Sylvie Smith's Embarrassing Misadventures

It had happened again. Sylvie could not believe it. Not that she had much time for such thoughts, considering. It was just so embarrassing and yet she had thought it would all be OK and a really nice, quiet, private thing to do. The river was not one with reeds and any danger of entanglement: rather it was fast flowing with a gravel bottom. Such a hot day and so good to just slip in for a quick dip. There had been no one around. A quiet stretch of river and she had not seen anyone all morning. It was a week day after all and not school holiday time. No one around at all, but now...

Not one boy, not two boys but a whole bunch of them and there she was on the riverbank opposite the one where she had left her clothes, completely starkers. They had come silently out of the wood, she had not heard them coming, not seen any sort of path that side of the river, certainly had not seen their arrival, but, there again, she had been looking back across the river and enjoying the hot sun pouring down on her naked body after her long, leisurely swim in and across the river. Sylvie had turned around and they were there, grinning and ogling. Her hands had been nowhere near where they had needed to be to protect her modesty -- even a bit.

It had really happened again. Indeed, such things kept happening to her however careful Sylvie was. And she was careful, very careful, such incidents were the last thing she wanted... Well, there were a lot worse things, but Sylvie really hated being embarrassed. She hated people being embarrassed, would not have dreamt of doing something that embarrassed anyone else and hated comedy shows or films where people were in embarrassing situations. Most of all, she hated being embarrassed herself. At school she had always towed the line. Not necessarily the line set by the school or the teachers but the one set by the other girls. She conformed with something of a passion, she did not in any way want to stand out -- to be seen doing something different, or wearing something different, and being noticed. That would have been embarrassing.

As a schoolgirl she had certainly been embarrassed but not by being seen naked or with parts of her body accidentally revealed when they should not have been. Perhaps it had been -- well, it had been really -- embarrassing that she was the first in her class to grow pubic hair. Her dark hair against her white skin had made it the more obvious. And it had been noticed with fingers pointing and smiles in the showers. Girls can be cruel. That had not been a good experience. And then, despite the onset of puberty, her breasts had just not grown whereas the other girls, particularly her friends, had positively budded and then filled out almost week by week leaving her flat chested and boy like -- there. Of course, that had come too, just later on. And hadn't it just!

Sylvie's chest had grown and grown making her bust easiest the biggest amongst her friends. And that had been embarrassing too, having 'them' there not just in the showers after hockey or swimming but just 'there.' Her mother had complained about having to buy brassiere after brassiere and Sylvie had not liked her saying to the lady who did the fitting, 'here we are... again.' She had blushed: and did she blush! It was embarrassing how, despite the restraint of the brassiere, she 'bounce' when running, whether playing hockey or any other time. By eighteen she positively loathed her boobs and almost died, figuratively speaking, when she overheard some boys talking about her 'rack.' Such an awful word.

The first occasion, the first time she suffered that real embarrassment of things being seen that should not be seen -- public nudity indeed -- was on a beach. Of course, people reveal more of themselves on the beach than they do elsewhere except perhaps the swimming pool, but there are limits of decorum, unless you go to one of those sorts of beaches and it was hardly likely Sylvie, let alone her parents and brothers, would have gone there. A hot summer's day down on the coast. Golden sands and the blue of the sea. Probably Sylvie would have preferred a swimming costume like her old school dark blue one piece but she did like to lie in the sun, so she had brought a bikini with her. Her mother and she had chosen it. Bright red and with string ties. Not a skimpy bikini by any means, there was certainly a lot of material to hold her breasts -- and needed to be!

Her mother had held the large towel whilst she changed. Sylvie felt self-conscious doing that. Everyone did it, people had to change, but she felt other people were looking at her. It was not crowded but there were others around. An elderly couple sitting on a towel nearby were closest, the woman reading and the man gazing out to sea -- or was he? A couple with toddlers on the other side with buckets and spades. The woman was certainly watching the children but was the young man, the father no doubt, watching them or her?

