A Sissy Saga

The early morning sun made the windows of the great house sparkle, and the ancient, dappled walls of Fairyfield Grange looked like they'd been daubed with gold.

Abigail swept across the back patio and admired the recent changes. The large windows facing onto the terrace had been taken out and replaced with French doors. It was a facet of his mother's ultimate ambition - chilled punch on the terrace with some pretty maid bringing it out through French doors represented the thing she'd always chased. Status.

For a moment he stood poised on the steps that led down into the garden, his heart beating a little faster as his gaze roved among the dozen sissy pupils in little frocks meandering over the pastoral vista. The sky was soaring, azure, clear and without cloud, and the sun was a perfect orb, its blinding radiance casting a lustrous sheen on the rolling lawns.

He quickly saw who he was looking for at once. Wendy was heading for a sheltered corner where a sundial fought to function amid the shade of rearing rhododendrons and the shadows of an old stone wall matted with ivy. He waited until he'd seated himself on a weathered wooden bench, then went over to join him, sitting next to him and drawing his nylon-clad knees together.

"Hi, I was hoping to see you this morning."

Startled from idle contemplation Wendy leaned back and regarded him dismissively. "Haven't you noticed? I've been around all term and finding me hasn't worried you much before."

He made a move to raise up and leave, but Abigail pressed on his arm. "Please ... don't go." His eyes were like fathomless pools. "I'm lonely," he said softly, "although I don't suppose you'll believe me."

It was all a bit wearing. For a third of his waking hours Wendy managed not to think of Abigail at all. For another third he imagined them both back in time and being reunited in various erotic situations. The final third was given over to maudlin thoughts when hearing about Abigail's exploits, or even worse, discovering him acting one out.

The space between them seemed to suddenly charge with electricity. There was a sense of something more than just physical between them at that moment, there was an embrace of minds, of shared spirits, just like they'd known in the past.

Wendy sat down again and suffered an urge to close the gap and touch his old friend. His stomach, the tips of his breasts, his fingertips, all tingled with energy. He needed - wanted...

A single blink broke the spell and he quickly looked away, unable to come up with an excuse for staying and unwilling to admit he'd never stopped thinking about his beautiful cousin. Yes, Abigail was still awfully good looking, and in spite of everything he'd be a liar if he said he wasn't flattered by his attention.

"Life can be cruel, don't you think?" Abigail asked, sidling up to him.

"What do you mean?" Wendy asked.

Abigail smiled, his eyes all enveloping. "Fate if you like. You and me."

"There hasn't been any 'you and me' for ages." Wendy snorted. He intended the remark to sound indignant and cutting. It was, but Abigail didn't rise to it, instead he sat smartly and rubbed his hands together. "Poppy's wedding is tomorrow, then school breaks for recess. I won't be here next term, so I wanted to say goodbye without being rushed."

Surprised, Wendy turned his head. "That sounds awfully final. Are you leaving forever?"

"Mother's found me a place with some old fella' that lives in Surrey, not far from London. On the river. A magnificent house. The man - his name doesn't matter - lives alone, and he's quite old and very wealthy. He's going to take me down there at the end of term, and I don't think I'll be coming back here soon." He gave a gentle smile. "Nanette will likely be the next head-girl. It should have been you, but you're never strict enough."

Wendy dismissed the idea with a throwaway flip of his hand. "Nan's the right choice for that kind of thing, he's as cold as ice." His brow creased nonetheless. "This place won't be the same without you."

Abigail gazed out at the garden. "I'll miss all this, and I won't have any use for the things I've learnt here. The man just wants a well-hung sissy as a sort of companion. He's going to keep me as a sort of pet, with nipple rings and a Prince Albert in the end of my cock."

"What's a Prince Albert?"

"It's a metal ring that goes up your pee-hole and out through the top of your knob. Matron did it all last week. That's why mother wouldn't let me take part in Open Day."

"Ouch! That must be horrid. Why does an old wrinkly want you like that?"

"It's his kink I suppose. With a tether on a Prince Albert he can attach me to the furniture or take me for walks like a dog. Some people enjoy doing that sort of thing."

"Being towed around by your cock won't be nice. I wouldn't wish that kind of thing on anyone."

Abigail smiled. "It won't be so bad. Fresh fields and pastures new and all that. Mother reckons the guy's so old he'll croak soon, and if I play my cards right he'll make me a bequest in his will. He may even leave me everything."

