"Your financial accounting is abysmal, Miss Hancock." said the man from the Department of Inland Revenue. "Some of the necessary records are incomplete and others are totally missing. How can you hope to complete a Tax Return for your business without appropriate qualifying evidence?"
Miriam Hancock eyed him with some malevolence as he poked the documents in front of him with a bony finger. Horace Weevil was a tall, thin man, who despite the long spell of fine weather was wearing an expensive looking coat with a heavy fur collar, over which peeped dark shifty eyes and a small, thin moustache. She thought he looked like a minor gangster.
Since they were alone in her parlour-office she didn't hold back from seeming a little helpless. "My business is just getting on its feet. Both I and my secretary have practically no experience with business-tax, and obviously the accountants I employ have proved quite useless at correcting our innocent errors."
"Innocent?" The man's smile was almost a sneer. After qualifying as a chartered accountant he'd spent fifteen years with the Inland Revenue, most of it on Special Investigation teams looking into tax-abuse scams. This particular case was a doddle. The woman had tried cheating her returns in a blatant, amateur way. "You've made dodgy declarations all over the place, Miss Hancock, and that looks more like a deliberate attempt to defraud the Inland Revenue of it's legitimate tithe than an act of innocence."
"The errors were never intentional, and I'm prepared to do whatever it takes to correct them, Mr Weevil."
The visitor grimaced and tugged at a badly knotted tie that had the colour of gravy. Long fingers complimented his lean features which were not improved by greasy brown hair parted on the left and scooped behind his ears.
After a further glance at the papers in front of him he placed his elbows on the desk, pressed his fingertips together and inclined his head. "My job is not to make personal visits to assist people - but on this occasion we could perhaps come to an arrangement, Miss Hancock."
"An arrangement, what do you mean?"
He leaned forward slightly, drawing her in towards him as if about to let her into a great secret. "You run a unique institution - lots of beguiling young men wearing skirts. Well - um - I could repair the damage you have committed to paper and vouch for everything as acceptable, but such a favour would require a favour in return."
Miriam was in no way obtuse about his requirements, nor was she inexperienced in making such deals. She said she would need a few minutes to deploy some people and if he wished to smoke while he waited would he do that outside her office.
Horace went into the main hall, took a cigar from his pocket, pondered about it, then put it away again. There was no one in the hall at that moment to look at, but he'd heard about this place from that perv' Arkwright who lived in the village. Arkwright had said the place was teeming with effeminate homosexual talent, and he'd recently had a fine old romp with one of the residents.
They were probably all the same here, Horace thought. All gagging for it. Gagging for a tall, lean, horny guy like himself to give them a good sordid memory. He'd never been with a man before, much less with one who wore a frock, but why disqualify himself from trying it? Horace Weevil and his sensibilities could be accused of many things but lack of direction wasn't one of them. When opportunity offered, he took it, especially if it was connected with something he'd always been curious about.
After a moment he took a leisurely stroll down a passage that led to the kitchen, bidding his time and in no great hurry now. Trying out his randy dick in an effeminate lady-lad was one of his fantasies, and there was plenty of scope for any amount of that kind of sexual deviance here.
He looked through an open door. The kitchen was fitted with an ancient black gas stove and was furnished with heavy, dark wood pieces. But it wasn't gloomy; it glowed bright with multi-coloured fabrics. Red and blue crocheted covers lay over the chairs and summery yellow and green check curtains framed the window and screened the doorless recess that was used as a pantry.
The stove was spotless with its brass rail and knobs shining like burnished gold, and standing in front of it on a piece of seagrass matting was Poppy. He was alone, a delicate and lithe five foot six youthful male dressed up girly. Over the top of his skimpy dress he was wearing a long, plastic blue bib-apron emblazoned with a huge white teddy bear and the words I'M CUDDLY, while his hands were swathed in a pair of oversized pink rubber gloves.
Horace hung back a bit. He'd never propositioned a man before, but this one was a real good-looker. Sweet, nice legs, long and sexy. After taking a peep behind to make sure no one was following his hand rubbed the front of his trousers, stroking his penis for luck. "Hullo, who are you." he enquired.
"I'm Poppy." replied the effeminate, "I'm doing kitchen duty and helping the cook to make dinner. It's just porridge with toast and jam in the mornings and bread and cheese for lunch. Dinner is the only cooked meal we have here." His eyes dipped. "I do washing pots and cleaning mostly, but sometimes I'm allowed to peel potatoes."
