Showing Pink: The Sequel

As you may know, I don't generally go in for chapters or sequels. I tend to stick to one-off short stories. But several readers have written to me asking, very nicely, for another episode in the life of Isabella/TinkerBel. And so here it is ...

My incarnation as TinkerBel was exciting; but it was also a little bit worrying. Exciting because ... well, it just was. It gave me a seriously-erotic jolt in all the right places. The thought that BrightonShiner and Handz-on and Dodger – and especially Baxstreetboy – were getting sexually excited by my digital depictions was a total turn on. How could it not be? And then there was Mrs KentCpl and her husband who 'likes to watch'. That was a whole new naughty possibility for me to consider – although perhaps not just now.

And I was quickly coming to terms with the fact that you don't have to have a perfect body for others to find you arousing on line. Even the much-favoured Bella2 was not perfect. In fact she was far from perfect. But, somehow, I still felt that, if I was going to continue to elicit the kind of comments that made my tingly bits tingle, I was probably going to have to lift my game a bit. I was going to have to perform.

'That gym you go to,' I said to Maria, as we shared a mid-week glass of wine, 'is it dreadfully expensive?'

'Umm ... no ... not too bad. Mind, you, I only have an off-peak membership.'

I looked at her quizzically. 'Which is?'

'Well, I can't use the main room before 8:30 in the morning or between 5:30 and 8:30 in the evening. But apart from that ....'

I nodded.

'You're not thinking of taking up netball again, are you?' Maria asked.

'No. I just thought that perhaps I might ... well ... you know ... tone up a bit. You know.'

Maria grinned. 'I see. So what is it? A new man in your life? Someone you're not telling me about?'

'No,' I said. 'Nothing like that. I just thought that I'd like to ... well, as I said, tone up a bit. You know.'

Maria frowned slightly and looked me up and down. 'Really? You look pretty good to me.'

'Thank you. But I think there's room for improvement. In fact I'm sure there's room for improvement.'

The next day – Thursday – I took my lunch break between two and three and went off to see about enrolling at Maria's gym.

'So ... what are you trying to achieve?' Amanda asked.

I suppose I could have said: 'What I'd really like to achieve, Amanda, is a body like yours.' But that wasn't going to happen. Apart from the fact that Amanda was probably 15 years my junior, I was pretty sure that she spent half of every day working out and the other half thinking about it. There wasn't a spare ounce of flab on her. So, instead, I just said: 'I'd like to ... you know ... just be a bit more, well, toned, I suppose. My thighs. Maybe my tummy.'

Amanda looked me up and down in rather the same way that Maria had. 'OK,' she said, nodding. 'Let's just check your blood pressure and get a few details.'

While Amanda measured me, weighed me, and made notes on her clipboard, she slipped – rather too effortlessly I thought – into her sales pitch.

'So, Isabella, were you thinking of taking out the Platinum membership package or the Platinum Plus package? With the Platinum Plus package you have access all areas, 24 hours a day, and a complementary full body massage every week. And if you pay for a year in advance, there's a five percent discount.'

'Interesting,' I said. 'But I understand you have an off-peak package.'

A small cloud drifted across her sunny demeanour. 'Well, umm, yes ... we do. The Bronze package. But it is rather restricted. And you'll need to pay extra for your massage and for the use of the squash courts. With the Platinum Plus package everything is included. And I do mean everything.'

I assured her that the Bronze package sounded just perfect for what I needed.

'I see,' she said. 'Oh well, tell you what, why don't I put you down for a couple of weeks on the Bronze package – just to get you started, give you a chance to settle in – and then we can upgrade you to Platinum Plus after that.'

'We'll see,' I said. 'But in the meantime, I'm sure that the Bronze package will be fine.'

On the way home from work, I stopped off and bought myself a pair of nondescript grey cotton shorts. When I told the girl in the store that I just needed something that I could wear to the gym, she got all enthusiastic and tried to sell me a pair of hot pink Lycra shorts that were so small that I thought they should have been in the children's department. 'I don't think so,' I told her. 'I need something that will help me blend into the background, not something that will make me stand out like a Belisha beacon.' The girl just smiled.

I also stopped off at Sugar 'n' Spice and bought myself a couple of frivolous items of lingerie: a black and red lace and ribbon Basque, and a pair of matching knickers. Well, a girl has to spoil herself now and then. I also thought that my online fans (if I can be so bold as to use that term) were going to be expecting a little variety at some stage.

