Room 2D

From Blushes Supplement 21 ‘We have most excellent contacts,’ Mr Ingleton said. ‘All the best professions: banking, law, accountancy. You name it really. Yes, a girl with one of our diplomas has no trouble at all in getting a really first class position.’ He smiled across at her. Mr Ingleton was fiftyish, with grey hair and an amiable expression. His voice was plummily confident, the voice of a man with all those excellent contacts. Marion straightened her skirt down over pretty nyloned knees. The only problem would be that Mr Ingleton’s course cost money, a commodity with which she was not particularly well endowed. How did you tell him that? She had come here as the result of an advertisement in one of the more up-market monthly magazines. A phone call and then this interview, in this plush fifth-floor office in London’s West End. Mr Ingleton, ushering her to one of the armchairs in a cosily secluded corner of the big office,

A nice short story f rom Blushes 25  illustrated with pictures of one of their prettiest models. The shorts were — well, tiny was the only word that could possibly be applied to them; tiny and tight and embarrassingly high-cut both before and behind. Fresh on they had been crisp and neat, even if over-snug, but now, after what must have been fifteen minutes of  Bolero ’s insistent, lilting rhythm — the brass was beginning to bray from the speakers and the timpani were forcing the pace along — they were fine-creased along the valleys of her groin at either side, with other creases darting in from the straining side-seams in counterpoint every time she bent at the hips, legs straight and wide apart, back hollowed despite the forward stoop so that her bottom sat up perkily, head held as high as possible even as she swung side-to-side from the waist and touched her toes with opposite hands; now, the little shorts were damp with her pe

Final part of a three-parter from Whispers 4 Susan looked in the window. Mr Wilmot and this friend of his, Mr Cuthbert. She couldn’t be seen because it was quite dark. She shivered; not that it was all that cold — a mild September evening. But she didn’t have much on: only her vest. Well, her knee-socks and shoes as well to be precise but that didn’t make much difference. What counted was that she only had her vest: no bra, not now Mr Wilmot had confiscated them for the whole of her stay, and also no knickers or skirt either. She pulled her vest down in front — not really because she was cold but, well, modesty. Not that anyone could see her, there were no houses overlooking Mr Wilmot’s garden. But she wasn’t used to going about with her bottom and her pussy bare. At least she wasn’t before coming to Mr Wilmot’s the day before yesterday. But then there were other things she wasn’t used to. That dreadful cellar — and the cane.