"I see. Is that part of the training you do here?"
"I've finished my training and I'm doing this while I wait for a placement. Miss Hancock says I might go to live with a sultan."
Horace smirked. "And what's on the menu today?"
"We have minced beef in the larder, so we can do meat and potatoes, or meat with spaghetti, or we can have pie or burgers." As he spoke a single bloated rubber-clad finger flicked from side to side in front of him in the graceful, precise movements of a windscreen-wiper on an automobile. "Minced beef is very versatile. We can do lots of things with it."
Horace moved across the kitchen towards him. "You're obviously very talented."
Poppy's mouth curved into a poor-little-me smile while his sparkling eyes teased from beneath fluttering lashes. "Most people think I'm stupid. But I'm not."
"Course you ain't. Bet you've got all sorts of talents. I expect you've got a good talent for pleasing men. Have you been with many men?"
The she-boy looked at him suspiciously. "A few."
"A few? I think you're being modest. I reckon you to be a little honey when you're in the mood. Are you in the mood now?"
Poppy had no misconceptions about himself. He was a fully fledged pansy-faggot and a push-over for a kindly, soft-spoken gentleman who wooed and courted him with nice words. He'd let a nice man shove a cock up his bum in a jiffy, but he didn't like to be taken by storm. He didn't like the stranger's creepy-crawly looks or his creepy-crawly attitude. He smelt strongly of violets, which was sort of nice, but he sensed he wasn't intent on being nice. He took a pace back and raised on an air of condescension. "No, I'm not in the mood at the moment."
Horace grabbed his arm and pulled him close. Putting a hand under the apron he squeezed a small breast through the thin fabric of the dress beneath. "Come on, loosen up mi' little filly. I ain't exactly repulsive, am I?"
Poppy winced and his heels went click-clack as he stepped from the matting onto the flagstoned floor. "No, you're not very repulsive. You're just... you know... unpleasant. Just sort of a little bit repulsive."
The man glared. "Ha! You're a cheeky minx, you are. I'll forgive you, but you'll do what I want or else I'll have you an' Miss Hancock both out on the street. She owes me a favour, y'see, and you're it."
Poppy repressed a shudder as the man leaned forward and belched stale cigar-breath into his face. He could tell by the gleam in his eyes he was going to take whatever he wanted.
"No need to be coy wi'me." Horace leered as his other hand yanked up Poppy's skirt, "A chap as needs. You don't mind, do you? You're a breathtaking piece of meat that's probably had more pricks than a pincushion already. We need to get better acquainted. No need to tell anyone. Mum's the word, eh?" he pulled at the hem of the dress. "We'll have this rag off for a start."
Spindly-legged spiders seemed to suddenly crawl over Poppy's skin and his face went porcelain-pale. "Oh -- um -- er -- I'm not free. Y-you have to pay me first."
Horace paused. "Pay you? Are you on the game?" His voice registered confusion and disappointment. The bitch-boy wore frocks and was as queer as a lead shilling, but he hadn't countered on him being a professional dick-pleaser.
Poppy looked him in the eye. "I may be a tranny but I still like to spend money." He held out his hand. "Ten pounds, please."
The man's jaw dropped. "Ten quid?"
"Yes. The men down at the clinic pay me that. They give me fifteen if I let them shaft me bareback."
"Clinic? What clinic?"
"The VD clinic in Peasmarsh. It's the only clinic I know around here."
The reply caused a rather stranded expression to appear on Horace Weevil's face, as if he didn't know quite how to take it. His complexion became the colour of chewing gum and he opened his mouth, then closed it again, cancelling anything he could have said.
Hurriedly he retreated into the passage outside the kitchen to vent a string of colourful oaths. VD clinic? The pervert was lying, wasn't he? Yes, of course he was lying -- wasn't he? It didn't matter if he was lying or not, the faggots reluctance and his reference to clap-clinics and knob-rot had killed all the amour he had for that particular Missy. He felt slightly cheated and reached in his pocket for the cigar that may offer some consolation.
"There you are, Mr Weevil. I wish you wouldn't wander around, I've had to search for you."
The woman who confronted him was slightly boss-eyed and built like a large onion. "Oh, and you are...?"
