The Complete “Tami Beethoven”

Tami Beethoven
by donnylaja

Part 1

“Here’s some burnt connective tissue,” she said, wiping a small grease splatter off her nipple and forking three strips of bacon onto Rod’s plate. Before turning back to the stove she snapped off a piece for herself. Burnt connective tissue tasted so good sometimes, especially on a late winter morning like this.

Her comment was playing to her vegetarian guests, Jen and Leisha, married three years ago under the laws of the State of Vermont, who were taking in Tami’s famous soy flour pancakes. Dressed in flannel shirts, jeans, and sneakers with nice thick wool socks, they also took in the trim butt cheeks as Tami worked the stove, cheeks that were always bare like the rest of her and were a prime display of her trademark tan. It was well observed in the Campbell-Frank College community that Tami’s summer skin was copper, but her winter skin was a light brown, a change like the summer and winter colors of certain birds. But at any time of year, her permanently nude body was one of the glories of the local countryside.

She turned to slide another pancake onto Jen’s plate. “Nice, what is that, burgundy, Tam?” Jen said. Tami stood back, playfully tossing her shoulder-length hair like in a shampoo commercial, then looking down to her full length nudity. Her hair, her fingernails, her pubic hair (“lower hair”, she called it), and her toenails were all the same reddish color, a shade lighter than her natural hair color. “No, more magenta-ish. The box calls it ‘Plum’,” she said. “Goes well.” “Thanks. I might stick with this for a while.” “I still like the all-black look on you.”

As Jen said this she brushed aside a few of the beer bottle caps that had some time ago spilled over the top of the big round oatmeal carton that graced the end of the table. Most of the caps reflected Tami’s favorite brand. The carton had been there a year but, still, that was a whole lot of caps. Behind the mountain of caps, on the wall, a bulletin board with various pictures and notices, many way out of date. And a little framed note that said, in Tami’s neat hand,

“Would you spend your life
With a naked wife?”

Next to that, a Pawtucket Red Sox hat, push-pinned into the board.

Rod, about ten minutes from having to leave for work, ready for the outside world in his gray button-down shirt, dark pants and engineer’s boots, looked up from reading this morning’s news on his laptop. He reflected on how Tami’s appearance had changed over the past three years. Her face, for one thing. Longer, a bit more angular, more like a mature woman. Looking back at those old photos now, like from the Black Formal he had taken Tami to during her first semester, her face seemed more babyish, almost chubby. Now it was more “beautiful”, as if to catch up with those bright green eyes.

Her body, too, was a bit more angular, the muscles slightly better defined, especially around the midriff and that tight little butt typical of white girls. Her breasts seemed a bit larger. Remarkably they did not sag, being without the benefit of a bra all this time. Maybe not so remarkable. When she was a sophomore Tami had dug up a study showing that bras, for all their other purposes, do not really prevent sagging. Sounded wrong, but in Tami’s case the theory was correct.

Looking at her matching hair and nails, Rod was glad that her personal fashion sense, or what fashion choices life had permitted her in light of her allergy, had calmed down. That sophomore year, at least the second half, was a wild ride. Blazing colors, half-buzz cuts, shaving into a “T” for Tami, Bride of Frankenstein shocks — Tami’s crotch was like a dazzling billboard bopping around the campus and town, making it even more the center of attention that it already was wherever she went. Her upper hair was no less flamboyant, one month almost a Mohawk, the next green dreadlocks, and usually different color nail polish on each finger and toe. It was a trial to be seen with her, though he never admitted it. Just when he was hoping people would get used to this naked girl walking around, she calls attention to herself.

Then that summer internship in Germany, working with a famous math professor on six-dimensional polymers or whatever it was — he never could quite understand her attempts to explain it, even though he was about to complete an engineering degree with two years of calculus. When she came back in August she was so enthusiastic. “Germany is such a totally nude friendly country. It’s where nudism began. They go out naked to the parks. I’d walk out and, it was like, I’m not the only one for once. It was so nice not being stared at. Everyone was so polite and grown-up about it. One day they had an exhibit at an art museum; it was a really hot day, so if you went naked you got in free. I was just one of the crowd. I wished all the time you could be there and we’d be naked together. Of course” they were on the bed at the time, late at night, “I wouldn’t be able to control myself, looking at this! Roarrr!” Whereupon she grabbed his dick, swung it around from the base like a floppy baseball bat, then took it into her throat.

When she came back from that summer she was full of German phrases. He had learned a little bit from his father, who had been stationed there during his Army days, and had thought it a military and harsh language. But then he heard Tami speak it in a gentle, musical way and it was enchanting. “I love the way you wrap your lips around those umlauts,” was his favorite phrase for a while.

She had also, really for the first time, embraced what she called “the theory of nudism” — the beneficial effect of the elements on bare skin. She was determined to live in as natural a state as possible and it was almost as hard to take as The Year of the Dazzling Pubic Hair. She let her legs and armpits go unshaved, let her hair grow wild and long, till it was almost to her butt. And she would take long hikes at night in the woods behind the house. He had quite a shock the first time he woke up in the middle of the night to see a wild naked white woman, autumn leaves in her hair, perched in the opened bedroom window, dirt-covered toes curling over the sill, green eyes glowing in the dark, then pouncing across the room onto him, pulling the covers off, commandeering his dick, and jumping on it to ride him through her many orgasms, his crotch scratched by crumpling leaves that had gotten caught in her lower hair. She did this a number of times until the novelty wore off.

Maybe he was too buttoned-down. Maybe there was a wildness inside him that she was trying to tap, without saying so. Certainly when they were alone she was wild enough for both of them. But it was good to see her calm down and settle on “Plum”.

He returned to reading his laptop. Tami kissed the shaved smoothness of his ebony scalp and scooted in across from him, beside her old roommate Jen. While shoveling in her third helping of potatoes she turned a bit, drew her leg up toward the microwave with her gymnast’s flexibility, and with her dexterous toes tapped in ninety seconds for the eggs. A flick of her pinky toe and it turned on.

“Ooo ooo ooo,” Leisha said in a raspy voice. Tami smiled. Her friends sometimes made chimp sounds when she used her feet like hands. For her it had been a natural progression, going around in bare feet for three years with toes always out there and available. It also made the wedding band more noticeable, on the third toe of her left foot, matching the larger one which Rod wore in the conventional place.

“Going to Killington today?” Rod asked. (The biggest ski center in Vermont.)

“Not sure. Might be too warm,” Jen said, leaning against Leisha. They were more or less bumming around the region until Leisha’s next anthropology conference in Montreal. Jen, daughter of wealth, was conducting a very low-key job search, hoping to land an assistant professorship next fall.

Rod tapped a few keys. “Says it’ll be cloudy today, possible rain, up to 40.”

Tami stretched and thrust out her breasts. “No, that’s wrong.”

Jen smiled. “Accu-tits weather.”

The naked 22-year-old got up and stretched again, giving Jen and Leisha a mouth-watering view of her breasts riding up on her perfectly formed body. She tapped on her dark brown, permanently erect nipples with her index fingers and then flicked them up and down, making her breasts jiggle, giggling as her guests swooned. “Let me go out and check. I forgot the mail yesterday anyway.”

After she had gone, Rod, checking sports scores, said, “See Tam’s latest rescue?”

Jen and Leisha looked at each other with a flash of realization. “So that wasn’t a dream.”

“No, another girl from Teaser’s.” Rod exhaled. “Luci, the manager, called around midnight. I keep telling Tam it’s not her place to put herself out so, but you know how she is. At least this one was just weepy and drunk. We put her on the couch in the sun room.”

“I think Herr Remmler would have approved,” Jen said, referring to the deceased professor emeritus at Chalfont who had willed this little house to Tami and her husband for as long as she was associated with the college. Rod shrugged helplessly. Providing emergency shelter for wayward strippers was one of many things he had to resign himself to, as husband of Queen Tami the Nude.

Tami returned sorting mail in her hands, tapping last night’s fluffy snow off her toes, having padded silently down the driveway to the mailbox and no doubt waved at the ever-present Mrs. McBreer across the street. Having sampled the outside air, her nipples could give a more accurate forecast. “It’s about 25 now, going up only to 35. Clear all day.”

Leisha said, “Clear tomorrow too?”

“Vielleicht,” Tami said, parking her butt down where it was before. One of the German words she still occasionally used — they knew by now that “vielleicht” means “probably”.

Another huge scoop of potatoes into her mouth, to the amusement of Jen and Leisha. It was often remarked that during the cold months, Tami ate like a hog.

They breakfasted silently for a moment, Rod reading his laptop, the two African-American women wiping up the last of the syrup as they leaned against each other, about as true as true love can get.

Rod could sense it before it actually happened. Beneath the table, Tami’s snow-encrusted toes now caressed the crotch of his pants. “How about a quick go-round?”

Part 2

“Babe, you’re going to kill me,” he said for about the ten thousandth time.

“You’re the one who attacked me, last night,” the naked girl countered.

“It was more like you attacking me,” he said.

“That was only the second time.”

“And the third.”

After a quick wink to Leisha, Jen quietly slid under the table. A quick inhale from Tami ensued.

“Thanks, Jen,” Rod said. The experiments that Tami had been coerced into undergoing at Chalfont during that awful freshman year had created within her an insatiable sex drive which had not diminished after all this time. Rod knew that Tami’s dedication to him was total, but also knew that he just did not have the time or the energy, or maybe the staying power, to keep her from climbing the walls all by himself.

It got worse after that bra and panties that had been so diabolically designed for her at Chalfont, with the bristles and dildos inside, got too uncomfortable for her to wear. It was a shame. It was the only thing she could wear after her allergy set in. They would be happily hanging out on the porch on a fall evening, him in his sweats and her in that bikini, conversation interrupted only by her quivering now and then as she worked the remote in her hand. Afterward she would be sated and happy for hours. But then, not far into her sophomore year, she felt confined with those straps around her back and her hips. According to Dr. Kantor, the behavioral therapist at Chalfont who had been assigned to cure her clothes aversion, it was simply another manifestation of the allergy.

Now the bristle bra and dildo panties hung, unused, in the closet. Add to this the odd fact that Tami just could not reach orgasm by her own hands. The help of others was just necessary. Rod had adjusted to that fact a long time ago. So he appreciated Jen’s help. Besides, Jen had a kind of seniority.

Under the table, Jen’s tongue worked her magic. It never took long with Tami. She swallowed, then lay her head back, eyes half-closed. Then soft, breathy moans escaped between her deepening breaths. Tami’s orgasms had a wonderful diversity, every one was different, but the general signs of her ascent were well known. One foot came up to brace against the wall next to the microwave, as if she was about to defy gravity and walk up sideways. Leisha cradled the other foot in her lap. Toes spread and the naked young woman swallowed quickly, then held her breath as she waited for the onslaught. Rod lifted his coffee off the table.

“Zhh!! Zhh!! Zhh!!” Eyes exploded open. Her knees jerked up with each jolt, banging up against the table and causing plates to clatter (but not coffee to spill). Rod disengaged himself from today’s news and looked at his beautiful wife. One could only smile. He never tired of seeing her face registering the greatest physical pleasure a person can know. This was a really violent one, her body showed incredible strength – he almost believed she could lift a car with her upward jerks. He admired Jen’s virtuosity. He had gotten better at oral sex over the past few years, but maybe it takes a woman to really know what works best on another woman.

In fact he was convinced of it. Tami and her female “fans” (as he thought of them) seemed to occupy a world different from his. A totally female world. The last time Jen and Leisha visited was memorable. It was one of those Saturdays he’d had to work. He left after lunch, Tami sitting like she often did, cross-legged on top of the living room table, with her two seated friends holding her hands. Jen had brought some white wine and bread and cheese; Jen liked to bring in some elegant props and it was unspoken that they were getting ready for one of their little “events”.

He got to the project — restoring an old dam near the Canadian border — and it was hard for him to concentrate. His mind wandered so much that the jeep he was driving almost drifted off the service road at one point. He kept wondering, what are they doing to her now? His mind relaxed after about three o’clock, realizing they must be finished and sitting around, maybe while Tami took one of her frequent afternoon naps.

The job took longer than he thought. At six he called home but there was no answer. He left a message on the machine promising to be back at nine sharp. When that time finally rolled around, bleary-eyed and exhausted, he rolled into the driveway and stumbled into the living room.

He was stunned. They were still at it. Tami was on the table, on all fours, covered in sweat, her hair dripping around her face. Behind her, Jen was slowly working a big ribbed dildo in and out of her rectum, while licking her pussy, drawing out the lips, poking at the clit with the tip of her tongue. Leisha, sitting on the other end, had drawn the end of Tami’s stretched breast into her mouth, vigorously sucking on the nipple while reaching over to rub the other nipple between her thumb and forefinger. Tami’s whole body was tight as a drum, her toes twitching, suspended right on the brink.

Had they been going all this time? Jen and Leisha were still fully dressed, not a button undone. Had Tami been pleasured for nine hours straight? Had they given her a breather? How many times had she come? Were there any limits at all to the sexual capacity of his naked wife? Questions flooded his suddenly awake mind. The wine had almost all been drunk, some crumbs of bread still on the plate. It was as if Tami was the main course.

He had sometimes resented it — he sometimes imagined they were seeing how many orgasms they could get out of her, playing her like a pinball machine. Yet that was not it. It was something more like communion — maybe Tami, raised Catholic, got some kind of fulfillment out of it, Catholicism had always been something alien to him — or maybe more like worship.

It turned out, unexpectedly, to be romantic. The three women did not appear to notice his approach. But then as he got near the table Jen and Leisha accelerated their ministrations, and as he circled Tami’s shaking body and came around to her sweaty face, he caught a look in her half-opened, feverish eyes that could only be called pure love. He then knew what to do — he bent over and kissed her, a full-throated kiss, and as he did she lurched forward, moaned loudly into his mouth, and her whole body spasmed, and spasmed again.

More followed. It was a powerful orgasm even for Tami. Her whole body quaked and quaked, as Jen and Leisha hung on for dear life and he kept his lips on hers, grasping the damp hair behind her head, and she held her lips to his to the extent she could. The whole event, the whole nine hours, had been a preparation, waiting for him to join her as she scaled and reached what must have been the pinnacle of ecstasy.

Rod thought of that time as, now at the breakfast table, he saw the post-orgasmic catching of breath, the slight sheen of sweat, the hands that went under the table to caress Jen’s hair, which nowadays was set in short cornrows. Tami was descending to the plateau now, from whence she could rise and then rise again — “going up”, she called it. Leisha watched intently too.

Inconsequentially, the microwave beeped and the eggs were ready.

Now the ascent to the second orgasm.

“Rrringg!!”

Rod was about to get up when Tami reached up with a sharp motion and got the phone. Maybe it was her good-girl, straight-A sense of duty, her Catholic upbringing, but she would not let her orgasms interfere with anything. She pushed down the crest with a visible effort. “H – hello.”

“Oh hi Wanda,” she said with a smile and she relaxed and went back to riding Jen’s tongue. She looked and fondled the cornrows. “Wow. C – congratulationsssss!!” She seemed happily surprised and glad for her old friend. To Rod and Leisha she said, “W – Wanda’s b – been hired by th – the B – Boston D.A. off — off — office — Ohhhh!”

Her eyes opened to the ceiling and lost focus as they always did just as an orgasm began. She was listening to what Wanda was saying, or at least trying to. How did she do that? He had asked her once — “I just play back in my mind what I just heard.” It probably took practice, but of course, she had had plenty of that.

Spasms and little grunts followed. She was holding back her vocalizations so she could hear better. Then she looked down at Jen. “W – wanda says hi.” She hadn’t needed to mention Jen’s name.

“Ohh!” Her pelvis jerked. Jen had apparently delivered a little rough suction to Tami’s clit. This was Jen’s way of saying, “Hi, Wanda.”

Jen and Wanda continued to converse through Tami’s body for a little while, sentences, pauses, commas, an occasional exclamation point. Then: “T – tomorrow night then — ohhhh!. . . OK . . .” After replacing the receiver with great effort Tami exhaled and caressed Jen’s hair, lurched one final time, then came down from the plateau at last. “Mmmmm . . . ” After a few moments Jen came up to lay her head against Tami’s breasts, like a contented baby with a tummy full of mother’s milk.

Rod felt his dick, recently given up for dead, stirring. It was Tami’s musk, which filled the room and made it hot and humid. He might or might not be able to get fully erect again but it was a moot point; it was time to go to work. He put the laptop on “hibernate” and went to get his briefcase. When he returned a couple of minutes later he said, “Your guest is up. I found her in the hall.”

Tami, by then back in this world with her orange juice and eggs, said, “Tell her to come in. She must be hungry.”

“She’s too shy. She’d rather stay in her room. . . Well, good-bye Babe.” Off to his new engineer job in Burlington, his first real job after the year with the Army Corps of Engineers which had been a condition of his scholarship to Campbell-Frank.

Tami stood her naked self in front of him, her breasts jiggling as she straightened his tie.

“Thanks Mom,” he said.

“‘Clothes make the man,'” she said as she looked him up and down admiringly.

Which was greeted with a snort. He put his finger behind his tie. “Akk. If the world is ruled by men, how come we have to wear ties?”

“Because it’s not ruled by SMART men.”

“What’s on today, Babe?”

“Aside from the usual, I have the presentation in Fashion Design with Gretchen. I think she’ll be all right. Also they want to see me about something. Then Kantor.”

Rod exhaled in exasperation. “It just goes on and on. Why doesn’t Kantor or Abu Jamal talk to you? I think they’re holding back on something.”

“Oh I KNOW they’re holding back,” Tami said. “They’ll tell me when they’re ready.” Once again, the odd fact: Rod wanted one of the many therapies they had tried to finally work, while Tami seemed to take it one day at a time.

A slow kiss on the lips, bare arms around his coat, tan midriff against his belt buckle, toes wrapping around his gumshoe boots, and Rod was gone.

Part 3

She woke groggily but then with a sudden sense of alarm. She was in a strange bed. The strap of her camisole had pulled off her shoulder and she straightened it. Her black vinyl pants were bunched up too. She poked her head up from the covers like a ground hog. What had she gotten herself into? Had somebody dragged her half-naked drunk body into bed and humped her? She had heard of that happening —

Fortunately her private parts did not hurt. She felt more or less in one piece, except for the hangover. And this sun room she was in did not seem sleazy, in fact it seemed respectable and neat.

Taking care not to move too fast — with her hangover she could easily get dizzy — she got up and saw that her shoes were placed neatly on the floor. She clumsily slipped her bare feet into the glass-bottomed, four-inch-high platform sandals and, straightening out her long black hair behind her, took stock of where she was.

A nice little house. As she lurched into the next room, a living room, she tried to dismiss the weird dream from last night. Practically being thrown into the cold night air, a cold ride in a pickup truck with someone who spoke gibberish, then a naked super-woman picking her up like she weighed nothing and carrying her inside. It was obviously a dream, at least the last part.

Pierre, Pierre . . . I know he won’t forgive me for this . . .

She heard voices far away somewhere. Trying to trace their source she found herself in what must be a master bedroom. A queen-size bed, recently slept in. An open closet with lots of clothes — just men’s clothes. She looked around for women’s clothes and shoes and found none. Just a guy must live here. She also noticed that the covers were thrown back on only one side of the bed. Single. And a gentleman, not to have screwed her last night.

There was a big window showing the back yard, and a computer table with books and papers, a monitor and keyboard. The mouse and its pad were on the floor, under the chair. Weird.

Her eyes were arrested by the pictures on the dresser. Naked girls. No, they were all the same girl. That super-woman? The big photo, in the middle, with her standing on a riser in front of a cheering crowd, flowers in her hair, next to a young black man in a white formal type coat. It could be a wedding picture, but for the missing bridal gown. A young lady in a minister outfit is next to them, and a straggly-looking bearded guy in a blazer and jeans. The naked girl looks so out of place, with everyone else fully clothed.

Another picture, the same naked girl, sitting on a throne wearing a tiara, with an exaggerated haughty expression. Below her, on some steps with a red carpet, three girls in matching red and black, bowing to her. One was white, one was thin and black, another was Hispanic-looking with giant tits almost spilling out of her low-cut dress. Another picture, of the naked girl in the tiara, this time with her arm around another girl, thin and white and kind of no-nonsense looking, in a kind of business suit.

Some smaller pictures of the naked girl with what must be a brother and her parents, cropped at her bare shoulders. Now the same brother it looked like, in uniform next to an American flag. There she is with her shoulders again, next to the black guy, this time he’s in a black graduation gown, with what must be his parents. The father is bent over and supports himself with a cane. Quite a contrast in that photo, with her bare white skin.

On the other wall a large painting caught her eye. Somehow she hadn’t noticed it before. It was the same girl, in a chair in what looked like the stacks of a library, pausing from reading a book as if pleasantly surprised to see the viewer. The book is half-open in her hands over her flat tummy. Totally naked, her pubic hair and breasts on full view, yet not showing them off either. Her attitude was strange — not at all like a stripper, just the opposite. As if she didn’t even know she was naked. Both her face and her body are beautiful, as if the artist was in love with her.

Now on another little table, set apart, a frame with photos of a tall, friendly-looking guy with black curly hair, wearing a long black coat, and a girl in red lipstick in a black dress with a real long string of pearls, leaning against a lamp post, her hips playfully swayed and her head tilted, like a hooker. This is the white girl from the throne photo. Between them, a photo of the World Trade Center.

She looked at the doorway, thinking she heard a movement. I shouldn’t be in here. So she scampered back into the hall, realizing how loud these ridiculous stripper shoes were on the hardwood floor. Still a bit hung over and disoriented, she made a wrong turn and found herself facing a bathroom. Too late to turn back. So she went in, her shoes stomping on the little tiles, and closed the door.

No sound. She found that she did have to pee and sat down. The bathroom was tiny. As she exhaled and let it flow she looked at the bathtub and shower right next to her and realized that there wasn’t just a guy living here. Three bottles of shampoo, one of conditioner, then some hair coloring. They couldn’t be for the guy because his head was shaved. On the sink were a brush with reddish hair in it, and a long comb. Also a very short little comb, like guys might use on a moustache. Odd, the guy in the pics didn’t have a moustache. What’s the little comb for?

Reaching over for the toilet paper she was startled to see a big blue rubber bag on the floor with a narrow tube coming out of it. Where had she seen that before? Oh right — that dancer Lita had one, who kept talking the virtues of anal sex. Ewww, an enema bag. Well, now I know more about this girl living here than I really want to.

And now she detected the faint odor of vomit. She thought: great. She’s bulimic too.

Back to the bed in that little sun room. She waited and there was no motion. She got up again.

“Oh,” she said, startled in the hall by a tall black man about 25 years old, with a shaved head and wire-rimmed glasses, in a suit and big brown boots. This was the guy from the photos.

“Hello, are you feeling O.K.?” he said, with concern.

“Oui . . . Merci . . . yes. . .” She was babbling.

“You were quite a mess last night. You probably need some food in you.”

That would ease the hangover, at least. She smelled eggs and pancakes cooking from somewhere. A telephone rang and there were female voices. Uh – oh . . . a woman gasping as if she were crying. Some kind of scene was going on.

“I still am need to sleep,” she said. She couldn’t concentrate to speak good English right now.

“O.K. I have to go. My wife’s name is Tami. You can’t miss her,” he added with a smile. “She’ll take you to the help center. Good luck getting back on your feet.”

She watched him go. She wanted him to stay. Anything to keep from the clutches of this Tami girl. She was getting a very bad feeling about her. Into anal sex, bulimic, takes naked pictures, even with her family — and now she’s breaking down in the kitchen. How did this O.K. seeming guy get involved with her? And why was he leaving her to cry in the kitchen? It made her own situation seem positively normal.

She tumbled back onto the refuge of the bed, wearing her shoes in bed even though it was impolite.

She couldn’t stay there forever. It was about fifteen minutes later that she got her courage up to traverse the narrow little hallway, the walls studded with ornately framed black-and-white photos of old men and old women like from a hundred years ago. Then she turned the corner and —

“Hi, Yvette!”

The cheerful girl was next to the stove with a spatula in her hand, facing her as if glad to see her. And without a stitch of clothing. The naked super-woman, in the (bare) flesh! And with no sign of having cried.

Yvette, her mouth open, took in the bare breasts and pubic hair and bare legs. The only thing this girl was wearing was a little golden ring on one toe. Yvette shielded her eyes. “So sorry — ”

“No, it’s O.K.” she said with a laugh. “I’m Tami. Excuse my appearance. I’m allergic to clothes.”

“That’s right, she is,” said Jen with a mouth full of pancakes. Leisha, also eating but a bit more refined, nodded in agreement.

Yvette slowly unshielded her eyes and accepted the invitation to sit down. There was a table setting in front of her. She nodded to the black women. Do they live here too? What kind of kinkiness was going on? Does the fact that this Tami is the only white person in the house have something to do with her showing her skin all the time?

She watched Tami’s backside as she worked the stove. Yvette was a stripper and had seen plenty of naked women walking around, but only on stage or in the dressing room. At home, strippers tended to cover up. This was decidedly weird.

Yvette quickly blinked and realized: and what a body. Thin, firm, narrow waist, nice tits. And a pretty face with striking green eyes. She’d never seen a girl on the circuit so good-looking.

“Eggs, pancakes, bacon, cereal, oatmeal?” Tami said. “Tami’s diner, at your service.”

Yvette had taken in the ordinary, good-natured atmosphere in the room and decided it was impolite to act freaked out by Tami’s nudity. After all, she should be grateful, a safe night’s sleep in a clean bed. “Oatmeal, s’il vous plait.”

Her mettle was tested again as Tami crouched and then leapt three feet up onto the counter. Her naked host opened the cupboard and stood up there and reached into a shelf near the ceiling. In the meantime she resumed a conversation she had been having with Jen.

“So what kind of job is that?”

Jen described a position that had opened up at Middlebury College that she was interested in. Tami said periodic “mm – hmm’s” as she pushed aside boxes of cereal to get at the oatmeal. Meanwhile her toes reached over to the sink and turned on a faucet. Having found the oatmeal she searched further in for the honey. Two quick passes of her toes under the spigot to test if the water was getting hot, then the foot stretched over to the back burner for the kettle. “Mm — hmm. . . Sounds kind of boring . . . Aren’t you overqualified for that?” Clasping toes placed the kettle under the spigot. Tami hopped down with the oatmeal and honey, so gracefully that the only sound was the soft click of the toe ring as it hit the wood floor.

Yvette thought: this girl is like a monkey.

The oatmeal was very good, if a bit rough going down. Tami had simply poured the oats into a bowl and added hot water. “Better fiber that way,” she said.

“Well . . . ” Jen said.

Tami laughed. “Actually if I try to make it the real way, it’s awful.”

Jen and Leisha had to leave. Their bags were already packed in the hallway. They each hugged Tami’s bare bod, but casually. They would be passing by again in a few weeks.

“If you don’t mind, next time we come, let’s make a day of it,” Leisha said.

Tami paused and said, “I’d love that. The pleasure would be mine.”

“You KNOW that’s not true,” Jen smiled.

And now Yvette found herself alone in the kitchen with this naked Tami girl.

She almost choked on the coffee. “Sorry, I don’t realize how strong I make it,” Tami said. Yvette had to load it with milk and sugar to make it drinkable.

“This is a ‘safe home’,” Tami said. “I’m supposed to take you to the help center here, part of the Campbell County Social Services department. I’m in no hurry, I don’t have anywhere to go till ten.” She paused as if for effect. “You don’t have to talk to me, but I am here to listen if you do. I’ll keep it a secret if you say so.” Another pause. Tami began to stretch, her breasts jutting out, then seemed to check herself. She stretched out one leg and rested the bare heel on the far corner of the table. “You were quite a mess last night. I heard you threw up on stage.”

“I almost threw up on you too, when you picked me off the ground.”

“Actually you did.”

“Oh — I’m so sorry.”

Tami smiled. “It’s O.K. It’s happened to me before.”

Yvette sipped and thought. “I miss my boyfriend.”

“What’s his name?”

“Pierre. He got me this job and then we had a fight.”

“Where is he now?”

“Ste. Catherine. He biked there yesterday.”

“Quebec.”

Yvette ventured a smile. “Oui.”

“Sorry, my French is poor. That’s ‘ja’, right?”

“No, I think it’s ‘si’.” Yvette hadn’t used this knowledge since high school. She suddenly remembered her mother saying, “You’re smarter than you think you are.”

“Funny, I thought it was ‘da’.”

The two young women giggled. Yvette’s first giggle in a long time.

After a quiet moment Tami said, “You like that job? At Teaser’s?”

“There’s nothing wrong with being a dancer. The pay is good and it’s safe,” Yvette said defensively.

Tami looked as if she’d heard that a thousand times before. Then she took a deep breath. “I didn’t mean to sound, like, judgmental. A lot of girls from there seem weirded out. Others are O.K. Or so I’ve heard. I’ve never actually been there.”

Yvette looked at the bareness of Tami’s breasts and did not know what to think.

“Do you want to talk more about it?”

At the risk of being impolite to her host, Yvette said, “No. Sorry. No.” She wondered about calling Pierre. No, it would be long distance from this phone. Also impolite.

“Well then let’s get going.” Tami got the keys that were hanging from the doorway. Yvette got up and followed her, with another twinge of disbelief. Surely she wasn’t going outside in the winter — like that?? There were no coats or boots in the doorway.

Tami opened the door and a gust of cold air hit Yvette. She shivered in her camisole.

Tami turned and put her hands on Yvette’s shoulders. Yvette looked down at the tanned perfect body. Tami looked at the camisole, the vinyl pants, the sockless feet in platform sandals.

“The first thing to do,” the naked girl said, “is to get you into some decent clothes.”

Part 4

In the driveway, next to the tracks in the snow left by Rod’s jeep, was an old, old yellow Volkswagen Beetle. Yvette, freezing in the doorway, watched in astonishment as Tami, holding up the key chain with one hand to separate out the correct key, walked over to it slowly and casually, bare feet slopping through the slushy snow covered with two inches of fluffy powder from last night. As she got to the driver’s side she called back. “C’mon, Yvette. You’ll be O.K. It’s all in the mind. Besides, it’s a real short ride.”

It was a bright morning. The new snow was almost blinding. Yvette looked both ways, wondering if anyone saw this crazy naked girl, then rushed into the car.

She watched silently as Tami pumped the gas, bare toes curling over the padless metal that must feel colder than ice. Her breasts jiggled as she pulled the manual choke — this was a really old model, like her grandfather used to have in Abitibi. Then Tami got out to the rear, opened the hood, and threw some kind of switch that got the motor to reluctantly kick over.

“Six volt system,” she explained as bare buns settled back onto the ripped vinyl of the driver’s seat. “The juice doesn’t carry in the cold, so I had to put in a bypass on the fan shroud.”

Yvette nodded like she knew what Tami was talking about. And then the old car lurched into action.

“Whoaa!” Yvette cried out as it swerved along the driveway, steadily propelled from behind but with the destination of the front end more uncertain. Tami swung the steering wheel back and forth like it was a bumper car in an amusement park. Yvette didn’t feel in danger. This was fun. Tami laughed. “VW’s are great in the snow. That’s why I got this one.”

Yvette was hoping for some heat, but then remembered that her grandfather’s car was always cold. As they came to a stop sign she looked at the blank knobs on the dashboard. “Is there heat?”

“Theoretical heat, but not real. This has a stale air system. It’s O.K., you don’t really need heat in a car, unless you’re on a long ride.” Yvette did not ask what this naked girl did for long rides.

Now they turned onto what looked like the main street. Yvette had never been in the center of this town; Teaser’s was on the outskirts. She looked around to see if anyone was noticing Tami’s bareness. The tops of her breasts, at least, would be showing. But now a professor-looking type on the sidewalk waved at her. And a young couple carrying bookbags. Now, an old lady toting a cart with groceries. Tami waved back cheerfully to each.

Yvette smiled. “Everyone seems to know you.”

“I’ve been here almost the whole four years.” Then she turned closer to Yvette’s face. “Also, I’m easy to recognize.”

They pulled up to a church. Good God! Is she going to walk naked into —

When they got out it turned out they were actually going into a small clapboard house next to the church. A knock on the door and . . .

It was Rev. Josiah Stipend, a tall and strong-looking man in a rumpled minister’s suit with gray hair almost covering his collar. “Welcome, Miss Tami,” he said, not in a Southern accent, but in that lilt that Baptist preachers sometimes have.

“Good morning Reverend,” Tami said respectfully but amiably. “This young woman stayed with me last night. Her name is Yvette. She could use some clothes.”

The reverend nodded at Tami for a long second, then without looking below either woman’s face, led them in a gentlemanly manner through a hallway, down some stairs, and into what looked like it might have originally been the house’s garage. Aisles of donated clothes and shoes beckoned, so narrow that there was hardly room to get through.

A middle-aged woman, a kerchief holding back her hair, sat nearby sorting clothes on a low table. Behind her was a washer and dryer. “Hi Tami.”

“Hi Mrs. Stipend.”

Tami led her guest into the aisles, obviously knowing how the place was organized. “First you’ll need some real pants . . .”

The Stipends looked at each other and then at the nakedness among the clothes. Rev. Stipend could not help reflecting on his past experience with Tami. He used to be a real firebrand, one of the hellfire members of the college Scholarship Committee. He could not forget the committee’s visit to the Dixon Mill to see Tami at her grounds crew assignment, her sweating nakedness on display as her bare feet trod the blades of that awful double treadmill. How he had berated her sinfulness then, and also later when she was summoned to appear before the committee in those special bra and panties which contained protrusions invading her inner cavities, bringing her to climax after climax while being forced to answer their questions.

It was only later that he found out that she was a modest girl who did not want to be naked, and who had been forced into that escalating series of humiliations by Dean Jorgon and Henry Ross who were trying to get her to renounce her scholarship. And that, after Jorgon had resigned and Ross had disappeared and the whole injustice came to light, she discovered she had developed an allergy to clothes and shoes of any type.

What remarkable iron within those young features! He wrote her a letter of apology but knew that was not enough. He prayed for several nights trying to find forgiveness. Finally he met with her in the faculty lounge and asked her forgiveness in person. For a person of his pride it was not easy. She said nothing for a long moment, and then to his surprise she embraced him tearfully.

That experience profoundly changed him. Also, events in the outside world over the past couple of years had convinced him that fundamentalism was perhaps not the way to go. Fortunately most of his congregation followed him as he edged leftward. The lengthening hair was but a trivial sign of it. He peppered his sermons less and less with condemnation and more and more with social justice and compassion. It turned out not to be that hard. Support in scripture was certainly easy to find.