At that moment Jemima came dawdling along the path in front of them making a serious business of kicking the heads off stray peonies when he thought no one was looking. He was looking very pretty himself, his short skirt highlighting what extremely good legs he had.

"I want you and I to part as good friends," Abigail told Wendy, "Let me give you a treat." He beckoned Jemima over. "Come here you lezzy. You'll let Wendy shag you, won't you?"

Jemima shrugged. "Sure, but what's it worth?"

"Mercenary bitch. Are you selling your charms these days?"

"A tranny as to think about the future and how he's going to make a living eventually. I'm an excellent shag, and that must be worth something."

"I'm sure we can arrange something." Abigail said.

Jemima seemed impressed, but Wendy wasn't. "Piss off you faggot. Come back on a rainy day."

The sissy shrugged his shoulders, deadheaded another flower with his foot and ambled away.

"I don't want that kind of treat today." Wendy snapped.

Abigail looked at him closely and frowned. "I've neglected you, I know that. When mother made me head-girl I got some pretty awful ideas about how important I was and I was rotten to you. Will you always be angry with me?"

A sheepish expression swept over Wendy's face. His attraction to his cousin had never wavered in spite of everything. He wanted to tell Abigail how lovely he still was, but daren't.

"Not angry, just annoyed that's all. We were so close once, then things changed so quickly." He glanced down. "This is the very bench Jennifer first spanked me on when I arrived here. That day when we - when you and I first ..." He left the sentence unfinished and looked away.

"We did have some fine times together, didn't we?" mused Abigail, " We seemed to do little else but screw last year. And you look just as you did then. Dashing and dishy; pretty and bright-eyed as ever, no fatter, no thinner."

Wendy fidgeted and patches of red appeared on his cheeks as he solemnly reached for his cousin's hand. God, could it really be? After a whole school-term of disinterest could Abigail still have a soft-spot for his erstwhile lover? "I've missed you, you beast. I've missed you terribly."

"I know, and I want us to be friends again before I go away," replied Abigail. "Let's do something together."

The yearning Wendy ha hidden for so long erupted on his face as he told Abigail of the wealthy stock-broker who'd recently bought him. After he'd first ridden the man's thick bone during Open Day he'd returned to see the headmistress, brought him flowers, held doors open for him and treated him like a lady.

"I'm going to be living with him soon," he said, "I'm going to live with a nice man who'll give me as much cock as I can handle, but some things between you and I will never change. Can't you see that right now I want you?"

Abigail squeezed his friends hand and gazed at him quite matter-of-factly. There was no need to pretend. They knew each other too well to play games.

"Is your - are you, y'know - HEALED?" Wendy asked.

Abigail nodded. "Everything's fine now. I'm ready for anything."

Wendy suddenly breathed deeply and pressed against him. "I'm glad. I'm glad because I want to find out what it's like getting poked with a Prince Albert. I want to feel it sliding up an down inside. Take me somewhere and spank me until I cry, then shag me silly."

***

On the day of Poppy's wedding it was as perfect as it could have been. A piercing clear and glorious day in late August; a grey-stone church with a tall spire ringed by chestnut trees; a fat brown stream bubbling haphazardly through silky tufts of meadow grass nearby, and a village taken from a storybook; a handful of honey-coloured houses half hidden behind fields of golden corn and Michaelmas daisies.

Peasmarsh looked an idyllic English village in the sunshine. It was recorded in the Domesday Book and had developed little in a thousand years, consisting of a couple of pubs, a few rows of cottages and the church of St Barnaby, the footings of which had been laid in Norman times.

Poppy looked endearingly gooey-eyed and moony in the trousseau Mrs Boroclough had bought for him. It was an extremely expensive Schiaparelli design straight from Paris, a slim-fitting understated floor-length tube of ivory shot silk, an Empire styled, high-waisted creation in which his tender bosom became effortlessly elegant and properly majestic and pivotal. Tilted back on his head he wore a dainty garland of silk marguerites and in his hands he clutched a small posy of fresh orchids and gypsophilia.