Thanks to my shopping detours, I didn't get home until almost seven that evening. Fortunately, I had some leftover mac and cheese with tuna in the fridge, so I took it out, covered it with some aluminium foil to stop it drying out, and put it in the oven to reheat. I then poured myself a glass of pinot grigio, and fired up my laptop.

As I was beginning to discover, Thursday nights could be quite busy at the online home of Bella2 and her sisters. I'm not sure why. Milf4ya had already posted several rather fetching shots of herself in bright red stockings with enormous black bows at the top. I wouldn't have thought that the bows were very practical, but then I don't suppose that they were intended to be practical. Also, a new girl, or at least one who I had not seen before, TopTownTina, was showing off her impressive collection of bedroom toys. A couple of the larger toys looked downright scary to me; but as Maria often says: 'Whatever gets you through the night, darling.'

Milf4ya's post had also invited others to join in her leggy thread. I can play that game, I thought. I posted a cropped portion of one of Barrington's shots of my legs in my navy blue stockings and then I went off to check on my tuna mac and cheese.

When I went back to my laptop – about five minutes later – I pressed F5 to refresh the page. 'Nice pins, TinkerBel,' someone going by the name BigDick101 had posted. And, immediately below that there was a comment from Baxstreetboy. 'Fantastic, TinkerBel! I'd love to run my hands over those!' I glanced towards the stairs. Was Baxstreetboy in residence? There was no tell-tale light flooding through onto the landing. If he was at home, he must have pulled the blind all the way down this time. Or maybe I had just missed him.

The following day, Friday, was my 'work from home' day. I woke up early, soon after five-thirty, and I was at my desk not long after six. At ten I took a break for a spot of light brunch: a poached egg on a toasted muffin, with a few grilled spears of asparagus. And by ten-thirty I was back at my desk. Soon after one o'clock, I had done everything that needed to be done for the week. It was time for my first session at the gym.

I'll say this for the slim and trim Amanda: she was not a girl to take no for an answer. No sooner had I walked into the main exercise room than she was there beside me extolling the virtues of upgrading to a Platinum Plus membership. 'If you want to just sign the bank authority now, Isabella, I can probably book you in for your first complementary full body massage later this afternoon.'

'I think we'll leave it as it is for the moment,' I said. 'But thanks.'

'Alright. Well ... you know where to find me,' she said. 'In the meantime, I'll leave you in the capable hands of Dwayne.'

I know that one shouldn't jump to conclusions, but I immediately formed the opinion that Dwayne was probably not a follower of Bella2 and Milf4ya. There was something about him that suggested that his erotic preferences lay elsewhere.

'Right, Miss Izzy, let's get you warmed up. Jump onto the treadmill, and let's get some anabolic action going.'

I did as I was bid; Dwayne showed me how to operate the machine; and I set off at a steady jog while Dwayne went off to check on a young man displaying a serious six-pack and a rather generous amount of ink.

I looked around the room. It was a little after two o'clock on a Friday afternoon, a time when a good few of my friends and acquaintances would be still lingering over a lazy lunch at Francatelli's or The Red Lion, and yet here I was, along with nine or ten other earnest exercisers, beginning to work up a bit of a therapeutic sweat.

'Right, that should be enough of that,' Dwayne said. 'Now let's do a few gentle stretches.'

Stretches? It was easy enough for Dwayne to say. First, he knew what he was doing. (I didn't.) And second, he seemed to be the original rubber legs boy. 'I can't do that,' I told him. 'I'll break something.' Dwayne just smiled and shook his head – rather unsympathetically. Maybe he was hoping that I'd call it a day and then he could get back to Mr Over-Inked Six Pack. But I didn't give up. I carefully noted his demonstrated moves and did my best to imitate them.

'Right. And now let's do a few weights,' he said, after I had stretched several parts of my body that I'm sure were never meant to be stretched.

I had assumed that 'doing a few weights' would mean holding slightly heavy objects in my hands and lifting them over my head. (I had, after all, seen it done on TV.) I didn't for one moment imagine that it would involve lying on my back and using my legs to push against pads that would, through a Heath Robinson-ish series of wires and pulleys, lift a bunch of weights that were about six feet away from me. But that's what Dwayne had me doing. Or at least that's what Dwayne had me doing until something went snap.

'What's the problem?' Dwayne asked.

'I think something just broke.'

Dwayne just grinned. 'You'll get used to it.'

'No. Seriously. Jeez that hurts. Right down the inside of my thigh.'

