I was still fast asleep when the banging started, fists hammering the front door like they were trying to cave the whole bloody thing in. The wood rattled in its frame, the sound echoing up the stairs and slamming into my skull like a sledgehammer. Colette’s voice blasted from the street, sharp as a foghorn: “Norma! We’re late! Move your arse!”
My head throbbed, each pulse a fresh spike of agony behind my eyes. Mouth tasted of ash, cheap red wine, and the ghost of last night’s kebab. I’d staggered in around two, kicked off my shoes, and collapsed fully dressed: pink satin blouse, half the buttons undone, black bra digging red grooves into my shoulders; grey cotton skirt so tight it clung from hips to mid-thigh like it had been painted on. No knickers. Never wear the bloody things. Can’t stand them.
It started years ago, back when I was waitressing twelve-hour shifts at the Red Lion. Elastic waistbands left angry welts across my belly by the end of the night; thongs twisted and rode up like a cheese-wire; cotton gussets turned into sweaty, crumpled knots that chafed raw.
One sweltering August I came home, peeled the lot off, and just… didn’t put any back on. The relief was instant. Air on skin, no seams digging in, no fabric bunching when I bent to clear tables. Next shift I went commando under the black skirt—felt like I’d shed a straightjacket. By the end of the week I’d binned every pair I owned. Drawer full of lace and cotton sat untouched. Life’s too short for wedgies.
Amy picked it up from me. Came home one day raging because some college bitch had pointed at her arse in the corridor and shouted “VPL!” across the canteen. She stormed upstairs, stuffed every knicker in the bin, and announced, “tights ining’s soft enough, Mum. I’m done.” Teenagers. Saved me a fortune on laundry, too.
I rolled out of bed, bedsprings creaking like an old man’s knees. The room stank—stale wine, sweat, cigarette smoke baked into the walls. I caught my reflection in the wardrobe mirror: hair a greasy bird’s nest, mascara smeared into black crescents under bloodshot eyes, lips cracked and pale. The skirt had twisted overnight, hem halfway up my arse, waistband cutting a red line across my belly. I yanked it straight, felt the cool morning air kiss between my legs, and shrugged. Quick time for a shower. Neil was already clomping around downstairs; Amy would be a hurricane when she surfaced.
I shuffled to the landing. The house reeked of last night’s takeaway and the sour tang of spilled lager. Bottles clinked faintly as I passed the living room—three empty Merlots and a half-eaten donor kebab congealing on the coffee table. I’d deal with it later. Or never.
I opened the door, Colette breezed in wearing that strapless denim mini-dress, zipped up the front so low her tits were one deep breath from freedom. The denim was thick, rigid, molded to her body like liquid metal; the zip teeth glinted, the hem cut a sharp line across her upper thighs. She smelled of coconut body spray—sweet, overpowering, cloying in the heat.
“Flip me, Col, that dress is a bit small—forgot your leggings, sis?” I rasped, voice thick with sleep and hangover.
“If you’ve got it, flaunt it,” she grinned, flashing white teeth. “It’s gotta be ninety degrees out there. I’m off to the beach after I drop you lot.”
She hates knickers same as me. Calls thongs “dental floss for your crack” and says cotton ones “sweat like a greenhouse.” Hers is pure choice; mine started practical, but we’re both too skint to replace the ones we never wear.
Neil appeared in the doorway, school bag slung over one shoulder, hair sticking up like he’d been electrocuted. “Mum, you look rough,” he said, voice cracking.
“My head’s spinning, love,” I muttered, rubbing my temples. “We’re late. Get your shoes on. ’ll speak to you in the car,” I sighed. “Fifteen minutes till we go.”
I shouted up the stairs for Amy.
She stomped down in her uniform—navy blue pleated denim skirt cut mid-thigh, pleats sharp as knife edges, waistband snug, hem swaying just enough to flash the pale tops of her thighs with every step. White tshirt crooked. She shot Neil a glare and hissed, “Be quiet,” breath minty but sharp with teenage venom.
