Mrs Boroclough lived alone, but her house was the biggest in Peasmarsh. It had tall windows with ornate guards, and a polished copper plate fixed on the wrought-iron gate engraved with her name - as if everyone for fifty miles around didn't know who she was.
It was far too big for a widow-woman who's children had grown-up and departed, but she insisted that someone of status - a person such as herself - needed to maintain a home that impressed. And anyway, Boroclough's had lived there for so long it was now something of a family heirloom.
The inside of the house was like the outside, solid, perfectly ordered, polished. Bowls of potpourri gave the spacious rooms a smell of attar of roses, and everywhere was decked out with Chippendale furniture and decorated with antique Chinese porcelain and collections of period jade and ivory. It was the aesthetic home of a woman who'd married well, but who had always been financially independent in her own right.
Poppy was accommodated in a ground floor bedroom that was once reserved for Mrs Boroclough's visiting grandchildren. It was gorgeous. Never before had he known such luxury.
When Mrs Boroclough had gone out that night she'd told him to rest since she may required the attendance of a servant later, so left alone he'd undressed and stretched out on his bed atop a cream-coloured cashmere blanket with his head on a large, soft feather pillow trimmed with ecru lace. A lovely combination of euphoria and drowsiness had rolled over him, and rapping his penis in his hand he'd settled down to daydream.
On being told Mrs Boroclough wished to borrow him for a few days he'd been alarmed. He didn't know what to expect from a cranky old widow and he thought it ridiculous to be sent away. But that's the way it had worked out, and off he'd gone.
The reality was better than he'd feared. When he'd arrived the woman had noticed his slender ankle-bracelet and told him to display it at all times to remind him of his place in things. It was a tiny chain, and he was canny enough to know that a chain was the symbol of a slave, but as it turned out his duties weren't strenuous at all. What it really meant was he wasn't allowed beyond the front door.
He'd cleaned the house room by room during his first day there, sometimes getting a spanked bottom for not doing it well enough, but that was to be expected. He suspected Mrs Boroclough could be mean and hurtful if she was in a foul mood because she kept showing him a wooden spoon which she said was very stingy on tender bare thighs, but she hadn't used it yet, and she hadn't smacked him hard enough to make him cry yet either - well, he hadn't cried very much, anyway.
He had no skill in cookery, so she had made their meals, leaving him to scrub the pots and wash the crockery afterwards. He also had to eat at the kitchen table after serving her in the dining room. At least she kept him daintily frocked. During the daytime when he was being used as a domestic he wore a second-hand gingham dress and beige tabard that Mrs Boroclough had acquired from the church bazaar. It was a precaution to maintain his housemaid outfit, since in the evening she said she liked to entertain, and when she had guests she wanted him immaculate in black and white.
That night he was laid on his lovely bed daydreaming he was owned by a rich American cowboy who'd taken him to live as a fuck-puppet on a big ranch in the wild-west. Like the men who owned him in most of his daydreams the rancher was jealous, and usually objected to other men using him, but after the annual cattle drive he would reward his ranch-hands by letting them have him for a night in their bunkhouse.
Oh golly. His eyes became half-shut while his full pink lips quivered and formed a lazy half smile. A dozen big, brawny cowboys with jutting jaws in need of a shave would fuck him and fuck him. They'd pass him from bed to bed and screw him mercilessly all night long. Wicked men with huge cocks would cum in his mouth and in his bum, and later he'd have to lay down and stretch out naked while they wanked-off all over him.
"Oh," he breathed, "Oh." His pulse rocketed and he scrabbled around like a beached fish, flailing at the bedcovers. Awful! Mmmm! He moaned, his hips snaking has he used both hands to make his cock twitch.
Better not do anything. Safer. Mrs Boroclough insisted her house was kept pristine clean and she had the eyes of a ships-rat. They saw everything, and he just knew she'd notice if he left the tiniest smear of a cum-stain on his pretty bed covers. It was dangerous to play with himself in her house, but what else could a sissy do if he had no company? He wasn't in the habit of being alone. There'd always been plenty of others chasing after him at the school, and he'd always had company.
He remembered the clients his mother had organised for him. The retired factory managers who offered him cake and lemonade before they shafted him, the professor's from universities who were much too clever to talk with, and the black men with big cocks who's dearest wish was to plunge them between creamy-white buttocks. Some of them were good at what they did, but mostly it was only business.
He glanced at the window. Daylight had gone, but the moonlight made it almost as bright as day. It was too warm to sleep and he didn't feel tired, he just felt slightly bored. He preferred the word 'bored' to 'frustrated'. Frustrated smacked of what men thought a boy to be if he was bold enough to wear a little dress or raise a flirtatious eye. It meant 'available' and 'all he needs is a good fucking'.
On impulse he threw aside the bedclothes and slipped on the pair of pink panties with scallop lace trim he'd been given as night wear, then he padded out from the bedroom.
In the sitting room he looked about for a magazine with which to wile away some time, but found only a copy of the Yorkshire Post at the side of an armchair. On a small console stood a photograph of Mrs Boroclough's grandson Alistair, a dashing, handsome young man. Mrs Boroclough had said he was studying horticulture so he would be interested in flowers. Which was nice.
Poppy put his hands on his hips and did a little wiggle, then he stuck out his tongue at the photograph and slowly curled it back in a solicitous beckon. Alistair was a hunk, he thought, and it certainly wouldn't be a trial to play games with him.
Suddenly he was shaken from his musing by a noise at the door, and he knew it wasn't Mrs Boroclough because he would have heard her car drawing into the drive. He stood stock still, both hands pressed to his face, eyes peeping through open fingers. It was scary to be left in a strange house alone. Squeezing his eyes shut, he pretended the noise hadn't happened and pretended there was no horrible brute lurking outside in the dark. After all, he was only a boy in pink panties, so what chance had he of deterring a burglar?
After a moment or two some courage returned and he apprehensively went up to the sitting room door, opened it a crack and half opened one eye to peer out into the front hall. Nothing was there. The strange old house was merely settling in its footings.
Suddenly the telephone on a table adjacent to the armchair buzzed with activity and he almost panicked. Pale with shock and with guilt rippling in his belly, he moved over to pick up the handset.
"H-hello. This is Mrs Boroclough's house."
"Poppy!" Mrs Boroclough's voice snapped into his ear from the other end of the line.
"Yes, Mrs Boroclough."
"Were you sleeping?"
"Um, no Mrs Boroclough. I - er - I was reading, Mrs Boroclough."
"If you've finished your chores you should sleep when I'm not there. I want you fresh and alert when I return home."
"Yes Mrs Boroclough. Sorry, Mrs Boroclough."
"I'm at Mrs Tichborne's house now. I'll be home in an hour, so there's no point in you sleeping now."
"Yes, Mrs Boro - I mean, no Mrs Boroclough."
"I want a cup of malted milk before I retire tonight. I'm utterly exhausted, so make sure I don't have to wait for it. I want it ready when I arrive."
"Yes, Mrs Boroclough."
