The Retrodresser Pt. 01

"You had your skirts pulled up like this when I came into the office this morning, Miss Dee, didn't you?" he said, his voice deepened and roughened by an assertive, masculine forcefulness and tone.

"Umm, uh..." I murmured, and reflexively I twisted my hips a little above his grasping hands and groping fingers.

"You were admiring these sexy little garters, honey, weren't you?" he paused, but started up before I could frame a reply—or an excuse. "And these lacy little panties—" his big, warm hand slid up and palmed my bottom through my panties—"I don't think these are original vintage at all. This panty-brief styling, and this kind of synthetic didn't appear for another decade, at least, hon. And if these aren't true vintage, well, you know very well that owning them, obtaining them from some Canadian or Central American web store, secretly, you know how that's frowned upon in this state hon. You know very well."

"But, but," I stammered. "They were my grandmother's." I said, but I felt my face getting warm, and I wondered if he could tell it wasn't quite true.

"Uh huh," Mr. James said. I felt his hand cup the back of my panties, and I shivered. His hand slid back and forth, palm cupping and un-cupping, his fingers rippling over the tight nylon, following the curves of my bottom, dipping down to where the elastic surrounded my bare thighs. "We'll see." he said.

I was taking long, deep breaths while he held me pinned between his knees, scolding me, holding my hems up and fondling my bottom. I couldn't think of anything to say, or I just couldn't articulate anything from the compromised position he had me in. Butterflies swarmed my midsection, preventing intelligible speech. I made a noise, high and breathy, and at the same time my hips gave a little twitch in response to his hand and fingers sliding here and there on my behind, and between my trembling thighs.

Mr. James leaned in closer to me, and spoke again, whispering low: "I saw the way you walked, the way your hips swayed, hon. The way you like to swish that skirt." He continued with his palm softly caressing my bottom through the back of my panties. "I think you like to tease." My breath caught. His fingers had slid up toward my back, but his open palm still rested mostly on the back of my bikini brief. I tried to start breathing again. The tips of his fingers slid up over the bump of elastic, the panty waistband, and touched very gently the skin just above.

"You will get back to work shortly, hon," he whispered. One finger pressed a little in against my skin just above the elastic. Then another. Two, then three fingers slid under the waistband, grasping it gently.

"But you've been a very naughty girl," he said.

I took in a shuddering breath.

"So first, you need to be punished. I think you need a good spanking," he said.

"Sir, I—" but he cut me off.

Introduction:

"...and when the ERA finally passed in Congress during the fall session in 2025, it almost seemed like an afterthought, since 'woke' cultural shifts, following the "Me-Too" movement, had broadened society's viewpoints regarding gender, sexuality, and caused subsequent adjustment in erotic tastes and values.

But of course legislation and official records—and momentous signatures—are one thing, while, in the real world, sometimes the law of unintended consequences overtakes events with its own agenda, and that agenda can sometimes be as unexpected and curious, even intriguing, as anything can possibly be.

Fashion swings like a pendulum, as do politics, however, and with the multiple pendulums swinging as the 21st century grew and matured, trends in female attire, especially, swung toward the more conservative generally. New generations of women became more casual, and considerably less decorative as their tastes in dress and accessorization shifted.

By the middle of the decade following the ERA passage, fashion and political correctness had swung hard away from the feminine, the dainty, the enhancing, and especially the titillating in female attire and behavior."

Excerpt from Reflections of Western Culture in the 21st Century,

© 2135 BNN Publishing Ltd. Var. Chapter 14: Social Evolution of Identity, Image and Feminine Fashion

The seeds of these trends had been sown long, long before.

And somehow, a full decade before the year 2037, when our story is set, certain styles, items, and materials, previously common in feminine attire, especially in the intimate categories of apparel, had become quasi-legal, and in some cases, outright forbidden by law in several states, mostly in the south and bible belt. These laws followed on similar legislative trends in Eastern Europe and the middle east as early as the first decade of the 21st century, the 2000s.

In 2037 revealing skirts and dresses were still around and not illegal, but hard to get, and no longer considered acceptable in social or work settings. Women generally wore slacks and sweaters in public view, whether in the workplace or social settings.

And anything other than plain, white underwear, for girls and women, had been banned for over ten years.

