Illustrator’s Corner

From Blushes 3

Choir Practice

Watching the soft serge knickers slipping down from the cheeks of her pale young bottom, a fold detained momentarily between the full togetherness of her buttocks, the look of her smooth skin against white petticoat and navy knickers was like the clear purity of her voice when she sang.

‘Virgin’ was almost too dirty a word; ‘angelic’ might have been closer, especially when her bright, innocent eyes turned back over her shoulder as she reached out with her knickers held in her small hand, her fingernails beautifully clean, her fingers soft and faintly warm as they touched his.

The chair in the vestry scraped mournfully across the tiles as he put her across it, long bare legs extended behind her, bottom positioned by chance so that the last of the evening sun struck down upon it via a square of ruby-tinted glass in one of the windows, bathing her buttocks with a glow which portended the similarly rosy colour which he was about to engender in it by judicious application of a cane.

The Victim

If you stood too close to the pool you could get pretty wet, so sitting back against the wall on a bench was the sensible way to oversee the school’s senior relay team at training.

Letting the girls swim up and down the pool was one way of building stamina, but rather unexciting since it meant they — and therefore all the bits of them one would find most interesting — were in the water all the time. Far better to have them swim a length, clamber out — wet tits against the edge of the pool, since there were no steps at the deep end, firm young hips hauled out of the water, tummies across the coping stone, bottoms up in the air — then run back to the shallow end and dive in again. Naturally they had to pass the bench, their damp bums bouncing inside clinging costumes as they ran.

Once it was organised, one could sit back and simply watch — or choose.

‘Come on, Carol!’

A word or two each time the selected bottom bobbed past, and during the course of the session a purely fabricated suggestion of idleness in the chosen girl could be built up into a reasonable excuse to have her stay behind in her changing cubicle afterwards while the slipper was fetched from the store room.

A worried face peeping from behind the cubicle curtains; half-dried thighs; still-wet costume warming against her body; damp material peeled down from wet-shining buttocks —

Well now, which one of these little sweethearts is it going to be?

‘Come along Linda — put your back into it girl!’