Norwegian Petticoat


Copyright Oggbashan May 2003 The author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

This is a work of fiction. The events described here are imaginary; the settings and characters are fictitious and are not intended to represent specific places or living persons.

This story involves the characters introduced in “The Bridesmaids’ Revenge” although it can be read on its own.


The Silver Vixens were returning by coach from a 5-a-side football tournament in Northern England. They had played hard, fielding three teams, and although they hadn’t won any of the competitions they were pleased with their performance against tough opposition.

The coach was on a dual carriageway and it was raining. Through the misted over windows a bleak industrial landscape dripped with water and rust. It seemed derelict and it was hard to believe that this area had once supported thousands of people in heavy engineering. Although it was daylight vehicles had their headlights on to pierce the rain and mist.

Inside the coach most of the Vixens were sleeping. Some were snuggled up in total abandon. It was difficult to remember that these relaxed shapes were the formidable Vixens. They seemed so vulnerable and almost cuddly. If one had been hugging a teddy bear it wouldn’t have seemed out of place.

But a few were still awake. A small group were in animated conversation. Among them a tall blonde was noticeable. Apart from being a natural blonde, her manner and gestures were subtly different. As she spoke, her English was too good, too precise, too grammatical. It sounded as if she was speaking it as a foreign language, fluently and idiomatically indeed, but without the carelessness that is the sign of the native speaker.

Lisa spoke “I think we’ve exhausted the replays of this weekend’s matches.”

There were nods from the others.

“Brigitta,” said Lisa addressing the tall blonde “You know we often talk about our men. We know each other’s stories too well. Could you tell us some of yours? Perhaps about your first kiss? First boyfriend? Or would it embarrass you too much?”

“No” replied Brigitta “It wouldn’t embarrass me. I’ve heard too many of your stories .. and the interesting bits as well. I’ve been coming to Silverbridge for so many years that it’s my second home, and now I’m living here, at least for a couple of years, I ought to comply with the local mores.”

“Local mores!” was echoed by the others.

Lisa added ironically “I think you mean “I should act like a local” NOT “comply with the local mores”. If you spoke like what we do, people might think you’re really one of us. Which you are anyway.”

“I have been coming to Silverbridge for so many years, and playing football with the Vixens as well, that I thought I was a local” said Brigitta.

“You are!” was the general response followed by:

“You would be less obviously different if you didn’t look like a Valkyrie on the pitch” said Candice.

“In full flight, you scare the shit out of our opponents. With your blonde hair streaming behind you and your interminable legs flashing, all you need is a spear and a horned helmet to be the real thing.”

“Don’t say that!” exclaimed Brigitta “It’s unlucky to compare a mortal with the Gods.”

“I knew you were still a pagan at heart,” said Lisa “Do you pray to Freyha or Frigg?”

“It depends what I want,” replied Brigitta.

The others laughed. They were always teasing Brigitta about Norse mythology. She was the daughter of a lay preacher from Silverbridge’s twin town in Norway. To her the Norse pantheon was as mythical as the Greek or Roman gods were to her team mates. But it was true. Sometimes Brigitta did look just like a Valkyrie.

“Talking about Valkyries reminds me of the story I’m going to tell you.” said Brigitta “You all know, of course, about the Valkyries’ swan dresses …”

“No! We don’t.”

“Very simply, Valkyries are supposed to be able to turn themselves into swans by putting on a swan-dress. If a hero can steal the Valkyrie’s swan dress, she is his until she can get her swan-dress back.”

“Typical male mythology!” snorted one of the Vixens.

“As you say … typical male mythology. However in parts of Norway, even in my town in modern times, some young men still believe that if they can steal a girl’s white night-dress then she will fall in love with him. The men usually grow out of such nonsense but some don’t. You have pantie-raids at universities, don’t you?”

“Sometimes,” said Lisa “but it’s uncommon nowadays.”

“So is night-dress stealing for us.” replied Brigitta “But when I was just 18 I was due to come to England as part of the adult education college choir and a young man – I’ll call him Hans which isn’t his name – was also going. I liked him but at that time I wasn’t really interested in men …”

“That I can’t believe.” interrupted Candice.

