Room 2D

From Blushes Supplement 31 Bing… Bong. It is the doorbell. Mr Newling turns his head, a flicker of annoyance on his face. ‘Drat! Who… Oh I suppose it could be the new girl. Whatsername.’ He looks back to Darlene and gives her arm a gratuitous pinch. ‘Is that what you think, Darlene? Miss Whatsername?’ ‘Don’t know, Mr Newling.’ Darlene grimaces slightly at the pinch. They are in Mr Newling’s sitting room, just Darlene and Mr Newling. Mr Newling is in shirt-sleeves and braces, dressed for indoors, for indoor action you might say. Darlene on the other hand is attired more formally, in her Training Uniform. Pale grey shirt and dark green tie with below a tailored black-and-white small-check skirt. Her shapely legs are in patterned white nylons; these are Mr Newling’s choice rather than specifically the uniform which would normally be black nylons. Darlene is a pretty and shapely girl of 18, a trim figure and a pert, gamine face fr...

An enhanced version of The Loft from Uniform Girls 17 featuring the girl I will always think of as Gillian. ‘Mr Stimford,’ her mother said reading from Aunt Clare’s letter and the name immediately set up a response, alarm bells jangling in her daughter’s head. A forgotten name but not really, just lying dormant in her mind and covered with layers of other things, other experiences, pleasant ones mostly, so that ‘Stimford’ was almost dead and buried. But it wasn’t dead and it now came back, rolling up to the surface. At first vague and unrecognised, just the alarm bell, and then, oh yes, of course. She saw him, pictured him. And that place: the village hall. And in particular the loft, up the stepladder. That dusty, dimly-lit triangular roof space. ‘Eileen! Are you listening? Or day-dreaming?’ She shook her head, bobbing the soft, short, medium blonde curls. Her cheeks were flushing, she could feel. As if her mother might know w...

From Blushes 29 Nicola opened her eyes, then shut them again. The sun was blazing in from the window, blindingly. She opened her eyes again more cautiously, a fraction. Where was she anyway? This room wasn’t recognisable. Nicola pulled together jumbled thoughts. Oh. Oh yes. She remembered. The boat journey, and then the coach. With Mr Kinlard. Amsterdam. They were in Amsterdam. Part of her course. St Angela’s College. For young ladies of 18 and up who needed a little further general education and whose parents, naturally, could afford to pay. Art. It was part of her Art Course. She was here with Mr Kinlard to visit the art museums. The Rijksmuseum and all that. So this room was their hotel. She remembered that now. More vividly, though, Nicola remembered the boat. Or part of it. That little cabin. What she remembered most vividly of course was Mr Kinlard strapping her. His tawse. Taking it out of his leather case. Smiling. ‘We...