The air in the linen room was thick with starch and desire. Dora closed the final gap between her and Magda, their aprons brushing. They moved as one, their fingers—slender and skilled from years of sewing—finding the hem of each other’s uniform skirts.

“Your turn,” Dora whispered, her voice husky.

Their hands slid upwards, slow and deliberate, gathering the coarse black fabric. Beneath, the secret layers awaited: their lower skirts, the *podvyorka*, worn tight around their waists. Their fingers hooked into the waistbands simultaneously, a mutual, silent agreement. They tugged the thin cotton down just an inch, a tantalizing reveal of hip bones and the very top of their pubic mounds.

Then, they turned their attention lower. Index fingers slipped under the elastic of each other’s simple cotton panties. They pulled them down, a millimeter at a time, the process agonizingly slow. The goal was clear: to expose the neat, curly thatches of their pussies without fully undressing.

“See?” Magda breathed, looking down between their bodies. “The curls. Like little brown springs.”

“Mine are darker,” Dora murmured, her eyes glued to Magda’s exposed slit. “Tighter curls.”

Their discarded panties, now slack around their thighs, were plain white cotton, slightly worn from washing, with a simple lace trim from the factory where they once worked. The lower skirts were a soft, faded peach cotton, the fabric thin and smooth against their skin.

“The lace on yours… it’s from the old workshop