“It’s true,” retorted Brigitta “At 18 I was still a tomboy. Too much of one for my parents or tutors to approve. I swam, I skied, but so did all my contemporaries. They, at dikmen escort least not most of the girls, didn’t climb the icefalls with their father’s iceaxes when five years old, didn’t abseil from the highest cliffs when six, didn’t try to ride a horse across a moving glacier, and didn’t try to outrun an avalanche. I was a menace. Most of the town couldn’t understand how I had survived to reach the age of eighteen.”

“I’ve heard about some of your exploits.” Lisa said “When you first came, most of your group thought you were incredible. Now we know you are, but at the time some of the things you’d done seemed impossible. But when you sang … you sang like an angel. Your voice is not powerful but when you sing – old men remember their youth, old women think of when they were beautiful, and the young men fall in love. You sound like a Siren. We still have to hang on to our men whenever you sing.”

“I know. It’s my greatest talent. I had been the star of the school’s choir and the adult college insisted that I continued singing. Some thought that I ought to become a professional singer but that was not what I wanted. At the time I said “I can sing, but my voice isn’t strong enough for classical music or opera, so I’d have to sing in Musicals or Operetta, but who would want a female lead who will be one metre ninety tall in her bare feet?”

But back to my story. “Hans” and I were learning English and we were the best in our group. I used to go to his house to practise with his parents, and he used to come to my house. We used to listen to English radio programmes together, and then discuss them. It was all very innocent until one night when we’d arranged to be at my house and my parents wanted to listen to the radio themselves. I saw no problem and took Hans up to my room to listen to my radio there. My parents didn’t object. I think that they thought we were too young to do anything. I was too young to think anything about it. That wasn’t unusual. We were all so unsophisticated that most local children were 21 or more before having a steady friend of the opposite sex.

My room was as normal except that my choir dress was hanging on the outside of my wardrobe. Most times when the choir performed we wore an adaptation of the local folk costume. For women it is a laced, brightly embroidered bodice over a full sleeved white blouse. There is a very wide ankle length skirt vertically striped in black and white. Then there is a white waist apron with red and black trim to the waistband and lower hem. The skirt allows the wearer to stride out over the mountain paths and scramble over uneven places. Underneath the full petticoats are knee length. Our choir costume was different in that everything was sewn together. Instead of the petticoats there was a stiff underskirt with removable hoops. The dress zipped up at the back so that we could change quickly.

One thing had been irritating my music teacher. I used to stride about on stage as if I was walking my beloved hills. Whatever else I was, I was not a delicate mover. So my teacher and my mother had decided to do something about my walking at least while performing with the choir. The dress had been out of the wardrobe because my mother had been working on the solution to my outsize stride. The result was on the bed. It was an ankle length slim petticoat designed to restrict my leg movements. Like my night-dresses and much of my underwear it was made of what we call parachute silk. Apparently during the war some stores had been abandoned in the town by the retreating Allies. In the stores were thousands of metres of this parachute silk in a creamy white. We never knew what its real use had been but we still have hundreds of metres left. As clothing it lasts forever.

Hans and I listened to the radio for about an hour. We were puzzled by one word so I went downstairs to borrow the big Norwegian/English dictionary. When I came back I saw that something was wrong. Hans looked uneasy and the petticoat was not on my bed. Then I noticed a bulge under his pullover and I realised what he had done and why he had done it. The silly idiot still believed in the swan-dress myth and had taken the petticoat. Looking back I suppose I think it was rather sweet of him. He’d never expressed any romantic feelings for me. We were just friends but our village boys aren’t very good with girls.

I thought quickly while talking to Hans about the elusive word. I knew that I’d get into trouble if the petticoat vanished. My mother would never believe that Hans had taken it. She would think that I had hidden or destroyed it to avoid wearing it. That would make her angry because the petticoat was a compromise to help me. I was to wear it only on stage and I could take it off immediately afterwards. It had a loose elasticated waist so I could get it off quickly. My mother had put a lot of thought and effort into that petticoat. I decided on the direct approach. I said to him “Come on, Hans, hand it over.”

He knew what I meant. He blushed and pulled it out from under his pullover. Then I made my first mistake. I thought I try some amateur psychology. I sat emek escort on my bed and asked him to sit beside me.

Then I asked outright “Do you believe in the swan-dress myth?”.

He blushed again, then nodded sheepishly.

“Then Hans, you haven’t got it right. It has to be the woman’s night-dress, not her petticoat. Did you know that?”

