Keeping Score

[Platinum]

PART ONE

1.

As soon as her agent called to arrange the shoot that afternoon, Holly knew she'd have to wear her prettiest underwear. While PICS was supposedly a 'news and views' magazine, Holly knew that she'd probably be stripping down to her bare panties as soon as she arrived on location. It didn't matter what the story was, shedding her clothes was a foregone conclusion. As far as the editorial staff were concerned, a story wasn't complete without at least one beautiful teenaged girl revealing all in the flick of a bra strap. And this latest feature would prove to be no exception.

The shoot was taking place an old singles bar in downtown Chamberlain, a place called Maxies, preparing to celebrate its centenary. The festivities included an old–boys eightball tournament, which PICS had generously arranged to 'spice up' – for a small, phenomenal fee, of course. As far as Holly could tell, she was supposed to keep score with two other girls (sisters apparently, the daughters of a Maxies' regular). Everything had to be kept completely above board: as her agent had told her, class and decorum were the order of the day. After all, Maxies had a hundred year–old reputation to protect.

Holly had been conscripted to stand by the score boards, elegantly gowned in a classical black mini–dress, her arms adorned with long black gloves and her legs with sheer midnight stockings. With her hair professionally styled and her face freshly made up, Holly would look both beautiful and sophisticated, as befitted the occasion. Of course, keeping score was only half the job.

The rest involved taking her clothes off, one piece at a time.

That was the deal, apparently: every time a ball was sunk, one of the girls had to remove an article of clothing: first an earring, then a broach, then a deliciously long black glove. Discarding their svelte black minis, they would gradually reveal all, placing their tantalizing figures on public display. By the end of the tournament, they would be left standing in nothing but their high–cut lace panties. In short, the entire feature was another thinly–veiled excuse to strip three pretty young girls down to their bare essentials. The image made her pulse quicken with a breathless mixture of feminine outrage and trembling expectation. It was the most gratuitous exploitation she could imagine.

And she could hardly wait to get started.

2.

The dressing room buzzed with the low hum of vanity bulbs and the rustle of satin. Holly sat legs-crossed on a cracked leather stool, watching Kathy and Susan flit between mirrors like seasoned pros. Lipsticks were swapped, lashes curled, and perfume misted into the air with the casual flair of girls who'd done this a dozen times before — at mall parades, race track rallies, and the occasional charity calendar.

"Swimsuit shoot at the Speedway last summer," Kathy said, lining her lips with a steady hand. "We got paid in cash and chips. Proper glamour."

Susan giggled. "What about that lad who tried to autograph your thigh with a marker?"

Holly smiled, the tension in her shoulders easing. "Your folks don't mind?"

"Mum says we're earning," Susan shrugged. "Dad just says, 'Keep your knickers on till the cheque clears.'"

Holly almost laughed at that one. She liked them already. There was no pretension, no cattiness — just two village girls who knew how to have a laugh and didn't mind a bit of cheek every now and then. She felt herself relaxing, the absurdity of the evening softening into something almost familiar.

"First time doing a strip-score gig?" Susan asked, glancing at Holly in the mirror.

"Sort of," Holly said. "I did a pub quiz show with Old Ronnie Ashcroft a few months back. I kept score in a corset and heels. This feels… more involved."

Then came the knock.

"Ladies?" came a gravelly voice from the corridor. "You decent, or do I need to shield me eyes?"

"Speak of the devil," Kathy grinned, looking up.

The door creaked open and in stepped Ronnie Ashcroft — thick-set, broad-shouldered, and unmistakably Northshire. His blazer strained at the seams, his tie was military-issue, and his jaw looked like it had survived three wars and a pub brawl. He surveyed the room with a twinkle in his eye and a face carved from granite.

"Well, well," he said, arms folded. "If it isn't my favourite pair of troublemakers."

"Hi Ron!" Kathy chirped, tapping over to give him a quick peck on the cheek. "Still running the show?"

"Someone's got to keep the riff-raff in line," he grunted, "especially with you lot flashing your semaphores around."

Susan rolled her eyes. "We're professionals now, Ron. We've got gloves and everything."

Holly stood, smoothing her dress. "Hi, Ron. Good to know someone's keeping order for us."

Ronnie looked around, eyes widening with recognition: "Holly! haven't seen you since that slap-n-tickle at The Lounge...last year wasn't it?"

"Last January," Holly corrected, "and it was more slap than tickle if I remember correctly."

Ronnie chuckled, the sound low and warm. "Well, you still look smashing. All three of you; classy. Just remember — if any lad gets too handsy, I've got a whistle and a very short temper."

