Room 2D

From Whispers 2 Readers of the first issue of Whispers will be familiar with the Hostage  story; the piece published here came as a response from a writer who felt he saw something more in the situation pictured. The blindfold showed light; she was in a brightly lit room. The man had led her across the room, her high heels  clip-clopping  on a hard surface, and told her to sit. It sank down, soft and yielding. A bed. A mattress rather; she could feel it was a mattress with her hands. A bare mattress with no bedclothes. The man went out, she heard his footsteps and then the click of the door. Unless of course he hadn’t really gone out but was still there watching her. Was she alone? Or was somebody — that man or someone else — silently watching? There was no way of knowing. She  could  remove the blindfold of course, she knew that. She wasn’t tied up in any way. But she had been instructed that on no account was she to remove the blindfold. That was one ins...

From Whispers 1 He never knew who would be coming, but none of the circle ever did. He waited at home as usual on the third Saturday of the month, half expecting a ‘phone call to say it had been cancelled, looking down the drive from time to time and hoping to see a car, which he probably wouldn’t recognise, bringing whoever it was to be this month. When the car came it was Freddie, whom he’d met once before; the girl in the back of the car was blindfolded, which lent a tang of mystery to the whole thing from the word go. Freddie said that Julia had arrived safely, though he didn’t say  where  she’d ‘arrived’, but George knew she’d be back home by Sunday night; no doubt she’d relive the thrill of her own weekend with him when he, in his turn, told her about his. They would both tell little lies, of course, but even that was part of the game. They left the girl with him and said they’d collect her on Sunday afternoon. ...

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Photo-story from Janus 160 Harriet Grace, Head Prefect at St Catherine’s School for girls. The epitome of all the virtues: beautiful, full of grace, bright and studious, Oxbridge-bound. Flowing blonde hair and sky-blue eyes. A face and figure most girls would die for. Perfect personality, wonderful singing voice, virtuoso violinist, superb athlete — holder of the school record in long jump and hurdles. A halo would not look odd on that flaxen head. Goodness glows from her. Even her name is perfect. Harriet Grace. Girls in younger years have crushes on her. The hearts of male teachers thump when they glimpse her going through her paces in the gym or bounding in skin-tight shorts down the runway to soar into the air on shapely legs, hair tossing like wheat in a breeze. Harriet Grace. Could any of her admirers and acolytes have imagined that she could ever be Harriet in disGrace? The story is painful to relate — yet strangely thrilli...