firmly inside the tight white pants, but Emma tapped the flat side of the brush against the bare skin around the rim. "Now Poppy, as you're aware misbehaviour will always be met with punishment, and since you've been trying to trick me ever since you came into the room, punishment is what you're going to get."

At last she was able to apply the hairbrush, and she smacked it lightly against the boys bottom.

"This -" smack, smack! "- is the part of a child's anatomy which is, as it were, 'tailor-made' to receive an award for misbehaviour." CRACK! A blow descended onto the fleshy part of his upper thigh. "But other areas can be just as useful."

Holding his legs tight she brought down two more blows, one for each leg, then two more where plumpness showed around the elastic edge of his pants. Poppy squealed and wriggled, but was no match for her strength. Placing the hairbrush down for a moment she dragged the gusset of the undergarment into the furrow of his bottom to expose the fulness of his bare little behind, and then came the staccato cracking sound as the brush once more resumed its task. Splatt! to the left. Smack! to the right Wallop! dead centre, to visit both cheeks at the same time.

The brush made several trips up and down the back of his thighs but paid greatest attention to the base of his buttocks. In fact it visited every inch of the tossing backside, lighting blaze upon blaze on the sissy's bottom cheeks. Pale skin reddened quickly under its tutelage and any thought of stoicism soon vanished.

"Ooow, aah, wheee!" The boy wailed as a rosy hue blossomed on his skin and his small buttocks twitched. The hairbrush swooshed again, a leisurely stroke, but the impact keen enough to make his legs jerk. "Nnnarrr!"

"You deserve it." said Emma Twist coldly.

"I know -B - b - but - OUCH! - my b-bottom's so sore - OWW!"

Nothing he did could ease his plight and his head rolled from side to side to become a tearful vignette of discomfort. Emma patted the crimson bouncing backside and decided to give it a final wallop. WHACK! He jumped sharply, "Ooooch!"

At last she released him, and leaving him sobbing in distress she smiled grimly, delighted at the sight of his half-bared red bottom. She felt better now, and calm enough not to make obvious the excitement she felt inside.

So far, so good. Now the next step. She'd show that fussy headmistress just how good she could be at handling sissy boys. She'd let lose some of the passion she'd been forced to hold in check most of the time elsewhere when she took him across her knees.

The boy sniffed and rubbed his eyes.

"Do you have a handkerchief?"

He groped into the little pocket on the front of his skirt. "Yes. Yes miss."

"Well wipe away your tears, I haven't finished with you yet." He was a succulent little charmer, she decided. Far better he was in a place like Fairyfield than out in the wide world where unscrupulous men would be forever be trying to coerce him into their beds. It occurred to her he was probably homosexual anyway. He just had to be.

"Are you?" she asked. "Are you queer?"

He feigned surprise. "I-I don't know what you mean, miss."

"Do you enjoy being admired by men?"

"I like to be admired by everyone, if I can."

She tried another tack. "Do you like being a girl?"

His eyes flashed a wary glance. "I'd be in awful trouble here if I said I didn't."

"And so, if I asked you if you were a girl or a boy, what would your answer be?"

He dipped his chin, but continued to look up with cautious eyes. "I suppose - I suppose I'd have to say I was a girl, miss. I'd have to say I'm a girl with a cock - erm - I mean, a girl with a willy, miss."

"And do you like to stroke your 'willy' against other willy's in the dark of the night?"

His mouth fell open in a gesticulation of horror. "Miss! We're not allowed to do things like that at this school."

Emma tutted. He'd cleverly avoided admitting anything, but just wait until she had him over her lap. Then he wouldn't be able to dodge giving her a straight answer. She'd make him shout it out. "You're in for a nanny-spanking before I'm done with you, and for that you'll need less clothes, so get undressed."

The she-boys wet eyes blinked, taken by surprise. "Please miss. I don't think it's right. Only juniors get spanked across ladies laps."

She favoured Poppy with an avuncular smile. "And you're not a junior?"

His bottom lip protruded and he shook his head. "I'm twelve - nearly thirteen."

