My eyes widened in surprise.

Lips parting in a silent gasp, I peeked out from below the frothy curtain of my petticoats, still doubled over with my bottom thrust out in rude display.

There was someone standing at the door of the rumpus room. Someone I'd never seen before. A boy about my age, maybe a year older. Tall; taller than me, and much wider across the shoulders. He was wearing a Chamberlain High School jacket and holding something in his right hand, although neither fact registered with me at the time. He was staring at me (or rather at my derriere) slack-jawed and speechless, astonishment stamped all over his face in capital letters.

"Ohmygod!!" I cried, remembering how high-cut my underpants were at the back, how much of my creamy white bottom-flesh they exposed. I swung around and straightened up, flipping my skirt over to a more modest position. I stared back wordlessly, my face darkening with embarrassment.

How long had he been standing there?
How much had he seen?
What was he doing here?!

His eyes seemed to refocus, as if he'd just come out of a trance, then he cleared his throat again.

"Hi ..." he said, raising his hand in unconscious greeting, "I ... I'm from next door ... I've ... I just came over to ..." That was as far as he got before he remembered he was holding a coffee mug in his right hand. A rather large one with a Starbucks logo on the side.

"How did you get in here?" I demanded, feeling more than a little scared. He was far bigger than me - built like a linebacker on steroids, in fact. I stepped away from him, feeling small and weak and vulnerable. He was blocking my sole exit from the room. I looked anxiously around, wondering how I'd get past him if it came to trouble.

"Uh ... I'm sorry, the front door was open," he replied red-faced, gesturing over his shoulder with the Starbucks mug, "I knocked for about two minutes, but no one answered, so I ..." his voice trailed off and I saw that he was nearly as embarrassed as me. Two bright spots stood out on his cheeks. Despite his size, he looked like a very small boy caught with his hand down the cookie jar. He offered me an apologetic grin, his eyes roaming over my costume - particularly the bustier.

"What do you want?!" I exclaimed, covering my tiny cleavage with both hands. It was a reflex action: He was a stranger, I was standing here in a low-cut dress. I wanted to cover up, hide myself from this lumbering monstrocity. How could I have been so stupid as to leave the front door open? Now my secret was out: he'd seen me capering around the rumpus room with my skirt over my head.

"Nothing ..." he replied uncomfortably, "I mean, my mother sent me over for a cup of sugar ... she's making a cake, and we only moved in two weeks ago ..."

"A cup of sugar?" I asked in a slightly incredulous tone. He obviously wasn't going to hurt me. He now seemed less of a threat than when I'd first seen him bulking out the doorway. Now that the initial shock had passed, I was able to take a closer look at him. He had a surprisingly open expression, almost devoid of thoughtless, adolescent cruelty. He was big, but he wasn't mean.

"Yeah," he said, and rubbed the back of his neck with his huge left paw, having exhausted his vocabulary for the time being. I searched his features carefully, uncertain how to proceed. Could I trust him? Would he keep what he'd seen to himself? I lowered my hands to my sides, realizing I didn't have much choice now that the cat was out of the bag.

Unless, of course, I could come up with a convincing enough lie.

"You're probably wondering what I was doing", I said, sweeping a gloved hand around the room.

"Well ... no, I didn't ..." he started, looking more uncomfortable than ever.

"I was rehearsing for the Winter Eisteddfod," I explained, blushing to the edge of my hairline, "we're doing a Moulin Rouge number on Christmas Eve". It wasn't a complete lie: my dance class was training for the yuletide arts festival, and the cancan had always been a popular number. I guess it sounded plausible enough, even if I'd been dancing without any music whatsoever. I watched him closely for any sign of disbelief. His reaction startled me:

"Really? Well, it looked pretty good from where I was standing."

"What?" I demanded in near disbelief.

"Sorry, I just meant -"

"How much did you see?"

"Just about everything," he replied without thinking, then realized how his words might have been interpreted, "I mean, just the last couple of seconds, that thing where you bend over and ..." he closed his mouth, evidently deciding it would be better to quit while he was still behind.

"So...you came over for a cup of sugar?" I asked once more, feeling my spine relax somewhat. He posed no threat to me whatsoever, I'd come to understood that much, at least. As a matter of fact he seemed...well, kind of nice.

"Yeah, if that'd be all right," he answered, holding up the mug with an almost comically self-depricating look. Aw, shucks ma'am, I'm so sorry about all this. Just gimme my cup a' sugar and I'll be on my way.

"OK," I said, a genuine smile touching my lips, "you want to come out to the kitchen?" I stepped towards him, hearing my stilettos clocking on the floorboards. Nylon frills brushed against my thighs, raising static along the stockings. My sense of touch seemed to have been amplified a hundredfold, I was almost painfully conscious of everything touching my skin. Flimsy white panties, clinging to my hips; wispy black garter-belt; nestled snugly around my waist. Long, tight suspenders, stretching along my legs.

"Sure," he nodded, and stepped aside, allowing me to pass into the main corridor. My skirt rustled gently as I pushed by, giving him a shy sideways glance. So huge; I was frankly amazed that he'd fit through the front door, open or closed. He fell in behind me without comment, two hundred pounds of all-American beef squeezed into a Chamberlain jacket and a pair of faded blue levis. And carrying a Starbucks coffee mug in his right hand.

I could almost feel his eyes wandering over my bottom as we walked out to the kitchen.

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