Chapter 4: Tables Turning

That winter remains in my memory as cold, miserable, and gray, although it was probably little different, physically, from any other winter. But as spring bloomed into freshness and beauty, so — at least in the emotional sense — did I. There was always a lurking fear, though. “Sooner or later,” the Pessimist would whisper, and the joy would go out of whatever it was we were doing. We ended up doing a lot together.

Nancy set the tone, a light-hearted one. Take the weekend after what we started to refer to as “The” pizza. She’d told me that I was going to learn to cook properly, so I arrived on a Friday evening, a bit trepidatious. There was a sign up over the kitchen door. “Kitchen Anthrax.”

“Thanks,” I said, sourly, smoothing my skirt nervously, and nodding at the sign. It wasn’t the famous pink dress; I didn’t see that again for quite a while. “I’m not that dangerous.”

She gave me an odd look, then burst out laughing. Refused to explain why. Once she had me slaving over a hot stove, she said she had to run an errand, and left. I didn’t destroy dinner, mostly by luck, and after we finished eating, she drew me into the living room. Put a tape in the VCR.

Monty Python and the Holy Grail? Well, okay. I still didn’t get the joke, even when Sir Galahad was in Castle Anthrax. Nancy waited until the line, “First the spanking, then the oral sex!” and froze the movie, then turned to me.

“First the pizza, then the spanking,” she said.

I caught my breath, crossed my legs — and blushed when she made a point of noticing me cross my legs.

Or she played these nervous-making tricks on me, always in such a way that I couldn’t resent it. For instance, she started dropping by my office occasionally, when she knew I had office hours, and she was out of her office for whatever reason. She was a translator, did I mention that? Well, it just meant that she often had to go places to pick up or drop off translations, or find obscure dictionaries, and sometimes even do simultaneous interpreting. Well, one afternoon, in March I think — at any rate, after she had convinced me to shave my legs, but that’s another story — she showed up in my office, with some packages.

“Hi, sweetie!” she greeted me. “I’ve been out spending your money.” That’s another story, too, but suffice it to say that she had spent money on my wardrobe, I had started to spend more and more time at her house, and so on, so she had charge of a big chunk of my finances. Well, all right, all of them. I had an allowance, though. “Stand up, and try this on. Does your door lock?” It did. She locked it.

“Nancy! Come on, I have office hours? What if somebody comes?” But I was standing up. Really nice skirt. Slim, in a sort of pale rose. She said I looked nice in pink, and I think she was trying to make sure that I was aware when I was wearing feminine stuff. Oh, hell, that’s not really the point. I like pink.

“Oh, I wouldn’t do that to you,” she said, disconcerting me further. “Go on, try it. I want to see if it fits.

So, breathing fast, I kicked off my shoes, stepped out of my pants and into a skirt. In my office. I was already wearing panties, a garter belt, and white lace stockings. Well, trust Nancy to be prepared. She had a new pair of shoes, too. White heels, a bit taller than what I was used to. So I put them on.

“What do you think?” she asked, brightly.

I stepped back and forth, to make the skirt swirl, and to listen to the sounds of the heels. “It’s nice,” I finally managed. It was a good fit, too.

“Nice?” she asked, pouting. “It’s perfect. You look adorable! Turn around, I want to look at your bottom some more.” I turned, and wiggled at her. Lightening the situation, you understand. “It goes better with your jacket than these pants do,” she said. Then, “Here, try this one, too.”

A gray skirt, slightly shorter, with pleats. Sort of purplish, under the gray. My jacket was an expensive camels’ hair thing, that I’d bought when I got my appointment. This time, when I pulled the skirt on, she frowned. “It is sort of hideous with this jacket, isn’t it?” I commented. Strange to see two grays clash. They did, though. My taste was improving.

“That’s awful,” she said. “And it isn’t even the right size.” She frowned, but the grin kept slipping through. I recognized it. She was about to spring something on me. “And it was on sale, too. I’ll have to exchange it today. Do you want to come with me?”

“You set this up!” I accused her. “And no, I don’t. You’ll ask me if I want to try it on, like last time.” We’d gone shopping once, and ended up having a terrible fight, because she insisted on holding things up to measure against me, and then had even asked me if I wanted to try one on! Loud enough for the cashier to hear, I was sure. I’d been so angry that I’d caught a bus home. Fortunately, according to the rules she had set up, she agreed that I didn’t have to go trying dresses on in stores in order to see her again. It took some fast talking, though. That was at the beginning of March.