A protest was to be expected. An over-the-knee bare-bottomed hand-spanking was the most humiliating because it was the most childish, and with an airy roll of her eyes Emma pretended to give the matter some thought before making a pronouncement. "Well, I think it only proper that sissy-creatures should just do as they're told. So you WILL go over my knee."

"Oh - erm, yes miss. But please, miss - ladies never make me take my clothes off, not all of my clothes anyway." he protested mildly.

Emma's lips tightened in a show of irritation. The boys repertoire of expressions included an adorable little grimace so charming she felt tempted to softly bite his pretty mouth to punish his insubordination. There was no doubt in her mind that this particular 'schoolgirl' got spanked a lot. Grabbing him by the wrist she pulled up his hand and deliberately bent his fingers back. Gorgeous! He didn't even try to fight her, he simply grimaced with pain.

"I don't know what other ladies do, and I don't care. Get undressed."

Poppy's small shoulders slumped forward in an attitude of submission and he pushed the straps of his gymslip down, brushing away a stray tear before starting to unbutton his blouse. Standing up he shook the garments onto the floor and revealed himself in his underwear - a little halter-top worn high on his chest like a substitute bra, and a pair of hipster knickers that clung to him like a dream.

Emma surveyed his young body as unobtrusively as she could. Slender and blemishless, with skin still prepubescent and so pearly white it was almost translucent. His tummy, flat and sensual, quivered slightly, and she noticed a small gold ring in his pierced bellybutton, while his waist was narrow, accentuating his hips and giving him an element of girlish grace. Only the plump shape in his knickers destroyed the illusion of him being a real female.

She rose to her feet and stood close to him, raising the skimpy halter-top just enough for his nipples to peep out beneath, young tender things, the tips pouting upward from pale firm flesh. Men would fight each other to kiss them. A small gasp rushed from his mouth as she gently tugged them with her fingers, but he didn't move away. Could it be that he actually liked having his nipples caressed?

He was a gay-boy without doubt she decided. Fully clothed his face was beguiling enough to be taken as a girl, and many of his mannerisms - the way he turned his head, the poses he struck, the expressions he favoured - all hinted at femininity. Stripped down to his underwear - what there was of it - there was no doubt to his gender, but little doubt either of his inclinations.

"Miss Hancock is quite right to dress you as a girl. Why should ladies have to put up with clumsy boys in ugly trousers when they can have dainty girls tripping about in revealing short gymslips and bare legs - obedient young girls who'll do exactly as they're told? You always do as your told, don't you Poppy?"

The she-boy nodded at once.

"Good! Take your knickers off, there's no point in being modest with me."

The boy wiggled his hips and peeled the pants down over his legs. "My bum's very sore, miss. You won't spank me very hard, will you?"

Emma watched in fascination and didn't even bother giving an answer. His thighs were smooth and hairless, his two pink balls, no doubt brimming with girly-goo, hanging beneath an embarrassingly stiff prickie. Not big, but very cute.

Her own pants were becoming wet, and she felt an odd fluttering inside her stomach. The unrestricted view of his genitals was erotic and provoking and she had to resist an urge to grab at them. Another trap she realised as she reinstated her composure. She had been warned. Any indication that she considered him a real boy would ruin everything.

Sitting down once more she pushed up her sleeves, hiked her skirt to reveal bare skin and garter straps above her stocking tops, then patted her thighs. Soft yet stable, they formed more than a adequate platform for the task ahead.

Miriam Hancock found herself pacing restlessly across the floor of her parlour-office, her usual self-control and clear judgement under attack. Knowing that a person should remain unpartisan when selecting staff she nevertheless found herself wishing for Miss Twist to succeed. Her school was lacking in intellectual minds, and apart from Jennifer, there was no one she could talk to at the level she craved. From the moment she'd met Emma Twist she'd been attracted by the lady's feisty nature, and by her good looks. She really was an enchanting young woman, and it was refreshing to come across a person so eager to experience the new and unfamiliar - so thirsty to quaff the unique pleasures that Fairyfield Grange could offer.

To distract herself she threw open the door and turned her attention to the wide main entrance hall and the polished banisters and sweeping stairway that comprised its heart. Outside it was a brilliant spring morning, and sunshine filtered through the fanlight over the main door, projecting the colours of the stained glass into the house and making weird patterns of light on the floor. The wood panelled walls and rich mahogany barley sugar balustrades of the stairs lent the scene a kind of regal splendour. How beautiful, she thought. How breathtakingly different it was from just a year ago.

