Having read thus far, you're doubtlessly aware that my sister and I were incorrigible knicker-flashers, making it more or less inevitable that we'd get 'round to dancing the cancan at some point. We'd both studied gymnastics since early childhood and used to impress our friends with various tricks we learnt down at the youth center - handstands, back flips, step-overs ect - anything that would "accidentally" display our undies in the playground. Given the circumstances, it was only a matter of time before we discovered the acrobatic joys of La Chahut.

If I remember correctly, we first started playing "Moulin Rouge" when I was about nine years old. It was a long weekend, our parents were out for the day and Lydia and I were watching TV from the living room floor. The cartoons were mostly finished for the day, the only thing worth watching was Rising Stars, a singularly lackluster talent quest where kids of no fixed ability competed for prizes nobody actually wanted. Our concentration normally wandered during the mid-morning dead zone, but on this occasion, there was something that definitely caught our interest.

One of the acts was a troupe of four girls dressed in bright red chorus outfits, complete with full circle petticoats and frilly white panties. Lydia and I watched in wide-eyed fascination as they whirled through their routine, which was mainly pirouettes and high kicks (although they finished the number by revealing their panty-bottoms to the camera).

Both of us were utterly intrigued by what we'd just seem. For my part, I'd always thought that only grown-up women danced the cancan. Neither of us had ever really imagined that girls our age might dance it too; certainly not until they were old enough to wear lipstick and make-up. Yet, here was the living proof, broadcast over the airwaves in glorious monochrome. And if they could dance the cancan on national television...

Lydia and I exchanged the briefest of looks, communicating on silent wavelengths beyond the reach of modern science. The thought of showing off my underwear in public was kind of exciting - almost intoxicating - and I could tell she was thinking precisely the same thing.

After the program finished, we got up and walked out to the rumpus room, guided by some innate telepathy shared by close siblings. Not a word had been exchanged beforehand, but we'd already decided what we were going to do. There was a full-length cheval mirror leaning against the back wall, a cast-off antique handed down to us by some nameless great-aunt. We pulled it out to a more central position and immediately started playing house in front of it, giving each other the occasional side-long glance to confirm we were still on the same page.

We went through our usual catalog of domestic role-plays, warming up for the main event. We were both pretty eager to start the morning's panty-flashing festivities, but we had to observe the mandatory protocols. Seven interminable rounds of hide-n-seek later, Lydia eventually decided it was time to get the show on the road.

About time, I thought, feeling my temperature rise by slow degrees. We'd had the house to ourselves all morning, but our folks could arrive home at any minute. If we were going through with this, we had to do it now. As in right now, this instant!

Taking our customary positions at either side of the rumpus room, we raised our arms and spun two cartwheels in front of the mirror. This was the unspoken signal I'd been waiting for, the moment the performance would finally begin. My pulse was already ticking in the side of in my throat. With our gymnastic background, we'd be much better than the girls on TV; we were far more agile and limber.

We warmed up for around five minutes, spurring each other on to greater feats of acrobatic prowess, whipping across the floor in a swirl of hands, knees and forearms. Our feet seemed to brush the ceiling as we plummeted through our opening set. At one point I saw Lydia bounce off the sofa in a graceful mid-air spiral, executing an effortless double somersault. I followed with a triple handspring across the room, finishing up with a back-step dismount...

And then we were ready.

The only trouble was, we weren't exactly dressed for it. Lydia was wearing jeans, I was wearing shorts, and as we weren't "officially" dancing the cancan yet. We needed an excuse to ease into the new role (because, believe it or not, that's exactly how young girls think). I looked over at my sister, knowing she'd take the lead in this instance. As always, Lydia had the perfect solution and - as always - she never failed to deliver.

"I can't stretch in these jeans," Lydia said with an exasperated gesture, "they're too tight to do cartwheels in."

"Same with my shorts," I replied in the same dismissive tones.

Lydia shrugged her shoulders and started fumbling with her belt, undoing the top button of her Levis.

"We'll just have to take them off," she remarked in a tone of utter resignation, as if we had no other choice.

Once she'd peeled down her jeans and stepped lightly out of them, I removed my black cotton culottes, dropping them onto the sofa without a backward glance. I felt an unusual flutter in my tummy as I straightened up, unconsciously tugging down on my t-shirt. While the hem reached to about six inches above the knee, I imagined it only barely covered the trim of my underpants.

Lydia stood watching me from the left side of the mirror, a slim, leggy girl in an over-sized tunic and long white knee-socks. After a few seconds hesitation, she gathered up the right side of her shift, exposing her bare thigh almost up to the hip. Eyebrows raised with an unspoken question, she glanced in my direction, then tilted her face towards the cheval. Are you ready? No words were necessary; I simply nodded my answer and the performance began.

