She was your babysitter. Well, not exactly. She was 17 and you were …12? 13? She came straight after school, and she went to a girl’s school — so she wore a uniform. Tights, short Scottish skirt, white blouse which toward the end of highschool was much too tight for her largish breasts and through which you could count every single flower on her very lacy bra.
Then when you were home for Christmas, you saw her. And you felt the same way you did when you were 12. She made you want to put on her panties. She made you want to sit on her lap and smell her hair. She made you want to dress up for her….