Room 2D

A Green Gables story from Blushes 25 It is Sunday morning and it is Rachel’s bath-time. Since Rachel bathes every morning and every evening it always seems to be bath-time. Anyway, Rachel is in the bath. Well, no longer quite in it so much as standing calf-deep in the water whilst Mr Collins dabbles about in the fragrant bubbles trying to find the soap. Her cheeks a pretty embarrassment-pink, Rachel looks down warily at the top of Mr Collins’ head, which has a pale bald spot at the crown, lifting one foot then the other, trying to be helpful and even feeling about with her toes for the vagrant tablet of Palmolive, which as Mr Collins has muttered several times, she should not have dropped in the first place. Mr Collins straightens up; one of his rolled-up sleeves is no longer rolled-up, and the cuff has draggled in the bathwater and drips onto his shoes. His dog collar has lost its starched crispness from being steamed over th

Story from Blushes 25 It is rare indeed for the weather-beaten sign with its partially obliterated lettering to raise any comment but today, this morning, as the bus trundles by, it does. Mrs Springley is relatively new to the village and her sharp eye has noticed it before without up till now feeling bold enough to enquire. In these close little villages people don’t always like a lot of questions. Mrs Bamford, though, with whom she is going on a day trip to Brighton, has proved reasonably forthcoming about other things. ‘What is that place? Green Gables. Does it say Educational Establishment for Girls? Does it say girls 18 to 21?’ Mrs Springley’s eyes are indeed sharp. ‘Is it private then?’ ‘Something like that.’ Irene Bamford in fact is not too sure. ‘Some sort of special place. I suppose more like one of those finishing schools.’ ‘Oh. Because I’ve never  seen  anyone.’ ‘No. They do keep to themselves and keep the girls

From Blushes 23 The letter from Rosalind’s guardian lies on the Principal’s desk; so, for that matter, does Rosalind. Her tummy presses down against the desk’s top, and it is kept there by firm pressure in the small of her back from the Principal’s hand. Her knickers have been pulled down off her schoolgirl-plump buttocks and the instruction to press her knees against the front of the desk means that those moist little lips, high up between her thighs, peep immodestly from just above the inside-out gusset of her taken-down knickers. ‘Up, Rosalind —’ The girl strains to hollow her back and thus elevate and round-out her bottom. The Principal’s cane plays with the firm outswell of her buttocks; it taps and bounces, pats and then flicks, a demi-stroke, enough to sting and to make the girl gasp but not painful enough — not yet — to make her squirmy and struggly — not yet, not yet. ‘Knees hard against the desk, now, Rosalind —’ ‘Yes sir —’ The strained sound of her voice comes from

The first in a series of stories about a rather unorthodox educational establishment. From Blushes 22. It is a hot afternoon, late in July; on a wooden bench beside a village green, two elderly women in short-sleeved summer dresses while away the time by speculating on the likelihood of the bus being late, as usual. These two figures aside, there is little sign of life elsewhere in this Sussex village, save for a bakery van parked outside the single shop opposite the bus stop. It might almost be a Sunday; in fact it is Monday, and the two gossiping women are on a shopping trip to busy, bustling Brighton. At last the bus swings into view round a bend in the lane. The women gather up their shopping bags and get to their feet; the bus stops with a weary hiss and sits shuddering at the stop whilst the women clamber aboard. A ‘ding’ of the bell, and the bus grumbles away down the winding road. Half a mile out of the village, the bu