The idea that came to him to set up a clothing closet had such an obvious and questionable origin that he resisted it for a while, but it was simply the right thing to do. In this often cold climate there were many poor people, not so much in town but in the surrounding area, that would benefit. He was aware why he got the idea, through his partial embrace of Freud. Herr Remmler’s mentor had made some penetrating observations. Rev. Stipend wanted most of all to give Tami Smithers clothes. Setting up the closet was a sublimation of that desire. Sublimation, he now knew, sometimes had its uses.

Tami and Yvette emerged from the aisles, Yvette carrying jeans, a coat, a flannel shirt, and tall leather boots. Tami carried a furry, Russian-style hat.

“You can take more,” he said, then realized he was actually talking to Tami. What a cross she had to bear. Yet she carried it almost joyfully.

Tami seemed about to turn back, then said, “No, this will do. Thank you.”

“Any time, my dear — Tami.”

Going back to the car, Yvette remarked, “For a cleric he is a nice man.” Tami laughed.

Another quick jaunt in Tami’s cold little metal crate and they were back at the house. Tami sent Yvette into the shower.

Yvette came out wrapped in a towel, with another around her hair. “Come over here.” She followed the voice to the master bedroom where Tami had her “new” clothes laid out on the now completely made-up bed. Tami was rummaging through a drawer. As she bent over with a total lack of bashfulness, the brown asterisk of her butthole was almost in Yvette’s face. Yvette tried not to look.

“You probably want some socks under those boots,” Tami said. “Rod has some extras. Sorry I don’t have any women’s underwear.”

“No?”

“No. I don’t own any clothes of course. . . I’ll be in the kitchen, calling the help center.”

Yvette took her time with dressing. She couldn’t help but smile as she presented herself to Tami in the kitchen. Though second-hand, the shirt, jeans, the coat, even the Russian hat, looked very good on her. This Tami had excellent fashion sense.

She felt like a little girl getting ready for a party as Tami fussed over the blouse and the coat. Absently looking at the jiggling bare nipples, she said, “Tami, your body is most fine. You could make a million dollars dancing on the circuit.”

At this her clothesless host just smiled.

A few minutes later, the old VW, back in town, parked on the main street. They were about to get out and Yvette, sensing their time together was about to end, could not resist asking. “Tami. How can you stand being without clothes in this weather so cold?”

“It’s mostly in the mind,” Tami replied, as if having been asked this question many times and having rehearsed and refined the answer. “To some extent my body has gotten used to it. In the cold weather I eat like a pig and my metabolism is higher. Of course I can’t stay out for, like, hours or anything like that. Or if it’s super-cold. Keeping moving is important.”

“How long have you been like this?”

“This is my fourth winter. The first one was rough. The second one, I kept testing my limits, seeing what was possible. By the third winter, I knew how to handle the cold so automatically, that I hardly thought about it.”

They were getting out of the car now. A tall woman in stylishly bohemian clothes and stiletto heel boots stopped by. Next to her was a much older woman with a cane, in a big fake-fur coat and a green flowery hat.

“Hi, Tami,” Assistant Dean Vanessa Congi said.

“Hello dear,” the lady in the green hat, Professor Emeritus Mildred George, said in her scratchy old voice.

“This is my friend Yvette,” Tami said graciously as she shuffled around the back of the Beetle to turn off the bypass switch. Yvette shook hands with each, a little ladylike clasp. As the naked girl came around to where they were, Professor Congi said, “That’s a beautiful shade of hair, Tami.”

“Oh thanks.” Tami looked down at her pubic patch. This made Yvette half cover her eyes.

“I see your nails all match your hair color,” Mrs. George said admiringly.

“I did them myself.”

“It looks professional.”

“Gee thanks,” Tami said, blushing over and above the usual flush from the cold. As they looked down she lifted a foot and spread her toes. The plum-colored toenails, graced with crystals of fresh snow, sparkled in the bright morning sun, a strange and beautiful sight.

Professor Congi looked a bit further up. “Did you also color your clitoris?” She remembered what Tami had been like as a sophomore.

“No,” Tami laughed, looking down there with the rest of them. She spread her labia with her thumbs. “That’s just my lips. See, on cold days she stays inside.” The little pink clitoris, lighter in color than the lips or the hair, poked out wetly and tentatively in the cold brightness as the two older women, bundled in their winter clothes and boots, looked appreciatively, Mrs. George leaning on her cane.

“Hi!” Professor said playfully with a little wave.

“Hi hi,” Tami said in a high-pitched singsong, with little jerks of her internal muscles making the clit jump up and down twice. The older women got quite a kick out of that.

Yvette, feeling faint, stood up and looked at the blue sky and took a deep breath. After some minor chit-chat the two grown-ups left.

As they were getting Yvette’s bag out of the car, her mind returned to the main subject of her curiosity. “And this fourth winter?”

“What?”

“You said how you dealt with going through the first three winters. This is your fourth. How is it?”

“Well,” Tami said, standing next to her. “Now — it’s — fun!!”

She kicked snow up with her toes, pressed it down on the other foot, then all in the same motion with a soccer player’s skill kicked the little snowball right into Yvette’s face just as she said “fun”!

“Eeeek!” Yvette brushed it away but it was followed by another. She ran behind the car, laughing, and decided retaliation was necessary. When she emerged a big sloppy snowball hit Tami right on her tanned concave tummy. This elicited a left-handed curveball that hit the shoulder of her coat.

The two young women ran around and around the Beetle, Yvette clumping around in her boots, bits of snow flying back from Tami’s toes. It was not a fair fight, of course. Tami seemed to be a natural pitcher, and could produce an “eeek!” whenever she hit Yvette’s face or neck. Landing snowballs on Tami’s naked skin, already used to the cold, did not have the same effect.

The Quebecois girl was flushed and disheveled when Tami brought her into the help center, but was cheerful and smiling which would make her easier for the case manager to work with. “Thank you, thank you, merci,” was all Yvette could say as she said goodbye to her naked new friend, hugging her tightly, enjoying the soft feel of the breasts crushed against her coat, and even betraying a sniffle or two, only partly from having been out in the cold.

Part 5

“I have come into your life to redeem your image of bio majors,” said Gretchen, a tall, blonde, blue-eyed, somewhat chunky girl Tami’s age. “We are not all dweebs. We are not all virgins. We do not all spend our time trying to make Tami Smithers miserable with fourth-grader antics. In fact, MOST of us are not any of that.”

Gretchen had made this declaration to Tami three years ago during their freshman year, sharing a salad in the dining hall after a particularly odious episode of abuse from Gretchen’s classmate Lorinda and her friends. On that occasion Tami, having been outfitted for the day with the bristle bra and dildo panties ostensibly for scientific purposes, defended Gretchen against chatter that was too loud not to be overheard, spreading their opinion to half the world that Gretchen had faked a sprained ankle to avoid a big exam. Standing in the middle of the circle of dweeby girls outside the bio building on a gray spring day, the 18-year-old Tami labored to articulate her protest amidst the internal frictionings and vibrations activated by the remote controls that had somehow made their way into their hands.

Gretchen, hobbling unnoticed toward them on crutches, would never forget the scene. “She’s — ohhh! — more dedicated than you — ohhh — will ever — beeeee!!!!!” The girls squealed with delight as the last word stretched out under the influence of the vibrations and bristlings as Tami crested. “Woo hoo! Another one! Up to fifteen!” said Betsy, reading the LCD display on the tiny pubic covering. “Come again, baby!!” Lorinda joined in, immediately renewing the assault. Tami’s body bounced up and down like a marionette, her feet slapping crazily on the cold concrete, as they coordinated their attack, sliding the rheostats up and down in unison and enjoying Tami’s words cadencing up and down accordingly. “You are acting so — imm — mm — mature . . . If she d – didn’t have to g – go to the same class she wouldn’t — OHH!” (she arched her back here) “have anything to do with youu . . . Kchkk . . .Eeeeeee!” Her eyes bugged open as the rear dildo vibrations were shot up to maximum.

They saw Gretchen and fled. At the risk of letting her crutch drop the lame girl put her arm around Tami’s bare shoulders as her quaking gradually ceased. When Tami was breathing more or less normally and it seemed none of the dozens of remotes at large were in range, they went to the dining hall, Tami walking stiffly under the influence of the dildos and bristles that still rubbed on her and within her with every step.

Since then Gretchen, who had been hanging out with Tami but had not gotten close, became a good friend, and after the graduation of Jen and Rebecca and Marisol, probably her best friend on campus. Tami, without any effort, inspired deep devotion in anyone who got to know her, and Gretchen was no exception. From a different but equally conservative background as Tami — Gretchen was from a straight-laced dairy farm family in upstate New York with a fiancé in the Army — she and Tami put their work ethics and majors together and developed a joint term project, developing a biodegradable polymer from which fabric could hopefully be made that both insulated against cold and breathed in the heat.

So it was that they could be found together, at 10:30 a.m., in the biochem lab in Rockley Hall. Gretchen, in goggles and an apron, had poured the contents of a test tube onto the aluminum substrate. Tami, holding her goggles up to her eyes because her allergy did not allow her to put the straps around her head, watched from behind, glancing downward to make sure her feet were not touching anything on the floor that looked like a chemical stain.

The solution partially dried on the aluminum amid a slight cloud of smoke.

“We’re getting there,” Gretchen said.

“Do you think my nucleotide formula was correct?”

“I assume so. Your calculus is a lot better than mine.”

“Maybe we need less alkyne,” Tami said.

The solution was supposed to dry almost immediately, then be rolled into a thread for weaving. This was the third try and they were getting close. Their professors had already given them an A for the project but both had further ambitions for it.

Tami looked at the clock and smiled. “It’s almost showtime.”

Gretchen smiled behind the goggles. “You’re really making me go through with this, right?”

After cleanup they were on their way to Thayer Hall, where the “Department of Fashion Technology” classes were held. Professor Wanamaker, looking quite the denizen of the fashion world with his ascot and paisley shirt, sat in the back of one of the basement classrooms while his Reinventing Fashion class did their midterm in-class reports.

There were three scheduled today. Tami, who was only minoring in Fashion but, being Tami, was headed for an A, was first up.

Bracing her hands behind her on the front table where her papers lay, Tami stood bolt upright in front of the class, giving them an unembarrassed full frontal view of her statuesque nakedness. Her topic: measuring bra size.

“My, uh, project is on a very basic topic, but I think one that maybe could be done better.” Tami had little trouble with public speaking, having been Vice President of the student government in her sophomore year. “I think you girls, anyway, could identify. I remember –” she looked up at the ceiling, maybe a bit uneasily, her big toe twisting onto the dusty tile floor, “buying a bra that I was sure was the right size, only to get home and it was, like, too tight, or else I was swimming around in it. Or maybe, did you ever,” she said, looking at a couple of the female students toward the front, “maybe you hadn’t eaten all day, and your, uh, breasts” (one could tell that in this classroom setting she had stopped herself from saying “boobs”) “were far apart, like this” — she looked down and, cupping her breasts, separated them — “and the bra didn’t bring them together, or if you ate a lot of pizza or something, they were bigger and more mooshed together” — the ideal model for what she was talking about, Tami compressed her breasts so that they met — “and the bra pulled them apart?”

Some sounds of agreement and nodding from the female students. There were three male students, and being gay they were less interested, but polite. Tami was popular with them too.

Wanamaker said, “So what is your solution, Tami?” Tami didn’t need it but, after years of seeing students freeze up while giving oral reports, he automatically interjected to help things along.

Turning around to pick up the papers, giving the class a view of her beautifully formed butt, Tami turned back to say, “The problem arises from the, uh, conventional method of measuring bust size. Look at page 137 of the Basics of Design text.”

They could all see a slight sheen of sweat on Tami’s face and her concave tummy, but this was not due to nervousness. It was well known that in the winter Tami, with her increased metabolism, often felt hot after spending some time indoors. Also this basement room was stuffy. Tami looked at Claire in the back row. “Claire, could you read the first step in that list, on the left?”

Claire, a very thin Asian girl in a silk puff-sleeve blouse, white jeans and high-heel black boots, found the page and said, “You mean where it says measure rib cage, then across nippples?”

“No, before that. The first step.”

“O.K. ‘Step One. Stand upright in a bra that fits correctly.'”

She looked up at Tami who had a little smile on her face. It sank in quickly. Wanamaker laughed and so did some others. With a big smile Tami said, “Now how it tells you how to measure the rib cage and across the nipples, but first you have to wear a bra that fits.” She was a little animated now, moving her hands, her breasts jiggling. “It’s like the joke about the germ killer that says, ‘use only in well-ventilated area’. But if it was well ventilated, there wouldn’t be germs in the first place.

“My solution involves some calculus,” she said, turning to the blackboard, making some of the students groan. Wanamaker good-naturedly said, “O.K., people.” As she wrote Tami held the papers in her right hand, her butt jiggling ever so slightly, quarter-phase glimpses of her bouncing breasts sometimes being seen. She was drawing a section of a cone, some curves, an integral… “Make it understandable, Tami. I don’t want to clip your wings but we’ve never had a math major in this class before.”

Tami got into the explanation of it and most of the class could partly understand, or thought they did. “My model is that of a parabola. Almost all women have breasts that can be fitted into parabolic cups. I made some computer models.”

The room went dark and the big screen to the side lit up. A purple torso with two blue parabolic solids jutting out with some equations on the bottom in a neutral font. “Ooooo,” someone said teasingly. “Finally, someone uses our new flat-screen,” Wanamaker said.

“This is the paraboloid of a C cup. And now, D, and double D, or E in the British system. Here’s B and A.” A few more images and Tami darted to her right and turned the lights back on. “You can see that, with the breasts free and not wearing a bra, the cross-nipple measurement is plugged into the parabolic formula, and you translate that into cup size.”

“How do you know this would be comfortable for all women?” Wanamaker said.

“Breasts are more pliable than even a lot women think, at least I believe so. I’ll show you.” Tami walked forward so that she was between the two students in the front row. “This would be a spherical model,” she said, grasping her breasts from the front with her palms almost flat against the nipples. “From there you can go to the paraboloid, then the hyperboloid.” She cupped her hands around her breasts, then squeezed a slight bit and then a bit more. “Finally there is the cone shape.” She squeezed now so that her nipples were sticking out. “This was the ‘bullet bra’ from the 1950’s.” She stood in profile, both hands on one breast now, squeezing toward the base with one while the other pulled out on the nipple, extending out from her body quite a ways.

“And those were very uncomfortable, I hear,” Wanamaker said.

“But that’s because of the materials used, which were specifically designed to extend the shape. If the softer fabrics are used, and of course, if the bra size was measured correctly to begin with…”

“It sure looks like you’re squeezing your tits out,” another girl said, then looked back at the professor. “Sorry about the language, but it looks painful.”

“I ask everyone to try it, all you women, next time you’re in the shower,” their naked classmate said. “It’s not as bad as you think.”

Wanamaker thought of saying, “All I can think of is B & D pornography, where women get their breasts tied up and clipped,” but of course he didn’t. As a heterosexual male, he had a fascination with breasts that practically no one else in his field shared.

“Anyway,” Tami said, “we’re not talking about conical projections, like that bra Madonna wore in the ’90’s. They would not be a good idea anyway just before you’re period when you naturally have lumps, especially around here,” she said, lifting her arm and tracing the side of the mound under her shaved armpit. “My model is with paraboloids. And now, my real life model,” Tami said.

Gretchen, leaving her coat on the chair, got up from her place near the door. Protectively draped in her white sweater, she bashfully folded her arms in front of her as she stood next to Tami, a tall girl slouching, looking down at her uneasy suede boots next to Tami’s confident bare feet.

“Gretchen is a bio major who graciously, uh, I mean was cajoled, into serving as my guinea pig. Now up here on the screen, these are CG fill-ins — NOT photos, I’ll have you know — of her breasts. Note the measurements, plugged into the formula, and it shows she’s a 38C. Now here is an actual photo of her wearing the cotton turtleneck she’s got on now. . . Of course, now she has a sweater over it. Note the bulging on top in the photo. Though she measured herself in the standard fashion, it came out to 38B and the bra did not fit.”

The lights were on again and Tami and Gretchen looked at each other. “I can tell you’re nervous,” Tami said, glancing down slightly at her own erect brown nipples that had sensitivities well beyond being able to predict the weather.

As Gretchen bit her lip and took off her sweater, Tami said, “Here she is wearing a paraboloid bra I cobbled together in the dress lab, 38C. Come on, stick ’em out,” she teased.

Gretchen took a deep breath and stood up straight, all five feet eleven inches of her, and turned this way and that. Her breasts stood out proud and paraboloid. No bulges or straps were visible.

“It looks excellent,” Wanamaker said. “Very nice lines.”

“Great set of guns, wouldn’t you say?” Tami said.

The class laughed, and for a second Gretchen swayed this way and that, like a runway model. Then her upbringing kicked back in and she turned to snatch her sweater and slip it back on.

“That concludes my presentation,” Tami said, gathering her papers. Gretchen scurried back to her seat.

“Thanks, Tami,” Wanamaker said, but before Tami could sit down he added, “Let me say, that’s beautiful hair color you’ve picked.”

“Oh thanks.” She looked down modestly, separating her legs slightly, pushing her pubic patch forward and placing her hands on both sides of it as if to frame it. “It’s called ‘Plum’.”

Wanamaker was at a momentary loss. He had been referring to the hair on her head. But it was the same color so he let it go. Besides, come to think of it it looked good down there too.

After Tami sat down the professor, sitting in the back, used a few seconds of silence as most good professors know how to do. “Thanks, Gretchen, for helping out, and good to meet you… Tami Smithers: A, as usual. Good project, very inventive.” A few people clapped. “Now the next, Claire, you’re up…”

Part 6

Scholar’s, the bar the Campbell-Frank students went to, or at least those who were of drinking age, was hopping tonight. It was packed despite the trouble one had negotiating the frozen slush that made the sidewalk an obstacle course. The people having a smoke outside stood perfectly still so as not to lose their balance and slip as they chatted with each other. Bill Patton and Howie, his old high school buddy who was visiting from Dartmouth, waited patiently to present their proof of age and get the backs of their hands stamped.

“Are you sure she’s here?”

“Pretty sure. 70 percent sure. Friday nights all the regulars are here,” Bill said.

Inside it was very loud. Oldies night. Nirvana tunes blasting away, and everybody talking loud to be heard over the tunes. It was hard to see more than two feet in front, with all the people. “Hey Bob,” Bill said, suddenly colliding with a friend from the dorm. He introduced Howie and they got to chatting, or rather yelling.

“So is Tami here?” Bill didn’t know her personally but everyone called her “Tami”, except those close to her that might have more endearing names. It used to be “Naked Tami”, but with her popularity, it got shortened.

“Saw her a minute ago,” Bob said, pointing thataway with the top of his longneck Budweiser. “You have to keep a sharp eye.”

Bill knew that well. The eyes of half the guys in the bar were glancing here and there, looking for that glimpse of bare skin that was so conspicuous in this crowd of parkas and overcoats. Others looked downward, looking for the flash of bare feet darting through the thick forest of boots and sneakers. Tami, being unburdened by any of these, could slip quickly through the crowd with ease, and slip across the entire bar within seconds, making her all that more elusive.

These Tami-watchers, dedicated as bird-watchers trying to sight a rare jaybird, suddenly found their efforts unnecessary as Tami hopped up onto the bar. Standing upright, longneck in her hand, she naturally attracted everyone’s attention. The whole bar cheered, because she was Tami, the guys also cheering because, well, she was a naked girl.

She stretched her lips over her teeth and whistled loudly. Then took a sip of beer as Justin, the bartender, cut the music as planned.

“Attention everyone,” she said. “I will now sit on this bottle. Just kidding!!” A loud chorus of, “Awwwww!!” from the guys. “No really, we have an alumna, or alumnae, or — some kind of alumnimunim,” another sip, “who just got a job as prosecutor in the Boston D.A. office and I want to dedicate a song to her. It’s… it’s…”

“Who — is — it?” a number of people shouted in unison.

“Wandabitch!!” Tami shouted, breasts bobbing, then she pointed her bottle down at Wanda Percival, looking not quite like a prosecutor in her sweatshirt, parka and jeans, hefting a bottle of cola. Tami bent down, in the process shaking her butt at some guys on the side who reflexively whistled, and pulled Wanda up onto the bar. Wanda clumped up onto it in her hiking boots.

The naked girl and the new prosecutor faced the crowd. Tami grabbed Wanda by the shoulder of the parka, and said, “You remember Wandabitch. Let’s hear it!”

Indeed they did, or at least the juniors and seniors. The chant was spontaneous. “Wanda-bitch! Wanda-bitch! Wanda-bitch!”

When it died down a bit Tami said, “The meanest, most vicious, rottenest R.A. in Campbell-Frank history” — she looked at Wanda as she said this and then put her arm around her — “is now the meanest, most vicious, rottenest D.A. in New England. Don’t mess with Wanda!!”

“Booooo!!” The boos were good-natured (mostly).

“There’s only one song for you. I dedicate this to Wandabitch. We love you!! BECAUSE YOU’RE NOT HERE ANYMORE!!”

She had to shout over the first notes of “Bad to the Bone” that now blasted out. As the song went on and everyone went back to talking, the two young women hugged, Wanda wrapping the arm of her fur-lined parka around the small of Tami’s bare back. Both were a little bit teary-eyed.

Bill, Howie and Bob, having had a nice view of Tami to hold them for awhile, circulated around the bar. A few minutes later Bob saw a flash of skin and happened upon Wanda and Tami speaking to a couple of others.

“Where are you going to live?” Bob shouted to Wanda. He glanced at Tami who was casually lifting her foot and turning the sole inward to check it. Must really be disgusting, walking barefoot on this sticky, beery floor. Sure enough, Tami’s sole was black except under the arch. She put her foot down again, not seeming to mind. Probably she’s used to it, just like she’s used to the snow and the cold.

Wanda shouted, “Back Bay, probably. Or maybe Comm Ave just near BU.”

Bob, not having known Wanda well, was not really interested in this conversation; he just wanted to look at Tami. But out-and-out gawking at Tami was simply not done. Any Campbell-Frank guy would find that out pretty quickly. After a few more words he said goodbye and went to find Howie and Bill.

Talk, shout, drink. About ten minutes later Bob finally found them, near the benches, watching what was a frequent sight at Scholar’s. Tami, leaning back on a bench, was facing some girl who was sitting opposite with her long-lace boots planted in front of her. Tami was doing that trick of undoing and tying shoes with her toes. Arms draped behind her on the bench, one hand still grasping the longneck, Tami leaned back with her thighs wide open and her knees bent, skillfully lacing and looping the girl’s boots from the bottom up. She paused to take another sip and then resumed. It looked like she was using all her toes.

Some, mostly guys, chose to stand behind the shod girl, facing Tami and studying the ripples of her abs as she worked, the wiggling of her breasts, the pussy that was slightly open between the wide-spread legs.

“Man, how does she do that??” Howie said.

“Practice, she can do anything with her feet,” Bill said.

Bob took a thoughtful sip and said, “Being barefoot for four years, she probably just learned to use them. You could probably do it too with practice.”

Bill said, “Howie? I think I’ll pass on seeing that.”

They laughed.

Now the first girl’s boots were all tied and people clapped. Another girl, this one with sneakers, took her place. Tami’s big toes, anchored by her pinky toes, undid the big loops and she got to work. Tami could do this on almost any kind of footwear, even after three beers.

The last glimpse Bob, Bill and Howie had of Tami that night was after they had left the bar and were walking back to campus. They only made it about a hundred feet from the bar when Bill suddenly felt the pressure of a full bladder. Drinking a lot of beer and then going out into subfreezing air will do that. Bob and Howie stood around in the middle of the snow-covered town commons as Bill hunted through the tall shrubs for an inconspicuous spot.

As they waited they saw Tami with Wanda and another girl standing some distance away, near the convenience store. The three were apparently waiting for someone to come out. The other girl was smoking. Tami, arms at her sides, listened to the smoking girl, now and then rubbing her feet on the snow and lifting her soles inward to check them, tilting them just so to take advantage of the nearby streetlight.

It was the kind of still winter night when sound carries. So as not to be overheard, Bob and Howie spoke in quiet voices much unlike the yelling of a few minutes ago. “How does she do that?” Howie said. “She’s standing there naked like it’s not even cold.” He blew on his hands. “Just my hands are freezing already!”

“She must have got used to it. For a few minutes, anyway.”

“She’s married?”

“Yup. And totally faithful. Don’t even think about it. She’d kick your ass if you tried anything. I hear she’s real strong.”

“When she said she was going to sit on that beer bottle, for a second I believed her,” Howie laughed.

“Oh man,” Bob said, looking at the sky. “I hear with her friends she does that kind of thing on a dare, especially if she’s had a few. I heard one time at an outdoor party, I think a birthday for one of her friends; she upended some beer into her pussy, then sat up, spread her legs, and squirted it out clear across the lawn.”

“Holy christ. Think of the muscles in there! Her husband must be the luckiest guy in the world!”

“I’ll say. Or maybe not. I’d be worried about her squeezing my dick off!”

Howie laughed. “So what’s the story with her being naked again? She’s allergic to clothes or something?”

“She said nudism was her religion when she was a freshman. She must have been a crazy kid then. Later she volunteered for some experiments, then at the end she found out she was allergic to clothes. They’ve been doing therapy to cure it ever since.”

Howie was speechless for a moment. “Man, I should hope so. She should sue the hell out of them for that.”

“That’s the big mystery. Why she never sued. I suppose she wants to leave it in the past.”

The girl with the cigarette dropped it in the snow and stamped it out. A guy came out of the convenience store. Tami, walking slowly and casually over the crusty, refrozen snow, followed them into his car.

Bill, sighing deeply, came back from the shrubs. He caught the last glimpse of Tami’s bare soles disappearing into the back seat of the blue Chevy.

“Damn, missed her,” Bill said, adjusting his fly.

“She might want to leave it in the past,” Howie said, “but she’s a senior now. What’s she going to do when she graduates? Is she going to stay here forever?”

“It would be rough, going into the outside world as a naked girl,” Bob said, his voice fading into the cold winter night as the three of them started on back toward campus.

Part 7

Tami looked so beautiful, her eyes half-closed in that combination of love and ecstasy, the look she always had when she was atop him. Rod gently rubbed her forearms up and down as her breath shortened and she began another ascent — “going up” to that mountaintop of euphoria that she visited so often.

She knew he was a little tired tonight. So preoccupied with work. He was grateful to get home, and they did the usual thing, him tonguing her while she lay back on the kitchen table. It didn’t take much tongue work, fortunately. He brought her to four orgasms in fifteen minutes, about the usual to hold her through supper. He declined her offer to suck him, fearing that after he came he would fall asleep when he had so much work to do. Then they cooked up a quick macaroni and cheese. Tami further fortified herself with a tuna sandwich. And a bowl of soup.

They spent the next two hours working, he in bed going over the plans for the next phase of the project that he was supposed to supervise, she on the computer finishing an English Literature paper. English was not her favorite subject; she was sometimes afraid of the unthinkable, getting a B, but of course that possibility was remote. Looking up at her at the computer table, he couldn’t help but fall in love all over again despite his weariness. Such a lovely, intelligent face, such a beautiful, golden body… He did not mind that so many others admired it, it made him proud. He especially liked her response to the many well-intentioned suggestions that she get a tattoo. “Absolutely not. A tattoo would be on display all the time. It would be a message to everyone who saw me.” Why ruin such perfection?

She still had the basic modesty that she always had, but had gotten comfortable with her nudity. Of course — she had no choice, did she? She expressed it once to him during one of their post-sex chats. They were lying on their backs, looking up at the ceiling, holding hands. “I had a dream once where I was a serving maid for a king in a palace and I was naked all the time. All the other maids were fully clothed. For some reason I had to earn my clothes back. The king and his rich friends kept visiting me in the kitchen, or walking by when I was mopping the palace floor or something, saying, ‘All you have to do is this floor, or be a good server at the next feast, and you’ll get your clothes and shoes back.’ And I was ever so industrious, saying to the other maids, ‘All I got to do is this job,’ and when it got done the king would say, ‘Just one more thing and you’ll get clothes’, and give me another task, while the other maids just rolled their eyes at my stupidity. All those men really wanted to do was look at my body, stringing me along. Well, f**k that. I’m not going to be that stupid.”

That was only the second time he ever heard her use the “f” word. “So how did the dream end?”

“I’m not sure. I think I just escaped. Hopped out the window and into the meadow. Naked and free and smart. I wasn’t going to bargain with God any more. That was what that dream was about.”

Still basically modest, but not above flaunting her body when he was around. He remembered the graduation party for his class. It was at a swanky estate the college owned not far away — formerly lived in by that creep Henry Ross. Rod was out there on the lakefront patio with the full bar and the buffet table, sipping a soda and trying to stay interested in what his Architectural Design professor was saying. He glanced around the crowd of students and professors and administrators, wondering where the hell was Tami?

He looked out to the pond and saw, far away near the marine dock on the other side, a fish or goose or something splashing in the water. Looking at it more he saw it was not a fish. It was someone swimming toward them. As he sipped and looked a smile started across his face and grew and grew. By the time Tami was a hundred feet away everyone’s attention was drawn.

Like it was nothing, she got to where her feet could touch bottom, then walked up to the transfixed and silent crowd, water coursing off her hair and chin and now her nipples and now her knees, her copper sleek wetness the most beautiful sight of his life. Casually she hopped her naked dripping self up onto the patio, greeted a couple of people she knew, accepted the offer of a big cloth napkin to quickly dab herself dry, then went up to Rod and gave him a full-body hug and a kiss on the lips. And then ordered a martini and took her place among the suits and dresses, blending in with the party as the general buzz of conversation gradually returned. What an entrance!

Water was definitely her element. Another vivid memory was last May when he came to meet her when she got off work. She was on that grounds crew job, the replacement for her gymnastics scholarship. She probably could have sloughed it off, but being Tami, felt obligated to continue. So she had always put in her twenty hours a week. The day had been brutally hot. Sweating buckets in his suit, he found her hefting uprooted shrubs into a chopper while the chopper driver, union labor no doubt, sat up in his cab. She grunted with every heave of the heavy shrubs, her body stained with dirt and sweat and leaves. As always, she had an audience, people stopping for a moment before going on with their business. When Tami saw Rod and knew her time was up, she said, “Hit me Jose!” Another worker, walking by past a water pipe, picked up the hose and trained it on her. She danced and spun around as the water pelted her all over, with her trademark “Woo – hoo!” as Jose laughed. One could feel, with some envy, her delicious sense of relief at being clean and cool. As she put it later, “Only I get to experience that!”

She was now proud of being naked, though the fact her condition had been forced on her was never mentioned when she was around. By now it was an open secret around campus that as a freshman she had declared nudity her religion and been cajoled into various research that left her with an allergy to clothes and a greatly increased sex drive. And that she had spent her first summer making it back from California without clothes or money or outdoor gear, just her bare body. But not all the details were known, certainly not the more unpleasant ones. The original reason for her nudity — that she had been caught streaking on a sorority dare her first week, then to avoid expulsion frantically gave the excuse that nudity was her religion, which turned out to make the college afraid to expel her on First Amendment grounds, causing Dean Jorgon and Henry Ross, the campus attorney, to coerce her into an escalating series of humiliations to get her to admit that the religion claim was a hoax — had never gotten out.

As to her family back in Providence, information was tightly controlled. She was absolutely clear that they should know nothing except for her decision to go naked and her allergy which was being cured. It would greatly concern her if they found out she had been so mistreated and been through so much shame and abuse. Even as to that horrible summer, the cover story she had fed her parents during her calls, that she was doing a project for one of her math professors — they had never learned anything to the contrary. Fortunately there was little danger her parents would find out anything. Except for Tami and Rod, they didn’t know anyone up here, and on the rare occasions that they spoke to one of her teachers, she would take the teacher aside first to make sure no hints of anything but a happy life leaked out.

Her current life really was happy though. One time a half-drunk guy at a party told her, “Too bad you can’t wear clothes.” Rod felt about to slug him when Tami, draining her beer, said, “Too bad you can’t be naked.”

Professor Congi, always well-meaning if a bit dense, once asked her, on a hot sunny day outside the Student Union, “There are probably some advantages to being naked.” Tami, basking in the sun, said, “Too many to list. Es gemutlich.” Which he then explained, trying to translate as Tami looked on in amusement, meant “Naked is warm and fuzzy.” They laughed at that. Another awkward Congi comment that they performed a judo move on to make it turn out well.

Tonight Rod’s mind had been filled with these thoughts as he watched Tami zip through her assignment. There was nobody faster on a computer; her high school had been little more than a vo-tech school, with everyone taking typing and data entry. As with any fast typist, using a mouse slowed her down, but she inventively solved that problem by placing the mouse on the floor. Blazing away at the keyboard while working the click buttons with her toes, she flew through anything she was doing.

By and by Rod had gotten tired with his work and at a certain point he had lain back in his pajamas and closed his eyes, the blueprint falling to the floor. A few minutes later he felt gentle hands pulling down his bottoms, the warm engulfing mouth, and he smiled…

Now, with Tami on top of him, he watched as she crested and jerked through a series of spasms. What’s that now — number ten? Rod chided himself. Tami hated being kept score of. She came down slightly from the last orgasm, but only slightly. He knew what she wanted to feel and kept his hips thrust up. He held her hands down on the bed. In this way she could rub her clit against his pubic bone and stay on the brink. She liked doing this usually around the middle of their lovemaking. Eyes half-closed, breathing in short gasps, he could swear he felt her heartbeat on his dick as she lay suspended on the brink of orgasm, now and then giving into it, then coming down a bit, only to go up again when she chose. All during which he felt the end of his dick flicking back and forth against her cervix.

She could stay suspended like this for half an hour or more. It was difficult sometimes for him to hold his ejaculation, the pulsing of her inner muscles felt so good massaging his dick, the cervix relentlessly flicking his sensitive penis head, but being so tired tonight, he did not feel himself approaching the danger zone. Not that it was always “danger” — “Rod, you can go again!” Tami often said after he came, milking his softening dick with the supple internal muscles of her pussy, or her mouth, until he had another erection. Tonight, though, he felt like after one load he would be soon fast asleep.

His mind wandered to his work difficulties as he looked up at her surfing along the edge from crest to crest. He liked working with building materials but as a newly minted engineer he was learning that dealing with people was just as important…

She knew his mind was elsewhere. She gave a little glance down and said, “it’s — uhh — going to be all right — lover — ohhh… Fill me up, Baby.”

She shifted her feet and pivoted on his dick so that she was facing away from him. He moved up and started on her doggy style. He could penetrate very deeply in this position, and had to be careful not to go sideways and poke an ovary, something which he’d heard was as painful as getting a poke in the balls. Now he began to get a rhythm and emit the low groans that always turned her on. With a short, sharp breath, she launched into what she often saved as her last orgasm, the longest and most powerful one. “Ohh! Ohh! Ohh!” He counted six spasms and then he let himself go, filling her up with his semen that seemed like the last of his energy and power draining from him, leaving him spent.