In its heyday the Grange would have been staffed by forty-two people, including fourteen gardeners, and every portion of its interior would have had a skivvy assigned to its upkeep. Now she could only afford three part-time gardeners and a handful of local women to clean the rooms at ground level. Still, she'd overseen a vast improvement on her inheritance and that was reason enough to congratulate herself. Initially the transformation of the decrepit country house into a residential school had seemed a formidable task, but by nature she was an opportunist and totally unafraid of taking chances, and as time passed the easier things had become.

There were numerous well-proportioned rooms on the ground floor, including a huge kitchen at the back. Upstairs were bathrooms and ten bedchambers of varying dimensions, some of which were easy to convert into classrooms, while others served as apartments for staff accommodation. The third floor, under the eaves of the roof, had several attic-rooms that provided adequate if somewhat cramped dormitories for three dozen children. Amenities could be extended even further when funds to refurbish the still unused east-wing became available.

She thought of the times before she'd come to Fairyfield, of the boredom, the narrowness of existence and the dearth of anything to inspire her. What marvellous changes her new venture had made to her life, the possibilities for wealth and social position had never been greater. In her fine mansion she felt invulnerable and in control.

Suddenly her attention was drawn to a clicking of heels as a young girly-boy, bare legs flashing beneath the short skirt of a gymslip, appeared in the hall, making his way towards the stairs.

"You - come here!" she demanded.

The child altered his direction at once and made a timid approach. His blond hair was brushed neat and it gleamed, while his face was scrubbed to a pristine shine. He became rooted to the spot in font of her, quaking and swallowing hard, but remembering to curtsy.

"Yes miss." he said, bobbing.

"Name?" she snapped.

"A-Amanda, headmistress."

Ah yes, she remembered him then. Amanda was the most well behaved sissy in the school, obedient and sweet and as cute as a button. He was also a victim of skulduggery. Due to inherit a fortune at his coming of age, his reptile of a mother wished to ensure her control of him by having him feminised and trained to serve as a housemaid in his own mansion. She wanted the boy to be a hot little teenage she-male who constantly waved his soft, sissy bottom at men, thinking that if he always had a big cock in his bottom he'd have little interest in pursuing his legal rights. While in a classical frame of mind she'd suggested Cassandra as a name for him, but the mother, being an unread philistine, had preferred instead a lazy pedestrian name. A name she'd once given to a goldfish.

"Why are you out of class, Amanda?"

"Mrs Pardoe excused me to go to the loo, but the one upstairs is crocked - er, broken - it's not working miss."

"Then you should have gone up one floor, not down. You've been at Fairyfield long enough to know the ground floor is out-of-bounds until 10 am."

Amanda woefully glanced at his wristwatch. "Please miss, it's 11 o'clock."

Miss Hancock riled, angry at being so out of touch and made ridiculous. "Don't be impertinent. It seems you've yet to discover the consequences of being cheeky to a lady."

"Oh, honestly, miss. I wasn't ..."

She knew his response had been made in innocence, but she'd been seeking something to fill her time until Miss Twist had finished with Poppy. And he was a sweet thing. "Get inside my office."

The young sissy stumbled through the door and stood bewildered until nudged towards a nearby carver.

"Kneel up on the chair." the headmistress ordered. She closed the door as he positioned himself, then moved up behind him to raise the back of his skirt and tuck it into its waistband. The boy peered over his shoulder fearfully as the seat of his knickers went on show.

"Are you going to spank me, miss?"

"Yes, of course. Maybe then you'll learn not to speak out of turn." Inserting her thumbs into the waist-elastic of his pants she dragged them down to expose the small bare mounds of his buttocks. Charming! She thought as she watched them judder slightly. Few artists in their prime could reproduce such translucent skin charged with such a delicate hue of pink. Most of all they would be frustrated by that imponderable thing, the virgin bottom, fresh and chaste. So attract. So seductive! So very smackable!

"Please Miss Hancock, I really don't think my mother intended for me to have my pants taken down."

