When it had been taken, Aunt Lynda was perhaps eighteen or nineteen. Her hair was blonde, and her figure was small-breasted, slim and lithe: its shape showed well under a light-coloured frock with short sleeves, a tight waist and a loose skirt that rested only just below the knee. On her feet was a pair of elegant dark shoes with straps over the bridge of the foot and square-shaped, moderately high heels. Her calves were only visible from the front but somewhere behind the picture, like a reflection in a mirror, Tim seemed to see black seams.

With a renewed curiosity he flicked through the pages of the diary in his hand. A certain word caught his eye, and he read this entry.

 

'April 19. Another beautifully sunny but windy day. I volunteered to do the shopping. Anthony is still away, so I borrowed his bike again to ride down to the shops. A man's machine is heavier than a girl's, but I got up a racing speed, though the effort made me perspire. (Here Aunt Lynda had first written 'sweat' then crossed it out.) By the time I was in the High Street my bra and knickers were sticking to me underneath. I liked the feeling. At the greengrocer's young Mr. Edmonds was looking at me again. I was outside the shop, choosing oranges and apples from the boxes, which are placed so near the pavement that you have to bend over to get anything from them. The wind was blowing, and I could feel it lifting my skirt. Out of the corner of my eye I spotted Mr. Edmonds' shoes and trouser bottoms stepping through the doorway and standing there. I'm not sure how much he could see. Once or twice a gust blew that made me feel quite undressed at the rear. After being perched on the bike seat, and with the leaking of perspiration, my knickers were clinging to my buttocks very closely. I think if the wind blew strongly enough, it might have given everyone a good view of the cleft in between. I could feel the material lodged up my bum. Young Mr. Edmonds is not a bad-looking man, and when we speak he's never bad-mannered. He's really quite shy. I wonder what he would say if I asked him about his penis? Told him I have a unspeakable longing to be fucked? "Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me!" I might say. I'm so fond of using that word in my head. If mother heard me say it out loud, I think she'd still give me a good spanking, even at my age...'

 

'Tim? Look at this! What have you got there?'

He started round. Lucy had emerged from the maze of dresses.

'Old letters? What do they say?'

'Oh - a - a lot. It doesn't mean much to me. I don't know who the people are that she's talking about.' He put the diary down, its covers closed. 'What have you got?' he asked in turn. Lucy was holding one of Aunt Lynda's summer frocks, printed silk in yellow and white. It was very like the dress in the old photo; could it even be the same one?

'It's my size,' Lucy grinned in delight. 'Nearly all her dresses are. Her shoes fit me, too. So let's see about the undies.'

'You - you want to put them on?'

'Why shouldn't I? They're mine, aren't they? Come on, Tim. What do you think will go with this frock?'

He stood aside and let her root through the drawers. Aunt Lynda's underclothes came in many colours; the commonest were white, black, peach, and various shades of blue and violet. Lucy chose white for bra, knickers and corset, and stockings with a dark flesh tone. She changed there on the spot, in front of Tim, as she'd done often enough at home. The T-shirt was pulled up from her shoulders, and at once her small but shapely tits were bare. She unzipped her ankle boots and threw them off, then unbuckled her belt, opened her trousers and drew them down, wriggling her hips as she freed herself from the skin-tight leather. Thong panties followed, and she was nude.