Room 2D

Story from Janus 56 by Richard Manton The romance of Leon and his two young mistresses ran the full course of the Cirque Eden’s summer season at Cabourg, in the last days of the  belle époque . Against a sea that was millpond-smooth, the white caps of the tents rose among the trees of the Parc des Princes. Throughout the well-kept streets of the fashionable resort the gaudy posters were filled by trumpets and horses, bare-legged girls and Bengal tigers. All day the summer tide lay glittering and languid beyond the sands. At dusk the coloured lamps of the promenade and the windows of the Grand Hotel shimmered and flickered like Aladdin’s treasure on the whispering water. From the white steam-yachts anchored in a line, a beat of music and the laughter of dinner parties carried to the esplanade, where the wives of brokers and lawyers paraded in dresses of butterfly elegance. At night the Parc des Princes belonged to...

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...