“No” he replied reluctantly.

“And it has to be one that she’s worn and hasn’t washed. Did you know that?”

He blushed again and whispered “No”.

I waved the petticoat under his nose. “So this wouldn’t work. It’s brand new. My mother made it today. I haven’t even tried it on. And it’s a petticoat not a night-dress.”

Then I added a twist of my own. I knew that he shared a room with his elder brother. “And did you know that the man has to wear the night-dress himself, preferably all night? Do you think that you could do that at home?”

“No” he whispered.

“I think you owe me something for trying to steal something of mine. I’m going to ask you to do something for me. Will you do it?”

I was being very unfair. Hans was embarrassed and I was his first love. He was still at the age when he believed that girls were special beings.

“Yes” he said “I’ll do anything for you, Brigitta.”

“Then take off your pullover and your shoes.”

He did but he had no idea what I intended. Under his pullover he was wearing a skimpy vest.

“I want to prove to you that the swan-dress idea is a myth. It doesn’t work, and never did. Stand up!”

Hans stood up. I reached under my pillow, pulled out my night-dress, draped it over my arm and stood on the bed in front of him. Without his shoes he is about ten centimetres shorter than me. With me on the bed his eyes were at the level of my breasts. I didn’t think of that at the time. I should have.

Now you’ll have to wait a bit while I divert into a description of my night-dress.”

There were several groans from the Vixens.

“Do you have to?” asked Candice “It was just getting exciting!”

“Sorry, but I do. The design of my night-dress is important. It had given me the idea of how to deter Hans from trying to steal anyone’s. I had several night-dresses, but that night I had my winter one. It had been a common style in our town for cold nights but was going out of fashion. It was designed to keep a girl warm in a cold room. Now that central heating was more usual it wasn’t necessary but I still had one. It was a real cover-all. It had a high elasticated neck, long cuffed sleeves, a hood with a drawstring, a long attached sash at the waist … but the lower end was really different. The lower hem fell about sixty centimetres beyond my feet and ended in a drawstring which shut the end completely. When walking, a girl would tuck the excess up under the sash, but in bed she’d have the end tied to keep her feet warm. On top of that there were trouser-like legs on the inside. You slid your legs into them, tied the drawstring, and no matter how much you thrashed around in bed, your legs and feet were warm. On really cold nights you pulled the hood over your head and pulled that drawstring so that only your nose was visible. It might sound terrible, but with the skirts tucked up to show your ankles, the hood thrown back, and some discreet embroidery a woman could look quite attractive – that is if she allowed a man to see her in her night-dress.

Back to Hans. He was so naive I think that he’d never seen a night-dress. I think his mother wore pyjamas and always wore a dressing gown when outside her bedroom. He looked at the night-dress draped over my arm as if he was mesmerised. I should have stopped there but I was so convinced that I could educate Hans that I carried on.

“Hans! You are going to wear my night-dress so that you’ll find out that the swan-dress idea is a myth.”

He nearly refused but he’d given his word.

I helped him put it on. The sleeves were difficult because they were far too long for him. The material massed around his feet. I walked behind him, grabbed his wrists and pulled them back. I tied his crossed wrists with the sash and then tied the night-dress’s sleeves together. He protested but I reminded him that he’d agreed.

I sat him on the edge of the bed, dropped to my knees and fed his legs into the trouser legs inside the night-dress. I pulled the lower drawstring tight and knotted it. Then I took the free ends and tied them around his ankles.

I made another mistake. Facing him, I sat astride him. I felt his almost instant erection. Even that didn’t warn me that I was playing with fire. I leant forward, took his head in my hands and kissed him.

“Well?” I asked “Is it working?”

“Yes,” he said “It must be. You’ve never kissed me before.”

In exasperation I pushed him back on to the bed and swung his legs up. I threw myself on him and I landed with his head between my breasts. That gave me another stupid idea. I took off my T-shirt and pressed his face into my cleavage.

“I’m told that men like breasts. Do you?”

Hans nodded feebly underneath me. “I like yours.” eryaman escort he whispered.

“We’ll see!” I snorted.