"Nonsense! She gave approval when she brought you here. Are you shy about displaying your bottom? If that's the case something must be done about it."

She took a moment to study him. His eyelids had a warm pinkish sheen and the lashes were long and sweeping, and when they fluttered they made him coquette without any conscious effort.

"You're a pretty child, Amanda. I'll speak to Mr Hardwick and insist he includes you in the aerobics team that will perform on the lawn on Open Day. That means you'll need to attend detention with Mr Hardwick some evenings of course, and on such occasions you'll wear nothing but a tiny posing-pouch. That will cure your silly modesty."

Palming the smooth contours of his bottom speculatively she glanced about for a slipper, then changed her mind. A hand would suffice on this occasion. Yes, intimate contact, skin on skin. Slapping his small unclad behind would be rather lovely.

Without warning her hand lifted, then swooped down to fall with a 'crack'. Amanda whinnied a strangled cry and rocked forward, bottom squeezing together and worming slowly. More blows followed, the chastising hand beating solidly against bare flesh, turning the fair skin pink, then pinker, the clap of each impact being marked by an 'ooh!' an 'aah!' or a 'whaa!' of increasing high pitch. Little by little Amanda's bare little cheeks began to emit a soft glow, and here and there around the tops of his legs blushes appeared where some smacks had ventured low.

She smacked him a dozen times, then stopped, resting her hand on the tremulous bottom before stepping back. Amanda writhed and hugged the back of the chair. His eyes were wet, but his lack of loud shrieks hinted that having his bum smacked wasn't entirely a new experience for him.

"That will do." Miriam told him. Then she stepped forward again as a sudden suspicion formed in her mind. "Wait a minute!" Reaching around to the front of his thighs her fingers nubbed against something the size of a cigar - half the length, but just as firm - his uprisen prickie. "I don't know what caused this, but we can't have 'that' thing going back into your knickers in 'that' condition." Her fingers took a grip and jinked his flesh, and at once Amanda's eyes flickered. Wincing and squirming his knees drew together as his penis thickened.

Miriam Hancock winced too. In her younger days she'd been rather adept at handling the male organ, but in more recent times had come to regard the process as increasingly distasteful. And wasn't she being hypocritical in doing such a thing after emphasising with Emma Twist the importance of ignoring such anatomy? Never mind, it couldn't be helped, and anyway her reasons were acetic. She simply couldn't have a sissy leaving her study in an obvious state of arousal.

She concentrated on stroking the tip of Amanda's cock and playing with the foreskin, and Amanda began to rock back and forth, breathing deeply and sensing it was wrong - even for an headmistress - to touch him like that. But although he knew what the shameful result would be, he couldn't stop her, she had the greater strength, and she had authority and dominion over him. The woman's warm breath wheezed in his ear and he found himself feeling weak-kneed and leaning heavily in her arms. For a moment he almost embarrassed himself by giving vent to a squeal of delight. The woman's fingers stirred more animation in him than her smacks had done, and this time his soft 'oooh!" noises became more pronounced and extended as he rolled his pelvis to encourage her to rub faster.

"Mm, yes. I think you're used to this, aren't you? Miriam murmured rhetorically as she worked on his small sheath of skin. The cutie was a surprise. The more she rubbed his little snout the thicker and more solid it became, enticing her to skim her fingers in a blur. "Is this what your mummy does when she's finished spanking you? Does she allow her ladyfriends to watch? Does she sometimes allow them to do it too?"

He didn't answer, he could only clench his teeth as unwanted sensations assailed him. They brought tension to every nerve in his body, making him ache, pulsate and yearn for relief. "Woo, woo!" Softly uttered the play-noises of a toy train escaped his mouth, slightly strangled in rendition but fierce enough to announce the ejaculation of a small splash of semen, warm and slick.

The headmistress rubbed him until his loins stopped shivering, then with a frown she stepped away and went in search of a paper tissue to wipe the smear of ooze from her fingers. She hadn't expected a wet finish from him and she'd ceased to be an admirer of male ejaculate. Still, he was a good choice for Hardwick's dance team, so delicate and slender. He'd be a real tease wearing a posing pouch and he'd look so sweet everyone would want to sit him on their lap and pet him.

