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?