And a natural, and secret, and perhaps inevitable result, among certain curious women and appreciative males, was known, generally in whispered tones, as The Swishflash Underground.

Female enthusiasts, who collected, traded, and sometimes secretly wore such attractive feminine attire and footwear, became known as Retrodressers.

Chapter 1

I thought he was going to pull my panties down right there, while he sat at his desk holding me between his clamped knees. I think he thought so too, but then, something changed his mind.

"I want you to come over here," he said, indicating the sofa. As he spoke, he let go of my skirt and released me. I felt my hems swish back down to cover my thighs. For some reason the soft material sliding back down the backs of my legs gave me a little shiver. Mr. James stood up, and put his hand on my hip to guide me over toward the sofa. I walked, my heels clicking on the floor, and his hand slid briefly down the back of my skirt, palming my bottom and propelling me along.

The way he patted and palmed my bottom through my skirt, it was like he had already claimed it somehow. When we reached the sofa his hand was still there, and his assured attitude made my shame and insecurity all the more heightened. Somehow I already knew that his hand was doing whatever it wanted to, and I couldn't do a thing about it. I shuddered.

I stopped and stood in front of the middle of the sofa, looking down at its cushions, then at my blue skirt, my hem, my stockings, knees, ankles, my feet in the high heel shoes. And at my chest and abdomen, falling and rising now with my excitement and trepidation, because of what I knew was going to happen. Mr. James positioned me standing in front of the sofa, with my knees almost touching the cushions. "You've been a bad girl, haven't you, Doris?" he said.

I didn't want to look at him. Staying close to me, he moved to my left side, and then took a step away. He nodded as he regarded me, and I turned my head a little so I could see him looking me up and down, taking in my skirt, my legs, my shoes. His eyes lingered long on my legs. "But you do look very pretty," he said. "Very sexy, too." I continued to look down at the sofa, and I tried to stay calm, but I was breathing excitedly, and couldn't help the little gasping breaths that made my chest jump when he spoke.

"Doris?" he said suddenly, sharply. I turned my head and looked at him.

"You will answer me when I speak to you," he said sternly.

"Yes sir," I said. I was looking at the sofa again.

"You know I'm going to have to give you a spanking, Doris," he said.

"Sir?" I said. I felt my knees tremble, and I took a gasping breath.

Quickly, he stepped very close and took hold of my arm. "Look at me when I speak to you Doris. I don't want to have to tell you again. When we are discussing your punishment, I want to know you are paying complete attention." His other hand still hadn't left my bottom, and his palm was moving, his fingers feeling, squeezing and touching, owning it.

"Yes sir," I said. My mind was spinning. I was so excited, agitated, afraid, and simultaneously, well, sensitized, that I must not have been really absorbing his words, because as I spoke I continued to look at the sofa.

Suddenly I realized that he was angry, very angry. Still holding my left arm, he quickly pulled me closer, then let go, and reached quickly with the same hand down behind me. I felt him lift my skirts—first the pleated chenille, then my white half slip. I whimpered "No," and gasped as he did so.

His right hand, open and flat, came down hard against my bottom, spanking my left bottom cheek through my panties. I cried out, letting my excited breath back out as I felt the sharp sting of his hand striking through the thin nylon—one, two, three times. "LOOK at me, I said, Doris!"

He let my skirts drop back into place and stepped a pace away again, and as he glared at me I turned my head and looked into his eyes.

"That's better," he said. "When you look at me, I know I have your attention." And he smiled, and his eyes held a little of the smile, a touch of kindness, while his mouth returned to its determined, even line, lips pressed. I exhaled, feeling some relief. He had spanked me. The smile told me he was satisfied—that the discipline was complete. "Good girl," he said as he stepped away another pace. He put his hands behind his back, clasped them, turned, and walked again toward his desk.

I turned, smoothed my hand behind my skirt, that motion I've seen well-dressed women use so often—in old movies or archival news footage—when preparing to sit. And dressed up as I was, professional, neat and pretty, the gesture came very naturally to me. As I smoothed my right hand against my bottom, I felt my panty line, my bare thighs, my garters running down them, and the tops of my stockings. A shiver of pleasure ran through me when feeling— and momentarily visualizing— my pretty underclothes. But, I noticed a quick motion from Mr. James.