Amanda climbed down from the chair and hung his head. His soft bottom cheeks and smooth loins were sore, tingling and smarting, but there was no unsightly protrusion from his thighs. "That's much more acceptable. Adjust your clothes Amanda and tuck your rascally nozzle away."

"Yes, miss."

"Good! Now run along and rejoin your class, and try to be a good girl for the rest of the day."

"Yes, miss. Thank you, miss."

Once more Miriam's thoughts returned to Emma Twist and the longer she mused about her the more she felt the young woman had the makings of an ideal member of staff, but of cause only a successful show of dominance would determine her actual suitability.

She allowed the agreed hour to pass before going up to the common-room, and what she found there on arrival was far and away beyond her expectations. Poppy was standing with his face pressed against a blank wall, naked but for his shoes and socks, his pert little bottom glowing angry red in contrast to the pale cream tone of the rest of him. Emma Twist stood several paces distant with her arms folded tight beneath the thrust of her blouse, intensely observing the sissy in her charge. She turned to greet Miriam as she entered, nodding but not smiling.

"I felt standing against the wall to be the appropriate place for a freshly spanked girl." she explained.

"Oh yes, I think so without doubt." Miriam agreed, "You appear to have made quite a mark with Poppy."

The younger woman allowed herself to smile politely at the pun. "I've told him to play with himself, but not to ejaculate without permission."

"Amazing, and so coolly done. Your skill would seem to be exceptional."

Curious, the headmistress moved up behind the stationary boy and peered over his shoulder, noting how his fingers fluttered hesitantly about his upstanding penis and how the swollen pink cock-head glistened with pre-cum. Poppy was clearly at boiling point and on the verge of orgasm. In desperation he risked an upward glance.

"Please Miss Hancock, am I allowed to finish? May I do a cum now?"

"I'll leave that decision to your instructor. Miss Twist is your mistress at the moment." glancing at Emma, she asked. "How long as he been like this?"

"The saucy child developed a hard-on the moment he went over my lap, and that earned him a good many extra smacks. However it lead on to an interesting experiment" She gave the boys hair a cruel tug. "Show the headmistress the party-trick you've been practising, Poppy."

At once the effeminate boy turned to his right and sank to his knees. Opening his mouth his pink tongue flashed around the broad tip of a strap-on cock that had been attached to the loins of the terracotta Adonis, quickly anointing it with spittle so that when he mounted his mouth onto it he could work his face back and forth vigorously.

Miriam Hancock was impressed. "Goodness me! That's astounding submission. And all done in an hour."

Seeking a sign of approval Poppy risked pausing to peep upward, the tip of the replica cock pressing into his mouth and making his cheek bulge.

"That's enough. Get back to the wall." Emma told him crisply, then sensing her future at Fairyfield was assured she smiled in triumph at Miriam. "The past hour as been full of surprises, but it's also been very enlightening. Poppy is a gem."

The headmistress guided her back a few paces. "There's a good deal of the play-actor in him when it comes to facial expressions, I hope you didn't think me too devious in using such talent."

Emma glanced briefly at the quaking figure facing the wall. "Finding my way through his guile only made success more satisfying." She shook her head. "Such an innocent face, yet such an amazing skill at fellatio."

"His mother is a high-class prostitute who took him into the family business, so to speak. When he's at home she rents him out by the hour, so he's probably been in more men's beds that a female whore twice his age.

"She's missing a good income by sending him here."

"The woman's in prison at the moment. You may have read of the scandal in the newspapers."

Emma raised an eyebrow. "Do you mean the call-girl and politician affair? The man was a minister wasn't he?

"The Minister for Schools and Education. She was blackmailing him rather profitably until the tabloids got hold of the story. That's why Poppy's here. Put into cold-storage as it were, until she's served her sentence. I've twenty-seven students boarding with me at the moment, and each of them have their own intriguing reason for being here, though not all are quite as infamous."

"Blackmail!" pondered Emma. "A vile crime!"

Miss Hancock's mouth twitched minutely. "Yes, absolutely. Leave Poppy here to finish off and I'll give you a tour of your new home."

The two women moved towards the door, but before they went out a soft moan of anguish from Poppy caused Emma to turn and survey the back of his shaking legs. "You may toss yourself off now Poppy, but don't take all day about it, and make sure you clean up afterwards." she told him.

