That, was when a man, hearing her shout and her continuing complaints and heavy breathing, came into her view. He had not seen her, and he was being greeted in a friendly way by the mother cat.
“Well, Moggy, I think I heard an impolite sound of protest after that bump, but in a delicately female voice. That wasn’t you, was it?” He knew it wasn’t. “I believe we had intruders, but they soon panicked and left. So, they found your kitten again did they? They scattered fast enough. Come on, let’s see what they did with your kitten.”
There was no way she could possibly hide from him. And he was not a youth, or an older man, but a young man about her own age or a little older. She was hanging where he was sure to see her, unable to move with her skirt up around her, her panties and bare middle exposed, and with not much to hang on to, or to help her get herself free and to leave. It was too late for that, with him beneath her and about to look up at her. She was also hurting.
He picked a few things off the floor: some buttons that had popped from her blouse, with another rolling down to his feet even then, as her blouse relaxed even more, shedding another button. That was when he looked up and saw her.
He said nothing for a few moments, seeing the awkward predicament she was caught in; her panties pulled dangerously tight upon her, her skirt-waist caught up under her breasts with a hint of curvature of the flesh under her breasts just appearing. There was nothing she could do about it, and no way to hide herself.
There was a look of surprise and horror on her face at him seeing her like this.
He could see she was blushing intensely, and trying to cover herself from his eyes—limited by her arm movement—but she was certainly exposed, white knickers and all. Everything was pulled to the point of tearing. Her knickers had been pulled tight, as in a wedgie, to more than emphasize the pronounced lips of her vulva, and the fabric was sitting in the groove between her labia rather than covering them, and more like a thong or a G-string. The effect was graphically referred to... well... it was much more than a camel toe. Nothing was left for him to guess at, with characteristic hair visible too, as she alternately clutched at her mostly unbuttoned blouse, and shyly tried to cover the area immediately between her legs, feeling some exposed hair there, on her finger ends which couldn’t reach low enough.
Her efforts were futile. She knew it; could feel it, but there was nothing she could do about it. Her blouse had also suffered, with buttons unfastened, one or two even torn off (that was what he had picked off the floor), and everything about her body, ready to burst out in either one place or the other. She was blushing uncontrollably at being so well-revealed.
He looked her over for a few seconds, at a loss about what to do for her in this devastatingly embarrassing situation; observing, analyzing pros and cons, and wondering what he could say, or do, but not rushing to say or do anything. The entire situation was fraught with problems for him, as well as for her... and he wasn't sure what to do at first.
He was surprised to recognize her. She was the most interesting of all of the girls in the school and the one closest to his thoughts all of the time he was here on the school grounds, but he couldn't tell her any of that. He was constantly haunted by the thought that she slept just a couple of hundred yards over there, in virginal comfort (a maddening thought), protected from the likes of him, and she was not even conscious of him thinking about her lying there in her soft sheets, or of him yearning for her warmth; her close embrace; desiring her, undressing her in his dreams as he hovered, wraith-like over her and then settled slowly down onto her, between her legs, and... and there was nothing he could do about it! Not much. Not what he wanted to be doing. The frustration was sometimes more than he could bear, so he had to go for a long run or do something else entirely unsatisfying that took his mind off her for about ten minutes.
She looked at him too, but with different thoughts. She saw someone who shouldn't be here either; a young man she did indistinctly recognize. He was one of those, the only one, the boy (man) who watched their hockey games from the sidelines, and occasionally cheered them on in a very different voice when he forgot where he was, in the heat of the game.
None of the girls had the voice of a bass-baritone. Those males who showed up for their games—he had been the only one for at least a year—were labeled as perverts; voyeurs, wanting to ogle flying tits and catch fleeting glimpses of knickers (or better still, what lay behind them if, by chance, one of the girls had forgotten to put them on. It had never happened, unfortunately, but he ever lived in hope), their thoughts written all over their faces as they came in their pants with excitement, fumbling in their pockets, feeling ‘cocky’ all day. However, he was different. Except he was still one of the enemy; a male.
He was lightly dressed in a sleeveless, checkered shirt and snug shorts. Snug, snug shorts! They were too snug, as she could see with some alarm!
He (that male part) was obvious behind them, and he seemed to have more there than she had noticed on any male before, and it was bulging, pushing at them. If he grew any more, there would be no room. He might even be aroused, seeing her hung up and on display like this. He had to be aroused. That size was not normal. Was it? She closed her eyes and prayed.
‘God, please let it not be so. Trapped, alone, with a horny, sex-mad pervert about to burst out of his clothing and to take advantage of her in the worst possible way.’
He eventually was able to tear his eyes away from between her legs and noticed that she had what appeared to be delightful and hauntingly attractive breasts, emphasized by the way her skirt—threatening to slide up and over them at any moment, removing her bra at the same time—pushed them up on her. Not small breasts either. All of her was interesting. He’d better watch what he said.
“Hello. Yes, that’s happened to me too, and you suffered the same injuries I did, with vicious splinters in my legs and in a much more tender place.” He indicated by pointing at her.
They must be bad if he could see them from where he was. If he was looking at them, and not at the rest of what he could see down there.
“Someone replaced that middle board without considering the direction of the grain of the wood and they put it in the wrong way around.” He looked at her for a few seconds as she said nothing. She did not need any kind of a pointless explanation at this time. He continued.
“I thought I heard someone shout. You appear to be hung up at the top of the ramp. You don’t look very comfortable up there.” She ground her teeth. Did he have to state the obvious?