“All right, then,” she said, with a big smile. “But I’ll need either your jacket or your pants to match colors with.”

I stamped my foot in anger. Looked down in confusion. I hadn’t quite expected to make a womanish sound. In fact, I’d picked up that habit, of stamping my feet, putting my hands on my hips, and glaring, at Nancy’s house. She chuckled. “You know I can’t give you my jacket,” I complained. She nodded, her eyes dancing.

I suppose I should explain that. On what would have been our first anniversary, if we hadn’t broken up — Valentine’s Day, that is — we’d given each other remarkably similar presents. Well, she knew me pretty well, so she probably knew what I was going to give her. Flowers, candy, and sexy lingerie. In this case, a bra-panties-garterbelt set (in red and black, to match the dress she’d worn for The pizza, which I desperately wanted to see her in again). Maybe it was telepathy, since I could equally well have bought her a negligeee, or something, but she gave me a matching set — same cut and everything, from the same store, only mine were pink and white.

So we’d smelled the flowers, and then we made a romantic little arrangement with them both in the same vase, intertwined with one another, and stolen candy, giggling, from one another. Modeling our lingerie. Then, however, she wanted to take me to dinner, and she wanted us both to wear our presents. It made me horribly nervous. I was wearing a white shirt with my jacket. I usually did. The pink was visible. I’d worked up my nerve to ask, “Please, Nancy, I’m afraid to go out in a bra. Look. You can see it!”

“You’re right,” she said, looking carefully, and surprising me. I was greatly relieved. I pulled off jacket and shirt, and was struggling with the bra, when she came back from her bedroom with a dark blue silk blouse. “Nobody’ll see the sleeves, if you keep your jacket on.”

Well, I gave in. But I didn’t have much fun during dinner. I was sure that the lines of the bra showed through the jacket. She’d noticed, of course, and a couple of days later, she gave me a handful of bras. Which, she said, I should wear whenever I was wearing panties.

I refused. For one thing, she’d traded me about half of my old collection of panties back, in exchange for my boy underwear, which she’d destroyed. I only had a couple pairs of boy underwear left, and I didn’t dare wear them to her house. They were too likely to disappear, and at that point I thought that there would be times when I had to have them. In fact, that was the first time, after the time I burned dinner, that I took the boy-clothes option and went home.

It was also the only victory I won. I went back two days later, armed with pictures and some new purchases. I didn’t start arguing as soon as I walked in the door, and in fact I changed into the bra that she had laid out for me, before I sat down to show her some things. I felt a bit silly, which was what I’m sure she intended by laying out a sheer white blouse to go with the pink bra. I was also a little warmed, though, that she had laid out my Valentine’s underthings.

The pictures I showed her were of business and professional women, wearing jackets, but in every picture, the bra straps and ridges were visible. That set her to frowning slightly. And then I offered a compromise. I laid out the three blouses I’d bought. She’d given me the idea herself. I’d found blouses that mimicked men’s dress shirts from collar to waist. One of them was a bodysuit. All of them, though, were obviously feminine, but in a manner that was covered when I put on my jacket. I suggested that I could get more of them, and replace my dress shirts with them. She had agreed, although she had made the further condition that I wear a bra at her house. Which turned out to be okay ... oh, we’re being honest here, aren’t we. Well, it happened to be another thing that turned me on. I don’t have very sensitive nipples, but the brush of nylon over them for a few hours could actually make them reasonably responsive. And I like the straps.

Well, but I was hoist by my own petard. The day that Nancy brought me the skirts, I was wearing a back-buttoned blouse with a false front placket and puff sleeves. It had a belt, too, but the belt gave the game away, so I didn’t wear it. “Nancy,” I said, with exaggerated patience, “if I take off my jacket, I look like I’m wearing a blouse. Right?” I slipped it down my shoulders, to make the sleeves visible. I wasn’t about to give it to her. I was trying to figure out how to make her give me the pants back. “And I can hardly meet students wearing a skirt!” I grabbed a couple handfuls of skirt and flipped it at her. “That is, unless you’ve decided to make a fool of me and dump me,” I blurted, then bit my lip. I was pretty sure that that was what she would eventually do, but there was no point in giving her ideas, and she didn’t like it when I said things like that.