The preparations had been done with great urgency and had taken mere days, the dressing that morning consumed three hours, the journey from Fairyfield an hour, but the wedding ceremony took less than forty minutes. At 2-0-clock in the afternoon, with the congregation settled and as if primed by a starting pistol, a small crocodile of people entered the church and made a slow, dignified progress down the aisle in tempo with the stately rhythm of Mendelssohn's Bridal March playing on the organ.

The interior of the church had been festooned with orange blossom and lilies, and Parson Roper led the way followed by Poppy, moving solemnly, legs shaking, body aglow, bearing a smile of dazzling delight and clinging to the arm of Miriam Hancock who was decked out in a broad brimmed Ascot hat and a smart peacock-blue two piece suit.

Behind them trailing in two files came the bridesmaids, some of Poppy's sissy friends from the school, who had likewise been treated by Mrs Boroclough. They all wore soft silk-georgette dresses, crushed strawberry pink all over, sleeveless, with elegant little ruffles drifting over the shoulders and low sweetheart necklines. Their ankle-length skirts lined with white petticoats swirled and floated like clouds, and long, white cotton gloves gave them the appearance of Regency princess's.

Waiting before the alter stood Mrs Boroclough, her whippet-thin head adorned with an extraordinary flower-smothered hat the size of a satellite dish, and wearing a cream silk frock with fringes of amber beads at the neck and cuffs. When Poppy joined her he peeped beneath lowered lashes to steal a swift, appreciative glance at the tall, dark figure nearby. Mrs Boroclough's grandson, Alistair.

Alistair, was acting as best man and wearing a grey morning suit that tactfully broke up the all-female assembly at the point of blessing. His tall commanding presence emanated an aura that was compelling. He was devastatingly handsome, broad-shoulders, chiselled jaw, piercing dark eyes and he emitted an aroma that was rich, woody and intoxicatingly masculine. He was a man who instantly and totally besotted Poppy and one he gazed at with something verging on idolisation.

Things proceeded without a hitch. Mrs Boroclough had no respect for the clergy and never troubled the Almighty for favours. A Marriage By Common License short-circuited the need for the reading of the banns, and everyone ceded to her plutocracy so she trampled on any other rules that got in her way.

"Dearly beloved," said the parson. "We are gathered here today... " he observed everyone dolefully as he went mechanically through the preamble of the ritual. Despite his own deviances he held onto the unremarkable view that humanity was composed of two genders which in the course of time fused to form a whole. Anything outside this uncompromising idea was incomprehensible to him. Marriage was important, which is why it shouldn't be taken lightly, wantonly or inadvisably, and yet there he was, about to bless a woman in wedlock with a young man dressed as a girl.

He had no choice but to please Mrs Boroclough. She had the power not only to bankrupt him but also by dint of her influence with Church authorities to deprive him of his cosy little niche in the countryside. He recoiled at the thought of ending up on the fringe of a grubby industrial town where he'd need to watch his church building every night to prevent his parishioners from rolling up and carrying away the lead flashing from the roof.

At the recognised moment he felt bound to ask the assembly - "Does anyone here know of any legal impediment to the marriage of the two people before me?"

His eyes scanned around. What a joy it would be if someone made an objection. He could stop the proceedings there and then and it wouldn't be his fault.

The congregation became instantly hushed. Quite apart from the residents of Fairyfield there were more than a score of village people sitting in the pews, but they were people who prized Mrs Boroclough's patronage and who wished to continue in her good favour.

The woman gave the parson a cursory glance as she ran her tongue over the top row of her teeth and her eyes turned upwards. Woe betide anyone rash enough to ruin her day. 'Off with their heads' she seemed primed to quote.

The ceremony droned on. Poppy liked churches, especially old ones. He liked the coloured glass windows and the flowers and the candles, and he enjoyed the singing. He didn't know much about religion but it was okay, except that vicar-men always talked too much.

Unconcerned about what was being recited he watched a beetle crawl over the toe-cap of Parson Roper's shoe, and then suddenly the man was speaking to him.

"Do you - em - Poppy Popperwell - take Dorothea Lolita Boroclough as your lawfully wedded - erm - spouse, to live together according to Gods law in the Holy estate of matrimony?"

Poppy nodded politely. "Yes please, sir. Thank you very much, sir."

The woman at his side tutted. "Say, I do, dear. This is very important. The correct response is, I do."

Poppy returned a melting apologetic smile. "Sorry, Mrs Boroclough." Then he looked at the parson. "I do, sir."