Flipping our "skirts" clear up to our throats, we launched into an impromptu routine, cart-wheeling across the floor in front of the mirror. Crossing over from right to left, we adjusted our speed to allow our hemlines to fall away, revealing our tummies, thighs and panties at precisely the same moment. I was wearing a pair of white cotton knickers that came all the way up to the belly-button; Lydia, being a few years older, wore shiny nylon full briefs – glossy red with lacy inserts on the sides.

Next, we experimented with various dance steps – high kicks, flip-flops and hand-springs, trying to recall the cancan in exact detail from the numerous movies and TV shows we'd seen over the years. At one point, Lydia bent over backwards and kicked her legs into the air one at a time (she was always more supple than me) resulting in her t-shirt creeping all the way down to her bra.

I followed this up with a point-perfect handstand, parting my legs in a classic aerial split. My light yellow tunic turned completely inside out, hanging tenuously from my shoulders and exposing my whole body from neck to toe. I could feel the cool afternoon air on my bare torso, raising a buzz of goose flesh along my tummy.

Precisely at that moment, I realized the windows to the rumpus room were wide open, and giggled with pink-faced embarrassment. I dropped down back onto my feet, smoothing out my clothing and wondering how much the neighbors had seen. Lydia asked what was wrong, and after I explained, we decided to preserve our dignity as best we could. Calling an end to the afternoon's activities, we drew the curtains and climbed back into our clothes, trying not to snicker at how silly we felt. If any of the local boys had seen us, we'd never live it down!

Needless to say, fear of exposure didn't deter us very long. The temptation to flash our panties to the world was irresistible. The very next morning after breakfast, we headed straight down to the rumpus room to continue practicing our faux-cancan. Jeans were shucked, hemlines were raised and pristine white knickers went on open exhibition.

Our rehearsal began with the curtains closed, but after a while, Lydia found an excuse to throw them open, claiming that the room was getting too hot. Nothing could have been further from the truth, of course: summer had long since departed and autumn conditions had kept the house cool for weeks.

I raised no objections – despite my earlier misgivings, the idea of being caught doing the cancan made my pulse race with excitement. I was certain Lydia that felt the same way; if anybody happened to walk past our window and see our underpants, we'd just have to deal with it.

After we'd worked out a satisfactory dance number, we took a short break to discuss our progress, determining that tunics and t-shirts just weren't right for the cancan. Still flaunting our undies, we ran up to our rooms and started rummaging around our closets for more suitable attire.

As it happened, Lydia had a nice, long full-circle skirt with broad lace trimmings, almost exactly what she was looking for. I had a high-waisted party dress with puffy sleeves and "Spanish" ruffles around the hem. It wasn't as long as Lydia's skirt, but I knew it would be perfect for twirling about the room!

Once we'd finished assembling our costumes, we swept back downstairs to compare outfits. It turned out we'd also been more selective in our choice of underwear. The subject was virtually unavoidable; the first thing I asked Lydia was what color panties she had on. Naturally enough, she was more than willing to oblige.

Lifting her skirt in the mirror, Lydia revealed a pair of black satin knickers, shimmering full briefs with a garish red trim around the legs. My eyes practically bulged out of their sockets when I saw them, I didn't know she owned anything so undeniably cheeky. Apparently, they'd been a birthday present from one of our older cousins, but she'd never had a reason to wear them until now. You can probably imagine how jealous I was at that moment - Lydia got all the best stuff!

Reading my expression with a well-practiced eye, she asked if I was wearing anything special. I responded by stepping forward with my right foot and raising my dress to my chin. As a general rule, I only wore plain white cottontails, but I also had a set of incredibly girlie underthings hidden at the back of my closet. Like my sister, I didn't get much chance to wear them out, but today seemed the perfect opportunity.

I'd chosen a pair of pastel pink sissy-pants with delicate lace frills all over the sides and bottom. A dainty floral pattern decorated the front, barely visible against the sheer, rosy fabric. They were, without question, the cheekiest little panties I had in my entire wardrobe.

Gazing at my reflection in the mirror, my head spun at the thought of showing them off: quite suddenly, I was secretly hoping that somebody - anybody - might be looking in through the window right now. These knickers were just too darned pretty to cover up.

Lydia sidled up next to me, still holding her skirt high over her waist. In spite of my overwhelming embarrassment, I still couldn't help grinning with secret mischief. I was looking forward to this – and it seemed a pity there would be no-one else to witness our performance.

Posing together in the cheval, Lydia asked me if I was ready to begin. Raising my dress as far as it would go, I nodded my assent, and we started into our routine.

"You ready?" she asked, nodding in my general direction.
"Yeah," I replied, carefully shifting my center of balance.
"OK. On the count of three. One -"
"Two-"
"THREE!"

And suddenly, directly behind us – the sound of a photograph being taken.