Under her Skirt 01

Peter wasn’t the most diligent student, but this time, he was determined to do his homework. Not for the sake of Modern History—but because she would be there. Olivia. Smart, confident, with dark curls and a smile that could throw anyone off their game. He’d noticed she already had a group—one that didn’t include him. Instead, the professor paired him with Mary. Mary was kind, soft-spoken, and pretty in an understated way. Her wardrobe seemed plucked from another century—loose blouses, long skirts that barely revealed her ankles. She wasn’t Olivia, but at least she’d be pleasant company. Now they sat alone in a secluded library study room, surrounded by scattered notes and the faint buzz of an aging fluorescent light. “So… disappointed?” Mary asked with a small smile as she scribbled in her notebook. Peter raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean?” She didn’t look up. “Please. It was obvious you wanted to be in Olivia’s group. Don’t worry, I’m not offended.” He let out an awkward laugh. “That’s not true. I just… prefer a group with solid academic support,” he said, affecting an exaggeratedly formal tone. Mary glanced up, arching a brow. “Uh-huh. Academic support with long legs.” This time, Peter laughed for real. “Hey! It wasn’t just her legs. She’s persuasive too. Great at convincing the professor, I mean.” Mary feigned shock. “How shallow! Meanwhile, I was clearly chosen for my intellect… and my granny skirts, of course. They intimidate the weak-minded.” Peter grinned. “Your skirt isn’t that bad. Though no one would complain if you wore something shorter.” “Honestly? I’d rather not show too much,” Mary said, highlighting a passage on her photocopied notes. “Besides, what if you’re some shady TV producer scouting for reality show contestants?” “Not a bad gig,” Peter played along. “And what if you’re part of some religious cult luring in naive boys curious about what’s under all those layers?” Mary smirked. “So you’re a naive boy who wants to see me without clothes?” “What? No—I mean, not like—I didn’t—” Peter stammered, face burning, until Mary’s laughter cut him off. “Relax, I’m joking,” she said, still giggling. “I like you, Peter.” “I like you too,” he admitted, rubbing his neck. “Guess I lucked out with you as my partner.” “Even though I’m not Olivia in a miniskirt?” Mary teased. “Just plain Mary, the cult girl in her floor-length skirts?” “I’m still not ruling out the cult thing,” Peter said. “But I’ve got other theories.” “Oh?” Mary leaned in, intrigued. “Surprise me.” “Okay, first: you’ve got an arsenal of weapons under that skirt. Guns, knives—the works.” “Like an Old West gunslinger? Fun, but I hate guns.” “Then maybe bionic legs. Lost the real ones fighting in a Salvadoran guerrilla war… or something.” Mary’s expression turned grave. “Actually… it was a car accident.” Peter paled. “W-wait, seriously? I didn’t mean to—” She burst out laughing. “Got you.” “Jesus, that was evil,” Peter groaned, relieved. “You’re terrifying.” “Sinister cult member, remember?” She winked. “Fine. Last theory: you’re a mutant hiding your… mutations under that skirt.” Mary went still. For the first time, her playful demeanor faltered. “…What makes you say that?” she asked quietly. Peter blinked. Until now, she’d matched his teasing effortlessly. But suddenly, she looked uneasy—almost nervous. “It’s just a joke,” he said carefully. “Did I upset you?” “No, of course not,” Mary replied, forcing a smile. “You just caught me off guard. Excuse me—I need the restroom.” Worried, Peter stood. “Hey, wait. If I said something wrong—” In his haste, his foot caught on his backpack. He lurched forward, hands flailing—and his fingers snagged the hem of Mary’s skirt. With a sharp tug, the fabric slid to the floor. Peter hit the ground, mouth agape. What he saw froze him in place. Where genitals should have begun, there was instead a face. A perfect mirror of Mary’s own, staring back at him in wide-eyed horror. Further down, a long, violet-scaled tail twitched from the base of her spine, glistening under the fluorescent light. “DON’T LOOK!” the lower face shrieked, voice cracking with panic. Before Peter could react, the tail lashed out, striking him across the cheek. The impact forced him to release the skirt, which Mary yanked back up with frantic hands. “You weren’t supposed to see that!” she cried, face burning with humiliation. She snatched her belongings and bolted from the room, leaving Peter sprawled on the floor, mind reeling. A face. A tail. Was Mary… a mutant? He sat up slowly, rubbing his throbbing cheek. Great job, Peter. How the hell do you apologize for accidentally exposing someone’s secret crotch-face? Gathering his things, he staggered toward the exit, dread settling in his stomach. One thing was certain: things were about to get a lot more complicated.