This time, though, she ignored that outburst. She looked around my office. My desk was in the exact center of the room, facing the door, with a couch and a chair for students facing it, beside the door. She walked up to the desk, leaned down, and banged on the front of it. “Do you know what this is? It’s called a modesty panel. So nobody can look up a secretary’s skirt.” She smiled winsomely. “Or a professor’s. All you have to do is sit behind your desk, and nobody will know, will they?”

I walked around the desk ... tap, tap, tap, went the heels, and you walk different in heels, and it made me uncomfortable to be doing it somewhere outside Nancy’s house ... and looked. “They’ll see my shoes,” I argued. “And my ankles,” I added, hastily, since shoes just meant she’d give me back mine. Lace stockings don’t much resemble socks, though.

She smiled. My heart fell. She’d been in my office before. She walked around to my chair and sat down, feet under the desk. “Sit down and tell me what you see,” she said.

I sat. Stewed. “Nothing,” I grumbled. There was a footrest attached to the inside of the modesty panel.

She gave me one of those heartbreakingly sweet smiles. “Oh, Lee, don’t look so tragic! You need a couple of nice office skirts. I know you; you’re going to be making a lump in your skirt the whole time, especially if some cute little undergraduate comes in to sob her heart out over your cruelty. No one will know but you, and you’ll get a secret thrill from sitting there, so professional on the surface, and so feminine underneath! Well? Won’t you?”

I gulped. It still made me nervous to admit this sort of stuff to someone else. Hell, I hadn’t been able to admit it to myself all that well, until recently. I settled on a nod.

“Then change skirts again, dear, so I can go exchange that one. And relax. You told me nobody ever comes in on office hours.” She took the tags out of the pink skirt for me. I was trembling when I sat down, and anxiously asked her to make sure that nothing was visible, once I put my feet up. Leaving, her hand on the doorknob, she said, “Don’t worry, Lee. I’ll be back in a couple hours, and bring you some pants.” I missed that phrasing. She opened the door. Trust my luck. One of my more attractive, and fluff-headed, students. “Oh, sorry,” Nancy said, “we were just discussing what to do for dinner.” She looked at me mischievously. “Pizza then ... first?”

I got my breath back a few minutes later and invited the student, who looked a little puzzled, to sit down. Nancy was right, though. I suppose I acted a bit distracted. Every once in a while, I’d shift, and feel the draft, and glance down; at other moments I caught myself about to put my feet on the floor. I resolved to build a little wooden screen to go around the front and sides of my desk. The rest of the afternoon was uneventful.

At five, Nancy called, laughing, to say she’d been delayed, maybe an hour or so. At six-fifteen, she called again to say she was on her way, as soon as she finished up one last thing. By seven-thirty, when she finally arrived, I was in agony. Not emotional, this time. But I seriously needed to go to the bathroom. I blew out an enormous sigh of relief when she showed up, and then doubled over slightly.

“Sorry I’m late,” she said, cheerfully, then paused, looking at me. “Is something wrong?”

“I hafta go t’the bathroom,” I gritted.

She burst out laughing. I had to strangle my temper. “Well, come on, then,” she said. “You can change in the bathroom.”

“Ngh!” That was to emphasize the orders to the nerves that controlled sphincters. “Nancy, don’t. Please, just don’t. If one of the other faculty, or even some student happened to be there, I’d be out of a job. So please just give me my pants, okay?”

She hesitated, frowning. Then smiled. “I’ll keep guard for you. There’s nobody in any of the offices on this hall, though, I already checked.” She opened the door. I hadn’t managed to pick one from the withering comments I’d thought of, when she turned back to say, “Hall’s clear. I’ll wait for you outside the ladies’ room.”

“I ... Nancy!” I got to my feet, carefully, since I was sloshing like an overloaded tanker. The ladies’ room? Forget it! I stuck my head cautiously around the door, saw her at the corner, and whispered fiercely, “Nancy!” I couldn’t shout. I heard her footsteps fading down the hall.

“Damn, damn, damn, damn,” I whispered, like a litany, as I tried to tiptoe down the hall. The heels seemed unnaturally loud. I slipped them off, and then it was a bit easier.

