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



	
	
		
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