"Don't we know it," Susan remarked, putting down her curling iron. She'd seen him throw grown men through plate glass windows on at least three different occasions - usually for 'handling the merchandise,' as he so tactfully put it.

Ronnie checked his watch.

"Right then, you're up in five. Cue balls are polished, crowd's warmed up, and the cameras are rolling. Time to make history — or at least decent telly." He gave them a final approving nod and disappeared down the corridor, whistling something vaguely Sinatra.

Kathy gave Holly a wink and a playful slap on the bottom. "Come on, love. Let's go show 'em how it's done."

And under the glare of the overhead lamps, the three girls strutted toward the games room, their heels clicking like applause on the tiled floor.

3.

Holly could feel her blush deepening with every passing minute. The points were stacking up, the pockets were being filled. She'd removed all of her jewelry; her black lycra gloves had come off only five minutes before. Very soon – probably in a matter of seconds, if the next shot went down – she'd have to reach back and unzip her figure–hugging velvet dress, teasing it slowly to the floor, gradually exposing her scanty French lingerie to the world.

One of the players, an ancient, grizzled veteran named Hal Gordon, was lining up his shot, his leathery face serene with concentration. Holly watched him with baited breath, alternating between pleasure and panic. Any moment now, she'd be stepping out of her tight black mini, exposing her skimpy little underthings in all their lacy glory. The old pool–shark wouldn't miss his shot, she was certain of it. Butterflies were teeming through her tummy; the suspense was utterly intolerable.

The enormous, smoke hazed bar–room was absolutely silent. There was an enormous crowd here this evening; the Hotel's management had wasted no expense advertising the competition, along with the complimentary entertainment provided by the 'scorekeepers.' Holly could feel the tension humming through the air like high tension cables. Everyone was willing the old man to make his shot: they knew it was Holly's turn.

Holly bit her lip in gentle anxiety. One small part of her was desperate to keep her unmentionables modestly covered, all her girlish mysteries decently hidden. Undressing in public carried a unique kind of humiliation experienced only by pretty women. Even when the performance was entirely voluntary, there was still a deep sense of embarrassment, huge and bright and terribly naughty. Turning her attention back to the pool table, Holly watched in silence as the old man drew back on his cuestick.

The moment of truth.

Clack–CLACK!!!

Hal made his shot.Holly stared wide eyed as the nine streaked towards the corner pocket. She bit her lip against a moan of pure delight –

As the nine dropped in.

4.

Laughter and applause as Holly stepped forward:

Laughter because she was so obviously embarrassed; applause because she'd come to far too back out now. A stunning young girl with porcelain skin and blue eyes, she walked towards the main table, her stilettos clocking loudly on the polished wooden floor boards. There was an art to walking in high heels, an art very few women ever truly mastered. Holly was one of the very few.

She looked astonishingly feminine, reaching back over her shoulders to loosen her zip, arching her spine and thrusting her belly gently forward. The applause began to escalate as she drew the zipper slowly down the length of her back: they'd been waiting for this moment all night; it was what they'd all come to see.

And this was only the first step. Before the night was over, she would be almost completely naked, her dress and bra, suspenders and stockings strewn in casual disarray around the floor. She would have to stand on exhibit to the world with only a flimsy pair of satin panties to hide behind. Flashing the audience a brilliant smile, Holly slipped the dress off her shoulders, lowering the hem slowly to her waist.

The view was literally breathtaking. The shiny satin brassiere seemed to adhere to her body by some force unknown to modern science; her breasts were utterly magnificent, barely constrained by the cups. Holly continued to lower the mini, exposing more of her pristine white underwear. Blushing from toe to hairline, she shimmied the tight material over her wide, curvaceous hips. Her face approximated the hue of an autumn sunset. She was struggling with sheer, helpless embarrassment. She bit her lip to hold back the giggles, knowing that once she got started, she'd never stop.

Stepping carefully out of the dress, she straightened up to allow everyone a heart–stopping eyeful of her lingerie. She'd chosen to wear a virginal white ensemble beneath the black mini: it was her prettiest outfit, and she'd known it would be an added surprise for the crowd. Her high–cut g–string panties shimmered like quicksilver against her lightly tanned flesh. They glimmered beneath the bar's glaring fluorescents; soft blue shadows flowed across the glistening material whenever she moved her hips.

The garter–belt and stockings had been inevitable: she'd been given no choice in the matter. PICS magazine had a long association with exotic corsetry. It featured in every issue; pages and pages of college girls in suspender stockings, proudly displaying their long, tapering legs for the lens. It was practically law, as far as the editorial staff was concerned.