As they left the common-room Miriam indicated another door a short way along the corridor. "Let's have a look in the closet. The pupils tend to call it the 'dungeon' and I have some sympathy with that."

Emma peered over the woman's shoulder as she opened the door to a small room. It was in darkness, but the click of a wall switch lit a single bare bulb in the ceiling to reveal it as windowless, no more than eight meters by twelve, the floor covered with grey linoleum and the painted walls scuffed and dirty. Various items were crammed in storage at one end - a stack of chairs, some boxes and a tall cupboard with a panelled door, while at the other end the naked figure of a young boy lay curled on the floor. He was bound, ankles tied together, hands fastened behind his back, and his mouth had been stuffed with a pink ball-gag. He looked sorrowful and pathetic, but the headmistress gave him only a perfunctory glance.

"This is the fate suffered by those who commit serious misconduct at Fairyfield Grange."

"Serious misconduct?" queried Emma.

Miss Hancock pouted thoughtfully as she switched off the light and closed the door. "Refusing to be a girl is serious, but there are other things. For instance, sissies are sometimes fascinated by men, and since men adore pretty boys who wear skirts my girls must be escorted whenever outside the school. I'll not tolerate them frolicking with 'outsiders' until they've been successfully placed at the end of their training. The only exception to that is if their charms can be used to benefit the school. We must all be prepared to make sacrifices for the sake of the school."

Mrs Amos leaned her broom against the wall and stuffed a banister brush into her overall pocket. Fishing about for the wristwatch with a broken strap she kept in the same place she tutted as she checked the time. The watch had stopped, but she knew sweeping the stairs had taken longer than she'd anticipated, and she knew the awful Gloria wouldn't even contemplate paying any overtime money. It was unfair that the back stairs were included in ground floor cleaning; there were three flights of steps all higher than ground level, and although she was expected to clean them she was forbidden from entering any part of the house above.

She's seen the best of her thirties. Mrs Amos was now a misshapen lumpy slattern with a mop of untidy flyaway hair folded up and inadequately pinned behind her head, while the skin of her face was pouched and slack and beginning to wrinkle. She was a selfish and not especially bright woman who was unenthusiastic about work, and who invariably slumped around expending the least amount of energy possible while doing just enough to prevent her losing her job.

Fairyfield Grange was supposed to be a school for girls, she mused, but there was something odd about the place. The pupils were confined to the upper levels during early morning cleaning and were rarely seen, and there was a reluctance by the tutors to talk to other employees, just as if they had a wicked secret they didn't wish to share. She'd heard rumours of course. When Gloria wasn't around the whispered gossip was that the girls weren't really what they seemed. People reckoned they were really boys wearing skirts.

Mrs Amos stroked the front of her thighs. That would be disgusting if it were true. It would be too weird. Such things didn't ought to be allowed.

At that moment there was a rapid clattering of shoes on the stone steps. The stairs at the back of the house were narrow and uncarpeted and sloped up to veer away at right angles, so a moment passed before she saw the child appear; negotiating each turn by sharp swings on the handrail whilst descending. In a hurry to get down the last flight of steps a short, dark blue, gymslip swirled and flounced to display bare legs tanned to a warm honey colour and a brief glimpse of white knickers.

The woman gaped in stupefaction and her sly black eyes narrowed. In the past she'd only ever seen the children at a distance and she relished the chance to satisfy her curiosity about them. When the child screeched to a halt in front of her she didn't try to conceal her inspection, but stare as much as she might she couldn't detect any obvious sign of boyishness. She visually scanned the young face and took in every detail. Sensuous lips turned down ever so slightly at the corners, the lower lip full and soft, the upper lip pressing down in a symmetrical curlicue that caused the flattened point to accentuate a small nose with tiny nostrils. The delicately formed ears were so precious she could define light through the membranes of pink skin. The child was pretty and looked like a girl, but was still developing, so it was difficult to make a judgement on superficial scrutiny.

"What are you doin' 'ere? Yer not allowed down the stairs a'fore mid-mornin'." she said gruffly. The child's eyes were full of surprise, but that didn't prevent a smile that made a show of scrupulously clean teeth and pink gums. Small fingers dabbed at a wristwatch strapped to a slender arm.

