Room 2D

Short and sweet, from Whispers 3 She should, of course, have known better, having been wheeled into one of Sam’s political fund-raising ideas last Easter, but saying definitely ‘No’ when her job and her flat and her Renault Five very much depended on her knowing when to say ‘yes’, wasn’t easy. Not out here in the shires, where everyone knew everybody else and jobs, flats etc were few and very far between. ‘Well what exactly do I have to do, Sam?’ ‘Not a lot really, sweetheart. It’s a sort of auction you see, and you get a few balloons with prices on and people are allowed to buy them. Then we give you some more balloons and people buy them again, and so on.’ ‘And that’s all there is to it?’ ‘Er — more or less. Except there are forfeits as well, depending on the colour of the balloon.’ ‘Who has to pay these forfeits?’ ‘Well, you do, my sweet. Red balloons are a smacked bottom, green ones mean a stroke with a cane — and ...

My favourite kind of R.T. Mason story (I’m making an assumption here as it’s uncredited) — a small English town, seething with outwardly respectable dirty old men, a pretty girl helpless to resist them but also stimulated by their attentions, the worsening of an already bad situation for her, and some rather lovely pictures to match the story. From Blushes Supplement 18. A pleasantly warm June evening. The quiet hamlet of Dimbledown drowsy after a day of sun — though some would say it was equally drowsy when there was no sun to be seen. The weatherman had said it would stay this way for the weekend. The seaside would be nice, Angela thought. At the weekend. Weymouth or Bournemouth, for instance. Lying on the hot sand getting a tan and no doubt being admired. Mr Marjoram perhaps might take her, if she sort of suggested it. Or Mr Hosking. Maybe even her own Mr Lovage. Lovage the Chemists: Our Own Herbal Remedies . Though they would al...

Story from Roué 1 It took me a while to find her, of course. Girls like that don’t simply fall out of heaven and into your clutches just because you’ve prayed for them. The failures came and went, gold diggers, tramps, nice girls going wrong. Bad girls pretending they were good, and ones pretending they were bad who never managed to stay the course. And none of them ever quite what I was looking for. Until Lulu. I tried her out, more times than one, and she came up trumps every time. She was a natural. Naturally submissive, naturally charming, and naturally Lulu. At last all was ready. I could embark upon the task of educating her, my way. She’d already begun to understand the rudiments of course. She’d learned, for instance, that ‘slip your knickers down, there’s a good girl,’ didn’t necessarily mean lying on her back with her legs spread-eagled. She’d got used to the idea that it might mean face down, on her tummy, with her ...