There was nothing wrong in pulling her shorts and knickers out from under the towel and then stepping into the red bikini bottoms and pulling them up inside the towel, but she felt a reddening of her face begin at just the thought others would know for a moment her lower body was completely naked beneath the encircling towel. Stupid, because everyone is naked beneath clothes and, in effect, the towel was no different from a dress, albeit a rather thick dress for a summer's day, and Sylvie hardly possessed a dress made out of towelling. She felt safer when she had pulled the bikini up and over her bottom cheeks and mound of dark curls.

Sylvie was then sure, by the way the old man looked away, that he had been watching her undo the top buttons of her blouse and then seen her lift it out of the obscuring towel. She unclipped her brassiere and brought that out. He was not looking at her now, perhaps because she was looking at him.

"Mummy, could you pass my top." But her mother was already doing that.

Perhaps holding the towel and reaching for the red bikini top was a bit difficult, perhaps her mother was just careless, but one edge of the towel slipped from her fingers and it swung away leaving a topless Sylvie exposed to the beach. Sylvie squeaked, and that sound drew attention to herself. One moment the old man was not looking, the next he was, and so was the young man and the young woman. An eyeful of young, eighteen-year old breasts -- big ones at that -- out in the bright sunshine completely unobscured, the pleasing sight of a young girl in just red bikini bottoms.

"Mummy!"

"Sorry, Sylvie. Don't make such a fuss.".

The red top hastily pushed over herself was a little matched by Sylvie's red face. She could feel the warmth of her embarrassed blush, the one that always came to her. She did up the string ties around her neck and back with neat bows and settled herself on her towel, face down at first, breathing a little hard.

Lying on a towel was not all Sylvie liked to do on the beach. Unlike the two toddlers nearby, Sylvie no longer had a wish to build sandcastles, though her brothers were engaged on building an enormous one, much to the interest of the toddlers. Swimming, instead, fitted into her plans and, a little self-consciously, she set off across the sand in the direction of the sea and past the old man. Just walking by him seemed to set off her blush again, or at least that was her thought. She wondered, once past him, whether he was staring after her, watching her eighteen-year old bottom cheeks rise and fall inside her red bikini bottoms. Indeed, she was not sure he had not looked up just as she passed him, perhaps to look at where her bare thighs disappeared into her bikini. It was all such a little bit of material to hide her 'privates' from view.

Sylvie had done a bit of judicious shaving before the visit to the beach. She had tidied herself a little down there with scissors and razor. So not a problem for boys whose pubic hair could seamless flow from 'there' to hairy legs but quite different for girls. Sylvie being Sylvie a worry came to her. Was everything actually OK? Surely there had not been anything 'stray' for that old man to see? She could hardly look between her legs as she walked, but he might have seen something when looking up from her towel. Not just the shapely mound of her pubis or the somewhat hidden roundness of her pudenda but something stray and untucked. Her worry made it seem a longer walk to the sea than it was. An inspection was easier to make there. Suzie sat in the water with the gentle waves rushing up over her toes and legs then back again to the sea and, after three waves had come and gone, casually glanced down. Oh, no! Oh, no! Three stray dark curls. Perhaps the old man had not seen. Yet they were not so much underneath as peeking out around at the front. Sylvie tucked them away.

Standing, Sylvie waded out into the water thinking, now all was well, just how lovely the seaside was. On the horizon a couple of ships were passing by. She was going to enjoy her swim.

The trouble with brothers, whether younger or older, for a sister, is they like to tease. It is in the nature of brothers. Sylvie's were younger, but that did not prevent them playing tricks. Staring out to sea she did not see them coming, she heard a sudden splashing but before she could turn she went flying forward, pushed by the two of them into the water -- and right under she went. She came up spluttering and almost cross having realised beneath the waves just who had pushed her in. Her hands felt but all was well, her bikini had not been dislodged. She pretended to be cross and scolding which amused her brothers the more as they danced around her

Good to swim along the coast a bit and then back again. Sylvie was a more than sound swimmer and quite content in the water. Her strong strokes did not in any way embarrass her. What did make her redden again, rising from the water and wading towards the shore, was to realise something was not right, not right at all. Her bikini top had disappeared. Sylvie was, once again, bare chested on the beach. It was not as if she was alone in the sea. Far from it, there were others there, men and women. She was not even the only topless woman, but the other had nothing to 'write home about' at all: quite unlike Sylvie.

