EDUCATING SCOTT (CHAPTER 1) Scott is slowly growing up. He is gradually beginning to shake off his complex about the fact that, when God created his penis, He was running short of material and so left this particular member half-made. However, in compensation, He did create it perfectly formed, a thing of beauty and a joy forever. So Scott is becoming more confident about sharing the delights of his attractive little piece of flesh with admiring members of the opposite sex. Not that he used to have too many reservations about that. Long-standing readers will remember that the first time I met him, as recounted in my story ‘Marina’, he generously introduced it to my sister Jenny and two of her friends. But attitudes change. When he had experienced a bit of naturism and been to a naturist beach or two, and seen that most males of his own age and older – and many younger as well – possessed penises far more impressive than his own, he suddenly began to feel ashamed of his own inadequacies, as he saw it. He is about average height for his age, now within spitting distance of 11, but his penis remains firmly stunted at a length of less than five centimetres – and almost half of that is foreskin. When he pulls it back his entire penis is almost too small to handle, and when he has been in cold water it shrinks to little more than a tiny pink blob. Perhaps ‘stunted’ is the wrong word to use about Scott’s little penis, though, as it implies deformity. It is actually perfectly formed, if you can get close enough to examine it. No, a microscope isn’t really needed! It is smooth and gently rounded, a pastel shade of pale pink, many a girl’s favourite colour. The foreskin hangs over the end of his prepuce like a duck’s bill, and his little pink wrinkled scrotum underneath is only just visible, rounded and sitting tightly next to his body. Certainly there is nothing there that should frighten sensitive and inexperienced young females, who have been known to turn away in horror, uttering such comments as “Gross!” when confronted for the first time by the larger variety, hairy in older boys and men, often misshapen and a variety of colours from a deep purple to a sickly white. I hasten to add that my own teenage penis is also, in my opinion, well formed, not too large and less likely than most to shock a delicately bred young girl. But for a while Scott became a little more modest about his major tourist attraction, afraid that he might be ridiculed for his lack of size – longitudinally challenged, I think, is the politically correct term. He had no problem with his sister Marina, my girlfriend, seeing it, or my cousin Shelley or my sister Jenny. He soon grew to realise that he could trust genuine naturists, who accept each other and are so used to nudity that they do not pass personal comments or generally even notice. You do get the odd exception, but I don’t count them as genuine naturists. But mixing with naturists paradoxically increased his shyness among the textile people in his everyday life, as it made him more aware than ever that he had been left half-made. The crunch came one night a few months ago. Scott had been invited to a sleepover at a friend’s house one Friday. There were four boys there altogether, and the parents must have been of the non-supervisory sort to allow to happen what did. Apparently Scott returned home just before midnight, in floods of tears, and all he would say was that the other boys had been horrible to him. He told me the next day, though. I felt very proud that he would trust me with what he would tell nobody else. He had come round to my house as he often did on Saturday mornings and we went upstairs to my room, where we are free to go naked. But he seemed curiously reluctant at first to remove his underpants. Then he told me. Apparently the previous evening, when it was time for bed the other boys started changing into their pyjamas, but Scott felt too shy to reveal his perceived inadequacies in the presence of the others and had nipped off to the bathroom to do that. He returned to find the other boys had decided he was ‘cock-shy’, as they called it, and ready to teach him a lesson. When I asked him, Scott confessed that he normally tried to change in private at school when they were swimming and tried to avoid taking a shower after the physical education lesson. He now realised that this had given the other boys the opening to play tricks on him. So when Scott returned to the bedroom, the other three jumped on him and ripped off his pyjamas. They then proceeded to give him what was known as ‘the ball-shine’. They took some boot polish and rubbed it well into his penis and testicles. I’m sure the others all considered it a huge joke and it was not done with any malice, but just with the usual total thoughtlessness for which preteen boys are renowned. Scott no doubt made enough noise to waken the dead as they did so, but he said that all that happened was that just as they were finishing, after ‘a long time’, the host boy’s father burst into the room, yelled at them to shut up and then stormed out again, without troubling to see what it was all about. When they tried to continue their artwork on the implements of Scott’s future career, he started screaming again, and that was when they decided they had better stop. Scott finally removed his underpants, with reluctance, to show me the evidence. He had managed to get most of the polish off his penis, but the skin was still bright red from all the polishing, and also no doubt his own scrubbing as he tried to depolish himself. He had not done as well with his testicles, which if not quite black and blue were certainly black and red. “I can’t get it off properly,” he wailed. I knew my dad had some grease that he would rub on his hands to clean them after he had been painting or working on the car, so I figured it might work for Scott. I fetched it and made him lie back on my bed while I fetched a cloth and started rubbing the grease into his testicles. It worked well – in fact, the whole exercise worked well as he found my massage ticklish, and wriggled and giggled as I did the job. Then I took his penis, holding the cute little thing between finger and thumb of my left hand as I rubbed the polish off his foreskin with my right. He squealed and chuckled, and I asked him, “How do you expect me to clean it for you if you’re going to make it all stiff?” “Have you got it all off yet?” he asked, amid giggles. “All what off?” came Jenny’s voice from the doorway. “Scott, what have you done to your penis?” Neither Scott nor I had bothered to shut the door, although we knew Jenny was around. Scott had no inhibitions at all with her, and he sometimes deliberately annoyed both Jenny and Shelley by doing his tricks, as he called them, with his penis. All the same, I felt Scott jerk convulsively, but knew it was more through his reluctance to have Jenny finding out what had happened to him rather than having her see me cleaning his erect penis. Jenny was standing there, looking nothing more than curious. She had been in the garden so she was wearing only her white cotton panties, which my parents decree is minimum wear for us at home, except when we go upstairs where we can wear nothing. Her little nipples are now just beginning to grow stand out slightly from her chest, as puberty prepares to ravage her body. She had her hands on her hips and thumb casually inside her panties, lowering the waistline enough to reveal the top of her groin, as she often does. It’s just an unconscious habit she has. Jenny has grown up with a naturist brother and such actions are totally devoid of any suggestive intent, although it can get Scott excited. Scott actually has taken it a step further (he would!), and often plucks idly at the waistline of his underpants, so if you are close to him you can sometimes get a momentary glimpse of his cute little baby penis nestling at the bottom. Seeing Jenny, Scott gulped, hesitated, and then tried to play it tough. “Oh, I was at David’s house last night and we had some fun fights,” he tried to boast. “And it was three against one, because they put boot polish all over my goolies. They gave me a ball-shine.” He giggled as if it had all been a huge joke. Jenny looked mildly disgusted. “Boys are so silly,” she commented, shaking her head and then disappearing, not wanting to be associated with such behaviour. I finished the job and he lay there thoughtfully, his rock-hard little penis still pointing up at his chin and his swollen red scrotum perched underneath. “I don’t want to go to school on Monday,” he moaned. “They’ll tell everybody and they’ll laugh at me. Even the girls.” “Well, I think your only hope is to do like you did with Jenny and treat it like a joke,” I told him. “And in future show them all – well, all the boys anyway – that you don’t mind them seeing your penis in future. Has anybody ever teased you about it being small?” He nodded his head in shame. “After Christie’s party,” he muttered. “Some of the girls talked about it.” The story of that escapade is also available in this collection under that name – Christie’s Party. His penis by now was slowly beginning to deflate and with a minute was resting lazily against his groin once more. “You could have talked about them when they were naked as well and teased them,” I reminded him. I didn’t think the girls would really want to hurt Scott’s feelings, though. With his big, deceptively innocent blue eyes, his goofy grin and his natural charm, he was the sort of boy that girls tend to like very quickly. “Well, they weren’t really teasing me,” he admitted. “They just said – it – and I don’t like that.” “Do they prefer a big ugly penis?” I asked him. “Oh, no, they think they’re gross,” he replied strongly. “So would you rather have one that’s small and cute like yours, or one that’s big and ugly like Brian’s?” I asked, referring to a friend of ours who is 14 and has a member like a bloated sausage. “I want one that’s medium and – okay, like yours,” he complimented me. “Well, I’m not swopping with you,” I grinned. “But if those were the only two choices you had, the small one is better, isn’t it?” “I suppose so,” he conceded reluctantly. “But some of the boys say it’s too small, too. They call it Scott’s spot. It makes me so mad.” “That’s why they do it, because you get mad and try to hide it,” I told him. “If you can stick it out and wave it all about and do the hokey-cokey with it, they won’t tease you because it won’t work.” Scott laughed. “We do the hokey-cokey in music, but I don’t think Mrs Hopkins would like me to do it with my piss,” he said. “And small things are usually the most beautiful things,” I reminded him. “You seem to like small girls best, don’t you? So don’t hide it away, and be glad it’s small and cute instead of big and ugly.” “I’ll try,” he mumbled. “But isn’t there some way I can make it a bit bigger?” “Try rubbing in manure instead of boot polish,” I grinned at him. According to Scott’s account, which is probably largely true, even if a little exaggerated in his favour, he made a good job of it. Sure enough, when he arrived at school on Monday, the boys were ready for him, teasing him about the ball-shine and about going ‘running home to Mummy’. Scott retorted by telling them how senseless they were because they had nearly injured his testicles with their carelessness, so that was really why he went home, and he had had to go to casualty at hospital and nearly had to have an operation. He told them he had saved them from big trouble because his parents wanted to go to the police about the assault and he had persuaded them not to. This part was all rubbish, of course, and I’ve no evidence that Scott actually spoke to them like this anyway, except that I can usually tell when he is lying. I suspected this version was perhaps a little over half-true. He said that they wanted to see if his genitals were still polished, so he showed them. By now they had almost returned to their normal state and colour and there was nothing to see, except that they were still slightly swollen, which no doubt encouraged him. “I was just going to put them away when Julie walked past, and she saw me,” he said with a slightly embarrassed giggle. Then a shadow came over his eyes, as if he realised he had just told me something he would rather not have mentioned. I asked what happened then, and he said that Julie, a girl in his class, had squealed and hurried away, giggling with embarrassment. The other boys also laughed at Scott for having a girl see him thus exposing himself, but he saved the day by calling after Julie and waving his penis at her retreating back. Again, I have no idea what degree of accuracy there is in any of this story, but there did seem to be a ring of truth overall. “You were right, Roy, when they knew I didn’t mind they stopped teasing me,” he said. He then went on to tell how Julie and a friend of hers called Tammy approached him at morning break, and Julie said provocatively, “Come on, Scott, Tammy wants to see your wee now, just like you showed it to me.” “So I remembered what you told me,” grinned Scott, happy to pass the buck of responsibility on to me. “I said I’d meet them behind the shed at lunchtime, and I did. But only if they showed me theirs.” He stopped talking, waiting for me to ask him what happened. All I replied was, “I said with *boys*, not girls.” I teased him by refusing to ask, knowing he would tell me anyway. Sure enough, he did. “So we sat down in the grass behind the shed,” he said. That was a spot I knew well enough. “They couldn’t stop giggling. And I said Julie must show me hers first because she had already seen mine, and then Tammy, then I’d show them mine. They didn’t like that, but I made them do it.” I suspect it wasn’t quite as straight-forward and Scott-victorious here as he made out. “Then Julie put her knees up and spread her legs a bit,” he told me. “She was wearing pink panties and she pulled them like this” - he demonstrated - “so I could see her wee. Tammy had white panties and she did the same thing. Her wee looked a bit longer than Julie’s but it looked softer. But then they told me to do it, and the only problem was that after I’d seen their wees my peeny had gone all hard! So I had to show it to them when it was hard, and they thought I was playing a trick on them.” He gave out a series of giggles. “They were pretty shocked,” he chuckled. I could tell by his shifty eyes and the dropping of his tone of voice that something wasn’t quite right here. “Fudge!” I accused him, pointing my finger at his nose, as we do in a common game we play in this country when we catch somebody out in a lie. “Come on, Scott, you don’t expect me to believe that! What really happened?” He looked guilty, and ashamed at being found out so easily. But he told me the truth readily enough after a pause and a gulp. “Well, I mean – it was a bit stiff, but they just stared at it,” he muttered. “Then Tammy said, ‘I thought they were bigger than that.’ And Julie said, ‘They are, silly – Scott just has a dwarf one.’ And they both started laughing and almost laughed themselves sick, so I got up and left them. They were just silly and horrible.” “No, I don’t think they were laughing at your penis,” I reassured him. “Remember, when girls get embarrassed and don’t know what to do, they laugh or they scream. Except for a few sensible ones, like Marina. They just felt embarrassed at seeing your penis and didn’t know what to do, so the silly twits just found something to laugh about to hide their embarrassment. I bet they won’t say anything more about it, unless they feel embarrassed again.” I was really putting my reputation as a teenage psychologist on the line here, but I was proved right. Scott looked at me doubtfully, but seemed encouraged. Then he changed the subject. “You know what I did in the showers after P.T. today?” he grinned suddenly. He sprang to his feet, grabbed his penis, pointed it at me and sang out, doing the actions at the same time: “You put your wee-wee in, you put your wee-wee out. You put your wee-wee in and you shake it all about. You do the hokey-cokey and you turn around about . . . Hey, Roy, you were right, the others really loved that!” He was back a couple of days later with further progress to report. “Hey, Roy, you know what? Julie and Tammy wanted to go behind the shed with me again today, so we did it again. And this time they didn’t laugh. Well, they did giggle a bit, but not very much. They wanted to touch my piss, but I wouldn’t let them unless they let me touch theirs. And they agreed, so I felt them!” We were naked together in my bedroom as usual, and as Scott spoke I could see his penis springing into action, stiffening and lifting itself steadily until it was pointing at the ceiling. Scott giggled and clutched it, as if ashamed of its rebellious attitude. “Roy, have you ever touched a girl’s wee?” I wasn’t prepared to tell him, but he burbled straight on, trying to find the words to describe it, while at the same time clutching his rampant penis as the excitement kept making him want to urinate. I could see trouble coming. “Scott, you’ve got to be very careful,” I warned him. “If one of those girls tells about what happened, you know what the head will do? Big trouble, lots of whacks on your soft little bottom, tell your parents, maybe even throw you out of the school. Especially if you touch them. Now you know what one feels like, you don’t need to do it again.” Scott went white. He clearly hadn’t thought of this possibility in his excitement. “But – you do it?” he stated, ending it like a question. “I’m very, very careful, but there’s no way to be completely safe,” I replied, realising anew the risks I often took. “You have to be careful which girls you do it with, and you have to be quite sure they want to do it and won’t feel guilty about it. And don’t ever let your penis touch a girl’s vagina, because people will say you had sex with her, and you might go to prison.” This was a bit of an exaggeration, but I felt so scared that Scott might get carried away and do something stupid that would cause a major scandal in our rather puritanical society and place a permanent stain on his asinine young life. “What if she wants me to – to – touch her or – or poke her?” he muttered. “Touching isn’t safe,” I warned him. “Julie and Tammy will be all right and keep it secret, I’m sure, as long as you don’t do it any more.” I hoped that would be correct, and I wanted to reassure him as I could sense he was very fearful that they might report him after all. “Even hiding so you can show each other isn’t safe. It’s risky even if the girl wants to do it. You see plenty of naked girls when we go to the naturist club or naturist beaches. So let that be enough.” “But I – I mean, the girls in my class,” he whispered. “I – just want to know what they look like, because I know them. It’s just fun. We’re not doing any harm. Some boys do it all the time.” “Not everybody gets away with it,” I warned him. “The older you get, the more dangerous it is. If you’re eight and get caught playing doctors and nurses, it’s trouble enough. But if you do it when you’re 11, everyone thinks you’re going to have sex and your whole life explodes. Worst of all, you’re never allowed to see a girl naked or even talk to one again.” Forgive my exaggerations. Perhaps I did lay it on a bit too thick, because I suspect Scott did carry on with his nefarious activities, only he didn’t tell me about them because he was afraid I’d disapprove. In fact, I know he did, because I was a witness to some of the events I’m going to relate, and he didn’t know it or intend me to find out. It happened one day in February, as our short damp winter season was coming to an end. It was a cloudy Saturday morning, when my parents had gone to town as usual, taking Jenny with them as she wanted to buy some things. I didn’t want to go to town, so I went round to Shelley’s house instead. It was quite cold inside the house – no central heating in homes here, except for the very rich - forcing us to stay fully clothed (my Aunt Sue is quite happy for full nudity at any time at her house) and a chilly wind meant it was not pleasant outside. The cast consisted of myself, Shelley, Marina, Scott and Scott’s latest lady-friend he had brought with him. Scott’s relationship with Jenny has fluctuated over the years, but at present seems just a simple platonic friendship. Scott has seen everything of Jenny there is to see – and quite possibly felt it all as well – so she no longer holds any curiosity for him. On her part, she enjoys his charm but is put off by his silly antics with his penis and his inability to keep his mouth shut about his obsession with underwear and nudity. She has long since tired of his constant questions regarding the physical attributes and development of girls in their class, as seen by Jenny in the changing rooms and showers, but she is such a true naturist that she rarely notices what others look like underneath anyway. So, although the two have stayed quite friendly, Scott’s real interests have turned elsewhere, and I only hope he doesn’t grow into the sort of man who charms up girls and then casts them off and breaks their hearts after having sex with them – as this is what he often seems to do nowadays after seeing them naked. His latest lady-friend was a local girl named Janetta, but at school they Anglicise it and call her Janet for short. She is a tiny, dainty little thing with a deep olive skin. She is bright and outgoing, with a big smile full of milky white teeth. She has big black eyes and a large mop of curly black hair. She’s a lively little character with a great sense of fun. On this particular morning I was, unusually, at rather a loose end. Scott and Janet were lying on the floor in the dining room playing a board game, and for once Scott made it plain to me that he wanted to be left alone with his sweetheart. I wondered if he planned to try anything that I had warned him against and didn’t want me to find out. In the colder weather Janet was wearing a very attractive pink and red dress, with a rather short skirt that flowed out beautifully, but she wore black tights underneath, which Scott no doubt found frustrating. I’m always welcome with Marina and Shelley, but this time they were sitting on the sofa watching a soppy romantic video, and I wasn’t interested. I must digress a while. Whenever she sits on the sofa, Marina has a lovely habit of tucking her legs up under her, and if you are in the right position there is always the briefest glimpse of her soft white panties as she lifts her legs off the floor to do so. Marina has never been self-conscious about her panties, but she likes to wear longer skirts than most and is so elegant and feminine in her movements that it’s a rare treat to see her panties. Shelley, although also unselfconscious about her panties, is quite the opposite. Her panties are open to public viewing more often than any girl I know of her age, although it is never intentional. Often she sits on the sofa leaning forward with legs apart so you can see right up to the crotch of those delightful white woolly panties I have always loved so much. This time she was leaning back in the opposite corner from Marina, one leg curled under her and the other knee up under her chin, revealing a large expanse of rich white under her dark blue skirt. Even though I have seen enough of both of them in their panties to last a lifetime, it somehow still gives me a special thrill and warmth to see the intimacy of their panties under their skirts when they are unaware of it – especially Marina, as it is a rare treat. Shelley has no problem whatever with anybody in the world seeing her panties, although she is so open and innocent that she would never show them deliberately to tease. Shelley’s, Marina’s and my family are always in and out of each other’s houses. Last summer I returned home after school one day with Scott and a friend of his named Bradley, as they wanted to look up some information for their homework from my encyclopedia. I shouldn’t have been as surprised as I was to find Shelley in our lounge, doing exactly the same thing. What did surprise me – which, again, shouldn’t have surprised me – was Shelley’s state of dress, or lack of it. It was a hot day, so she just did what she always does on a hot day. In fact, she would surely have been naked except that she does observe my parents’ rules. We trooped into the lounge together to find Shelley lying flat on her tummy on the floor, scribbling away desperately at an essay due in the following day and using one of my volumes. Working on her tummy was a habit I thought she had grown out of, but I soon learned she had a good reason for it. She was wearing nothing but those lovely white panties, and those only in deference to my parents’ decree. I always marvel at her beauty, the cute little bottom outlined inside those panties, the tanned smooth skin revealing the hipbones just above the waistline, then tapering in for her waist before curving outwards again around her shoulders, with the shoulder-blades prominent. Under her armpits were the broad, gentle curves of her breasts just beginning to bud. Her dark shoulder-length hair was carelessly flowing down either side of her slim, smooth neck. At the nearer end to us, her long slim legs stretched out on the floor. She didn’t turn round as we entered, but just answered, “Hello, Roy,” when I greeted her, and carried on scribbling. Scott looked at her and grinned. He had seen that sight and more many a time, but not in the company of an unsuspecting friend. “Hey, Shelley, we can see your panty-wanties,” he informed her. “Who cares?” came Shelley’s bored reply, as she did not turn round or stop scribbling. “Shelley, this is Bradley. He’s come to borrow a book,” Scott informed her provocatively, in case she hadn’t realised there was a stranger present. Predictably, it didn’t work. “Hello, Bradley,” was Shelley’s only reply, and her tone indicated that she did not appreciate being disturbed. At the age of just 12 then, she couldn’t care less if a strange boy should see her in her panties – or even out of them. She doesn’t really like wearing anything under her dress at all, but usually does because I advise it and also because I tell her how much I love her beautiful soft white panties. I looked at Bradley. He was blushing uncomfortably, a mixture of keen interest and embarrassment, and couldn’t take his eyes off the nearly naked female figure on the floor. I distracted him by taking down one of the books he needed and handing it to him. A few seconds later, Shelley, while still scribbling away with her right hand, reached down her left hand and pulled down the waistline of her panties, revealing about half the crack down the middle and most of her cute little rounded left buttock. She scratched it furiously. Bradley’s mouth dropped open and his eyes popped. Scott never knew when to keep his mouth shut. “Hey, Shelley, Bradley’s never seen a girl’s bottom before,” he grinned. He should have known by now that it is a complete waste of time trying to embarrass Shelley about any degree of nudity. “Poor Bradley,” came Shelley’s voice, now sounding annoyed as she wanted to be left in peace with her work. Then she turned her head for the first time and addressed me, still with one side of her panties pulled halfway down. “Hey, Roy, can you just look at my bottom a moment for me, please?” she asked. “It’s itchy and very sore to sit on, so I’m afraid I may have a spot.” I glanced at Bradley, who was blushing furiously. I saw him wriggle uncomfortably, as if his underpants had suddenly become too small for him. I knelt down next to Shelley and examined the area she indicated, just at the southernmost end of her left buttock cheek. “Yes, there’s a spot growing here with a yellow head,” I told her. “And there’s a red patch, so there may be more spots growing.” I massaged the area very gently, feeling the well-padded flesh under my fingers. One day her breasts will feel like that. “Oh, bother,” she replied crossly. She rolled over and half-sat up, revealing to us all her little breasts, gently rounded with her little pointed nipples sticking forward two or three centimetres. “You remember, two days ago when I had my bowel motion, I had quite a bit of diarrhoea, and a lot of water splashed up from the bowl on to my bottom. I think I forgot to wipe it dry, and I’ll probably have spots now for the next few days, so I won’t be able to sit comfortably. That’s such a nuisance.” Frowning crossly, she dragged her panties back up, rolled back on to her tummy and continued her writing. I almost laughed with incredulity that any girl approaching the age of 12, puberty already under way, even Shelley, could so easily talk about such personal matters so innocently in the presence of a strange boy. I noticed the unfortunate Bradley slipping a hand up his trouser leg to release some pressure. Then he almost caved in at the waist and choked out in a strangled gasp, “Scott, where’s the toilet!?” Scott directed him with a big grin, and Bradley staggered off as fast as he could hobble down the passage, still clutching himself amidships. Scott mischievously started after him, but I grabbed him by the shoulder and said, “Leave him.” Later on I spoke to Shelley and told her she should have been better clothed when visitors came. She shrugged her shoulders and said, “Well, I would have if I’d known he was coming.” I couldn’t argue with that, but I went on to remind her that, once she did know, it wasn’t a good thing to pull down her panties and then talk about bowel motions and diarrhoea in his presence. Poor Bradley would probably take about three days to get over it and start eating solid food again, by the looks of it. At least Shelley always listens to me, so she just shrugged her shoulders and said, “All right,” but her tone of voice indicated clearly that she was thinking, “What a stupid fussy world we live in!” She has always been pretty naïve for her age. Back when she was six or seven, she would willingly show to anybody who asked her panties or her vagina or even how she urinated – standing up, as she always insisted on doing. At the same time, the expression on her face showed clearly that she was thinking, “Why on earth would anybody be interested in that? What on earth do they seem to think is funny about it?” I had to have a talk with her, one of many. After that, if anybody commented that they could see her panties, as happened quite often, she would give them a slow, bemused stare and answer, “Who cares?” If any of the silly boys tried to tease her by asking to see her panties or her vagina, she would give them another slow stare, filled with amused contempt, and just say, “You’re weird.” She never minded anybody seeing, but as I told her, to ask to see was considered very bad manners. I remember from the age of about six onwards playing baseball during the long summer evenings at the sports club just behind our house. I remember those days fondly. While the parents sit in the bar or round a barbecue, the girls tend to prefer the swimming pool or a quiet room they claimed as their own. The boys play baseball on a big vacant stretch of scrubland at the bottom on the club grounds. There are two groups of boys. The older boys, aged from about 12 to 16, have their own game at the best end. Every night they pick teams, and if they have too many those not chosen have to clear off and play with the ‘babies’ – or, if too humiliated, clear off altogether. If there are not enough for two teams, they come and make up numbers from the junior group. The junior group consists of anything between 20 and 40 boys from the age of five or six upwards. It often degenerates into a shouting match, in the absence of supervision. I have never actually tried to join the senior group, even when I was old enough to do so. Part of the reason was that I’m no more than average as a player – I enjoy the fun (when it is fun) but have never been interested enough to practise, so I didn’t want to risk humiliation by failing to satisfy the exacting standards of the older group. Secondly, I enjoy the younger kids and can play a more dominant role in the game while at the same time sorting out all the arguments that arise. But nowadays I’m more often at the club chatting up the teenage girls. I actually enjoy their company every bit as much as I do younger ones, but getting them to shed their clothes at that age is next to impossible, unless you’re looking for sex – which I am not. So that’s why you don’t get many stories about my adventures with older girls, because I don’t have any. At the age of about ten I was down at the club almost every night, playing baseball. My parents usually went only two or three times a week, but we lived close enough for me to go whenever I wanted. Shelley, aged five, began to attach herself to me like a shadow at this stage, which made me very proud and I encouraged it, even though some of the boys teased me at times. I well remember the first time she joined me at baseball. She had no idea what was going on, but she always stood just to one side of me when I batted and just behind me when I fielded. Sometimes she tried to chase me when I ran between bases, but unfortunately that didn’t happen too often – my running between bases, that is. On Shelley’s first visit, as always we picked teams, with much noisy argument. The opposition won the toss and decided to bat, so we all threw off our shirts in the hot weather and took our places. I had forgotten about Shelley as I stood in the gap between first and second base, ready to field. Then I saw some of the boys sniggering and looking behind me. I turned round to see Shelley standing there wearing nothing but her panties. When the boys took their shorts off, she had jettisoned her dress as well. I didn’t mind at all in principle, but I didn’t like the way some of the boys took it. So afterwards I told Shelley, “The boys are too shy to play in their underpants, so it’s not a good thing for you to play in only your panties. If you come again, will you wear a skirt and top, or some shorts, so you can just take your top off?” Shelley duly played in just her skirt after that. She has never liked shorts. “They give me the close-to-phobics because they’re tight,” she would explain seriously at the age of seven. “And jeans are even worser.” An added attraction of the baseball for quite a few years was that the barman, who had two sons who joined us for baseball, would generously send down two large crates of delicious lemonade or similar soft drink for us while we played. So every time a team’s innings was completed we took a time out and drank large quantities of the liquid before continuing. And every time a team came off the field, there were some boys who should have been making a hundred-metre dash up to the clubhouse but couldn’t be bothered. We had three young trees under the wall just behind our baseball diamond. We used to sit under one while we waited to bat. The other two were, for some obscure reason, much greener and grew more quickly. They had another use. Nobody wanted to make an unnecessary journey all the way up to the clubhouse. Between every innings we would have a small gathering of boys around the two greener trees, lubricating the bark with second-hand lemonade. Still on the occasion of Shelley’s first visit, I remember coming off the field, taking a swig of lemonade and then standing next to one of the trees to make room in my bladder for it. Next moment, Shelley was next to me, pulling her panties aside at the crotch, pressing her fingers skilfully in just the right place so as not to dribble down her leg, and releasing her own stream of female urine at the unsuspecting tree. There was a lot of giggling from the other boys at this, and I realised that some of them were this time