We piled into the Vauxhall. The seats were cracked vinyl, sticky with summer heat; the air thick with old chips, spilled lager, and the faint tang of vomit someone had tried to mask with a pine air freshener dangling from the mirror. I turned the key—engine coughed, rattled, coughed again, then caught with a belch of blue smoke. Traffic was a nightmare: horns blaring, exhaust fumes choking the air, sun already beating down through the windscreen, turning the car into a greenhouse. Vinyl scorched my bare thighs through the skirt; sweat beaded between my breasts.
We took the narrow back lane that cuts past the park to dodge the queues—quiet this early, just muddy lane with, puddles from last night’s rain, and the odd dog walker in the distance. The car jolted over potholes; I cursed under my breath, knuckles white on the wheel. That’s when I saw them in the rear-view mirror Ann Shaw and her daughter Carol, walking the same way, cutting across the park ..
Ann’s face twisted when she clocked the car. I stalled it by mistake, She marched straight up to the driver’s side window, trainers squelching in the mud. “Err, don’t you look at me like that, you stuck-up bitch,” she barked, voice grating like gravel. Spit flew from yellowed teeth. “Got something to say, say it to my face, you dirty slag!”
I froze, hand on the wheel, engine ticking hot. “Like what?” I gulped, voice small.
“You know what, you smug cow,” she snarled, leaning in. Her breath steamed the glass—sour with nicotine and cheap coffee—as I cracked the window an inch. “Think you’re better than me, don’t ya? With you!”
Colette leaned across from the passenger seat. “Norma, ignore her. Wind the window up. Let’s go.”
“Shut your gob, you tart!” Ann screamed, slamming her palm on the glass—BANG!—the car rocking. “I’m talking to your sister, not you, you stuck up whore!”
My face flushed crimson. “Yeah?” I shouted, voice rising despite the fear. “shut your mouth thats my sister you ginger mingebag!”
Ann’s eyes bulged. “Get out the car, you mouthy cxnt!” She yanked the door handle—CLUNK!—but it was locked. “Come on—let’s have it, you posh-prick wannabe!”
I shook my head. “Piss off, Ann. I’ve got kids in the car. Just fuck off!”
Wrong thing to say.
Ann ripped the door open—the lock’s been faulty since 2019—and reached in, grabbing a fistful of blonde hair. Pain exploded across my scalp as she dragged me bodily out of the driver’s seat. My body twisted awkwardly, one heel catching on the door frame. “Get your scabby hands off me, you psycho bitch!” I shrieked, clawing at her wrists, nails leaving red trails on pale, veiny skin. The scent of her sweat and fags was overwhelming.
I hit the wet grass hard, the cold shock of mud soaking through the skirt instantly. Ann spun me like a ragdoll. The grey cotton—already skin-tight—crept upward in slow, torturous increments. First to mid-thigh, then higher, fabric bunching and rolling like a rubber band stretched too far. Seams groaned; the material grew hot and damp against my skin. No knickers. I felt every blade of grass, every splatter of mud. The dark triangle of hair, the pale flash of my arse—everything exposed to the morning air.
“You filthy tramp!” Ann screamed, yanking harder. My scalp burned. “No knickers? What kind of slag are you? Bet you shag anything with a pulse, you disease-ridden whore!”
“Fuck you, you jealous old hag!” I roared back, tears streaming. “At least I don’t look like a mouldy carrot left in the sun!”
I dropped to my knees with a wet squelch, mud soaking into bare skin, streaking my thighs in thick, cold streaks. The skirt was now a useless, sodden belt around my waist, hem rolled into a tight, filthy tube. I tried tugging it down with one trembling hand; it refused to budge, cutting into my skin like wire.
Ann slapped me—crack—across the face. Once. Twice. My head snapped side to side, cheeks blooming red, ears ringing. “You’re nothing but a council-estate skank!” she spat. “I’ll rip your fucking tits off, you fake-tanned bitch!”