"What are you doing?" he said.

"Sitting down?"

"Did I tell you to sit down?"

"No sir, but I thought—" My voice quavered slightly, undermined by emotion and uncertainty.

"You thought wrong. Remain standing, Doris, until I tell you otherwise."

"Yes, sir," I said. I straightened up.

"Face the sofa again, please."

He said please, but it was plainly a command. I faced the sofa.

I heard his fist bang on the desk, and he took a quick step. Startled, I jumped and my knees shook for a second. "ANSWER me when I speak to you!" he said firmly.

"Yes sir, yes, sorry," I said.

"Place your knees against the sofa," he said. I heard a drawer open, then rattling of the contents, then him placing items on the desk.

"Yes sir," I said, and inched my feet forward until my knees touched cushion.

"Remain facing that way. Now listen carefully." His shoes squeaked softly as he moved behind me, and I heard the little wooden sounds of him placing his weight against his desk. I started to turn my head to look back, but thought better of it. He hummed a little approval, "Hmm."

"You are a very pretty girl. Pretty dress, nice sexy shoes, hose. I like your long hair. Shake your head for me."

I reached up, and pulled the pins from my hair, loosening the bun. Placing the pins in my mouth I let my hair down, then shook my head, then tossed my hair back, and briefly snuck a peak over my shoulder. I couldn't help it. I could see that he was leaning against the front of the desk, his ankles crossed, arms crossed too, looking at me.

"I like looking at you, Doris," he said. "Your hair, very nice, the nice brunette waves falling to your shoulders." He moved, I heard the wooden creak sounds again as he settled himself more comfortably against the desk.

"Thank you, Mr. James," I said. More little motion sounds, it was very quiet in the room, so I could hear him moving, shifting. I heard sounds as of hands moving against clothing. Standing naturally, but still nervous in the ticking moment, I shifted my weight from one foot to the other, and back. My hips moved slightly with the shifts.

"Mmm," his voice again. His quiet, sensual appreciation. Then the quiet sounds again, as he moved. In my mind, I saw him. I heard his hands, arms uncrossed now, his hands moving down across the front of his shirt, down, touching his belt, the front of his khakis.

I reached up with my left hand, checked my hair, pushed it back from my eyes. I again shifted my hips, my weight, letting my skirt swish a little on my thighs. I heard him breathe, then his "Mmn" again, heard his hands moving against the khaki fabric. Still touching my hair, I tossed my head again, again flicking my hair back, running my fingers through the tresses, and I peeked back at him, a quick peek over my shoulder. I glimpsed his left hand on his left thigh, and his right hand, fingers spread and curled, was stroking a bulge that curled across the front of his slacks. His hand, fingers spread, moving gently, softly up and down. A very small movement, but with what significance.

This excited me. I began to move a little more, scissoring my thighs a little. When I tossed my head again, I looked at him a little more directly, and caught his eye a little.

"Naughty girl," he said. I froze for an instant. In the middle of my steady breathing, all rhythms stopped. A rushing sensation, then my beating heart speeding up and I drew in my breath, involuntarily restarting my body's rhythms.

"Yes sir," I murmured. I sensed that he was still watching me, watching me very closely, and still moving behind me, touching himself, his pants. Then, the rubbing sounds stopped. I thought he was going to come over. I gasped very slightly, trying not to react. I became very aware, suddenly, of my panties, my pretty sheer forbidden panties, and I shivered because I suddenly felt moist, even moister, down there. Then I heard another sound, very slow, very quiet. It was like a scratching, no, more like a ripping sound. Then I realized. It was a zipper.

I was turning him on. He was getting aroused by me. I felt a sense of power, a flow of power. He had power, yes, but so did I. A little of it was flowing back to me. I resumed my little shifting of weight, feeling my thighs, my garters, the nylon of my panties also shifting very subtly. I continued to move for him. But naturally, with subtlety.

As I moved, a little more playfully now, I was getting excited myself. Behind me, this man was looking at me, in my skirt, moving my body, teasing him, and he was getting hard, opening his pants. Was he opening his pants? Had I heard a zipper? What would he do? Would I get to see his penis, his hard penis? Because we hadn't previously discussed any details, only generalities, I knew only that we would "play." There was a delicious uncertainty in these moments, a wildness of uncertainty. And part of the wildness, the unknown, was that I didn't know how I would react to him. Would he show it to me? Would he want me to touch it? Would I agree to do so if he did? Would he try to make me, if I didn't? Or, do even more than touch it? I already sensed, with some pleasure and relief, and maybe a little concern, too, that this man was not interested in "quickie" interaction.