visiting the wall, some ten metres further back, to exercise their penises more privately, rather than do it where Shelley could see them. I didn’t feel very happy about their sniggers but wasn’t sure what to do about it – I couldn’t very well insist that Shelley make the long trip back every time she overloaded herself, which was quite often as she just loved that lemonade. She made several more visits to that tree that evening, but after she had done it a few times they got used to it and hardly noticed any longer. They also realised that she had no interest whatever in the sight of any boy’s penis, and soon some of the boys were using the trees again, although taking care not to do it when Shelley was near or facing them. After a few weeks we were all doing it round the tree together, the boys so used to Shelley that they were now able to hang their weapons out without the slightest concern. As for the baseball, when Shelley became a little older she wanted to bat and field and be chosen for a team. Reluctantly they let her, when some boys younger than she began to join us. She always tried very hard, despite her laughter whenever she struck out – which was frequently – and her throw, which never developed beyond the typical girls’ throw. By the time she was eight or nine, she was totally accepted, arguing with the best of them, shouting in the field, cheering from the bleachers, shirt always off, urinating in the middle of a group of urinators and at the same time laughing and talking as she always does. The boys just accepted her like a piece of furniture. Then things began to spoil for her last year, when her breasts began to grow. Until this stage, amazingly, she and the boys still relieved themselves side by side without any problems. Occasionally other girls would try to join in, but the boys would always chase them away. But Shelley was always totally accepted, even if she played like a girl. The boys we usually played with didn’t seem to notice her budding breasts for a long time, as they saw her at least once a week and there was no sudden obvious change in that time. Then one day a couple of older boys were sent down from the senior group as they had too many, and they covered their feelings of humiliation with some silly behaviour and provocative remarks. I was on the batting side, while Shelley was fielding and in the same team as both those older boys, so I didn’t find out what had happened until later. They kept trying to tease her, asking her where her bra was and asking if they could feel her ‘tits’, as they called them. Shelley as usual wasn’t bothered, generally ignoring them apart from the odd withering glances, but they were quite a bit older than her (although younger than me), so that didn’t affect them. When I found out, one of the younger boys telling me, I threatened to bash their heads in and frightened them enough to ensure there was no more trouble. But the damage had been done. Some of the younger boys got the idea into their thick skulls that, yes, Shelley’s chest was unusual and it was the cool thing to do to notice it and show they noticed it. Word must have reached the parents, because one fussy old woman began to complain that there was this topless girl playing with the boys on the baseball field, and she didn’t want her son involved in that sort of thing . . . Nobody ever reported the communal toilet, as far as I know, but somehow the appearance of breasts changed everything. By now, actually, the communal toilet was much less in use as the barman’s sons had progressed to the senior baseball group and all the lemonade went there now. The two trees didn’t actually start withering, but they did lose some of their greenness as irrigation took place much less regularly. I can’t actually remember Shelley using it beyond the age of about nine or ten, so I suspect she saw for herself it wasn’t the wisest thing to do as she grew older. But the other boys still had no inhibitions about urinating in her presence when they needed to. Aunt Sue got a letter in the post from the club secretary, asking her to ensure that her daughter complied with the club’s dress regulations when she played baseball – and also when she swam, as she never wore a top. She phoned the secretary to remind him that the club did not have dress regulations for children. Then she slammed the phone down. “Stupid old prat,” she snorted. “They’ve just made some.” She did realise, though, that they could make things unpleasant for Shelley if she did not comply, so she had to tell her, reluctantly, that she must now wear a top for baseball and swimming. “In that case, I’ll never play baseball or swim again,” Shelley retorted. And she never did play baseball again. She does swim, but deliberately leaves her top off. Occasionally somebody officious is there and makes a fuss, so Shelley just retorts, “Oh, I forgot, I’m not used to those silly things,” and puts on a bikini top so loosely that it hides nothing and often falls off. By the way, when she was about eight I tactfully persuaded her to change for swimming under her skirt instead of stripping off completely outside. She never would use the changing rooms, but some pesky adults have begun recently to get after her for that as well. So Shelley hardly ever goes to the club these days. It’s an intolerant world out there. I’m just glad so little seems to bother my lovely, uninhibited Shelley. But she does resent her breasts and the restrictions they place on her. I love them as they are at the moment. Being Shelley, she invited me to feel them once when she was complaining about them, and they are beautifully soft and springy and rubbery. She hasn’t had a period yet, but I will be sure to find out as soon as it happens, just as I did when she decided her breasts were first growing, and when she discovered her first signs of pubic hair. She isn’t looking forward to it. “It sounds such a pain,” she grumbles. “How can I urinate when there’s a tampon up my slit, anyway? And what about when I grow more hair? Will they get wet every time I urinate?” I had to tell her that my knowledge doesn’t extend to answering those questions. I just worship her smooth soft body and hope that puberty doesn’t spoil it too much. “I’ll just shave it off if I don’t want it,” she says of her pubic hair. “After all, some girls shave their legs and under their arms, don’t they? Though my mum never does.” “And their bottoms,” I teased her. “Will I grow hair there as well?” she asked in some alarm. She’s just as easy to tease as Scott. (To be continued) EDUCATING SCOTT (CHAPTER 2) Well, back now to my story about Scott and Janet. I left Marina and Shelley to the joys of their video and wondered what to do, as Scott and Janet were still laughing happily in the next room. I went to the kitchen, took a drink and wandered upstairs, feeling cold, but noticing that the sun was beginning to come out. Shelley’s family have a big upstairs sunroom, and if the sun kept shining I would soon be able to warm up there. I went to the toilet first, ignoring a couple of enormous pairs of my overweight aunt’s panties hanging to dry over the bath, along with other washing. As usual I didn’t bother to shut the door, and was just shaking my penis dry when I heard a light thud outside, followed by a “Shh!” I recognised Scott’s voice, and assumed that Janet had stumbled on the top step of the stairs and Scott was warning her to be quiet. I immediately suspected something was up and backed away out of sight, just as the pair of them crept past the bathroom door. Janet gave a giggle, but replied in a slightly hushed voice, “Why do we need to be quiet?” “In case Marina hears us,” I heard Scott whisper to her. “She’s always bothering me.” That just wasn’t true, but it added to my suspicions that Scott had some nefarious purpose in mind that he didn’t want Marina to find out about. “What about Shelley and – er – your friend? Roy?” asked Janet as they passed. “They’re all right. They’re watching the video with Marina,” Scott replied. I was glad Scott hadn’t decided to use the toilet so as to reveal his assets to Janet, or they would have seen me. Not many weeks earlier, I gather, he tried this with another girl, who was very embarrassed and soon left, so maybe he had learned a lesson from that. Take it slowly - don’t try too much too soon. It may have worked that first time in the car with eight-year-olds when others were present, as it had that time when I first met Marina and Scott, but it is a very different story alone with a ten-year-old. I heard a door opening quietly at the end of the passage, and Scott’s voice saying in hushed excitement, “Come in here.” Then I heard the door close after them, and a key turn in the lock. I was sure they had gone into the sunroom. I scuttled out of the bathroom and put my ear to the door, as curious as anybody to find out why Scott needed to lock the door after them. I was just in time to hear Janet’s muffled voice, “Why are you locking it?” “So Marina won’t find us,” replied Scott. “Come.” I heard hurried footsteps and thumping noises, and wondered what was happening. Feeling like a sneak, I tried to look through the keyhole, but could see only a tiny chink of sky, so it was obviously facing the window. I felt rather frustrated. Come on, admit it – you would also have wanted very much to see what Scott was doing with Janet in those circumstances. But I also wanted to see how Scott would follow the advice I had given him over the last couple of years about dealing with girls, and also very much to be sure that in his enthusiasm he didn’t seriously embarrass Janet by his behaviour or try to force her to do something she didn’t want. Then suddenly I remembered something. When she was small, Shelley had always liked to sleep in that room. It was next to her parents’ bedroom, so her parents had rigged up a large one-way mirror so they could look into the room at any time to check she was all right, but she could not see them from the sunroom. Then once when she was badly ill they added a microphone that they could turn on and off, so that they could put it on at night and hear if she was coughing. I nipped quickly into Aunt Sue’s bedroom, without any pangs of conscience as she never had any problems about my going in there. When I was younger I sometimes spent the night there, and at times all three of us would snuggle into her big bed and she would read us stories, and sometimes we would fall asleep together. My uncle, resigned to his fate, would quietly disappear into the guest room. Within a moment I had my face eagerly up to that one-way mirror, staring through it. The main feature of the room was a huge mattress in the middle, big enough for all of us, Aunt Sue included, to lie on and sunbathe at almost any time of day. Right now, about midmorning, the sun’s rays were angling in from the eastern side as the clouds were being scattered by the gusty wind. Scott and Janet were sitting on the side of the mattress facing the window, the sunlight on their hair, taking off their shoes and socks, and chattering away as they did so. I looked for the little switch and sound control for the microphone and adjusted it, feeling strangely excited as I prepared to watch Scott in action. I decided that if his passions overcame him and he started embarrassing Janet, I would hammer on the door with some excuse to stop him. They were less than five metres away from me and I could now hear every word they said. They were chattering away about the game they had just been playing and apparently abandoned when the sun came out. I had to remind myself that they couldn’t see me but only their own reflections in the mirror, so that I didn’t keep jerking away when they turned in my direction. Scott, who always rips off his shoes and socks – in fact, anything he is wearing when he takes it off – finished first. Then he announced, “I’m taking my jersey off,” standing up, facing Janet and ripping off that particular garment. He showed a large area of tummy as the action pulled his shirt right up, making Janet giggle. Then he stood facing her, grinning, once he had removed his jersey and adjusted his shirt. I could tell this was part of a cunning plan and he was deliberately awaiting her reaction. His white shirt had written in blue letters across the front the words, “Small is beautiful.” I found later he had seen it in the shops a few days earlier and had persuaded his puzzled mother, with great excitement, to buy it, without telling her why. Janet didn’t notice it at first, as she unbuttoned her own jersey and put it neatly on a nearby chair, under which were her shoes and socks. Then she looked at Scott and wrinkled her nose up into a frown. “Why does it say, ‘Small is beautiful’?” she asked. “You’re not small.” Certainly not to the tiny Janet, who came to just above his shoulder. “No, but some parts of me are,” boasted Scott. “Which parts?” asked Janet, totally innocent as she walked straight into the trap. I was very much afraid that Scott would show her on the spot, but he did have a little more subtlety than that. He pretended to be shy. “Oh, just some – parts,” he replied. “Not many people know. But I often sunbathe in here with Marina and Roy and Shelley and Jenny and – other very special people. Only people we can trust. And they told me that small is beautiful.” The naïve little Janet didn’t understand him at all. “But what’s small?” she asked. “And why do you only sunbathe with special people you can trust?” Just what Scott had been hoping she would ask him. He played hard to get. “I don’t know if I can tell you,” he said, flopping on his back and kicking his legs in the air. He often does this, but on this cold day he was still wearing long trousers and so failed to reveal his underpants, as he regularly does when wearing shorts. “You might think we were very bad,” he added. “No, I wouldn’t! Why should I think you were very bad?” asked Janet. I could sense in the middle of that last sentence the tone of her voice changed, as if she suddenly guessed. Scott now began to behave as if it were nothing of any importance at all. “Well, just that we – take all our clothes off and do it naked,” he told her, looking as innocent and unconcerned as he could, an act that I for one have never found convincing. “Do you think that’s very bad?” Janet gave a little squeal and a giggle. Then she shook her head and said, “No, not really.” Then she added, “I used to do that when I was little.” As if she were big now! “We can still do it here if you like,” Scott grinned at her. Janet grinned widely, but she shook her head firmly and said, “No. That would be too naughty.” She giggled, but didn’t seem to be offended, just as she might have done if somebody had dared her to jump out of the window. Scott looked uncertain now. He had tried to steer Janet through the maze without letting her take a wrong turning, but now he had said the wrong thing and didn’t know how to recover the situation. He sat there next to her on the mattress, at a loss for words. But Janet said, “I’m hot. I want to take my tights off, anyway.” She stood up, reached up under her skirt and began to pull down her black tights. I stared hard, but could see nothing of interest underneath as she pulled them carefully over her bottom so as not to pull her panties down as well, down her thighs, over her knees and down to her ankles. Then she sat down on the low mattress and started pulling her tights off over her feet. Scott sprang to his feet, went over to the window and stood there facing Janet, suddenly talking some rubbish about school. It was quite obvious he had got into that position so as to see her panties as she lifted her legs to remove her tights. While Janet’s eyes were on her feet, Scott’s were up her skirt, and I could tell from the lascivious look on his face and the gleam in his wicked little blue eyes that he was enjoying the view. He put a hand down when Janet wasn’t looking and quickly rearranged his trousers at the crotch. I felt frustrated as I was to one side and could see nothing. I wondered if she, as a local at the English school, had adopted the plain, usually pale-coloured panties of most of the other girls there or whether she had kept to the gaudily coloured, frilly specimens that the local females generally prefer. Without giving Janet a chance to put her tights away tidily, Scott suddenly sprung at her with a whoop of fun. He pushed her on to her back and started wrestling with her. Laughing, she took it in good spirit and struggled back, trying to push him away. They rolled around on the mattress, with Janet showing some surprising strength in her wiry little body. Then they rolled over with their heads away from me, and as Janet kicked and fought I could see right up her skirt. It seemed she (or her mother) had settled on a compromise between English-school and local panties. They were white, very white, of the sexy sort that are transparent enough to show the colour of the skin through them but not enough to reveal any detail around the crotch. They were covered with lace and embroidery. They kept wrestling, Scott with his arms around Janet and she trying, all in the greatest of fun, to push him away. I saw him roll her over, at the same time moving his arm so as to drag her skirt up at the back. Then I could see his hand under her bottom, feeling her panties as he pushed and wrestled with her. This seemed to satisfy him – for the present. Janet didn’t seem to appreciate his true intentions. He let her push him over on to his back and lay there, arms and legs spreadeagled, tongue hanging out as he put on an act. His shirt was well up, showing most of his skinny little tummy. Janet lay next to him, laughing, her panties still visible from where I was watching. The sun streamed in, strongly now, through the windows and on to their bodies. Scott, red in the face, sat up and said, “It’s too hot. I’m going to take my shirt off.” He dragged it off, threw it to the ground and then lay back again, bare from the waist upwards. No doubt he was hoping Janet would respond in kind. Janet looked at his skinny little body, with ribs showing and thin arms spread out by his side, and she said, “I know what small is beautiful means. It’s your muscles, isn’t it?” I almost laughed aloud. Scott was highly indignant, but he tried to hide it. “No, it isn’t!” he exploded. Then he quietened his voice and said, “It’s something you can’t see now.” The innocent little Janet wrinkled up her nose as she tried to work this one out. She stared at his body and then asked, “Is it your heart?” “No,” retorted Scott. “Do you want me to show you?” Not so fast, Scott, I mentally begged him. “No, I’ll guess,” said Janet. She plucked at the front of her dress by the collar to give herself some air. “I’m so hot here. I need some water.” So saying, she rose from the bed and went to a washbasin by the wall, where she washed her face and took a drink. “I always take my clothes off when I’m hot,” Scott told her. “When I’m with Marina and Roy and Shelley and Jenny. And other special people. If they don’t mind. Then we can all do it together. And that’s when I can tell people small is beautiful.” I shook my head sadly. Scott would get very few marks out of ten for subtlety this time. Janet, coming from local stock, had fewer hang-ups about nudity than those of British stock. So she said, without much interest, “You can if you want. I don’t mind.” I think Scott was rather taken aback by this. He – and I myself, I suppose – prefer the sensual game of gentle teasing and quiet persuasion, just as long as we win in the end. I suppose it boosts the ego to know that we’ve won a battle of wits and persuaded an initially reluctant girl to do willingly what we had hoped she would all the time. I think also Scott was afraid that, without this wheeling and dealing, he would not get to see Janet naked either, especially as she had said “No” to his earlier suggestion. So he stood up and said, “It’s not good if we don’t both do it. So I’ll just take my trousers off and wear my underpants.” So saying, he grabbed the waist of his trousers and pulled down hard. They were a little tight and, before he realised what was happening, he had pulled part of his underpants down as well and his little penis popped out at the front. It was totally unintentional, it was before he was ready for it and no doubt he thought it would wreck what devious little plan he had in his devious little brain. He gave a gasp and pulled his underpants up again at the front to cover it. Janet gave a squeal of laughter, more from surprise than anything. She stuffed her fingers in her mouth, but still giggled. Then she said, “Scott, I know what’s small and beautiful. It’s your – your pee-pee. Your pee-pee thing.” She speaks English with virtually no accent, but this was a word she didn’t know. “Isn’t it?” Scott nodded proudly as he stepped out of his trousers, wearing only his underpants. They were his winter models, rather like Shelley’s usual, warm and woollen, all white and very impressive-looking. “Small is beautiful,” he repeated with his cheeky grin, momentarily pulling down the front of his underpants again to give a quick flash of his penis. Janet gave a little squeal again, and then she said, “Oh, Scott, I do like your underpants, though. They look so smart.” “You must show me your panties, then,” ordered Scott, pointing. I shook my head and groaned silently. That certainly was not the way to do it with a ‘nice’ girl, and Janet certainly did seem the right sort. That is, she wasn’t one of those silly girls who like to exhibit or expose themselves to boys in a silly way. Janet looked surprised, then giggled and shook her head. Scott, full of misguided fun, shouted “Yes!” and jumped on her. They fell over backwards on to the mattress, with Janet squealing but laughing at the same time. Scott was pulling at her skirt, while she tried to hold it down. Mentally I called him all sorts of rude names. In his lust or excitement he seemed to have forgotten all I had tried to teach him and was messing up his time with Janet completely. I prepared to intervene, but so far it was still fun as far as Janet was concerned. Suddenly Scott let go of Janet’s skirt and concentrated on pinning her on her back. Although she struggled, still laughing, he was stronger. “Show me!” he shouted, his face close to hers. Then he bent his head down and gave her a smacking kiss on the lips. I could tell from where I was that Janet was totally gobsmacked – if you will excuse the pun. She stopped struggling, lay on her back, stared at him with her mouth open, and then a beautiful smile spread across her face. Then she lifted her head and kissed him on the cheek. Scott blushed furiously red, and started clowning around again to hide it. Making inane animal noises, he gave her another smacking kiss, and they rolled over together again, amid sounds of Janet’s laughter and Scott’s weird roaring noises. They surfaced with Janet on her back again, while Scott rolled off her, gasping for breath and still red. Then he said, “I know. If you don’t want to sunbathe naked, let’s wear swimming costumes.” Janet sat up, lifting a leg as she did so to give me an involuntary glimpse of her frilly white panties. Then she said, “That’s good, but I didn’t bring my swimming costume.” “Shelley has some in that cupboard,” Scott said, pointing. “Come on, let’s get changed and we can wear those.” Having had her initial agreement, he made hay while the sun shone, ripping off his underpants and standing naked before her. She didn’t squeal this time, but just gave his penis a glance before standing up and starting to unbutton her dress, much to my surprise. But then I had almost forgotten she was a local girl and her culture is a bit different. She might have hesitated at nude sunbathing, but wasn’t worried about changing together with a boy. Scott, knowing he had a moment to spare before the climax of the action, went over to the cupboard to find the swimming costumes. He was actually telling the truth this time, but not the whole truth. Shelley did in fact have two old swimming costumes in there, her first school one – which of course had a top to it – and a frilly bikini bottom. Scott took them out, and once again he had to open his mouth when it would have been wiser to keep it shut. “Oh, Janet, I do like your panties, they’re so sexy,” he said with a big grin as she slipped her dress off and stood there in her frilly winter vest and those elaborate panties. It was an echo of her own words about his underpants earlier, but a lot of girls would still feel embarrassed. Fortunately, Janet didn’t mind. “They’re my best ones,” she smiled, and started slipping out of her vest as Scott stood before her, nervously plucking the end of his penis as he always does when both nervous and naked. Then, as Janet slipped her vest off, she gave a squeal and pointed at his penis. She didn’t seem to know what to say, but Scott took his hand away for a moment to show that it was hardening rapidly and had now progressed above the horizontal. “Scott, don’t do that, I don’t like it,” she protested. Scott looked embarrassed, as for him it was, I suppose, the equivalent of premature ejaculation. “I can’t help it,” he excused himself. “It does that when – it feels good. It always happens when it gets into the sun because that makes it feel good,” he lied. Janet looked a bit nervous. I was surprised to see that such a small girl was growing little breasts already, with little rounded humps appearing on her chest with clear pink nipples on the end. They were about as big as Shelley’s, although she was two years younger. Scott was looking at them and trying to pretend he wasn’t. I think Janet sensed his interest, as she looked rather uncomfortable as she slipped off her frilly panties, showing a small but deep black slit against her olive Mediterranean skin. She held her panties loosely over her vagina as she looked at the two costumes Scott was showing her and said firmly, “I’ll have that one.” She was pointing to the full red school swimming costume that would cover her emerging breasts as well. She took it, held it against her and then said, “It looks a bit small.” It was, even for her. “Yes, they’re – a bit small, but we can squeeze into them,” answered Scott, eyeing her vagina and trying to put on the little bikini bottom at the same time. Not surprisingly, he put his foot in the wrong place and overbalanced, sitting on the carpet on his bare bottom with a bump. Janet gave a giggle as she looked at him and then, probably suspicious of his roving eyes, quickly started to slip into the school costume. Scott stood up, put his legs into the right holes this time, and then began to pull the costume up his legs. It certainly was a tight fit. He managed to pull it up to his crotch but it would hardly go any further. Even a minute penis like his was a struggle. Janet was having problems as well. She did managed to pull her costume over her bottom but, meant for a five-year-old when she looked at least seven, it was too short to reach her breasts. For once Scott seemed to choose a wise course of action. He was glancing at her sideways and was obviously tempted to make some comment about her as she struggled in vain to pull the tight material up to her little breasts. Instead, he came over to the mirror. Instinctively I ducked away, but then reminded myself that he couldn’t see me, so I gingerly put my head round again. He seemed to be looking right at me, and it was difficult to believe he could only see his own reflection. He was chuckling with laughter. His costume was up as far as he could get it, and the end of his little pink penis was still just sticking out at the top. At the back it didn’t even begin to cover his bottom. “Look at me!” he crowed to Janet. “I look so funny like this!” Janet came over, and again I had to stop myself from ducking in case she saw me. The costume was very tight on her and she had a hand up to cover her little breasts from Scott’s greedy eyes. “Me too,” she said. The two of them stood side by side, looking (it appeared) almost straight at me, and laughed long and loud. “I can’t wear this because I can’t even stick my piss inside,” chuckled Scott. “That’s a rude word,” Janet said, slightly shocked. “What’s the proper name for it in English?” “The real word is penis,” Scott told her, eager to show off his knowledge. “Some people call it a peeny for short.” Especially Scott’s – as his is *very* short! “Or you can call it a willy or a dick or a percy or a peter. All sorts of boys’ names. Some people call it a knob or a ding-dong or a cock or a chop or . . .” He went off with a whole long list of names with varying degrees of decency, proudly showing off his wide vocabulary. Janet looked quite embarrassed. “I think peeny is best, maybe,” she suggested as Scott finally began to run out of words. “And a girl’s place is called a vagina,” Scott said, blundering on senselessly. “But some people call it a fanny or a pussy or . . .” “No, Scott, I don’t want to know them all,” protested Janet, putting her hands up to cover her ears and forgetting she was at the same time uncovering her breasts. I was able to have a closer look at them, cute little cups with the tender-looking nipples quite broad and a darker pink. “Willy’s getting sore,” Scott told her, wriggling in front of the mirror and trying to restore the flow of blood to his foreskin and prepuce, the only parts of the object in question that were sticking out. The bikini briefs were so tight that the material followed every line of even Scott’s tiny genitals. He burst out laughing again. “Hey, Janet, this looks so funny.” Janet giggled, and said, “I look funny too. This costume won’t even come up to my boobies.” She made no effort to cover them now. “Come on, feel it,” encouraged Scott, turning towards her and leaning back a bit, hands on hips, the better to display his talents. “It’s small and beautiful,” he added proudly. Again I groaned. He could so easily mess it up, and he seemed to be trying hard. Janet glanced sidelong at the little squashed object that was gasping for breath under the tight elastic waistline of the bikini briefs, and shook her head. Many girls would have decided enough was enough. It seemed that Janet also felt that way, as she just said, “I want to get dressed now.” She turned back to her clothes. Scott knew he had messed up. Looking crestfallen, he turned back to Janet, but didn’t know what to say. Janet turned her back on him, looking rather embarrassed still, and began with difficulty to wriggle out of that tight costume. Her cute little bottom slowly appeared as she gradually worked it downwards with some very exciting but totally unconscious wriggles. Scott watched her as he, also with difficulty, dragged off the bikini briefs. When Scott moved alongside her, no doubt to try to fill his eyes for what might well have been the last time, she turned slightly away from him to hide her body. Finally her costume came off down her legs quite suddenly and she picked up her panties quickly, eager to return to the security of clothes. Then inspiration seemed to take hold of Scott. “I love your panties,” he said, with his most charming smile, as Janet was about to step into them. “They’re the prettiest I’ve ever seen. And they’re so sexy.” Janet, obviously flattered, hesitated. Then she said again, “They’re my best. And I like your underpants.” Scott went on. “Come on, let’s play a dressing-up game. Let’s change clothes. I’ll wear yours and . . .” Then suddenly he seemed to realise that, in her unsettled state, he would do better to slow down a bit. So he said, “Would you like to try on my clothes? And I could try yours, if – if you don’t mind.” Janet hesitated, and then suddenly gave a smile and said, “All right. My panties are very frilly, though. They’ll look funny on a boy.” She held them out to him with a giggle. “Nobody will see but you,” he told her. “And I trust you.” He took her panties and then picked up his underpants from the floor and gave them to her. Janet turned towards the mirror as she put on Scott’s underpants, no doubt to see what she looked like. Her little vagina, curving into a deep black slit, was clearly visible, and I loved her for it. It would mean far more to me, though, if she would let me see it voluntarily. I felt very guilty about spying on her like this. Scott meanwhile was slipping into her frilly panties. I shuddered as I saw him standing there wearing them, so tight on him that again the outline of his penis and, less clearly, his testicles, were quite visible. His skin colour showed right through the semi-transparent material, although it wasn’t possible to make out the details of his penis. There followed a rather nauseating ten minutes or so as Scott and Janet dressed up in each other’s clothes and pranced around, Scott showing off as usual and Janet demonstrating that she also had that ability, although not in a sexual way. I have never thought much of cross-dressing (in fact, dressing at all is only done with reluctance when the weather is warm), and I remember with some shame that time when Saskia tricked me into dressing as a girl to gatecrash a party, as related in The Temptress. Janet’s dress only just covered Janet’s panties when both were being displayed on Scott’s body, and he was only too pleased to flash those panties and watch himself in the mirror. Then he took the panties off and did all sorts of tricks to see how his penis showed in the mirror when he rolled on the mattress or stood on his hands or touched his toes, and all that sort of thing. Janet had more of a problem, as she couldn’t wear Scott’s long trousers properly as they came down over her feet, and even his underpants kept slipping down her slim body. In the end she spent most of the time wearing his shirt as a microskirt, almost but not quite long enough to cover Scott’s underpants as she stood straight. She began to protest less at Scott’s soft-porn behaviour and giggled a bit at some of his antics. Most nauseating to me were the times when Scott acted as a girl with a squeaky voice, while persuading Janet to use a deep voice and be a boy. This gave him good opportunity for putting his arm around her and slopping kisses on to her, which she seemed to appreciate. But I never did like the mixing of genders. In the end, as the sun stayed out and became hotter, they tired of their game. Janet suggested they sunbathe, wearing only underwear – their own. Scott told her she could do that if she wanted, but he would go naked now. So saying, he returned all her clothes and lay down on his back on the mattress, arms behind his head and legs spread, with his penis and testicles proudly displayed for her benefit. Then a thought struck him, and next to his legs he spread out his shirt with its message, “Small is beautiful.” “You’re small, so you’re beautiful too,” he told her. Then, just so there was no mistake, he added, “But you’d be beautiful whatever size you were.” Thus fortified by his flattery, the sweetly smiling Janet shyly removed all her clothes and lay down next to him naked. He reached out a hand and put it on her leg. She jerked convulsively, perhaps thinking he was after her vagina, but Scott was just making steady progress towards putting his arm round her again. It was a sight to make anybody smile – or should have been: these two beautiful young naked bodies, one male and one female, even if they had become somewhat confused not so long ago, lying side by side in the sunlight and in innocence. Or as much innocence as is possible when Scott is around. I drank in their beauty, a smile on my face all the while. They spent most of the time talking, as both were of talkative natures, and laughing, as both were also good at that. Scott talked a bit about his penis and how ‘small was beautiful’, but thankfully stopped short of showing Janet how it worked. Intentionally, that