For a moment she was frozen to the spot, standing there with her big boobs all on display, her cold hardened nipples standing proud. And she could see she was being looked at. The men had not missed what was on display at all. Sylvie turned and slipped, almost dove, back into the water. Where was the top? Where was it? She could not, though, discern any bright red object around her in the water, perhaps being pushed to and fro by the waves. Had it sunk, had she lost it further down the beach when she had swum there?

Sylvie could not find it. Her awful worry deepened. It was a long way back to her parents and towel, back to the safety of her brassiere and blouse. Was she going to have to walk, pretending nonchalance, up the beach topless? Was there any option?

Not really. Should she make a dash for safety but that would only draw attention to herself whether she simply ran with boobs bounding all over the place or with her hands holding them and somewhat hiding them, making running more difficult and so drawing attention to what was clasped in her hands. Better, really, to walk casually up the beach as if nothing was wrong, as if she was completely happy to be bare breasted, as if she thought being topless on the beach was normal: that men went topless and so why should women not?

What to do, what to do? She could not swim for ever, she was starting to get cold. There was nothing for it but to return, without her bikini top. It was awful, even more awful than her mother dropping that towel, and she was so conscious she was being watched. As always, the hot feeling of embarrassment, acute embarrassment, went not just to her cheeks but spread across her shoulders, neck and face. Sylvie was sure it would be so obvious to everyone.

The pretty reddening even extended down her breasts.

She knew her ears were bright red even as she stepped from the lapping water onto the bare yellow sand and began her walk. She tried to look straight ahead and walk casually as if nothing was the matter. Nothing at all -- hardly! The water made the sand stick to her feet and get between her toes. That had been what she had thought she most disliked about the beach -- sand between her toes -- until she was doing this walk.

And is it not when one is trying to walk with dignity that something goes wrong? It certainly went wrong for Sylvie. She managed to trip, not on anything in the sand but over her own feet. Down she went right on her front. She did not hurt herself -- apart from her pride but that was already in disrepair -- but it meant she got sand not just between her toes but right up her front. Sandy naked breasts with cold, hard nipples poking through the stuck to her sand. Sylvie scrambled to her feet but whereas, perhaps, a bare breasted -- a big breasted -- young woman walking up the beach only attracted some attention, her fall had got everyone's attention. Another old man, not the one who had been looking at her near her towel, actually got up to help her as his wife asked, "are you all right, dear?" Sylvie was sure he would very much have liked to help her. Perhaps had his wife not been there, perhaps had there been no one else near he might have been tempted to help by brushing the sand from her breasts and nipples with his fingers. Perhaps as he brushed her down, his fingers might have been caught, so accidentally, in the bows tying her bikini bottoms around her hips. She was sure he would like to have seen that fluttering to the ground.

Her hands were sandy -- yes, even between the fingers, the front of her body was sandy: Sylvie really was half covered in sand. She really could not return to her towel like that. Should she return to the sea, retrace her steps with everyone watching?

But just then, rescue arrived in the form of her brothers.

"Sylv...ie!" In one of their hands a scrap of red material. "We found it in the sea! It is yours, isn't it?"

Of course, it was, obviously so! Again, embarrassment having to ask with all around listening, yet she interrogated them, "You didn't pull it off me did you? You didn't undo a bow?"

They were innocent. They assured her they had just found it. Even so, it was obvious they found it as funny as funny could be, as much a laugh as if they had perpetrated the deed, to see their sister like that, probably the more so because she had clearly fallen over.

"You've fallen over, Sylvie, you're all covered in sand."

Such a relief to have her bikini top back. But she could hardly put it on over the sand. Well, could she? Half way between sea and towel she had a decision to make. Wash off the sand in the sea or carry on to her towel? It would not yet brush off as her skin was still wet and, in any case, she hardly wanted everyone to see her brushing her skin, brushing her big breasts what was more, to get the sand off. What would the men think as she pushed her 'boobs' around with her fingers? She was not naïve, she knew very well what they would think.