They lay there, waiting for sleep. As always she lay on top of the covers while he went underneath. For a long time now, being under a blanket had been too suffocating for her.

But he was actually too tired to get to sleep. Wordlessly they both got up, he getting into his pajamas again, and padded to the kitchen for some decaf tea.

As she often did, she sat cross-legged on top of the kitchen table. She had become quite the table sitter over the past couple of years. He sipped, and played idly with the pubic hair in front of him. Finally she spoke.

“You’re worried about work, aren’t you? What’s going on, Baby?” She stroked his smooth shaved scalp.

He looked up and put it the best way he could manage. “My boss is hard to get along with. Very, well, bossy.”

“Why is he like that?”

“Well Babe, he’s what you might call an ‘alpha male’. Head of the herd.”

“Alpha male?”

“Right.”

She sipped. “Or as we women call it, an insecure jerk.”

Rod laughed and kept laughing. He had never heard that female viewpoint and it was refreshing and liberating. “Yes. That’s exactly what he must be.”

“Rough to deal with that kind of person, I bet.”

Rod recognized this as a counseling move Tami probably picked up from Marisol, who had been with the campus crisis intervention service. Still, it was effective in getting him to open up. “Yes. Sometimes I think he already knows he will answer ‘no’ before I even talk to him.”

“Is he like this with everyone?”

“In a way. But with me, the impression I get is, he thinks I’m unqualified.”

“How can that be? You have a degree and one year of Corps of Engineers service.”

Rod exhaled. “He thinks I got the job just because I’m African-American. I just know it.”

“Did you?”

“Did I what?”

“Did you get the job because you’re black?”

One could never lie to Tami. Rod searched his mind.

“Yes, I think I did,” he said finally. “They have an affirmative action obligation, and the other guys who applied, I saw them during the interviews, they seemed older and more experienced. And white. And they hire me, a black kid almost right out of school.”

Tami scratched a nipple and stirred her tea.

“So what do I do now?” Rod said, looking up at her. Then he looked a little lower and couldn’t help himself. He stetched up and kissed one sun-darkened nipple and then the other.

She cleared her throat and said, “What you do is be the best damn engineer that insecure alpha jerk ever had.”

Rod nodded to himself. “Yes.”

“It’s a gift that history has given you. Think of your ancestors. ‘I am the dream of the slave’…”

Rod smiled to this reference to the famous Maya Angelou poem. “Indeed.”

Continuing the quotation, Tami said, “‘I rise; I rise!'”

The smile on him was now ear-to-ear and he was almost in tears. “I rise!”

They looked at each other and sipped one last sip. A moment passed.

“Speaking of which,” she said, lying back and wrapping her nimble feet behind his ears, “can you take me up again Baby?”

“Of course, Babe,” he said, putting his tea down and gently moving in with his tongue…

Part 8

Up on the fourth, top floor of Thayer Hall, in the office of Department of Fashion Technology Chair Albert Girardo, that person sat with Professor Shel Wanamaker as they absently gazed out the big bay window that overlooked the bright snow-covered campus.

Then Girardo, an old guy in a turtleneck sweater, black pants and moccasins, looked down again to leaf through the portfolio, as if he were looking at photos of persons with two heads. “There’s only one word for these: weird.”

“Also inventive, ingenious, possibly groundbreaking if you ask me,” Wanamaker said. “Come on, admit it. If you didn’t know it was Tami Smithers –”

“I just can’t get my mind past it. Clothes designed by someone who can never wear any. There’s no denying there’s some kind of genius here, but it’s a genius from another dimension. How long has she been ‘au natural’?”

“Three and a half years. Not one stitch, not so much as a pair of flip-flops on her feet either.”

“Is this a pant or a very long boot?” Girardo said, turning the portfolio sideways and then upside down. “I hate to say it, but she’s probably forgotten what clothes feel like. Maybe she doesn’t really know what she’s doing any more.”

A moment went by. “We’ve got to send SOMEONE to the International. We haven’t sent anyone in five years.”

“That’s because we haven’t had anyone good enough in five years,” Girardo countered. “And even that last time, it was a close call.”

“You know the problem as well as I do. If we keep on not sending anyone, they’ll drop us from their panel.”

“Where is it this year?”

“Montreal.”

“Oh Christ! I forgot. Right in our goddamn back yard.”

“So this is something we might have to do.”

“She’s not a major,” Girardo said lamely.

“And… We’ve sent submissions from students minoring in fashion before.”

Girardo put the portfolio down. “What if she makes the cut? We can’t send a goddamn naked girl to a goddamn fashion award show. And what if she wins!! What if she wins!! The most prestigious fashion industry fellowship in North America, and it goes to a naked woman! They’ll get publicity like never before, but not the kind they want — a naked woman who will be bopping around the campus of –”

“They would never give the fellowship to a naked woman.”

“Then aren’t we setting her up to fail? And besides, there’s no way she’s going to win. Even if she was clothed. They’ll give it to one of those inbred French kids like they always do. The odds are a thousand to one.”

“We could make that clear to her when we tell her. She could handle that. Fashion isn’t the center of her life. Her being a minor is actually an advantage as to that.” Wanamaker continued, “Time is short. You know how I feel. We should tell her we want to submit her as our candidate. The deadline is in three weeks, and we have to give her a chance to put together her submission portfolio before that. She won’t win, but at least we’ll stay on their panel.”

“Here she comes,” Girardo said, looking out the bay window.

“Where? Oh.” On the main concourse, in the middle of dozens of students going here and there for the next class, the naked girl, easy to pick out of course, was happily chatting on her cell phone, bookbag flung over one shoulder, hanging down to where it bounced against her bare buns as she walked with the swiftness of someone who was used to a tight schedule.

“Seems like she’s in a good mood,” Girardo said.

“She usually is. Everyone loves her too. And she’s got a statue named after her.”

“What?”

“Ever see that girl sticking her arms out like she’s about to fly? Near the Union?”

“I hardly ever go there.”

“It’s called ‘Tami Takes Flight’. Latimer did it.”

“When was that?”

“The year you were on sabbatical.”

“Oh… Well that’s certainly interesting, though not relevant… Look at her,” Girardo said as Tami broke into a little skip, going off the path to take a short cut toward them, kicking up snow with her toes. “She’s traipsing through that snow like it’s summer and it’s sand on a beach.”

“A nude beach, it would have to be.”

“Right. My point is, how is a person like that supposed to know what anyone wants as far as clothes go? The International is not a bunch of dilettantes who design monstrosities for the Oscars red carpet. They affect real mass-production decisions, like what the chain stores will carry. The first thing a person wants clothes for is warmth. And there she is,” he said, motioning toward the approaching Tami, “skipping barefoot and naked through the snow… What’s her needs status? They take that into account these days, or least they’re supposed to.”

“She’s married, to a recent engineering graduate, who’s working for base pay on his first real job. She’s from Providence — that’s another thing in her favor. Her family is working class, she has a younger brother in Iraq, no other source of income aside from her father’s Navy pension and his hardware store, which according to our search is not doing too well.”

“Think she knows that?”

“Probably not. I hear the father is proud of her but is a real stubborn, Irish beer drinking kind of guy.”

“Not your typical designer background.”

“I’ll say. She also had a couple of close friends who died in 9/11.”

“What, that plaque in the admin building? What’s their names again –?”

“Mandy Rabinowitz and Jeffrey Dillon.”

“Oh right. The kid who had the show on the 68th floor. Man. What a horrible loss.”

They both sat in silence. Before they were ready for it, they heard the door to the stairwell close shut and the approaching slap of bare feet.

Though their door was open, they saw a bare arm reach around and knock. “Come on in, Tami,” Wanamaker said.

She moved into the doorway slowly and politely. “Hi Professor, hi Mr. Girardo,” she said with a little nod. “How did you know it was me?”

Wanamaker said with a smile, “We heard the stairwell door close. Everyone else takes the elevator… I told Mr. Girardo about your presentation on bra measurement. It was excellent as always.”

A blushing “Thanks.”

Putting on sociability, Girardo looked up and said, “That’s a wonderful new hair color you’ve selected, Ms. Smithers.”

To his surprise Tami looked down at her crotch and opened her legs slightly. “Thanks. It’s called ‘plum’.”

Girardo gave a quick and pointed look to his colleague.

Sitting right next to where Tami was standing, Wanamaker tried very hard not to notice the dark red curls right near his face. Or the interesting fact that her pubic lips, jutting out slightly, were the same color as the surrounding curls. He cleared his throat, looked up at her face, and said, “We’ve been enjoying your… portfolio.”

“Oh that,” Tami said. Then perhaps thinking she shouldn’t have been so dismissive, she said, “I hope it’s O.K.”

“It’s more than O.K, Tami, it’s very… inventive,” Girardo said, paging through the computer graphics and freehand drawings, accompanied by more explanatory text than usual and, very unusual indeed, mathematical equations of some sort.

“Thanks.”

“This uh, tank top or whatever it is,” Girardo said, resisting the urge to turn the damn album upside down, “design 17A. How did you get the neckline so high with so little material?”

“Well it’s in the equations there,” Tami said. She dropped her backpack and turned toward it, apparently not aware that her butt was sticking in their direction. She fished a kind of ruler out. “Let me show you.”

Girardo had some kind of vague memory from his 1950’s high school days of this sticklike thing Tami now waved in front of him. “The neckline is a catenary, which you get by calculating the hyperbolic sine — ”

“The hyperbolic — what? What is this thing?”

“It’s a slide rule. I got it off the internet. These are really great, in fact they’re beautiful. This one’s a Hemmi. You see the SH scale here, you read it along with the C scale for radians — ”

As Tami went on and on in what seemed to Girardo like a foreign language, his mouth slowly opened in utter incomprehension. Halfway through he realized Tami’s left breast was almost slapping him on the side of the face as she leaned alongside him so they could both see these sticks she was sliding back and forth. Wanamaker looked on in amusement.

When she was done, Girardo said, “I’m afraid it’s been a while since –” Actually, he had never, ever been able to —

Tami stood up and started over. “The slide rule is based on logarithms rather than linear relations.” Her fingers danced along the scales as she explained. “See how the distance from 1 to 2 is the same as from 2 to 4? It’s because that distance is a factor of 2. From 4 to 8 is also the same. Now let me set it to show 6 divided by 3 is 2. See? Without moving the scales you see at the same time that 12 divided by 3 is 4, 38.4 divided by 3 is, 12.8, and so on. The whole operation of division unfolds before you in one panoramic sweep!”

Tami was trying to light a bulb over Girardo’s head with this picturesque phrase but there wasn’t even a bulb there to turn on. “Oh,” he said weakly.

By way of nudging Girardo in the right direction, Wanamaker said, “Tami, I wonder if you have any ambitions for your designing talent.”

Tami thought for a second, then said, “I’ve designed dresses and clothes for my friends. It seems whenever there’s a wedding or a formal dance I get called. It’s just my minor, though. My major is math, and my project is math with biochemistry. My friend Gretchen and I are working on a biodegradable, toxin-proof fabric that holds heat in the cold and breathes in the heat.”

“That would be quite an accomplishment.”

“I heard about that project from Professor Ling,” Wanamaker said. “That’s Gretchen Spaulding, right?”

“Yes, Gretchen and me. What we want is to develop something that can be used by our troops in Iraq. My brother tells me it gets both very hot and very cold there, at least where he is. Gretchen’s fiance is there too.”

“I hear they need equipment there,” Wanamaker said. Then, perhaps tactlessly, “I hope they’re safe.”

“Joe is in a part of the country where not much happens, and Roger, that’s Gretchen’s fiance, he’s training helicopter pilots.”

“I see,” Girardo said. “Well, good for you. And good for Gretchen too.”

“Thanks.”

There was an uneasy silence, at least uneasy for the two professors.

“Well, Ms. Smithers,” Girardo said, “we just wanted to say that we’re very impressed with your work, not only on your biochem project, but also in our classes. I hope you stay interested in this field of endeavor. See you around.”

“Thanks again.” She picked up her backpack and started to leave. From out in the hall she said, “What happened to that cartoon thing?”

“The what?”

“You know, that old magazine thing?”

She was referring to an old National Lampoon item entitled, “What high fashion would look like if designers were heterosexual.” It had a picture of a so-called designer in a sweatshirt and jeans, pointing to his new “design”, an invisible dress on a naked woman. “And if she gets cold, she can always wear a car,” he was saying. Girardo, who was gay, had put the item up some years ago as a joke on himself. But he took it down recently out of sensitivity to Tami’s plight.

“Um, it was time to change the board a bit,” Girardo said.

“Oh. Too bad, it was pretty funny. Well, bye.”

They heard the bare footsteps receding and then the stairwell door close. Soft descending footfalls faded into silence.

Wanamaker said, “I knew you’d chicken out. You won’t get many more chances.”

Girardo sighed and said, “Shel, you know I’m always swayed by you. I have to admit, strange as it is, this girl’s work is exceptional. She probably really does deserve to be our candidate. But a naked fashion designer… This is the weirdest situation I’ve ever been in.”

“I think you’re being hyperbolic.”

“Oh shut up.”

Tami Beethoven
by Donny Laja

Part 9

The second, mezzanine level of the college library was quiet on this dark afternoon. The sound of the heavy rain outside was all that could be heard, a rain that was quickly turning the snow into slush. A slush that this time, according to the forecast, would not freeze overnight. It was taking a while, but the deep freeze this north country was famous for had broken and it was warming up, if ever so slowly.

Tami Smithers was parked at her usual table in her usual position. One leg curled up, the other heel up on the table, her foot facing in, markers of various colors slotted between her toes. With her left hand she was grading papers from the remedial math class she tutored, selecting the appropriate marker according to her own system. Red = incorrect, Black = correct but incomplete work, Blue = correct, Green = helpful comments.

Next to these papers were a couple of textbooks. Her backpack was on the chair next to her. She worked quietly in the quiet library.

Another creature lurked nearby.

At first it was just a shadow in the stacks behind her. Watching, waiting…

It was Rosaria, tall and athletic with cropped hair, travel pouch around her waist. In wool jacket, leotard top, tights and long wool socks over her duck boots, looking like the Latina lesbian she was. She silently circled in front of the table and, when Tami looked up, she leaned across the table and kissed the big toe.

Standing back at attention she whispered, “My Queen.”

Tami smiled and whispered, “In a minute.”

A quick glance down told Rosaria the reason. Tami wanted to give her students’ work her undivided attention. Rosaria sat down at the next table and pretended to text message on her cell phone.

A moment later Tami put the papers away, took the markers from her toes, stretched her arms back, her breasts riding high on her chest, and sighed. Rosaria’s mouth almost watered at the slight scent that issued. No doubt it had been several hours since the Queen’s last release.

Gracefully she removed the chair next to Tami, bent under the table, and sat cross-legged in front of her altar. It was then that Tami emitted a quick, sharp gasp. As Tami read her text with quivering hands Rosaria did what she had learned so well to do. A moment later the sudden long breaths, then the jolting hips, told her she was successful. Tami turned the page as Rosaria laved the engorged lips for a few seconds with the Queen’s nectar and then gently rolled them back into her mouth. In less than a minute Tami went up again. The edge having been taken off, this one was longer, more peaceful.

Rosaria kissed the palace entrance gently, then scooted around behind to plant a kiss on the naked girl’s butt. In response Tami got up on her knees, transferred one knee to the next chair and bent forward, her head over the edge of the table as she kept reading. Rosaria separated the chairs and, tall girl that she was, could sit cross-legged while reaching up to insert her tongue in a different place. Queen Tami was very considerate of her subjects and kept herself clean and well-irrigated for the benefit of those who wished to enter her palace from the rear. Now she bestowed on Rosaria yet another reward, the sound of her Queen’s pleasure. “Mmmmmm…”

All the while Tami kept reading, now and then emitting an “ohh. . .” or a little gasp. Now her subject inserted fingers into her pussy so that the tongue could play off against them. And, of course, the G spot, playing off the fingers of the other hand pressing rearward against the clit. Soon Tami was shaking violently and, another gift, Rosaria sensed her laying her forehead down on the text until the spasms were over. Then with a deep breath and a slight smell of sweat, Tami, future valedictorian that she was, went back to her assigned reading for her English Literature class. That she could concentrate on it and be able to retain it afterwards was in no way taken as a sign of disinterest. It was just part of her mystique.

It was some five minutes later, when Rosaria, exploring the delights of Tami’s rectum, was in the middle of enjoying Tami’s fifth orgasm of the session, that Ms. Tami Smithers was approached by Sarah Wickland.

Sarah Wickland, in-law of Henry Ross, the evil college lawyer, author of Tami’s freshman year torments, who had escaped outside of her reach as well as of everyone else’s. Sarah Wickland, law partner of Brian Cook, whose “rent” at his Pacific coast estate had been to have all his female tenants stay naked, a sore trial for Nina West and company but just a part of everyday life for Tami. Sarah Wickland, whose clients tended to specialize in bondage and discipline, and included the Cronenberg School, and Taft McNamee and his trade in pony girls.

Yet for all the strange things she had seen in her business, Sarah was quite unprepared for what she now witnessed as she drew near. Glad to see Tami after a space of two years and, expecting that Tami, having finally trusted her, would be glad likewise, she stopped when she saw the look of orgasm on her face and, upon further viewing, the crossed legs visible behind her on the floor.

She stopped. Then she continued. She signaled behind her and another woman, a little older than Tami and strikingly beautiful, obediently emerged from the stairwell and followed her.

Not sure how she should handle this situation, Sarah smiled as she stood at the table. Tami smiled too, or tried to, while keeping her eyes determinedly open. In the clutches of orgasm the look in her eyes changed instantaneously. She was a surprised friend, a sleepy fawn, a scared child, a lost soul, a witness to a birth, the Creator of the Universe, an eager girl scout, a sprinter straining for the finish line, a proud countess, a gambler counting cards — fear, love, death, life, redemption . . . every emotion except the one Sarah expected, shame.

“H – hi Ms. Wick – ck -lannnd,” Tami said.

“Hi Tami. You just won’t call me Sarah, will you? They told me I could find you here. Is this a, uh, bad time to talk?”

“N – not at all — ohhh!”

Sarah pulled up the chair across from Tami and sat down. “I bring you greetings from Taft McNamee and his board of directors.” As she spoke the other woman, in a bulky black leather coat and spiky black boots, approached but stayed standing behind her. She wore a studded collar that nicely set off the gorgeous face.

Tami looked up and nodded to her with some effort.

“This is Katie, one of the ponies from the farm. You might remember her. She was your stable mate for a short time.”

Tami’s head jerked a bit as she looked up again. There might have been a look of recognition but her kaleidoscope eyes made it hard to tell. “Hi.”

Katie looked at Sarah, who said, “You may speak.”

Katie said, “Tami, you were called ‘Naked’ when you were with us ponies. I have been elected to say on behalf of all of us, thanks to your bravery the lives of all ponies are greatly improved and we will always be grateful.”

Had Rosaria been listening, she would have found this exchange quite arresting. But she was in another world. Tami experienced the noodlings of Rosaria’s tongue in her rectum, and the fingers bringing her to another orgasm, as she continued to engage in conversation.

“Th-thank you,” Queen Tami said from her throne. “H – how is M – Mr. Cook — ohhh…”

Sarah looked down. “I’m sorry to say that Brian passed away a few months ago. He never did recover from that stroke.”

Tami’s body quaked on the brink but she reached around and firmly placed her hand on Rosaria’s head. Rosaria understood what that meant. She withdrew her tongue and hands, even though it meant leaving Tami quivering and unsatisfied, only a few licks from orgasm.

“That m-makes me very sad,” Tami said, controlling her metabolism.

Part 10

“Yes,” Sarah Wickland said. “It seems like the creator of our entire universe passed away.”

Part 11

Sarah and Tami looked at each other and then looked down as if in respectful silence. Then Tami looked up at Sarah and motioned behind her and Rosaria once again drew her fingers up front into her crotch. She inserted her tongue deep into Tami’s rectum, making Tami flinch and gasp. Sarah, having watched Tami’s all-fours orientation, already had figured out what Rosaria had been doing and knew that she was simply resuming her prior attentions. During this entire time Tami did not break eye contact with Sarah.

Sarah was about to instruct Katie to speak again when Tami launched into a climax, especially violent due to having been left near the peak. Tami seemed waiting for Sarah to say something but it was Sarah, ironically, who was too distracted to continue. The quaking naked student and the well-dressed lawyer looked at each other across as wide a gulf as two human beings can look. When Tami had come down again Katie spoke.

“We bear a gift for you.” She looked to Sarah, who said, “Tami, your trials while you were trying to prove that you had been falsely corralled made a great impression on the farm and indeed on the entire pony girl culture. You were tested by Taft and his board and did not betray your parents even while the tail you were wearing was being made to press against your ovaries. Taft had told me that this was the maximum level of pain that any master was allowed to inflict in his or her pony, equivalent to a man being hit in the testicles. Further neurocerebral research shows that is incorrect. In fact, the pain you underwent is more equivalent to a man having his testicles placed in a vise and gradually tightened until they rupture.

“This discovery, as well as your example, had quite an effect on the pony farm directors, particularly the men. It forced a change in the pony system. As you know, it is an entirely voluntary and humane enterprise. Key to this is the new model of tail. We would like you to have one.”

Katie, drawing from a bag hitherto concealed within her coat, brought out a highly polished wooden shaft about a foot long with a beautiful, multi-colored tail of what looked like horsehair about twice the length of the shaft, and carefully draped it across the table.

“UHH!!” It was Rosaria’s strangled scream, issuing from behind Tami.

Tami, eyes wide open, moved forward a bit and Rosaria fell backward to the floor. The naked girl quickly leaped back and picked Rosaria up, without much effort hefting the tall young woman and sitting her on the table. Rosaria had her hand to her mouth and was in tears. Sarah and Katie looked upon all of this with puzzlement and alarm.

Rosaria put her head against Tami’s breasts as Tami held her head close. “I’m sorry, Ro.” She looked up to Katie. “It’s not your fault, Katie… Let me see.” Rosaria tentatively stuck out her bruised tongue. “Looks O.K. Don’t worry.” Again, Tami held Rosaria against her breasts. Then looked up. “Sorry for the interruption. Seeing this… thing… well it was, like, a shock. My anus contracted.”

“I should have asked her to take her tongue out first,” Sarah said. “I’ll never forget what Figvee said to me. ‘Her rectal tone is amazing’.”

Tami smiled as if she should feel she was being complimented. Meanwhile Rosaria disengaged from Tami’s embrace and said, “I think… bleahhh… I think I’ll be all right. Her thphincter is tho thexy.”

She giggled which gave everyone else permission to laugh, including Katie.

Tami took the tail into both hands. “This was the most humungo thing that was ever in my butt,” she said objectively. And that was saying a lot. “I was so totally impaled, like a specimen of a butterfly.”

Sarah brought forth a little remote and pushed a button. Amazingly, the wood was not wood, it was a convincing plastic imitation. In Tami’s hands the tail began sinuously twisting, like a snake. The naked girl gasped and then, after a long moment, started to giggle. “This is so weird!”

“Tails used to be for pain,” Sarah said. Now they’re for pleasure. The protrusion you see coming out now is designed to rub against the G spot and various other places in the vaginal wall through gentle pressure on the rectal wall. Now masters control their ponies not through punishment but by withholding the reward of orgasm.”

“Reinforcement, rather than punishment,” Tami said. “Or I think. I’m trying to remember back to that Intro Psych course I took.”

“Precisely. And reinforcement is a more powerful motivator. Our ponies have become orgasm addicts, and to get their reward they will do things for their masters that they didn’t in the past. Everybody wins.”

Tami looked at the tail in her hands again, apparently deep in thought.

“It is yours, Naked,” Katie said, “whether you want to use it, or just keep it as a token of our affection and gratitude.”

Tami smiled. “‘Naked’?”

“That is how I remember you.”

“Your pony name was never officially changed, so that’s how you still appear in the farm records,” Sarah said. “Of course, your status is listed as ‘released from contract’.”

Katie said, “I remember how you wrote that call for help on that post-it and reached around with your toes to put it on the stable door.”

Tami said, “I thought you were sleeping.”

Katie smiled. “We real ponies are more aware than you think.”

Sarah said, “Katie is quite an intelligent woman. She and her master have become a professional writing team, writing in technical journals, in the field of heuristics, I think.”

“Ohmigod… Amazing!” Tami enthused. “I took a course that last year. Wow. I feel like I should get your autograph.”

Katie said, “I even wrote a story about you. It’s about how you got into clothes again.”

Tami looked at her a long time. A thoughtful, faraway look.

Sensing the visit had run its course, Sarah said, “Tami, here’s my card. I gave it to you on a previous occasion but, um, you didn’t exactly have a place to put it. Don’t be a stranger. And of course here’s the remote.”

And with that, Sarah and Katie said their goodbyes and left. Rosaria went back to Tami’s embrace and they sat there for a long time, in the quiet library mezzanine with the wind and the slushy rain pounding away outside.

Part 12

In the Student Union, along the wall farthest from the snack bar, at one of those tables that were usually empty, seven young women, of various styles of dress, their winter coats draped on their chairs, sat silently as papers were distributed.

Another meeting of the Tami Lickers.

They had tried other, more dignified names, such as The Priestesses of the Temple, or The Queen’s Court, but none had stuck. As a kind of code they had shortened the painfully obvious name to “the TL’s”.

Georgene spoke. “This shows the full clitoris. As you can see, it’s not just the ‘man in the boat’.”

“Tami refers to it in the feminine,” Myra, a scholarly-looking black girl in glasses and a granny dress, said.

“That’s a good idea… But as you can see, it’s actually a pretty big structure. The clit is like the tip of the iceberg. The bottom of it is the G spot. You can feel it yourself.”

“Actually I hate poking around in there, at least in my own,” Marianne said.

“I know… But the important thing is, when you get into Tami’s front chamber, try to feel the G spot — it’s like bifurcated.”

“I’ve felt it, when I licked her on Tuesday,” Jeane said. “It’s like two little grapes, almost, connected by a stem.”

Georgene said, “The important thing is, don’t be too poky. Tami responds well to stroking that’s gentle. As she gets excited you will feel the two ‘grapes’, like, get a little firmer and more prominent. Tongue the clit at the same time. I haven’t experimented a great deal, and actually I haven’t licked her all week.”

“Poor baby,” said Marianne in a pitying voice.

“Yeah I know, I’ve just been so damn busy. I only see her when she’s outside walking to classes.”

“Then just do her there!” said Spica, a freshman in a punk hairdo and outfit.

“You KNOW she won’t let you do that,” Marianne said.

Barbara, a grad student who was about 30, spoke to Spica in her usual slow and thoughtful manner. “The administration tolerates what we do, because they know Tami needs it. But Tami doesn’t want to cause them embarrassment and all kinds of other problems by the sight of her being licked in public. That’s why we have to find her in semi-private spots like her library table.”

“I think Rosaria’s finding her there now,” Marianne said. “At least that’s what she told me she was going to do.”

“Jen McIntyre was in town, I hear,” Spica said.

“Really? Man I’ve been out of touch,” Georgene said. Jen, foremother of the TL’s and a bottomless spring of useful information, was quite a celebrity to this bunch.

“She had to leave though,” Spica said.

“Damn, we’d like to talk to her about some pointers,” Marianne said.

“Next time I see Tami I’ll try to get Jen’s cell phone… Well, getting back to the G-spot, has anyone found whether alternate clit and G-spot strokes work better?”

Spica said, “I did simultaneous licks and strokes yesterday and she came and came and came.”

“That’s what Tami does,” Marianne said.

“I counted 17 times,” Spica added.

This met with calls of “Brag! Brag! Brag!”

“Just don’t tell her. Tami really hates it when people count,” Jeane said.

“Why is that?” Marianne looked at Barbara.

Barbara thought for a second and said, “I don’t know.”

“When you really get into it, you lose count yourself,” Teresa said. “You’re in such another world, just you and her.”

There was a general murmur of agreement. Except for Melissa, a blonde girl who looked like a model and was new to the club. She sat silently on the side and was taking this all in. She looked at the handout and studied it intently.

She spoke up. “I wonder how that feels like,” she said, “to come so many times, like that?”

Marianne said, “I actually asked her that once. She said it was like being lifted up into the sky, and looking down on all of life from above.”

“Strange,” Jeane said.

“I kind of feel like I’m up there with her at times,” Georgene said.

“It’s what it’s all about,” Marianne said.

Spica said, “That’s not how my own orgasm feels.”

“Well of course it would be different,” Barbara said. “If you have thirty or more orgasms a day, you develop a different perspective.”

“Oh gosh — you think she has that many?” Spica said.

Barbara shrugged. “Just an estimate, between us and what she does at home.”

“I’m surprised Rod isn’t dead by now,” Jeane laughed.

“What about her nipples?” Melissa asked.

“Gentle rubbing between the fingers, after you start the buildup,” Georgene said.

“Can I suck them?”

“Of course, she responds well to that, even a little mild biting. But watch where you are. It can’t be too public. That’s why it’s best to work from below.”

“What if somebody comes by? What if they want to talk to her?”

“Just continue. She can converse through an orgasm. She doesn’t want you to stop. It’s hard to explain, but she kind of feels that asking us to stop would be impolite to us.”

“She’s very considerate. I would hate to have my Tami licking interrupted.”

“A very good, kind Queen,” said Marianne, with equal parts of whimsy and seriousness.

After a brief lull, Georgene brought out a little plastic box. “O.K., let’s get the beat.”

Spica started snapping her fingers in rhythm. Others followed, some trying to push the beat faster, others trying to slow it down, but all snapping more or less together. Far across the room, some guys at a table looked over momentarily.

“O.K., stop.” Then Georgene pushed a button on the box. It was a metronome. Tick – tick – tick – tick –

“Shoot. Too fast again,” Jeane said.

This was part of the training they gave themselves. The metronome was set to tick every 0.8 seconds — the length between orgasmic contractions, according to what they’d read. They knew that, by licking just ahead of the beat, they could extend Tami’s orgasms by a few spasms. So predicting the next spasm was key.

After the business of the meeting was over they got back to regular small talk.

“I got a dress code letter yesterday,” Jeane said.

“Oh God. The crackdown continues,” Barbara said. “What did you do? Show a bit of ankle?”

“I had on a pink tee and they must have seen my navel poking out,” Jeane said. “All this, under my coat that was probably open for a few seconds. That was the part they underlined, anyway.”

She was referring to the campus dress code, which this year was starting to be actually enforced. It was an old dreary document prohibiting bare midriffs, backless or strapless tops, torn jeans, very short shorts, and the like. Any student seen violating it would get an intracampus note with the relevant provision underlined.

“Last week I took off my shoes in the library and they dinged me. I couldn’t believe it,” Spica said.

“Were you wearing socks?”

“No.”

“Well there you have it. Is that a big deal to wear socks?” Marianne said.

“Claudia got dinged for wearing a tube top — under a shirt!”

“Was the shirt open?”

“Well yes.”

“All she has to do is keep it closed. Her own fault.”

“Remember back in October on that nice day when they dinged Roger because he was playing frisbee in bare feet on the grass?”

“That was ridiculous.”

“If they enforce the no flip-flops part when the weather gets warm, there will be a massive revolt.”

“I don’t think they’d be that stupid.”

“Well what did you expect? This is still basically a conservative Baptist college. Us, and Congi, we’re practically the only exceptions.”

The conversation was halted by the approaching sound of bare soles on the cold tile, and the clip-clop of boots. It was Tami and Gretchen with sodas, Tami also with a hero sandwich. Gretchen was toting an umbrella and her overcoat and boots were wet. Tami’s hair was disheveled and wet but her skin was already almost dry, just a few drops on the small of her back.

“Guten tag,” Tami said, placing her soda and hero down. As she stood there she stretched and sighed, apparently unconscious of the near-swoon that the TL’s underwent upon seeing her tan, concave tummy and navel.

The TL’s worshipped Tami’s body, had made drawings of it, taken pictures of various parts of it (with Tami’s permission), knew every naked inch in detail, inside and out. Jeane, whose proclivities were in that direction, even had pet names for each of Tami’s toes. Other common nicknames for her various body parts were “nubs” (nipples), “forest” (pubic hair), “winkie” (anus), “slopes” (the bottom curves of her breasts), “knob” (cervix), and “vault” (rectum). Tami’s body was not only their place of worship but also their playground. As Spica once inartfully but enthusiastically put it, her pussy was their soccer field, her cervix was their monkey bars, her anus the slide into the play shed, her rectum the shed itself, her pussy lips the ropes. Her clit and G-spot together were the see-saw. The TL’s celebrated Tami and in so doing celebrated themselves, the beauty and strength and capacities of the human female.

After Tami stretched, Myra said, “Your forest is beautiful. I like that color.”

Tami looked down and slightly parted her legs. “Thanks. It’s called ‘plum’, according to the box.”

“Wow, did you get every single hair? Even the ones near your winkie?” Spica asked.

“I sure did,” Tami said with pride. She turned around and bent over, spreading her butt cheeks, cheerfully displaying the last hairs on her perineum. They were plum color, every single one. Further down, a space of clear, tanned skin, then the darker brown skin around her much-photographed anus.

“Beautiful job.”

“Thanks, it took a long time,” Tami said as she turned back around, again not seeming to notice the near-swoon of her audience. Or perhaps having gotten used to it.

Tami and Gretchen pulled up chairs. Tami got right to work pigging out. As she did, a couple of the TL’s leaned over and kissed her on the forehead as she smiled through munches.

Sessu, an architecture major from Japan, walked by. He waved to the TL’s and bent down to kiss Tami’s knee. “My Queen,” he said, smiling good-naturedly, then walked on. No male had tried to become a TL, it being unspokenly clear that Tami, faithful to her husband, would never accept it. It was a standing joke that the Queen’s male subjects were restricted to kissing her on the knees, though in fact friendly hugs and kisses on her cheeks (the cheeks of her face, that is) were permitted as with anyone.

Tami practically inhaled the sandwich. As she was finishing she said, “Sorry Gretchen, about that class report.”

“What?”

“That joke about the guns. I was trying to put you at ease but it was stupid.”

“Oh… Well that’s O.K.” Gretchen was glad she hadn’t had to bring it up herself. She had been really quite embarrassed by the presentation, more than she expected, and Tami’s little joke hadn’t helped. She decided to add, “Apology accepted.”

“What’s this about?” Marianne said.

“Nothing,” Gretchen said.

Some more small talk. Seeing a book half-out of Spica’s bookbag, Jeane said, “What is that?”

“The Kama Sutra,” Spica said. “It’s an Indian book of sex positions.”