is – quite regularly as they lay there his little penis would start to reassert itself for a minute or two, no doubt in response to various thoughts that kept feeding through from Scott’s over-sexed little brain. He also talked more about naturism, and about me and the others. “Roy doesn’t mind if anybody sees his penis,” Scott told her, never dreaming that I might be able to hear him. “It’s not very big, but it’s not very small either. He’s got a bit of hair on it, but he says he cuts it a bit so it doesn’t get itchy or smelly. It’s not bad for a teenager, because so many of them have big hairy cocks that look so ugly. I’m glad mine isn’t like that, because small is beautiful. And so are you.” He took the excuse of planting another kiss on her cheek, to which she responded. I had long since satisfied my curiosity about Janet’s cute little body, but I was still curious about what they might do, and a bit worried that Scott might keep going into deeper waters. Would he want to get his grubby little hands on Janet’s delicate little breasts or modest little vagina? If he looked like doing that, I wanted to be able to head it off. Scott kept chattering away, one hand fondling his penis from time to time, but Janet was talkative enough to interrupt him frequently. “Shelley lets people do anything they like,” he told her. “She’s 12, but she sits with her legs apart so people can see her panties, and she likes to go around without a top on, so people can see her boobs. She won’t wear a bra, and she always stands up when she does a wee, like a boy. You can just see little bits of hair growing at the top of her wee, but she hates her boobs because she doesn’t want to wear a shirt.” He prattled on like this and my blood started to boil at the way he spoke about my little cousin. I know it was just childish bragging, but some things should be kept private and never spoken about like this. “Jenny’s good, too, but she gets a bit boring now,” Scott continued. Well, Jenny isn’t as lively a character as Shelley. “She lets me touch her all over, even on her pussy.” Again I fumed, sure that Jenny would not let Scott go that far, but there may have been some sort of physical examination. “She doesn’t have nice boobies like yours. They haven’t grown yet.” Scott giggled in a silly way and feasted his eyes on Janet’s little nipples. She stopped smiling and wriggled uncomfortably, moving one hand up nervously to counter Scott’s lascivious gaze. I was very glad that Scott didn’t start discussing Marina in that sort of way, because I would have found it very difficult to keep myself from breaking up their little party and throttling him. But the great thing about Marina is that people instinctively seem to respect her, and that even applies to her younger brother. Apart from saying that Marina often joined us in our naturist activities, he didn’t mention her much, and said nothing about her body. I was wondering where this was going to end, and sure that the girls’ video downstairs must be coming to an end, when Scott gave a wriggle and scratched his penis. “Willy needs some exercise,” he told Janet, sitting up and standing in front of her, holding the gentleman in question between finger and thumb as he often did. “Come and see Willy get his exercise.” So saying, he went over to the door and unlocked it. Janet had looked puzzled, failing to understand his meaning. Now she got up in alarm and scrambled for her clothes. “Don’t let anybody – see us,” she blurted out, suddenly overcome by guilt. Scott looked out into the passage and said, “It’s all right – I can still hear the video and they’re all watching that.” He turned and gave a big wicked grin to Janet, who was cowering behind her panties. “Let’s be naughty and go naked,” he hissed, as if offering the biggest treat in the world. “Go where to?” Janet wanted to know, slipping into her panties. “You don’t need those on,” Scott told her, but she didn’t take them off. “We’re going to the bathroom, of course, so Willy can have some exercise.” Janet seemed to get the gist of what he was talking about now. As Scott left the room I sneaked back out of sight so he couldn’t see me through the half-open door of Aunt Sue’s bedroom. I heard the pattering of tiny feet as first Scott, still naked, and then Janet, wearing only panties, tiptoed quickly past Aunt Sue’s half-open door and over to the bathroom, rejoicing in being ‘naughty’. The bathroom door shut behind them, no doubt Janet’s doing. My ears could just make out the splashing of liquid, which was no doubt Scott giving Willy his exercise into the toilet bowl. I had been wondering what to do, and decided it was time to bring their privacy to an end. I sneaked out of the bedroom and in through the door of the sunroom, which they had left ajar. I went over to the far corner of the room, threw off my shirt and then started pulling down my trousers. Then I thought it might offend Janet if I removed too much too soon, and kept them on. A couple of minutes later I heard a door opening, and more scampering of feet, accompanied by a few giggles. Scott scuttled in through the door, penis bobbing up and down. He didn’t see me first, as I was in the far corner. Close behind was Janet, hand to mouth and giggling hard. She was now naked and held her panties in one hand, so presumably she had decided to ‘exercise Fanny’, to use Scott’s distasteful jargon. They saw me at the same time, Janet just at the same moment as she threw her panties on to the mattress. Her mouth fell open and she screamed, then scrambled desperately after her panties and clutched them to her. She backed against the far wall and screamed again as she stared at me with big eyes, very embarrassed and perhaps expecting trouble. She was a thin little body covered in olive skin, except for that little area between her legs where she had stuffed her frilly white panties. Then she thought of something else, and threw one hand up to protect her little breasts. Scott went bright red, no doubt through guilt as well. I smiled at them both and said to Scott, “Hello, Scott, I was wondering where you were.” Then I said to Janet, “Hello, Janet – it’s all right, it doesn’t matter.” This reduced the embarrassment of them both by perhaps half. “I didn’t know – what are you doing here?” blurted out Scott. “I was cold downstairs and I was bored with the film, so I thought with the sun coming out I’d come and get warm in the sunroom,” I told him. “I wondered where you were, then I heard you in the bathroom. Is it all right if I join you?” Scott nodded dumbly. Then he blurted out, “We were – going to use swimming costumes. But we – we didn’t have any.” “That’s all right, you can use your skins if Janet doesn’t mind,” I told him. Then I turned to Janet and gave her my most charming smile. “That’s all right, Janet, it doesn’t matter. We often go sunbathing with nothing on. Is it all right if I join you?” Janet still looked frightened and her big black eyes stared at me. She kept herself covered, but dumbly nodded her head. “Good – thank you,” I smiled back and began to take off the rest of my clothes, continuing to talk so as to ease the tension. Janet shot a quick glance at my penis, no doubt to check that Scott really had been telling the truth about me, but then showed no more concern about my naked body. As I lay down on the mattress next to Scott, she slowly dropped her panties and sneaked on to it as well, on the other side of Scott. Things grew slowly easier over the next few minutes. I did most of the talking, as Scott and Janet seemed to be struggling with guilt, although it was probably also the shock of finding me waiting for them. Janet probably felt guilty at giving in to Scott over something she wasn’t happy about, while Scott no doubt felt guilty about having disregarded my warnings about how to deal with girls. Then Janet gave a gasp and sprang to her feet, reaching for her panties again as we heard footsteps along the passage. “Don’t worry, it’s all right,” I assured her, as Shelley walked into the room. “Sunbathing? Ooh, lovely!” exclaimed Shelley, immediately starting to throw off her clothes. Soon we were all sunbathing together, although Janet took a while to become comfortable with sunbathing in a larger group. Scott, though, seemed sulky, no doubt cross that his privacy with Janet had been destroyed. Afterwards I spoke to Scott privately and asked how it had all come about. I got some rather devious answers, as of course he had no idea I had been watching them. For my part, I could not tell him outright when I knew he was lying, but just told him I didn’t think he was telling the truth there. Certain things, I reminded him, could put girls off, and if they reported him for trying to get them naked or touching them on certain parts of their anatomy, or using certain anatomical terms, he would be in big trouble. He knows very well that I use gentle persuasion often enough to begin naturist relationships with girls, but I am a lot more experienced with girls and I have managed to cultivate a reputation among adults for being mature and trustworthy. So all I could do was to repeat my guidelines for, not safe sex but safe strip-offs, as he called it in his charming way. Scott listened very carefully, obviously considering me a successful entrepreneur with the secrets to success and untold riches at my fingertips. He asked me to repeat most of what I said, often more than once, so he could no doubt imprint my secret formula on his brain, giving him the power of the golden tongue to persuade any and every girl to strip off willingly at his pleasure. I tried to knock into that obsessed little skull the fact that, genius though he obviously thinks me to be, even I do not have the power to do that. Often it takes a long time and often it never works. I have had many failures, especially as I get older and many of my intended ‘victims’ are teenagers. Of course, you don’t hear about them in my stories! And the more difficult it is, the more important it is to make sure that the girl is not offended and tempted to report you for anything you said or did. He had been fortunate with Janet because she was a local and less easily offended by nudity than the British, but if he had behaved with a girl of British stock the way I suspected (so he said), he might well have been in trouble. In spite of my precautions, I think Scott still tries to go too fast and take too many risks. Once at his house recently I surprised him in the garage with a younger girl, both with their pants down, Scott carrying out a very physical examination, and quite clearly playing doctors and nurses. The girl was scared stiff and pleaded with me not to report them, so I reminded her of her need to co-operate and keep quiet about it – or I would be forced to reveal what I knew. I also suspect he managed successfully to have more private sessions with Janet, probably physical ones. After a few weeks he seemed to have lost all interest in her and now had his lustful little eyes on a new girl in his class – for whom he needed my help. (To be continued) EDUCATING SCOTT (CHAPTER 3) “We’ve got a new girl in our class this term,” Scott told me on the Saturday morning after the first week of the summer term. That wasn’t unusual. With the turnover of expatriates in our city, we tend to have several coming and several leaving every term. So I knew straight away that this wasn’t just a casual comment. We had all been swimming in our pool at home, but I was feeling lazy and soon got out. Scott quickly joined me, for a man-to-man talk as he always calls it, which means he wants to unburden his ten-year-old’s sex life to me. Now we were lying together on a lounger, while Scott scratched his testicles, causing his penis to wobble wildly all over the place, and unburdened himself. Vocally, that is to say. “She’s so wet,” he told me in disgust. “She’s from America, but she talks more like she’s English than American. When she talks at all, that is. Most of the time she just says, ‘I don’t know what to do’.” He pulled a face and affected a namby-pamby voice. “She wears silly long dresses that go right down her legs and she has such a silly name. She can’t swim, hardly, at all, and she can’t even catch a ball. She’s just so scared of everything.” He was now lying on his back with his arms behind his head, but his penis was beginning to twitch, so I knew we were coming to the heart of the matter. “But she’s quite pretty, actually,” he said. “And she has such nice panties. They’re very white and they look soft and shiny. I think they must be made of silk.” I didn’t ask him how he knew, but no doubt Scott has his own nefarious methods of investigation where such matters of vital importance are concerned. I did tell him once that when he grew up, he should take on a job in the FBI for investigating feminine underwear. His face lit up. “*Is* there a job for that?” he asked. I suppose it’s every man’s dream to spend his life doing the thing he loves to do the most and get paid for it. Actually there is one thing Scott enjoys to see even more than panties, but it’s more difficult. I can’t see him making a paying career out of either of them. Even Casanova was a goldsmith in his spare time, if I remember correctly. “Don’t be too hard on her,” I reminded him. “Lots of kids come to school here for the first time, and it’s a new school, a new country, new customs, and nobody they know there at all. Some of them get very homesick. Not everyone is as confident as you and gets send to the headmaster for kissing a girl on his first day at the school.” “That’s not true!” Scott retorted indignantly. “It was the third day! And she dared me to.” “Actually I like new kids who are a bit scared,” I told him. Especially new girls. “They need a bit of looking after, a bit of protecting, and some of them are so grateful.” Indirectly I was encouraging Scott to pay a bit more positive attention to the girl, which may well have been what he was hoping I would do, to give him the excuse. I may not have been doing the girl any favours, though. “What’s her name?” I asked him idly. “It’s such a silly name. Betsy-Mae,” he answered in a tone of contempt. “What guy ever wants a girlfriend called Betsy-Mae?” His penis was up a bit, partly because he was pulling at it with his finger and thumb, as he always does when naked and agitated. “You could call her Betsy for short. But I didn’t know she was your girlfriend,” I teased him, while keeping a straight face. “She isn’t!” he exploded, flushing red and pulling on his penis like a piece of elastic. “She’s such a wimp. And anyway, her mother’s so rich she’d never want me – I mean, she’d never want any boy to go around with her daughter. She owns a big company or something.” Something at the back of my mind rang a bell. “What’s their surname?” I asked him. “Weasel-stein or something,” he answered. “That’s not English and it doesn’t even sound American, so I don’t know where they’re really from.” “You get people in America with ancestors from Germany or places like that, so they sometimes have that sort of surname,” I said. But the bell rang louder, and I was sure I had read something about a woman with some such name taking over as head of some major international company in the city. I also thought I remembered my dad saying he had met her. I didn’t remember it again until the following day, but I soon found what I was looking for. There is a weekly newsletter circulated amongst the English community in the city, and there on the front page, three weeks earlier, there was an article about a Ms Glenda Weisenstein who had just arrived after her appointment as head of one of the large international finance companies in town. ‘Ms’ is a title almost unheard-of in this country still, apart from the odd rabid feminist who usually gets short shrift in this male-dominated country. She was 51 years old, which seemed to me to be quite an age to be the mother of a girl Scott’s age. Born in Britain, made a rapid rise in London business circles, had amassed quite a stack of money by the time she was 30. Married a small American businessman. I presume they meant the business was small, not the man himself. Moved to America, but divorced after eight years. She said he had become lazy and was trying to live off her fortune, he said he had had enough of a wife who constantly tried to dominate him. She had applied for the job of heading such a prestigious company in this country because “I was aware that I would be moving into a male-dominated society and I knew somebody needed to teach them a thing or two about what women can do,” she was quoted as saying. There was a photograph, which showed a rather hard-faced woman with faded blonde hair. Scott had been rather nervous of the little he had heard of her, and with good reason, perhaps. As a footnote, the article mentioned that she had two daughters of 12 and 10. If the 10-year-old was in Scott’s class, then the 12-year-old might very well be in Marina’s class. I saw her again later that day and asked her. “She’s in the next-door class,” Marina answered. “Her name’s Cindy-Lou.” It would be! “Such a strange, shy girl. She never seems to know what to do or where to go, and apparently she becomes quite physically ill before swimming lessons, so she can’t take part. She’s actually quite tall and pretty, but I’ve had to save her a couple of times from others who ridicule her. She wants to be called Cindy-Lou instead of just Cindy, but she doesn’t seem to realise that she gets teased because of the ‘Lou’ part.” Two timid, helpless daughters of what seemed clearly a dominating mother. I guessed that the girls were so dominated by their high-powered mother who – well, I suppose I’ll be studying psychology when I go to teachers’ college next year, so that should give me more idea of the harm parents can do to their kids. “Do you know her sister is in Scott’s class and he rather fancies her?” I asked. “I did ask him once and he blushed, so I put two and two together,” she laughed. “But he’s never told me anything.” The next week at school, when our two sections met on the common playing fields, I asked Marina to point out Cindy-Lou to me. Marina directed me to a tree near the school wall. As usual, most of the boys were spending their morning break kicking balls around or playing the fool or teasing the girls, while most of the girls would walk around or sit in groups and talk, or tease the boys. Here was a girl all alone under a tree as far from everybody else as possible, head bowed, sitting cross-legged and reading a book. Her hat was pulled down over her head, but I could see that she had two lengths of bushy fair hair hanging down to her waist, one down her back and the other falling over her shoulder, tied with beads. She was also wearing glasses, with rather attractive light blue feminine-looking frames. Her skin was very fair, as if she had never seen the sun before. She sat hunched up, as if for protection against the hostile world. I approached her from the side, with Marina just behind me. I crouched down next to her and said quietly and with a warm smile, “Hello, Cindy.” She gave a start, whipping her head round to look up at me with startled blue eyes behind her glasses. The book fell from her lap as she scrambled to her feet, pushing herself up with her hands back and her legs out. It occurred to me that if I had had the foresight to approach her from the front, I could have discovered if she had silk panties like her little sister. She was taller than Marina and had a pretty oval face, but looked so helpless and vulnerable as she scrambled for her book and then stood there, staring at me fearfully with her big blue eyes behind her glasses. She pressed her open book firmly against her chest as if trying to protect herself. “Hello, Cindy,” I repeated, still smiling. “I – my name’s Cindy-Lou,” she replied in a whisper. Since she had probably lived all her life in the States, she had a slight American twang, but overall she sounded more English than American. Presumably this was her English mother’s influence. Marina moved up next to her and Cindy’s expression softened slightly, as she obviously recognised her. “I think you should let people call you Cindy for short, you know,” Marina advised her kindly. “In this country ‘loo’ is a slang word for a toilet, or the bathroom or whatever you call it in your family, so that’s why you get some rude people teasing you.” Some slight noise of acknowledgement came from Cindy, but I couldn’t decipher it. Then her gaze switched back to me, fastening for a moment on the ‘prefect’ badge I had on my shirt. She went red, as if she had been doing something wrong. “Don’t worry, there’s nothing wrong,” I told her gently. “Marina just pointed you out to me, and says you’ve been finding things difficult here at the school.” Cindy’s eyes filled suddenly with tears. She looked at Marina and then at me, and then said, “I – I think I need to go to the bathroom.” Still pressing her book tightly against her chest, she turned and walked off hurriedly, with short steps, in the direction of the school building. “She’s scared stiff, poor thing,” said Marina. “I wish she was in my class so I could help her a bit more.” I didn’t really think much of Cindy again, or think of looking her out again, until that weekend when Scott decided he wanted another of his man-to-man talks. After a bit of irrelevant drivel, he got down to the real reason for his conversation. “I spoke to Betsy-Mae today,” he burst out proudly, before suddenly changing his expression and pretending it wasn’t such a big thing after all. “I mean, she’s such a wimp that nobody speaks to her at all, really,” he muttered, shrugging his shoulders. Teasingly I refrained from asking thse question he was bursting for me to ask him. In the end he was forced to volunteer the information unsolicited. “She sits just behind me in class and during maths she was saying, ‘What do I do? What do I do?” (again he used a namby-pamby voice) “to Shirley, who sits next to her. And Shirley got cross and told her to find out for herself. “So I turned round and saw Betsy-Mae was starting to cry, but she didn’t make any noise about it. So I remembered what you said about being kind to those who were homesick, even though I didn’t want to” (a tight squeeze to his penis seemed to indicate economical use of the truth here) “and I showed her what to do and I even checked her work for her a bit and helped her when she made a mistake. But she’s so wet,” he finished off in disgust, as though to excuse his outrageous behaviour. “What does she do during morning break and lunch hour?” I asked. “She just sits under a tree where nobody can see her and reads a book,” he snorted. “Every single day. I mean, I think that’s what she probably does. I only saw her once.” He worked his penis nervously. “Does she do swimming?” I asked. “Yes, but she can’t swim properly at all,” he said. “She just stays in the shallow end. I even had to help her out of the pool on Wednesday. I mean, I saw she was pretty weak and – and might fall back in again, so I just grabbed her arm and hauled her out. Maybe I was a bit too rough,” he concluded. I didn’t think so. Not unless he wanted to show off his strength, which was quite possible. But at least Betsy did try to swim, while Cindy wouldn’t. It was only later that I found out why that was. “Does she still wear silk panties?” I grinned. “I don’t know,” he shrugged, looking away from me, squeezing his penis and going slightly red. “I don’t take much notice of her.” I decided Scott could use a little more help from me. “Why don’t you try?” I asked him. “She probably needs somebody strong to look after her for a while.” “But she’s . . .” he began weakly. “I mean, nobody likes her, and everyone will tease me as well if they see me talking to her. Much. I mean, I might just say one or two things when she needs help, but I don’t want anybody thinking she’s my girlfriend.” He spoke in tones of deepest scorn of a fate worse than death. “Well, ask her if she’d like to go round to your house next weekend,” I suggested, half-jokingly. “Just to encourage her.” For those living in countries that are unfamiliar with this custom, here is the procedure for when a boy is interested in a girl whose family he does not know. It is, I gather, as common here as is dating in America, but it is considered much safer and therefore starts at a younger age. At a preteen age it is quite often done but parents generally view it as little more than a simple friendship across the sexes, a childhood crush at the most, without reading anything too deep into it. The first thing he does is to phone up the parents of the girl or else contact them personally in some other way, and invite their daughter to visit him at his house. It is understood that his parents will be present for that visit. He will then either put his parents on to the phone to say hello and make arrangements, or else fix up a time for the parents to meet – most parents like that to happen. It is also very common for the girl’s parents to suggest instead that the boy come round to their house for a meal so they can get to know him. Sometimes the whole family is invited, and this is a common form of socialising in our community. If all goes well, the families become friends and the boy and the girl therefore soon lose interest in each other! Most boys actually find it very difficult to phone the parents of a girl like this, although the response is usually satisfactory, and try to find a less formal way to start a friendship. So my suggestion was received with great trepidation by Scott, who would have to make contact with Betsy’s mother. “But I – her mother – probably wouldn’t allow her,” he argued. He went white as he thought through the implications. “And I – she wouldn’t want me to phone her.” “Well, her mother probably won’t know what the customs are like in this country,” I told him. “Ask Betsy and see what she says. And her sister can come as well, and Marina can look after her.” I was keen to help these girls, but would also want to be present when, or if, it happened. Scott’s work on his penis became rather frenetic, as the idea took root and both excited and appalled him. I knew that he would not be willing to risk his life making that phone call. After school each day, when I do not have prefect duties, I go with Marina and Shelley to the junior school where we pick up Scott and Jenny. Then we usually proceed to one of our houses, where we do some homework and also enjoy each other’s company. I am in charge of making the proceedings work, and the parents are generally happy that the system is working. When I am not available, Marina takes over and she always does a good job of making sure that a lot of work is done during the time we have, up to two hours in the summer, while at the same time we enjoy ourselves. Scott often likes his man-to-man talks during this time, and on Tuesday he had some progress to report. He was noticeably reluctant to start, though, but mainly I think because he could not stop himself from blushing. “I did ask Betsy to my house on Saturday,” he told me, scratching his face furiously in an attempt to hide the colour or shield me from the heat. “I thought it would help her. Because she needs – somebody to help her. But she said her mother never lets her go round to friends’ houses. And she doesn’t let friends visit either. But she says she’ll ask her mother again. I think – she wants to come.” He rubbed his cheek hard, perhaps trying to find an excuse for its colour. I agreed that sounded bad, but at least there might be hope. “Betsy says that in America they did sometimes have outings to – good places, like museums and that sort of thing. So maybe – you could drive us there on Saturday. Somewhere. If we can find a good place to go to that her mother thinks is okay. Then you can see her mother and fix things up with her.” Passing the buck, was he? “Well, what about the science exhibition at the university?” I suggested. “Our class went there last week, and it’s good for all ages. But it closes on Sunday, so we’ll need to get things sorted out by then.” Scott liked the idea, and seemed more hopeful on Wednesday. “Her mother won’t let her visit my house,” he said, “but I told Betty about the science exhibition and she’ll ask about that.” In the meantime, Marina in her kind way had been trying to befriend Cindy. “I think she has something really serious bothering her,” she told me. “She’s very shy and scared stiff of her mother, and there’s nobody else in her life. But it’s more than that.” She told me that Cindy hardly ever said a word in class, even when she needed help, and her teacher was frustrated because she kept doing the wrong thing, or nothing at all, and wouldn’t ask anyone for help. She was still sick before swimming lessons, once even vomiting a small amount in the classroom, and she also claimed she had strained her left arm so she couldn’t do physical education lessons either. There was no other sign of a strain. This girl was obviously even worse off than Betsy. Aunt Sue, who does a lot of work at the school, told Marina that the school secretary had actually phoned Cindy’s mother to ask about her strained arm, as Cindy had not brought an excuse note, and to tell her about the regular pre-swim vomiting. The sharp response apparently was, “There’s nothing wrong with her arm and there’s no reason she shouldn’t swim either. Make her do them.” When the physical education teacher tried to carry out those instructions, though, at the start of the next lessons, it seems that Cindy dissolved into a quivering jelly of terrified but silent weeping. The teacher did not press her any further, but reported the situation to the school office, where the secretary was too afraid of Ms Weisenstein to phone her again. So Cindy continued to miss those lessons, and in the process earned the increasing contempt of the rest of her class, some of whom bullied and teased her mercilessly. Marina would try to see that she was left alone during morning break and lunchtime, but she couldn’t stop everything. The others in her class had been quite awestruck at first to have the daughter of the celebrated Ms Weisenstein in their class, but this had turned within hours to contempt when they discovered how helpless and timid she was. Some of them had corrupted her surname to ‘Rise-and-shine’, which they thought was very amusing and ironic. Any who passed her outside class would jeer at her with hilariously witty comments like, “Wake up, Rise-and-Shine, and go to the *Lou*,” making her turn her head away and cringe in fear and shame. Or others would call out things like, “Good morning, Miss – ooh, sorry, *Ms* - Stinking Rich, how’s your new Rolls Royce today?” The following day, Thursday, I arrived with Marina and Shelley at the junior section of the school to pick up the younger ones. I still hadn’t actually seen Betsy in person, as she had always been picked up very promptly at four, before we had chance to get there. Scott was waiting for me in great agitation, and with him was Betsy, also very agitated. I had always subconsciously imagined Betsy to be small, from what Scott had told me about her nature. Actually she was about the same size as he – though that still is quite small. She had a cute oval face with smooth white skin, like Cindy, only without glasses. Her hair was light brown, parted immaculately down the middle and done up in two long plaits – or braids, as Americans seem to call them - that stretched down to her waist at her back. Her eyes seemed rather narrow and slanted slightly, but were blue, and Scott was right – she was quite pretty. She would have been even prettier had her eyebrows not been lowered with a worried frown. I soon discovered this was her regular expression. “Roy, quick!” blurted out Scott, forgetting the macho image he likes to put on for girls. “Betsy’s mother wants to see me about Saturday, and I was waiting for you, so I can say you’re taking us. Quick, come and see her.” They had apparently been waiting about five minutes since Betsy delivered the summons, and Scott had not dared to go alone, which got Betsy agitated at keeping her mother waiting. I was none too keen to meet this dragon woman either, but I did at least manage to maintain a macho image, although I doubt I fooled Marina, who reads me better even than Shelley. I followed Scott and Betsy as they hurried ahead, but didn’t get too far ahead as Scott did not want to face his ordeal alone. Marina hurried along beside me, but Shelley discreetly let herself get left behind. There was a large black car in the school car park with one-way windows so we couldn’t see inside – most obviously a rich person’s car. The mother was standing beside it, looking most forbidding. She was wearing a rather tight dark grey skirt that reached below her knees and, despite the heat, a matching jacket over a severe white blouse. She looked pretty sexless, as I would have expected. Her eyes lighted on her daughter and Scott by her side. “Young man, I do not appreciate having to waste my valuable time while you decide to put in an appearance,” she scolded Scott in an icy voice, very posh British, that no doubt chilled board members to the marrow. “According to Betsy-Mae, I know your father.” Scott went bright red, and I immediately suspected some devious plan had been in operation. “It – I mean, it’s not actually me,” he stammered. “It – it’s Roy. My friend.” He indicated me. “He – er – you met his father. Once. I think.” I worked out later that Scott had probably pretended to Betsy that it was his father who knew her mother, in the hope that it might create an opening. It seemed to have worked. Ms Weisenstein immediately turned to me and asked my full name. “I think I met him *once*,” she said curtly. Then she whirled back to Scott. “Now, I understand you have invited my daughter on a date,” she said. The last word was said as if she thought he was asking her to a dirty weekend. “No, no,” protested Scott, glancing around desperately and relieved to find I had arrived. “Not a date. I – I’m going to the science exhibition on Saturday. With Roy. He - he’s going to drive us.” He indicated me, causing the chilly eyes to shift to my face, and then stepped back slightly, hoping to be out of the firing line. Ms Weisenstein looked me up and down. I couldn’t tell what she was thinking, but it didn’t look good. I quickly added, “And Cindy is also invited to join us if she likes.” She didn’t seem to hear me. She said to Scott, “It sounds a worthwhile place to go. But, you will excuse me, young man,” she addressed me, “but I do not know anything about you, even if I did actually meet your father once.” She returned to Scott with stunning speed. “You surely cannot expect me to allow my daughter to travel in a car with a young man whom I do not know. I don’t know if he is a responsible person or a good driver. And I certainly would not let her travel by herself with you or anybody else without being assured she is well looked after.” She paused. Scott looked as if he had been slapped in the face with a wet fish. Then she said, mainly to Scott, “One thing I will consider. I may allow my daughters – they go together - to go to the science exhibition, but if I do it will be in my car, with my chauffeur and my maid in attendance as chaperone. I will need to be assured that you, or anybody else, are a suitable companion for my girls. Exactly who else do you propose to take with you on your visit?” Scott seemed unable to speak, although his mouth opened and shut like a goldfish, so I filled in for him. “This is Scott’s sister Marina,” I said, introducing her. Marina blushed a little and gave a nervous but charming smile. “She will be coming with us.” Shelley and Jenny, although invited, had shown little interest. The old buzzard’s expression softened a little. Everybody seems to be attracted to