Wherever this went, and it still could go in wildly different directions, it would not end quickly, I knew. While I fantasized, I tried to stop my thoughts, because I didn't want to get ahead of myself. I had told myself, after all, that I would do nothing extreme sexually with him, at least during this first meeting, if at all. Now I wasn't so sure. I was excited. My body was reacting, my skin felt tingly. The moment was so extremely charged with the erotic. Possibilities? It seemed anything could happen. As I swayed my hips and tossed my hair and swished my skirt, I was, myself, growing a little more moistened in the cotton panel of my panties. I felt the goose bumps ripple on my arms—and the backs of my thighs.

I smoothed my hair back with both hands as my hips moved to the loose beat in my head. My heels tapped lightly on the hardwood as I shifted my feet. I tossed my hair back again and caught another glimpse of him; leaning back comfortably against the desk, his zipper down, his belt undone, the snap of his khakis' open, his underpants showing between the open flaps of his fly. One hand—his left—fondling a long shape that ran sideways across the bright white of his briefs. The other hand held up the loose tails of his shirt, out of the way. I could only see contour of it, its thick, oblong outline shaping the white cotton. His penis. It wasn't yet straight up hard, but its shape was clearly visible and strong.

How long is it?—I wondered. My brief look at it had formed an impression of thickness, length. 7 inches?...a little more, maybe a little less, and also maybe a little thicker than average. As I thought about it I felt an intense excitement, almost an ache at the pit of my stomach, a wave of sensation that grew and shivered toward a spot within my own panties. I felt myself lubricating, felt the panty fabric sliding slippery and so slowly against my labia as the lips warmed and swelled and spread slightly apart.

A new beat had entered my head, somehow inspired by the sounds of his hands whispering in their soft motions against his underpants, perhaps the creaking of the desk as he rocked so slightly against it...also by my own motions, shifting my weight so lightly from foot to foot, my hips swaying an inch this way, an inch that way.

I slid my hands down from my hair and again tossed my head, swishing my hair back, and my hands came down, down, slid off my shoulders and extended outward into the air, my arms improvising a slow yawning, reaching motion, then coming back to my sides, holding my own waist, then sliding down to my hips. There, I paused. I stopped moving. I heard him breath deeply, a hint of soft moaning in his breathing. Very deliberately, I turned my head, only my head, and looked over my shoulder.

As he watched me, his right hand was stroking his penis through his underpants, as before, and I watched his left hand push his shirt tail up out of the way, and then reach down, his fingers sliding under the elastic waistband, the gleam of his fingernails disappearing, his hand fully entering his underpants and taking hold of it and stroking it to hardness, standing straight up in the cotton covering.

I slid my own hands down the sides of my hips, and resumed my slow dance, my thighs scissoring gently back and forth, my weight shifting, my skirt swishing its pleats oh-so-subtly on my sheer nyloned thighs. I smoothed my fingers down the back of my skirt, like I had earlier when preparing to sit down, and I paused at the hem. I heard him moan again. Still I watched him, and I was fascinated to see the head of his stiffened penis slip out the left side of his underpants, and I saw his fingers inside his underpants slide over it, down its length.

My hands slid down the to the backs of my thighs; then I slid them back up and gently, between the thumb and finger of each hand, grasped the hem of my skirt and swished it a little back and forth, more playfully than seductively.

"Yes, oh ess," he breathed, his voice barely a whisper. I wasn't sure if he had seen me looking at him. I slowly returned my gaze forward; I looked down at myself, my skirt swishing, my toes and heels twisting and faintly tapping, my stockinged legs moving.

Holding the hem of my skirt, I pulled it tight against my bottom, then still holding it gently, let it swing loose again. I swished it with my hands, then I let go of it and gave a little swing of my hips to let it fly loose and flip up a little. I picked up my right foot and crossed my ankles as I stood. I slid my hands down the sides of my skirt again, framing my hips.