“Are you injured? Do you hurt anywhere?” He knew she did.
Fathead! Of course I’m injured and hurting, you idiot!
But she didn’t say that. She was sarcastic instead, glowering at him in her annoyance. “No! Neither! It’s really quite comfortable up here.”
She was forceful because of the discomfort she was feeling, but she decided to rethink that unwise answer and to resist telling him to stop staring at her with his tongue hanging out, and other things about to pop from his clothing. They might, if she drew attention to them.
He should get out, and leave her alone, though she knew that he couldn’t leave her here—she hoped—no matter how annoyed she was to be seen like this. But if he helped her, then he would soon find out what had happened, as well as where it most hurt, if it wasn't already too obvious. It could also get very personal for her if he got too close, the way she was revealed. It was already too personal.
She took a deep breath. “I’m sorry. I should not be sarcastic. Yes, I am injured, and yes, I do hurt.”
As though it wasn’t at all obvious to anyone who could see her.
“Where does it hurt? He answered his own question. “No, you don’t have to answer, I can see. The back of your legs, which I can partially see (he wasn’t so much interested in them, as what else he could see there, between them), is scraped and is bleeding.”
And that was not the only place injured from what he could see. She was magnificent, and trapped, and he was here with her. The possibilities were intriguing, but were also loaded with trouble. For him.
She glared down at him. Was has going to talk her to death before he did anything?
He could probably see everything about her, or imagine it too easily, and that was what was causing… that… other change in him!
“But not hurt so very badly as far as I can tell, except for wood splinters, and everything is pulled tight upon you. Yes. Very tight!” He made it sound interesting, when it was just painful.
She knew that for herself, the way she was being strangled. Damn him!
Did he have to state the obvious? Her bra was almost off; her breasts were in danger of being fully exposed if her skirt slipped any further, and her panties were at risk of being non-existent, considering what they no longer covered of her down there. Those were not the only things that concerned her.
His shorts were pulled tight on him too, and probably because of what he could see about her, or could imagine, and there was nothing she could do about any of it where she was. She wanted to swear at him and tell him off, but resisted. He might not help her at all if she became any more difficult, and she needed his help to get down.
She wanted to clip him around the ear for the sneaky-grin on his face. His thoughts were obvious, damn him! Every male was obvious, when a beautiful and scantily-clad young woman was dangled in front of him for the taking, as she was.
“You should not see me like this or be looking at me like that.”
She spoke out, complaining about his far-too-obvious attention, and where it was directed on her body. That was all men thought about; tits and quim. He was becoming more aroused too, unless that was how he always was. She had not noticed that he had been so obvious before when he had been at their hockey games; but he had not been dressed in such snug shorts then, as he was now.
“Why should I not see you? We are both here.” He re-thought that question. “No, I suppose not, with you... where you are—where you are not supposed to be—and, as you are, and I am here”—lucky me!
“I didn’t expect this when I came into here, and I did not cause that to happen to you. If I am to help you, and it seems that I must, as there is no one else here, then I cannot, not look at you, can I? Very interesting too.” She groaned at his suggestively leering look.
“You are even more interesting than I remember you on the hockey field (and she knew what he meant by that), but you should try not to scowl at me.” He was having fun at her expense.
Her anger receded slowly at his words, but her embarrassment increased. “I am not scowling at you. I am hurting.” She might be close to tears of frustration too, trapped, as she was.
“I imagine you are hurting, from what I can see.”
Was he just going to stand there like a gormless idiot?
“Well? What are you going to do about it? I need help.”
“Yes, you do." He thought about it for a few moments as he looked up at her. "I suppose I could go over to the school for help.”
And leave her hanging here?
“No!” There was a note of alarm in her voice. “I don’t want others to know about this. You, will have to help me. There is no one else, and I can't move.”
“I will?” He scratched his head. "I'm not sure I should. Except you are right, there is no one else, and you do need some help."
She wondered if he was slow, mentally.
“Yes, I suppose I will have to help you.” But he didn’t move to do anything.
She watched, disbelievingly, seeing him sit down, cross-legged at the bottom of the ramp and stare up at her, no doubt better able to see exactly what he wanted to see of her.
His shorts were pulled so tight it was a wonder they didn’t give at the seams. She could even see the outline of his individual balls (both of them) and could guess about the other sentinel behind there!
What was he doing? He seemed to be waiting for her to make up her mind what she wanted, and to tell him what to do, except she didn’t have a clue. All she knew for sure, was that she couldn't, and shouldn't move.
Or, he could take the matter into his own hands and tell her what he could do for her. She didn't like that thought; putting him in control.
Or, (...so many possibilities) he could just wait for everything to give, as it seemed ready to do, and for gravity to take over. That would be the more interesting of the options. For him, but not for her.
“Are you going to sit there all day? Why are you not helping me?”
“I am thinking.”
She ground her teeth in frustration, and breathed fire. She knew what he was thinking, considering where he was looking at her all of the time, with that stupid grin on his face.
Wisely, for once, she said nothing.
He looked closer at her down there, but she was held as though in a straightjacket, and she could not see what he could see—though she could feel—and she could do nothing about his embarrassing scrutiny; not the way she was hung up, exposed, vulnerable, helpless, and not daring to move.
If she closed her eyes, clicked her heels three times and wished she were.... It worked for Dorothy, getting her back to Kansas, but wouldn’t work for her. She couldn’t put her legs together that easily, and she had no heels to click.
“As you don’t seem able to suggest anything, I think I should try get you down without making things any worse for you, and get you to the school nurse.”