Marina. “You look a sensible girl, at least,” she said. She turned back to me. “And are you a relative, then?” “I’m a family friend,” I answered. She stared hard at me. “One thing puzzles me,” she said coldly. “Why would a boy like you want to take out a group of younger children, including my daughters? It seems to suggest you are perhaps still immature, or that you may have other motives.” The way she said those last two words sent a chill down my back. Was she suggesting I was a pervert? I was quite taken aback, but fortunately Marina came to the rescue. She has such a brave and charming, yet vulnerable, way about her when she is nervous, smiling, clasping her hands together under her chin for a moment, smiling again, and then speaking. She did this, and then said, “Ms Weisenstein, Roy wants to be a teacher and he’ll be going to college next year. And he is studying science at school this year. So we want him to come so he can explain everything to us, because he’s very good and – he likes teaching.” Ms Weisenstein seemed impressed. “Very well, I shall consider it,” she said. “Now, your names, please.” She wrote down our names and telephone numbers in her diary, which looked ominous. “I shall need to find out more about you,” she said. That sounded even more ominous. Abruptly, she handed Marina and me her business card, one each. Then she addressed me again. “First of all, young man, you are to phone me tomorrow evening after seven. I shall let you know what I have decided.” She whirled upon Scott, who took a step back and accidentally trod on Betsy’s toe. “If I decide in favour, I shall phone your parents. I will want to speak to them. But you will please remember it is at my discretion, not your invitation, although I have no doubt it was kindly meant. I shall let you know if my daughters will be going, and whether I will invite you to travel with them. Good afternoon.” Without allowing us right of reply, she herded Betsy into the back seat of her car. I caught a glimpse of a school uniform already inside, which must have been on Cindy. At her command to the invisible driver, the massive car slid out of the car park. We all breathed a sigh of relief. Scott still looked quite stunned. “I think we’d better give it up,” he said to me, ashen-faced. “Well, if she does what she says and finds out more about you, she’s the one who’ll give you up,” I said, trying to make a joke of it. I had no idea how Ms Weisenstein intended to find out more about us, but there were a few things that I’d rather she didn’t discover. I assured myself that if my school hadn’t discovered them and saw fit to make me a prefect, this woman wasn’t likely to discover them in 24 hours. I discussed it with my parents, who already knew vaguely what we had been planning. “A big businesswoman like her won’t have the time or the desire to investigate herself,” my father said. “Especially if, as you say, she seems to have little time for her girls except to order them around. What she’ll probably do is give the job to one of her secretaries or somebody like that, who will phone the school and maybe one or two other people who know us.” He added, not quite as a joke, “If she finds out you’re a naturist, you won’t get very far, I’m sure!” That was what I was afraid of. I began to regret my silly suggestion to Scott. So it was with a lot of trepidation that I phoned Ms Weisenstein’s home number at two minutes past seven the following evening. Her maid answered, so I gave my name and asked to be put through to the old battleaxe herself. “Ah, Roy,” came her sharp voice. “I have, as I said, made inquiries about your suitability as an escort for my daughter, and of course about Marina and Scott as well. From what I hear, you are on the whole a sensible and responsible person, and everybody speaks very highly of Marina. I am just a little worried about Scott.” She paused. “He seems quite mischievous and immature, although my contacts say he is a likeable boy. He seems to have taken an interest in Betsy-Mae, and she does say he has been kinder to her than anyone else in her class. Marina has also been very good to Cindy-Lou.” Another pause. “I presume you will understand that I do not wish my daughters to consort with any unsuitable children. I am not certain that Scott is a desirable companion for Betsy-Mae, but since you and Marina will be there, along with my maid, I am prepared to give him a chance.” I muttered my thanks, but she ignored them and continued. “As I said, you will travel in my car with my chauffeur, and my maid will also accompany you. I expect you all to be suitably dressed when you are with my daughters. Appearances matter a great deal. I have an appointment at 9.30 on Saturday morning, so you will all please be at my house promptly at nine. I also expect you to be back at a reasonable hour. I have a full day on Saturday, but will be home just before six. I shall expect my daughters to be home, and you three gone, by 5.30. Your lunch will be provided. Is that all understood?” This quick-fire set of instructions had my mind struggling to catch up, but I managed to blurt out, “Yes, thank you, Ma’am.” I was amazed to find that we had been allocated up to eight and a half hours with her daughters on the first outing. This was a woman supposedly reluctant to let her girls go anywhere. But if she was to spend her entire Saturday conducting business, what did it matter to her where her daughters were in the meantime? I was sure I could not keep the others interested for the whole day. She was one weird woman, and an even weirder parent. “I shall now phone the parents of Marina and Scott to inform them of the programme,” she told me. “Don’t be late. Goodnight.” She put down her receiver before I had chance to answer. I can’t say I was looking forward to Saturday, except that I was curious to know more about these girls. I have a chivalrous vision of myself as the defender of the weak and helpless, especially girls, and also the great teenage psychiatrist who can encourage them, solve all their problems and give them the confidence to turn their lives around completely. In my daydreams I never charge fees, but am always open to massive donations from grateful parents. I get my payment in the form of the undying love of the girls whose lives I transform and their sharing of my naturist lifestyle. Despite my apprehension, I faced Saturday with thoughts of how I could do just this for Cindy and Betsy. Ms Weisenstein might buy me a new car . . . on the other hand, she was probably totally unaware that either of her daughters had a problem at all. I have recently bought an old Ford car, so on Saturday morning I picked up Marina and Scott and drove round to the address on the business card – in the richest area of town, of course. Marina had as usual risen to the occasion with a beautiful pink dress that came down to her knees, while Scott and I reluctantly decided we had better defy the heat and wear smart long trousers and ties, shoes and socks. Scott looked almost unrecognisable and I’m sure I did as well. I told him we could take them off the moment we left Ms Weisenstein. “And the trousers?” he asked eagerly. He soon sobered up when we drew up outside Ms Weisenstein’s palatial establishment. It was eight minutes to nine, but she had said ‘at’ nine rather than before nine, so I waited by the side of the road until it was three minutes to. Scott never spoke during those five minutes, which was worthy of a mention in the Guinness Book of Records. Then I restarted the car and drove it into the entrance. The security guard requested my name and business, and then used a telephone to relay the message inside. The gate was quickly opened for us. The entire plot spread over five acres and the house was equally impressive. I drove up a tree-lined driveway and stopped in an area designated ‘Visitors’ Car Park’. “I need a wee,” muttered Scott, clutching his trousers as we got out of the car. He had been to the toilet just before we left, so it was clearly a case of nerves. “Just use that tree over there,” I advised him, and laughed at the expression on his face when he imagined Ms Weisenstein coming out of the house to find him lubricating one of her trees. “You would be severely castigated,” I grinned at him. His face went into a state of shock and he involuntarily grabbed his testicles. “She wouldn’t do *that* to me, would she?” he exclaimed in sheer horror. I’m sure I can dine out on that story of Scott for the rest of my life. I wasn’t feeling too good myself as we walked up to that front oor. It would open on to a large sheltered verandah and there was another door on the far side of it. I rang the bell, and about thirty seconds later the other door opened. A small local woman, obviously the maid, came through and opened the verandah door for us. “Good morning, we are expecting you,” she said with a big Mediterranean smile. “Please take a seat on the veranda.” We sat down. We could have read the magazines there but we were too tense – and they all seemed to be business magazines anyway. As the maid left we heard a loud voice shouting furiously from further in the house. We couldn’t hear the words, but we recognised the voice. Was it the girls or the servants being terrorised? We waited about five minutes in a state of high tension. Then Ms Weisenstein stormed through the inner door in a high temper, carrying a large briefcase. We leapt to our feet but she had no time for us. “You’ll have to wait for the girls,” she snapped at us curtly. “They won’t eat their breakfast and they will *not* leave this house until they have finished every scrap.” She slammed the front door behind her and stalked towards the drive, bellowing for the chauffeur. I had thought the chauffeur was going to drive us, but the maid later explained that Ms Weisenstein was using a company chauffeur for her own car this morning, while we would be driven by her private chauffeur. We remained rooted to the spot until her huge black car had disappeared down the driveway. Scott recovered quickly. “Now I can do a wee,” he grinned mischievously, going to a large potted plant in the corner and pretending to unzip his trousers. Marina gave him one look and he slunk back with a sheepish grin. At that moment the maid returned. “I am Raquela. Sorry to keep you waiting, but Madam was not pleased this morning,” she smiled. Was she ever? “We thought it was a thunderstorm,” put in Scott, who immediately received another look from his sister. Scott can keep quiet when he has to, but the moment the pressure is released he feels he has to say something potentially stupid. In this case, we didn’t yet know Raquela and she might have been the sort to pass on his kind words to her mistress. But Raquela just laughed and said, “I think you can come this way now.” We followed her into the main part of the house. She led us down the passage, through the main dining room and into a smaller room next to it. There were Cindy and Betsy, hunched over the table with bacon and eggs virtually untouched in front of them. They looked up in alarm as we entered, and then turned away shyly. Both had red eyes and had obviously been crying a lot. Otherwise they looked like two exquisite little dolls, beautifully clothed in elaborate olden-style dresses, white background with red and the odd yellow flower, lashings of lace around the collar and the puffy sleeves and the hems that came down below their knees. Their mother may have been a rabid feminist, but she did believe in and knew how to make her daughters look pretty. “I don’t think we need these any more,” Raquela said kindly to the girls, picking up their plates and disappearing with them into the kitchen. Marina said hello quietly and sat down next to Cindy, trying to talk to her. Scott hung around looking very much like a spare part as Betsy refused to look at him. Since Scott felt unable to do so, I decided to have a try with Betsy myself. I moved over ready to sit down next to her when Raquela reappeared from the kitchen and beckoned me over. “She is a very hard lady,” Raquela told me, in case I had missed something. “She does nothing but business, business, business. The girls are so frightened of her, but what can I do? The girls are so frightened of school that they cannot eat their breakfast, but the lady says they are being stubborn. Now they are frightened to go out with you and again they cannot eat.” All the time she was waving her arms about with typically extravagant Mediterranean gestures. “And Cindy-Lou – she just has a big problem but she won’t tell me what it is. She won’t talk to anybody, won’t tell anybody. Betsy-Mae, she will talk to me sometimes, but not to the lady because she does not listen. Betsy-Mae doesn’t know either why Cindy has a problem. So please, you will have to excuse us because it is very difficult for us here. But Betsy-Mae must be doing better at school because already she has picked up a boy.” “Well, Scott always likes pretty girls, but I don’t think he knows too much what to do with Betsy,” I answered. “I suggested he invited her out, along with Cindy, because I thought we might be able to help them. Cindy’s in the next class to Marina at school, and Marina has been trying to help her quite a bit.” “I don’t think it will work,” Raquela stated. “But perhaps – out of the house – who knows? I think they have not left this house once since they came, except for school. Many nights they wet their beds, but I do not dare tell their mother. It just makes more washing for me. Betsy-Mae tells me when they lived in America they had no friends either. Children who might have been friendly were scared of the lady. They didn’t go places either. I was very surprised the lady said you could take her girls out to a place.” “Only because it was an approved place, I think,” I grinned. “Betsy told Scott her mother would never let her go to play at his house or let him come and play here.” “But now the girls say no, they don’t want to go out with you,” Raquela said, waving her arms about vigorously. “I don’t know if I can make them, and when the lady comes home she will want to know what has happened when we were there, and I will be the one to get into trouble. Or if her day is not good she may not ask at all. I don’t know.” “Don’t worry, we’ll get them there,” I assured her. “And Marina is brilliant at helping people who need it.” As we looked through the door we could see Marina chatting away quietly to Cindy, who was looking down into her lap. Occasionally Marina would try to include Betsy in the conversation, but Cindy was taking all the effort she had. There was no sign of Scott. I assumed he had gone back to look for that potted plant – or possibly even a proper toilet, if all else failed. “I’ll see what we can do and tell you when we’re ready to go,” I assured Raquela, with more confidence than I felt. “Thank you,” she said with relief, disappearing back into the kitchen. I ambled into the dining room, Betsy giving me a fearful glance out of the corner of her eye. Marina looked up at me, and I took advantage of the pause to say warmly, with a big smile if they happened to look at me, “I must say, you two girls are dressed so beautifully. Those are such pretty dresses. And you have such beautiful hair, too. Did you do it yourselves?” It was in fact done in exactly the same way that they wore it for school. Cindy didn’t answer but Betsy whispered, so I could hardly hear her, “Raquela did it.” “Well, Raquela did it beautifully,” I assured her. “You both look really great. I remember Scott saying to me a couple of weeks ago that there was a new girl in his class and she was pretty, and that was when I first heard about you. He was right.” Cindy didn’t look up, but Betsy registered a little of surprise and a little of embarrassment. Then she asked, “Where is Scott?” “I think he’s gone to the toilet,” I answered, sitting down lightly next to her. “Is he nice to you at school?” Betsy looked at me directly for the first time, even if it was out of the corner of her lovely slanted eyes. She nodded. “He helps me with my work sometimes.” Again I could pick up just a little twang of American among her largely posh English accent, modelled on her mother. “Scott’s a bit shy with girls, actually,” I told her. “He tries to pretend he isn’t by showing off sometimes. Does he show off at school?” Something resembling animation stirred in Betsy’s red-lined eyes. She nodded again. “He says funny things in class sometimes and the teacher tells him to be quiet,” she answered. “That’s Scott all right,” I laughed. “He was very keen to invite you to his house, but he was also shy about it, so I had to keep talking to him until he found the courage to ask you. So when you’re with him, try and talk to him as much as you can, otherwise he’ll start showing off and acting silly.” Betsy almost smiled for the first time. Her eyebrows did lift from their normal pulled-down position. Marina didn’t seem to be getting a similar response from Cindy, but Cindy was a much harder case. Betsy was leaning forward over the table now, elbows on the table and hands under her chin, looking at me out of the corner of her eyes. I suddenly saw, around the waistline of her dress, two little buttons. One of them was undone, and through the slit I could see her white skin, with a sliver of white at the very bottom which was the waistline of her panties. Trusting that Ms Weisenstein would never hear of such liberties with her daughter, I put my forefinger through the slit and rubbed her skin gently. She jumped and wriggled. “Don’t, that tickles,” she protested, but for the first time a slow smile came to her pretty face. “It tickles?” I asked, feigning surprise. “Where? Is it there? Or there?” I did it again and she moved over on her chair, but not too far away. She looked down to see how I had managed to tickle her and saw the hole. “Oh, one of my buttons has come undone,” she whispered, trying to button it up again. But she could only reach with her opposite hand and couldn’t do the job. “Shall I help?” I offered, and she nodded. I did the button up for her, but not before I had accidentally on purpose given her a little more tickling. “If it comes undone again, you’ll have to use some superglue,” I told her. She stared at me, and then gave a sort of gurgle, which may have been the nearest thing she had ever done in her life resembling a giggle. “You can’t use superglue on dresses,” she exclaimed, taking me seriously. “Yes, you can, superglue works on anything,” I assured her. “Look how well it sticks your plaits on your head. They won’t come off, will they?” I gave one of her plaits a gentle pull. “That’s not superglue!” she exclaimed. Her face was easy to read, and I could see that inside her head she was asking herself, “Is he really being serious or is he being funny?” And her head was turned as she looked at me directly for the first time. “It’s my real hair,” she told me, frowning, but with a sort of twinkle in her eye this time. “Well, you’re even luckier than I thought,” I smiled into her eyes. “Beautiful hair, pretty face. Are your toes beautiful as well?” She did giggle this time, and her smile broadened, as she finally felt certain that I was being funny and doing it kindly. “No, I don’t think so,” she said. “I’m sorry to hear it,” I said, with an exaggerated expression of sorrow on my face. “So that’s why you put your shoes on with superglue to cover your toes.” She giggled again. “Stop talking about superglue all the time,” she said with a broad smile. “I never use superglue.” “I’m very glad to hear it,” I answered, now wearing an exaggerated look of seriousness. “It has such a horrible taste and just imagine how terrible it would be if you got your finger stuck up your nose.” This was all the way I would normally talk to an eight-year-old rather than a ten-year-old, but Betsy was a pretty immature ten. Betsy’s head swivelled right around and she stared me full in the face, mouth half-open, unable to believe that anyone could talk such rubbish. Then she gave a deep squeal and a giggle, and then laughed aloud. “You don’t . . .” she began, and then gave a sort of hiccup as the unusual experience of laughter threatened to overwhelm her. I sat there looking at her tenderly as she laughed at me, eyebrows raised for a change and her pretty little face wrinkled with laughter. In the end she said, “I like you. I’ve never met a person who was funny before.” “I like you too,” I assured her, looking deeply into her eyes in the way I have found so successful with girls. Instinctively I reached out my arms and put them round her back on either side, not so far as for the fingers to touch. She shot forward from her seat and jumped into my lap, wrapping her arms around my neck and squeezing me so tightly that for a moment I couldn’t breathe. It was totally unexpected, but I loved it. I wrapped my arms right around her now, and she settled down on my lap, one arm still around my neck and her cheek pressed against mine. Just at that very moment (it would be!), Scott emerged from the door behind me, still doing up the buckle on his trousers. His body froze and his mouth dropped open in astonishment and indignation. I shall carry with me to the grave the look of outraged indignation on his face. I could read his thoughts like a book, all in outraged indignation. “I invite you to come with me when I visit my girlfriend and then I find you making love to her behind my back!” I even felt a bit guilty amid the triumph I felt over my unexpected success. I was also aware that Marina and especially Cindy were watching – they could hardly fail to be – and Cindy too looked astonished out of her mind. I heard her blurt out in astonishment, “Betsy!” “Careful, Betsy, you’ll make Scott jealous,” I whispered into her ear. She turned round and saw Scott standing there. Going bright red in the face, she slithered off my knee and looked at him. He was still frozen like a statue. “Sorry, Scott,” I heard her whisper, apparently taking me seriously. “I think he’d like one as well,” I hinted, regretting he had chosen just that moment to reappear. Obediently Betsy walked over to him and put her arms round his neck, but it wasn’t spontaneous. The magic had gone and it looked very wooden. Scott put his arms out for a moment, but did nothing more than touch her hips. They let go of each other. Betsy turned back to me, frowning hard and still looking guilty, while Scott looked quite stunned. Well, I think I’d feel the same if I came in and found Marina sitting on another boy’s lap with her arms around his neck, although I’ve known Marina for much longer than Scott had known Betsy. “Well, Betsy, that was a lovely surprise,” I told her, mainly for Scott’s benefit, to try to show him that the scene of rampant passion he had witnessed was quite unsolicited on my part. “I hope you do it to your mother like that.” Betsy still looked abashed. She shook her head. “We just – kiss her,” she mumbled. “But she never wants – anything more.” I thought it time to change the subject. “Well, time we were going,” I announced. “Ready, everybody?” “I think you girls need to do a wee first,” said Raquela, showing she had picked up English babytalk after a few years of nannying. The smile on her face showed that she had seen how Betsy responded to me and thought better of it than Scott did. The locals are usually very effusive with their affections, having nothing of the traditional British reserve. Cindy heaved herself up from the table with a bleak look, as if to say, “I’ll accept the inevitable because it’s less trouble than making a fuss,” and followed her out, along with Betsy, As soon as they had gone, Scott glared furiously at me. He didn’t actually say a word out loud as Marina was there and he didn’t want her to know that he fancied Betsy – which she knew anyway. His face was red and I could read his thoughts like a book. I’ve never seen him so mad at me. “Don’t worry, Scott,” I tried to reassure him. “I’m just warming her up for you. She’ll do that to me right now because I’m older and she thinks of me almost like a grown-up, but she’s too shy to do it properly to you. She’s afraid people might think you’re her boyfriend and she doesn’t know whether you’d like it. Girls trust older boys very easily but are much slower to trust those their own age. But if you’re sensible and kind and behave like a gentleman, she’ll slowly start liking you better than she likes me.” “I don’t care,” muttered Scott, through gritted teeth, face still red. Marina, with an effort, kept herself from laughing. Raquela and the girls were away for about five minutes, during which time Scott was smouldering like burning rubber. Finally I told him, “Give me two weeks, and if she’s not cuddling and kissing you in that time you can rub nettles all over my bare bottom with your bare hands.” “And your piss,” he grunted, and accepted the offer, looking somewhat happier in view of my reckless confidence. It was not until some time later that he realised that, if he won the bet, he would have to use his bare hands to exact revenge. I wasn’t all that stupid! I learned later that as soon as Raquela and the girls were out of earshot Cindy, like a typical big sister, had started berating Betsy for showing me such affection. But Raquela had broken in and said, “No, it is good to see you like that, Betsy. There is no problem.” And Cindy had meekly shut up. It did seem to encourage Betsy a bit, as she gave me a shy smile as they returned, and took my hand with her hot little fingers as we left the room. (To be continued) EDUCATING SCOTT (CHAPTER 4) The chauffeur, Marius, was a tiny little man who greeted us with a big grin as we arrived at his car, which was probably the same large black specially-made Mercedes we had seen Ms Weisenstein with at school earlier that week. The one she had driven off in had looked a little smaller but the big one was needed for six passengers. Marius opened the door for us and Betsy plunged in first, hand still clasped in mine so she pulled me in after her. There were two seats inside, one facing forward and one back, which were really intended for two passengers each but would have to take three this time. Betsy sat next to the window facing forward, so I sat down next to her. Scott, rather rudely perhaps, plunged in next, eager to sit next to Betsy, I think. But there was no place for him there, so he sat in the seat opposite her and sulked. Cindy stood back and waited for Marina, probably more due to timidity than good manners, so Marina came in and sat next to Scott and opposite me. Faced with a choice of sitting next to Marina or me, Cindy chose Marina, and finally Raquela climbed in to take the final seat next to me. Betsy was sitting there with her pretty dress spread neatly over her knees, still holding my hand, and she occasionally flashed me a shy smile, but said virtually nothing. She spent most of her time looking down at my hands, which no doubt frustrated Scott more than ever and also bothered me, as I had assured him I would sort things out for him. But I did say two weeks. I hoped I could produce in that time – and it also depended on Ms Weisenstein deciding we were suitable company for the daughters whose company she seldom appeared to seek. I could feel the tense atmosphere inside the back of the car, which was a little squashed. Scott was fuming, Cindy looked bleak on the rare occasions we could see her face, while Betsy was well latched on to me but probably hadn’t had much practice at conversation during her life. As the car moved on to the road, Scott sneezed, making it sound like an angry protest against the nasty ironies of life. He wiped his nose on the back of his hand and Marina whispered something to him, but he was beyond caring. It did cause Betsy to look up at him. She did a double-take, looking again with surprise and curiosity in her eyes. I followed her gaze. We hadn’t noticed before because Scott’s trousers were of a light fawn colour and it probably wasn’t so visible when he was standing. Now he was slumped in his seat, it was clear he had forgotten to zip up his trousers again after going to the toilet. A sizeable slice of his white underpants was visible, and this was what had caught Betsy’s eye. She looked up at me to see if I had noticed and, if so, what I thought about it. “It doesn’t matter,” I whispered into her ear so nobody else could hear, and she nodded. But she still turned her gaze back every now and then to the slit in Scott’s trousers. Today was certainly proving an education for her. At a science exhibition you expect to see strange and wonderful things that you had never seen before or even imagined, but we hadn’t even arrived there yet. However, I put her interest down to sheer curiosity more than anything else. Another such experience was to take place before our arrival. We passed through some of the inner suburbs on our way to the university on the other side of town, inhabited by locals. More often than not, on such a trip, you will see in operation one of our quaint, colourful local customs, enacted mainly but not exclusively by the young male population, that tends to be overlooked by all the guidebooks – at least, I’ve never seen it mentioned! Regular readers will remember my little Indian friend who called it ‘watering the flowers’, but it was more often watering the lamppost or the tree, or even watering your neighbour’s car tyre. It is a custom adopted by many of the English-speaking boys as well, and even today if I need to I will use somebody’s hedge, but like most older boys I have learned to turn my back to the road. Scott doesn’t bother who sees him, but then with Scott syou would need to be within smelling distance to see anything that American films might stick a black square over. It is more of a taboo for girls, but many of them still find a bush to squat behind at times, while Shelley has her own unique system for a girl. It was a boy of about seven or eight who first introduced Betsy to this particular custom. Cindy too would have had her eyes opened had she been paying attention instead of staring into her lap. Betsy probably wouldn’t have noticed had we not stopped at a stop sign. Just round the corner, but quite visible from where the car had pulled up, was this small boy facing a lamppost. His back was almost towards us, but he obviously had no objection to cars on the main road sharing the pleasure of the moment. His trousers were half-down at the back, revealing his lurid orange underpants, his legs were spread apart and a wavy stream of urine was leaving a big dark stain on the lamppost. His mother was standing by, quite unconcerned. Presumably they were on their way to the shops or something and her son had been caught short. Betsy clearly had no idea of what he was actually doing at first, but she did realise that this was a human being in a contorted posture the likes of which she had never seen before. She pressed her nose against the glass to stare with eyes and mouth wide open. Since he was not facing us, we were unable to see what he was using to produce this spray. The car moved on and Betsy turned to me with the air of one who had just seen a ghost. “Did you see that boy?” she whispered into my ear. I nodded. “What was he doing?” she wanted to know. Again, her attitude seemed entirely one of bewilderment and curiosity rather than anything else. None of the others were paying much attention, but I don’t think they had seen the display anyway. Scott was fuming, Cindy looked as if a bomb would not have shaken her lethargy and Marina was too polite. “He’s doing – going to the bathroom,” I breathed into her ear, remembering the usual refined American term. Betsy looked astounded but, as it turned out, more by the method than the action. “But – he was standing up!” she exclaimed, and some of the others must have heard her. She didn’t protest about his doing it outside. “Boys can stand up when they do it,” I whispered. Betsy looked completely puzzled. All her life she had assumed that the world, male and female alike, always sat down to urinate. She hadn’t met Shelley yet. “Why is he doing it in the street?” she asked me, through curiosity rather than accusation. “In this country you can’t always get to the toilet when you’re outside,” I told her. “The bathroom, I mean. They don’t have usually have public toilets. Do you ever go when you’re outside?” “Only in the garden, if the maid will let us,” she whispered back, a little to my surprise – but then her mother was never likely to be present. “Raquela doesn’t mind.” “Does your mother mind?” I asked. She looked at me as if to ask what on earth anything like that had to do with her mother. Then she said, “I don’t know.” There was a pause, and then she came back to me, “What does a boy’s – I don’t know what it’s called – what does it look like?” How can you describe a boy’s genitals to a girl who has never seen them? Besides, Scott was beginning to glare at me again for daring to communicate with his intended, so I whispered back, “I’ll show you at the science exhibition.” I realised immediately this could be misinterpreted, so I rephrased it, “There’s a display there, so you’ll be able to see for yourself.” She looked quite puzzled, but said no more. I wondered how she would react when she saw the life-size models they had in the human physiology department, but suspected a sheltered girl like her would think even a specimen the size of Scott’s would be ‘gross’. Come to think of it, it was a good thing she did ask me rather than Scott. If that had happened at school, a visit behind the shed might well have been arranged, with this poor innocent girl having no idea what was in store for her. On the other hand, Scott’s penis is ideal for first-time viewers in that it is more likely to attract curiosity and amusement rather than repulsion. It is just his method of presentation that leaves so much to be desired. As for my friend Ernst, whom you may have read about in Mr Sausage Man – well, the EEC should use government health warnings for things like that. “The exhibit you are about to witness is not suitable for sensitive viewers or those under the age of 18.” “We’re nearly there, girls,” said Raquela as the car drove in through the main gates of the university. As if on cue, the two girls began to inspect themselves, although Cindy only made a cursory effort. Betsy next to me, like a little girl, lifted one foot and then the other to pull her socks up properly. I saw Scott’s eyes fastened on her from directly opposite, aimed low, and the gleam in his greedy little eyes seemed to indicate that what he saw gave him a high degree of satisfaction. I thought it rather ironic that in their different ways they had both been inspecting each other’s underwear without being aware of the other doing the same. Betsy looked up from her socks and immediately Scott’s own unwitting display of underwear caught her eye. Again she couldn’t help staring, fascinated by the sight. She seemed so naïve about sexual matters that I can only assume she was finding it totally beyond her imagination and may well have been thinking, “I didn’t know boys had underwear too. I never thought of what they had underneath at all.” This time Scott caught her staring at him. He glanced down to see why. He had obviously been unaware of what he was showing, but it did have the effect of lifting his sulk. A sheepish grin spread over his face. He shuffled in his seat, reached out his fingers, spread the slit wider for a second as if by accident, and then slowly zipped it up again, all the time grinning at Betsy. Betsy had no idea how to take this. She blushed bright red, suddenly realising that she had got into something she wasn’t equipped to handle, and for a moment buried her face in my shoulder, turning her head away from Scott. I took the first opportunity I had to tell Scott that there was no way I could turn Betsy’s affections