By mid-afternoon Open Day for many was adjudged over, but while prospective clients and the purely curious were encouraged to depart the most valued of Miriam Hancock's supporters were skilfully spirited away elsewhere for tea and cakes. While the men went to the gymnasium, the ladies were assembled in one of the classrooms on the second floor where the desks and hard seats had been replaced with plush-padded chairs.
The room resounded to a cacophony of genial chatter and the tinkle of china cups as a dozen women took tea. Most of them were broad in the beam, middle-aged and middle-class matrons whose conversations were loaded with words like 'marvellous', 'wonderful' and 'darling', adjectives easy to use in a world given to insincere exaggeration. They were all paragons of virtue when in the public eye, but in the seclusion of Fairyfield Grange that day there was an air of preoccupied expectancy about them. It seemed they were determined to relax and let their hair down.
All except Joanna Toppingham perhaps, who was nursing an inexplicable black-eye that was developing the appearance of a purple plum, and was slumped silent in a chair amid a rising pall of something that wasn't real tobacco smoke.
On the fringe of things Hyacinth Glossop displayed enormous amounts of marbleised flesh and complained about her varicose veins whilst helping herself to a third slice of Dundee cake. By her side Mrs Boroclough concentrated on the coconut macaroons and sympathised. "You don't have to tell me, my dear. I'm a martyr to 'em myself. A martyr I tell you."
At length Miss Hancock installed herself on a narrow carpet that started at the door and ostentatiously spanned the room "If I could have your attention ladies, it's show time and we're ready to begin."
The women put down their teacups and turned towards her, keen interest etched on each heavily made-up face.
"You are all aware that my intention here is to adjust the nature of young men and develop them into becoming the finest of housemaids," began Miriam. "And since you are the core of support for my work and you all aspire to own a pantyboy-servant of your own eventually, you're deserving of a little instructional entertainment. Here at Fairyfield we specialise in the training of effeminate panty-boys. Sissies who wear skirts and act like simpering girls are primarily used by men of course, but they can be an endless source of amusement to women too."
"As you will discover in due course if you don't know already, my sissies all look delicious when decked out as French-maids, but when a days chores are done there are a myriad of other recreational outfits in which they can be dressed to charm, stimulate and titillate the imagination of ladies. Today I intend to show you some of them."
The seated women stirred and dragged their chairs into a row along the edge of the carpet, and a titter of delight fluttered along their ranks.
"Just a word of thanks to Margaret Pardoe who provided the sartorial savoir-faire for the gorgeous costumes to be displayed," continued Miriam, "And to Nanny Jennifer and Gloria who's support as been magnificent."
There was a ripple of applause for the absent ladies who were occupied in last minute details outside the room.
"Ladies and gentlemen, it's ShowTime, and for your entertainment we now present forty-five minutes of speculation and wonder."
Miss Hancock made a hand signal towards the door and took a pace back as music from overhead speakers began to throb with the beat of Bizet's 'Bolero'. The audience seemed to freeze in their seats as Daisy sprang out from the wings to take centre stage.
He made a lithe figure with bird bones and eyes as bright as a robin, hair hanging in pretty bangs and ringlets and adorned with a posy of Parma violets. His face was pale and pointed and had a mouth that was pursed a little in consideration, as pink and rosebud-like as anything portrayed in a sentimental illustration.
Daisy was the smallest of Miriam's students, and he was naked but for the silver high-heeled sandals on his feet, light and strappy. His unclad body was as smooth as butter, but much of it was obscured by an enormous ostrich-feather fan both at front and back. The audience gazed silently in disbelief, lips compressed, eyes wide open like bystanders in a street.
Perfectly delectable, hips swaying, he swung into the rhythm of the music which provided the stuttering tempo for abrupt changes of pose, engaging wiggles and solicitous prancing. He turned about and then turned back, gyrating his body, skipping one way and then another, the silky-smooth nakedness of his sissy body absolutely apparent, but faultlessly guarded.
Feeling sweet, feminine and unbelievably naughty, every few seconds or so he would throw out his arms and conduct a swirling series of semaphore signals, but only doing it when the choicest portions of his body were concealed. The soft silken bag dangling at the root of his perfectly constructed popsy was constantly shielded all around by the practised strategic movements of the fans he operated with his hands.
Facial expressions complimented the enticing movements of his body. A coy over-the-shoulder pout, the tip of a pink tongue showing, a glorious saucy grin to display immaculate white teeth. Everyone applauded vigorously as the fan-dance concluded and he made his exit, and none applauded more vigorously than Dorothea Boroclough.
A moment later a multitude of sparkling bright lights pieced the dim gloom of the auditorium in a pyrotechnic display that in itself was an auroral ballet. Slowly the colours became sharper and more vivid as they began weaving, diving in arcs and loops. The spectacle - the greens, the blues, the purples and then the mauves, indigoes and violets became a kaleidoscope of colour that were invigorated by Bambi, so very like a dusky peach himself, who appeared next.
Fists on hips he strutted out confidently beneath the lights, adding a vitality and a kind of glow of his own.
He looked particularly splendid that day, and he knew it. A string of pearls around his neck, matching earrings and a bracelets on each wrist, fully clothed - sort of, looking radiant in a powder blue high feather head-dress and skimpy matching bra-top, a bare midriff and silk-clad legs.
He wore no panties. The drape of his tiny skirt was splayed open at the front and he wore nylons to demonstrate just how glamorous a penis and testicles can be when garnished around with stocking tops and suspender straps. Behind him a magnificent spray of blue feathers appeared to erupt from the region of his small, high-set bum-cheeks, rising up in a vast fantail before drooping down to almost meet the floor.
The music mutated with the mood, and a lively melody began to pipe from the audio-speakers as he cruised to a stance in the centre of the floor, where the voices of a feminine chorus began to chant the words of a timeless number from 'Forty-second Street':
"Keep young and beauty-full. It's you're duty to be beauty-full. Keep young and beautiful, if you want to be loved..."
Promoting an unremitting Hollywood smile he started around the floor on a scintillating promenade of glamour, strutting with the elegant vanity of a peacock, taking measured steps in high heels to accentuate his magnificent legs, each swing of his pelvis, every vivacious flashing glance calculated to draw the attention and button observers to their seats.