Dwayne's grin faded and quickly turned into a frown. 'Really?'

'Yes. Really. You idiot.'

'Umm ... OK. You mean like a sharp pain?'

'Yes,' I said.

Mmm ... OK. Just stay there. I'll go and see if Max is in.'

'Max? Who or what is Max?'

'The physio. You might need some ice or something. I won't be a minute.'

The guy on the machine next to me stopped his grunting, sat up, frowned, and peered at my thigh. 'Down the inside?'

I nodded.

'Probably one of the adductors. Or maybe the gricilis. Either way it's not good.'

'Gee, thanks,' I said.

'Oh, and by the way, you're right: Dwayne is an idiot. Don't know why Amanda keeps him here.'

A minute or so later, the idiot Dwayne arrived back with an ice pack. 'Max said to put this on it and he'll be over to take a look in a few minutes.' And with that, Dwayne abandoned me for Mr Six-Pack.

And so there I was, sitting on the edge of the padded bench thingie on which I had earlier been reclining, my legs spread in a rather unladylike manner, holding a fabric-covered bundle of coldness against my inner thigh, when a cheerful voice announced: 'Hi, I'm Max. And I assume that you're Isabella.'

I looked up to see a chap in his early thirties, dressed in jaunty medical scrubs that did little to conceal the fact that that under the duck-egg blue cotton fabric there was a seriously buff body. I started to explain to Max what had happened. But then, part way through my explanation, I suddenly found myself speechless. It was my neighbour. It had to be. OK, so his beautiful erect penis was safely tucked away in his trousers – and it was probably not even erect at that particular moment – but everything else about him was saying that Max was actually my new neighbour. And probably Baxstreetboy too.

'Let's have a look,' he said.

If Max recognised me, he certainly didn't let on. And I had to have a quiet smile to myself as he gently poked and prodded me. Well, he had said that he'd love to run his hands over my legs – assuming, that is, that he really was Baxstreetboy.

'I think,' he said, 'that you have strained your adductor longus. Maybe even a small tear.' And then he added: 'But at least there doesn't seem to be any tendon damage.' He delivered this good news after spending quite some time exploring the area where my thigh joins my pelvis, tinglingly close to my vulva, his fingers casually inside the leg of my shorts. 'I'm afraid you'll have to steer clear of the weights for a little while. Can you walk?'

I got to my feet and took a couple of tentative steps. 'Sort of,' I said.

'Are you going to be OK to drive?

I told him that I had come on the bus.

'Well, maybe a cab home then. Do you have far to go?'

'Not that far,' I said.

'OK. Look, I'll give you some of this to take home.' And he produced a tube of anti-inflammatory cream from his top pocket. 'Give it some more ice when you get home, and try to take it easy over the weekend. And then maybe drop in on Monday and we'll see how things are progressing.'

I thanked Max and hobbled off to the changing area where I just slipped my coat over my gym gear. My planned trip to the pub was unfortunately now out of the question, and I could have a hot shower and get changed when I got home.

As it turned out, the first thing I did when I got home was to pour myself a large glass of wine – for medicinal purposes, I told myself. It was only a cheap and cheerful Côtes du Rhône from the supermarket, but it did the trick. And later that evening, after a second glass of Côtes du Rhône and a hot bath, I finally started to feel ... well ... almost normal.

I didn't bother to get dressed again after my bath. I wasn't going anywhere. I wasn't expecting anyone. I just slipped on my bathrobe and went back downstairs to see what I could rustle up for a bit of supper. It had been a long time since my mid-morning poached egg.

Surprisingly, when I woke up the next morning, my leg felt a lot better. After having a shower, I was even in two minds as to whether I really needed to use the anti-inflammatory cream. In the end I decided that it probably couldn't do any harm. I gave my inner thigh a liberal application of the cool cream, slipped on a pair of loose-fitting cotton trousers and an equally loose-fitting T-shirt, and headed downstairs to make a pot of tea and check my email.

There were no new emails – at least none that I needed to worry about – and so, while I waited for the kettle to boil, I briefly checked in at the home of Bella2 and her exhibitionist sisters.

It seemed that Friday night had been a busy time for two or three of the women. Milf4ya had posted a series of 'pussy-meets-pussy' shots – basically a series of photographs of her own neatly-trimmed ginger-haired pubic region with a rather contented-looking ginger and white kitten nearby. Girl11 had posted three provocative shots of her legs-that-went-on-for-ever. Well, almost for ever. The last shot included a clear depiction of what was at the end of the road: prominent but rather attractive labia. And Bella2 had posted a tantalising strip tease over what appeared to have been a two-hour period.