towards him if he was going to mess things up like that. “Just keep your mouth shut completely and show no interest in anything Ms Weisenstein might get cross about,” I warned him. He went white at the mention of her name, as if she were the boogie-woman, and clammed up completely. It was busy, bustling, crowded and noisy at the university. Betsy shrank up close to me and it was difficult to persuade Cindy to get out of the car at all. Marina took her gently by the arm and she came, face bowed as usual. This was more than just shyness, and I was afraid there really was something wrong with her. Had she been sexually assaulted or something? Perhaps some of the girls at school had violated her body somehow, which would explain why she was so terrified of swimming or showering or changing clothes with them. Before we went inside, I did what I would usually have done at the very start of our outing and that was to compliment Cindy and Betsy on how beautiful they looked in their exquisite dresses. It wasn’t very well received. Cindy turned away as if any attempt at a compliment to her was pure deception, while Betsy did give a tremor of a smile but said, “They’re too hot.” It was hot inside the university buildings and the air conditioning wasn’t working too well, making it stuffy and smelly. You would have thought science could have managed something better. My favourite areas of what was very broadly termed science are astronomy and physics, so I led them all to the astronomy section first. We spent about ten minutes looking at the exhibits, while I did a lot of talking and was open to questions, which came almost entirely from Marina. Cindy and Betsy seemed very unsettled by the large crowd, and both spent most of the time clinging to Raquela. We were about to go into a room that had been converted into a planetarium when Raquela came across to me and said, “We must stop for a while. The girls are not well.” I could see straight away that it was genuine. Cindy in particular looked as white as a sheet and ready to faint. Raquela led them straight away into a small alcove where there were two or three benches. One of them was unoccupied, so we sat the girls straight down on that. Cindy bent forward and put her head between her legs, while Betsy too leaned forward, although not putting her head right down, and whispered, “It’s so hot and smelly in here.” I should have realised how difficult it would be for two delicate girls, unused to crowds or even going anywhere much at all, to adjust to a place that must have seemed terrifying to them. Many of the locals seem to consider the use of deodorants to be effeminate and tend to walk round in a rancid cloud of green steam in the hot weather. The girls were also unused to the heat of this country and were sweating profusely. Betsy took hold of the collar of her dress and pulled it in and out to give her a flow of fresh air, while Marina used a brochure we were given to fan Cindy. “I think you should take your vests off so you will not be so hot,” said Raquela. “Nobody wears vests in the summer here.” Betsy nodded and, quite unconcerned, started unbuttoning her dress. Raquela helped her, pulling it down to her waist, and then turned to Cindy. Betsy took hold of the half-vest she was wearing, sticky with perspiration, and began taking it off. Were she a normal American or British girl of ten, she would surely not have done this in a public place, except possibly on a British beach, but both girls had had a very restricted life. However, in this country nobody would worry about what she did. She struggled a bit as the vest stuck to her skin. I was about to help her when I suddenly thought of Scott, and saw him standing there showing considerable interest in the proceedings. I nodded and mouthed words to him, trying to get across the message, “Ask if you can help.” I don’t think Scott actually asked, but he did very sensibly sit down next to Betsy and gave her a hand. She actually let go herself and allowed him to ease it off her body and pull it off over her head. Scott could not resist a certain amount of frisking, but Betsy did not seem to notice anything unusual. She started pulling up and buttoning her dress again, revealing a white chest, completely flat with her tiny nipples the size and shape of Scott’s. His groping fingers would not have brought him much enlightenment. Raquela was trying to persuade Cindy to take her vest off, but Cindy seemed terrified, shrinking away and grasping the buttons tightly in her fists as Raquela tried to undo her dress for her. In the end she stood up rather unsteadily and said, “I’ll do it in the bathroom.” Pushing aside Raquela, she headed for the nearest toilet, which was just around the corner. It so happened that Marina had gone off to the toilet as the girls sat down, and she had just emerged from the cubicle and was washing her hands when Cindy burst in. She told me later that Cindy went straight into one of the cubicles and bolted the door to take off her vest. In fact we waited about ten minutes outside for Cindy to return before Raquela had to go and fetch her. Cindy returned carrying the vest in her hand, so clearly she was not worried about anybody seeing that. She had obviously been crying again. The girls did seem a little better after that, and Betsy did actually undo the top two buttons of her dress, showing white flesh to halfway down her front. But we looked for an alcove every twenty minutes or so to make sure they stayed well. Betsy showed bits of interest here and there, but Cindy displayed no interest in anything. It was really worrying to look at her, and I found it hard to believe that her mother had not noticed anything and taken her to the doctor. Or perhaps her rock-hard business mother had no time for weakness and preferred to treat it with contempt. At about eleven o’clock we decided it was time for a major break. We headed outside and found a shady tree to sit under and have our morning snack. Many others had decided on the same thing. Some were full of students, but we managed to find one with a few older people instead. An elderly couple looked most annoyed to see a bunch of kids joining them, but they had no need to worry – we were all quiet and respectable people, with of course just the one exception. Cindy sank to the ground in a feeble heap, legs tucked under her, like Marina, but Betsy sat down like a little girl, arms back and knees up while she crossed her legs. That gave me the first glimpse of those soft silky white panties that had so intrigued Scott. Of course he was by my side, and the moment Betsy had chosen her seat he glanced around as if looking for a suitable place for himself and then, as if by accident, thought the spot next to Betsy was as good as anything. However, the moment I sat down Betsy scrambled up and came to sit next to me, snuggling up against my shoulder. That annoyed Scott, but I could tell from his expression that he at least did have the consolation of another panties inspection. He got up, went to look and see what Raquela had in the picnic basket she carried with her, wandered around, asked Marina a question, and then ever so casually sat down next to Betsy as if he had been there all the time. Gradually he made progress with her, though. He began by asking her what part of the exhibition she liked best so far, and she replied, briefly and shyly at first, but then began to pay attention as he talked and laughed and showed off a bit. Raquela, as unconcerned as most of her race about matters that embarrass the English stock, sat carelessly and occasionally showed some garish pink panties as she unpacked some snacks. We ate an apple each, even Betsy – although Cindy took a long time over hers. She did eat it, though, and wasn’t sick, so her problem wasn’t anorexia at least. Betsy was probably too shy to ask me about the human physiology department, or she may have forgotten all about that weird incident by the road in the terror of the university. I planned to leave that until the end, thinking that the more time these two girls had to get to know me, the less likely they were to be bothered by it, especially as there would no doubt be some discussion about it. When we went back inside the buildings again after a long break, I needed to go to the toilet. Scott decided to join me, making me slightly apprehensive, for reasons I’ll mention in a moment. Scott had already been once that morning, so maybe he just wanted to talk in private, but also the presence of girls has the effect of making him leak. Most urinals in this country are communal affairs, where the males stand side by side in front of a wall of porcelain, as close as they like to each other, and local males don’t seem to mind standing uncomfortably close. Neither does Scott. If I had known he was coming as well, I would have hopped into a cubicle. As it was, I was just unzipping my trousers when Scott bounced up alongside me and started doing the same thing. “Hey, Roy, have you seen Cindy’s panties yet?” he hissed at me, in a voice that must have been audible to most of the other five men all emptying their bladders. “Shut up,” I muttered, edging away. I could not go too far without making physical contact with the owner of the thick brown sausage-like implement on my other side. Scott leaned back, stuck out his tiny penis and pulled back the foreskin. To Scott, that is the equivalent of taking the safety catch off an old and very unreliable blunderbuss. He may be the fastest gun in the West, but he has all the attributes of a loose cannon. Shelley is far more accurate, believe me. I think the basic problem may just be lack of concentration. Perhaps he is better when he does it by himself, but with others he always likes to be chattering away and watching what his neighbours are doing. I am forever grateful that I was not the one standing next to Scott last year when we were at a crowded urinal at the local sports club. But I did lose a bit of sympathy for the local man who occupied that position at the very moment Scott sneezed in midstream. Having finished my own business, I was washing my hands in the bowl with my back to the urinal, when I heard Scott sneeze and, virtually simultaneously, a ferocious bellow of outrage from the victim standing beside him, followed by a torrent of words in the local dialect which turned the air not so much blue as perhaps a deep, deathly thunderstorm-purple. Scott spent the next few weeks eagerly looking up a large number of new words in an English-local dictionary and then asking me what the English definitions meant, once he had recovered from a swollen ear. He did not find me co-operative. True, Scott does inflict it on himself as much as on others, although I have had a couple of mild leg-washings. In the incident noted above, he had wet his own leg considerably more than his neighbour’s, a fact that the irate man did not consider. I was relieved to see that on this occasion he merely dribbled a thin dark line on his trousers down to the knee before washing the porcelain with a wavering stream as he kept prattling away. “I wonder if they’re silk, like Betsy’s. Cindy’s even wetter than she is,” he continued. I was tempted to ask why, as they had not been standing next to him at the urinal. He did not have much to get rid of and finished before I did, dropping a reasonable amount on the toecaps of his new shoes as he did so. He skipped away from the urinal, barging into another man who was just about to use it as he did so, and washed his hands and part of the floor before responding to my suggestion that he zip up again. He grinned and did so unselfconsciously. We left the toilets together, with Scott giving me an animated description of the apparatus of the gentleman on his other side. “What was purple?” asked Betsy with curiosity as we reached the others. “This man’s . . . I mean, he was – he was wearing a purple shirt,” Scott tried to explain. We continued through other sections of the exhibition, but in less than an hour I knew the others were getting bored. I had already decided it was time to pay a last visit, to the human physiology department, when Scott demanded we go home immediately. “Just one more place to go,” I told him quietly. “And I promise you, it’s one you’ll find interesting.” “That’s what you always say,” he grumbled. “My legs are tired. I’ll just sit on the bench and wait until you’ve finished.” “All right,” I said. “But maybe we should go – the others might not find the human body interesting either.” “The human body?” he repeated. “You mean – *people’s* bodies? All kinds of people?” “Even females,” I assured him gravely. “Okay, you sit on the bench and we’ll come for you when we’ve finished.” “I can take one more,” he decided. We entered that particular hall. There were some remarkable exhibits. One involved a larger-than-life human glass dummy munching away at some food put into its mouth by a large claw. We could see the teeth chew it up into a yellowish porridge before a pump simulated swallowing and it all went down the throat, into the stomach and then the intestines or bladder. Little jets showed how the stomach juices got to work as the food passed through the intestines. Finally, there was a little hiss as the unisex opening between the dummy’s legs spurted out some lifelike urine into a bowl. Fortunately they retained some degree of taste and did not have anything coming out of the rear end. Scott, of course, was fascinated. I hadn’t taken the girls there myself because I wasn’t sure how they would feel, but Betsy at least looked fascinated for most of the process, only looking a little startled at the finale to the show. It was then, finally, that Betsy, with a serious frown, reached up to my ear and whispered, “You said you’d show me what a boy looks like – down there.” I resisted the temptation to call Scott, and took her to an area entitled ‘Puberty’ (signs were in the local language, English and French). Not surprisingly, this area was well frequented by teenagers, but they didn’t stay long, as there was nothing really sexually stimulating to be seen by those who knew it all already. The area designated ‘Reproduction’ held their attention for longer, even though some had doubtless had some exploratory practical work on this subject behind them. I showed Betsy a series of diagrams that showed how the human body changed and developed over the years, at three-year intervals. The male and female pictures were side by side. It began at nine years old, with the boy and girl, drawn like locals, showing their flat little bodies and hairless genitals. Then came the 12-year-olds, with the boy’s penis and testicles a little larger, while the girl had slightly rounded breasts and a little dark shadow at the top of the vagina. The 15-year-old boy had a bigger chest and a larger, thicker penis, which had developed into a small tree trunk in the 18-year-old diagram, with a moderate growth of pubic hair, which had thickened three years later. The 15-year-old girl had developed well enough for the vagina to disappear under a mass of black pubic hair, and her breasts were rounder and fuller. The 18-year-old diagram displayed the end product, with large bulges on the chest and a thick beard between the legs. Scott came up at that moment and gawked at the pictures, but he was more surprised by the reaction of Betsy. She stared with her mouth open, for the first time quite shocked by what she saw. Cindy was staring morosely into space a few metres away. When she saw how startled Betsy was, she showed enough interest to come over and see why. If it had bothered Betsy a little, it evoked the first strong reaction I had ever seen from Cindy. Her white face went even whiter. She stared at the pictures, especially of the 12- and 15-year-old girl, in clear astonishment, with her eyes almost popping out of her head. Her legs actually gave way under her and she collapsed on to the floor. Raquela reached out to help her up, but she pushed herself to her feet and stared again. “Cindy, Cindy, what is the matter?” asked Raquela, as puzzled as the rest of us. Cindy turned to find Marina, probably not trusting Raquela to know or to tell her. “Are these – Neanderthal people or something?” she blurted out. Marina couldn’t understand why Cindy was so agitated either. “No, they’re just ordinary people,” she answered. “Why?” “All this – this hair on their bodies,” Cindy replied, sounding as if she had just heard the news that the Martians had landed. “And – this swelling on their chests! Ordinary people don’t look like that!” But there was a slight raising of her tone at the end of that sentence, as if she wanted also to ask, “Do they?” “Yes, they do,” answered Marina, still surprised. She pointed to the picture of the 12-year-old girl. “My body looks like this because I’ve just started puberty. In a few years’ time I’ll look more like this.” She pointed to the 15-year-old. “It happens to everyone. Very soon I’m sure you’ll find it’s happening to you, and your body will start changing.” “Is the – the swelling and the hair - *normal*, then?” asked Cindy in a high-pitched voice. I couldn’t hear most of their conversation in the crowded room, with Cindy in particular whispering, and had to check with Marina later what was actually said. “Yes, it’s quite normal,” answered Marina. I think she was beginning to understand Cindy’s problem. “Look, Cindy, it happens to every girl, though it can start any time between usually about ten and – maybe 13 or 14. So when it starts happening to you, don’t worry about it because it’s normal. And it’s good and exciting, because for me it’s starting to become a woman.” Cindy started to go faint again, so Marina and Raquela hurried her over to a nearby bench. I thought I had better keep out of it, so I had a look to see how Betsy was getting on. I presume her initial shock had been in seeing the pubic hair on the bodies. If Cindy had been unaware that there was such a thing, Betsy certainly was. But now she was satisfying her curiosity about what a naked boy looked like, with the willing help of Scott. “Haven’t you even seen a boy’s peeny before?” he asked her, in a tone of incredulity that could only make her feel humiliated. “Well, I don’t mind . . .” He caught my eye and jerked to a halt. I sensed he had been about to make her an offer she couldn’t refuse, a guided tour of an underdeveloped ten-year-old male body. Not that he could have done it on the spot, and I think even Scott would have worked around to it slowly, but I thought it better not to start. Betsy was still staring at the picture, no doubt trying to work out just what was what, and why, and finding it impossible. I suppose the complexities of male genitalia must seem very confusing to an innocent and ignorant young girl, who knows nothing more than that a hole is necessary through which to pass urine. Betsy may had gathered that a boy had a tube to do it with, but was no doubt completely unaware that testicles also existed, or why. I gave Scott another look, shaking my head slightly to forestall his eagerness to explain the workings of the machinery. If Betsy wanted to know more, she should ask. Any unsolicited information from Scott might, like his efforts at the urinal, cause unexpected offence. “You found what you wanted?” I asked Betsy gently. She nodded, but still looked puzzled. Then she whispered in my ear, so Scott couldn’t hear, “I don’t quite understand. Where do they – they go to the bathroom?” “Through here,” I explained quietly, pointing to the object on the picture. “It’s called a penis.” I waited to see if she had any other questions about this weird-looking set of equipment that she had never imagined before. She looked at the pictures of the 12- and 15-year-olds. “Do – people really get hair growing – there?” she whispered, apparently like Cindy unable to believe the pictures were not some kind of sick joke. “Yes, little short curly ones,” I whispered back. “And under their arms as well. It’s part of growing up for everyone.” Not that I could imagine it happening to Scott, but someday it will. Perhaps by the time he’s 25. Betsy’s brows were pulled right down in a frown of deep thought. Then she said, “Cindy is 12. Do you think . . ?” She stared at me in an expression of shock as the thought struck her. “Do you think she’s growing – hairs – too?” Suddenly I began to guess at one or two answers to some of Cindy’s peculiar behaviour. “Haven’t you seen her – that part of her body, then?” I whispered. Betsy shook her head. “Not for months,” she breathed into my ear. I could sense Scott behind us, straining to catch what was said and very frustrated because he couldn’t. “We used to have our baths together, but she suddenly stopped and won’t even let me see her changing her clothes now. She won’t even play with me any more. I don’t know what’s wrong with her.” I glanced over to the bench, where Cindy was still sitting, with Marina and Raquela on either side of her. Her face was buried in her hands. Betsy seemed to have no more questions about this side of things, so I spent a few more minutes in this section with the younger ones. Scott joined the crowd around the ‘Reproduction’ section and listened to what the older teenagers were saying with a broad grin on his face, no doubt dropping in some vital pieces of information whenever he could. When I returned to the bench, Cindy had gone off to the toilet, insisting she didn’t want company. Raquela said to me, “It is really time for our lunch now, but I think the girls are tired. Maybe we should go home.” “Perhaps we can have our lunch in the park, and then decide what to do after that?” suggested Marina. “It’s a bit too crowded for lunch here. Raquela, have the girls been to the park?” The maid shook her head. “They have really been nowhere since I started working for the lady,” she said. “The lady – does not really want to be concerned with taking the children anywhere, and Cindy-Lou is so – I don’t know how you say it – but she did not want to go anywhere at all. So I did not want to suggest anything to the lady, and I think she was quite glad that you made an offer.” There is a large park in our suburb, which is kept in fine condition mainly through the local expatriate residents’ association, and in spite of the fact that Scott spends a lot of time there. Actually the boys in our area tend to spend more time at the club near my house, which has better sporting facilities, and the girls at the park, where there are more lawns and flowerbeds and also a lot of playground equipment. But for some reason Scott still likes the park . . . So it was a good idea of Marina’s, as they always are. “Would Ms Weisenstein mind if we had lunch in the park – and stayed a while?” I asked Raquela. “I don’t know, but I do not think the lady would find out,” she smiled at me. The younger girls seemed both exhausted and relieved to leave the crowded university. They had obviously felt very insecure in a crowd. Cindy wanted to go home straight away, but I told her that her mother had ordered us lunch to eat out, so that was what we were going to do. She just whimpered, being no doubt too afraid of me to argue. Scott was quite keen on the idea. “But let’s drop in at my house first so I can change into some casual clothes. Then I won’t get my best ones dirty,” he added, thinking of a more rational reason that might appeal to Marina. “The old - I mean, Ms Whatzername – Betsy’s mum – she’ll still be out when we get back so she won’t see me in my civvies.” We really had all afternoon at our disposal, so we decided to do that, and Scott shouted directions through to Marius, the driver, who had elected to stay with the car and chat to some of the other chauffeurs while we went inside. Cindy and Betsy, unused to heat anyway, were still sweating a great deal in their hot dresses, so Marina asked me if we could do the same for them. “Cindy can borrow a cooler dress from me, and then perhaps we can drop in at your house and Betsy might borrow one of Jenny’s.” That also sounded a good plan. So we stopped at the home of Marina and Scott, and with their parents’ permission went upstairs. Cindy and Betsy had tried to hide behind us rather than be introduced, and they wouldn’t even leave the car without the security of having Raquela with them. Scott, of course, was only too happy to indulge his exhibitionist tendencies, prancing around his bedroom in his underpants while pretending to decide what to wear. Cindy and Betsy stared at him, fascinated, but without any of the same lustful, lip-licking greed in their eyes that would have been in Scott’s were the positions reversed. I suppose it must be a traumatic thing for innocent young girls of 10 and 12 to see for the very first time pictures of naked boys and then a live exhibit wearing only a goofy grin and white underpants all on the same day. Cindy didn’t have long to ponder on the matter, as Marina took her off to her bedroom to choose one of her cooler dresses to borrow for the afternoon. I thought it best to stay with Scott – not that Cindy would have desired my presence anyway – although I did hope he knew better than to go any further with Betsy at the moment, even if I hadn’t been there. Marina and Cindy were actually away for almost half an hour, by which time even Scott had managed to dress himself in more casual clothes. He put on his favourite ‘Small is Beautiful’ shirt, although I might have stopped him if I had seen it in time. “Why does it say that?” Betsy asked him curiously. “Because small *is* beautiful,” insisted Scott, with his cheeky grin. “But you’re not small,” she argued, puzzled. “I have one small, beautiful thing about me,” he grinned, teasing me. “But it’s a secret at the moment. I’ll tell you one day. I’ll show you one day.” I glared at him and he dried up. Educating Scott is not for cissies. Soon he said he felt hungry and wanted to go and hammer on Marina’s door to hurry them up, but I stopped him. I knew there must be some good reason for her taking such a long time. When they finally emerged, I could sense a definite change in Cindy. It was as if a major burden had been lifted from her shoulders, leaving her very relieved but also quite exhausted. She was wearing one of Marina’s casual dresses, but as she was a few centimetres taller than Marina her dress came higher up her legs. The first thing she did was to sink weakly into an easy chair with her legs slightly apart. Yes, she did indeed wear the same sort of soft, silky white panties that Betsy wore. Scott glanced at me but, hypocrite that I am, I pretended I hadn’t been watching. Marina obviously couldn’t tell me what had happened in public, so we had to continue our journey to my house without enlightenment. Jenny had a friend with her, but she did take time to dig out a few of her dresses for Betsy to choose. To encourage the girls, I copied Scott by stripping down to my underpants in their presence while putting on casual clothes. Cindy and Betsy actually showed very little interest now, their basic curiosity apparently satisfied by Scott’s personal exhibition. Betsy had no problems with inhibitions, slipping out of her dress immediately as if she did it in the presence of boys every day. She stood there with her cute little body rounded at the front, as so many little girls’ bodies are, flat chest, and wearing only those lovely white silk panties. Scott naturally was quite enchanted. “Try this one,” he suggested. “Pink suits you beautifully.” He held out the shortest dress on offer, an old one that Jenny had really grown out of. When Betsy tried it on, the skirt only just covered her bottom at the back. In the end, she decided to go for a little black skirt and white top, clothing that ranks high on my approval list for girls. Scott didn’t mind too much, as it was still short enough to be revealing whenever Betsy did anything unusual. She gave a little squeal as we went outside, wrapping her skirt around her legs for a moment. “Ooh, I feel almost – naked in this,” she giggled. “I’ve never worn a short skirt before.” “It doesn’t matter,” Scott assured her, borrowing my favourite phrase. “Doesn’t it feel good?” “Well – sort of,” she giggled in reply. “It feels naughty.” “You’ll get used to it,” I smiled. “It’s not really naughty – remember, most of the girls here wear short skirts in the hot weather when they’re out of school.” Then it was off to the park. There was as usual quite a number of people there of all ages, but it was nowhere near as crowded as the university grounds. Again we sat down on the ground in the shade under a tree. Cindy and Betsy again sat with their legs crossed, only this time their skirts were half the length, in Betsy’s case less. I ate my lunch with warmth in my stomach, with that view of large quantities of their soft silky white panties in my view. Other girls their age in short skirts generally learn to keep a hand tucked down there or use a handbag or something to deprive observers of the pleasure, but these girls had had no such social training. Marina usually wears loose skirts almost of knee-length, so she does not often show her panties when sitting cross-legged, unless there is just a sliver visible. Shelley shows the lot, like these two, but couldn’t care. But these two lovely naïve little girls had no idea they were doing something virtually illegal in the normal self-conscious world of preteen girls. Cindy at last seemed to show some life at times. She didn’t eat much, but she did eat. She spoke now and then to Marina and occasionally to Betsy or Raquela, but was still too shy even to look at me and obviously had no idea how to handle Scott. I could only wonder how Marina had worked a difference. When she had finished eating, Marina gathered together the rubbish that had accumulated. Normally Raquela would put it into her picnic basket, but this time Marina gathered it up herself and refused Raquela’s offer. “We’ll just put it in a bin here,” she said. “Roy, will you help me?” I knew this was Marina’s signal that she wanted to talk to me, so I gathered half the bundle and walked off with her towards the bins, some fifty metres away. As soon as we were out of earshot, Marina told me quickly, “Cindy told me her problem. She’s started puberty, and nobody has ever warned her that her body changes, and nobody ever told her that girls have periods. She’s had four periods so far, which frightened her so much that she really thought she was dying. Her mother doesn’t accept sickness, so poor Cindy never dared tell anyone.” I had guessed from the incident in the human physiology section that Cindy’s body might have been making changes in ways that made its owner feel she was a freak, but had never guessed that menstrual periods might have also caused problems. It must really have been quite terrifying for a timid girl to find herself bleeding between her legs and perhaps with accompanying pains when nobody had ever led her to expect anything like that. Obviously the posh all-girls school I was told they had been to in America didn’t believe in sex education. “So I had to tell her again that all girls’ bodies change at our age, and the pictures were right,” Marina continued. “I showed her my body and she really almost collapsed with relief so see somebody else with a body like her own is now. She showed me hers, though she was very embarrassed and told me she had never let anyone see her body at all since it started developing. She’s maybe a little more developed than I am, but she was just so relieved to see we were so alike.” Marina nowadays has grown just very gently rounded breasts with little points in the middle, and has some wispy, downy light-brown pubic hair just at the top of her vagina. “She kept asking me, ‘Am I really all right?’,” continued Marina as we slowly put the rubbish into the bin. “So I told her I really felt she was developing a lovely body. She does look good, Roy. In fact, I did tell her that you were a naturist and if ever she wanted to check what somebody else thought, you could tell her.” I’m not sure Marina was teasing me here, but I was too fascinated with the story to take her up on that statement. “She said she was so scared of swimming or even changing her clothes with other girls from school because she was afraid she was a freak, but I told her that they would never think that. I asked her if she felt bad about the way the other girls mocked her because she wouldn’t swim or change with them, and she said she felt terrible. So I asked her if she felt she could do that now – some girls would be more developed than she and the ones who weren’t so well developed might be a bit jealous. They would also be very impressed by her silk panties. She said she’d think about it, but also that she couldn’t swim. Then she started crying and said she was scared she had an incurable disease.” We had finished the rubbish, and Marina threw an apple core at me and ran away laughing, in the opposite direction from the others. I chased her, aware that this was just a ploy to give us a minute or two longer to talk. She ran round behind a clump of trees and then let me catch her. I grabbed her round the waist and gently bore her to the ground, as we often do in fun when we’re together. A quick kiss opened her lips again. “She told me that she had bleeding between her legs sometimes and made a mess in her panties, and also she had pains and felt sick. It didn’t last too long, she said, but just when she thought she was getting well, it happened again. So I had to tell her it happens to all girls. She’d never even heard of a period, and I had to tell her what it was all about. She just cried again, but it was really with relief, because I think she thought she really was dying.” “We’ll have to work out some way to help her,” I said. “And Betsy as well. They’re both so hopeless at everything.” “It can’t be easy living with a mother like that,” said Marina, still lying flat on her back with me by her side. “She must really intimidate them, and she’s the only role model they have and they must know they can’t live up to her example.” “I wouldn’t want them to,” I grinned. “Oops, look out – here comes that nosy brother of yours.” I quickly disengaged from Marina as Scott hurtled round the trees towards us. “Hey, no snogging when you’re supposed to be looking after us!” he shouted, to the amusement of several other people within earshot. “Come on, let’s take the girls to the playground when you’ve finished your smooch.” Pretending I was cross, I chased him. He ran back towards the others, laughing and screaming. I caught him as he arrived back at the picnic spot and, with him yelling his head off, grabbed him by the legs turned him upside down and shook him. Then I dumped him on his back and tickled him mercilessly. He lay there, kicking, giggling helplessly and displaying his underpants up his shorts. The girls had no doubt seen enough of Scott’s underwear by now to satisfy their curiosity, but I was surprised to see they looked rather afraid as they watched our romp. As soon as I got off Scott, he gave a bellow and hurled himself at me again, so the battle continued. When Scott finally wound down a bit, I found Marina sitting next to them, laughing at us, and explaining it was only fun. But they still looked rather shocked. No doubt they had never had experience of this sort of fun before, and even if the mock fighting didn’t scare them, the noise did. “Come on, Betsy, let’s get Roy,” Scott urged her, grabbing her by the arm and inviting her to join in. “No, no!” she squealed, looking quite agitated. Physical violence, real or otherwise, obviously terrified her. “No, Scott, you don’t do it that way with girls,” I said, giving Betsy a gentle smile and sitting down carefully next to her. “This is how you do it.” I looked down at Betsy’s waistline and stuck out my finger. “Now where’s that button you had undone?” I whispered. “Oh, no, it’s a different dress, isn’t