Gretchen looked at Tami and rolled her eyes.

Looking at the pretzeled couple on the cover, Barbara said, “How could you possibly do that without throwing your back out?”

“Well you old folks have to worry about that,” Spica teased.

“It looks painful to me,” Jeane said. “Tom and I tried something like that once and I almost broke his dick off.”

Talking about sex again. What girls do when they’re together, at least some girls. Gretchen politely excused herself.

“I’ll catch up with you,” Tami said.

After Gretchen left, Marianne said, “It’s more like an athletic event than making love,” looking at the cover.

Barbara said, “Call me old-fashioned, but there’s no getting around the fact that missionary is the most intimate position.”

“I think it’s when we go down on each other,” Jeane said. “He looks up at me, and I look up at him.”

Some thoughful silence. Then Barbara said, “What do you think, Tami? What’s the most intimate position?”

Tami thought, leaned back on her chair sipping her soda, then swung her foot up onto the table, wiggling her toes slowly in thought. Playing with the straw, she said, “Anal sex.”

“Akkk,” Myra said. “That’s painful.”

“It takes some practice,” Tami said.

“How can you say that’s the most intimate?” Myra said.

“Because you’re opening yourself up to him totally, surrendering your body to him, above and beyond what nature intended, a place not designed to accept a penis.”

That thought stilled the conversation for a bit. Then Tami said, “I have to go. Auf wiedersehen.”

“Bye, Queen,” Marianne said.

Tami smiled and stood up. After tossing her empty soda into the waste can with a breast-jiggling jump shot, she gave them a royal bow, then grabbed her bookbag and walked out with a relaxed, upright pace that was decidedly queen-like and regal.

Part 13

The wind and icy rain continued to pelt the quad.

One might think that, of all people, changes in weather would affect Tami, whose naked body had no protection from the elements, the most. In fact it seemed to affect her the least. Summer or winter, hot sun or cold rain, gentle breeze or gale-force wind, Tami walked across the quad with pretty much the same pace, on this occasion her feet splashing casually through the melting slush, her upright frame accepting the cold shower from above, her hair unconcernedly plastered to her shoulders as it got wetter and wetter, rivulets of water ski-jumping unnoticed off her stiff nipples, her tan skin sleek and wet.

Everyone else trudged slowly, shielding their faces from the rain, struggling with balky umbrellas, lurching ponderously in ponchos and raincoats, heavy steps in heavy boots. Tami passed through them easily, having learned the truth: that short term exposure to these conditions, once gotten used to, is not harmful.

True, it was only in warm weather that Tami exhibited what Jeane’s boyfriend Tom called her “earth mother” walk — slow, languid, shoulders thrown back, breasts arched out as if in offering to feed the whole world, soles broadly pressing against the earth as if joining it, arms swinging gently at her sides.

But most times her walk was that of the high achiever she was — a bit quick, purposeful, sure of where she was going and intending to get there on time.

On this afternoon Tami glided effortlessly through the rain and into Rockley Hall, where in the basement lab she found Gretchen leaning over a table. Gretchen turned around upon hearing Tami dropping her backpack. Gretchen’s smile was so broad that it made her goggles slide up.

Tami knew what that meant. Watching where she stepped, she made her way over to the lab table where Gretchen proudly showed her an entire tub filled with golden brown thread.

“Woo hoo!!” Tami yelled, and she picked up the surprised Gretchen, who outweighed her by some 40 pounds, and twirled her around and around in a tight hug. “Come on, let’s go!” She tried to pull her by the hand.

Gretchen made her wait while she cleaned up. Then she covered the tub and started for her coat and umbrella. “I’ll go,” Tami said breathlessly, “take your time.”

A minute later a naked girl could be seen running across the freezing puddles of the main concourse, holding a closed tub above her head, breasts wobbling wildly from side to side in rhythm with her strides, a big smile on her face. Even those well used to seeing Tami in all her moods wondered what was up and looked back at her after she passed. Others moved out of the way so as not to get hit by the wide-angle splashes from her tough bare feet.

As to Gretchen, she did take her time, deciding to record the day’s work, though with a hand shaking with excitement. She battled the elements and finally made it to the dress lab in Thayer Hall. There she found Tami, as expected, seated at a sewing machine. Nearby was the high-speed automatic loom, where almost all the fabric had already been woven.

Tami was using the sewing machine she preferred, the real old style one she had found in a closet and reconditioned last year, the one operated by a see-saw pedal on the floor. She had one eye on a printout of one of her computer generated boot designs. As she worked the see-saw pedal with one foot, her other foot was up on the table where the thread was guided into the machine between her second and third toes, which grasped tightly and then let slack as required.

Tami finished with what looked like a sock. She stuffed it into an unlined rubber boot she had been keeping under the machine.

“OK. You know what to do,” she said.

Gretchen bent down and slipped off one of her waterproof Uggs. A bit bashfully, she took off her white sock, exposing a pale white foot. She put on the new boot and stood up.

“How does it feel?”

Gretchen looked down at the boot next to Tami’s foot and wiggled her toes. “Strange. A little like cotton, but kind of like I’m in steel wool.”

Tami looked down thoughtfully, in the process flicking a lingering drop of rain from her right nipple. “That’s not necessarily a bad thing… It’s good that it feels unique without being uncomfortable.”

The two young women walked out of the dress lab and a bit down the hall, all the while looking at Gretchen’s foot. They sat down in one of the little alcoves that dotted the hallways. Tami sat up cross-legged as Gretchen turned the boot as if modeling it.

This was a below ground level floor. High up on the wall was a little window half-encrusted with melting snow, sustaining the patter of raindrops.

“It’s bunched up a little bit at the toes,” Gretchen said.

“That’s just my fault. I was in such a hurry I didn’t cut it right.”

“Do you think this material will ever get to Joe and Roger?”

“Actually I hope they’re home before then. Joe comes back in three months.”

“Roger comes back in four. Oh Lord…” Gretchen shook her head. “I hope they’re safe.”

They sat awhile in silence. Tami clasped her fingers with her toes with the same ease that anyone else would clasp their hands.

As their minds wandered a bit, Gretchen looked at the nearby candy machine. Resist… resist… she was a chocolate addict and was trying to reform. Suddenly she realized that this was the perfect time. She had thought and thought and thought about it…

“Tam, I’m going home the weekend after next. Want to come with me?”

Tami looked at her for a moment. “What?”

“Come see my family. I’ve told them about you.”

“About me?”

“About you being my good friend,” she quickly said. “I’d love for you to meet my folks, and the rest of the clan. It’s about a two hour drive. We can go Saturday morning, come back Sunday night.”

“You mean Jim-Bob and all that?”

It was Gretchen’s standing Waltons joke about her family. She was the second youngest of seven.

Gretchen looked down at the boot and then made herself look up at her naked friend.

Tami smiled. “If it’s OK with you, it’s OK with me.”

This was a relief, but it also would have been a relief if Tami had said no. Gretchen was trying to treat Tami as a regular good friend. Her upbringing said it was just courteous to invite her. But then —

Suddenly Tami looked up at the window. “Whoa! This is the perfect time! Let’s go outside!” She hopped out onto the floor with a determined double slap.

“What?”

“There’s freezing cold puddles out there now. It’s like the perfect way to test whether it holds heat!”

Gretchen’s mind quickly changed gears. “Tami, it’s a mess out there.”

“Exactly. Who knows — this might be the last time it’s that cold outside. It might be an early spring. And in the cold water the loss of heat will be the most acute. Wicking properties!”

“Uh, yes…” Gretchen had to admit that Tami was right. And so she followed her naked friend as they ran out of the building.

Unfortunately Gretchen had forgotten her umbrella, but a few minutes of freezing rain on her head was a small price to pay for what would be a great breakthrough. Tami took her by the hand out to the grass, where there were still soft patches of snow. Hunting around, they found a large puddle that looked especially deep.

And so it was. Planting the boot in it, the water came halfway up. There must have been a rut here. It was so wide that Gretchen had to stretch a bit to keep her other foot out on the relatively firm snow. Tami stood in the puddle next to the test boot, the water up past her ankles.

Tami said, loudly so as to be heard over the rain, “Does your foot feel cold?”

“What?”

“Does… your… foot… feel… cold?”

Gretchen saw Tami’s bare foot submerged in the freezing cold water right next to the boot, icy mud swirling from between her toes.

“Does your foot feel cold?” Tami shouted again. Sometimes Tami could get a little impatient and testy when she was excited.

“Oh Tam…” Gretchen thought of her foot in the boot and sock and could not stop looking at Tami’s bare toes in the icy puddle.

Tami appeared to recognize the problem. She climbed out of the watery rut and said, “I’ll be at the doorway. Wait one minute if you can. Feel your foot!!”

Gretchen took a deep breath and looked down, finally undistracted. She wiggled her toes again. Then closed her eyes, trying to feel. Yes, her foot was staying warm. There was no chill, or at least very little, possibly due to the poor fit of the sock. She felt the cold rain pelting her hair and face and vowed to endure…

Sixty seconds later she was splashing back to Thayer Hall, each step a great effort trying to lift the test boot, and the Ugg on the other foot, out of mud that was like glue. Tami was in the doorway as promised, but came out to the sidewalk to meet her. “Well?”

Gretched smiled as if to bring warmth to her friend. “Yes! It’s nice and warm and snuggly!”

“Yes! Yes!” The two friends, rain pouring down on their heads, hugged. Tami once again picked Gretchen up and twirled her around, the water from their wet hair spraying out in a double helix around them, prompting a second glance from the passersby as they trudged slowly through the wind and the icy rain in their umbrellas and boots and raincoats.

Part 14

Rod was lucky this day. They were ready to work on the new dam, had all the kinks worked out, but the rain came and would not let up. There was no planning or paperwork to do while waiting; it had all been done. So he got to go home early.

Driving back home he realized how tired he was. He was doing better recently. Inspired by Tami’s pep talk, he had quit trying to decide whether his boss was a good boss or a bad boss or whether he was being treated fairly or unfairly. Instead he decided to act like a major league rookie who knew he was lucky to be invited up to the big time and determined to do the best job he could. As a result things were going more smoothly. His boss seemed to be easing up on him.

Looking at his watch he saw that Tami would be in the middle of one of her “therapy” sessions over at the Chalfont Institute. He thought about stopping by. Dr. Kantor, a pleasant but boring man, had said hi to him now and then when he came to pick Tami up. He had also met Dr. Abu Jamal, who after Dr. Schnitzer retired had become the new director at Chalfont. A rather high-strung guy from Pakistan. Both were undoubtedly well-meaning, obviously feeling obligated to cure Tami after all that she had been through under their roof.

They had seemingly tried everything. Tami didn’t say much about it, but when he pumped her for details she told him about the talking therapy, the behavior modification therapy, hypnosis, the testing of her skin responses. The last time he came by, Tami was in a lab room standing up on an exam table, stretched out into an “X”, grasping a long metal bar near the ceiling, wires taped to her skin, while Dr. Kantor and his assistants positioned loops of fabrics around her body. He could see the goose bumps, the stiffening of her already erect nipples, even her pubic hair seemed to stand on end when the “covering” got too close. These therapies seemed very mild and tentative, but they were the experts, not him. Also, to be fair, they probably didn’t want to risk causing any further harm.

He decided he was too tired to go to Chalfont and went straight home. He fell on the bed without taking off his clothes and was soon asleep.

. . . .

It was a scary, uncomfortable feeling. He felt decidedly out of place with his suit and attache case, following El Hamad down the stone steps. As special American envoy this was the most important assignment of his life. But thus far El Hamad had been rather chilly and almost brusque, with little of his famous charm.

The passageway got darker and the steps more uneven. A sentry followed him.

Yet another, increasingly narrow stairwell down, and the air got downright chilly. As they passed under a bare light bulb he could see his breath in little clouds. Finally they reached the rock bottom, the subbasement.

It took his eyes a while to adjust to the darkness. It was an enormous room divided by a stone wall. The floor was rocky and uneven, as if bedrock had been chipped into to create this level with no attempt to make a true floor. He could feel the pointy outcrops through his shiny, leather-soled shoes which slipped and bent as he tried to keep up.

He sensed her dark silhouette as they approached. And then was spooked by dull green flickers that turned out to be her eyes. The sentry lit an oil lamp on the wall.

It was recognizably Tami, but this naked girl was almost his height. Standing upright, legs apart, her dirty bare feet cuffed to rivets in the rock. Her skin was brown, in fact almost as dark as his own, contrasting with her green eyes in the flickering light. Her arms were drawn back, a heavy chain connecting her wrists to the wall behind. Her breasts were enormous, standing straight out like brown mountains over her concave tummy. Her nipples, gigantic and stiff in the cold, were pierced with rough thick iron rings three inches across that hung down in the chilly air. Below, one could dimly see her abundant pubic bush.

“Irish,” El Hamad said. “Strong race. She could kill me with her bare hands, and probably wants to.” She looked at him with undisguised hatred, her tummy breathing in and out with her passion. Then as he feared, she turned her gaze on him.

“What was her offense?” he said as blandly as he could.

El Hamad shrugged. “I forget.”

He looked around. Except for them the entire level was empty. “Is she being punished?”

“No, this is her usual position when not performing hard labor.”

“Where is her cell?”

El Hamad looked at him and waved his hand. “This IS her cell. She sleeps with one ankle cuffed.”

There was no bed, no toilet. She slept naked on these pointy rocks?

“It’s very cold down here,” he said.

“Like I told you, a strong race. She’s been naked for three months now. Hard labor keeps her toned. Of course, we have a purpose.” El Hamad took out a flashlight and took him behind her. He gasped. Coming up out of the floor at an angle was a rusty iron shaft about two inches thick that disappeared between her taut butt cheeks.

As if to increase his consternation, El Hamad asked his sentry, “What’s the penetration?”

“Eight inches.”

Open-mouthed in astonishment, he just couldn’t forsake his duty and said what he had to say. “You must be aware that this violates the Geneva Convention.”

El Hamad laughed. “Oh really. And what country are you from?”

He bit his lip. This was untenable. His country was aware of El Hamad’s human rights abuses, and had been willing to look the other way because they needed his help. But now El Hamad was rubbing this outrage right in his face.

He saw a way out. This might be a vital interrogation. “What information do you hope to get out of her?”

Another laugh. “This is not a spy movie.” A small recorder emerged from El Hamad’s pocket. Resplendent in his full-dress uniform, he faced the the naked prisoner. She spat at him.

El Hamad laughed and wiped it off with a handkerchief. “Good thing we’d rather have you alive… Now confess to the bombing.”

She glared at him, her huge breasts heaving, the rings rising and falling.

El Hamad slowly twisted one of the rings ninety degrees. She was stoic but by the time he twisted to 180 degrees she was clearly trying to hide her pain.

The recorder came out again. “You know the words to say. Whether you actually did it or not is of no moment. Say what needs to be said.”

She refused. The sentry, with a hammer from his coat, struck the iron shaft fiercely. The clang reverberated through the dank empty basement. The naked prisoner tried to shift her feet and stifled a cry, her breasts bouncing ponderously. The pain in her abused sphincter and rectum must have been horrible.

She looked right at him with green fire in her eyes. She had not said a word. Was she demanding that he help her? Or condemning him for not doing so?

Now, the sound of rushing water from behind. He turned around — was the basement being flooded?

. . . .

Rod awoke with a start. He found himself still in his suit and shoes, lying on the bed. He staggered to his feet, disoriented. He had had dreams about Tami before — sometimes as a naked superheroine, saving the world in comic book fashion from evil, sometimes as a naked Olympic swimmer whom he was coaching, often as a naked Queen on her throne whom he approached in supplication, even as a naked paper girl who delivered the newspaper every day. But this was the first time his dream-Tami had been imprisoned or abused.

It was past seven o’clock. He had been asleep for four hours. Glad he was in the comforting real world again, he lurched to the bathroom and the sound he knew so well, of Tami taking one of her bubble baths.

She had just turned the faucet off with her foot. This was one of those old-style free-standing tubs with legs. Lying fully submerged except for her head and her bent knees, her eyes closed, a little smile on her face. “Mmmmm…” Despite the bubbles he could see almost her entire body, her breasts buoyant.

She opened her eyes as if expecting him. He told her about his dream.

She giggled, a low, womanly giggle which made the water ripple. Lifting her feet up to the sides of the tub and wiggling her bubbly toes, she said, “Fortunately my circumstances are not quite that desperate.”

He put the toilet cover down and sat next to the tub. He noticed the unadorned third toe and picked up the wedding ring she had she placed on the floor. “I think it’s getting too tight,” she said. “It gets uncomfortable sometimes.”

He looked down at her. “You don’t seem to be gaining weight.”

“No,” she looked down at her tummy. “The rec center takes care of that.”

Rod watched absently as Tami’s nipples broke the surface and then submerged in the little ripples, and thought again about his dream. “You were in a dungeon. That was like at the pony farm, right?”

“No, I wouldn’t call it a dungeon. They kept us in a stable with straw on the floor but everything there looked pretty expensive. The food was certainly better than here.”

“Ho ho,” Rod said with a smile. A reference to his disastrous attempt at lasagna last night. Which Tami, with her winter appetite, ate anyway.

“So what were you working on today?”

“Dragging seedlings out to the campus lawn. It was a slippery, muddy mess in that rain. I fell three times. I needed this bath b-a-a-d.”

“No, not the grounds crew, I mean at Chalfont.”

“Galvanic skin tests.”

Rod exhaled in exasperation.

“And,” Tami said with a smile, “we got the polymer to thread. I made a boot out of it. Gretchen put her foot into a puddle and said it kept her warm.”

“Great! — So where is this headed?”

“Ling told me the government is interested. They might send us some things to sign.”

“Wow…”

“And not only that,” Tami said, “I got an interesting gift from a visitor. Look under the sink.”

Rod at first did not know what this huge object was that he was dragging out of the cabinet, but as he supported it in his hands he suddenly looked at it in horror. “God… this isn’t…”

“It’s not exactly what they stuck in me. Mrs. Wickland says it’s improved and they’re not into punishment any more. There’s a remote there too. Push the purple button.”

Rod found the remote and dropped the huge tail in surprise as it buzzed. “So now this is a vibrator?”

“Ja. Sehr nett?” Which meant, “Very nice?”

Rod held it in his hands. “I can’t believe this whole wooden part went inside you.”

“I had had a lot of practice at the time.”

Rod remembered Tami’s account of the huge dildos pistoning into both her holes at Chalfont under McMasters’s direction. “It seems impossible.”

“No, it’s possible.”

He thought again about the old plantation grounds, the pony girl system. That the slaves were there by choice made it in way worse. “What a sick enterprise. Playing master and slave.”

“I had a dream about it once that wasn’t too bad.”

“Oh really. I suppose you were the lady of the manor?”

“No, I was the barefoot Irish kitchen girl. You were a field slave out picking cotton.”

Rod cocked his eyebrow. A black person and a white person would have different ideas about such a dream.

“We would wink at each other, and one day we both escaped into the countryside, made love under the stars, and built a little hut to live in.”

“If I was a field slave I wouldn’t get a chance to see you, much less wink at you.”

“It was a dream, Rod!”

Well maybe that was not so bad. Tami sat up in the tub, water coursing from her nipples, and kissed Rod’s adorable shaved head. He watched as she settled back in. Her famous pubic fronds, buoyed by the water, waved to and fro like wheat in a lazy summer wind. Plum-colored wheat, of course.

“Got home early?” she said, sliding down some more.

“Yes. No work at the moment.”

“Me too. It’s a night for chilling out.”

He took one last look at her submerged charms and then started out the bathroom.

The ominous whoosh of water into a cave. He looked back and she had braced her feet against the sides with toes spread. He knew this well — she was a cobra rising to pounce. He tried to make a run for it and almost made it into the kitchen. But fifteen feet was well within her range. She raised her body up and a long thin squirt of bath water arced out from her womanly depths and hit him square in the back of his jacket. The female hunter-gatherer had once again arrowed her prey.

“Damn,” he laughed. The only thing to do was swear revenge.

Part 15

In the kitchen, his wet jacket drying on a chair, Rod puttered around for something to make for supper. It was his turn again. He decided on what he was good at, salad with hard boiled eggs, cheese, and a side of toast.

As he was getting out the lettuce he heard the splashing and dripping of water. Tami was getting out of her bubble bath. She used to try to invite him in with her but the tub wasn’t really big enough and, besides, she liked the water really hot, which he found suffocating.

“Aiee! Damn!” she suddenly shouted.

When he got there he saw his dripping nude wife looking at a big white towel on the floor.

“That thing is like fire!” she said. She reached down for it but drew her hand away at the touch.

Rod picked it up. It felt like the same old towel as always. The two searched for an explanation. “Maybe you’re allergic to the detergent. Did you buy a different brand? I know I haven’t.”

“No.”

He went to the linen closet. Unfortunately their other towels (all four of them) were in the dirty clothes hamper, leaving just some scratchy wash cloths. He threw three to Tami. In spite of his concern, Rod always found it sexy seeing her dry herself off.

He put the white towel in the hamper, intending on doing the wash later, then went back to the kitchen. Now a voice from the living room. “Rod.”

He found her there sitting cross-legged on the upholstered couch, leaning against a pillow.

“I don’t feel so good. I feel… I don’t know, like I’m going to throw up.”

Now he was really concerned. In all the time he knew her Tami had not once gotten sick. In Pilgrim Hall she was famous for it. They both figured it was because the constant exposure to the elements had toughened her. It was something she cited with pride during her embrace of “the theory of nudism” last year.

He didn’t know what to do but she seemed so confused as to be helpless. He pulled her up by the hand and led her to the kitchen. Once on the cold tile floor she sighed. Then she sat down on it, breathing deeply. She opened her eyes and seemed to have recovered. Then she drew a glass of water.

“Rod,” she said, “let’s get some air.”

Tami led him out the back door. The half moon was out. The forecast had been wrong; it looked like it was freezing up again tonight. They stood on the re-freezing crusty snow in the back yard. He watched as she took some more deep breaths, exhaling in little clouds of condensation, over her nipples that were stiffening with the cold. Wisps of mist emanated from her body, still hot and moist from the bath. Then she squatted and peed. She never had a bashful kidney when it was just her and Rod, or some of her close friends. Sometimes they would stand in a circle around her, conversation going on without interruption as she relieved herself.

Rod and Tami both watched the steaming yellow hole that formed in the snow.

As the jet of urine slackened she looked up and said, “I want some eggs. Let’s go eat at the Plaza.”

In this town, that meant the Plaza Diner, three blocks away on Water Street. The snow crunched under her feet as she slowly sauntered to the side gate with an even gait.

“Wait, Babe, while I get my coat.” Rod also changed into his boots.

In a minute they were walking hand in hand down the small side street. He tried not to look over at her. Fortunately she seemed OK. By the time they got to the diner and she waved to Theo, the owner, and they got their favorite table at the back, it was back to being a normal night.

It would be too much to call the three-eggs-and-steak plate the “Tami winter special”, but that would have been appropriate, because hardly anyone else ordered it. Rod picked at his own pancakes as she started wolfing it down.

He brought up something that had been bothering him. “I still can’t believe you were so… casual about accepting that tail thing, that monstrosity, as a gift from that lawyer. Don’t you remember what they did to you?”

“It was mistaken identity. Anyway, it seems like it was a hundred years ago.” She leaned over and rubbed his scalp like it was a Buddha’s belly and she was wishing for good luck. In the process her breast leaned into her potatoes. She wiped it off with a napkin as she said, “What am I supposed to do, relive it over and over? If I dwelt on all that old stuff I’d go crazy.”

She had a point. That summer was three years ago, almost. She was just turning 19 then. From 19 to 22 is a long period in a person’s life. More than 22 to 25 was, as with him. It was a condescending thought, and Tami had been through enough trauma and shame for several lifetimes. But nonetheless true.

Rod wondered about that dream he had. What did it mean? That Tami was being tortured inside and it was up to him to help? Yet she seemed so well-adjusted to what life had handed her. Except for Henry Ross and Dean Jorgon and a few others, all of whom were gone, she had forgiven everyone involved in her freshman year torments. As she put it once, they were simply under mistaken impressions created by a couple of bad people. She was even on good terms with Homer Winant now, that clever creep. And who was Rod to say that this peace of mind was not real? It certainly seemed real to him. She never had unsettling dreams, like the one he just had.

As she sipped orange juice she giggled.

“What.”

“I was just thinking — what if I wore that tail around campus?”

All Rod could think of was how uncomfortable it would be, but he saw how it might be funny and played along. “Maybe just to parties?”

“Or special occasions. Like graduation.”

Now he did laugh. “Your valedictorian speech.”

He thought about sitting in the audience, using the remote to bring her to orgasm after orgasm as she spoke. Maybe he shouldn’t be turned on, considering her freshman year experiences. But still…

Stuffed for now, Tami sat back and put her feet up on the opposite seat, on each side of Rod. She fondled the sides of his jeans with her toes.

“How are your fans doing?”

“Attentive as ever. Spica keeps bringing up the idea of an after-hours get-together.”

“Who?”

“Spica. She’s a freshman. I don’t think you’ve met her yet.”

“Is this the ‘Tami-thon’ idea again?”

“Kind of.”

The two of them had never gotten each other’s views on this long-standing proposal because neither was sure what they thought about it themselves. But now Rod found himself saying, “If they want to do it at our house, that’s O.K. I’d like to be there, though.”

Tami looked at Rod. “It sounds too, like, intimate for you not to be there. Think of it as having Jen and Leisha visiting. The expanded version.”

“I don’t know if we can afford all that fine wine.”

“Not for me.”

“No?”

“No, I prefer keeping my senses sharp. Like when I’m with you.”

So there he had it. The marathon, multi-tongue party idea had been OK with Tami all along.

Tami said, “You know, about this tail… If it does what Ms. Wickland says it does, it would come in handy, like the bra and panties from Chalfont.” Which she couldn’t wear any more.

The tail would certainly mean less work for him every night. He could just watch, or maybe work the remote, while her immense sexual thirst was quenched, instead of doing all that work of humping from below, from above, licking, sucking, always holding back, managing her orgasms so to speak. Instead, he could hold her hand as she spasmed to her heart’s (or clit’s) content, and just “come in” for the finish.

“The important thing is that I am with you, Babe.”

Tami inserted a sausage in a hole in Rod’s pancake, which made him chuckle. “You know I was doing all sorts of tasks while wearing that tail thing. Chopping branches, pulling buggies…”

“Babe, please — I don’t want to hear about it.”

“My point is, sometimes I think it’s all work for you and all pleasure for me.”

“I don’t have your capacity.”

“Still. The tail will free up my hands and mouth and everything, to give you pleasure.”

“You DO give me pleasure.” At least as much as he could stand, considering he could only come once or maybe twice a night. Sundays, which they tried to reserve for being alone, he could usually come four times during the course of the day.

“What I’m thinking of is the TL’s,” Tami said. “They don’t ever want pleasure for themselves. All they want is to make me come a lot. And it’s not like they’re playing me like a pinball machine like you say. It’s kind of selfless. Maybe I’m reading too much into it, but the way they get into it seems almost mystical.” She finished the last of her toast and then looked out the window into the black night. “I’m too much on the receiving end. I should devote myself more to pleasuring you. Be an RL. A Rod Licker.”

Rod did not know what to make of this strange turn of the conversation. After a moment, he changed the subject.

“How’s Joe doing?”

“O.K. It’s a crummy situation all around but at least he’s not getting shot at and he enjoys what he’s doing.”

“And what’s that? He’s with the 101st, right?”

“Yeah, but he’s in ordnance. The guys who repair stuff and put it back together… I’m still amazed that Joe found his calling so quick. He used to be a total klutz mechanically. I told you about the time I had to run all the way to church to jump-start the car on Christmas morning because he didn’t know how.”

Yes, Rod remembered that story, from her freshman year.

“And his grades were never very good. Then after high school he decided to enlist. He was inspired by 9/11, of course, but then when they put him in mechanic school he suddenly took right to it. Really the first thing he’s ever tried that he was a ‘natural’ at. . . If only they could have kept him at Killeen, instead of going to Iraq. They’re really stretched for troops.”

“Yes. I hear. My cousin’s there.” Actually a rather distant cousin, from relatives in Detroit.

“Oh right, I forgot. Well a friend of Joe’s tried to get a hardship transfer back to the States because his uncle died. He couldn’t get it. You have to be practically the only remaining source of support for 23 disabled children. Well,” she said, stirring her coffee, “at least Joe’ll be back soon.”

“May?”

“Either that or early June.”

“I’m curious. How did your father react to his picking the Army instead of the Navy?”

Tami chuckled, while wiping a drop of ketchup off her nipple. “That business about competition between the services is really not true. At least not with Dad.”

The diner was almost empty on this winter night. Tami’s position at their table was always facing away from the door. This way, if an out-of-towner walked in, which was unusual, he would see only her bare shoulders and naturally conclude that she was in a strapless dress. Now Rod saw a couple of scary-looking guys come in and sit at the counter. Maybe not scary. They were more like goofy and loud, and Tami’s shoulders caught their attention.

Rod choreographed the situation as he usually did. Before they got too curious he asked for the check, then got up and made a show of flapping his coat around before putting it on, blocking the view. Tami got the signal and shot out the back door. Rod followed and the two walked back to the house along the path hidden behind a row of shrubs.

When they got back they sat around in the kitchen while Rod examined the tail minutely and tried the remote. There was a purple button but also a small touch-pad like a laptop has. Running the finger along the touch pad caused a little bump to travel along the shaft at the same speed. They both laughed at this, amazed at the ingenuity.

She got up on the table on all fours. Maybe some day she could accept this huge thing inside her again, but he didn’t dare try that yet. Instead he got out one of Tami’s selection of regular size dildoes, dabbed it with lubricant, and slowly worked it into her anus.

He hadn’t done work in Tami’s back door in a while. For now, he satisfied himself with using the tail as a big vibrator, pressing it against her clit as he worked the dildo in and out. He was rewarded with several short, sharp climaxes. Small climaxes for Tami, but no less satisfying to see.

Back in bed, he tried training the vibrating tail on her clit again as he slowly screwed her from below. Unfortunately the vibrations on his dick were too direct and his dick went numb, which was pretty funny. He ended up not coming himself, finishing the evening by licking Tami to several long, slow, rolling orgasms.

Part 16

Melissa, the new TL, smiled as she sat down at one of the chilly concrete tables in the Student Union courtyard. Tall, blonde, beautiful, she looked like a model and instinctively dressed like one, this time in a black carriage coat with blue scarf, black snow cap, straight leg jeans and long black boots. Every passing guy gave her a long look, but she was used to that and ignored them, focused on the object of her desire and thanking her luck.

It had become cloudy and a bit windy, but the courtyard was still filled with students and faculty during this lunchtime hour. Some were sitting at the round tables, some were standing, but none were at the table in the middle except Tami Smithers, lying on her back right on top, arms and legs spread out, snoozing.

The morning had been sunny and gloriously warm, a preview of the spring that was still some weeks away. Melissa had heard that Tami had taken an early lunch with some friends, sitting cross-legged on the table as she often did, and then as they left dropped off into one of her famous midday naps. When Melissa heard the news, the sun had disappeared, the clouds had come out, the temperature dropped. She had rushed over. Fortunately the cold hadn’t awakened Tami yet.

This was not an unusual scene and the people in the courtyard took the naked slumberer in stride, almost as if she were a sculpture of a naked woman that was always there. They drank coffee, ate, chatted about their business, only a few glancing at the naked form, mostly passing guys who stopped by on a pretense but were careful to get going lest they be thought gawking. A few brave persons began to sit at Tami’s table, careful not to be too near a bare foot. In the process of turning in her sleep, Tami had been known to kick over sodas and worse, one fine autumn afternoon having upturned a plate of spaghetti into a professor’s lap. All the while without waking.

She was bound to wake up soon. Continuing to nap in this chill would be impossible even for her. Melissa watched, entranced, at the sight of pubic hair being ruffled by wind in the midst of the crowded courtyard. Tami stretched and turned onto her side, facing her. Her nose twitched, then little twitches of the hands. Tami’s pinky toes extended. Her breasts trembled ever so slightly, the stiff nipples pointing right at Melissa. Tami must be dreaming. What was she dreaming of? There was always speculation. Maybe she was dreaming of running. Maybe of gymnastics, her old sport. The most common speculation, oddly, was the most ridiculous: that she was dreaming of wearing clothes and shoes.

Now Tami lay on her back again, legs straight out, arms stretched over her head, sticking out from the end of the table. Her nipples poked up to the sky. It was hard to believe that she could sleep like this, bare skin scraping against cold concrete, but everyone knew she had slept on all kinds of rough surfaces during her legendary cross-country journey. Now her legs separated again, one knee slightly bent. Melissa could see the lower lips parting ever so slightly, perhaps the nub of her clit showing, she wasn’t sure. Tami’s mouth opened and Melissa suppressed a giggle as Tami started snoring. There were other smiles too. On the inhale Tami sounded like a revving motorcycle.

Now that guy in the wheelchair from the administration, whom everyone called Homer, wheeled up with a tall guy in a suit and with Assistant Dean Congi. All were wearing overcoats, Congi in suede gloves. They stationed themselves in front of Tami, practically between her spread legs, and chatted, then turned to her as if expecting her to wake.

Wake she did, cutting off in mid-snore, opening her eyes, blinking back into a consciousness of her surroundings, then lifting her head to say hi to the three with a total lack of surprise. With her legs still spread, she spoke a little in that position, just her head lifted. To look her in the eye they probably had to look right past her open pussy. Yet Tami made no attempt to close her legs or change position until a minute later, when she laid her head back, stretched like a yawning cat, then sat cross-legged to continue the conversation. Midway through she gave Melissa a thril by idly scratching one of her big, dark brown, permanently erect nipples, making her breasts dance for a second.

The exchange was obviously cordial, though Melissa couldn’t make out what they were talking about. Soon Homer, Congi, and the tall guy left. It was time to make her move.

She decided not to be hokey with any “my Queen” business, it being her first time. “Hi Tami,” she said, standing next to the table. She slowly extended her hand, being unable to resist a quick glance down at those nipples whose sensitivity made further words unnecessary. Tami smiled a royal-looking smile and allowed Melissa to help her off the table. As Tami stood up she brushed bits of concrete grit off her butt cheeks. Then Melissa led her from the courtyard, up toward the library walkway. Tami kept up with her as they went up silently.

Tami had nothing with her. She kept her things in a locker in the Union with a combination lock, walking without carrying anything whenever possible. Nobody knew why this was. Maybe it reminded her of her journey across the country with no money or clothes or things, just her bare body. It just added to her reputation, the icon of female strength that the TL’s all but worshipped.