The mandate also applied to the other girls as well. PICS had INSISTED that all three of them wear frilly little garter belts beneath their clothing. NO stay ups, No panty hose, NO thigh–socks, and definitely NO bare legs. Garters were an absolute necessity for this shoot, no exceptions to the rule. Holly agreed with these sentiments to some degree. She was supposed to look sophisticated and elegant for the tournament, even after she stripped down to her undies. Beautiful women should wear exciting underwear; and suspenders would give her outfit that touch of elegance, sophistication and excitement the Maxies' crowd would be expecting.

She'd selected an intricately designed bridal number; a magical wisp of lycra, lace and 'liquid' satin. It somehow appeared both decadent and demure. The kind of thing worn by a virgin on her wedding night. Long, white, adjustable garters were clearly visible below her underpants, clipped up to sheer midnight stockings at mid–thigh.

Feeling indescribably naughty, she reached down to tug gently at one of the reinforced black tops. The cheering escalated to a roar. There were few things as truly captivating as the sight of a pretty teenaged girl adjusting her hosiery. Holly straightened up, planting a hand on her hip and shifting her weight to her left heel. As a final treat for her howling admirers, Holly put a hand to the back of her neck, removing a clasp and letting out her glorious mass of platinum hair. A blond avalanche swept down her shoulders; the luxurious, wavy tresses trailing to her hips. Flash bulbs exploded all around her; the PICS team weren't the only ones bearing cameras in the bar.

She raised her hands above her head, saluting the crowd with a 1940s pin–up girl pose, then turned on her left heel and walked back to the score board, her luscious young bottom turning cute little circles in its glistening satin sheath. Her suspenders stretched and shortened along her thighs, matching tempo with each clicking step.

To be continued...

[Platinum]

PART TWO

5.

Ronnie Ashcroft stood just off-stage, arms folded across his broad chest, surveying the game room like a general on campaign. The overhead lights were hot, the crowd was rowdy, and the air smelled faintly of beer, hairspray, and chalk dust. He'd seen a lot in his time — two tours in Cyprus, three decades running pubs, and one regrettable stint as a bingo caller in Blackpool — but nothing quite prepared a man for supervising a lingerie-themed eightball tournament.

Still, someone had to keep things from going pear-shaped. And if there was one thing Ronnie Ashcroft knew how to do, it was keeping order.

He watched as Holly Granger stepped daintily out of her mini, revealing a white satin ensemble that drew a round of appreciative whistles from the crowd. Ronnie's brow furrowed as he noticed a bunch of yobs near the stage leaning in a little too far, preparing to explore territories clearly marked out of bounds.

He gave a sharp whistle and pointed two fingers at his eyes, then at them. The message was clear: Keep your bloody hands to yourselves.

If looks could kill, they would've been away for thirty years, but they settled grudgingly back into place all the same. They may not enjoy taking orders from some old gimp with a face like a worn out punching bag, but it was better than a poke in the eye with a burnt stick, as the old saying goes.

Ronnie grunted in approval and turned his attention back to the girls. Holly was holding her own — nervous, maybe, but composed. He remembered her from that quiz night at The King's Arms. She'd handled a heckler with a smile and a well-placed jab about his receding hairline. Good instincts, that one.

Kathy and Suzy, of course, were old hands. He'd known them since they were knee-high, back when they called him 'Uncle Ron' and tried to sneak shandies behind the bar. Now here they were, strutting about in their slinky black outfits, giggling like it was a hen night.

He shook his head, half bemused, half exasperated. "What would your mother say?" he muttered under his breath.

Then again, he knew exactly what Mrs. Adele Taylor would have to say about all this: As long as they're safe and paid, Ronnie, let 'em have their fun.

And that was the point, wasn't it? Fun. A bit of cheek, a bit of sparkle, and no harm done — as long as someone like him was there to keep the wolves at bay.

He checked his watch. Another round was about to begin. Gordon was lining up the twelve ball, and Kathy was already preparing to drop her chassis.

Ronnie stepped forward, just enough to be seen, and gave her a wink.

"Steady on, love," he whispered, mostly to himself. "Don't go losing your frock before the cue's even struck."

Kathy blew him a kiss: You just keep the lads in line, Uncle Ron.

He smiled despite himself. Always do.

And with that, the cue cracked, the crowd held its breath, and Ronnie Ashcroft resumed his post — guardian of garters, referee of the risqué, and the only man in the room who could keep a straight face while three girls stripped to their knickers in the name of local journalism.

6.