it?” Her white top was tucked neatly into the little black skirt. Betsy giggled and leaned right back, with her head on Cindy’s lap, knees up and apart, with most of her silky panties easily visible, no doubt to Scott’s delight. “You can’t tickle my tummy this time,” she giggled, hands over her waist. I suspected this was in fact a hint that some gentle efforts to tickle might be appreciated, but I decided to play safe. “There’s a playground here you might like,” I told her. “Come and let’s have a look at it.” I held out my hand to her, and she grasped it and let me pull her to her feet. The playground consists of the usual type of equipment found in such places, with swings, slides, roundabouts, climbing frames and so on, and also a small paddling pool. Scott headed straight for the pool. The rest of us followed. There were several small children in the pool already, with maids or parents looking on. The unwritten rule for the pool appeared to be that those up to the ages of about five or six could go in naked, and those up to puberty could wear only their underwear. Older than that, it wasn’t necessary to change, as the water was not deep and came up just above my knees. Two naked little boys of about five were playing with a ball beside the pool. I saw Cindy and Betsy stare and then look at each other, both curious and a little disconcerted. This was certainly turning out to be an educational day for them, and there was more to come. “Come on, everyone, let’s cool down!” shouted Scott, ripping off his sandals and then flinging off his shirt and shorts. Wearing only his underpants, he did a small bomb into a corner of the pool. Once again he was taking the wrong approach. Any sort of violence or over-enthusiasm would only make these girls more nervous. It would need gentleness and understanding to win them over. There were two girls and a boy aged between about seven and ten playing quietly in the pool in their underwear, and an older sister of about 15 paddling, holding her skirt wrapped around her thighs to keep it dry. Marina and I were too old to strip off, but we could paddle. We sat down to remove our shoes and socks. “Do *we* have to go in there?” asked Betsy anxiously. Marina laughed kindly. “No, you don’t have to,” she smiled at them both. “But aren’t you hot? A gentle paddle would help you cool down.” At this moment Raquela, having removed her sandals, reached up her skirt and pulled down her stockings, showing a lot of thigh and causing Scott to stare from the pool and try to hide his silly snickering. I can only suppose Ms Weisenstein insisted on stockings, as nobody would wear them from choice in such hot weather. Raquela did not seem to notice Scott, as she stood up, tucked her skirt into her panties like a schoolgirl and stepped down into the pool to have a paddle. Cindy and Betsy sank down to the ground, hot and tired but very indecisive. I held out a hand to Marina and she joined me in the pool, just holding her skirt around her thighs elegantly. The cool water was so refreshing. “Just put your feet in, anyway,” I called out to the other two girls. This at least they felt they could do. They took off their shoes and socks – the only ones among us wearing socks – sitting on the ground and again naively giving a full view of their beautiful panties as they did so. Shelley or a local girl might do that, but for those of British or American culture it did show, in Cindy at least, a delightful vulnerability and naivety. I loved them for it. They sat on the side of the pool, knees up and very revealing, and then gingerly lowered their legs and shins into the cool water. They gave squeals of pleasure as they did so, and for the first time I even saw Cindy break into a smile. I beamed back at them and called out, “It’s lovely, isn’t it?” They nodded, and then Betsy held out a hand to me. “I want to paddle,” she pleaded, suddenly finding her courage. I waded over to her, and she grasped my hand tightly with both of hers as she slipped into the water. She gasped again as the water lapped high up on her thighs, and let go of me with one hand to pull her skirt up to keep it dry. As she only had one free hand, she had to pull it high above her waist to keep both sides clear. “Betsy-Mae, I think you should take your skirt off,” suggested Raquela, coming across. “I don’t think you should get Jenny’s skirt wet.” Immediately and without embarrassment, Betsy climbed out of the pool for a moment and slipped out of the skirt. Then, though it hadn’t been requested, she took her white blouse off as well. Betsy looked up at me, beaming with pleasure at the excitement and freedom of it all, yet perhaps looking a little guilty at the same time. I glanced across at Cindy, as most older sisters would have at least had reservations, if not shock, at the younger one exposing herself like this, but Cindy seemed totally unconcerned. I just hoped she would not have any more nasty introductions to the real world than she had had already. I smiled down at Betsy fondly, loving her little white bare chest, ribs all visible, her thin little tummy and those delightful silky panties. She smiled up at me as we waded across the pool, and it was not just friendliness that was causing her to hold my hand. Her balance was not very good, and once or twice I had to hold her a bit more tightly as she almost fell over. Scott came over to seize Betsy’s other hand and prise her away from me. “Make sure she doesn’t fall,” I told him pointedly. It could be awkward if Betsy soaked her panties, although probably Ms Weisenstein would never find out. I wondered what to do if it happened. Strictly speaking she should remove her wet panties afterwards, but much as I enjoyed the thought, I didn’t feel it would be wise to let her wander around wearing nothing under a dress that short. Fortunately it didn’t happen. Cindy sat with her legs in the pool, looking wistful but not willing to take the initiative of getting into the water. I think Marina read the situation right, as after a few minutes she called out, “Come on in, Cindy, this water is great.” Obviously relieved at having somebody else make this monumental decision for her, Cindy gave a thin smile, showing that her earlier talk with Marina had worked a miracle. Then she slid into the water, clutching her skirt tightly at the front and holding it so safely at waist level that she revealed most of her panties at the front. She did stay by the edge, though, not venturing away from it and probably too shy to look for a helping hand as Betsy had done. Scott was thrashing around in the water, swimming and soaking his whole body. I took my shirt off and sprinkled the cooling water on my chest. Betsy allowed me gently to wet her chest and back, without wetting her panties. She shivered with delight. “Come on, Cindy, I’ll wet you. It’s lovely and cool,” she called out. Cindy merely shook her head. Marina may have convinced her that her breast development was normal but she still wasn’t eager to put it to the test in public. When we had cooled off and evacuated the pool, Scott came up to me and said brightly, “I’ll have to take my underpants off now because they’re wet.” At least he had the sense to seek approval first. I replied, “All right, but you’d better go behind those bushes and do it. Cindy and Betsy have had enough shocks today, and I don’t think they could handle seeing your massive hairy penis on top of everything else.” He grinned sheepishly, but looked disappointed. So I told him, “Look, you might lose Betsy’s friendship if you start showing it off before she’s ready for it. Sensitive girls like her could very easily think you’re rude.” “Well, she’s wet,” he muttered. “I mean – she’s a wimp as well,” he amended it, watching as Raquela wiped Betsy dry with a towel from the picnic basket. He disappeared round behind a bush and, although I caught a glimpse of his little bare backside, the girls did not notice anything. I thought at first the girls might be too old for such items as swings and slides, but then I remembered they might not have had much chance to play on such things. I was right the second time. It would be an exaggeration to say they were fascinated, but Betsy certainly wanted to try everything out, as long as I was there to help her. Cindy was gradually persuaded to try them as well, and she did so with a few smiles, showing how far she had come that day. They had been even more deprived than I imagined. They didn’t even know how to propel themselves on a swing properly. Scott quickly took on the job of teaching Betsy how to move her legs backwards and forwards to keep moving, and Cindy accepted Marina’s suggestion to learn as well. Neither of them were very well co-ordinated, and it took some time for them to get going smoothly – and even then I think they were rather afraid of falling off. I did notice that Cindy wasn’t sitting on her skirt, so every time the swing went down the rush of air blew her skirt up, revealing the back of her panties. Then came the slides. Both revealed their panties from the front every time they sat on the top of the slide, raising their knees, and at first were so afraid of being hurt on the two-metre slide that they came down holding the sides. Scott meanwhile was showing off – are you surprised? He would hurtle down the larger slide at top speed, and try all sorts of reckless tricks on the climbing frames. He was performing one of the latter when Betsy sidled up to me. “Is that Scott’s penis we can see?” she whispered into my ear. I looked. Scott was in a contorted position on the bars and his shorts were riding up, revealing a little pink testicle. “Not quite, it’s what’s called a testicle,” I whispered back. “It’s just underneath his penis.” Betsy frowned in puzzlement as Scott swung away, his scrotum disappearing back under cover. “Does he do a wee-wee through that as well?” she asked, using Raquela’s baby-talk, probably as her own vocabulary was totally inadequate. I just shook my head, but she asked, “What’s it for, then?” “Well, it’s – a boy has two testicles,” I explained quietly. “They help him make babies when he grows up.” I was hoping she wouldn’t ask more, as it would be a long and complex job better handled by someone like Marina, and she didn’t, although it was clear she didn’t understand this at all. But she did surprise me by asking, “Do you think – maybe Scott would let me see his penis? And his testicles?” I was amazed that even someone as naïve as she could ask this question aloud, but at least it showed I was trusted. I’m sure the request was for educational purposes only. There would be no stopping Scott, I thought, but couldn’t say so. I burbled for a moment before saying something like, “Well, Scott is a naturist, so I’m sure he won’t mind you seeing them. But you can’t ask anyone to show you his penis or anything. Wouldn’t you feel shy if I asked if I could see your vagina?” Betsy looked a little surprised. Then she said, “I guess so,” but I got the impression she wasn’t really worried. She could be a naturist in the making. It would be harder with Cindy, who had been so ashamed of her developing body, even if it was caused by its unexpected changes. The girls couldn’t last for too long in the heat of the afternoon. Soon we were all flopping down on the grass under a tree. Scott lay back against a tree, shut his eyes and pretended to snore. Betsy was staring at him. Then she turned and whispered to Cindy, who in turn stared at Scott. Cindy turned a little red, but showed definite interest. My suspicions were well founded. Scott’s shorts had ridden up again, and this time his penis had sneaked its way into the line of vision. The little pink thing, foreskin overlapping the prepuce by a good two centimetres, was clearly visible sniffing the air from just inside the open leg of his shorts. Betsy must have thought it was Christmas – if she thought that way. I’m sure this time Scott was quite innocent and unaware of what was happening. He just has short and loose shorts and tends to be careless. If he was a girl, he would be as easy to view as Shelley. The girls were clearly exhausted. It was just after three o’clock, but I knew we should take them home now. Raquela agreed, although Scott grumbled. We returned to the car, taking the same seats as before. Betsy actually fell asleep on the way home, her head leaning against my shoulder. Cindy was obviously very tired as well, but it seemed a major burden had been lifted from her mind. When we arrived back at the Weisenstein mansion, I carried Betsy, now awake again, inside in my arms, making Scott seethe with envy. Raquela led us into the large lounge for the first time. We needed to get the borrowed dresses back from the girls. Betsy, weary, allowed me to take off Jenny’s dress that she had borrowed and put on her own. I was surprised and pleased to see that Cindy had lost much of her shyness. She turned her back and sneaked partway behind a table, but she did change in the same room as the rest of us. She quickly slipped off Marina’s dress, with a little help from Marina, and put on her own. Her pale, thin back, very white and with shoulder-blades prominent, was not a thing of beauty, but I was so pleased that she had made some progress towards overcoming her embarrassment of her body. She took care that we should not get a glimpse of her from the front, keeping her back turned and the dresses clutched to her chest as she changed. Certainly she had no problem about our seeing her panties, fully revealed at the back in their glorious perfection. They looked so soft and silky, with some elaborate braidwork around the waistline. This for Cindy was a major step, and one that few other girls her age would take with boys around – but a few months earlier she had probably been as naïve as Betsy. As we left their house, Scott gave me another muttered earful about my exploits with his girlfriend, although he didn’t quite put it that way in front of Marina. I reminded him that I still had two weeks to go – but that depended on the compliance of Ms Weisenstein. (To be continued) EDUCATING SCOTT (CHAPTER 5) I didn’t know what to do about future contact with the Weisenstein girls. Did I dare to phone the mother again? If she thought something hadn’t been quite perfect in the way we treated the daughters she loved so much that she never spent any time with them, I would hardly be likely even to see them again. But, if there had been a problem, surely she would have let me know in a big way? On Monday evening, when my dad arrived home, he told me he had met the great woman again at a business lunch, for longer than their brief meeting previously. Icily pleasant, he told me, and insisted on everything done her way. Well, that told me nothing more than I knew already. No, she hadn’t mentioned our Saturday jaunt to him, or me either. It was all business. He’d never have guessed she had a family. So I learned nothing from that. And then, just before eight o’clock, he called upstairs to tell me that Ms Weisenstein wanted to speak to me on the phone. What was it about? Good news or bad news? – she hadn’t said. Feeling very tense, I scuttled downstairs, forgetting in my hurry the rule that I was supposed to put clothes on when downstairs. It was Raquela’s voice at the far end, asking me to wait for Ms Weisenstein, in typical business fashion. “Roy. Don’t keep me waiting,” was her gracious greeting when she picked up the receiver. Then she said, “I want to thank you for taking my daughters out last Saturday.” Cautious relief. “Thank you,” I muttered. “They seemed to enjoy it,” she went on. “They were very tired, but they were enthusiastic. It seems as if Cindy-Lou in particular is getting over her sulk now.” “Why was she sulking?” I ventured to ask. “She did not want to come to this country, of course,” came the sharp reply. “I think she made up her mind to be as miserable as possible and refuse to eat properly for as long as we are here, but she seems to be getting over it at last.” That’s all you know, I thought. “The girls even seem to be eating better at last. I’m pleased with what you did and I am willing for you, and Marina of course, to take them out again, if you wish,” she continued, and then paused. Was she expecting me to volunteer to do it again? I didn’t know, but thought it worth a try. “Well, I – er – we could do something on Saturday . . .” I stammered. “Saturday will be fine,” she interrupted. “Where will you be going?” “Well, I – we – er – we were just going to visit each other’s houses,” I tried to explain. “But – if you don’t mind, I’m sure we can think of somewhere else to go and let you know.” We might also have been going to the naturist club, but I had a little difficulty in mentioning that. “You can let me know, if it takes so long to make your mind up,” she said. “I presume your father has told you I met him at lunch today.” She had no doubt that such a truly significant event in the life of my father would have been reported to me in full. “I have no objection to my girls visiting your house occasionally as long, of course, as they are treated as respected guests. Raquela will be with them. Phone me tomorrow.” With that, the phone went down. I went back upstairs in a mixture of emotions. Firstly, I was relieved that she had apparently not sensed that I had not been dressed as smartly as she would no doubt have expected when I spoke to her over the phone – in fact, that she had not sensed that I had not been dressed, full stop. I was very glad that I had been registered as approved company for her daughters, and that my house was considered to be approved territory for them. But it was certainly stressful dealing with her, and certain activities we had already engaged in, and certainly others that I hoped to introduce in the future, would I’m sure have earned us the full force of her wrath had she known about them. So far I had enjoyed great support from Raquela, and I would need that to continue, but if the girls ever blurted anything out to their mother, and she actually listened, I could be in serious trouble. Perhaps I should play for safety. I discussed things with Marina at morning break on Tuesday. She was very keen to keep in contact with the girls, but felt even more than I did the need for caution with a mother like that. She then pointed out Cindy to me, once again sitting under a tree reading her book. “I’ve invited her to join me, but she doesn’t want to,” Marina said. I went over and knelt down in front of her. “Hello, Cindy,” I said gently, smiling at her. She looked up, startled. She muttered, “Hello,” then blushed red and put her head down to her book again just as if we had never met over the weekend. “Cindy, it would really be better during morning break and at lunchtime if you went around with other people more and made some friends. You can start with Marina, because she wants you to be hers friend and is disappointed you won’t join her.” Cindy muttered something I couldn’t hear and kept her face lowered into her book. I waited a moment, and when nothing happened, I just said, “So join Marina tomorrow,” and left her to it. With my heart pounding, I phoned Ms Weisenstein that evening, having planned very carefully what I wanted to say. I put on a pair of shorts to make the phone call, just in case. I told her that we planned to stay at my house most of the time, but might also go to the park. “If you want to go to the park, phone Marius and he will come round to take you,” she instructed. “And, Ms Weisenstein, I have just three points I’d like to mention to you,” I went on quickly and nervously, afraid that she might cut me off as she usually did. I thought giving her a basic agenda to start with might be the best way to handle a businesswoman. “Very well. Go ahead, but be quick about it,” she retorted. “Firstly, please may I suggest that the girls don’t dress up quite so – er – superbly,” I began. “They look great, but – well – their dresses are maybe a bit too long and too smart for this hot climate. I think that was why they were exhausted and in the university . . .” “I expect my daughters to dress smartly,” she interrupted. “Nobody will ever say I do not look after my children’s clothing. But I hear what you are saying about the type of clothes. However, I will not have them dressing in the shorts or jeans that make American girls look so revolting, nor wear any skirt that is too short.” “Yes, I agree,” I blurted out. “I just thought . . .” “Your next point,” she ordered. “Also here we usually call people by their shorter names, and so we just call them Cindy and Betsy,” I told her. “I think they’d feel more comfortable with others . . .” “My daughters have very fine names and I shall continue to call them what I named them,” she said curtly. “You will do the same, please.” No joy there, then. The girls weren’t even allowed a say in what names they preferred, although admittedly I hadn’t asked them either. At least she had no control over what we called them outside their mother’s hearing. “Your third point,” she commanded. “Well, finally, swimming is considered very important over here with the climate so hot,” I said. “And I understand neither of your girls can swim much at all. Perhaps you would consider giving them a short course of swimming lessons . . .” “I expect the school to teach them to swim, and if they fail to do so they will answer to me,” retorted Ms Weisenstein, failing to explain why the girls’ previous schools had apparently not had to answer to her on that one. “Is that all?” “Yes, thank you,” I answered, feeling rather humiliated. Well, perhaps I might get something on the clothes, anyway. “Now, I want to make the arrangements with one of your parents,” she instructed next, so I fetched my father. I gather she told him what was happening without even asking if it was convenient. The following day I sought out Cindy, and again found her under the tree with her book. I understood that she did not vomit this time before her class swimming, but had still not been made to take part. “Cindy, you really need to be able to swim in this country,” I told her gently. “Bring your swimming costume when you come on Saturday and Marina and I will teach you to swim.” Cindy shook her head. “No, I don’t want to swim. Thank you,” she added as an afterthought. “It will help you a lot if you can swim, even a bit,” I told her, but she still shook her head. So I changed the subject and asked her, “Why aren’t you with Marina? She says she wants you to join her during the breaks but you won’t come.” “I – just want to stay here and read,” Cindy replied. I decided to try some reverse psychology. “Cindy, you just make me cross,” I told her sternly. “You are a very intelligent girl, you’re pretty, you have a lovely smile and a nice nature, but you just won’t do a thing. You’re just wasting yourself completely when you could be such a special person. But you won’t even try or accept any help when Marina and I try so hard to be your friend. You make me so cross.” I stood up and stalked off, without looking back. Next day, I saw Marina, although only in the distance, during morning break. Cindy was with her. At lunchtime the three of us had our meal together and, without actually mentioning the incident the previous day, I showed Cindy how pleased I was to have her with us. Saturday did not go as well as I had hoped to start with. I invited Shelley, but her attitude was, “If I have to wear my swimming costume, I don’t want to come.” While she would never join those who teased Cindy, she thought she was, as Scott had said of Betsy, too ‘wet’. Ms Weisenstein probably assumed that my parents would be at home on Saturday morning, but as usual they went to town. She hadn’t asked and my father saw no need to tell her. As I mentioned before, it was the normal thing for the parents to be there, but not surprisingly my father took offence at Ms Weisenstein’s attitude. Marius dropped the girls and Raquela off at our house at about ten o’clock. I didn’t really like the idea of having an adult with us all the time, although I did get on well with Raquela and could trust her not to give away anything we did that ‘the lady’, as she always called her, might disapprove of. She always called me ‘Mr Roy’, although I kept telling her that Roy by itself was sufficient. The girls were very shy in our home. Perhaps they had never visited somebody else’s home before – if they had, it was rare, so they had no idea how to behave and lacked the confidence to stand there in silence while we tried to get them involved. I could tell Scott was getting frustrated with them, and were it not for the pleasures enjoyed by his lustful little eyes and the things he hoped would happen in the future, I think he would have given them up. But Betsy was certainly pretty, and I kept seeing Scott’s eyes gleam whenever his mind or his eyes strayed in certain areas. The girls were at least more suitably dressed on this occasion. Their knees were actually visible under their skirts, but not by much. Cindy wore an attractive yellow dress with fancy white embroidery on the sleeves and down the front. Betsy’s was dark blue with a broad skirt that came down in folds. I was surprised to see, as Betsy sat on the sofa with her legs a little apart, that she was not wearing her usual silk panties this time, but the more common, and probably cooler, white cotton type. I had told Scott to wait until after we had had our midmorning snack before he mentioned swimming, and not to make any comments about naked swims or anything like that. I told him quietly during the morning, though, that any kind of swimming would be a problem as I felt sure neither of the girls had swimming costumes and it wouldn’t be polite for us all to swim when they didn’t want to. I told him to let me try and handle it, but feared I would not be able to achieve the success Scott was obviously hoping for. Once during the morning I went into the house and up to my bedroom to fetch a beach ball, in an effort to teach Cindy to catch. As I did so, I heard Betsy’s voice calling from the bathroom. I hadn’t known she was inside the house. Presumably she had asked Marina where the toilet was, as I’m sure she would not have dared to go indoors without approval. “Hello?” I responded, stopping by the closed door. “Roy, is there any more toilet paper, please?” I heard her anxious voice from inside. “I’ll just get some from the cupboard,” I answered, and did so. “How shall I give it to you?” I asked. “You can come in,” she answered. I did so, expecting her at least to be fully dressed. I was surprised to see her still sitting on the toilet, cotton panties around her ankles, but only the tops of her thighs visible up her skirt. She was wearing her usual worried frown. “There you are,” I said with a smile, handing her the roll. “Thank you,” she replied politely, and I left. At about eleven o’clock, we sat under a tree to eat and drink, with Cindy revealing that she was also wearing thin white cotton panties on this occasion. As soon as we had finished, Scott, as he had been planning to do all morning, announced loudly, “I’m hot. Roy, it’s time we went for a swim.” “Well, if our visitors would like to,” I replied, turning to Cindy and Betsy. “Are you two hot enough for a swim yet?” They looked at each other rather uncomfortably, both turning a little red. Then Cindy said, “I – I’m sorry, but we both forgot to bring our swimming costumes.” They were not very convincing, and it was clear they had deliberately decided not to bring them. I decided to make them a bit more uncomfortable and said, “That doesn’t matter. Betsy, you could borrow one of Jenny’s swimming costumes, and, er . . .” “I could just nip home and fetch a spare costume for Cindy,” suggested Marina. Her main motive was to teach the two girls to swim, so I could tell she was disappointed about their lack of co-operation. Looking embarrassed, the girls shook their heads. I think Betsy might have been willing to swim, but had perhaps been persuaded by Cindy that she didn’t want to. “Aw, come on, don’t be spoilsports,” objected Scott, who had already pulled off his shirt. I had to shut him up. “We can’t just swim and leave our guests with nothing to do,” I told him. “Yes, it’s all right. Please, don’t worry about us,” said Cindy, almost beseeching me to leave them in peace. “We don’t mind.” “All right, if they don’t mind,” said Marina decisively. “Come on, let’s get changed.” She spoke to me and gave Scott a significant look, just as he was about to remove his shorts, indicating that we should use the changing room. I don’t really think even Scott would actually have stripped naked in front of these girls, but he was certainly thinking about it. I thought Marina must have some reason for that, so I followed her and the reluctant Scott into the changing room. “I’ll talk to Cindy later,” was all she said as we changed for swimming. We had our swim, but Marina soon got out while Scott tormented me as usual with all the silly, energetic games he wanted to play in the pool. She went over and sat with Cindy and Betsy, who were sitting on a little bench watching us. After a few minutes she rose and come over to the side of the pool. She squatted, wanting to talk to me, unintentionally revealing her lovely soft white panties as she did so. “Roy, Cindy and Betsy have decided to swim,” she said. “I’ll just cycle back home quickly and fetch a spare costume for Cindy.” I was pleasantly surprised when Cindy, coming up behind her, said, “You don’t need to go back home. We can just swim in our underwear – if Roy doesn’t mind?” No doubt showing my surprise, I said, “Well, yes, that’s fine. But they’ll get wet, so – so I think you’ll need to take them off when you finish and we’ll dry them before you go home.” “We can all swim naked,” burst out Scott foolishly, and against all my instructions. “We always do that here. We’re naturists so we’re used to that and we won’t – er – we won’t – laugh at you.” He trailed off weakly, glancing apprehensively at me as he realised he had blundered. Cindy and Betsy looked rather startled. Marina, who had also been surprised by Cindy’s suggestion, put in quickly, “Cindy, if you want, you can use my swimming costume and I’ll just swim in my panties.” Looking relieved, Cindy nodded. I’m not sure she would have worried so much had it not been for Scott’s outburst. Betsy seemed happy enough about this, despite her constant frown, and Raquela was quite happy with the situation, so Marina said, “Let’s go and change.” She led them both into our changing room, leaving Scott and me in the pool. I hid my pleasure at this turn of events rather better than Scott did. The girls were in there quite a long time and I wondered if Marina had struck further problems. But eventually all was revealed – well, figuratively speaking, anyway. When they eventually emerged, they were all in their underwear. Marina was wearing only her soft white panties, her tender little nipples casting short shadows down her stomach. Betsy wore only her cotton panties, while Cindy was also wearing her half-vest, gently rounded at the front. “Cindy’s too tall to fit into my costume,” Marina explained quietly to me. “So I decided just to wear my panties as well so she doesn’t feel so different.” Cindy and Betsy showed little confidence in the water, getting in very slowly and carefully and standing there looking nervous, but glad to get cool. We had already agreed that Marina would try to teach Cindy to swim and Scott should work with Betsy. I would step in and help where necessary. We made a little progress, concentrating on breaststroke as they both disliked putting their heads below water, but the girls soon tired. Scott enjoyed himself holding up Betsy’s body under the tummy while she tried to move her arms and legs, but it wasn’t very successful as far as the swimming was concerned. But they did both manage to propel themselves for three or four metres, by slow and painful methods, gasping for breath, without putting their feet down by the time we finished. In fact Betsy, who had been doing class swimming, was slightly better than Cindy, which I thought might introduce a bit of healthy competition. At least, I thought, now they could get from one side of their washbasin or toilet bowl to the other should they ever fall in. The exciting part came after we got out. Cindy and Betsy did not want to sunbathe, but hurried straight towards the changing room. Scott stifled a whoop as their wet panties appeared slightly transparent and we could see the colour of the skin on their bottoms and the outline of the cracks down the middle as they hurried away from us, arms huddled. I could not resist calling them and checking they remembered the basics of swimming. They turned round, and the indentations in their panties at the crotch outlined their vaginas. I could just make out the vague shapes of two little nipples through Cindy’s half-vest. Then they disappeared into the changing room with Marina while Scott scuttled over to the nearest bush to relieve his little bladder. Scott and I changed outside, Scott hiding his swollen penis from Raquela and omitting to put on his underpants, while Raquela volunteered to fetch some more squash for us to drink. The girls finally emerged, all carrying their underwear without seeming unduly self-conscious. Raquela arrived with the refreshments and then took their wet underwear inside to put over the heater. Normally we would just have put them on the clothesline to dry, but I wanted it done quickly, before my parents arrived home in probably an hour’s time. We sat down on the grass for the drinks and Betsy aroused interest straight away. As she sat down, quite unaware of what she might reveal, both Scott and I caught a glimpse of her smooth little vagina under her dress as she crossed her legs. Scott jerked convulsively and surreptitiously adjusted the pressure inside his shorts. Marina revealed nothing, but I had seen her often enough. I was more curious about Cindy, but she did seem conscious that she might reveal something, so she just gave her skirt a push downwards in the middle with her hand as she sat. I thought I could see her rounded bottom under her legs, but nothing more. We drank and chatted, with Scott unusually silent, eyes glued on Betsy’s skirt. Annoyingly she kept her legs still, with her skirt sagging just enough in the middle to cover the essentials. Eventually Scott lost patience, grabbed an idea out of space and said, “Hey, Betsy, come, I want to show you something.” He grabbed her arm and hauled her to her feet in his enthusiasm, which may have defeated his objective, as she came up with her legs still crossed and without revealing anything. Smiling, she followed Scott as he led her down towards the bottom of the garden and out of our line of vision, possibly intentionally. I stood up and stretched. “I’m going to sit by the pool,” I said, sure Marina would follow me, without realising the reason for my suggestion. She did follow. “Let’s do that, Cindy,” she suggested, pushing herself to her feet. Cindy gave a murmur, rolled over without showing anything and pushed herself to her feet. Feeling rather ashamed of being so sneaky, I wandered over and sat in front of the bench. It was a rather low, wide bench made by my father in his workshop when I was small. As I had hoped, Marina and Cindy decided to sit on the bench. Marina sat as she usually does on the sofa, tucking her legs under her on the seat. This time, a special thrill swept through me, as instead of seeing her panties I caught a glimpse of her soft smooth vagina, the very bottom part just between her legs. The skin was white and rounded, still almost hairless, although there are a few long hairs that only become visible when they are wet, and stick together to form a thin cord hanging down when she is naked. I can’t explain why I still get this thrill from seeing Marina’s panties or vagina under