She was there, outside the door, though. I tried to glare at her, but it might have just been a wounded look. Slipped inside, white-faced and shaking. At least I’d learned how to pee in a skirt — sitting, that is. A pair of pants appeared over the door of the stall.

Women’s pants, I discovered. High-waisted, narrow-ankled, and pleated, with the zipper in the back. I finished, opened the stall door, and found her by the sinks. “Not funny, Nancy. Can I have my real pants, now?”

“The sun is already going down, Lee,” she said. “Everybody’s gone somewhere off campus to eat dinner. Nobody is going to walk up to you, lift the skirts of your jacket, and look at your pants.” She smiled. “Or you could wear the skirt, if you want. You really do look adorable in it. Where are your shoes?”

I exploded, at that. “Damn it, I am not wearing heels across campus! You took my shoes. Give me my damn shoes, and my pants!”

She lost her smile. “I didn’t take ... did I?” I was too angry to respond. “Lee, if I took your shoes, they must be down in the car. I’m sorry about that. I forgot. If you’re not going to wear the heels, though, you should take off your stockings, too. You’ve already half- ruined them walking around on these filthy floors.” Now I glared, and ground my teeth in anger and frustration. She returned a level gaze, and finally spoke again. “Lee, the campus is quiet now, but if you stay here forever, sooner or later someone is going to come. If you insist on it, I’ll go down to the car and get your pants, and your shoes if they’re there. But I know you’ve wanted to do something a little risky, and now’s your chance. Think of it as an adventure, and trust me to keep you safe walking to the parking lot. Which is not ‘across campus.’ If you want, I can give you my bra, and we can find tissue to stuff it, and I’ll fix your hair, and you can try the whole thing. But I think you’d be more comfortable just getting your feet wet. Well?”

I released the anger in another enormous breath. Thought about it. “How do you talk me into these things?” I asked, a bit sullenly. “Not a skirt, though.”

She waited until I was zipping the pants, and answered, “Easy. I let you do the talking.”

As a matter of fact, I got off on it like a rocket. With Nancy’s hand around my waist, it wasn’t as fearful as I had expected, and I got a weird exultation out of sauntering, in high heels and everything else, our hips bumping together as we walked. And conquered another fear.

And we had pizza, too. First the pizza, then the spanking, then the outstanding, mind-numbing sex. When we finally collapsed together, into a perfumed, sweaty, satiated heap, she mumured, “If that’s what you’re like after wearing heels in public, I can’t wait until I take you somewhere in a dress.” Instead of reacting with fear and shame, I found the idea intriguing. It was a memorable day.

There was only one blot on it. As we were walking toward the parking lot, high heels tapping in unison, there’d been a football player, or an athlete of some sort, at any rate, off in the distance. Nancy nudged me with her hip, nodded his direction, and commented, “Look at that! What a monster!” But in an admiring tone of voice. The Pessimist gave an “Aha!” and I was a little quiet on the way home, until we stopped at the carry-out pizza place.

Shortly after that, we went shopping again. A week, or two weeks later, perhaps. At Nancy’s, there were some new rules; she’d had me learn how to pseudo-gaff, or tuck, with a tight pair of panties, and I did that for an hour each day, at first. There were walking, and makeup lessons, and bras started being less interesting, because now sometimes I wore little water balloons in them. That started shortly after Heels Day, and I’d been doing it for at least a week before she showed up in my office, right after my Tuesday morning 8:00. It was 9:30 or so.

“You don’t have office hours until one, do you?” she asked, coming to sit on the edge of my desk.

“No, why?”

She got up, locked the door, and came back. “Because you’re almost ready for an outing.” I paled. I’d been thinking about it, but it seemed like a truly enormous step. “For that, I want you to have a dress that’s perfect — everything new, in fact. What I’d really like is to get you a corset. But that means you try things on. Everything.”

“Nancy!” I objected. “You know I can’t do that! What if somebody from school saw me? I think all the cashiers are students!”

“No they aren’t,” she assured me. “It’s really perfectly safe. There’s a store that sells exotic lingerie in the mall at the north end of town. Hardly anybody from the University ever goes that far. We can get you a corset there. We’ll do the rest of the shopping there as well. Tuesday mornings are a really quiet time for shoppers. You’ll see.”

“Oh, come on! You can’t be serious!”