It was back to the sea, back with her red bikini top dangling between her fingers, walking back so conscious of her boobs wobbling, back and into the privacy of the salt water.

It was a much happier Sylvie who, a little later, walked back to her towel with both parts of the bikini securely tied, but, even so, she was sure eyes were upon her still. It was a relief to settle back on her towel and sunbathe. The bikini behaved itself the rest of the day and there were no more repeats of unplanned nudity. Well, that is, apart from when she had been lying face down on her towel with her bikini laces undone so her tan would not be spoiled by a white line or two. She had forgotten the untying and suddenly awoke from a bit of a doze and got up on her elbows to take a drink leaving her exposed boobs hanging down. It was only for a moment, but when she had plonked herself back on the towel, her breasts dropping back onto the red bikini top below, and had looked up, she could see the nearby old man had seen. He did not turn his head away and even, she thought, winked at her.

The second awful occasion when Sylvie had found herself embarrassed by exposure was at a friend's house. She was staying for a long weekend and she and Fiona had already had a great time on their first day. Sylvie had arisen that first morning and padded to the bathroom for the usual morning activities and ablutions. From her shower Sylvie had gone from drying herself on her towel to brushing her teeth. She had been standing with her back to the door facing the wash hand basin, not yet back in her pyjamas and with towel already neatly hung on the towel rail, when the door had opened behind her. She had seen it open in the mirror.

She saw to her horror Fiona's father in his dressing gown momentarily standing there, clearly quite taken aback at finding her there, before she hears a mumbled 'sorry Sylvie,' and him retreating and the door firmly closing. It had been momentary. She had been sure she had locked the door but had, so clearly, not. It was completely clear coming into the bathroom was a mistake on his part, he had not known she was there: a mistake, yes, only it was very much her mistake. There was no way he had not seen his daughter's friend completely naked, a back view of her bottom, her naked, freshly showered and still rather damp bottom cheeks there in front of him and, probably, her large boobs and nipples reflected in the mirror. Maybe he had even seen her dark pubic curls down below shown in the mirror.

Fiona's father had daughters, Fiona and another, and was no doubt not at all unused to seeing naked females around the house, but quite a different thing seeing Sylvie. Quite different, neither wife not daughter. A genuine mistake, but probably one he was not unhappy to have made. Perhaps he was embarrassed by it, she could imagine he would be at breakfast but, equally, he might already be re-living in his mind the one or two seconds he had seen her before he had hurriedly retreated, and enjoying the thought.

Fiona's father might have been embarrassed. Sylvie most certainly was. In the mirror, standing with unmoving tooth brush, she watched the redness spread from her upper body up into her face. What must Fiona's father think of her having been so stupid as not to securely lock the bathroom door and put him in such a situation? Would he mention it at breakfast? Would he tell Fiona and she laugh at her friend?

Back in her bedroom. Sylvie dressed and almost died when Fiona barged through the door without knocking whilst she was still topless, brassiere in hand. They went down to breakfast together, Fiona bouncy and excited: Sylvie tongue tied, eyes downcast and sheepish, she even managed to bump awkwardly into the door frame of the kitchen door as she went through, chagrin showing all over her face, had anyone noticed. Nothing was said of the 'bathroom incident,' perhaps Fiona and her mum knew nothing, and Fiona's father said nothing. He was a lot jollier than the night before, but whether that was from adrenaline rush or ongoing embarrassment, or, indeed, to put Sylvie at ease, was not clear. Sylvie did not really notice anyway. She was so wrapped up in her own thoughts of wanting to be swallowed up by the kitchen floor.

Luckily and sensibly, Sylvie recovered her usual self and had a great day with Fiona. She was much more careful about locking the bathroom door other times, double checking each time to avoid any repeat by Sylvie's father or her elder brother. But it was not an unlocked bathroom door which caused her second and greater embarrassment during her stay. Not an unlocked bathroom door but certainly it was that particular door involved, and Sylvie's mistake, again.