Room 2D

The last of her diary entries, from Privilege Club 15 Little Girl Lost I like to wander alone through the woods during the long, lazy afternoons of the school holidays. I have always loved the woods. The leaves crunch and crackle beneath my bare feet. Trees rustle and whisper their secrets to me and I share mine with them. The woods are a dark place, a place of intimacy, my place. Thick with a private magic. Here, time has frozen. I can abandon myself to the erotic conjurings of my imagination. Maybe these are the forests of Sherwood and I have come, with gallant whims, to join Robin Hood in his quest. His Merry Men laugh at such a feisty but foolish child. Their mirth is even greater when Robin himself takes a rod to my bottom before sending me home, in tears of shame, to my Mother. Or maybe I am a Victorian serving girl, shirking her duties to meander idly through her Master’s gaming land. Perhaps he will catch me and...

From Privilege Club 14 Extract from the Editor’s Letter: … It’s good, too, to see our naughty nymphet Christina Winchester attracting her own share of attention. Christina is a dear girl, and is genuinely moved and delighted to hear from well-wishers. One gentleman from beyond these shores sent her a gift of two beautifully crafted paddles, which caught her vivid imagination and inspired her latest Diary entry which appears in this issue. As well as being a passionate spankophile, Christina is also an excellent actress and dancer. She has a singing voice too, and there must be many a reader who would love to hear that sweet soprano hitting top C in the course of dealing with her for provocative behaviour! Christina Winchester wishes to thank the kind reader who sent her the beautiful hand-made paddles, and to assure him that they will indeed be put to use for the purpose that they were intended, whether she likes it or no! ...

A double helping of lovely Christina/Rosaleen, from Privilege Club 13 Thursday is a unique day. It is the only day of the week that my heart is actually heavy upon hearing the end-of-school bell. Generally the teachers bore me to tears but there is one exception — Mr Everett. Mr Everett is my drama teacher. He is tall with an unruly mop of jet-black hair topping his handsome features. His brow is stern yet kind and from my very first lesson with him he began to creep into my sexual fantasies as a solemn, rugged ‘Mr Darcy’. Usually I have no trouble in charming the male teachers with my flirtations (my indispensable trick of bending right over to collect my books and teasing them with a flash of my tight, white panties almost never fails). But I have tried everything with my dear Mr Everett yet received nothing but a bemused smile. I am sure I know what the problem is — my horrid school uniform! I detest it with...