But the trouble was that I didn't want it to stop and I couldn't explain the contradiction. It was like riding a train where I was enjoying my journey but frightened to reach my destination. I raised my arms submissively as she pulled my top over my head and then looked about wildly as her hands went around me to unclip my bra. Then I just meekly stood there as my bra joined my top on the floor, gazing resolutely downwards as she held me at arm's length to look at me naked to the waist.'You are beautiful.' Cara told me in a whisper. I sure as hell didn't feel beautiful, but it was good to hear her say so. She held me by the shoulders for a minute or so and then her hand went to the fastening of my skirt, I heard the buzz of the zip and then the sight of the skirt pooling around my feet. She dropped to her knees and her fingers sought the waistband of my pale lemon panties. I couldn't suppress the sudden thought that yellow was just the right colour for the way I was feeling right. Among the pictures of the Union soldiers from the Civil War, staring, glassy eyed, at the camera and the frozen pictures of Victorian families, he'd come across the girl. There was something about her that grabbed him instantly - it wasn't that she was nude - he'd seen thousands of pictures of nude girls, what red-blooded adolescent boy hadn't? No, the thing that leapt out at Greg, hitting him like a punch in the gut, was that she was, quite simply, the most beautiful creature he'd ever seen. Even the grainy quality of the image and the old-fashioned hairstyle couldn't disguise it. He sat back in his chair and stared, scarcely able to take in what he was seeing. It was so different from the modern pictures. She was posed neither to conceal nor reveal; she simply was; he'd never seen anybody look more naked, more exposed. He felt strange - light headed almost - it was as if she was looking back at him and for a moment, he felt guilty, like the time he'd been caught peeping at the girl.
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