Holly's fellow scorekeepers were faring little better in the lingerie sweepstakes. Having seen Holly discard her dress to reveal her skimpy satin unmentionables, the crowd grew all the more impatient to see the other two girls revealed in all their glory. Fortunately, they didn't have long to wait. From the moment Holly had stripped down to her foundation garments, both contestants began to demonstrate amazing skill: they weren't simply playing to win, they were playing to undress three very attractive little girls. Suzy Taylor's turn came less than ten minutes later.

Susan was a tall, lissome girl with a slender figure and a classically rounded bottom. Blushing to the eyebrows, she stepped up to the competitor's table and climbed prettily out of her mini, her legs as long and graceful as a prima ballerina's. Her choice of underwear received the crowd's highest acclaim: a glaringly red bra and panties ensemble, completed by a gauzy black garter belt strapped tightly around her tiny waist.

Kathy's dress came off with the sinking of the twelve; Cool Hand Gordon being the culprit once more. Like her younger twin, Kathy removed her black mini in slow, teasing ripples of velvet. She grinned from ear to ear as the audience cheered her on. Complying to the PICS lingerie mandate, she was wearing a cherry-red suspender belt over a matching pink bra and pantie set.

An expectant hush feel over the room as each stroke was made; dozens of eyes alternated between the players' cue-sticks and the scorekeepers' panties. The girls waited with their luscious cleavages thrusting the air, almost trembling with anticipation. Holly felt an odd, nervous tension fall over her as Hal lined up his next shot; she was strangely anxious to see the next ball sunk. Technicolor visions danced gayly through her pretty head; closing her eyes, she could see herself modeling her underpants before the entire bar-room: stockings, bras and suspenders cast to the four winds. That moment was rapidly approaching. Gordon had just potted the six, and it was time to fulfill her exhibitionistic responsibilities.

Holly had been told that once the brassiere came off, she wasn't allowed to hide her breasts behind her hands or turn away from the crowd any longer than it was necessary to score a point on the blackboard. It was simply another gratuitous excess — the hotel's management wanted the girls' firm young breasts on display for as long as possible. Refusal was out of the question; Maxies' was paying half their wages for the evening. It was grossly unfair of course, but the management had been most specific on this issue. Sweeping her gaze the across the bar, Holly stepped over to the middle of the room. She reached back and unhooked her satiny white underwire, allowing the shoulder-straps to glide loosely off her shoulders.

There was always an instant of speechless, shivering tension whenever she took off her bra in public. She was a large, busty girl possessing a classical, Jane Mansfield figure - 'A regular D-Cup Delight' was how PICS often described her. Her lush, enormous breasts bounced and lolloped as she removed the tight, satiny constraints.

Holly was almost dizzy with arousal. She felt utterly vulnerable, completely subject to the voyeuristic whims of her wildly cheering audience. Her first impulse was to hide her gigantic, pulsing tips behind her small, delicate fingers, but she paused in the act, recalling the editorial veto against feminine modesty. Her hands twitched nervously as she tried to decide where to place them. She was blushing all the way to her hairline by now.

To be continued...

[Platinum]

PART THREE

7

Suzy Taylor suppressed an almost irresistible impulse to cover her cleavage. Her time was almost up: her high, pointed breasts would be going on exhibition with the sinking of the next ball, and the mounting tension was all but excruciating. Paradoxically, she was no stranger to this kind of dishabille; she'd been modeling lingerie since her fifteenth birthday and posing for topless shoots since her eighteenth. Of course, there was considerable difference between a pool-hall striptease and closed photo-session; such events were invariably handled in a professional - if somewhat relaxed - atmosphere.

Standing before the mob in her glimmering red panties - her stockinged thighs trembling and her tummy swarming with teasing, tickling little fingers - Suzy felt small and naked and unspeakably feminine. Her heart skipped a beat as she felt the clips give at the back of her bra strap, allowing her full, thrusting orbs to shift free of their c-cup restraints.

Moistening her lips with the tip of her flickering pink tongue, Suzie arched her back and removed the brassiere with sensitive, precise fingers. Palming elastic with her left hand, she slipped the straps down her arms in a single deft movement. There was not an instant's hesitation in the maneuver; she'd had years of practice to perfect her technique. The brassiere fluttered to the carpet, forgotten.

Gasping with suffused pleasure, Suzie placed her fingertips over the dark, sensitive points of her nipples. A dozen flash bulbs flared simultaneously, the crowd gaped in wordless appreciation. There was literally nothing which could compare to a beautiful teenaged girl trying to hide her breasts from public exposure - and not quite succeeding.

To be continued...