Melissa had planned it well and the area turned out to be deserted. It was the series of concrete tables on the edge of the big plaza outside the upper library level, near what was technically the main entrance but rarely used because the whole plaza was so out of the way. She guided Tami to one of the tables and sat Tami down at it while she herself sat on the bench.

Tami’s pussy was at her eye level and she looked up as if asking permission. Upon seeing the silent smile Melissa began. She kissed the plum-colored forest, the opening to the royal palace, then stood up to kiss and then tenderly suck each nipple. Tami closed her eyes, her head back, and began to breathe deeply. Melissa grabbed one bare foot in each hand and intertwined her fingers with the rough cold toes. The toes clasped back with amazing strength.

Now a gentle series of kisses down the tan, concave midriff, on the navel, and down the thickening forest. A hot breath on the lower lips. Melissa’s hands wrapped around the taut butt cheeks and her breath quickened as she inhaled the first scent of Tami’s secretions. Her tongue inserted, at first pointed and now flat against the inner lips, and she got her first taste of the famous nectar. Not sweet, not bitter, a mellowed yet distinctive essence, grown-up womanly and frisky girlish, so hard to describe yet so immediately recognizable, this essence of female. She burrowed deeper, remembering what she had learned, flat tongue side to side, regulating her own breathing, and now, an occasional swipe of the clit, rewarded by the little gasps above.

She continued for a couple of minutes before a slight grinding of Tami’s pelvis told her it was time to “take her up”. More determined, deeper burrowing, now up and down to include the clit, the nerve-rich uniqueness of the female, the only body part devoted exclusively to sexual pleasure, and now Tami found her own rhythm, and the two women synchronized their breathing, together in the ancient dance, and the naked goddess now cried out over and over, gasping as if for air but also to the skies and to the earth. Now the bare feet braced against Melissa’s thighs on the bench and the great arching of the pelvis, the inhaling of air between clenched teeth, and now the great waves beat upon the shore, one after the other. Melissa was with her all the way, spasm after spasm, holding on for dear life, as if hugging a little motor boat bouncing across a choppy sea, as Tami took her up with her. The last irregular spasm spent itself, and now Melissa slackened just a bit, then returned to the flat tongue rhythm, keeping the naked girl on the plateau.

They were together up in the sky, whirling around this axis of tongue and clit. Now Melissa darted in, way in, and pulled the butt cheeks apart and in toward her, and her Queen moaned continuously as the tongue melded into her femininity, as if the tongue reached all the way in to snake around each ovary to caress and stimulate it, to secret itself into the cervix and all the way up the uterus, to the essence of the female and her gift of life. Melissa felt a hot sweat on her face, hotness under her many clothes, privileged to be present at this sacred moment, as Tami crested again and exploded with a loud cry.

Tami and Melissa traveled through the ages, looked down on empires and civilizations as they rose and fell, the projects and intrigues of men, while they themselves flew on, ageless and all-knowing and indestructible. Their joy was the joy of the universe, the pulsating, orgasmic surge of life. They were the sun and earth, earth and moon, and now they were a double sun revolving around each other, setting the universe ablaze with light, spiraling out radiation and hot sun spirit. . . Tami caressed Melissa’s hair, her supple feet wrapped around and caressed the coat and scarf around her shoulders and back, the embrace mutual.

Thousands of years went by, and countless eruptions, as like a volcano Tami quaked and subsided and quaked and subsided. Now Melissa felt the call of ambition. She inserted her fingers way, way in, then gently hooked upward, finding the little twin grapes and pressed them toward her tongue. Tami lurched. “Ohh!! Y – yes!” Melissa tongued the clit, then pressed, working the clit and G-spot like a see-saw, as the pelvis shook and shook some more in unbearable escalating tension.

Now Tami’s legs shot out straight with terrific force as if dealt a death blow. She shrieked as the first jolt hit, the first of a new and stronger series, and Melissa wrapped her arms more fully around her butt in a looser yet more all-encompassing embrace. Shriek after shriek echoed off the cold concrete architecture of the big deserted plaza. Melissa could not keep count but imagined someone might be watching, counting the contractions of this prolonged orgasm with awe and envy. With each jolt Melissa felt herself shooting up to the heavens with Tami like an astronaut in a rocket.

After it was over Melissa looked up, tongue still inserted in its home, to survey the quietness of Tami now lying back in rest on the table, breasts heaving with the recapture of oxygen, sweat drying, her body a strewn landscape after a violent storm. Now for a little comedy. Melissa flicked up to the clitoris to see Tami’s whole body jolt upward. Another flick, another jolt, making Tami giggle, her belly and breasts jiggling. More flicks, in a steadily quickening rhythm, and now Tami’s body jerked and jerked and she laughed and trilled like a bird, and the Queen bestowed her last orgasm on her subject like that, light-hearted trilling and laughing as she went up and then came down, like the last act of a Shakespearean drama, after all the heights and depths of drama, a little comedic epilogue to make the audience go home happy.

Melissa rested the side of her head on Tami’s forest, like a child at her mother’s breast. Now she separated, lying back on the back of the bench. Her tongue was sore, but only a little, and her whole body, recovering from the experience, was pleasantly tired and a little sweaty. She became aware of the chilly wind again and was grateful for the coolness. She held her hand up to her nose to whiff the drying scent. She had never felt so satisfied, so… fulfilled.

Now she found Tami hugging her. “Thanks,” the naked Queen said softly, “I’m glad you came.” After a tender moment Tami separated and said, “What time to you have?”

“Uh… Five minutes to two.” It seemed like but moments but in fact they had been in commmunion for almost half an hour.

“Gotta get going. See you around.” And with that Tami sprinted off across the plaza, pumping her arms like an athlete, her soles a sandpapery whisper on the concrete. She passed a few people coming this way and waved as they waved back. Just before she turned out of site at the far end, her fingers scraped the back of her head, as if to unstick hair that had gotten sweated on. And then with a final flick of an upturned sole she was gone.

. . . .

Marianne watched, more or less helplessly, as Tami hefted the big trunk onto the top of her little BMW. At least she was of some assistance when it came to tying it down, holding the rope down with her thumb as Tami did the knots. Soon the loading was done and Marianne, up until now a TL, stood there in her sweater coat and jeans and sneakers, car keys in her hand, looking down at Tami’s bare feet and legs on the wet gravelly shoulder, then again at her car, aimed down High Street in the direction of the interstate ten miles away.

“It still seems odd to quit in the middle of your last semester,” Tami said.

“It’s what I should do, Tam. My mother needs me at home.”

“She has the nurse.”

“Yes but she needs ME. I should be there. I think of all the times she took care of me when I was sick, all those years as a single parent, just me and her. Now it’s my turn to take care of her.”

That her mother would likely recover from her latest relapse was known to both of them. Of course Tami did not point this out.

“It was you who put me in a place where I could make this decision, Tami,” Marianne said, deciding this was the time to look her full in the face. “When I first came here I was a spoiled kid, only interested in myself. To make any kind of sacrifice was just not something that would have occurred to me.”

Tami did not correct her, tactfully, because both of them knew it was true.

“But with you I learned selflessness. At first I thought Georgene was some kind of New Age airhead for talking about the mysticism of licking you. But as I got better at it, and more into it, and you took me up with you to see the whole world at a glance, all around us, without having to turn, with you holding onto me to keep me from falling, my perspective expanded. It went way beyond sex. You taught me how to give of myself. How one gets more out of giving than out of taking. Any good mother knows that. As I now realize. And it is high time I become a good mother to my own mother.”

“Best of luck,” Tami said. “Stay in touch. Tell your mother I said hi and we pray for her.”

Marianne reached around Tami’s bare shoulders and gave her the biggest, teariest hug she ever gave. “Bye, my Queen,” she said with a chuckle and a sniffle. She got in the car and turned the key and then stuck her head out the window to say a few more words.

She saw Tami waving in the rear view mirror and then the road curved and her permanently naked friend was out of her line of vision. Fortunately as she reflected on her long drive home, down past Brattleboro and Springfield and Hartford, the words she left Tami with, well-rehearsed, remained the exact words she had wanted to say. They were the words of a 21-year-old who was trying to be profound but was utterly sincere. “If we are lucky, we meet someone who shows us who we are, what the really important things are in this life, and how to pursue them in a way that is honest and worthwhile. It is hard to say in words because it cannot be taught in words, just by example. In the life that happens to be mine, that person was you, Tami Smithers.”

Part 17

Homer Winant wheeled himself into the Recreation Center atrium, the big, high-roofed arena that held all the center’s equipment, the weight machines, the gymnastics area, the pool, and the volleyball court, with an oval track running around everything. He liked to come here every once in a while, as he did now on this cloudy late winter evening, to see if everything was in order, the equipment in shape, the heat on.

He wheeled with his hands, hating those mechanized wheelchairs, and wore his trademark “Grafton Transmissions” baseball cap. But he was still in his suit, being a college bigwig now. He was the Assistant Dean for Administration, in charge of the physical plant, the dorms, the meal plans. As he put it, “I keep the lights on around here.” Actually he was just the “Acting” Assistant Dean; he did not have the advanced degree for a permanent appointment, despite having been encouraged to get one. Sitting in classes always bored him. And his job was not in jeopardy. When old Hicks finally retired, they were forced to admit that Homer Winant, who had been doing most of Hicks’s job anyway, was the logical replacement. He knew the campus inside out. And he “knew where the bodies were buried”.

Tonight the rec center was a sweaty cacophony, the thumping of sneakered feet along the track, the grunts coming from the weight machines and the clanking of metal, the soft patter of chalked hands and feet from the gymnasts on the parallel bars and on the mats. Homer wheeled up toward the most arresting feature of the rec center, set up on a raised platform overlooking everything else: a double treadmill of the kind once used for water power, with bars added overhead for the hands to push up on. The little sign called it the “full body flexer”, but to the students at Campbell-Frank, it was known as “the Beast”.

Tonight there was a small cluster of students hanging out in front of the treadmill, Georgene, Myra, Spica, Melissa, Sessu, Jeane and Tom. All dressed in the sweats, socks and sneakers required here. Homer wheeled up to them.

“What’s up?”

It was apparent that they were having a conversation which ceased when Homer approached.

“Not much, Homer,” Tom said with easy familiarity. “How are you?”

Homer glanced back at the weight machines. “I might try some dumbbell work later on,” he said. “You, why don’t you use this? It’s a fine machine, if I do say so myself.” Which was true. Originally trod by Tami Smithers for that electricity generation project three years ago, the treadmill was designed by him to also provide a full-body workout.

He still congratulated himself on getting Hicks to agree to move it to the rec center. Better than have it gather dust in the Dixon Mill to look like evidence against him after the Tami Smithers situation blew up. He had also noticed that Ms. Smithers, at the time a sophomore, was developing a bit of a tummy and was freaking out about it. It got installed, and after some hesitation she became the most frequent user. And, along with everyone else, he noticed that the naked girl’s tummy quickly slimmed back down, for which she could only have been grateful. Again, a stroke of genius on his part.

He now appeared to have her trust. He was aware, through his extensive grapevine, that her husband considered him a “clever creep”. But the husband was graduated and off campus. Someday Tami Smithers would be too.

“It’s pretty hard work to get this thing moving,” Jeane said.

“There’s a dial, you can set it for as wimpy as you want,” Homer said, waving to the controls he had installed.

“It’s still hard,” Myra said. “That’s why we call it the Beast.”

“Weenies. And don’t call it that, you’ll hurt its feelings,” he said, looking up to it as if pacifying a huge, well, Beast. “I’ll see you, I’ve got to do real man things like sit in front of a TV and drink beer,” Homer said. As usual, he amused his audience. In fact he wheeled toward the rec center office, to shoot the breeze with the attendant.

Tom, a tall, skinny kid with wild hair and an attempt at a beard, leaned against the treadmill and looked up at the bars. Jeane looked at him and said, “Well, my manly man?”

It was not that the treadmill was hard to turn, at least not on the lightest setting. Few admitted it, but most students were just too bashful for it. It was the setup of the thing, two treadmills three feet apart, with bars over each for the hands to push on. It stretched you into an “X” and pushed your chest and crotch forward. And it was on a platform to boot, easily seen from any point in the atrium. Even through sweats and underclothes, it exposed a guy’s — or girl’s — endowments, or lack thereof, to the whole world.

Tom, being dared by his girlfriend, smirked and climbed up. He planted one sneakered foot on each treadmill and put his hands on the bars. Jeane looked up at his crotch. “Oh baby,” she said.

What guy could not proceed, given such encouragement? He pushed down with his left foot and pushed up with his right hand. It took a loud grunt but he got it to move. The double treadmill slowly turned as Tom looked forward into the far distance, obviously too shy to look down at his friends as they stared intently. He felt like he was shoving his package out into everyone’s face. But now he looked down at Jeane with a little smile.

There was a general turning of heads around them and the friends knew what that meant. Nobody slid in here faster than Tami, who needed no ID to get in and had no need to go to the locker room to change. She was easy to see once you turned to the weight machine area. Clanking away on the shoulder press, the total bareness of skin easy to pick out in the sea of sweatshirts and sneakers and shorts.

Myra and Sessu ambled over first. They said hi, idly watching Tami’s breasts vibrate as their naked friend, on her back, hefted 120 pounds with only a moderate amount of effort, her plum-colored pubic hair almost in their faces between the legs that splayed apart at the end of the bench, her bare feet flat on the floor. Tami said a quick hi but then started focusing on her exertions and Myra and Sessu, perhaps shamed into exercising, found things to do on the other machines. Those nearby who glanced over saw Tami’s face start to get red, her breathing get louder, as she continued her reps. Like any dedicated exerciser, once she got into the reps she was in her own world.

Seesu tried to read as much as he could into the little smile Tami had sent in his direction. He was afraid he was still a little on the outs with her, a rare situation here on campus. Only Lorinda and some of her immature friends were not on Tami’s good side, who had gotten such a kick out of the teasing and abuse they had put the naked girl through. But lately even they had been a little subdued. Lorinda herself, now a senior like Tami, had even gotten into student government a little and even found herself in meetings with her. But according to her roommate, Jeane’s friend Celine, she was still “a nasty bitch” to live with.

Sessu’s concern had arisen from a recent incident. He hung out with the TL’s and it was no secret that he wanted to be one, but as a male his desires had to be sublimated. So he hit upon a solution. He had spent some weeks hearing the TL’s talk about a Tami-thon — a long session with all of them licking and sucking every part of Tami’s body — and that had given him an idea. An architecture major, he had privileges at the metal shop and he spent several late nights staring at all that tubing, then once the idea was in his head he roughed out the drawings and got to work.

Not that the Tami-thon would ever happen. Georgene had hinted at something like it during one of Tami’s pass-bys at the Student Union and Tami had seemed turned off. Not that the proposal was ever spelled out directly. The Queen’s permission was never directly asked for. They were too afraid the answer would be “no” and they wanted to hold onto the fantasy.

So it was a bold stroke, perhaps do-able only by someone who could never participate, when Sessu asked Tami to come with him to the metal lab because he had something to show her. The TL’s went with him as he escorted her to the art building and down the hallway scented with acetylene and burnt wood. She must have thought he had made a sculpture of her, based on the many drawings he did of her when she sat chatting at the Union.

She was puzzled as he introduced her to the jumble of tubing on the floor. Then, taking off his jacket, he eagerly got to work, fitting this tube into that, banging some struts into place with the ballpeen hammer, climbing on top of the lower rungs to put the upper crossbars in place, then the final touch of screwing the cushioned wood seats onto the four threaded uprights.

The structure was a bit taller than he was and, after shoving it to and fro to show how sturdy it was, he hopped onto it, his arms and legs stretched out into an X, his legs slightly forward as he bent at the hips, his boots resting on cross-bars. Now Myra and Rosaria took off their coats and got into the raised seats a little to the sides so that their faces were on each side of his chest. Jeane got into the seat behind so that she was staring right at his butt. Georgene got into the plushest seat, so that she was eye level with his crotch. Not that she looked at it, or the considerable hardness that had developed there. She turned her head and, like the rest, looked back at Tami, who stood with her hands at her side, one foot sideways on the dusty floor, silent.

“Forgive me for taking your throne temoparily, my Queen,” Sessu said in his Japanese accent. “But I hope you approve of what I made for you. Think of it as the seating arrangement for your court.”

Its purpose was perfectly obvious. With Tami perched as Sessu currently was, Myra and Rosaria could comfortably suck her nipples for as long as they wanted. Georgene, or whoever sat there, could sit before Tami’s crotch and suck and lick. And Jeane could sit forward, arms resting on Tami’s thighs, and noodle around in the rear chamber of the palace.

Tami stood stock still. Then her eyes got wet and she looked upset. Then she blinked a few times and said, “Uh . . . Thanks . . . Sessue . . . that’s . . . interesting. Gotta go.” And she turned and walked quickly out, and from hearing the receding slapping of her feet they could tell she almost ran out of the building.

They were stunned. What to make of that? They were in a funk for two days, until finally the TL’s couldn’t resist their horniness any longer and went back to licking Tami, for which she seemed grateful. As for Sessu he was depressed all week. He thought about apologizing to Tami, but felt like she wouldn’t wanted to be reminded. As for why she had reacted that way to his invention, they really had no clue.

That was a month ago. Since then he had gotten good signals from Tami as if all were forgiven, like smiling when he kissed her knee in the Union last week. And now this little “hi”.

Tami finished her 50 on the shoulder press, then went to the bench press, the pectoral fly, with her hard nipples sticking out halfway across the atrium, and now was on the hip adductor.

Who could not watch? Sitting upright as the weights clanked up and down behind her, her legs went way, way, way apart, as far as the machine allowed, almost a ballet dancer’s split. Guys came by and looked down, then said hi as they passed. Tami sometimes acknowledged them, sometimes not, being too focused. By now a thin sheen of sweat covered her, as if someone had atomized water over every inch of her body.

Tom and Jeane sauntered by. Tom was sweating too from his five minutes of agony on the Beast. He looked down into Tami’s crotch before waving at her.

It was a good long look, maybe five seconds. In the well-lit gym he could see inside the lower lips that were well open as the weights pulled Tami’s legs apart, the redness of the cave within. Every guy on campus was familiar with the sight of the interior of Tami’s pussy. Mentally they compared it with that of their own girlfriends, if they had one. Jeane, like most Campbell-Frank women, had come to accept “the long look”; it was practically a reflex for the average male. Tom told Jeane that he fantasized, not about Tami, but about her being naked like Tami was, and Jeane believed him.

Tami tolerated the looks too with an easy humor. Just so long as the guy was polite and it didn’t go on to extended gawking.

Forty minutes later activity in the atrium was muted as Tami was into the last stages of her workout on the Beast. As she always did, she had put it on the heaviest setting. Arms and legs apart, heaving out sweat in waves that filled the whole room with the scent of her exertion, hands pushing up, her toes curling over the blades as her bare feet pushed down . . . those gathered around felt privileged to see such a perfect specimen of the female form as they examined her from every angle, some looking up at the straining breasts, others down at her concave tummy, or at the muscles of her thighs and calves, the strong feet, others looking from behind at her bare shoulders and tight butt, sweat running down her back between her cheeks, then emerging in rivulets down her legs. Spica, standing right in front, made no secret of smacking her lips.

The timer went off and Tami relaxed. The great apparatus slowly creaked to a halt. Homer wheeled up. “Hi Homer,” Tami said, catching her breath, looking down at him past her widely spread lower lips, her soaked pubic hair.

“You’re looking good, Tami,” he said with a smile, then he wheeled off.

And now the great moment, at least great for the TL’s. They were chatting at the base of the Beast, and Myra looked up and said in a stage whisper, “Tami, I could just lick you all over right now.”

Tami smiled. “That . . . would be nice. I have to get going though.” The flexing toes, curled over the blades, indicated her horniness.

“Too bad,” Myra said.

“I’d like to lick you too,” Jeane said.

“Me too,” Spica said.

From her perch, looking down, the sweating naked Queen said, “Then why don’t we get together sometime?”

The mouths of the TL’s dropped open.

As Tami dismounted, jumping down with a soft thud, she said, “My place sometime. Rod will be there.”

Now that was a letdown. Having this man around would disrupt all that female energy. Not that this could be expressed to Tami. For one thing, she was always too down-to-earth to believe that “female energy” stuff. And he was her husband, of course.

By the time they had meandered to the exit with her, though, they had reconciled themselves to it. Having Rod around at the Tami-thon would not be so bad. They didn’t know him well but he seemed to be a nice guy. Maybe he could help out with the refreshments.

Their ruminations were interrupted by the clap of thunder.

“Shit!!!” Spica said, looking out at the icy rainshower. “I left my umbrella in the dorm.”

“Me too,” Jeane said. They had their things in the locker room but it was just coats and boots, no umbrellas.

Tami seemed to look at them in sympathy. Then she said, “Well, gute nacht,” and opened the door and sprinted out into the cold rain, her feet slapping the slush to both sides. They saw her sleek, wet body pass under the lights and disappear into the darkness.

Part 18

Albert Girardo, Chair of the Department of Fashion Technology, just could not find that damn cubbyhole. At least that was what everyone called them, the tiny rooms overlooking the multipurpose room in the Student Union where they had those dances and other big events. Every student tutor had one, and the one he was looking for was 2-07. But they only went up to 2-06 and then there was the fire exit. So he had to backtrack . . .

He hardly ever came here. All his work was in Thayer Hall right next to his special parking place. On this sunny, melting-snow day he had unwisely worn moccasins and his feet got a little wet coming down that unfamiliar concourse. He got his first real look at that statue Wanamaker spoke about: “Tami Takes Flight”. A good piece of work, abstract but not too weird. That was his motto, a good rule to live by in his field, how he and his department fought for and won a measure of respectability during his fifteen years at its helm: Don’t Be Too Weird.

So this little errand cut across his grain in so many ways. But with a student who lived without the benefit of clothing it was just no surprise that all the usual rules were reversed. That she was a salt-of-the-earth, working class type, so unusual in his field, made her all the more unforgettable. He vividly remembered the last time he was down this way. It was last spring, a warm day in May, flowers in bloom. They hadn’t cut the grass yet and the lawn in front of the Union was a bit overgrown. He had been roped into one of those godawful Department Head get-togethers, spending all morning in the multipurpose room with the twelve most boring persons on the planet.

It was a relief to finally get out, around lunchtime. Clouds were overhead, possibly threatening rain, and the air was heavy with the scent of growing grass, a gentle warm breeze. He approached the lawn and saw people lined in front of it, maybe two dozen, most still well clothed as if it were still a chilly spring, some more appropriately in shirtsleeves. He ambled up to the edge in his lazy, old-man way, and stopped short when he saw what they were looking at.

It was Campbell-Frank’s only naked student, sleeping in the lush uncut grass. Other free-spirited students had occasionally dozed off there, in the sun, but always on blankets after a little picnic. And always clothed.

She was on her side, upper leg extended in front of her, in blissful slumber. Grass stains were on her soles. Her butt cheeks were parted and everyone could see her anus — was it winking at them in the breeze? Now she turned, pulling her leg across, and in the process uprooting some grass. It stayed between her toes as if she had grabbed it deliberately and now she was on her back, her legs splayed wide open so that everyone could see inside her womanly cave. She stretched her arms up and her tummy became almost freakishly concave, ribs visible over the tracery of well-developed abs, breasts high and firm with erect nipples poking up at the gray sky. A few strands of grass were caught up in her lush pubic hair. And now she sighed. “Mmmmmmm . . .”, as earthy and natural as the scented breeze.

It was a wave partly of lust but also of wonder that riffled through the watchers. And envy, how it must feel like to roll naked in the grass. Two of those old Chalfont Institute professors stood next to him, one puffing on his pipe. You could tell those old German guys anywhere. “I’m jealous now,” one said. The pipe puffer said, “Ah Fritz, if Youth only knew, if Age only could!”

Girardo had stayed to watch her lolling around for a few minutes and then she awoke, sitting up with wild hair, elbows on her knees, smiling a little absently at the people around her as if remembering an old joke. Then he left, as the crowd dispersed, some saying hi to the naked girl, others as if embarrassed at having been caught looking. Girardo was gay through and through, but a sight like that sticks with you no matter who you are.

Now — this one’s 2-01, now 2-03, this must be the odd numbers corridor finally —

Her door was open and he hesitated before making his presence known. She was facing away from him, leaning back on her chair, reading a text, pencil in her mouth. One foot was way, way up over her head, the heel propped up on the wall in the tiny room. Only a trained gymnast, like she was, could stretch like that. The other foot was up on the ledge of the little window that looked down on the multipurpose room. She held a pen between the third and fourth toes that she tapped idly against the sill. Girardo was reminded of the student who did that project on toe rings a few years ago, who said, “Toes are the new fingers.” Well for Ms. Smithers, it was all the same.

Her desk was strewn with books, papers, a laptop. And what looked like a wedding ring, though it seemed too small to go on her finger. There was a shelf above that had some pictures and some type of geometric sculptures with magnetic sticks.

Finally he cleared his throat.

“Oh hi Mr. Girardo,” she said, quickly swiveling around, putting her book down, and about to stand up.

“Stay seated, please,” he said, quite surprised. Years ago students would stand up when a professor came in, but not recently.

She sat obediently waiting for him to speak.

“Um, how are you doing?”

“Fine, busy as always,” she said. “I like it that way.”

He looked at the upper shelf. “Did you make this? It’s very pretty.”

“It’s a dodecahedron. One of the regular polyhedrons.”

“Oh. A dodeca . . .”

“That means twelve. It has twelve sides.”

“Hmm . . .Looks like more than twelve to me.”

“The sides are pentagons. You have to stellate them to make it rigid.”

“Oh right . . . of course.” He looked at it for a moment as if knowing what she was talking about. “Tami, mind if I sit?” He grabbed a chair that had been out in the hall and sat facing her. She was upright in her chair, hands folded attentively. Her feet were on the floor, curled inward, the pen still in her toes.

“Dr. Wanamaker and I agree, your portfolio is outstanding.”

She seemed to blush. “Thank you.”

“We have a proposal for you.” Knowing he was about to explain something totally new to her, he went slowly despite her high intelligence. “There is something called the International Fashion Industry Foundation. It’s a group endowed by various fashion houses, that acts as like a trade group, a clearinghouse of information, and also advocates for designer and models and other tradespeople. And every year the foundation has a, uh, competition for students. This year is the 37th annual. We would like you to invite you to make a submission, enter the competition. In other words, sponsor you.”

She seemed stunned. “But . . . I’m not a fashion major.”

“That’s not important. What is, is that we think you display an extraordinary amount of originality. Maybe it’s you’re, uh, situation . . .” He found himself glancing down at her clit and immediately regretted the reference. Her clit was poking out a little — he heard it always did, except when she was out in the cold and it retracted between those plum-colored lips. He thought he detected a faint whiff of female musk. Then he brought his mind back on track. “But you have a view to fashion that is unique and should be made better known, and should be further developed if you wish . . . We don’t just ask anyone. We don’t do this every year. In fact we haven’t sponsored a student in five years. So you see what a compliment this is meant to be.”

“Gosh . . . thanks . . .” She was still in shock.

“You will need to put together a submission portfolio. You can select from your existing one — the limit is ten designs — or make up a new one. Probably selecting from the one you have is best, because the deadline is only in two weeks. Dr. Wanamaker will help you out with the details.”

Tami looked down.

“That’s the first stage. Then they select the ten or twelve best entries and present a fashion show, slash, awards ceremony. I have to say that they have several hundred submissions every year, so the odds of getting picked for the show are slim. This year it’s in Montreal. And then, there’s the prizes. First prize is a fellowship with room and board at a leading institution. This year it’s somewhere that you especially might have an interest in.”

“What do you mean?”

“The fellowship, which would begin next fall, is in your home town, at the Rhode Island School of Design.”

Tami looked up, nonplussed. “Rizdy?” Which is how Providence natives refer to RISD.

Girardo nodded. “Again, I have to say, excellent as your work is, the odds of getting chosen are quite long. But even being allowed to submit is an honor. We get to put forth candidates because our department is on the International panel. Only about sixty schools around the world are on it.”

Tami looked at him and then looked over at a pad on the desk. “I — I don’t know what to say. This is so . . .”

“Now Tami, you don’t have to go through with this. I know you are involved in other projects and fashion is not the center of your life.” God, was that ever an understatement, he told himself.

“Well yes, I was working on that polymer fabric with Gretchen — ”

“Maybe you can incorporate that into your submission. Ever think of that?”

“The fabric — it’s designed for military use.”

“So? Does that mean you CAN’T use it to design regular clothes? Look Tami, the International is not a red carpet type fashion show like you see on TV. These are serious industry people who help decide mass production. What regular people wear. Practical stuff.”

He told himself: I’m dropping hints that are so heavy that they’re apt to break this poor girl’s [bare] toes. Best back off. She will submit what she wants to submit, as weird as it may be. That is, if she accepts. Part of him wanted her to refuse. That would be a relief. On the other hand, Shel was right. Offering her the chance was really the right thing to do.

“Rizdy . . .But can I go there if I’m . . .” She looked down at her breasts, the big dark brown nipples, toughened and always erect.

Quite unlike the little pink nips Girardo had seen on countless anorexic models. What would Tami be — a 34C? He was under no illusions about it — gay designers really would rather be working with breastless young men. One of Wanamaker’s pet peeves. He kidded Wanamaker about his name and his lusting after certain models, his hetero desire for the female form, his breast fetish, but his colleague had a point. To be true to what they were doing, designers of women’s clothing should use models who look more like this superb naked young woman.

“From what I understand,” he said, “your allergy is being treated at the Chalfont Institute.” At least that’s what Abu Jamal told him when Girardo called him last week. It was hard to understand that guy’s Pakistani accent. He was polite but hesitant to give details. Girardo was well aware how sensitive the topic was over at that place, and couldn’t really blame him for that.

“Well yes,” Tami said uncertainly. “. . . Can I think about this?”

“Of course. When you decide, call Shel, Dr. Wanamaker. His extension is 2141.” To his surprise Tami brought her left foot way up, the one with the pen, and scribbled the number on the pad, all without moving her arms or hands.

“Well let us know,” he concluded. “And if you accept, congratulations.” He got up and turned to leave.

“Mr. Girardo?”

“Yes?”

“I — I don’t know. But thank you very much.”

He smiled. “You deserve it, Tami. . . And oh, before I forget.” He turned back to her. “The submissions are not secret, of course. The names of candidates are listed in the trade publications. So you might be, in fact probably will be, getting calls and offers to market your designs. It’s O.K. to get into contracts, we don’t have any business telling our students what or what not to do.

“But we always suggest that the student create a brand name and logo for his or her work, and attach it to every design. Get copyright protection. The way I learned it was to mail the designs to yourself and keep the envelope sealed. That fixes the date you came up with the ideas. And be careful what you sign. Professor Konrad, two doors down from me, he’s also an intellectual property lawyer and can advise you on common pitfalls.

“But maybe I’m getting ahead of myself. Let me repeat, no matter how good you are, the odds of actually winning are very low. But I think you should give it a shot.”

Tami seemed about to say something but then stopped. She looked down and stretched her arms downward, then placed them on her lap. She idly tugged at her pubic hair.

Then she looked up and said politely, “Thank you. I’ll let you know in a few days.”

“Good.” Girardo left the naked student to be alone with her thoughts. And then passed her cubbyhole a few seconds later because he was lost. Tami had to get up and walk him back to the elevator.

As the elevator opened, a tall Latina-looking girl in sweat clothes came out. She gave Tami a little kiss and went with her back to the cubbyhole where they closed the door behind them.

Part 19

“Sorry to interrupt your work, Tami,” said Assistant Dean for Student Affairs Vanessa Congi.

“That’s — uh — O.K. I’m — uh — almost done anyway.”

“They put you through your paces, don’t they?” said Dean Congi’s administrative assistant, a quite overweight forty-year-old black woman named Barbara Barlow with a cute face.

Tami smiled and shrugged. The two watching women huddled in their heavy coats, hats and scarves on this near freezing, blustery day. Almost all the snow had melted but spring had not yet brought flowers to the bleak campus. The biting wind made them shiver despite their coverings.

And wondered once again how Tami Smithers, her bare body hard and tight and reddened from the cold, could stand it. She was on the last few minutes of this morning’s grounds crew shift, putting down pebbles for a new pathway across the lawn in front of the Student Union. She had rolled the full wheelbarrow halfway across campus, which is how Vanessa first saw her from afar, along that long windy path from the physical plant building to San Beueno Hall, and then onto the busy part of campus, a different creature from the many heavily clothed students with backpacks battling the wind on the way to class.

Now, having dumped the wheelbarrow’s contents next to a tree, she had climbed onto the little mountain of pebbles and was pushing it down flat with her tough bare feet. An overhead branch came in handy; she reached up to it and pushed up with both hands, increasing the force she could exert downward. The two administrators watched the cold-tightened breasts jiggling in the wind, rebounding with her motions, the brown nipples seeming as hard as the pebbles, and the concave stomach down below that they both secretly envied (though for Barbara Barlow it was pretty much an impossible dream). The dusty feet worked the pebbles with what looked like a practiced motion, first pushing down with the heels, then scattering the pebbles with spread toes that were also reddened from the cold.

Looking at the perfect feet, Vanessa thought: I wish I had feet like that. Or a body like that. And she knew she was not alone. Almost every woman on campus under the age of 50 had similar thoughts. And felt a little guilty about it, if they knew the price Tami had paid for that body.

Others stoppped and watched the laboring naked girl, then went on with their business.

Dean Congi fastened her eyes on the pubic hair ruffling in the wind. Then she wondered how it must feel to have icy wind on one’s pubic lips. She decided she must make some kind of comment. “I can’t get over how your hair color matches your labia exactly. It really looks very nice.”

Tami, bent arms pushing up against the branch, smiled and then laughed as she worked, her breasts and tummy quaking with each chuckle. “You’re about — uh — the tenth person who’s told me that. Honest, it was — just a coincidence. I didn’t know I was such a — uhh! — fashion plate.”

Congi and Barlow thought about laughing but then stopped themselves.

Homer Winant rolled by. “Hello, Homer,” Vanessa Congi said. Everyone called him Homer so calling him “Mr. Winant” or even “Dean Winant” would sound too offputting. But her hellos to Homer were always a little forced.

He rolled up to join the two women in watching the laboring nude.

“Isn’t this a bit rough on a day like this?” Barbara Barlow said, clenching her gloved hands against the cold. “Maybe you can get Omar to ease up on her.” Omar had Homer’s old job as grounds crew chief.

“It’s — O.K.,” Tami said, pushing one foot far forward to expand the area of pebbles.

“Nonsense,” Homer agreed. “This girl is the best crew worker we ever had. She’s smart, she listends to you, never slacks off, and she’s strong as an ox. Get a look at her butt cheeks, her muscles are like iron.” Of course, everyone already knew that. “She should be in the crew worker Hall of Fame.”