I pulled the hood over his head and tied it so that just his mouth was showing. I unhooked my bra and pinched his nose through the hood. His mouth gaped open and I stuffed a breast deep into it. Even through the hood I could see his face turning bright red so I relented and released my grip on his nose. He breathed hard through his nose and I could feel his throat working to drag breath into his lungs. Still holding him on my breast I undid the hood. He looked adoringly at me. What more could I do? I’d done it all wrong. I’d probably convinced him that the swan-dress theory was correct. Now not only my night-dresses, but those of every other girl in the town would be at risk.

I decided to try one more thing to humiliate him. I eased my breast out, leaving him panting for breath, and went to my dressing table. I pulled out a silk scarf and my instant camera. Hiding them behind me I returned to the bed. I rolled him on to his face, knotted the scarf in the centre and gagged him tightly with it. I turned him face up and showed him the camera. That did worry him! His face turned white and he tried to speak through the gag. Nothing but feeble grunts emerged.

I took pictures from several angles including close-ups of his face, his tied hands and feet. Then I took the camera and the pictures out of the room and hid them.

When I returned he was struggling hard to get free. He hadn’t a hope. He was imprisoned in my night-dress until I released him. I tried some more humiliation. I cradled his head, untied the gag but stifled his protests with my breast.

“How do you like being breast-fed like a baby?” I asked “What would my parents say if they saw you like this?”

He tried to struggle but I held him too tightly. I took my breast out.

“Please let me go,” he pleaded.

“Not yet,” I replied “I want you to realise that the swan-dress myth is a stupid idea. It has got you tied up and humiliated, treated like a baby, and I could do anything to you. You can’t do anything but wait until I’m ready to let you go. At any time my parents could come in here and they’d blame you.”

As I was speaking I put my bra and T-shirt back on. Then I jumped on him again. I’d got myself excited about a man for the first time ever. Maybe there was something to the myth, but I think it was because I had a man in my control. I could do what I liked. I started rubbing myself against him and kissing him until I found I couldn’t stop. I held him tight and moved until his erection was against my crotch. His head was under me and I nearly suffocated him before I reached a climax. It was wonderful. I had several more one after the other and I only stopped when he shuddered and went limp.

Then I panicked. I knew that he’d ejaculated. I thought that it would be a lot and my night-dress would be soaked. I could never explain semen stains! I untied him and whipped the night-dress off him almost instantly. Actually it probably took several minutes even working as fast as I could. He was too exhausted to help much.

He just lay there with a beatific smile and a damp patch on his trousers. I dragged his pullover on him, fitted his shoes … then I slapped him hard! That brought him to his senses.

“Hans!” I hissed “If you tell anybody about this, I’ll beat you up.”

I meant it. I could. I was taller than him, heavier, and fitter. He knew that I meant it. He didn’t tell, probably because he realised that his friends wouldn’t be impressed by him being tied up in a night-dress by a girl. From then on we stayed as friends but we’d occasionally peck each other on the cheek.

I didn’t wash that night-dress for a week. It was perfumed with clean male sweat. While I wore it I fantasised about men – not about unsophisticated youths like Hans. I was a bit sad when I washed it but I didn’t really fancy Hans. He’s married now. I often think that his wife ties him up. She could because she’s nearly as tall as me and Hans is still weaker than her. I know that she’s got a winter night-dress because I helped my mother make one for her as a wedding present. I wonder why she wanted one …”

That brought a peal of laughter from the Vixens.

“Thank you, Brigitta.” said Candice “That was a great story. Poor Hans. He got more than he bargained for, didn’t he?”

“Hold on, ” said Brigitta “the real story is about the petticoat. The swan-dress story was only the introduction. We’ve got plenty of time on this coach, haven’t we?”

“Yes” replied Lisa “It’s several hours before we get home. Let’s have the rest of the story, Brigitta”

“Yes, please,” and “More,” chorused the other awake Vixens.

“OK” said Brigitta. “My experience with Hans had made me want more contact with men. It had to be on my own terms though. I didn’t want to be pawed or groped. I fancied some more kissing but the problem was my life-style. Apart from choir practice I didn’t get to see many men except at college. That was too public. Also, in a small town I didn’t want to get a reputation. A girl’s reputation was serious. So was a young man’s. Anyone who was suspected of playing around would become a social outcast very quickly. I had to think of a way to kiss men so that they wouldn’t talk about me. That was difficult. Young men WILL talk and boast.”

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