"You're the one who shouldn't be here. You should have gone an hour ago."

Mrs Amos threw out her chin and rammed her fists down on broad hips. "Don't you be so cheeky. What's yer name? she demanded.

"I'm Daisy. I say, have you seen Trudy Jones? I want Gloria to buy me some toffees in the village, but I won't have the dibs if I can't find Trudy."

Pushing beyond the woman's bulky frame Daisy hurried to the door that lay open to the yard outside, only to turn back in frustration. "It's not fair. I think Trudy's hiding from me." Then with a sudden burst of alacrity a pair of large bright eyes gazed up at Mrs Amos from beneath long, lush lashes. "Look here, can you lend me twenty pence?"

The expression was a heart-stopper. It would have drained the balls of a man and even received sympathy from a woman with any sensitivity. But Mrs Amos had no sensitivity. She waddled forward, allowing a lank strand of hair to escape all restriction and hang down the side of her face. "You brazen imp. Don't you know it's bad manners to beg money from grown-ups?"

"Trudy owes me twenty pence, so I can pay you back."

"That's beside the point." She took another pace forward, wanting to push up the fringe of hair on the child's smooth brow and make a closer examination. "'Ere, is you a boy or a girl?"

Daisy skipped easily away, skirt billowing as nimble limbs mounted the stairs. "It costs twenty pence to look in my knickers."

Such cheek! fumed Mrs Amos. Never heard the likes of it from such a young scamp. A woman her age shouldn't have to put up with it. Anyway, she hadn't got twenty pence with her.

Sharp irritation combined with an unwavering curiosity made her rush forward to pin the small figure against the stair rail, then as one hand grasped Daisy's arm the other swept under the skirt to clutch at the knickers beneath and fumble with soft shapes that had no place in a real girl's underwear. (Rub, rub) "I knowed it, I jus' knowed it," she crowed in jubilation, "You's a pantywaist little faggot jus' like I thought."

She breathed in the sissy's delicious smell of soap-scrubbed skin as she reached into the cotton panties and touched his teeny prickette. The little angel wiggled his perfect bottom desperately, but she held him close as her fingers dipped lower to massage the tiny spheres in his little bag. "Nice pair o' pearls. Does they make creamies' yet?"

Daisy struggled, pushed furiously and burst from her grip. "You're rude," he snapped, red-faced and indignant, "I'm going to tell about you."

"You'll do knowt, else I'll say how you were askin' for money to show yerself. Everyone will believe me, 'cos I'm growed-up an' your still little."

Frustrated but still defiant Daisy stuck out his tongue before scampering away rapidly, back up the stairs and out of sight.

So it was true, the woman thought when she was once more alone. Here was a big house full of little lads wearing frocks. Disgustin' it was - it weren't decent! Whatever next?

She ran the tip of her tongue across her lips. Chances was there were lots of disgustin' things happening here, all locked away from prying eyes. Chances were them naughty lads had never learnt how to shove their willy's up lasses. Chances were they were all little homo's who just did wicked things with each other.

She felt heat between her legs and realised she was becoming wet. Shame she couldn't give them urchin's the right kind of experience. Still they were only kids with little things and she needed more than they could offer. She moved towards a nearby broom-cupboard, stepped inside and shut the door behind herself.

Maybe she could use two of them at the same time - have two excited little prickie's squeezing in her hole together! She'd need to show them how to do it of course, but that wasn't a problem. She'd shown dicks of all ages how to do things in the past.

Amid buckets and dustpans and drums of scouring powder she hitched her skirt about her hips and sent an exploratory finger to find the juicy, firm nodule between her legs, then she sighed with delight as she made it circle.

"Come here me little darlin'." she muttered to the banister brush as she positioned the tip of its handle between the puffy lips of her vagina. Easing it up into an eager aperture she groaned as she spit herself on lacquered wood which instantly became eccine with her body fluid. For several minutes she crouched in the dark, stabbing the brush handle up and down inside herself, thighs undulating in fits of exquisite sensations as her mind became entirely occupied with images of enormous spurting cocks.