Vanessa Congi didn’t know what to think about a comment like that. Should she be offended? Tami as a beast of burden. But he did say she was smart. Tami just smiled. Then Homer wheeled off.

The old clock tower over at Old Main struck twelve just as the pebbles appeared have gotten fully spread out into a flat rectangle.

“There, I’m finished,” Tami said, bringing her arms down from the branch and wiping her hands, then bending down to scuff the dust off her feet and a stray pebble from between her toes. She parked the wheelbarrow upright against the tree. “I can get that later.”

“Like Vanessa said, let’s lunch,” Barbara Barlow said.

Fifteen minutes later the three women were sitting in the cafe on the second floor of the Union. Barbara Barlow was a considerable eater but had to take second place to Tami, who had devoured a plate of spaghetti and was working on a double helping of mashed potatoes. Tami sat at the end of the table, her leg way up, her foot up on the top of the little wall behind them.

She was spreading her charms for the benefit of Simon, an art student who sat cross-legged on the carpeted floor and did a quick sketch in pencil. Vanessa watched Simon, a good kid with a lot of talent, who seemed to be doing a good rendition of Tami’s vulva. Usually he liked to sketch her anus. Tami never charged for posing. So long as she had a few minutes, she would pose for any of the many art students who asked.

The three women “chewed the fat” for a few minutes. Then Simon left with abundant thanks and Vanessa felt free to approach the subject on her mind.

“Tami, did you think of a theme for your valedictorian speech?”

Tami laughed. “I keep telling you, don’t remind me!” She hated to be reminded that she had, by a good margin, the highest GPA in her class. “It’s like telling a pitcher that he’s got a no-hitter going. It’s a jinx. . .” She looked up at her foot, still up on the wall despite Simon leaving, and wiggled her still-dusty toes. Then took a sip of soda. “I just know I’ll fail a class now. Or something will happen. I’ll screw up somehow and get suspended.”

“Girl, you are talking crazy,” Barbara Barlow said.

“Seriously, Tami,” Vanessa said, “graduation’s only two and a half months away. What are your plans?”

“Well, Rod is still on that project up near Burlington, he’s not sure when he’ll finish. Professor Hamid told me I could be his grad assistant.”

“What, a Master’s in Mathematics?”

“Yes, N-Dimensional.”

Their conversation was interrupted by Trent and Cyrus who passed by on the way to taking another table. Vanessa and Barbara were quick to say hi to Trent, a tall, melancholy blonde-haired kid who was the campus’s only “9/11 widow”, so to speak. Over the past year he had partly gotten out of his funk after losing Jeffrey, at least well enough to hook up with Cyrus, an even taller African-American kid with a shaved head and goatee.

And now Georgene passed by, bookbag slung over her shoulder, cell phone parked in her hand. “Hey Tam, whatcha doing later?”

Tami blushed into her soda and said, “I’ve got Modern Dance II, then I’ll be around.”

“O.K.”

After she too had left, Vanessa said, “A master’s program in just math doesn’t seem like enough to occupy your time.”

Tami brought her foot down and crossed her legs. Scratched a nipple. “Well, Mr. Girardo has asked me to . . . um . . .”

Vanessa already knew but she pretended not to. “To what?”

“Enter a fashion competition. I’m flattered but I’m not a fashion major. It should go to someone else.”

Vanessa said, “You mean the International? Tami, congratulations!” She smiled broadly. “That’s great!”

“What do you think I should do?”

“You should go for it!”

Tami remained noncommittal. Not much else was said through dessert (Barbara: butterscotch sundae; Tami: cheesecake and fruit plate; Vanessa: decaf).

Barbara had to go back to the office but Vanessa walked with Tami downstairs, to Tami’s locker with the combination lock. It impressed Vanessa that Tami wanted to go unladen as much as possible, going through the world with nothing but her bare body. “When it’s just me I feel like I can tackle anything,” is how she once put it. Which must have been true, on that incredible cross-country journey. But now apparently she needed her bookbag.

In the Union foyer, Tami waited patiently while Vanessa put on her coat and gloves. Then Vanessa braced herself for the oncoming wind. Striding across the bleak concrete, she looked down at her boots clip-clopping next to Tami’s bare feet. Tami’s feet never seemed to get dirty.

Vanessa looked up into the wind and found herself yawning. “I should have had a coffee. Maybe I’ll get one after my next appointment.”

“Get me one too,” Tami said. “If you can, please.”

“Sure. What’s next for you?”

“Modern Dance, then I do my own exercises. I’ll be at Studio T afterward.”

“That’ll work out perfect. I should be done with my thing in an hour and a half.”

“See you,” Tami said as she was about to walk into the dance building. She turned to see Vanessa looking at her. Then, obviously remembering their last hello on Main Street, she opened her legs a bit and spread her labia with her thumbs, holding the strap of the bookbag back with her right shoulder. “Bye bye!” she said with a smile, making her clit jump twice.

Vanessa smiled and watched her go in. She stood there to ponder how at ease Tami was with her body. That horrible freshman year, during which the girl’s modesty was so sorely tested, all that body consciousness had been obliterated, wiped out. Surely Vanessa could wish such an ordeal on no one. But the end result . . . !

Five minutes later, in the dance building, Vanessa looked in through the little window to Studio K and watched Tami in her Modern Dance class. The barefoot students, two-thirds female, some in leotards, others in loose shirts and drawstring pants, all facing the big mirror, went through their coordinated warm-up steps, the naked girl on the end keeping pace with the others, distinguished only by her lack of clothing.

Vanessa wondered what it would be like if all of them were naked. In spite of everything, Tami had shown that being naked had its advantages. In fact, a whole lot of them. “Too many to list”, as she had put it once.

Vanessa sighed and walked out the building to her appointment. In an hour, she planned on returning, going to Studio T with two of those wonderful lattes they made at the Java Cafe on the other side of campus.

Part 20

Assistant Dean for Student Affairs Vanessa Congi, carefully carrying the two “grande” lattes, managed to open the rear door of the dance building with one gloved finger and started up the long corridor. Studio W, Studio V . . . She couldn’t remember the last time she had been through here. As she looked into the little windows on the closed doors of the empty rooms, she noted that these studios at the end were a little smaller than the rest but were still fully equipped, with wall-length mirrors, all-around barres on the other three sides, and usually a piano.

She looked into the window for Studio T, where Tami said she’d be, and saw no one. But it was a little window and her view was mostly blocked. Again using a gloved finger, she hooked onto the door latch and opened it and, looking down at the coffees, walked slowly into the room, her boots tacking onto the fine-paneled floor. She told herself she was probably breaking two rules: bringing in food and wearing street shoes. She passed a piano and what looked like a freestanding overhead beam apparatus, six feet high, like gymnasts swing from.

She heard breathing from the corner and imagined Tami must be exerting herself. But then that odor of —

OH GOD!

Tami was under attack! Pinned in the corner, hands stretched out on the barre, legs spread wide, wide apart, as Georgene and Spica hungrily sucked each nipple, someone — it looked like Myra, from the Afro — knelt in front and, hands around poor Tami’s butt cheeks, burrowed her face into the naked student’s crotch — and another woman, cross-legged, her back tucked into the corner under the barre, was assaulting from behind.

“Ohh — ohh — eeee — G – godd — ”

Tami crested into orgasm as her eyes burst open in Vanessa’s face, in ecstacy, in embarrassment, in apology, in amusement — it was hard to tell through Tami’s intense emotional storm but it seemed she was partly laughing at their predicament, the two of them, Vanessa and Tami —

Vanessa stood there open-mouthed, the lattes in her hands. The heavy clothes and boots of the attackers were a sharp contrast to Tami’s nakedness. As Tami’s orgasm ran its course and the attackers continued unabated, it seemed like the four hungry mouths were sucking the life out of her. Tami’s eyes closed only slightly. She seemed to be trying to form words. But then, amazingly, she went up to orgasm again!

It was too intense to look at. Vanessa turned and got the hell out of there. Out in the hall, she heard the door close behind her and wondered what to do. All her years of activism on sexual assault issues came back to her. She had helped set up rape crisis centers at other colleges, had done awareness trainings here at Campbell – Frank. She saw an actual assault once, when she was a student in Boston, late at night on campus, back in the 1970’s. She had been lucky to find one of those police call boxes nearby and the attacker was arrested.

Now what??! Should she call 911 on her cell? Or just go back in there and break it up?

She caught her breath and her brain took over. This was Tami and her friends. Doing what they always did. Or at least that’s what she heard. But it was always one-on-one. Again, what she’d heard. Tami had never been set upon by four women at once.

“Set upon” was the right phrase. It didn’t look like this was Tami’s idea. Not with Tami expecting Vanessa to show up with coffee. It was clear that Tami had been exercising, doing some stretching exercises at the barre maybe, when her friends came in and took over her bare body. She found herself imagining Tami bent foward, touching her toes, and Georgene walking in and placing her tongue flat against the wide-exposed anus, and then . . .

“Ohh — ngghhh — nghhh — ”

Tami’s grunts could be heard through the closed door, here out in the hall. Vanessa looked both ways. Nobody else was around. Still holding the lattes, feeling a bit ridiculous, she decided to go outside and get some air.

Once outside, she took a sip of her coffee and tried to calm down. This rear entrance was rarely used, fortunately it was always kept clean. Like Tami’s, she thought, then she blushed at thinking this. She looked out at the campus, a few faculty and students walking here and there, a little hurriedly on this raw, cold day.

More odd thoughts filled her mind. Right now, Tami Smithers is not 50 feet away from me, having multiple orgasms. I wonder who the next nearest person is who is having an orgasm right now. She looked up into the distance, the hill going up to town, the buildings and apartments there. Maybe someone up over there is having sex right now.

She looked down at her boots and took a deep breath and brooded. She judged that maybe ten minutes had passed when she decided to venture inside again.

The grunting, a little different now, told her the Tami-lickers hadn’t finished. Hating herself for doing so, she gave the longest possible glance through the window as she walked past the door. Tami, sweating now, was hanging from the overhead beam, stretched out in an “X”, her hands wide apart as two kneeling women licked her front and rear, Georgene and Myra. Her feet were stretched way, way apart, and Jeane was sucking her toes on one foot, Spica on the other. This was kinky. And Vanessa found herself wondering what it felt like to be sucked and licked that way, on the anus, on the toes.

She turned around and passed the door again. Georgene and Myra were alternating licks, bouncing Tami between them as if they were playing tennis and Tami was the ball. Vanessa remembered something she had read about long ago — about hanging from the hands stretched out every muscle and made for a full-body orgasm that was more intense.

And so — Tami held her breath, eyes squeezed shut and teeth gritted, her entire body flushed, and now a great jolt nearly knocked Georgene off her knees. Jolt after jolt shook the entire apparatus as the four lickers held on for dear life, as if they had hooked a huge fish and were determined to reel it in.

“Zhhhoohh — zhhhohhh — zhhhohhh — ” Tami’s grunts were shouts now and Vanessa looked up and down the hall again. A horrifying thought occurred to her. What if a faculty person passed by? One of the Department heads? The head of the Dance Conservatory was Dr. Lena Yevgeny, an old Russian ballet type who struck her as being very conservative. If any of those people passed by here there would be an incident. Disciplinary action, certainly.

Vanessa sat in a nearby alcove and sipped, and put Tami’s latte onto the bench. She felt soiled, like a voyeur, like one of several male faculty who had gotten in trouble over the years for peeping on female students. What creeps. And she — ?

She waited a few minutes and hoped it was over. From Studio T there was silence, then sounds of things sliding around on the floor. She got up again and walked uncertainly toward the little window.

She was almost there when she heard Tami’s grunts again. Jesus, will this never end? Tami was on the floor now, face up, legs wrapped around Georgene’s head, her toes flexing. Spica and Jeane were sucking her nipples, Maya cradling Tami’s head in her lap, massaging her plum-colored hair. Tami’s eyes were wide open, looking up at Maya — in agony, supplication, amazement? It was so hard to tell.

Now came a slow, rolling orgasm, with full-body waves accompanied low moans. The three lickers worked as a team, like rowers on that crew team she was on at her undergraduate school, sucking together in a decreasing tempo, and Tami’s contractions slowed down too which seemed to be their aim. By now Vanessa could look at the scene clinically. That’s interesting — they can slow the orgasm down like that, extend it. It must have taken a lot of practice.

It was five minutes later when the Assistant Dean of Students felt it safe to re-enter Studio T. She found the four clothed women in a big circle, surrounding their naked friend who lay snoozing in their midst, on her stomach, her head on its side, her arms and legs sprawled crazily in all directions.

Vanessa sat down cross-legged with the others. “Hello all,” she said, setting the coffees in front of her. “Tami and I were going to have a couple of lattes.”

Her mind was a mass of conflicting emotions but she focused and knew she had to be stern. Like any skilled administrator, she knew how to use silence. Then she broke it. “I think you realize that if the wrong person came down the hall, you would have gotten into quite a bit of trouble. You would have gotten Tami into trouble too.” She was going to say “poor Tami” but stopped herself.

After a few seconds, Georgene said, “Sorry, Ms. Congi.” Usually everyone called her Vanessa.

“You’ve got to be discreet,” she further advised. Not that she could stop it entirely. After all, the college was to blame for Tami’s hyperized sexual hunger in the first place and could hardly object to it being satisfied.

“Sorry,” Myra said.

Then Tami turned onto her back, legs stretched out, arms out too. Her plum-colored pubic hair parted a bit to show the cleft between her lower lips. Her bare feet, which never seemed to get dirty, pointed outward. Then she started snoring, really loud. It echoed off the bare walls.

A couple of the students giggled. Vanessa couldn’t help but smile. It was like a buzzsaw.

“It’s just that it’s so much fun to do,” Spica said. “I like making her come and come and come.”

“It gets spiritual at times,” Georgene said.

“The hell with that,” Spica said, punky and irreverent as always. “I like seeing her get off and get off. Maybe I’m sadistic. I’d like to see how many times I can make her come.”

Well, Vanessa knew the answer to that. She had seen the Chalfont report: 136 orgasms during four hours of what must have been the strangest torture any woman had ever experienced. And that was just the final session of a semester filled with similar tortures. Like the other well-meaning people who had unwittingly enabled Henry Ross’s evil plans that year, it took Vanessa a long time to stop blaming herself for having been so dense, and to get over her guilt for being complicit.

“I don’t think you can break any records in Studio T,” Vanessa said, being stern again.

Jeane said, missing Vanessa’s point, “It was only six times this time. They were good strong ones though.”

“Only” six times! Vanessa herself, age 47, had never had more than three orgasms at one time. Once again she felt jealous and once again she told herself she shouldn’t dare feel that way. For a few seconds they watched Tami’s breathing, the rise and fall of the firm breasts with the big, brown nipples, erect even as she slept, the hip bones setting off the concave tummy.

Vanessa cleared her throat and changed the topic. “I think we’re all violating the rule. You see the sign. Let’s take our boots off.”

Having left their boots by the door, the five women sat down in a circle again. Jeane had a hole in her sock showing her big toe which obviously embarrassed her. She tucked that leg underneath.

Tami’s toes wiggled a bit. Her eyelids twitched, then her nose.

“I wonder what she dreams about,” Myra said.

Everyone thought: clothes. But no one said it.

“Mmmmm . . .” Tami lazily turned onto her stomach again and drew her knees under her. She was facing away from Vanessa and her knees parted and she stretched her arms out on the floor in front. Her trim butt cheeks separated and Vanessa was treated to a wide-open view of her anus. Which now winked.

“Hmmm . . .” Tami’s eyes opened.

“Hi Tami,” said Georgene, who was sitting next to Vanessa. Tami responded to this voice behind her by winking her anus again, an unspoken “hi”. Vanessa knew about Tami’s twice-daily enemas but had never seen this before. She was fascinated by the aperture that opened widely twice, the dark cavity within. Practically public parkland to her legion of admirers.

Uncomfortable, Vanessa got up and padded over to the other side and placed a latte next to Tami’s face.

“Mmmmmm. Latte. Thanks, Dean,” she said. The latte was lukewarm by this time but she obviously didn’t mind. She now sat up cross-legged in the middle of the little circle, sipping.

“Sorry about what happened, Ms. Congi, I mean Vanessa,” Tami said, still groggy. “I tried to apologize but I couldn’t get the words out.”

“No, it’s our fault,” Georgene said.

“You were great as always, Tam. Your ass ring grabbed my finger like death,” Spica said enthusiastically, which brought a blush to the coffee-sipper in their midst.

“Strongest anus in the Eastern Conference,” said Myra with a laugh.

Jeane, after looking around with a conspiratorial grin, brought something out of her bag and rolled it in Tami’s direction.

“Oh God, not here,” Georgene said, half embarrassed.

It was hard rubber and round. In fact it was an orange lacrosse ball, with a six-foot-long nylon rope threaded through a drilled hole. Vanessa was totally puzzled.

Tami sipped her coffee, looking at the encouraging glances of Spica and Jeane and Myra and finally Georgene. “Ta – mi! Ta – mi!” Spica chanted, a chant taken up by the others. Finally Tami stood up and said, “Well, O.K.”

Jeane threw Tami a small tube and a tissue. To Vanessa’s astonishment Tami wiped the ball off, lubricated it, then squatted down. She closed her eyes and grunted. She stood up and looked around, the rope hanging from between her butt cheeks, like a long tail.

“Me! Me!” Spica said, like a kid asking for a turn at a piggy-back ride.

Spica padded over behind Tami, then pushed back her heavy coat and sat down. She put her gloves on and held the slack rope securely with both hands. Tami stood upright, took a deep breath, then the muscles in her concave tummy flexed and she took a careful stride with a flexed bare foot. The next stride followed and the rope went taut. Now Tami was pulling Spica in a big circle around the periphery of Studio T without using her hands, Spica in her sweatpants and socks gliding along the smoothly polished floor, and now to the accompaniment of applause, and Spica’s shouts of “woo – hoo!”

Vanessa was stunned, her mouth hanging open. She thought she had seen everything remarkable about this amazing young woman but she kept getting surprised. Then she found herself laughing. She imagined Tami on her grounds crew assignment, pulling the wheelbarrow full of pebbles via a rope coming out her butt, as no doubt Omar found other things for her to carry with her arms. And Tami casually conversing with friends as she carried and pulled across campus. Vanessa’s laughs turned into giggles, the vision was so ridiculous.

Part 21

That night Vanessa’s husband’s voice came to her out of the darkness.

“Can’t sleep again?”

“No.”

“Let me guess. Tami Smithers.”

“Ricardo… how can I not think about her? And those — followers of hers.”

“Ah yes. The Tami Lickers.”

“I wish you wouldn’t call them that.”

“Sounds like the obvious choice for a name.”

“It’s just that they… they devote themselves so. It’s all about her pleasure, not theirs. It reminds me of the bad old days, when it was a woman’s duty to give a man pleasure.”

“There you go with that Women’s Studies bit again. Honestly, you feminists talk so much about the ‘bad old days’ that sometimes I think you miss them. Say,” he said, grabbing her breasts, “I hear you feminist chicks really put out!”

This was one of their old gags: “Ricardo’s Guide to Making It with Feminists”. Vanessa smiled but wasn’t in the mood. “All they care about is Tami’s pleasure, not their own.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“It doesn’t sound very equal. I don’t understand how you can do that without making yourself subservient.”

“Well I, for one, understand it. ANY man can understand that, perfectly well.”

“Really?”

“Of course. Bringing a woman to orgasm is the most satisfying thing a man can do. And it’s not about ego, showing you’re a stud. At least not for a man who’s mature. It’s about love.”

Vanessa thought and thought. Ricardo gave up massaging her breasts.

“They bust in on her while she was exercising, and dragged her around that studio like she was a dummy, or a mannequin. And spread her legs, put her up on a high bar, dragged her across the floor, just so they could force orgasms out of her.”

“Now you’re saying SHE’S subservient?”

“It just didn’t seem right. When I broke in on them and saw them attacking her, it reminded me of rape.”

“Oh come on…”

“Well, it did. It kind of messed me up. I’m reminded of Liz.”

“Who?”

“A teenager I counseled at the center at Boston College. She got raped and in the process of him thrusting, she got her first-ever orgasm. It messed her up for quite a while.”

“I suppose it would… This was not Tami’s first, though. From what you say, you probably broke in on orgasm number 35,467.”

Vanessa sighed. “Yes… She triggers such conflicting emotions.”

“I think you should just let her live her life. I think she’s quite fine.”

“Oh really?” She reached down and placed her hands firmly around her naked husband’s testicles, as if threatening to squeeze. Another old gag of theirs.

“I keep telling you,” Ricardo said in mock agony. “I imagine it’s YOU who’s always naked.”

That seemed natural enough. To see a woman always naked was the most basic male desire. But… “I can’t just let her live her life. I’m the Assistant Dean for Students.”

“So… Did you have lunch with her? Did she tell you what her plans were?”

“No, she cagily avoided that, like always. She’s a shoo-in for a grad assistantship. She says she’s thinking about Hamid in math but that seems like a cop-out.”

“Think she suspects what’s up?”

“I highly doubt it. Oh Ric, if she only knew… I feel sorry for Tony Noyes sometimes. What a decision.”

“Wow. Sympathy for that old coot. That’s new.”

“Well, he’s not a creep, at least. Not like that old crowd that Jorgon and Ross kept so pacified.”

Vanessa repeated, “If that poor naked girl only knew… what awaits her. Life has been so unfair to her.” It was pitch dark in the bedroom but Ricardo could tell her eyes were wide open.

“There’s only one thing to do,” he said, sliding his head down under the covers. “I’m a Vanessa Licker. I’m going to — damn you woman, must you wear panties to bed! I’m going to lick you for a solid half hour and make you come, maybe twice. And then me and my unused dick will go to sleep. Happily.”

Part 22

“OK, now put your arms down.”

Gretchen gratefully did so and looked at what was, at the moment, a shapeless white tunic covering her torso. She had a T-shirt on under it but could feel this new fabric against her forearms. It was weird but not bad. A little like chain mail, or how she imagined chain mail might feel like, but also a little like satin.

From her perch on the modeling socle she looked around here in the Fashion Lab. About six or seven models were up on their socles, mostly friends of the student designers who flitted about busily beneath them. Gretchen had learned to respect the science of clothing design. It wasn’t easy.

She looked down at Tami, who had pins in her mouth, by turns scurrying to her plan book and looking at the tunic with concern, just like the other designers but for her nudity. The others, being fashion majors, were of course fully and stylishly covered. Gretchen wondered how Tami could run about on bare feet with no apparent concern as to falling pins. Maybe she had a sixth sense as to where they might be.

Tami and the others were planning for the “Spring Zing”, the annual fashion show the Department of Fashion Technology put on for the campus and the community. Fortunately this tunic thing seemed to be holding together well. For Tami and Gretchen this was the first real test for their new fabric. They really had to decide on a name for it. Tami was also trying to decide on a logo for her designs. Because she had decided to put in a portfolio for the International. Tami had explained it on the trip out to Gretchen’s home that Friday afternoon, three days ago. “Why not go for it?” is how she put it.

It was practically the only good news that weekend. The whole thing was just a bad idea, though Tami as always was a good sport. Gretchen had been telling her parents for a long time now about her friend, who always had to be naked because of a clothing allergy. It took a while for it to sink in, that this girl was for real. Finally they seemed interested and would ask Gretchen how Tami was doing.

Inviting Tami over, though, was a different deal. It was only a moment’s hesitation before her mother said of course, she can visit, but Gretchen should have recognized that moment as her chance to cancel the idea. It was a nice, chatty ride over in Gretchen’s car, up into the Adirondacks, where there was still a blanket of snow. But then to arrive for dinner and see that her parents had put up a low sheet barrier in the middle of the table so that they would not be caught looking at Tami’s nakedness. It was Gretchen and Tami on one side, her parents and her brother Freddy on the other. Her parents were not naturally effusive but the polite conversation was even more stilted than usual. And poor Freddy, still in high school, did not know how to act.

That was bad enough. But Gretchen made it worse on Saturday morning by suggesting that Tami go to Freddy’s hockey game, out on the outdoor rink. It was a sunny day with no wind and Tami could probably have stayed for most of the game. Tami resisted the invitation while Gretchen stupidly kept pushing it. Tami was adamant and finally Gretchen realized what a situation she almost put her parents and her brother in. She was, if only subconsciously, trying to score points with herself by bravely appearing in her home town with a naked person. While not taking into account the feelings of others.

Instead she drove Tami out to the gorge, where the two sat and watched the little waterfall. She wished she could take Tami up the path to Point Peter and see the view from there, but that was an hour’s hike and impossible for a naked and barefoot girl. At Tami’s insistence they did get out and walk along the ice-bound edge of the pool. As Tami idly kicked chunks of ice into the water, they ended up with a sullen talk about Roger and Joe in Iraq. There was a scary moment when Gretchen took off her engagement ring to show it to Tami and it slipped out of her hand into the pool. But the water was clear enough to see it lying on a rock under ten feet of icy water. As Gretchen cringed, Tami dove in to retrieve it. Of course Tami had to go immediately into the car where Gretchen cranked up up the heater.

Now, clothed in T-shirt, tunic, jeans, thick socks and boots, looking down at Tami, and thinking of that weekend, Gretchen realized what a terrible loneliness her friend lived with. Tami seemed to have it all together — strong, popular, a high achiever, a loving family, a good husband. But there were so many places she could not go, so many people she could never meet, so many things she would never connect with.

. . . .

Rod was not psychic. Nor did he have his wife’s ability to sense what people were thinking, though to be fair that ability had been developed through her nipples, exposed to the elements and to the world’s gaze for so long. Rod’s nipples did not have that kind of experience. Though Tami tried to suck them once in a while. Rod hated that. Though maybe he shouldn’t. Was it ultimately homophobia? Too sensitive? Or just too weird?

Nevertheless as he sat in the trailer on the dam site that Monday morning, looking over the plans while drinking that terrible hot-plate coffee, he had a premonition that Tami would call with something along those lines. He remembered what she had said during that strange conversation at the Plaza Diner: “I should devote myself more to pleasuring you.” And they hadn’t really spoken in three days and he had an inkling that she had done some thinking in that time. She had spent the weekend with Gretchen while he had been down in Boston, helping his mother organize the attic. Poor Mama. She had tried to keep house for the two years since his father died, but finally had to admit it was just beyond her capabilities. It was time to get the house ready for selling and move in with Auntie.

The call came at 11:30 on his cell. “Wait for tonight, lover,” she said. “This week is my week to serve you. Don’t even try to make me come first. You come first tonight. Love you!” Then she hung up.

Monday

As he entered the kitchen he at first thought there was a power failure. It was pitch dark. But the light in the driveway had been on. Where was Tami —

“Boom… pa-chik! Boom… pa-chik! Boom…”

The blast of disco came from the living room, specks of light wandering over to grace the kitchen cabinets opposite. In the living room was a glitter ball spinning multicolored stars into the darkness. A ghostly figure stepped forward and positioned herself underneath. The lights caressed her breasts, her tummy, her thighs. She slowly turned, and now the glitter ball worked its magic on the bare shoulders, the beautifully formed bottom. As his eyes got more adjusted to the light he saw that her arm was pointed to the ceiling, the other hand placed on a jutted-out hip.

Then she turned to him and danced. A vigorous, disco-style dance.

Rod couldn’t help himself. He snorted and hated himself for doing so. But he couldn’t help it. At first he thought she was being jokey but he then realized that this was an earnest attempt. As a disco dancer Tami was bad. Really, really bad. She might have been a fine gymnast. And he still remembered her performance at the Black Formal when they first met, her glow-in-the-dark, kente-colored fingernails and toenails flying in the darkness as she did basic gymnast moves in the darkness of the Multipurpose Room. But now, trying to be funky, she looked spastic. She twirled and looked like she was trying to swat a mosquito that kept going behind her. She jumped up and looked like she was trying to adjust a light bulb with a itchy butt. Then she went down low and looked like she was constipated.

He lurched around until he found the stereo and turned it off. She didn’t seem to want to stop but he held her in his arms, her sweaty nakedness against his work clothes as the disco lights rotated around them silently. Then he gave her a long, long kiss, or tried to, his lips unfortunately breaking into a giggle at the critical moment.

Tuesday

He entered the kitchen, which was fully lit again, and found himself facing Tami’s bare butt practically pushed up in his face. With a little American flag sticking out of her butthole. She was on all fours, her head down and her butt up. “Wooo — wooo! Chugga-chugga-chugga-chugga-” As she made these train sounds she turned her head and smiled at him, face against the table top. More train sounds, and the flag dipped up and down in rhythm with the flexing of her well-practiced rectal muscles.

Now — “Warning! Big train entering tunnel! Watch out!” A few flips up and down with the little flag pole and then the pole dropped to the floor. Tami’s patented anal gape now claimed his attention. The dark aperture, slick with lubricant, expanded to an inch and a half across, then closed, then opened again, in time with the — “Woo — woooo! Woo — woooo!” As always, her toes flexed and spread each time she opened up. Rod had his own gape which did not close, his jaw dropping and staying dropped.

“Big train coming… here comes… open up the tunnel… yummm… big hot dog… yumm…”

Wednesday

Once again Rod stepped into a pitch black kitchen, by now with a sense of dread. This time it was soft music coming out of the living room. No disco lights.

Gingerly making his way toward the flickering dimness, he turned into the living room to see two glasses of wine on the table with a lit candle between them. There was something black draped on the chair.

A whisper from the shadows. “Have a seat.”

The candle glowing in her green eyes, Tami’s nude form approached silently. She floated behind the chair and approached him with her luminous eyes full of desire and love. She tilted slightly, then raised her foot and caressed his ear with her toes. Now she delicately picked up the soft black form that had been draped on the chair.

It was that black evening gown he had bought her early in her sophomore year, after he had found out the truth about her freshman year ordeal, after Jorgon had resigned and Ross had disappeared and Tami was finally free to wear clothes. He had, impulsively but in an act of devotion, blown his entire bank account on the dress, presenting it to Tami, only to hear her confess that she was now allergic to clothes.

Rod’s eyes were wet as he remembered her breaking down, crying as she sank to the floor caressing the gown, saying, “Please God please… clothes… please…” He had picked her up and laid her on the bed, licked her gently, and she was soon fast asleep. She told him later that this was the last time she had prayed for clothes. In the morning he had cooked her a big breakfast which he brought to her in bed. As she woke she was bright and cheerful and a different person.

The gown was kept in the closet, preserved in a plastic bag. And now she had brought it out. She held it in front of her, the spaghetti straps in her fingers at shoulder height. Now she leaned down and, the gown between them, kissed him. “Wearing” the gown in the only way she could.

She meant it to be romantic and a prelude to lovemaking but Rod just could not think about sex. Instead, he hugged her and the gown as tight as he could, tears blinking in his eyes as the candle light went all blurry.

The kitchen was lit again as Rod entered. Three empty bottles of beer on the table, one fallen on its side. The naked girl stood unsteadily, leaning back on the table for support, and as Rod watched she downed another beer, gulp, gulp, gulp, all in one draft.

With great concentration she managed to place the new empty behind her. She looked down as if about to vomit, but instead —

“B – U – U – U – R – R – PPP!”

— rattling every teacup in the cabinets.

She looked up at him with an unsteadily cocked eyebrow. “Wanna f..k?”

Friday

Oh no. Another dark kitchen.

This time, no disco lights or music leaking in from the living room. It was pitch dark, silent. He stood there for a few moments. He thought of turning on the light but that was evidently not Tami’s plan for tonight. Slowly he crept around the kitchen table, feeling his way, putting his briefcase down. Now around the corner to the living room. He sensed a presence. This was creepy. Tami was here somewhere. He kind of knew her scent.

He thought he heard a motion near the couch. He turned toward it. He could barely see its vague couch shape in the dark. No, not there —

“Oh Jesus!” His heart nearly stopped as he was jumped from behind. He felt the nude skin all over him, like an octopus enveloping its prey with what felt like ten arms and legs. He was wrestled to the floor and turned face up, his arms pinned above his head, the bare knees holding down his thighs. At least tonight’s event was successful in getting him aroused, and he felt his dick begin to grow in his pants just below the plum-colored forest he could sense right above it. For a while there was no sound except for the female predator’s hard breathing.

Now his shirt buttons were being undone, and his belt buckle. He lay there passively as his shirt was peeled off his shoulders and his fly unzipped. Then the wild naked woman stopped. Seconds passed. What was going on?

It took a while but Rod figured it out. She wanted him to resist, like a dog who wanted him to try to keep a ball away from her. He obliged by straining to get up, finally overcoming the strength of his naked attacker. Then he started to run for the sun room. She grabbed his pants as he tried to pull them up. Harder and harder she yanked as he reached the passageway. Suddenly her hand slipped —

“OW!”

Holding his forehead which had hit the door jamb, he landed on his butt. Game over.

. . . .

Rod, in his pajamas, lay on the bed holding the ice-filled bag to his eyebrow. It was a nasty cut.

“I’m sorry, Baby,” Tami said, caressing his cheek. She was leaned over so that, being so limber, her foot was planted on the bed next to her shoulder.

“It’s OK, Babe. You get an ‘A’ for effort.”

Tami sighed. “I want to do things for you.”

“Maybe you tried too hard. Just relax.”

Tami moved her foot down and opened the fly of his pants. She drew his dick out with her dexterous toes and rubbed it. “How about a blow job?”

Rod laughed. “That… would be perfect.”

She went to work.

. . . .

And now, three days later, the snow having almost all melted, driving home past campus, he stopped to see an unusual sight, a bunch of students (and what looked like a couple of professors) playing an impromptu game of softball on the muddy field. They were having a great time. And of course there was Tami, in nothing except her left-handed mitt from high school, out in center field, now slopping through the muck in her bare feet to snag a long fly ball. She effortlessly threw it in to the pitcher, mud flying off her toes as the followed through.

He had never seen Tami play softball. She was not a natural disco queen but a natural ball player. A few minutes later her team was up and Tami waited for the pitch, her slim body upright, mud striping her bare butt and her feet and ankles, as well as a large smear down her side, maybe from having made a diving catch. She pulled a sharp line drive to right field.

He waved at her and people waved back. When the game was over she ran to his jeep and cheerfully parked her muddy butt on the easy-to-clean vinyl of the passenger seat.

When they got home Rod, being muddy himself from his work on the project, undressed and was the first one in the shower.

Part 23

And now he emerged in his towel to see Tami sitting on the kitchen table, leaning against the wall, pounding her mitt and looking down gloomily at the dried mud encrusting her toes.

“What’s wrong Babe?”

“You know what I miss?” Her eyes had a faraway look. “The Pawsox.”