“Lee, you know I’m being serious, and you know that sooner or later you’ll give in. Don’t you?” I blushed furiously, and looked away. “The only question is whether you want to try to pass for femme while we’re shopping, or whether you’d rather wear what you’ve got on now.”

Which explains why, ten minutes later, I was in the back seat of Nancy’s car, pulling on the pink skirt. She’d brought earrings, my makeup, one of my bras, and the water balloons, too. The skirt and heels came from my office; I folded pants and jacket and laid them aside. Blouse, panties, and hose I wore every day.

When we got there, she fixed my makeup slightly, and let me hold her hand, crushingly, sweatingly, as we walked inside. I suspect I looked terrified.

First stop: the lingerie shop. Corsets, to fit right, have to be actually fitted. So I expected to be discovered there. Nancy told the saleslady that I’d lost a bet to her, and then wandered off while I was being fitted in a back room. When I came out, wearing what I’d worn in, though, she frowned, told the saleslady I wanted to wear the corset home, and then, perfectly openly, handed me a pair of panties she’d just bought, with a matching tap pant and camisole. “Tuck, while you’re at it,” she told me. And before I could even turn away from the amused grin on the cashier’s face, she handed me a pair of thigh high stockings as well.

It took me a while to come back out. The panties were high-cut, a size too small (that was deliberate) and palest pastel pink, with scalloping and lace. I thought about Serbian atrocities, tucked, and started to pull them on. Then I had to stop again. I think more Muslims got killed in my imagination, trying to kill a simple reflex, than have died to date in Bosnia. It was hard, which made things difficult. So to speak.

My skirt no longer fit quite properly, either, I discovered. It was loose in the waist. And I was more trembly than ever. We went to find a dress, next. That was embarrassing. The saleslady, an older, matronly woman, approached as I was trying to act ladylike and experienced, and asked, “Well, what can I do for you ... ladies?” With just the slightest pause. “Is there something I can show you?”

Nancy giggled, and gushed, “Oh, you figured us out! My boyfriend lost a bet, so he has to be the wife for a week, and I told him that means he has to look pretty.” I was gaping. Nancy never gushed, or acted quite this silly. “Anyway,” she prattled, brushing down the back of my skirt, “I don’t want to keep loaning him my clothes for a whole week, and anyway, they don’t fit! See?” She tugged at my skirt, and I yelped and grabbed. Another giggle. “I just think it’s too bad it’s only a week, though,” she finished, turning a wide-eyed stare on the saleslady. “He makes an awfully pretty girl, don’t you think?”

She gave me a sympathetic look. I finally reacted. I blushed and looked away. “Girl,” the saleslady said, a bit severely, “you’re going to lose him if you keep embarrassing him like this. Your bet didn’t include anything outside the house, now did it? And you’ve dragged him down here to try on dresses, just because you’re too selfish to let him borrow yours.”

“But I’m buying them!” Nancy protested, in a good simulation of defensive hurt. She winked at me with the eye that was turned away from the saleslady. “Besides, he did promise to look pretty, and he has to take me to dinner one night.” She pouted, and added, “If I’d lost, he’d be making me wear skirts up to here!” And she put a hand a couple inches above her groin.

The saleslady frowned at me. “Well, then. I suppose he wanted you to go to dinner with him, dressed like a tramp?” Again the wide-eyed nod, and now the saleslady chuckled. “All right, then, scamp, you’re getting what you deserve, aren’t you?” I picked up the cue, and smiled wanly.

“Not that high,” I protested, in a very low voice. “Just a miniskirt. Black leather, you know? She’d look really good.”

The saleslady knew how to chuckle, too, though it was deeper than Nancy’s sexy throatiness. “Well, you find something to make him pretty, and I’ll make sure no one comes in the dressing room. This is a good morning for shopping, as a matter of fact.”

“Why did you do that?” I whispered fiercely, a few moments later in the dressing room.

She chuckled, glanced toward the curtain, then pulled me close and kissed me slow. When she released me, I was barely able to concentrate on her words over the roaring in my ears. “Because now, she’ll let you try on as many different dresses as I want. And the next time you want to buy one, you just show up and look for her. Maybe next time you can get that black leather miniskirt. Or she’ll pick out things in good taste, and cover for you.” She giggled excitedly. “Besides, this way she’ll let you wear one out of the store. They don’t, usually.”

