Instead of answering you go back to the pegs to get covered properly

You leave her in the wall and you walk to the wash line with the dirty dress still in your hand, because standing in a yard with your cock out and cum drying on you is worse than being a thief. She cannot see the pegs from the well-walk. She can hear them.

"Don't take all of it," she says, through the stone. "You put that back. I have only one dress for the house."

You do not put it back. The pegs are stiff. What you want is something that sits over your hips so you can walk without one hand on yourself.

The drawers come off first. Soft, worn, the waistband already stretched from her. They are the only thing on the line that is meant to cover a crotch, and you step into them the way you would step into anyone's shorts if that was what was hanging there. They are cut for a slimmer seat than yours. You fight them up over your ass and tuck yourself in, and the cloth is still warm from the sun on the outside and a little damp at the gusset from the day. It smells like her. Your cock sits wrong in them, mashed to one side, but it is covered. At least you feel less exposed now.

Stockings next to them, hooked by the toes. You leave those. You are not putting wet foot-bags on to walk across dirt.

The band is still holding the shape of breasts when you pinch it. You know what it is as soon as it is in your hand — not a sash, not a wrap for a man's waist — and you hang it back on the peg because you do not have a chest to put it on and you are trying to get dressed, not play house.

The white shift is stained yellow under the arms. You take it anyway. The dress in your fist has her on it now, and your spend, and you would rather have a layer between that smear and your skin than go around smelling like the hole you just used. You pull the shift over your head. It was made for a shorter torso. It sits like a long undershirt, tight across the shoulders, hem high on your thighs over the drawers.

She hears the line bounce.

"If you are wrapping yourself in my work," she says, "at least bring it around after so I can see how much of it you ruin. I am talking to a fence."

You keep the second dark dress on the line. One is enough to get down a road.

The one in your hand is still hers, still stretchy, still cut for a sizeable chest and a slim middle. You work it over the shift the way you would work a shirt that is too small, arms first, head second, and the bodice fights you because there is nothing in it yet to fill the front. You drag it down over your ribs. The waist finds you and cinches, more give than you expected, and the hem that hit mid-calf when you held it up now sits closer to the knee on your long legs.

You get it seated.

...

Abruptly... The waist does not stay your waist.

It pulls in as if someone had taken a belt to you from the inside, and you put both hands there grasp for its clasp only to find a narrowing waist. The drawers, which were too tight on a man's seat, go slack and then sit correctly on hips that have a different weight. You look down to fix the front of the dress and the front of the dress is no longer a flat smear over a skinny chest. There is weight in the bodice. Two of them. They move when you breathe, heavy enough that the shift underneath has already found a crease between them, and there is no cock in the drawers. Your hand goes there anyway, flat, and finds a cleft through damp cloth, and you take the hand away as if the line had burned you.

Hair on your neck is the wrong colour before you have a sentence for it — dark-blonde coming out of a knot you did not tie, the long brown and the beard gone as if they had been washed off with the rest. Your mouth is hers. Your voice, when you make a sound, comes out in her register and you cut it off.

You are still standing in her yard. You are still holding nothing. The stockings and the band hang where you left them. The second dress does not move.

From the wall, she hears the quiet.

"If you fell over in my drawers I am not coming to pick you up," she says. "Walk around if you are decent. Or put my things back and go be naked somewhere that is not my pegs."

The bucket is on the well collar, on her side of the stone. The yard hole still has her ass in it. The empty rings still hang. You look down and see your hands on the front of her dress and they are her hands.