Rod, a native of Roxbury, Massachusetts, knew what she meant. He had never been down to see them but he knew about the Sox’s top farm team, the Pawtucket Red Sox.

“My dad would take me and Joe to McCoy Stadium. We would sit on the grass behind the center field wall and eat hot dogs. I always brought this old thing,” the naked young woman said, pounding her tattered glove. “One time I almost caught a home run hit by Johnny Damon. A fat man got it behind us but then he gave it to me and Joe. We still have it in the living room.”

Rod sat down, letting her talk. “And… I miss hanging out with my girlfriends watching the cool college kids on Thayer Street, and playing frisbee in Hopkins Square… Visiting my cousins in Woonsocket… I would bicycle to Attleboro Mass and back with Charlene…” Tami looked to her side, up at the Pawsox hat pinned to the bulletin board, less than a foot from her head. As if wishing she could put it on again. But no.

He had dreaded this day coming, but it was also a relief. With Tami about to graduate she had to decide on what her ultimate plan would be. Obviously she could stay at Campbell – Frank as a grad assistant, for a while. But not indefinitely.

Last year, during her embrace of “the theory of nudism”, they had gotten a little drunk and spoke about countries where she might move about freely. Germany topped the list. Then they listed Sweden. Indonesia. Austria. Brazil. Spain. These were just guesses. It never got further than that.

“We don’t have to stay here, Babe,” he said. “There’s other countries — ”

“Yes, but Rod, I’m an American. I do want to stay here. It’s where I’m from. I liked Germany, but I’m from here. The people I love are here.” Pounding the mitt again, then flexing her mud-caked toes and looking down at them. “Charles Street. Child Street. Charles Street. Child Street.”

“What?”

Tami leapt off the table, being so light on her feet, and without any drama landed on the floor, her landing muffled by the stuff on her soles. She slouched in front of Rod like a tired outfielder, mitt on her hand, though this was a totally naked, barefoot outfielder with dried mud streaks across her nipples and her concave tummy. If she wasn’t distressed Rod would have found this view pretty hot. “A Providence native — I mean someone from Pwovidince — they would say those the same. I’ve lost my accent. Charles Street. Child Street. Damn!”

She was overstating a bit now. “It’s natural to lose your accent in college,” he said, if a bit condescendingly. Rod had always had a standard, neutral African-American accent, pronouncing his R’s and such, but he had noticed the loss of accent in others. Tami certainly had lost hers, though even when he first met her as a new freshman, when she was freshly nude, she didn’t have much of one. Her family’s accent was very strong, as he noticed whenever they went down to visit. Rod could see what was going on here. Tami had always proud of being from Rhode Island. And except for their brief and occasional visits, with her slipping out of the car into her parents’ house when the coast was clear, she couldn’t go back.

Tami stood silently, then flexed her toes and began to move one foot after another, toward the bathroom, heading for the shower after a long game.

Rod pondered a while and decided Tami would bring up the topic again when she wanted to. He got into his jeans and sweatshirt. Time to finally bring in that stuff from the jeep. The wind had kicked up and it was cold again. He brought in the four big boxes, his old things from his trip to Roxbury. It was sad to have to sell that old house he had grown up in, but it just had to be. His mother just couldn’t take care of it any longer.

Now he smiled as he brought in the trombone case. He hadn’t played this thing since his high school marching band days. Sitting in the bedroom, listening to Tami in the shower — she’s doing her off-key humming, a good sign she’s feeling better — he looked at the case and contemplated the loss of childhood, Tami’s as well as his own.

What the hell. He opened it and assembled the old thing. This was a regular tenor trombone. He never liked those extra valves and crooks. Simplest is best. A naked trombone. He snorted. He preferred to put his mouth to something naked. A sign of the future, though he hadn’t known it. Then he chuckled at himself for making this joke, the product of a high school mentality.

He wet his lips and pressed them against the mouthpiece. Wow — this thing was COLD! Well, what did he expect? It had been lying in the jeep for three days. He inhaled and tried to blow a first-position B-flat —

“Thbbbbb!!!!”

God, that wasn’t even a note. He wet his lips again, tightened them up, and tried again. The next attempts were hardly better. Now he tried a pedal tone and all that came out was hissing air.

Tami sauntered in, all clean and ruddy and glowing from her rough toweling, and giggled at his atrocious musicianship. It was good to see, her breasts dancing with her laughter.

“Where are you going?” he said, as she gathered her things and hefted her bag over her shoulder.

“SGA committee,” she said, casually glancing down at her toes to make sure she’d scrubbed all the mud off. She was still doing the Student Government Association committee thing. “Later.”

After she’d kissed him and left, Rod, feeling sleepy, placed the trombone in the corner and lay back.

. . . .

“Thbbb! … Th-thbb!”

He licked his lips and tried again on the next group of sixteenth notes, pressing against the mouthpiece that felt like a block of ice no matter how much he blew into it.

Even through his full-length wool uniform, and the long underwear, he could feel the frigid wind knifing right through him. It wasn’t just him, of course, as he tried to pt-pt the notes of “Little Giant” along with the seven other trombonists in the front row. The rest of the band wasn’t sounding much better. It was nerve-racking being a trombonist, having to be in the front row of the 60-member band to make room for the trombones’ slides.

But this was a great day for the band, for their families, for their high school. They had won the national competition down in Atlanta and were privileged to lead the parade into Foxboro Stadium for the Patriots’ last regular season game.

They had expected cold this time of year, but not THIS cold. It had snowed two days before and the banks were piled up high on each side of Washington Street. Behind the snow, crowds five deep watched, bundled up, and cheered, or made ridiculous muted clapping with their heavily gloved hands. There was some talk about the parade being canceled, but that was only a dream. They couldn’t pass up being seen on national TV.

It was a poor, mostly black school, T—– High, but the marching band program was its pride and joy. They had quite a reputation in the Boston area and were often invited to march in other towns’ parades, like St. Patrick’s Day and Memorial Day. Their uniforms were resplendent, the tall plumed hats and the braided jackets with the shoulder tassles and striped pants, though with the district finances the way they were, upkeep required frequent fund-raising. He hated doing that.

But like for any kid it was worth it, being a proud member of this famous band, marching strictly in step as they were trained to do in their daily morning practices, out on the football field and in the gym in bad weather. The big glass case in the school lobby, right after the metal detector, had a slew of trophies, and annual band photos going back to 1937 when it was a segregated school.

Now “Little Giant” ended and they would switch to “Our Director”. After the last cymbal crash from the half-frozen arms of his friend Jared ten rows back, he and the other trombonists counted three beats and then dropped their instruments down to waist level in “ready” position. The next tune after that was “Washington Post” and then “Manhattan Beach”. This was part of their regular rotation, the traditional marches then “Hold That Tiger”, during which the band could finally do a little swinging around to get their blood moving again.

Anything was better than straight marching on a frigid day like this. His feet were getting numb, and the tips of his gloved fingers. The wind was now blowing into their faces as they began marching downhill with the road. He could feel his nose sniffle and hoped snot didn’t run down where he couldn’t wipe it. Unnecessary motions were much discouraged, they ruined the formation. He thought of their band director, Mr. Weaver — they called him “Sarge” because he used to direct an Army band — who was marching to the side twenty feet back. He glanced furtively down at his white fake-leather gloves. Would snot show on them?

The drum guard, way behind him, did their vamping and he looked straight forward as he was supposed to. He could see the city ahead, and the stadium in front of it, looking like it was ten miles away. It wasn’t that far, but this was a long parade — first going down to the park, then a short break, then the final leg down Broadway, in front of the reviewing stand, then finally into the stadium.

The sound off, and now into “Our Director”. D-flat was not his favorite key but this was an easy tune, not too many notes. The band didn’t make as many flubs on this one. Now he looked a little to the right, to their regular majorette, a white girl named Brigid, prancing and twirling her baton all alone at the head of the parade, and contemplated her very interesting skin.

Part 24

He had noticed it in the photos in the glass case. As the uniforms for the rest of the band got more abundant and ornate over the years, with the addition of high boots, cummerbunds, epaulettes, the majorette’s uniform got more and more skimpy. The 1940’s majorettes wore mid-length skirts which showed some leg, but otherwise their uniforms were much like the rest of their band’s. And then over the years the big “shako” hat got smaller, the jacket shrank to a vest, then disappeared, the blouse and skirt shrank to leotards, then in the 1980’s the midriff appeared, the boots shrank to sneakers…

He liked looking at Brigid’s beautiful skin, very white with freckles over the shoulders, a product of her Irish heritage. It was certainly well on display. Her uniform began with a little pillbox-style cap, a shrunken version of the shakos the rest of her band wore, black and white, the school colors, with a “T” on the front. It was pinned to her red, braided-up hair. Her nipples were covered by circles of white fake-leather (called “circlets”) maybe three inches across, little rounded cones, with again each with a black “T” on them. He wondered how the circlets were attached so they didn’t fall off as she went through her vigorous paces. That was something the girls in the locker room would know, though for obvious reasons, Brigid had emerged from there this morning well before the others.

Further down, her closely-shaved pubic area was covered with a little white V-shaped triangle, certainly the smallest bikini bottom he had ever seen, held on securely by sparkly silver strings that went low around her waist, meeting in the rear at the crack of her butt where they formed a delicate “T” with the band that went down and disappeared between the cheeks. Add a pair of low-heeled, dressy flip-flop style sandals, held on with just the thinnest silvery straps, and that was Brigid the majorette’s uniform.

He was fascinated by white girls’ skin, how it changed color, getting a tan in the summer, blushing, turning whiter when they were afraid, red when they were mad, red and blotchy in the cold. White folks’ skin was pretty funny in general. During the competition in Atlanta, watching the other bands, he and his buddies almost lost it during another band’s audition, an all-white band from Kansas or someplace. Five trumpeters did consecutive solos and the face of each started out white and turned red, one after the other.

Brigid was beautiful, though. Nothing ridiculous about her or her skin. He didn’t really know her. Her regular instrument was clarinet, and the clarinets were across the band from the trombones. She always sat between her friends Debra and Virginia, black girls who were pretty O.K. And her skin, especially today, was interesting, fascinating really, like a canvas of a painting created by God called, “On a Freezing Cold Day”. Her shoulders were reddish, her arms blotchy, her bare back a little lighter, her legs and feet a little purplish, her toes a little more so. Her sacral dimples, a few inches above the T-string, were lighter than the blushing butt cheeks below.

It was kind of callous of him to think of her this way, of course. She must be suffering on a day like this but she didn’t show it. She was a real trouper. They had never marched on a day this cold. Feeling his cold hands and chilly arms in their gloves and two layers of sleeves, he thought of how her bare hands and arms must feel tossing and twirling that baton. Feeling his whole body trying to get some blood moving under his full-length wool uniform and long underwear, he felt sorry for her bare torso, the breasts tightly bouncing in the freezing air behind the — were they glued on? — little circlets. His butt was freezing — but how much more freezing Brigid’s must be, entirely naked to the winter wind except for the ridiculous tiny string. And his feet were almost numb in their heavy socks and boots. Meanwhile the frigid wind whistled between poor Brigid’s bare toes!

But like always, she kept a smile frozen on her face, alternately twirling and the jabbing the baton in the air to keep the beat, then when the band was marching in place, tucking the baton under her arm, stepping in place. He wondered how she kept those backless sandals on her feet while whirling around. It must be hard to grip with toes going numb. Only once did she falter, one heel slipping a bit on black ice, but she recovered right away and hardly lost a step.

His mind went back to September. It seemed so long ago now. The measuring for uniforms, one by one in the practice room, though how Brigid was measured, it would have been interesting to see. Then the meeting in the auditorium. One by one the members were called up by the band secretary, Ms. Jillian, to get their uniforms. A big travel bag held up by a coat hanger, with a smaller bag attached which held the boots. The bags were huge, massive, five feet high and heavy. Some of the girls had trouble hefting theirs back to their seats. Then Brigid was called. She was in the back and walked down the aisle in her usual outfit of black jeans, white-collared shirt, jean jacket and sneakers. Ms. Jillian handed her a tiny black thing like it was a little birthday present. It was the flip-flops tied together with a tiny black pouch the size of a CD case. Her uniform bag.

During the rest of the year the uniforms had been hung up on those racks along the walls in the rehearsal room. Big heavy travel bags, except for a hanger that looked like it had nothing on it until you looked and saw the tiny black pouch with flip-flops.

Now “Our Director” ended. Instruments down. The band halted, Brigid having been instructed to stay at least fifty feet behind the flashing fire truck. The whole band, the majorette and the instrumentalists and the drum guard, marched in place, little steps, two inches up, as they had practiced. During those early morning sessions at the school Brigid had taken off her shoes and socks, so she could practice in those backless sandals. Her bare feet were striking with everyone else so fully clothed. He wasn’t a foot fetishist or anything but it was pretty sexy.

Of course, now she was almost all bare. He watched her butt cheeks intently, as they jiggled ever so slightly with each in-place step. Nice and tight, a white girl’s butt. He knew she was on the soccer team and she was in such good shape. Of course, a majorette at this school had to be. Real narrow waist, flat tummy, nice legs, nice boobs too, not especially big but sticking out firm without a bra. He threw furtive glances at the crowds behind the banks of snow, looking for the TV cameras. None yet; they had to be further down the route.

And the newspapers. The crowd was all bundled up. Standing in place it was easier to get cold. Most of the faces were all but covered with scarves or ski masks. He tried to detect their expressions and supposed they were cringing at the sight of the nearly naked majorette in the cold. He could picture tomorrow morning’s front page of the Globe, tabloidy as always. The headline: “CRUEL! School makes majorette march near-naked in freezing parade!” Pictures of horrified onlookers. And of course, a big picture of Brigid front and center, so all the outraged readers could jerk off to her under the breakfast table.

He told himself: I’m obsessing. He had obsessed on Brigid all year, being in the front row of the instrumentalists, having such a constant view of her. And he told himself that exposure to the elements was just part of the life of a majorette. He and the other trombonists had gotten used to following her around during the whole football season, watching her body soak up the sun those hot September days (and being a little envious back then, stuck in their sweaty wool uniforms), mesmerized by the sleek wetness of her bare curves in October drizzles, then counting the goose bumps on her butt during those windy November weekends.

So it was more than just watching her bod. He wanted to get to know her. He admired tough girls. What was she like?

Now on to “Washington Post”. This was a livelier tune. He got with the program and concentrated on his playing as they again advanced. Then Brigid spun 180 degrees, twirling, and his thoughts wandered again. That tiny triangle bottom, it’s really narrow – maybe no more than like two inches across at the top. Does she have to shave all her pubic hair? Or just pare it down so it’s like a pubic Mohawk? Is her pubic hair red like her head hair? Someone told him that all white girls, no matter what their head hair is like, their pubic hair is like a dull brown…

. . . .

Rod groaned and stretched on the bed, feeling something hard in his jeans like a baton, then turned and curled up on the other side…

. . . .

It felt so good to wolf down this big burger. Being out in the cold makes you hungry. He sat up, munching on fries, his shako on the table, his trombone bell-down next to him on the bench.

And then Brigid sat down across from him!

Her breasts with their circlets wiggled a bit as she and Debra and Virginia, on each side of her, sat down with their trays. They sucked on the sodas and chatted about this and that as he tried not to look too directly. He could see down to about the middle of her tummy, and her almost total nudity, all that white skin, now turning white in blotches now that it was finally exposed to warmth again, contrasted with her fully-dressed black friends with their gold braids and buttons and epaulettes. Debra and Virginia had taken off their gloves to eat, carefully setting them to the side, but still had their tall shakos on.

It was a big room, with the whole band around them sitting at tables, and over the hubbub the girls were talking about their driver education class, namely that old big Chevy the school had. “It’s hahd to control that cahh,” Brigid said, and Virginia agreed. “Girl you know it.” Brigid’s accent seemed a little different than the standard white-person Boston accent. Maybe more like a Providence accent. Then she shifted on her hips and he knew that she had dropped her sandals to the floor and was sitting cross-legged.

Now she pivoted her body toward Debra, still engaged in conversation. Girls talked a lot faster than guys and by now they had gotten into going to the mall next weekend with Maria and Shonday. He realized Brigid was pretty popular. It was such a big school, though, that there was no point of contact between his circle of friends and hers. Now as he finished his burger, trying not to look, Debra scooted away from her and put ungloved hands down, and he realized she was massaging Brigid’s half-frozen feet. His eyes leapt as he caught a glimpse, the warm black hands rubbing the circulation back into the white toes, stretching them, spreading them. He supposed it wasn’t so skanky if the person was essentially barefoot all day like Brigid was.

“Hey Brigid!” It was a guy he knew as Willy, something of a wise guy. He held up an ice cream on the way to his seat. “Want some COLD ice cream?”

Brigid squinted sarcastically as he passed by.

He straightened up a bit, automatically, as Old Lady McPherson came around, the Principal. She could be (A), an old witch, or (B), a nice old grandma. Right now it was (B). “How are you doing dear?” she said. “Pretty good,” Brigid said. “You look fine out there. You all do,” she said glancing over at the rest. “We’re proud of you.”

Looking down at Brigid’s feet, then at her hands, Ms. McPherson said, “You did a good job on the nails, girls. I didn’t think you could get another year out of those old bottles.”

“Well they WERE about empty,” Virginia said. “I did the feet,” Debra said proudly, as she held them up for the Principal to see, Brigid trying to spread her still-reviving toes with some effort. This was no small matter. With the disappearance of boots and gloves, fingernail paint and toenail paint had become part of the majorette’s uniform. And like everything else about the band members’ appearance it was expected to be meticulously perfect. The paint was the school colors, black and white, alternating on each finger and toe.

After the old lady had gone on, another guy came by with a giant-sized soda. “Brigid — want some — COLD — soda?” The majorette stuck her tongue out with a sour face.

Sarge came by. “Don’t eat too fast,” he said. “We’ve got a mile and a half to go. How’s everyone doing?”

Having finished his burger and used his napkin, he spoke up with a smile. “It’s hot in here,” he said. Indeed he was getting sweaty indoors, encased in his thermals and full uniform.

Part 25

“Pfft,” Sarge said with a good-natured dismissive wave. “Talk to Brigid about that.”

It was the first time he referred to Brigid’s plight. With the forecast being for cold, there was some talk about canceling the parade. But that was just impossible. It was to be their big day. At the last band meeting Sarge had talked about it. “Now it will be chilly out, so it will be all right for all band members to wear thermal underwear, except the majorette of course, providing it’s not bulky and doesn’t show.” Half the guys must have looked over at Brigid sitting in the clarinet section. Brigid showed no reaction to this passing mention, but Debra and Virginia glanced sideways at their friend. Everyone could wear thermals except the band member who needed them the most. Of course everyone knew for the majorette it would be impossible. Even a body stocking or something like that would look ridiculous. It probably would make the sandals slip off. And mabye there would be no way to keep the circlets on.

“Hey Brigid,” another guy said as he passed, “are ya — FRIGID?”

He could detect Brigid giving him the finger from under the table. He was fascinated by her even more now. She could give as well as she got.

“Woo! Look! The girl scouts!” Debra’s announcement got the three of them up. Careful to put her sandals on first, Brigid joined the rest of them as they went up to the big window facing the street. They stepped up onto the low sill and pressed their hands against the glass, waving at their old troop leader, Miss Pikarski, who waved back as she passed by leading the pack of smiling little girls in overcoats. Debra and Virginia, standing against the window covered all up in their jackets and long-legged trousers and boots, and in between, Brigid in her backless sandals, her total nakedness from the rear interrupted only by the little T-string in her butt, and the little cap clipped to her hair.

They got down and for a while they ate silently. Now another clown came by and said, “Were ya frigid, Brigid?” He could see it might become a nickname now whether she wanted it or not. Frigid Brigid.

Her eyes were darting around the room, as if making sure no one was looking. Then she said, “This uniform is killing me.”

Debra and Virginia seemed to know what she meant and looked around too.

“Make sure the coast is cleah, O.K.?” And then his mouth dropped as Brigid took the circlets off with a little sideways squeeze from each hand. He saw now they were kept on by springy metal clips like you use to keep papers together, or on a clipboard — “bulldog clips”, he thought they were called. God, they must hurt!

Her nipples stood out, stiff and red, like they were angry at being tortured all morning. Brigid sighed and closed her eyes as she massaged them between her fingers. It was almost as if taking them off was as painful as having them on.

And then she opened her eyes and looked up at him for the first time — smiling and giggling a little bit, with a shyness and sense of slight embarrassment that was unusual for this tough girl, as she cupped her breasts in her hands. He smiled back and felt at that moment like he was in love.

She returned to massaging her abused nipples then put her hands at her sides. Her breasts wiggled a bit more freely now with the motions of her arms as she ate. She looked up warily now and then. Any T—- High majorette was aware of public indecency laws and knew she shouldn’t be out like this.

Her breasts looked even more protruding, more pointy, with her red nipples exposed and sticking out. Again, a fascinating aspect of white girls — he had never seen a real live white girl’s nipples before, so expressive, angry and red. Especially against the breasts which were returning to the normal white color, as they spent more time in this warm fast food place.

Brigid’s breasts needed more soothing, apparently. She finished her soda with a loud slurp and then she stuck her fingers in it. She fished out two chips of ice which she now held up against her nipples. “Mmmm…” It was a sensual sound that made his dick hard. Fortunately it wouldn’t show under all his coverings. She checked around for grown-ups, rubbing the quickly melting chips againt her.

Now a clap from across the room. Sarge’s signal. “Quick, do me up heah,” Brigid said, turning to Virginia and sticking out her breasts. Virginia hurriedly clipped the circlets on. “Ow ow ow,” Brigid said, taking off the left one. Virginia had clipped it too near the end of the nipple. He imagined it must have hurt like hell. Virginia re-did it.

“How do I look?” Brigid said, turning to Debra. “This one’s crooked,” her friend said, resetting one so that the “T” stood straight up.

Then Frigid Brigid shook her breasts violently side to side, making them bounce like miniature soccer balls. This took his breath away. But it was the only way to make sure the circlets were secure.

The band got up and made for outside. He put on his shako and picked up his trombone and followed. Having gotten hot in his uniform, he was almost grateful to feel the freezing air hitting his face as they emerged onto the sidewalk. They were bottlenecked as members filed through the narrow cutout in the three-foot-high snow bank to get back onto the street. Brigid was needed at the front and couldn’t wait. So she took off her sandals and, using her baton as a walking stick, scaled the snow bank in her bare feet, her toes grabbing the refrozen slippery chunks of white with care. It caused people to look but it was simply the sensible thing to do.

Now out on the street, they got into formation. Sarge and Brigid stood in front. When everyone was all set Sarge said, “How are your toes, Brigid?”

Standing in front with the other trombones, he saw her look down, flexing her toes in the dressy flip-flops. “OK”

“Folks,” Sarge barked out, “I… know… we don’t… sound too good… today.” He was speaking slowly so as to be heard clearly, his breath forming little clouds. “This is probably the coldest parade we’ve ever been in. There’s just no way to play well in this temperature. Don’t… worry about it. Concern yourself with formation. We’ll be in front of TV cameras soon… so how we look… will be what counts.

“I’ve noticed the formation isn’t too good.” He pointed over to the majorette. “Watch… Brigid. She’s freezing her… BUNS off… for us. The least we can do is follow her beat. Brigid,” his voice lowering, “lead as much as possible. Twirl only when the band seems in step, and only one throw at a time.” Brigid nodded.

And with a sound off from the drum guard, they were off, marching forward, beginning “Son of a Preacher Man”. They were still going downhill and now the wind was so stiff that it was an effort to push ahead. The cold sun disappeared and now it was overcast. He glanced up and it looked like snow clouds. Brigid led, her baton jabbing into the air, stepping high, the icy wind no doubt piercing like needles into her near-nakedness…

In a few moments her skin was multicolored again, and he was grateful for his thermal underwear.

They got to the reviewing stand and stopped. Aside from entering the stadium itself, this was their big moment. As planned, the majorette turned and faced the Governor and the other important, formally-dressed personages up there in their top hats, overcoats and white gloves, as the drum guard marched single file around the instrumentalists and formed behind her. Cameras were everywhere, on the reviewing stand, perched up on scaffolds here and there, all aimed at Brigid.

The drum guard did the sound-off, then launched into a furious barrage of gunshot-like drum shots and cymbal crashes as Brigid twirled and spun and pranced. Her skin was a little purplish now, maybe from her exertions. He could tell she was breathing heavily, and realized what an athletic workout it was.

Now she flung the baton high, high up into the air, spun around once, and deftly caught it over her head in time with the last cymbal crash. She stayed in that position, baton up, her breasts wobbling for a split-second before coming to rest, her pelvic bones framing her concave tummy, one foot in front of the other, the other arm straight out from her side, the majorette’s permanent smile frozen on her face.

The men and women up on the stand cheered, as did the rest of the crowd. He would have cheered too if he had been allowed. If she had dropped the baton it would be all they would hear about in the media, it would be how T—- High School would be known. But she had come through. Good old Frigid Brigid!

Now they marched down the hill again, behind the fire truck, as they went the last leg down to the stadium. Another easy tune, “Under the Double Eagle”. Brigid’s body stayed purple as she led the beat. He wondered how long she could go like this. Her exertions would heat her up to some extent, but there had to be a limit.

As he worked the slide his mind went into fantasy. He pictured the fire truck stopping and the firemen jumping off it with their hoses. And training them on Brigid, the great arcs crashing onto her and splashing her all over. Now there were more firemen, from all directions, coming out of the crowds, till there were ten or more big jets of water bombarding her. It was cold water of course, but to her it would feel warm and she would be grateful. Swinging her baton wildly over her head, she would dance in the massive downpour like it was a shower, kicking her sandals off, laughing as she flung up her bare feet. Her breasts were hit to and fro by competing jets and now the circlets came off, one after the other, and she gratefully accepted the water on one nipple then the other, soothing them. Another shot to her crotch and the little triangle flew off, shooting away from her with the tiny strings, and now Brigid the majorette danced joyfully nakedly in the fire hose shower, and now the whole band put down their instruments and cheered…

. . . .

“Wha — ”

Rod awoke with a start.

He felt disoriented and overpowered, like someone had just shaken him violently. As he blinked and sat up in his bed he saw Tami looking at herself in the dresser mirror. For some reason he smoothed his scalp as if to check if he was wearing a hat.

“Hi Baby,” she said, turning around, her cute little white-girl butt presenting itself in profile. Her bookbag was on the floor next to her. She must have just gotten back from campus. She was playing with her hair. “Guess what?”

“Um… what?”

“The College – Town council asked me to grand marshal this year’s St. Patrick’s Day parade!”

“Wow.”

“My Irish half is real proud.” She laughed. “I wonder what I should tell my Dad.”

Rod chuckled. Much to think about there. “That’s very open-minded of them. A naked grand marshal.” “Rod, Rod, Rod,” she said, shaking her head tolerantly. “I’m not naked. These are my clothes!”

She shook her head, scattering her shoulder-length hair like a shampoo ad model. Then she opened her legs and surveyed her “lower hair”. This was a point she had made now and then. She gloried in her hair, loved making fashion statements with it. She really did think of it as her “clothes”.

She bit her lip appraisingly. “Now the obvious question. Should I go green for the parade?”

“Does it come out?” He knew the answer, from long experience of living with her. Taking hair dye out was a real chore, but letting it grow out would take a month or more. Both above and below.

Tami didn’t answer, but turned gaily in the mirror and twisted her hips. “Maybe I should paint a green shamrock on my butt.”

Rod smiled and got up. “I love you Babe,” he said, giving her a full body hug.

“Whoa, what is this?!” She looked down at his dick bulging out in his jeans. Prevented from standing straight out, it ran down his thigh. The hardest it had been in a while.

He hefted her in his arms like a caveman claiming his woman, and threw her onto the bed. As soon as he could unzip his jeans he fell on her and ravished her energetically, taking charge much more than usual. Not that there was any chance he could outlast her. But tonight he was determined to give it a try!

Part 26

The atmosphere in the crowded dining room was electric.

The seven onlookers stood around the seated, slightly overweight figure of Mayree, Tami and Rod’s old friend, back in town for the St. Patrick’s Day weekend. Mayree’s husband Brad, tall and dark and silent as always, stood behind her, watching what she was doing with a quizzical interest. As was Rod. Not so quizzical was the interest of Georgene, Spica, Melissa and Jeane, their eyes glued to what was on the edge of the table, the brightly-lit, widely-spread crotch of Tami Smithers as she lay on her back.

“Ow!” their always-naked friend said.

“Stop jerking!” Mayree admonished, readjusting her sweatshirt, shifting in her jeans as she leaned forward in concentration.

“Zhhh,” Tami said next, suppressing all motion, yet somehow giving the impression she was about to laugh.

The track lighting, like all eyes, was trained on Tami’s partly green, partly reddish pubic hair, so bright that everyone could see each hair casting its own shadow. Peering closely through the bottoms of her bifocals, Mayree worked carefully with tweezers and swabs on what was turning into a hair-by-hair de-greening of Tami’s lower hair. The smell of polish remover competed with the smell of Tami’s musk to give the air a unique pungency.

This uncomfortable procedure was necessary unless Tami was to wait two months or so, up past graduation, for the green to grow out. The head hair was easy: Mayree, yesterday morning, had henna’d it, and Tami had shampooed it out an hour ago. But her lower hair — “Tam, your shorties are as nappy as mine” — had required the more permanent stuff. Which needed special care to remove.

Two of the TL’s, Melissa and Jeane, helped by holding Tami’s feet back and out so as to maximize the outstretching of her limber, gymnast’s legs. Jeane’s interest in Tami’s crotch alternated with her interest in the toes cradled in her hands. She badly wanted to suck them, from “Hester” (her name for her Queen’s right pinky toe) on up to “Hera” (the big toe), but held off.

“Ow! Christ, that hurts!” Tami said, once again almost giggling as if at her own stupidity.

That hair was right near her left lip. Having stretched it out to its greatest extent with the tweezer, Mayree wet the swab in the solution in the little cup next to her and dabbed the hair down to the root. Which then stung.

They had been like this, Mayree, Tami, and their rapt audience, for twenty minutes. They watched as Mayree now spread and inspected Tami’s lips clinically, well apart and wet, in the bright lighting. They could see inside too, into her pink cave. Now Mayree pulled the hairs on the sides near the thighs as Tami cringed and tried not to cry out.

“OH! Shit!” Tami said.

“Sorry,” Mayree said, examining the hair that she had yanked entirely out. She set it down carefully to the intense interest of the TL’s who looked at it like a religious relic. “I think that one’s time had just about come anyway.”

A few more yanks and stings and Mayree seemed satisfied. Now: “Turn over, I’ve got to get the ones down near your winkie.” Mayree had listened patiently to the TL’s enthuse over lunch in front of the blushing Tami, and had decided to humor them by adopting some of their terminology.

As her husband and friends watched, Tami exhaled and lethargically rolled over. They were the motions of a woman with a heavy pelvic area, congested with the fluids of sexual desire, an inevitable outcome of Mayree’s ministrations, and the fact that she hadn’t had an orgasm since the three that Rod had given her upon awakening that morning.

Tami got on all fours and then lay her head down on her crossed hands. She stuck her butt out, legs spread so that her anus was clearly visible. As Mayree began pulling the hairs on the perineum one by one, Tami’s toes wiggled and her anus twitched, signs of her frustration. Then another “Ow!”

“I’d love to lick her right now,” Spica said, smacking her lips, though whether it was Tami’s pussy or anus she was looking at was unclear.

“No licking!” Mayree said firmly. “Not for two hours at least. You don’t want this remover in your mouth.”

“Two hours!” Spica said.

“That’s how long it takes to dry.”

“You can have some too,” Spica said, as if Tami was a pie that the TL’s didn’t mind sharing.

As she swabbed another hair, Mayree said, “Not me. I’m no funny bunny.” A stern face that dissolved into a tolerant smile. Like most of Tami’s old friends, Mayree found the TL’s quaint and amusing, like eager kids.

This was a female affair so Rod and Brad decided to retreat and sit on the couch. As Rod watched from across the room, Tami’s butt sticking into the girls’ faces, he thought of her decision to “go green” for the parade yesterday. At first she was afraid it might be undignified. The grand marshals of previous years were always old professors or some other eminent personages. But then she decided that after all, her hair was her only clothes, and “One has to wear green, right?” And then she set things up with Mayree, who had done such a wonderful job on her on Tami and Rod’s first date, the Black Formal, so long ago.

While Tami was gathering with the rest of the marchers yesterday Rod had lunch with Brad and Mayree, up from Boston, catching up on each other’s lives, then the three of them had stationed themselves midway down the route. Campbell was a small town, largely an appendage of the college, and it seemed like every single person was out along Main Street. He wished the weather was a bit better. A damp, chilly day, the kind where the cold dampness just pierces right through you. Impossible to stay warm even in an overcoat and scarf, especially when standing waiting. And then a flurry began, wet early-spring flakes that looked as big as marshmallows.

The street was cleared and the sound of drums and horns told them the parade was nearing. Sure enough Tami was leading. She had been given the option of standing up in a float but had decided to just walk. As he knew well by now, feeling the earth against her bare feet gave her confidence and energy.

She plied the big marshal’s stick in her hand, using it as a walking stick, as she paced carefully but proudly all alone in front, her bareness totally on view, wearing her nakedness as if it was the most resplendent outfit in the parade. Her hair was green and shiny, one of Mayree’s masterpieces, dancing as she walked, framing her beautiful face and being the same shade of green as her eyes. The big snowflakes stuck to it like God was adding his own highlights to Mayree’s handiwork.

Green sparkles were over the tops of her breasts, and down below on her concave tummy. Her green pubic hair was abundant, teased out and fluffy, as carefully done up as the hair on her head, and catching its share of snowflakes too. Green was also the color of her fingernails and toenails.

What was most striking was her bearing. Her feet paced the wet asphalt with the well-bred gait of royalty. And her smile and her wave to the crowds. She was like a good-natured and popular queen “doing my queen thing” with aplomb but also a good dose of whimsy.

And the cheering.

Everyone knew Tami, of course, and every single person whistled and applauded as she passed. It made Rod, once again, proud to be hers. And then he felt himself privileged as she saw him and ran over, giving him a big kiss and hug, before scampering back out to the middle of the street to continue her queenly duties, her breasts bouncing into place.

Now she went on and Rod and Brad and Mayree found themselves looking at the Mayor’s float, then the firemen, then the high school band, the majorettes in long-sleeved leotards and protected from the cold by what looked like three layers of black tights.

Their last glimpse of Tami made them laugh once again. As her bare buns retreated from them they could see the green shamrocks painted in the exact center of each, jiggling very slightly with the motions of her tight glutes. “Good work, Mayree,” Rod said with a chuckle. “Fine job,” Brad said, giving Mayree a kiss.