I tried on over a dozen dresses. With the saleslady looking on benignly. Nancy bought three. Including a full-skirted, full-sleeved, brilliant violet one, as shiny as her red dress, though cut very differently. A second, more demure jade green, featured a fitted bodice and flaring skirt, fitting over the corset like a glove. That was the one I got to wear ‘home.’ The third was the one I wanted to wear; it was simple, sleeveless, soft rose, with a kick-panelled straight skirt and a black belt.

I got read at the next place we went, too. Makeup. A new kit. And instructions on applying it. And nail polish.

“Now comes the fun part,” Nancy whispered. But it wasn’t. She bought me a new purse. The ‘fun part’ actually came after that. We went to another department store. We stopped in the mall to unpack the purse, first, though, and I was carrying it when we entered the other major chain store.

I was also pretending not to understand English. Nancy would give me low voiced instructions as we approached each new section, and then explain to the salesladies that I was just arrived from Germany, didn’t speak a word of English, and had lost my luggage. I acted a bit bubble headed, spoke in my deepest voice, and only in German. It was a riot. Nancy had me try on half a dozen bathing suits, as well as leotards, some skin-tight pants, shoes, and nearly everything else. I got to try on lingerie, even — though I didn’t quite dare to walk back out and model it. But we bought a bunch more stuff than I had ever dreamed of, sending me into a kind of shocky bliss.

And then we had lunch! As we sat down at the table, I leaned across to whisper, “I thought we were just preparing things today!”

Nancy chuckled wickedly. And started playing footsie under the table. I was in a bit of distress by the time we left the mall. I climbed into the back seat without prompting, and managed to release my cock, which was trying to erect while being strained backwards. Blessed relief! We were on the highway, and Nancy looked in the mirror and chuckled again.

“That probably qualifies as cruel and unusual punishment, you know,” I told her, a little irritated. “And I hope you’re planning on stopping somewhere, because I can’t get this corset off by myself.” As a matter of fact, I couldn’t get the dress off, either, I discovered. She didn’t answer, but a few minutes later, we went off an exit ramp, down a block, and turned into a parking garage. I had a bit of a shock; it was right next to where she worked. I’d been there once.

She turned to look at me, and her eyes were burning like coals. “Do you want to fuck here, or in my office, sweetie?”

“Nancy!” I guess I’m easily shocked. “I have to get back to school!”

“Well, I’ll let you get away with a quickie, then. Here in the car?”

“Somebody’ll see us!”

She chuckled. “The office it is. Better put some panties on, though, or you’ll stick out.”

She wasn’t an easy person to be with when she had moods like this. I scrambled into my panties — the ones I’d been wearing in the morning, not the new ones — and followed her, stumbling a bit, and protesting in whispers. Once we were on the elevator in her building, though, we were committed. I shut up. She goosed me. And then went through my purse and found my lipstick and compact.

I was still fixing it, staring in the little mirror, as she guided me by the elbow through her office. “Hey, Nance! Who’s the cutie?” I broke out in a sweat and concentrated some more, then looked up to flash a nervous smile. Jimmy the Freak. My pet name for him. A translator. He looked like a linebacker.

“You remember Lee?” Nancy said. My heart stopped. “This is his sister. She’s visiting, but she might move here.”

One painful beat, as it started back up, and then another. I didn’t dare look up. “Shy, isn’t she?” Jimmy commented. “Listen, sweetheart, if that brother of yours doesn’t show you around, you just come to me. Jimmy knows all the best places. Ask Nance, here. That’s me, Jimmy,” he finished, and thumped himself on the chest.

What was I supposed to do? I smiled — and probably looked like a frightened rabbit — and whispered “Thank you,” barely audibly.

“Any time!” he called heartily after me. “You just give me a call! Nance has my number!” And then, thankfully, the door closed behind us.

Terror appears to be an aphrodisiac. As soon as the door closed, Nancy was all over me. She had been wearing pants, and didn’t bother getting out of them, before her lips fastened to mine. Since we were both in heels (I was wearing one of my two new pairs), she was shorter than me, and didn’t like it; she had her hands under my skirt and was pushing me down by my hips. I started to kneel, but the heels tripped me, and I slipped instead. Landed on my butt. I was on my back a moment later, though, with Nancy on top, deep-kissing me like she meant business, and her hips straddling mine. She finished pushing my skirt up, and then paused long enough to unbutton her pants and slide them down to her knees.