As might be expected, all of the contributions had attracted a selection of complimentary (and lascivious) comments.

I was just about to click out and turn my attention to the teapot, when I suddenly noticed a posting from Baxstreetboy: Where are you TinkerBel? My cock is ready and waiting.

'I'm sorry, Baxstreetboy. You might have to wait a bit longer.' Still ... I must say that it was quite, well, exciting, to see that I was the subject of a request. 'Maybe later,' I said.

With all the disruption and confusion of the previous afternoon I had not had a chance to get to the corner shop to pick up fresh bread and milk. So that was my first task for the morning. And while I was down that way, I thought that I'd also pick up some fresh fruit and veg.

I was just coming out of the fruit and veg shop, mentally congratulating myself on my amazing recuperative powers, when I suddenly felt a familiar sharp pain along the inside of my thigh. Oh bugger! My congratulations had been premature.

'Hello. I didn't expect to see you out and about quite as quickly as this.' It was Max. The physio. My neighbour. And probably Baxstreetboy too.

'Well, until about ten seconds ago, it felt fine.'

'And now?'

'Not good,' I said.

'Mmm. I see. Well, I think we need to get you home. Do you live around here somewhere?'

I must say that I was slightly relieved that he didn't seem to know where I lived. Still .... 'Just around the corner and down towards the end of Bryce Avenue.'

'Well, if I take your groceries for you, do you think you can make it that far? Or do we need to see if we can find a cab?'

I told him that I thought that I could just about hobble that far. And we set off.

'This is me,' I said, when we reached my front door.

Max smiled. 'Oh. Right next door to my brother's new place.'

'Your brother?'

'Yes. He's just moved into a flat up there.' And he nodded in the direction of the upstairs flat where my masturbating neighbour (who I had mistakenly decided was Max) lived.

And then it was my turn to smile. 'Interesting,' I said.

'I was just on my way over to feed his cat. David's competing in Austria this weekend.'

'Competing?'

'He's a canoeist.'

'Right,' I said. 'In that case, I guess he must be pretty fit.'

'As a buck rat,' Max assured me.

I unlocked the door; we went inside; and Max placed my groceries on the kitchen table.

'Right,' he said. 'Just slip off those trousers and let's have a look, shall we?'

'Oh, I'm sure that it will be ....'

But Max wasn't taking no for an answer. 'It'll only take a minute.'

Hesitantly, I unzipped and then stepped out of my trousers, and suddenly regretted that I had chosen an almost-transparent pair of knickers that morning.

'Maybe if you just sit on that chair and rest your foot on this one,' Max said, as he manoeuvred the second chair into position.

As he had on the previous afternoon, Max gently explored the area where my thigh joins my pelvis, his fingers tinglingly close to my vulva, and occasionally looking at me for some sort of reaction. 'I don't think you've done any further damage,' he said. 'Although this muscle's a little tight, isn't it?' And he started to gently massage whatever that muscle is that runs down the inside of the thigh.

I tried not to think about what he was doing and where he was doing it. I really did. I tried to imagine that, far from being a good-looking guy with magic fingers, he was actually a frumpy middle-aged woman. And I tried to imagine that my knickers were totally opaque and made from double thickness sacking. But it didn't work. Within a minute or so, I could feel my vulva warming and starting to open up like an exotic pink flower in the morning sun. If he didn't stop soon, there was going to be a wet spot.

But he did stop. 'There we are,' he said. And he smiled. Oh, god! Was it too late? Was there a wet spot already?

'Umm ... thank you. Can I get you some coffee perhaps?' I said, hastily reaching for my trousers.

'Thank you, but no, I really should go and give Benjamin his breakfast. And then I have a squash court booked for eleven.'

'Right,' I said. 'Well, if you're sure. And thanks again. You know.'

'You're more than welcome,' Max said. 'But I suggest that you might want to take it easy for the rest of the weekend.'

As soon as Max had left, I hobbled upstairs to my bedroom, positioned my full-length mirror and a chair, took off my trousers, and then sat on the edge of my bed to see what Max might have seen. And, yes, it was as I feared: he must have seen everything. I might just as well have not been wearing any knickers at all. Mind you, from an exhibitionist's point of view, it did make for an erotic little vignette. I reached for my cell phone and switched on the camera.