her skirt, when by now I have seen her naked so often and feasted my eyes on the beauty of her lovely body. Somehow it still seems to be lodged in my subconscious as a forbidden way to see, and that must be what attracts somehow. But it was Cindy who really excited my curiosity. She sat down right in front of me, with her knees raised a few centimetres as she was too tall for a child’s bench. Her yellow skirt came down to her knees and was spread demurely over her lap, but there was of course the usual triangle formed by a skirt and the two rounded knees or thighs. The question is always how far it is possible to see up that triangle. The nature of the skirt often helps to decide that. Cindy’s was perfect. It was translucent and the sunlight showed everything quite clearly. Without even moving, I could see right down to her loins. Her soft white vagina lips were in my line of vision, looking like a small fold as they often do with girls in that position. The top was rather unclear, and I suspected light-coloured pubic hair that helped to obscure it while remaining virtually invisible. With this vision in my view all the time, we talked, although I didn’t say too much. On the whole it was Marina drawing Cindy out. Cindy was a slow, reluctant talker, unused to finding anybody willing to listen to her. She talked mainly about her time in America, a sad story of loneliness, rejection and bullying. She was terrified of her mother, especially when she became angry. She often became upset as Marina eased it out of her, and Marina would put her arm around her and I sometimes put my hand gently on her knee or leg in sympathy. She and Betsy had rarely been to the houses of any other children in America. They had suffered at school there, as they did here, and if they ever did look like making friends, the other girls were too afraid of their mother. Occasionally there were mutual visits with business friends, but their mother did not socialise much and they rarely got to know other children well. It was a sorry tale. Cindy was in a worse state than Betsy, having suffered for longer and also having been struck down totally unexpectedly by puberty to the extent that she thought she was dying. Marina did most of the talking, as Cindy was still so nervous of me that she hardly looked at me. But I think we both got the message across that we cared about her and were there for her. And all the time I had that heart-warming sight of Cindy’s soft little vagina under her skirt, especially as she became less frozen and started to move her legs more freely. I wondered, with the start of some pubic hair, what progress she was making upstairs, but her dress at the top was too tight to allow anything more than fantasy. Every now and then we heard from Scott, with an occasional laugh or squeal from Betsy, or caught glimpses of them playing among the shrubbery. He sounded as if he was having a good time, and no doubt was arranging things to his visual satisfaction. I just hoped he didn’t make his devious intentions clear to her. I have to admit that I’m just as bad as Scott, except that I’ve learned how to keep it secret from girls and help them to enjoy the experience. >From the sound of it, Scott was learning as well. Then Raquela, who had disappeared discreetly after the drinks, came out of the house carrying her girls’ three items of underwear now ready to wear. I had forgotten my parents would be returning soon, and was glad I had told Raquela when they should be dry. Marina called Betsy, while Cindy took hers without embarrassment. She stood up, stepped into her panties and pulled them up, without revealing anything, but I was disappointed to see her turn her back on everybody still as she slipped her dress off her shoulders and put on her half-vest. My family arrived back about fifteen minutes later, and the rest of the day passed enjoyably but without undue excitement. Scott’s demeanour indicated that he had been seeing a lot of Betsy during the morning, in more ways than one. Marina and I paid special attention to Cindy and she responded well, with frequent shy smiles and an occasional unsolicited comment. After they had been taken home, I got hold of Scott to find out how he had done that morning. “Oh, we just – played,” he answered innocently. When pressed further he volunteered, “We talked a bit as well.” Pressed again, smilingly, “Well, we – chased each other. And I tried to teach her – some things.” What sort of things? He started off with one or two harmless activities, but then grew evasive. “Well, I tried to teach her to climb trees. But she’s so wet, she gets scared even on the bottom branch.” And again, “Well, I tried to – I mean, she wanted to learn how to do handstands. But she can’t even get her legs up – even though I tried to help her. She can’t do cartwheels either.” So Scott had done his best, and despite his failures apparently to teach Betsy anything he attempted, his demeanour suggested that he had been quite happy with what he saw. In fact, he still seemed to be breathing rather fast and wriggling uncomfortably below the belt. I wondered whether we could arrange anything with the girls for the following weekend, but all I could do was wait and see if there was any response from Ms Weisenstein. I couldn’t imagine she would keep phoning up every week, given her reputation for being totally preoccupied with business and ignoring her daughters. But she did. After her perfunctory thanks and another comment about how her girls seemed better for the experience, she asked me, “What are you planning for this weekend?” This really annoyed me. Much as I liked looking after her girls, I resented the mother’s apparent expectation that I should be another unpaid nanny for them. I momentarily wondered whether to express my objections, but decided that it might rule out my chances of looking after her girls again. (Besides, I was too scared!) So I just answered, “Well, I haven’t thought what we can do yet, but I think Saturday will be all right again.” “Saturday is no good this week,” she retorted. “I’m away on business both Friday and Saturday. The girls will be available on Sunday.” I paused, feeling more outraged than ever. Then I said, “I’ll have to see. We may have family commitments on Sunday.” As far as I knew, we didn’t, but I didn’t want this woman to think she could order me around just as she liked. Maybe she read what I was thinking. Anyway, she answered sharply, “Very well. Let me know. Can I rely on you to phone me by Wednesday evening?” “Yes, I’ll do that,” I sighed. She hung up. I duly phoned on Wednesday evening. “Marina won’t be able to come on Sunday because she’s got church activities then,” I told Ms Weisenstein. There was a sort of snort at the other end. “I’ll phone her,” she said. I grimaced. Was Ms Weisenstein now actually going to *order* Marina to come with us? “Where are you going?” she demanded. “I thought we could go on a picnic somewhere,” I suggested. I began to suggest several possible destinations, but she cut me off abruptly. “Do wherever you think,” she broke in impatiently. “Be at my house by nine o’clock on Saturday morning. Marius will take you.” And that ended the conversation. Marina still didn’t come on Sunday. She said Ms Weisenstein had phoned to ask if she could come, but she had apologised to her. That must have taken a lot of courage and diplomacy on Marina’s part, and I just wish I had heard exactly how she had got away with it. I wondered if Ms Weisenstein would cancel since Marina couldn’t come, but I heard nothing more from her, so I assumed it was still on. “Let’s go to Casa Banana,” suggested Scott eagerly when we discussed the picnic. That, of course, was Scott’s name for the venue where I first met him and Marina, and I knew he already had visions of himself and Betsy swimming naked in the waterfall. “Not a chance,” I replied. “Do you think those poor delicate girls could do all the climbing and roughing it that we need to do to get there? We need somewhere soft and easy to take them, the first time anyway.” Scott pulled a face and got the point immediately. “Where else can we go where there’s water?” he asked, and then realised he had given himself away. But I could read his mind like a book – a somewhat pornographic book. I couldn’t think of anywhere suitable where nude bathing would be possible, and neither could Scott. But I did have a suggestion I could offer, remembering what happened in the story I entitled ‘Watering the Flowers’. I told Scott about the farm and the stream, but omitted to mention how I used them for my own devious plan. “We can stop for a swim on the way back,” he exclaimed enthusiastically. “It’s not far for them to walk.” “I don’t think they’ll be ready to swim naked in public, as I presume that is what you want them to do,” I told him. “It’s a pity Marina isn’t coming. They might do it if there’s another girl to show them the way, so maybe we can persuade Shelley to come with us.” “No, not Shelley!” exclaimed Scott. “Anybody but her!” On the Tuesday evening Scott and Shelley had had a major row. It had been Scott’s fault. We were all round at Shelley’s house after school, and Scott had a friend with him. Stevie was less naïve than Bradley and was quite happy to fit in with our naturist lifestyle. Scott and Stevie on this particular evening had made a new discovery. Taking it in turns, they would squat naked over a garden spray, which would spurt forth water into the most delicate area of their bodies. They found it hilariously ticklish and stimulating, and it was enough to provide them with an erection within twenty seconds. They would squeal and shriek with glee, before finally springing to their feet with their hard little penises pointing at the sky and of course showing off noisily. Stevie was every bit as delighted as Scott with his erections – as long as Marina wasn’t watching. I tried it briefly myself, and have to admit it had its effect on me too. Marina wasn’t really aware of the sexual stimulation provided by this activity, as they moderated their behaviour while she was around. They had no such respect for Shelley, who had nothing but contempt for their behaviour during this activity, or Jenny. Marina went into the house to get on with her homework, while I joined her a couple of minutes later. Shelley and Jenny had just taken a swim and were lying next to the pool, doing the reading part of their homework. Since the boys weren’t bothering them, I let them be. Things deteriorated from there. The boys left their game and began to play a Wild West game. As they didn’t have guns or holsters, they used the only weapons they had. With great delight they had shoot-outs, the rule being that they were not allowed to fire until their weapon was stiff. The disgusted girls were thus presented with the nauseating sight of two boys standing ten metres apart, pumping their penises furiously amid raucous laughter and then opening fire as soon as they passed the horizontal unaided. The girls ignored this porn show as much as possible. The last straw came when the two boys leapt in front of them, pointed their stiff little penises at them and shouting, “This is a stick-up! Put your hands up or we’ll fill you full of piss!” Scott apparently added, “My name is Wild Bill Cock-up!” Then both laughed their beads off, a split second before Shelley lost the plot and tried to knock them off. Inside Marina and I heard furious shouting. We looked out of the back door to see the unusual spectacle of one irate girl chasing two startled naked boys, whose weapons had totally folded, all over the garden with a pool net. “I couldn’t stand their rudeness any more,” Shelley protested, and Marina and I couldn’t help but agree with her. It’s the sort of activity that should only be practised by consenting idiots in private. Marina and I both laid into the boys, and Scott obviously hadn’t forgiven Shelley yet. Hence his strong refusal to invite Shelley on the outing. “What about Janet?” I suggested. “Maybe,” responded Scott, without enthusiasm. I guessed he had experienced Janet to the full and had lost interest. I felt a bit bad then that I had encouraged him to use Janet as a means to an end, to help him with his new interest. On Friday he told me that Janet had agreed and would come with us on Sunday. So I was prepared for Sunday, until a surprise hit me on Friday night. It was just after seven o’clock when I was called to the telephone. It was Raquela, in a high state of excitement. “Mr Roy, Mr Roy, come quickly,” she squealed down the phone. “My sister is having a baby!” “You need a doctor, not me,” I protested, but knowing that she didn’t mean it the way it sounded. “We are going to the doctor,” she assured me. “But the lady is away and I cannot leave the girls alone. Please, please, you and Marina come and look after them. I will not be gone more than two hours being away.” I agreed reluctantly, appreciating her problem. But Marina I knew had Girl Scouts on Friday nights, so I phoned Shelley instead. “Into that old witch’s house?” Shelley exclaimed. “With those drippy girls? No, thanks.” Shelley is getting more independent of me these days, but the next morning she did phone me to apologise and say she would go next time if I really wanted her to. I felt I didn’t dare go without female support, though, afraid that Ms Weisenstein scarcely trusted me anyway as she had always made sure Raquela came too. Raquela, by the way, was quite happy to do so as she got paid at overtime rates. Quickly I dialled Misha’s number. Misha is a girl from our naturist club, one of the few to live in town. She is 15 and lives not far from our house. Her real name is Melissa, but as a toddler she could only pronounce it Misha, and has chosen to stick to that name ever since. I felt so relieved when she showed willingness to help me out and her parents, who know me well (but not *too* well!) agreed. She is a tall girl with wavy auburn hair, a few freckles still on her cheeks and a wide quiet smile, and a good person to have with me. She also gets on very well with younger girls, so she was eager to come with me when I needed her. I drove over to Misha’s house, was let in by their security guard and jumped out of the car, in haste as I had lost a few minutes and knew that Raquela was agitated. I was heading for the front door when I heard Misha’s voice calling me from above, “Here, Roy – coming in a minute!” I looked up to see her leaning out of her bedroom window upstairs, waving at me. She had no top on and was wearing just her bra above her waist. “We’ve got to hurry! Come like that,” I called back to her. She gave a giggle and shut the window. “Hurry up!” I called again, impatiently. I had to wait another three or four minutes for her before she finally flounced out of the house. Knowing how laid-back she can be, I suppose it was good time. She was wearing a white tank top, with all her midriff showing, and a short white pleated skirt, almost as if she were going for informal tennis practice. “Quickly,” I urged her as she started to chatter. I opened the passenger door for her and she sat down, pulling her legs in, first one leg and then the other, revealing a little pair of pink panties in between, with lacy edges. But I didn’t have time to waste admiring the scenery, so I leapt in and drove off quickly. I told Misha a bit more about the girls as we drove there. She thought she remembered Cindy from school, although there was a difference of two years in their ages, mainly because Cindy had created a bit of a stir by her failure to do physical activity – which was basically just a refusal to change in front of the other girls. I hadn’t heard yet whether Cindy had done P.T. that week. “But they’re not naturists, so don’t go doing anything crazy, like streaking round their garden yelling your head off and waving your underwear round your head,” I warned her. “Of course not,” she giggled, but I could very easily imagine her doing exactly that in her wilder moments. We arrived at the Weisenstein residence to find Raquela by the gate, with Marco as accomplice, preparing to drive her to, presumably, the hospital. She was very agitated. “You were so long!” she exclaimed. I tried to introduce her to Misha and explain the situation, but she hurried off with the promise she would be back within two hours. “They’ll tell you what they have to do tonight,” she called back as the car started off with a jerk. I sincerely hoped she was right. I suppose it was risky enough to do as we were doing, but if we were forced to spend the night there and Ms Weisenstein found out . . . My imagination was on overdrive. Cindy and Betsy were waiting at the door, looking terrified. Raquela’s panic was the obvious reason. They stared at us as we approached and immediately asked, “Where’s Marina?” “She can’t come because she’s at Girl Scouts,” I told them, and their faces fell. They looked as if they were ready to cry. So I added, “But don’t worry, this weird creature is my friend Misha.” They stared at Misha, who giggled and stuffed her fingers into her mouth like a little girl. Then they stared at her clothes, and especially at the gold ring evident in her belly-button. It’s not a common habit among naturists at our club, I’m glad to say. At least she hasn’t put one through the kin in her vagina area, as I’ve actually seen with some women at a few naturist places, as well as men with rings in their penises or scrotums. Not yet, anyway. Her parents tell her she may have a tattoo when she is 16 and she is looking forward to it. We are all holding our breath to see what it will be and exactly where she plans to position it. Cindy whispered, with a shy smile, “I like your skirt.” I was pleased to hear Cindy speak when she didn’t have to, a sign I think of how she was responding to Marina’s friendship. “Raquela won’t buy us short dresses like that because she says Mamma wouldn’t like it,” volunteered Betsy. The two girls were now regularly, it seemed, wearing skirts of knee-length, shorter than they had done when I first met them. I wondered if my request to Ms Weisenstein had done the trick, but I assumed too much: it was actually Raquela who bought the girls new clothes with the money given for the purpose and had dared to get them a little shorter. “It’s a new one,” beamed Misha, spreading it out for them to see. The girls recovered quickly, and we all talked for a few minutes as the girls led us to a small room that I suppose was the secondary lounge of the mansion. Then I remembered Raquela’s final words to me and asked, “What do you have to do tonight?” The girls looked a little shy and Betsy said, “We must have our baths now, and then we can watch a video.” My heart raced a little at the word ‘bath’ as I wondered just where this would lead. I was sure the girls wouldn’t actually want me around when they had it, though – would they? “What does Raquela do when you have your bath?” I asked, realising at the same time that this apparently meant Cindy was prepared to bath with Betsy again. “She – she comes and baths us,” murmured Betsy, rather embarrassed. Was it because she thought they were much too old to be bathed, or because she was connecting me with that job? I decided to see how far I could get. “Well, I’ll do for you as much as you want of what Raquela does,” I said. “What do you want me to do first?” “You run our bathwater,” whispered Betsy. “All right,” I agreed, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “Take me to the bathroom, then, and I’ll do that for you.” (To be concluded) EDUCATING SCOTT (CHAPTER 6) I sensed Cindy at least was rather uncomfortable following behind Betsy as she led us along a passage towards the bathroom at the far end. I thought I had better consult Cindy on any further progress, as it would be counter-productive if I tried to do anything she wasn’t comfortable with. They led me into a large bathroom, and at the far side was one of the large circular family tubs that you find at times in Mediterranean countries. “Wow!” I exclaimed. I tossed in, as if joking, “There’s enough room for Misha and me to have a bath with you as well!” Betsy, in front of me, turned round, eyes sparkling and hands clasped under her chin. Much to my surprise, she said, “Oh, yes, Roy, please, that would be such fun. We keep asking Raquela to bath with us, but she says Mamma wouldn’t allow it. Please, please!” I laughed and remembered what I had just decided. “Well, I was just joking, really,” I smiled. “But it depends if Cindy agrees. And Misha. I think we all need to agree if we’re going to do that.” “That sounds such fun!” enthused Misha, just as I expected she would. “What do you think, Cindy?” For me, a brief moment of infinite tension. Everything hinged on Cindy’s answer. If she said no, hopes dashed and no progress. But she was 12, and I couldn’t really imagine . . . “Oh, Cindy, say yes, it would be such fun,” begged Betsy, clutching her sister by the arm. “That would be lovely, Cindy,” Misha encouraged her. My heart almost seized up as Cindy gave a small smile and whispered, “All right.” She even seemed to look a little enthusiastic about the prospect. Betsy beamed with excitement, throwing her arms round her sister. “Oh, it will be such fun!” she exclaimed. Misha beamed and I hid my excitement by bending over the bath and turning on the taps. “Please put in some bubble bath,” pleaded Betsy. Misha reached up to a shelf, took down a plastic bottle, dropped it on the floor, giggled, and bent over to pick it up, revealing the dazzling splendour of her little pink panties, which had half-disappeared up the crack in her bottom. I never have been too sure of Misha’s complete sanity, but she does get on well with younger girls and, as she is a naturist, might well prove a major advantage in this situation. She is also well developed and liable to give Cindy a visual aid of advanced puberty. Misha took the cap off the bottle and poured a thick stream into the running bathwater. “That’s enough!” exclaimed Cindy, actually becoming agitated for the first time in my experience. The bubbles frothed up massively all over the bath. Betsy giggled. “That’s going to be even more fun,” she said. Feeling tense and excited, if somehow unbelieving of the opportunity that had fallen into my lap, I waited impatiently while the bath slowly filled. A family bath that size probably holds about three times the volume of water of a normal bath. “Might as well get ready,” burbled Misha, pulling off her tank top to reveal her lacy little white bra underneath. It covered little more than her nipples and her swollen headlights underneath were desperate for freedom. “No, wait, we don’t do it in here,” broke in Betsy, obviously wanting to keep to the house rules. “We change in our bedrooms.” “I don’t have a bedroom here,” Misha pointed out, ripping off her bra. Her two breasts are like broad rounded funnels, pointing slightly downwards, though without flopping, and with large soft red nipples on the end. Her skin is soft and slightly freckled, with little purple veins showing through. No doubt in thirty years’ time she will be one of those women who walk round with two vast watermelons hanging down to her knees and doing an Irish jig every time she moves her body. At the moment they tend to bounce like a yoyo. I could see Cindy staring intently at Misha’s headlamps, as if she couldn’t believe her eyes. I thought I saw an expression of relief in her face, as if to say, “I’m glad I’m not like that.” It was quickly followed by a look of apprehension: “I hope I don’t get like that!” Betsy was organising things. “Misha, you can go into Cindy’s bedroom to change,” she said. She looked up at me and smiled. “And Roy, you come with me into mine.” “Thank you,” I smiled, feeling very honoured and trusted. Or was it that she really liked and trusted me, or that she was curious to see my penis as soon as possible? “Let’s go now, while the water’s still running,” she continued, leading me gently by the forearm. Misha was already going out of the door with Cindy, whirling her bra around in front of her by one end. “This is my catapult,” I heard her tell Cindy brightly, pretending to aim at a target and let fly. That’s Misha for you! Betsy, who seemed to be getting more talkative every time I saw her, was chattering away to me as we entered her room. “Cindy doesn’t mind having her bath with me again now,” she told me as she unbuttoned her dress. “She told me how she thought she was sick, but Marina told her it was all natural. She’s like that girl in the picture we saw at the exhibition, but she didn’t know she was supposed to be.” Betsy stepped out of her dress, and then pulled down the little white cotton panties she now seemed to wear a lot of the time. Presumably these had also been bought by Raquela, and I was glad she kept them white and plain instead of going in for the gaudy Mediterranean panties. Probably she thought that was safest, as Ms Weisenstein might not approve of those. Idly I wondered what sort of underwear the mother used, and could not imagine. Meanwhile I was undressing quickly to show willingness and reached nakedness a second or two after Betsy. She could not help looking curiously at my apparatus, staring indeed. After all, I was in all probability the first boy she had seen totally naked, although Scott had unwittingly shared his small, beautiful miniatures with her by the back door, so to speak. No doubt she also noticed my pubic hair, as per the diagram, an asset Scott is unlikely to possess for another 15 years or so without massive doses of fertilizer. Betsy wrapped herself in her bathrobe, and then stepped over to her wardrobe. She dragged out a rather faded pink bathrobe and handed it to me, along with a small towel. “You can wear my old one,” she said, no doubt intending to be thoughtful and generous. I put it on. It was just long enough to reach my pubic hair and that was all. I grinned ruefully as I followed her out of her bedroom and back into the bathroom. Betsy gave a squeal. Misha’s excess of bubbles was spilling over the side of the bath and on to the glazed tile floor. Betsy tried to scoop it up and put it back, but more was coming out all the time. “Don’t worry, it won’t harm the floor,” I told her. “We can mop it up later.” At that moment Cindy and Misha came in, Cindy well wrapped up in her bathrobe and Misha quite happily naked. Cindy was smiling more broadly than I had ever seen her do before, and I had no doubt that Misha’s body had done the trick. “I think I need to wear a bra too,” I heard her say to Misha. There was no way Cindy could think she was abnormal after seeing Misha. Misha has a full mass of dark reddish-brown pubic hair and it is often possible to see tufts of it sticking out at the sides of the tiny pairs of panties she likes wearing. A school swimming costume will just about cover it, but I heard there were some sniggers and filthy comments from the boys about her ‘new hairstyle’, as they called it, when she wore her bikini at a friend’s party. Knowing Misha, she was probably unfazed by it all, as Shelley would be, but much more liable to find pleasure in the attention. “Ooh, look at those bubbles!” squealed Misha. She picked up a pile from the floor, stepped over and deposited it on top of my hair. “Hey!” I objected, wiping it off and throwing it back at the giggling girl. In reply she scooped up some more and threw it at me, hitting the bathrobe. I threw it off, picked up a handful myself and threw it back. Cindy and Betsy were backing away, laughing. Misha now grabbed another handful of bubbles and stepped over to me, squealing with laughter as she tried to rub it into my hair. I stepped forward and wrapped my arms round her shoulders, pulling her towards me and feeling her soft wobbly breasts pressing against by chest like a pair of fully inflated balloons. Squealing with laughter, she wriggled free, helped by the bubbles which made her very slippery. She tried to throw some more bubbles at me, but I picked her up and dumped her into the bath. She almost disappeared under the high mass of bubbles, cutting off her hysterical screams. I stepped back, with Cindy and Betsy, hands to mouths, looking quite nervous, as they had done when Scott and I had been romping in the park. Then Betsy began to giggle, and Cindy reluctantly joined in. Then they began laughing with a kind of delighted horror at such high jinks. They are common with Misha around, though, as she has an appalling liking for practical jokes. She leapt out of the bath, still squealing with laughter and swatting more bubbles at me. I wrestled her to the floor, but she got one leg up to put a foot on my chest and push me away. I caught hold of her leg and held tight, despite her slippery soapy skin. Down at the bottom was that brilliant mass of pubic hair, so thick I could only get a glimpse of her broad black slit of a vagina at the bottom where the skin is loose and bright pink. “Cindy, help me!” begged Misha amid giggles, holding out an arm towards her. Cindy backed away, but then suddenly, to my surprise, threw off her bathrobe to step forward, pick up a handful of bubbles and toss it gently in my direction. Most of it fell to the floor, but it was such a pleasure to see her trying to join in the fun. I reached out an arm towards her but she backed away, giggling nervously. It would have been too obvious of me to glance lower, but I could get a glimpse of her white rounded little breasts, like two little inverted cups on her chest. The bath was still churning out hordes of bubbles, but Betsy, the youngest and most practical of us, finally turned off the taps before picking up a pile of bubbles and dropping it on my hair as I tried in vain to keep my hold on the slippery Misha. Misha leapt on top of me, thrusting her great breasts almost into my face, and tried to push me down. Cindy grabbed my arm and let go when I shook it, and Betsy deposited another load of bubbles on my hair. All was done with shrieks of insane female laughter. Within a moment all four of us were leaping naked around the bathroom, with the girls hurling bubbles at me and I hurling them back. I would never have imagined that two such shy, delicate girls as Cindy and Betsy could actually join in a romp like this. Yet here they were, staying on the outskirts while Misha made her darting attacks, all the while picking up bubbles and throwing them at me with high, squeaky giggles. Was this the first time in their lives they had really forgotten themselves and had some good, genuine fun? I tried to throw Misha in the bath again, but she was now totally slippery and it was impossible to get a grip on her. Instead, I cunningly manoeuvred so that I had my back to the door and Misha was between me and the bath. I made a mock attack on her, making her jump back, and then gave her a push that sent her over backwards with a big splash and a scream into the bath. There were screams of fright from Cindy and Betsy, who leapt back in horror at first as both water and bubbles from the bath flew everywhere. All that could be seen of Misha were her feet still sticking over the edge of the bath. Then her head appeared with two flailing arms as she fought her way out of the suds, sitting up in the bath now but otherwise helpless with laughter. Her head was covered in froth. Cindy and Betsy now started laughing as well at the hilarious sight. “Bathtime, girls,” I grinned, picking up Betsy gently and carrying her over to the bath. She struggled feebly and looked alarmed. “Please, please don’t! Please don’t hurt me!” she begged me. “I won’t hurt you, I promise,” I replied, gently lifting her white little body over the edge and depositing her into the willing arms of Misha, who sat her down next to her in the bath and wrapped her arms around her. “Your turn now, Cindy,” I grinned, moving towards her. “No, no!” Cindy protested, backing away and holding out her arms to protect herself. But there was no real fear or conviction there, so I pursued her round the bathroom and swept her up, struggling feebly, in my arms. Her breasts were certainly more developed than Marina’s, almost pressed against my chest. They were white and cupped, sweetly rounded with pale pink nipples on the end. Between her legs I could see her little vagina, lips curling gently inwards, but the detail blurred at the top under her little tufts of fair public hair. She struggled weakly and gave a giggle or two as I carefully stepped over the edge of the bath into the vacant half, still carrying her in my arms. Carefully I sat down, Cindy still on my lap. She now had her arms rather tightly round my neck, afraid I might slip. I held her gently and, on impulse, kissed her gently just under the ear. She gave a gasp and a shudder, turning her face away from me and looking down, and I wondered if I had made a mistake. By now the bubbles were diminishing and we could all see each other, above the water level at least. “Time to wash,” I suggested, grinning. With a laugh, Misha grabbed a bar of soap and stood up, her brilliant mass of pubic hair, wet and matted, in front of my eyes for a moment. Then she deliberately toppled over on top of me, pushing me under the water, and started rubbing soap all over the side of my head. I surfaced, spitting out a mouthful of soapy water, and struggled with her. Water went splashing everywhere as we wrestled, and again I was quite unable to get a grip on her slippery body. I could feel my hand running all over her bottom, unable to get a grip. She rolled over and I inadvertently put my hand into her mass of pubic hair. A bit more intentionally, I managed to roll her again, struggling with her so I could feel her slippery breasts under my fingers. “Stop, stop!” she suddenly cried. “Roy, just you sit still now and let me wash you.” I did so, and she calmed down enough to start washing away at my back. Suddenly Cindy made a move, across the bath towards me with a bar of soap. Smiling rather self-consciously, she began to soap my chest. I slipped an arm round her, rubbing her back gently, and she smiled shyly with pleasure. This encouraged Betsy to join the throng. We must have spent at least half an hour together in that bath, washing, playing and laughing together. Time after time I had their slippery female bodies passing through my hands, and none of them seemed to notice or mind exactly where my hands went. It is such a great sensual feeling to have slippery female skin belonging to areas usually kept well under cover, and nobody made any protest when my hands came in contact with their smooth little bottoms or slippery chests or more delicate areas still. Finally there came a time when we were all exhausted. The bubbles had all gone but the water was infuriatingly opaque, with only Misha’s breasts visible above the waterline. I noticed Cindy constantly eyeing them, as if still unable to believe her eyes. She wasn’t wearing her glasses in the bath, of course, so I wasn’t sure how clearly she could see the details, even when sitting next to her, but she would have to be extremely shortsighted not to be struck by the size of Misha’s promontories. Well, I’m exaggerating, I suppose, but Misha must be in the top 10 per cent for physical development among 15-year-olds. “Scott would have loved this,” I threw out, to see how Betsy responded. It was positive. “Oh, yes, I wish Scott could have come,” Betsy said. “Please, Roy, do you think you could bring him next time?” “Well, I don’t think there will be a next time,” I replied. “Raquela’s sister isn’t likely to have another baby next week.” “You can come when she’s here. She won’t mind,” put in Cindy. “We can’t very well have a bath together when your mother’s here, though,” I told them. “Oh, yes, she’d say we were much too noisy and messy,” agreed Betsy, getting completely the wrong end of the stick. “We’ll have to wait till she goes away again.” I finally looked at my watch – successfully waterproof