Poppy returned to the dormitory much earlier than had been planned. Most of the students at the Grange were in special detention and occupied in doing things in preparation for Open Day, but he was no longer a proper pupil and for a while that afternoon he was a free agent.
He was feeling active and restless, but he arrived to find the room occupied by the sole figure of Abigail seated at a table, and while knowing Abigail wasn't always the most pleasant company he nonetheless gravitated towards him.
Abigail leaned back in his chair tapping his teeth with the tip of a pencil whilst morosely staring into space. Poppy hovered solicitously, noting the swathes of note paper strewn across the tabletop. "What do you want?" Abigail snapped, gathering his wits and glowering.
Poppy rolled from one foot to the other and tried a disarming expression. "What are you doing?"
"Something for Miss Twist," the head-girl replied sourly, "It's a work schedule for everyone to follow on Open Day and it's not easy to work out, so don't come bothering me." He leaned forward like an old man hunched over a stamp collection, then he suddenly glanced up suspiciously. "You're supposed to be working in the kitchen, what are you doing here?"
Poppy shrugged his shoulders and unshrugged them. "The cook said she was sick of listening to me talk rubbish all the time. She told me to fuck-off and go back to do the washing-up later."
He wandered away but couldn't keep still. He went to the door then returned and sat on his bed, then decided to take a bath. There was a rudimentary shower-room along the landing, but the plumbing had broken and was awaiting attention. Next door to it was a bathroom and lavvy together that seemed to be a remnant of the past. The bath stood on legs, and the taps were copper, while the lavatory cistern had a chain with a handle which had 'pull' written on it.
Sinking lazily into the tub he found comfort in the sweet aroma of rose-petal soap as the silky water lapped over him. When he swung a leg up and pointed his toes he couldn't help but admire the sight. His feet were girlish and pretty, with cute toes that would take polish and make men want to kiss and suck them.
As lather spread across the surface to accumulate in pyramids of suds he reached forward to clutch the pink soap in his slender hands. It was hard to his touch. Hard and slippery, and when he stroked it against his chest he noticed how puffy and pouty his nipples were. Men were likely to fight to kiss them when they put on a show like that.
Dipping into the water he rubbed his flat tummy and the small gold ring that adorned his bellybutton and allowed his thoughts to drift. Like a lucky few who were favoured by nature he had an innocence about him that projected a protective envelope to seal him into his own sunny climate. His eyes transmitted a vivacious sparkle when he smiled and he was incurably optimistic. Even being employed as a kitchen-help for a while didn't dampen his outlook. He wasn't good at lots of things but he reckoned he was good at cleaning. When he did the sink he got into all the corners and didn't miss out the scuzzy bit around the overflow or ignore the underside of the taps.
In addition to his heart-wrenching beauty Poppy had an engaging personality and he liked pleasing people. He'd had sex with more men than anyone else he knew, and because of that some people called him a slut. What they didn't realise was that when he did have sex, even if it was just giving a blow job to the nice young man who delivered the minced beef, he did it to please them. He planned to do nice things for nice men until he fell off the planet.
Men had always given him lots of attention, and with childlike conceit he'd basked in their flattery and learned how to pose around in ways that encouraged it.
That's why Mr Hardwick used him as a photo-model so often. He was a pantywaist who knew instinctively how to position his figure and how to compose appropriate expressions. He could portray a sleazy tart if required, or act the naughty lad with mischievous, heavy-lidded come hither eyes. Alternatively, he could take on the guise of a sunny-faced, innocent virgin who seemed completely unaware of the sexuality oozing from him.
He enjoyed doing it. He enjoyed thinking about the hundreds of men who would look at those photographs and how they'd all drool over every aspect of his body - how they'd all do cummies while imagining doing things with him. Men loved sissies. They loved pretty girls with cute cocks and delicate pink balls.
He paused. He'd got his hand on something hard beneath the water, and it wasn't the soap this time. More like a deadly torpedo.
Mr Hardwick always started off with him wearing a few clothes, but they never stayed on for long. He said men wanted to see want was inside a sissy's pants, and he took the kind of pictures that showed them. He was always full of praise for Poppy's enormous dangle, he said he had a prick like the clapper on a cathedral bell.
Towards the end of a session Hardwick would ask him to work up a boner, and usually the randy old geezer would offer to help him do it. That always meant there would be a hot time afterwards when the camera was put away, but he didn't mind that. Mellow middle-aged men like Hardwick could be quite passionate, and they were sort of grateful if a pretty boy allowed them a fuck.
Sometimes things worked out different. Hardwick became excited quickly on occasions and he'd do a gooey blast in his trousers halfway through a session. Then he'd say he didn't wish to do anything else. That was fine for him of course, but disappointing for a sissy who had been primed for having a hot and vigorous length visit him.
He'd developed quite an oversized snorkel between his legs by that time just thinking about things, and it passed through his mind to please himself right there in the bath, but then he decided he wasn't going to settle for something so bland.
When he returned to the dormitory he brushed his hair, and fresh from the bath he swathed a towel across his bed and lay down to let his thoughts drift again. He enjoyed being a member of a non-testosterone gender and to be sent to a place full of sissy-boys who adored him was unbelievable good fortune. Shame there were none in the room at the moment.
His shiny gold tresses were pulled back into a chignon. Everybody like Poppy and he accepted that with the equanimity of the beautiful. Toying with his own nipples he imagined himself wearing a tiny pink bikini and laying on a sun-heated tropical beach far away. Around him sat a dozen muscular teenage boys, all gorgeous and all wanting him. With their pants tenting out they would be vying for his attention and waiting for him to say who should kiss him, who should suck his tits and who should shag him first.
Rising up he walked to the mirror, allowed the towel to fall away and looked at himself. He knew he was cute and he liked to admire his delicate feminine beauty. His smooth skin and rounded face did give him a kind of girlish appearance, and his greeny-blue eyes which he liked to describe as emerald or sapphire reinforced the illusion. When he looked down at his slender body, his abdomen, though firm and flat still revealed a mannequins waist.
Yes, he had a big cock of course and without clothes there was no doubt he was a young man, but the reflection didn't do justice to his mindset or the urges he revelled in. He was beautiful, sexy and desirable, and he loved playing the role of a girl probably more than any other sissy in the school. He was becoming girlier every day and he loved all the attention that brought him - he especially loved all the cock that came with it.
He went to his locker and quickly put on the peignoir he had been allowed to keep after his night with Miss Hancock. It clung to him more like a gossamer cloud than a garment, and still emitted an intoxicating perfume. He slipped on a pair of skimpy panties too, then looked in the mirror again. Now he looked like he felt, dressed to the nines, feminine and frisky. The bath had given a rosy glow to his skin and his eyes sparkled, but it was a inner heat that now possessed him.
Settling once more on the bed he hugged his knees and again glanced at Abigail. At the far end of the room the head-girl was still poised over papers, silent unless groaning in exasperation on finding an error in his work.
Poppy pouted thoughtfully. He knew only too well of the gigantic prick Abigail had in his pants, and it could provide exactly the kind of attention a boy's arse needed if he was in a girly frame of mind.