“Come on then, you dried-up old cxnt!” I screamed, voice raw. “I’ll have you, you sour-faced troll!”
She flipped me onto my stomach and straddled me—schoolgirl pin. My face smashed into the mud, gritty earth filling my mouth and nose, cold seeping into my skin. Blonde hair matted with dirt, clinging to my cheeks in wet clumps. I thrashed, legs kicking wildly, arse fully exposed—mud-caked, jiggling with every desperate buck. The ruined skirt clung like a second, filthy skin.
Colette leapt from the car, heels crunching on gravel. “Get off her, you mad bitch!” she roared, grabbing Ann’s arm.
“You want some too, you slag?” Ann snarled, seizing the zip on Colette’s dress and ripping it down. The denim tore with a loud rrrrrip, splitting like a cracked shell. The dress collapsed to the ground with a soft thud. Colette stood frozen—completely naked skin glistening with sweat, full 34c breasts bouncing as she stumbled. Goosebumps rose; she dropped to the grass, curling into a ball, arms over her chest, sobbing raw and broken.
Amy screamed and charged from the passenger side. “ you fucking bully!”
Carol Shaw was ready. She grabbed Amy by the hair and yanked her off her feet. Amy hit the ground hard, skirt flipping upward in a perfect arc, pleats fanning out like a dark blue flower before collapsing. The hem caught on her hips, then bunched higher—just like mine, no knickers. Pale thighs flashed, neat strip of hair exposed to the cold air. Carol dragged her across the grass by the hair, knees scraping raw, skirt twisting and rolling upward, waistband digging like wire. Pinned her face-down, knee in her back, grinding her cheek into the mud. Amy’s arse was up in the air, mud-streaked, trembling. Every kick spread her wider; mud dripped down her thighs in thick, cold streaks. She sobbed into the dirt, fingers clawing uselessly at the grass.
Ann released Colette—who lay naked and sobbing—and seized my hair again. She dragged me and Colette together, one in each hand, across twenty yards of muddy grass. The ground squelched under our bodies—schlop-schlop-schlop. My spine jarred with every bump; mud splattered up my back in cold, wet streaks. Colette’s breasts swung heavily, thighs smeared with dirt, crying hysterically.
Ann dumped Colette in a heap and kept going with me. She hauled me up by the hair like a dog on a leash. “Where you going, Norma? Let me help ya, you pathetic pisshead!”
She slammed my back against the car bonnet—BANG!—metal denting slightly, car rocking. My spine arched; breath knocked out. The skirt—already bunched—rode higher, tearing at the seams with a faint rrrip. She yanked me up and slammed again—CRASH!—my body bouncing off the hot metal, legs kicking in the air. Buttons pinged across the tarmac like bullets. I slid down the side, collapsing with a wet splat.
Ann grabbed my blouse and tore it open—fabric shredding, buttons scattering. The pink satin hung in rags, damp and clinging, black bra fully exposed, one strap snapped. She hurled me across the grass. I flew, skirt twisted high above my arse, landing on hands and knees—gravel biting palms. She kicked my stomach—thud—air exploding from my lungs. I folded onto my back, legs splayed wide, mud-smeared pussy gaping, cold air stinging. Skirt a filthy rope around my waist, one breast out, nipple hard and pink, face streaked with tears and dirt.
Amy was still pinned nearby—skirt crushed into a muddy belt, arse and everything on show, hips lifting with every sob. Colette tried crawling to me, naked body streaked green, but Ann kicked her—crack—she crumpled again. Tommy Shaw stood a few metres away, arms crossed, smirking. Neil stayed in the car, tears streaming, .
I looked at him through the windscreen, eyes red and swollen, and mouthed, “I’m sorry, love…”
The park stayed empty. Morning sun climbed higher, warming the filth on my skin. I tasted blood, earth, shame. All because I can’t stand the feel of knickers digging in. ......TBC