"You may - er - kiss the bride." proclaimed Roper a little later. Mrs Boroclough bent forward and pressed her prim lips against Poppy's brow, and it was done. As they left the church to the organ struck up the triumphant strains of the Prince of Denmark's March.

Chance Hall had been offered as a venue for the reception. Lord Nigel welcomed it, since his wife was away visiting an orphanage in the midlands in company with a clutch of paparazzi. The house was old and picturesque, an imposing neo-classical residence concealed from the road by a short, forested drive of ash, hazel and oak and ringed from the world by an old stone wall mottled with moss and fringed by flops of ivy.

Beneath clouds that sailed in great galleons of cumuli across a sailor-boy blue sky a light breeze ruffled a set of drooping willows and their long delicate fronds floated sideways, like a girl's long, fine hair. The gardens looked lush, and outside the countryside rolled, fields of corn and barley with hedgerows in between sprouting joyous green flags and tendrils topped by feathery whirls of late blossom.

Everyone mingled in the garden. Pimms-drinking ladies in Jasper Conran hats and gentlemen with roses on their lapels chattered in time-honoured wedding fashion inside a pink-and-white-striped marquee pitched at the side of a small lake. Music fluted from a state of the art amplifier and an area of wooden decking had been laid on the grass in case people wished to dance. On the lake a pair of swans, startlingly white on carbon-grey water, paddled to and fro.

"A lovely wedding breakfast." remarked Mrs Carter-Plackett.

"Yes, lovely." agreed the repressed, downtrodden little man at her side who was her husband, and who was wearing a rather ancient Monticristi panama that sported a raffish leopard skin hatband and a strong smell of mothballs.

Mrs Boroclough's former companion, Clementine, tutted. "It's a champagne reception, not a breakfast. Breaking-the-fast is from the days when the Church dictated no food should be taken before consuming the Communion bread. Mrs Boroclough doesn't accept dictates from anyone."

"What a gorgeous lady!" the small and elderly Miss Moffet remarked suddenly.

Jennifer Hancock glanced over her shoulder to follow the woman's line of sight, but could only see Gloria standing at the mouth of the tent poking half a sugared doughnut into her mouth with the tip of a finger. "Surely you don't mean her, not Gloria. She's, erm... she's hardly a girl's ideal."

Miss Moffet frowned disapproval. Her sharp features belied her sentimental belief in romance as portrayed in cheap novels. "Rather bone-jarring attractive in my opinion. A single woman like me couldn't help but feel safe with someone like her in the house." Her eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "Now Miss Hancock's school is going into recess I wonder if she would allow the dear lady a holiday. She could stay with me. I'd love to pamper her for a couple of weeks."

Hardwick's troupe of dancers divested themselves of their bridesmaid gowns and stripped down to long cotton gloves and G-strings to perform an impromptu dance routine on the decking. A sense of decorum dictated they retained their pants, but apart from their tap-shoes that was all they wore. The vocal number chosen by Miss Hancock that thrummed out from the amplifiers reflected her upturn in good fortune, since she'd recently gained access to Uncle Albert's endowment.

The sheboys went straight into their routine as a chorus of female voices, jaunty yet mellifluous, boomed out from the nearby speakers:

"We're in the money. We're in the money. We've got a lot of what it takes to get along. We're in the money, that sky is sunny, Old Man Depression you are through, you done us wrong."

The dancers swayed with the melody and went at it full tilt, feet, hands and bodies moving as one, and in between verses they put on a display of spry and rapid synchronised footwork that would have had Fred Astaire applauding. The gym-instructor had honed them into a unit of precision that was immaculate to behold.

Barefoot, slightly built and impeccably proportioned their lightweight figures served to emphasis their spry youthfulness, as did their legs. Their dark and merry eyes and the long bright ringlets that spilled down over their ears together with the flush of excitement on their cheeks, gave an impression that was not unbecoming.

Stimulated with lecherous interest a crowd gathered to observe the engagingly stuffed panties clinging to their hips, all very conscious of the way their tiny white G-strings looked so precarious. Their gaze inevitably paused there, where the last wisps of delicate material still covered pretty sheboy genitals. It required no imagination to define the outline of what lay inside, the pouch of their thongs was no more than a minute snugly-fitting patch of delicate white gauze edged with scalloped lace from which the contents constantly threatened to spill out.