and shockproof, as it would need to be for sharing in the athletics events of the previous hour. We had about half an hour before Raquela said she would return, and presumably if all went well she would want to use up all that time. I didn’t think Raquela would be perturbed if she did come home and find us all in the bath together, but it would be a disappointing end to the intimacy we were enjoying. I pulled out the plug and with reluctance we climbed out of the bath, Cindy’s delightful vagina, with her fair pubic hair so hard to pick out against her skin, right in front of my eyes for a moment as she opened her legs and climbed over the edge. It had twisted itself into a little knot in the middle and there was a single drop of water on the end. “Well, we’d better get dry,” I said, beginning to rub myself lightly with Betsy’s small towel. “Do we just dry ourselves like this?” I was hoping for a suggestion about drying each other, but didn’t like to initiate it myself. “Raquela dries us after a bath,” Betsy answered. “Well, she dries me, but Cindy doesn’t let her do it any more.” “I – don’t really mind,” murmured Cindy, looking at me shyly out of the corner of her eyes with an embarrassed smile on her face. I still wasn’t used to seeing her eyes without glasses. “You can dry me if you like.” “Yes, I’d like that,” I replied, my understatement of the year as I smiled brilliantly at her. “All right, give me your towel.” Betsy looked momentarily disappointed, but then said, “And Misha can dry me,” handing her the towel. I wrapped the towel round Cindy as a preliminary, and bent down to whisper in her ear over her shoulder, “If I dry you, I might be tempted to kiss you as well. Would you be very upset?” She blushed a little and turned her head towards me, eyes shining and a little smile twisting her mouth. “All right,” she whispered. Smitten with love for this deeply vulnerable creature, I slipped an arm under her towel round her back and kissed her warmly but gently on her cheek. Her smile widened but she didn’t look at me, gazing into space somewhere around the lower corner of the room. “Hey, what about me?” burst out Betsy, wriggling out of the towel Misha had wrapped around her and darting over to me. With one arm still round Cindy, I opened the other one for Betsy and gave her a warm kiss on the cheek as well. (I have never kissed a child on the mouth and never intend to.) “Thank you,” she beamed, and returned it with a large wet one. Betsy glowed with pleasure, and then Misha came over, saying, “Me too! Me too!” in a very little-girl voice. Laughing, I stood up, wrapped my arms round her with her breasts intruding strongly on my lungs, and gave her a smacker on the cheek as well. “I said ‘Me *two*!” she insisted, still in her silly little-girl voice, so I gave her one on the other cheek as well. “Mwah!” she responded, with a noisy wet one aimed for my lips, but I just managed to get it on my cheek instead. I bent over again to start drying Cindy, but she interrupted me, putting her arms up and round my neck to give me a lovely kiss. I was really beginning to feel that these girls actually liked me now! Nothing like a kiss or two to give a gentle hint! I dried Cindy all down the back and her slim smooth bottom, and then turned her gently around. As she smiled shyly up at me, I took my courage in both hands, together with certain attractive parts of her anatomy, and rubbed them very gently with the towel. I felt them wobble under my hands, and so carefully and lightly I dried with particular care, droplet by droplet. Then I reluctantly moved further south. As I moved below her belly-button I accidentally let my hand brush against her little patch of fair pubic hair, shuddering with delight to feel the damp little hairs, many sticking together, against the backs of my fingers. At the same moment she opened her legs, to stand with them apart. I could hardly believe it. I was about to ask if she wanted me to dry underneath, but it seemed too obvious, so I shut my mouth again and slipped the towel between her legs. I gently dried her pubic hair and gently around and under her vagina, not daring to touch it with my fingers. Cindy seemed so relaxed and delighted with the attention. Before getting down to her legs, I stood straighter and gave her another gentle kiss behind the ear. Riskily, I whispered, “Cindy, you have such a beautiful body. How could you ever think there was anything wrong with you?” I smiled warmly as I said it, to show I was teasing her, not blaming her. She looked up at me shyly with her pale blue eyes. Then she whispered, “I didn’t know. I don’t think – I’m beautiful.” She paused, then added, “Will I end up – like Misha?” “I hope not!” I gasped, in mock horror. She looked a little shocked, so I broke into a grin and said, “Not really. Not many girls are like Misha, and you won’t be her size when you’re her age. Or any other age!” I was sure I was right, but couldn’t speak for after 15. Just at that moment, Misha burst out with a squeal. “Ooh, ooh, it’s time for Teen Time! Quick, quick, Betsy, Cindy, do you have satellite television?” They stared at her and nodded. What a silly question to ask a filthy rich family! “Please, please, let’s watch it!” she begged. “I need to see if they’ll read my letter on the air. Where do we go?” “I’ll show you,” volunteered Betsy, leading her out of the bathroom. We all followed, still naked. I glanced at the sodden mess on the bathroom floor, but assumed Raquela would look after it if we didn’t get around to it. Betsy led us down the passage and into a television lounge. Then she stood there looking helpless. “I don’t know how it works,” she told Misha. “Raquela always works it.” “Let me do it,” said Misha, charging in. In her panicky way, she grabbed the remote controls and pressed one button after another before finally finding the channel she needed. Pop music and dancing teenagers filled the screen and our earholes. “That’s it!” Misha squealed, leaping to her feet and starting to leap around to the disco music. Her breasts bounced up and down alarmingly and looked ready to spring off at any moment, while her pubic hair waved in the breeze. She grabbed hold of a surprised Cindy by the hand and danced round the room, dragging Cindy behind her. “Come on, Betsy, let’s dance,” I urged her, taking her gently by the hand and dancing much less energetically than Misha. Betsy giggled and tried to join in. I don’t like the idea of discos or pop music for that age group, but I saw it as a way to get these girls out of themselves. Misha was still bouncing around the room, breasts flying wildly, and Cindy was trying to join in, her little breasts bouncing a little as well. My penis too was wobbling everywhere, so Betsy was the only one of us free of involuntary lack of control. We had hardly got going when the music stopped and the show’s presenters came on the air. Misha, hoping to hear her letter read out, crashed to the floor, back against a chair, knees up. I could not resist sitting almost opposite her, where I was able to see tufts of her reddish-brown pubic hair sticking out between her legs and her long stretch of loose red skin between her legs, with her deep black vagina down the middle. She began to tell me all about her ridiculous letter about a certain pop star she adored. Cindy and Betsy, less distracted, went to the corner of the room and dragged out a large foam mattress. They placed it in front of the set, as I presume they always did, and Betsy lay down on it face first, still unashamedly naked. “Come and join us,” she urged Misha and me, as Cindy nipped off to fetch her glasses. Misha was still riveted to the screen, but I stood up and came over, lying down next to Betsy. Cindy came in and lay down on my other side. The girls snuggled up to me, pressing their bare shoulders against mine as they watched. The presenters were not reading letters yet, but just introducing a brief programme on massaging. Misha reluctantly stood up, as the picture on the screen switched to the inside of a massage parlour, with a bare-shouldered teenaged girl lying on her front on a couch, covered by a towel of course, while another of the same age was working on her shoulder muscles. “Who wants a massage?” Misha asked brightly. “Ooh, yes,” responded Betsy eagerly. There was a quieter positive response from Cindy, but Betsy was Misha’s side of the mattress and Misha straddled her back and began to copy the massaging technique as shown on the screen. “Would you like me to give you a massage, Cindy?” I asked, and she nodded with a quiet smile. So I also straddled her legs, careful not to let my penis dangle on her, and began gently kneading her shoulders. Next to me I heard Betsy humming quietly while Misha giggled her way along. Cindy’s back was smooth and white, but her thin little shoulder-blades, exposed due to a long spell of under-eating, stuck out painfully. My hands were under her long light fair hair, and I moved up to her neck, loving the sensual feel of her loose smooth skin. I worked my way down to the small of her back, then shifted my position downwards so I could include her small white bottom. I touched the top of one cheek softly, than leaned forward and whispered in her ear, “Down here as well?” To my delight, she nodded. I started by rubbing her buttocks gently all over, and then began to massage her a bit more firmly, kneading each cheek so gently as I did so. I could clearly see the crack of her vagina down between her legs, and found that if I squeezed her bottom just right it opened the vaginal lips ever so slightly, allowing me a closer view of the inmost secret parts of her body. After a few minutes the programme ended and I continued the massage, although Misha stopped stock still while the presenters read out a few letters. Misha’s was not among them and she couldn’t understand it. Knowing Misha, she might have written something that sounded like lunacy, and from what she had already told me it sounded like it. Unconsciously I stopped massaging as well, while Misha expressed her bewilderment and the programme came to a close. “Have you finished?” came Cindy’s disappointed voice from under me. “No, but I can do the other side if you like,” I joked. “All right,” answered Cindy, totally innocently and unself-consciously, rolling over on her back and exposing the remainder of her beauty to me without embarrassment. I was incredulous. Only a week earlier, this girl had been paranoid about exposing what she thought was her deformed body even to other girls. Marina must have done a wonderful job with her. Misha giggled. “I’ve never seen anyone having her tummy massaged before,” she grinned, but was happy to try. “Roll over, Betsy.” Betsy did so, and I had a thrilling view of both girls lying flat on their backs, naked, legs towards me. Betsy’s little vagina curved down between her legs, the little soft lips folding inwards. Cindy’s was longer, deeper, and the top seemed to disappear suddenly into nothing, caused by her almost invisible pubic hair. Her pubic mound was quite prominent in that position, and her vagina seemed to stand up on it as it rounded the curve. The beauty was awesome, and my penis threatened to embarrass me. Fortunately Misha was quite unconscious of my predicament as she chattered away to Betsy, massaging her flat little chest gently. I crouched over Cindy, legs so positioned that should my penis choose to misbehave, it should do so outside her view. I rubbed away at her shoulders, just touching on the swellings that suddenly curved upwards from the plain below, but it was awkward from the side. So I straddled her body again as my penis slowly lowered itself. “All over,” murmured Cindy, presumably not understanding why I was confining my attention to certain small areas of her front. I pointed to her breasts with a query, wanting to make quite sure. She nodded and went, “Mmm,” so that was plain enough. I put my hands gently on either side of one little rounded breast. I resisted a strong urge to put my head down and kiss it. I could just about hold the sweet little rounded thing in one hand as it curved elegantly round, with a pale pink nipple on top, looking like and as pliable as a little inverted jelly. I touched the nipple gently and felt like a tiny rubber button, but underneath her little breasts were very soft and moved under my fingers as I massaged gently. As I touched the nipples, she pushed her chest up against my hands and gave a little moan of pleasure. I crouched over Cindy, heart beating fast and breaths coming quickly as for the first time in my life I really massaged a girl’s breasts. I was ever so gentle, afraid of hurting her, as she lay on her back, eyes closed and a peaceful smile on her face, trusting me so beautifully, so amazingly. I did them in turn. I was just finishing the second one, thinking of nothing else, when suddenly I felt something tickle the end of my penis. In horror I jerked myself up, realizing that my penis, now almost floppy again, had brushed against the bottom of Cindy’s little patch of pubic hair. Cindy gave a gasp and a giggle, clapping a hand over the place as if a large fly had landed on it. She wriggled, pressing her thighs together as if she had suddenly found a need to urinate. Her face was flushed. “Cindy, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to touch you there,” I apologised desperately. “It’s all right, it just tickled,” she giggled, wriggling again. “Ooh, it felt so – so good. So funny.” She slid a hand between her legs, squeezed her thighs together and then withdrew it. “Do it again.” “No, Cindy, not just now,” I whispered urgently, as I saw Betsy peering over at us and asking, “What is it, Cindy?” “Roy touched me . . .” she began, but I broke in hastily with, “I just tickled her by accident, Betsy, that’s all. I think we’ll need to be getting dressed soon, with Raquela coming home.” I felt appalled at what I had done to an innocent girl, however accidental it was. “Oh, yes. Roy, I want to show you my new nightie,” Betsy replied. “Thank you, Misha.” She sat up, rubbed her tummy gleefully, and then stood. “Come with me, Misha. Cindy, are you coming?” “Not just yet. In a minute,” replied Cindy. “Roy just needs to finish my massage.” As the others left the room, she looked at me and gave a giggle of anticipation rather than the subtlety of naughtiness. “That felt so strange,” she said, a puzzled tone in her quiet, gentle voice. “But it felt good. Roy, please do it again.” I was in a quandary. There was nothing I wanted to do more, but I was terrified of introducing this innocent girl to some sort of sexual play, and even more terrified of being discovered. “Cindy, I – I don’t think it’s good,” I told her, hating myself for playing safe. “A – a boy shouldn’t touch a girl down there. Not like that. It was a complete accident and I didn’t mean to do it.” “I don’t mind, I like it,” she said, looking like a five-year-old who has had a tiny taste of sherbet for the first time. “Please, just once more.” He who hesitates is lost. I hesitated. “Where do you want me to do it?” I asked nervously. “Just here,” she giggled in anticipation, putting her finger right at the bottom of her pubic hair, where the strands were beginning to weave their way across the opening to her vagina. Looking more carefully than I had been able to do before, I could see the lips slightly parted and the thin white rise of her clitoris peeping out from underneath. I wriggled uncomfortably, rolling over as my penis had blown up like a balloon, hoping to hide it from Cindy. But she had already noticed. She stared up into my eyes, her own pale blue eyes wide open with what looked like a delighted disbelief, and her cheeks flushing bright red. “Oh, Roy. Thank you, Roy,” she blurted out, and then suddenly her eyes spilled over and she was in my arms, misty glasses off and in her hand, and her tears were running down my chest and quenching my penis. “What for? What’s the matter?” I asked, alarmed and bewildered. I had never known a girl behave like this before. Cindy was smiling through her tears. “Oh, Roy, I . . .” Then she lowered her voice to a whisper, looking down at the ground this time. “Emma at school says when a boy’s penis is – like that, it means he loves you,” she whispered. I could hardly deny it now, but I certainly did feel a tremendous tenderness for her. I put my arms round her bare back and kissed the nape of her neck, as far as I could reach it under her long flowing hair. “You have such beautiful hair,” I told her by way of distraction. Suddenly she lay on her back again. “Quick, Roy,” she urged me, wriggling ecstatically. “Before the others come back. Tickle me again.” “I – I can’t,” I stammered, quite at a loss. I’d have loved to, but the consequences might be too appalling to consider. “Your mum – your mamma would kill me.” Cindy looked up at me again, eyes wide with surprise, behind her demisted glasses again. “Mamma will never find out,” she assured me. “I’ll never tell her and nobody else will know. She never listens to me anyway. Quick, tickle me again.” She gave a shudder of anticipation as she lay there, presenting me with her pubic mound. Hesitating, I lost again. I sneaked a look over my shoulder, but I could hear Misha and Betsy a clear distance away. Cindy seized my hand. “Please, Roy,” she begged me. “And I’ll give you another kiss.” “Well – just once,” I muttered, unable to resist such a massive bribe. She gave an angelic smile and lay back with her eyes shut. I surveyed the topography just below me. The sheer beauty of her smooth soft white skin and its delightful undulations took my breath away. My penis responded warmly as I glanced again at those little rounded breasts, nipples suddenly looking as if they were standing up a little with the excitement, then her skin below, revealing her ribs, her flat stomach, and then – down to her loins, hipbones prominent, little blue veins visible in the smooth whiteness of her groin, and that delightful vagina, brilliantly outlined on her prominent mound, with that light, almost invisible patch of fair pubic hair at the top . . . And this was a girl who a week before had been terrified of allowing anybody in the world to glimpse her hidden paradise! I was not sure exactly where I had touched her but, having committed myself, decided to experiment. “Was it there?” I asked, rubbing my fingers at the top of her pubic hair. It was such a thrill to feel the light downy hair under my fingers. “No,” she answered. “Further down.” I moved my fingers down a couple of centimetres, the light downy hair tickling my fingertips, but she was not satisfied with that either. Below that the hair met the vagina, parting to form two separate little rows of fluff, individual hairs perhaps a centimetre long, down either side of the vagina lips. Shuddering myself with the excitement, I gently rubbed the tip of my index finger in the middle, just above where I could see the white of her clitoris peeping through. It was like an electric shock going through her. She arched her back with a jerk, pressing herself against me, then shuddered convulsively, emitted a squeal, jerked her thighs up and slapped her hands between her legs. “Ooh, that was lovely!” she exclaimed in a tone of awe, panting for breath, looking at me wide-eyed and very flushed in the face. “It just felt – so good.” She drew out her hands and looked a little embarrassed. “I think – I must have done a little wee-wee,” she murmured with a giggle. Her hands did indeed look damp – with some form of liquid or another – but I didn’t feel up to giving her further enlightenment right there and then. With curiosity Cindy put her hand on the vital spot and tickled herself there. She wriggled a little. “It feels – funny, but it isn’t the same as when you do it. Please, Roy – just one more,” she begged me, clasping my hand and giving me the promised kiss on the cheek. This could go on for ever, I thought – or at least until the others return. Oh, well, I’d already done enough to get myself, as I had told Scott, severely castigated – castrated, even! – so I had nothing further to lose. “Tickle me, tickle me!” she pleaded like a five-year-old, lying back again and thrusting her pubic mound towards me. Throwing all restraint to the winds, I reached out and tickled her again, not just a touch this time, but a delicate push of the forefinger through her little patch of fluff, to the soft curved lips of her vagina and wiggle my finger between them to touch her clitoris. “Ooooh!” came a delighted squeal from a metre further up the body, immediately followed by a hiss of escaping air. Her body tensed, her back arched and her thighs shot up as she wrapped herself into a little ball of ecstasy, and under her white bottom I could see the rounded area of loose pink flesh between her legs, with just a few long hairs hanging down and the bottom of the vagina forming a line down the middle. “Oh, that feels so good!” Cindy exclaimed again, rolling over on her side and taking in short, sharp breaths. Then she lay on her back again, just as I could hear Misha’s voice down the passage. They were coming back. Cindy sat up, a look of disappointment on her face. Guilt and fear swept over me. If anybody ever found out what I had done, I was dead meat. “Remember, you promised not to tell your mum – your mamma,” I reminded her. “And don’t tell anybody else, or we’ll both be in trouble.” I think this was the first time since I was a child that I made this request of a girl, and I felt ashamed. “I won’t, I promise,” she assured me, sitting up. “Except for Marina.” I whipped my head round and stared for her. There was a twinkle in her eye and a twitching at the corner of her mouth. The girl was teasing me! How she was changing! Misha and Betsy came in, Misha dressed and Betsy in her nightie. “Come on, you two, get dressed,” laughed Misha, and I noticed her eye falling on my penis, which had still not fully subsided. “Roy, we don’t want you getting her pregnant.” Cindy put her head down and shot out of the room, while I followed more sedately. I followed Cindy as she rushed down the passage and into her bedroom. Inside the bedroom door Cindy faced me, her face white. “Roy, can I – can I get pregnant with you doing that?” she gasped. “Only if you tell somebody about us,” I grinned. She stared at me, then giggled weakly when she realised I was now the one doing the teasing. I nipped into Betsy’s room to fetch my clothes. “How do I get pregnant?” she asked when I returned, going to the cupboard and taking out a nightdress. She slipped it on over her head, without any panties underneath, while I began to put on my clothes. Quickly I explained one or two things to her. Her eyes grew big, but I could see understanding now as to why a penis really did become stiff. “But doesn’t that hurt?” she asked at the end. “Yes, it’s – very bad until you’re about 18,” I told her, a bit afraid she might want to try it with me, after her enjoyment of our massaging. Or even worse, try it with somebody else. She was so naïve she wouldn’t know what she was doing. “If you try it younger than that, you might be so sore you can’t walk properly for days.” It had the desired effect, as she looked suitably unnerved. “But – tickling’s all right, it doesn’t hurt,” she said, with a little query at the end of the statement. “Not unless you do it – too much,” I answered cautiously. “Do you do that with Marina?” she asked me. No, I had somehow never even dreamed of doing it with Marina. I just respected her far too much to start playing around with her body, and had I started I think she would have been disappointed with me too. Our relationship was a very pure one. So I leaned over, put an arm round Cindy’s shoulders, which caused her to snuggle up against me, and said, “What Marina and I do is a secret between us, and what you and I do is a secret between us. Isn’t it?” She nodded. She was about to say more when we heard somebody coming down the passage. We broke contact just before Betsy came in to see what had happened to us. A few minutes later we were lying on the mattress together watching a rather boring television programme. My penis had subsided, but my heart was still beating rapidly as I could not blot out every luscious detail of my close encounter of the furry kind with Cindy. Then Cindy got up and said, “I want to sit on a chair instead. Come, Roy.” Unsuspectingly I followed. Cindy went over to a large armchair, stood by it and asked innocently, “Roy, please may I sit on your lap?” Naively I nodded and sat down in the armchair. With a sweet smile Cindy settled herself down on my lap – her thinness made her lighter than Marina – taking my hands and placing them round her waist. We sat and watched for about thirty seconds. Cindy was playing with my fingers, wrapping her own around them. Then she moved her arms a little downwards and I could feel the hem of her nightie. I thought I knew where it was leading as she slipped our hands underneath. “Just once,” I heard her breathe in my ear. I felt rather as if I was making a prostitute out of her. Cautiously I felt around with my fingers. I felt something soft and warm and smooth, and also slightly damp. I moved my fingers and found a depression, a slit. She giggled, and I worried momentarily that she might feel the stirring of my penis under her bottom. But I think she was responding to what was going on in her own area. I moved my fingers slowly upwards while she opened her legs a little, this time determined to teach her a lesson. My finger touched her clitoris, making her jerk, but I kept on rubbing with my finger, feeling her downy pubic hair against my skin. She gave a strangled squeal, almost a whoop, and then jumped, causing sudden pain to my thigh. She almost doubled up, giggling and breathing deeply, face fiery red. Misha and Betsy stared at her in surprise. She blushed as she tried to resettle herself on my lap. “I – just slipped off Roy’s lap,” she tried to explain breathlessly at Misha’s question. “I nearly fell on the floor.” We settled down again and, when the others had returned to the television, she whispered in my ear with a giggle, “Lovely. But - not so much – in *here*.” “I can’t help it,” I whispered back. “I can’t see what I’m doing this way. No more.” That was the end of the real adventures for the evening. Betsy started to talk about the outing on Sunday, sorry that Marina couldn’t come but pleased that Scott would be there. I told them he had invited Janet to come. Misha broke in to say she wished she could come, and seemed quite put out when I told her there wouldn’t be enough room in the car. I made her first reserve, to pacify her. Betsy looked surprised that Janet would be coming. “Why did he invite her?” she asked, and I wondered if there was a tinge of jealousy there. I decided to play a double game. “Well, he saw how lovely and friendly you were with me on the last times we went out, and I think he feels left out,” I told her. “I didn’t mean to,” protested Betsy. “I just didn’t know how to . . .” She trailed off, not knowing how to finish. “Don’t tell Scott anything about tonight, or he’ll feel even more left out,” I warned them both. “There’s another reason why he invited Janet. On the way back from the farm we usually stop by a little stream, a private one out in the countryside, and have a swim. We have to swim naked there, but there’s nobody to see us. He and Janet like to do that together, and he was sure you two would be too afraid to join in.” Betsy looked surprised. “I don’t mind,” she answered. “I like Scott. I’ll play with him in the stream.” “Good, but just show him – don’t tell him we talked about it,” I advised her. Soon afterwards Raquela returned, most apologetic but eager to tell us about her baby nephew. Then I left with Misha, Cindy saying goodbye to me with big shining eyes and a red tinge to her cheeks. On the way to Misha’s house she giggled and asked me, “What were you doing with Cindy while I wasn’t there?” “Sorry, Misha, the condom kept exploding,” I told her, and the silly girl thought it so funny she giggled all the way home. Still, I was grateful to her for her help, often unwitting, during the evening, and certainly she seemed to have given Cindy confidence about her body. Next day at lunchtime at school I told Marina about our evening visit, but left out certain minor details. She told me she had been a bit worried about Cindy during the morning break. “She told me and some other girls with us that she had a boyfriend and he loves feeling her body,” she said with some distaste. “I had to talk to her quietly, but she kept insisting it was true.” “Maybe she’s just showing off a bit. She felt bad about being behind the other girls in their experiences, so now she wants to pretend she’s ahead of them, just to try and gain their respect,” was my wise opinion. “Might be best to advise her to keep quiet, but otherwise ignore it.” Marina thought it made sense. I hard a quiet stern word with Cindy, who looked surprised and hurt that she had said something wrong. Sunday went like a dream. We had a good time on the farm, and I noticed Betsy being very attentive to Scott, while he responded well. Janet was also full of life, so Scott had the attention of two girls vying for his attention, which was right up his street. On the way back Scott put on his ‘feeling hot’ act. Playing up to it, I suggested we take a break because I knew a nice cool private picnic spot where we could all cool down. Remembering what I had told them, Cindy and Betsy played along well and showed great enthusiasm. I directed Marco as to where to stop the car, beside the road, and as usual he preferred to stay behind in the car and enjoy a siesta while the rest of us went ahead with Raquela. I had told Cindy and Betsy not to let Scott know they had plans to swim, but to tease him by keeping him in suspense. As we walked along the dusty path towards the stream, I heard Scott say, “Hey, Betsy, are you coming for a swim with us?” Turning, I saw Betsy nod her head uncertainly, not willing to tell lies. So Scott continued, “You’ll need to take your panties off, though, because you won’t be able to get them dry before you get back home.” “That’s all right, we’ve brought some spare pairs,” Cindy broke in. “We can just changed under our dresses afterwards.” I stared at her. Her face was perfectly straight, but I knew now when she was teasing, even with a straight face. One or two surprising characteristics of these girls were emerging. “Are you swimming naked?” Janet asked Scott, with some consternation. I saw Scott’s face fall. His mouth opened and shut, as if he didn’t know what to say. He ignored Janet, presumably having fulfilled his wish regarding that source. Finally he came out of the closet and said, “Ah, come on, let’s all swim naked today – it’s such fun, and nobody will see us.” “We’ll have to ask our mamma first,” said Cindy, again with a remarkably straight face. “We’ll tell her what you do and say you asked us to join in, and see if she agrees.” Scott’s head jerked back in alarm, and I could scarcely withhold my laughter. “No, don’t tell *her*!” he exclaimed. “She would – I mean – it’s all – she wouldn’t understand. She might think . . .” At that point we arrived at the stream. “Ooh, it looks lovely!” exclaimed Betsy, thrilled. Immediately, as I had suggested as part of teasing Scott, they both whipped off their clothes, dropped them on the rocks and waded in before I was halfway through. Scott had not even started, but gaped at them in surprise and excitement. He caved in at the middle, and grasped himself tightly between the legs, a strained look on his face as events had overtaken his ability to cope with them. “Come on, Scott, why are you waiting?” asked Betsy, turning to face him fully naked. I could only wonder at the change in these girls – which was not so much a willingness to be seen naked, in Betsy’s case at least, but the confidence to do it, to come out and have fun and even tease at times. I played a minor part, content to watch the others enjoy themselves, although Janet was rather slower to take off her clothes. The locals have fewer inhibitions about nudity or urinating in public than the British or Americans, but bathing naked in mixed groups outside their own families is not common. But soon she too was in the water and I was able to view her cute little olive-coloured vagina and prematurely developing little breasts. I was sitting in the flowing water minding my own business when Cindy sneaked up to me. “Come, Roy,” she whispered. “I want to show you something.” Gullibly I stood up and followed her behind the big rocks, out of sight of the others. She leaned back against the largest rock with a sigh, stretching her body back until every detail on her front stood out – notably her little cupped breasts and her pubic mound, with its little patch of almost invisible fluff. “Tickle me, Roy,” she begged me. Had she been a teasing sex maniac like my childhood friend Saskia, I would as a more mature person have refused. But she was so like a little child trying to sneak an illegal sweet from a friend – in fact, even more apparently innocent than Scott when persuading me to massage his penis – that I found it difficult to help myself. “Once only,” I answered. Before she could argue, I wrapped my arms round her, gave her a warm kiss and reached my hand down. I felt the light downy hairs brushing against my fingers and gently reached underneath. Cindy gave a squeal and doubled over, face burning. I nipped off back round the rock. Cindy twice approached me at school during the week, shyly inviting me behind the shed with her. I had more sense than to agree. By that time Ms Weisenstein had already phoned me and I had arranged another outing for Saturday. Then, on Thursday evening, I had a surprise phone call from Raquela. “Mr Roy, the lady has gone away until tomorrow. The girls ask if you can come round with Marina and Scott for their evening.” I was only too happy to oblige, and phoned Marina and Scott immediately. Scott seemed strangely indifferent, but it was the night for one of his favourite television shows. “It’ll be worth it, Scott. Trust me,” I assured him. “Record the programme on video and come along. The girls will have a surprise for you. After all, I kept my promise of two weeks for Betsy to fall in love with you, didn’t I?” “No, you were a day late,” he grumbled, but decided to join us. He could not restrain his curiosity about the surprise, and pestered me on the way there to reveal in advance what it was. Within an hour he was standing up in the bath, grinning and showing off, covering his shiny little penis with bubbles to show the girls his bubble swimming costume. At the same time the insatiable Cindy was guiding my hand, hidden by the bubbles, towards her pubic area. I stiffened my arm and shook my head. It was another very happy evening, and we have had a number of them since. Cindy worries me. She tells me with her quiet, shy smile that I make her feel ‘wonderful’ when I tickle her in just the right place. I haven’t mentioned the word ‘orgasm’ to her. The problem is that if I don’t satisfy her craving, she may find somebody else to do so – and somebody else could easily take awful advantage of her. So far she hasn’t shown any interest in boys her own age, but if she did manage to find a boy and wangle a visit with him behind the shed – who knows where it might end up? Scott enjoyed Betsy for a week or two more, but her body was no longer a mystery to him. They remain on good terms, but he is now turning his attention to another girl whose attributes are still clothed in mystery – and in clothes. Educating Scott remains a full-time job, but I think he is learning little by little! The End ___________________________________________________________ ALL-NEW Yahoo! Messenger - all new features - even more fun! http://uk.messenger.yahoo.com