Later the three of them went to Scholar’s with half the rest of the town and watched Tami drink buckets of green beer, tie and untie about a dozen pairs of shoes with her toes, and give an only partly off-key rendition of “When Irish Eyes Are Smiling” while standing on top of the bar. They drank too but could not keep pace with their naked companion. By then it was dark, and he had to prop her up as she staggered through the slush back to the house.

As she fell face-down onto the bed and immediately started snoring, Rod contemplated her flushed nakedness, her slush-crusted soles, the now-smudged shamrocks, the disheveled green hair, with a mixture of joy and sadness. Tami Smithers had a happy, happy life. She was the most popular person in town. And yet it could not last…

Rod shook himself into the here and now as he heard Tami squeal and watched Mayree pull on and swab the last of the pubic hairs. No green left, Tami’s lower hair was now back to its natural dark red. Her horniness was palpable. Her butt up in the air, the anus twitching, the lips below moist with arousal, the toes squirming. Rod felt his dick stirring and wished he could shoo everyone away so he could thrust in deep. Brad and Mayree had to get going for Boston momentarily anyway. Unfortunately he and Tami had invited the TL’s for a reason. This was to be their “Tami-thon” afternoon.

The wait enforced by the polish remover procedure was something no one had planned on, though.

“Two hours!” Spica said again, like an outraged, spoiled child.

“Two… hours!” Mayree repeated sternly.

The TL’s, who seemed to act in telepathic concert, took seats at the table, looking up at Tami from every angle. Between the four of them, they held her hands and her feet. Tami exhaled a ragged breath. Her head still down, she said, “Sorry guys.”

Rod suddenly knew what to do. Time for the unveiling.

It was best done silently. He got up and retreated to the bedroom. When he came back he stood up next to Tami and held the tail up over her. The soft tendrils of the ends of the hairs whispered against her back, making her shiver. Without looking she knew what it was. “Ohhhh… yes…”

Part 27

The TL’s looked at it open-mouthed. The new, improved “pony girl” tail that Katie had presented to Tami that time in the library when Sarah Wickland visited. The two-foot long hair was beautiful, blond with a shade of red. But all eyes quickly fastened on the incredibly long and thick dildo end. Finally Georgene untied her tongue. “Th – that’s not… what I think it is…?”

“There’s no way that’s going to fit into her pussy!” Spica said.

Rod shook his head portentously, then gently directed the end toward Tami’s anus, where the barest contact made his naked wife jolt.

“Oh… my… God!” Spica said. No one could see it but Spica’s own buttocks clenched in response.

Rod put the tail into Georgene’s hands. She held it reverently like it was fragile, even though considering the pony girl “industry” it was designed for, it could be termed, quite literally, “industrial strength”. Then he got the remote out of his sweater pocket. It was a big remote with a lot of buttons and a little touch pad. In anticipation of this, the first actual try-out of the tail inside Tami, he had taped Ms. Wickland’s business card to the bottom in case he and Tami had any questions.

He pressed the white button and the base of the dildo, near the hair, expanded to three inches across. Now his first words. “This is what you do at the beginning. It prevents the tail from being ejected during, uh, excitement phase. Press it again before taking it out.” Another push of the white button and the base diameter shrank to its original inch and a half — still huge, but workable for an experienced anus like Tami’s. “The dildo part works by pressing against the wall inside Tami to touch her G-spot.”

The TL’s nodded. Tami’s internal center of pleasure was a topic they had studied and discussed much.

He playfully threw the remote to Spica. “Experiment a bit.”

The punky 19-year-old TL, fascinated, pressed another button and then another, as bumps appeared and disappeared at various points. Georgene almost dropped the moving thing in her hands while Spica whooped with glee. Then like children she and Jeane and Melissa started fighting over the remote. They eventually settled on taking turns, trying out all the buttons, and then the touch pad, a refined delight. Moving one’s finger along the touch pad caused a bump to move along the shaft of the huge dildo. It was amazingly responsive and moved almost as quickly as the controlling finger. Tami, her face against the table, eyes closed, smiled, amused by the sounds of their childish delight.

Now the naked student turned to look up at Rod with heavy-lidded eyes. As if saying, “Now is the time. Please satisfy me!”

Rod got the remote back and took control, like an instructor showing his students how something was done. Dabbing the dildo generously with a jar of vaseline he had brought, he set the greasy end against Tami’s anus and gently pushed.

“Ohhh…” The TL’s didn’t know whether to look at her distending sphincter or her face. It was more than amazing to them. Though Spica might not have admitted it, not one of them had ever been anally penetrated themselves.

“Ohhh… oh God…” Tami’s breaths became deep and deliberate, as if she was trying to inhale the dildo.

Georgene leaned forward and said, “How do you do it?”

“Make… believe… I’m… pooping… push… down… ohhhh…”

Rod twisted the tail and slowly increased the penetration until it was in about six inches. Georgene and Melissa each grabbed one of Tami’s hands and held tight in support.

“Ohhh… oh man…”

Rod was beginning to get concerned. This was as far as he had ever put a dildo inside Tami. He knew she was capable of more, but he had never witnessed it himself and he always had a fear of hurting her. He bent down next to her face and said, “Are you O.K. Babe?”

Tami, beginning to sweat, swallowed and nodded. For about the millionth time Rod marveled at her self-control, her ability to control her body and make it do what she wanted. He figured out a long time ago that she had learned it the hard way, during that awful freshman year, learning to control her intense desire for clothes, almost shaking at times from the strain of resisting the urge to grab something and put it on.

The TL’s leaned closer to her butt. Only half the dildo was in. Jeane wondered if Tami’s flat tummy would begin to bulge outward from the displacement. Brad and Mayree couldn’t help standing up and watching from across the room. The fully clothed friends watched intently as the naked young woman continued to be anally penetrated in their midst.

“Zhhh…” Rod gently pushed it in two more inches, then felt some resistance. He had met the top wall of Tami’s rectum. Tami would have to shift a little to make the dildo go through what she called her “inner butthole”, up into her colon.

Tami lifted her head and her shoulders, then twisted her hips by getting off her left knee and planting her foot flat upon the table. When she was ready she nodded and Rod pushed in some more, this time meeting no resistance as the dildo began its journey up her digestive tract. Tami’s mouth opened as if the object was about to emerge past her tonsils.

Pushing in was easy now. Rod slid in the last two inches and then pushed in the first of the two little flanges designed to rest on each side of her sphincter, one inside and one outside. Otherwise the tail would fall out or be sucked in by the natural motion of Tami’s internal muscles. Tami’s anus was now seated against the beginning of the horse-style hair. The TL’s sat there open-mouthed with awe at this remarkable creature in front of them.

The naked girl took a couple of deep breaths. Jeane noticed no bulging, Tami’s tummy was as concave and smooth as always. Then the naked student pushed up with her arms and stood up on her knees, the rest of her body upright, her head almost up in the little chandelier, the newly swabbed pubic hairs teased out and fluffy.

Awkwardly, with the help of the TL’s and Rod, she climbed down from the table, bare feet slapping onto the hardwood floor, and lurched stiffly to the center of the room. Without thinking about it everyone got up and gathered in a circle around her.

She stood there, bolt upright as if “at attention”, hands at her sides, her breathing ragged. Then a crooked smile. “Pony Tami, at your service.”

Rod supposed he should laugh though he couldn’t. The power dynamics were now clear to him. She was putting herself at the mercy of whoever had the remote. The situation that, after all, the tail had been designed for, at Taft McNamee’s farm with its dominant owners and submissive ponies.

Rod pressed the white button and Tami inhaled and closed her eyes, obviously intensely feeling the expanding bulb within her. Her toes spread, grasping the floor, as if she was in danger of falling off the earth.

It had to be Rod’s turn first, but he was feeling magnanimous and wanted to make it up to the TL’s for not being able to lick Tami’s pussy as they had fervently planned. He gave the remote to Georgene, who he supposed could be best trusted to start gently.

Georgene looked down at the remote carefully and slid her finger carefully along the touch pad.

“Eeeee!” Tami leapt up seemingly about three feet into the air, arching her back! Her eyes bugged out!

This greatly concerned everyone. Then Georgene did it again.

“Eeeee!” Tami leapt up again and then fell forward and crumpled to her knees. Rod was about to tell Georgene to stop when he realized Tami was quivering and on the verge of orgasm.

A few presses of buttons and Georgene had forced Tami down to all fours, where she shouted and bucked and launched into a terrific climax. As she spasmed they noticed that the tail, moved by her anal contractions, waved to and fro rhythmically in a wide sweep like a parade color guard waving a flag. After a few more irregular flourishes the tail subsided and once again hung down straight.

Georgene handed the remote to Melissa, who stroked the touch pad and got Tami to yelp and jump back up onto her feet. Tami realized how ridiculous she looked and started laughing as Melissa, relieved that all was well, stroked and stroked the touch pad as Tami leapt here and there, practically up to the ceiling, nearly bumping into people and furniture. She jumped toward the back window, breasts bouncing, and then fell onto all fours again as she spasmed and spasmed, her tail again wagging wildly.

“Oh Jesus…” Tami tried to focus her gaze on Rod. “This thing is incredi — eeee!!”

The remote had been passed to Spica, who did not show mercy. Laughing, Tami yelped and yipped and jumped, feet slapping against the floor, finally succeeding with fumbling fingers in sliding the back window open and escaping into the back yard.

It was a warm sunny day, not like yesterday, though the outside was sodden with mud and melting snow. The TL’s followed Tami outside. Rod, Brad and Mayree, once getting over their amazement, had no choice but to follow. When they got to the back yard they saw the TL’s at the four corners of the little yard, throwing the remote to each other in a game of keep-away as Tami frantically lurched toward one and then the other. Her bare feet, caked with mud, slipped and soon mud was covering her breasts, her thighs, her knees, her hands.

It took three TL’s to hold her but they did so as Spica flicked the touch pad furiously, causing the naked pony girl to flail about wildly and scream, crazy-eyed, her feet kicking up bits of mud, her hand stretching out uselessly for the remote that was three feet past her grasp. There was underlying good humor. As the orgasm subsided Tami gasped, “You-ll — pay — for this — Spica — damn you!!”

Tami wrested free and shot through the bushes. The TL’s, more prone to worry about getting scraped, had to go around the far end. Rod and Brad and Mayree followed, laughing at this bizarre turn of events. When they emerged out onto the street they saw the pony-girl, her tail swishing behind her, pumping her arms and trying to maintain a rhythmic, athletic pace as she pounded the wet broken sidewalk with tough bare feet, trying to increase the distance between herself and her tormentors.

Rod thought to himself: what is the range of that remote? Tami being Tami, she was soon well ahead of the TL’s, almost at the corner of Spruce Street by now, over two hundred feet. Yet the odd splays of leg and jerking of pelvis showed that the remote, now in the hands of the quickly tiring Jeane, was still having its effect.

Rod and his friends followed the TL’s up to the corner of Spruce and then turned up the path to Hightop Park. They would never forget what they saw as they pulled even with the TL’s at the park gate. Way over across the park, just shy of the woods, Tami had slipped in a patch of mud and was face down in it, her butt up in the air. The TL’s had her where they wanted her and did not move as they passed the remote around between them as they caught their breath from running. Tami’s bare sweaty butt, glistening in the spring sunshine, heaved up and down as she climaxed for the, well, who was keeping count? The tail swished to and fro, every 0.8 seconds…

Now, trying to get to her feet, her toes squirming and sliding, she slipped and flopped onto her back, all but covered now in mud from face to feet like a naked primitive dancing in a fertility rite, her muddy tummy and hips bucking up with the spasms as if she was having intercourse with the air, the sky, the entire universe.

Rod and Brad and Mayree took in this scene in silence and wonder. Then Brad, who had not gotten any more talkative since his days as Campbell-Frank’s most laconic SGA President, spoke up. “I know this sounds wack, but I envy her. I wish I had her ability to feel all that pleasure.”

Rod looked up at his friend and then out again at Tami in the distance. As if by rote, he said, “Well, she deserves it, after what she’s been through.”

“She certainly does.”

After another moment, Rod said, “No, you’re not wack.”

Part 28

“G – got – to – be – k – kidding – mmee – ohhh!”

The blonde guy (prospect no. 3) was so obviously phony in his attempt at bad ballad singing that Tami’s appraisal was echoed by the TL’s.

“You got that right, mi amor,” Rosaria said, looking sideways at the TV as she plunged her tongue deep into the pink cave between the lower lips that she was spreading with her fingers.

“He’s better than number 1 though,” Myra said, sitting next to Rosaria, bending forward to suck one of the upturned nipples while rubbing the other one between her fingers. “Number 1 wasn’t even as good a faker.”

Jeane, on the other side of Rosaria, smacked her lips as she interrupted her sucking of Tami’s toes. “You should have seen last night. I’m surprised the three guys didn’t turn that bimbo into a dedicated lesbian.”

“Maybe she WAS a lesbian,” Melissa said, sitting on the floor, resting her head next to Tami’s, sucking on one of the smoothies Tami had made for them, now and then handing it up to Tami’s lips so she could have a sip. “This is all a fake, you know.”

Responding to Jeane, Tami said, “Th – this is on every night??”

“Three nights a week,” Jeane said. “I admit I’m hooked.”

“You must l – lose three IQ points every time you watch this — ohhh,” Tami said. Rosaria had just inserted her greased thumb into her anus and was turning it round and round inside her. Then she sucked Tami’s clit hard in between her teeth.

“Khhh! Chkkk! Gaaahh! Ohhhh!” The whole couch rocked as Tami exploded again, the four TL’s grabbing whatever part of her that was handy with a mixture of lust and tenderness.

“I think — ” Melissa was about to say something but waited as Tami kicked through one last, unexpected spasm. “I think a lot of lesbians watch this.”

“Like us,” Myra said with a snort. Among them only Spica, who was not there tonight, was a declared lesbian. But the standing joke was they made an exception for licking and sucking Tami.

Tami, catching her breath, said, “Jeane… Doesn’t this show make you stupid?”

“It’s just fun.”

“I suppose so… A waste of time though… ohh…”

The three TL’s on the couch turned Tami over, once again. This gave Melissa another chance to do some deep-tongue kissing as she turned her head up to Tami’s. Rosaria, recently inducted into the delights of licking Tami’s rear entrance, stuck her tongue into the orifice that Tami had cleaned via enema earlier, performing the ablutions in the bathroom as the TL’s stood around and watched. At Rosaria’s request Tami had done an extra strawberry enema she had brought. As a result Tami was scrumptious! Jeane got to licking the toes on the other foot, trying out the taste of a grapefruit-scented lotion she had bought. As for Myra, she contented herself with tracing her fingers over the beautifully formed, tanned back, running her fingers down to the sacral dimples and onto each butt cheek, then back up to the shoulders, making Tami shiver.

They had been like this for over an hour, another “girls’ night in” at Tami’s place, on a night when Rod was working late. At Tami’s request it was always a low-key affair. “Let’s just hang out like we’re in the dorm,” she said the first time. “I kind of miss those days.” So they either watched TV or sat around chatting. Though there were probably no hang-out sessions in dorms where one girl was naked and constantly being licked and sucked, propped up, spread out, or like tonight munched on like a five-foot-five hero sandwich, all the while chatting with the rest to the extent she could.

Tonight began with sitting on the floor, in their stocking feet (except for Tami, of course), over potato chips and smoothies, moved to an intense session with Tami pinned on top of the kitchen counter, her ankles up past her face, from whence they carried her recovering body to the couch to watch the latest “reality” show.

“When is the Spring Zing?” Jeane said in between licks of “Isis” (Tami’s right third toe) and “Osiris” (the fourth toe).

“N – next Th – thursday… Seven o’clock in the M – multipurpose roommm… R – reception later… ohhh… But it’s at the air – port…”

“The airport?”

“The — ffaculty — cafe is under c – construction — so — th-there’s a nnnice — ohhh! — restaurant there — the C – county airport… ”

“County airport?” Melissa said.

“It’s about five miles down Route 218,” Myra said.

Jeane said, “What’s your entry going to be like? A dress? Or a sports outfit?”

“I’m not tellin’ — ohhh — God, what a creep!”

Prospect no. 2 had just said to an off-camera interviewer, “I think like girls just like want to be basically controlled?”

“I’M not going out with HIM,” Myra said, grabbing Tami’s right butt cheek forcefully.

Rosaria, diddling Tami’s clit from below, extracted her tongue to say, “He’s just brave in saying what a lot of guys think.”

“You can let them think they’re in control even when they’re not,” Jeane said. “It flatters their ego.”

“But if you do th — that,” Tami said, “th – they might get into the — ohhh” — Rosaria was diddling her clit more and more furiously now, and the others quickened their attentions to bring Tami up to another crest — “habit — OHHH!”

Tami bucked and bucked as the TL’s held on. Rosaria timed her diddles at 0.8 seconds and then, judging her time carefully, decelerated very slightly. This extended her orgasm as hoped.

“Ohh — ohhh — oh hi — Roddd!!”

Rod, standing there in his suit and briefcase, smiled and kissed the gasping face of his wife.

As Tami quieted down again, Jeane said, “What do you think, Rod?”

Rod enjoyed watching his wife “come down” and waited until she was back at what, having been educated by the TL’s, he had learned to call her “plateau” stage. He thought for a moment. “I think you shouldn’t let the guy get away with thinking he’s in control if he isn’t. The important thing is to be honest.”

“Sometimes it’s diplomatic to lie a little,” Jeane said, pensively licking Tami’s little toe like it was a lollipop.

“Well you don’t have to be honest right away,” Rod said, speaking louder as he retreated to the kitchen and took off his coat. “The church I went to as a kid, the preacher would say, ‘Never go to bed with a argument unsettled.’ That’s bullshit, of course. Just get some rest and things will look better in the morning.”

As he returned, he said, “What he MEANT was, don’t keep secrets, if there’s a disagreement, deal with it, and soon.”

He had no jealousy about the TL’s involvement in his wife’s life. He was actually glad there was someone else to have Tami’s needs taken care of, now that work was heating up and he had to come home late and tired.

The only restriction, which he and Tami agreed on, was that the TL’s couldn’t use the tail inside her. That touch-pad was incredibly powerful and he was afraid Tami might injure herself jumping around like that. And both of them were a little unsure that the TL’s could be trusted to be gentle in inserting such a huge object in such a vulnerable place.

Even he himself was wary about the touch pad. Though its operation was silent, it seemed too much like torture, like whipping her from the inside. He conceded it was his own hang-up; Tami herself felt nothing but intense pleasure. But he much preferred the more mellow delights afforded by the purple button, which turned the tail into a simple vibrator. Sunday afternoon had been particularly pleasant. He had sat on the porch, taking in the sunshine, watching the last of the snow melt, the remote in his hand, as Tami writhed on the floor next to him, periodically spasming and moaning, the buzzing inside her faintly audible. Trent had stopped by and the two men had chatted about this and that, idly watching Tami as she climbed one orgasmic peak after another, lost in her own world.

Now he sat in the big chair, sipping an orange juice, and watched the TL’s feast on her. He was impressed with their dedication to her. And he remembered what Georgene said once. “Tami is our feminist hero. Men stripped her, but she came back in her nakedness and defeated them.” Sounded almost like Jen.

He looked up at the TV and said, “Oh God. Not again.” That idiotic dating show.

“Their p – plan to make me s – stupid,” Tami said.

“For you, Tam, that would take a long long time.” Rod said. He snorted as he saw Prospect Number 2 try to sweep tonight’s bimbo off her feet and fall on his butt.

And now the big moment when the bimbo made her selection. Would it be Prospect No. 1, Prospect No. 2, or Prospect No. 3? Unfortunately Tami was cresting again. Rosaria had turned her onto her side and her bare foot flung out, blocking Myra’s view. Myra tried to reach out and push it out of the way.

Biting her lip the blonde on the screen said, “I pick — ”

“Ohhhh… ohhhh! OHH!”

“Shhhhh!!” the TL’s said in unison.

“Mmmphh… mmphhh… mmphhh… ” Tami stifled her remaining spasms with a mighty effort.

The bimbo lingered speechless for an excruciatingly long time. Then she said, “Number 2!”

“Give me a break!” the four TL’s said together. Tami, catching her breath, said, “That girl is stuuuu – pid!” Sounding like her 19-year-old friends, except for the orgasmic moans, of course.

Now the credits rolled onto the screen and Tami caught her breath and staggered to her feet and sat in the big chair with Rod, her bare leg draped over his knee. The TL’s knew it was time to go. By the time Rod came home they could hang out for a bit but not too long.

After they left, Tami curled up in Rod’s lap like a satisfied cat. Strong as she was, she knew how to act like she needed his protection. It made him feel good, pretense though it was.

Tami stroked the limp package within the pants. “You want some tonight, Baby?”

“Maybe I can dream about it, Babe. Sorry but I’m just about pooped.”

. . . .

Scene: same living room, the next evening.

Event: Second meeting of the SGA Activities Day Committee.

Personnel: Seated on chairs taken from the kitchen, Celine, dressed in a fluffy black sweater over a pink blouse, jeans, hiking boots with white socks, little assignment pad, pencil; and her roommate Lorinda, in buttoned sweater over nerdy white shirt, black pants, saddle shoes with green socks, white loose leaf sheet over a textbook, pen.

Seated on the long couch: Myra, black flannel shirt under a blue parka, long wool skirt, tights, Birkenstock sandals over thick brown socks, laptop; and Roberto, SGA President, athletic sweatshirt over Oxford-collar shirt, jeans, fake-snakeskin boots, a stack of papers in his hands.

Seated, or rather slouched, on the big easy chair: Trent, in long black coat over a plaid lumberjack shirt, purple velour pants, Pro Keds with blue socks, note pad, pen.

Seated on the floor, leaning against the easy chair: Committee Head Tami, no clothes, right knee up with a notepad on the thigh, pen in left hand; and on the floor in front of her left foot, a clipboard, rested on which was a pen grasped between her second and third toes.

Finally, on the little couch, Samantha, head of the Inter-Greek Council. Samantha was one of the sorority pledges dared into streaking across campus that fateful September evening three and a half years ago. Tami had been caught by campus police, and she had not. On this evening Samantha wore an exquisitely tailored jacket with matching V-neck blouse, houndstooth pants, and argyle socks under ballet slippers. She was fitfully engaged to a blueblood at Dartmouth named Sterling whom she suspected of cheating. She had never had an orgasm.

Roberto handed out the papers, a one-page chart, and waited for the others to absorb its contents.

The first reaction was a snort from Celine. “What the hell is this?”

“My proposed layout for the Multipurpose Room on Activities Night,” Roberto said presidentially.

“That’s not what I mean,” Celine said.

In student government there are two groups of people: the ones who make the noise, and the ones who do the work. Roberto was mostly a noise-maker but the serious types gathered here gave him some respect because, unlike the previous two presidents, he at least did some work. Though not very well.

“You put the Gay Lesbian Bisexual Transgender Alliance next to the ROTC?” Samantha said incredulously.

“The Arab Student Union next to the Jewish Student Union??” Tami said with amusement.

“Planned Parenthood next to the Right to Life Committee!?” Trent said, beginning a laugh that quickly spread.

“Some of these folks, they deserve it,” Lorinda said humorlessly. Her roommate, Celine, rolled her eyes at Tami, who smirked in sympathy.

Roberto, at a loss, said, “I was hoping the juxtaposition… the juxtaposition (he liked to say this word)… of opposing groups would put them in contact and get them to know each other better.”

“Roberto,” Celine explained patiently, “This might not be the right time. It’s a nice idea but if it fails it fails big.”

“So when else and how else can we get them into contact?”

There was silence. He had a point. The campus was more contentious recently. When else could these strident activist types, who stayed away from each other as far as possible, be forced into proximity? They all had a strong interest in showing up at Activities Night.

Tami exhaled, scratched her nipple with the end of a pencil, making her breast jiggle for a second, then tapped the pen in her toes, looking around the room. She waited for three or four beats and then said, “Maybe he’s right. I say let’s go for it.”

“If it fails, it fails big,” Celine repeated. “Well, okay, if you’re in, I’m in.”

The amazed consensus was soon achieved. Tami as Committee Chair wrote it down in the Official Minutes. While writing the same thing on the pad with her toes, just as neatly, to send to the SGA Secretary.

“Ooo ooo,” Trent said, making chimp sounds as he looked at Tami’s busy foot. Myra, the TL, followed with her own “Ooo ooo!”, maybe a bit more lustfully.

Tami smiled as she continued writing, with just the barest knowing eye-flick at Myra. “I’m a polywriter.”

“A what?” Samantha said.

“A Thomas Jefferson invention,” Celine, a history major, said. “But he used a steel bar to connect the two pens.”

“Maybe started with his toes, who knows?” Tami said.

“He probably diddled two slave girls at once that way,” Trent said. This made Tami and Celine chuckle.

Tami’s phone rang, not the cell phone, but the phone on the wall.

“Excuse me,” she said, handing her pad to Trent. “Be right back.”

They saw Tami disappear and waited. And waited. Finally Trent got on with the next order of business, what to do about publicity.

After a space of ten minutes Tami came back. Trent, who had known her the longest, saw the change. She looked shaken, like she’d seen a ghost.

The business of the committee finished up shortly after. Trent stayed behind.

“Tam, what’s wrong? What was that phone call about?”

The naked girl exhaled, and as she blinked and looked up at Trent he saw her eyes were a little moist and red.

“It was Jen’s dad,” she said. “He says he’s found Henry Ross.”

Part 29

“Hear, hear! All rise, Campbell County District Court, State of Vermont, Honorable Prudence Stanton presiding.”

All rose, the lawyers and the crime victim and the three dozen or so spectators in the gallery and overflowing to the jury seats on the side, as the wrinkled old lady in black robes entered and ascended the bench in the historic old courtroom, built in 1773 according to the cornerstone outside.

She sat down and everyone else did too. She nodded to the young male stenographer to her side, who poised his hands over the little machine. “Court now in sesson. Good morning, all. As y’know I have strict standards of decorum in heah,” she said, lilting in her old-Vermonty accent. She put on the reading glasses hanging from her neck and looked down. “I have here a note from the state medical examiner as to our complaining witness’s allergy and I give it due respect. Sorry if it’s a bit chilly in here,” she said to the only unclothed person in the room. “It’s cold in this place even in the summer.

“Now I see we have only one case on the calendar today, People versus Henry Ross. The charge is endangerment in the second degree, which has a statute of limitations of two and a half years, and the motion is to upgrade the charge to first degree, which has a statute of four years. The two and a half years runs out today, which under Section 789 means also that this is the last day the motion can be made. Miss Granby-White?”

At the lawyers’ table were the assistant D.A., a thin, young white woman in glasses and a smart business outfit; Jen’s father, Marcus McIntyre, in his three-piece suit and shined black shoes; and Tami Smithers. The assistant D.A. and Mr. McIntyre got up and stood in front of the bench. Ms. Granby-White looked up and said, “Your Honor, I believe you have our out of state attorney application for Mr. McIntyre for this case?”

“Yes I do,” the judge said, looking at the thin file in front of her. “And it’s granted. Welcome to our court, Mr. McIntyre.”

“Thank you, Your Honor.” Marcus McIntyre motioned for Tami to stand up next to him. She hesitantly and nervously stood her barefoot and naked self beside the two well-dressed lawyers, her hair, once again plum color, carefully braided up, her fingernails and toenails done up nicely in the same color.

Marcus was well aware of Tami’s fear of lawyers and courtrooms, a fear well justified by what she had been through. But he always liked to have his clients in court if it made for good theater. This was certainly true of Tami, whose nakedness vividly illustrated the wrong that had been done to her. Last night he had sat down with her, with Jen and Rod in attendance, and went over what was to happen. He explained the status of his investigation, the legal issues involved, the importance of her being there, and the probability that the judge would ask her questions. Tami bit her lip and agreed to appear for the motion.

He began in his usual poised manner. “Your Honor, my client as a freshman at your local college underwent a horrible and unending series of humiliations and intimidations at the hands of the defendant. Her clothes were stripped from her, all her shoes too, and she was forced to spend the entire academic year totally naked, not only while on campus, but wherever she went. Naked and barefoot through the cruel blizzards of winter, the cold rains of spring, her most private areas on view for anyone to see, while being prohibited from showing any sign of modesty upon the threat of having her scholarship revoked, the scholarship which was such a source of pride to her and her family –”

“Yes, yes, I’ve read the indictment,” the judge said. “Now why should the charge be upgraded?”

Marcus was used to giving long, lurid accounts of his clients’ suffering and did not expect to get cut off. He quickly sized up this judge as one of those old yankees who hated wordiness. He changed gears. “Since the scheme was exposed, I have had investigators looking for Mr. Ross, necessary because the police could not do it, it being clear that Mr. Ross had immediately left the state. For two years we could not find him. Last month an investigative search finally retrived a ‘hit’, an airplane ticket bought by Mr. Ross a year ago in Phoenix, Arizona for a trip to Beaumont, Texas. We subpoenaed the airline records and found an address in Arizona, but by that time the residence had been deserted with no sign of where he had gone.

He dramatically lowered his voice. “Then, four days ago, a person matching Mr. Ross’s physical description was seen purchasing a handgun at a shop in Boca Raton, Florida. Unfortunately we could not get verification.”

“Why is that?”

“Well as you might know, a new federal rule requires all background information as to gun purchases to be destroyed within 24 hours.”

The judge rolled her eyes. “Oh, right.”

“By the time we got a subpoena signed and served it, it was too late. It would be a grave miscarriage of justice if at the last moment this person, who had subjected my client to such abuse, solely for his sadistic purposes, who took a young female of her tender years and — ”

“Get to the point!”

“Uh, my point being that we are this close” — he put his thumb and forefinger an inch apart — “to capturing this man. Witnesses can be interviewed, and the gun shop owner himself seems cooperative. It was a cash sale and he had kept the paper receipt, which said ‘Henry Ross’, which he had checked by asking to see the buyer’s driver’s license. So it seems we finally have a real lead on tracking the defendant down.”

Marcus went to the table and took out a folder from his briefcase. “I would like to present documentation of what I’ve told you.”

“That’s all right, Mr. McIntyre, I stipulate to what you say, and I say so on the record.”

“Well if you don’t mind, I’d like to put it in your file anyway…”

Ms. Granby-White whispered to Marcus, “What are you doing?” She whispered as lowly as possible but in the quiet courtroom it was impossible not to hear.

“I’m building a record on appeal,” he whispered back.

“If she rules against us, it’s not appealable,” she said. “Not in this state.”

Marcus missed only a beat before putting the folder back. Best not to piss the judge off.

The judge said, “Mr. McIntyre, I see your point as to imminent capture” — with her accent it was more like “capcheh” — “but that is not relevant to why the charge should be upgraded. I see you have your client with you. If it’s OK with you, Miss, I’d like to ask you something.”

Tami had been standing quietly, her hands clasped politely in front of her, as it happened over her pubic bush. She cleared her throat and said, “Y-yes, Ma’am.” Marcus bit his lip. He had told her to address the judge as “Your Honor”, not “Ma’am”. But Tami’s upbringing was too strong.

“Miss Smithers…” The judge turned to the stenographer. “Off the record, please.” She looked down at her file and then up at Tami.

She was at a loss for words, seeing what she saw.

Tami, still looking up at her obediently, had crossed one arm over to cover her breasts, and put the other hand over her crotch.

Tami never did that. There was a silent gasp from the audience, from Rod and Jen in the gallery behind her, and especially from those in the jury seats to the side who had a better view.

Marcus looked over in surprise, then down at Tami’s bare toes nervously flexing against the polished wood floor. Tami’s motions were great theater, but that could not be why she did it. And any sense of modesty had been burned out of her long ago. Maybe this was an expression of “modesty” in the deeper sense of the word, the modesty that Tami always had. A sign of respect for the judge and an uncertainty as to how she should be presenting herself.

The judge collected herself and said what she had been about to say. “You’re not under oath, my dear. Let’s discuss this informally. I see here, from what I read, what amounted to a threat to take away your scholarship if you put on any clothes. That fits the bill for endangerment in the second degree. But there’s first degree endangerment if the threat was physical. At any time, did Henry Ross, or either of the persons listed as accomplices here, Percy Jorgon or Nevada McMasters, or any of that whole crowd, did they threaten you physically, threaten you with bodily harm?”

This was the key point. Last night Marcus had gone over this carefully. He could not, of course, coach his client as to what to say, but had gone as far as the ethics of his profession allowed: “Tami, you should search your memory and think, were you ever physically threatened? At any time, did Henry Ross, or anyone involved in this say, Tami, if you put on the merest scrap of clothing, or show any sign of trying to cover up, you will be harmed bodily? Beaten up or something? It didn’t have to be in so many words, it could be indirect, or a matter of you putting two and two together. Of course,” he continued, dropping his voice, “with all the horrible deeds that will go into evidence at trial, if Henry Ross testifies that he never threatened you, and you say he did, it’s obvious who the jury will believe.”

Tami not answering, the judge said again, “Did they ever threaten you physically, dear?”

In the chilly courtroom everyone held their breath, all eyes on the naked young woman. Rod and Jen could see goose pimples rising on her butt. She seemed to clutch her nakedness tighter and looked down at her flexing toes. For the first time in a long long time, she seemed uncomfortable with being naked. She looked frightened and cold, like a scared 18-year-old away from home for the first time and overwhelmed by her unwanted nudity and the powerful clothed men determined to break her.

Then she looked up and said, “N-no, Ma’am.”

“Never?”

Tami looked down and shook her head. She sniffled and rubbed her nose.

The judge and Tami looked at each other for a second, perhaps with a common understanding as women, but mostly across a wide gulf, separated by age, power, and the ownership of clothes.

The judge turned to the stenographer. “Back on the record. Mr. McIntyre, the statute is clear as can be. Without an allegation that there was a threat to Ms. Smithers’, uh, body, there is no basis for an upgrade. Motion denied. The statute of limitations has run. The case of People versus Henry Ross is closed.”

She banged her gavel. In the gallery there was weeping, Jen’s. A couple of TL’s also sobbed. The judge got up to leave.

“Your Honor,” Ms. Granby-White piped up, presenting a paper from her jacket pocket. “Will you sign an order of protection?”

The judge hesitated and then took the paper as it was handed up to her. She put her glasses back up and read it.

“On this matter I DO have some discretion,” she said, sitting down. “I’ve never signed an order of protection against someone who has never threatened bodily harm, but in this case I don’t mind.” As she signed it she said, “Also I don’t like it that this man bought a handgun. Here you are, dear. Henry Ross is not allowed to enter your home, or call you, or go within 50 feet of you. If he does any of that, Sheriff Wheeler will toss him into jail and I will personally throw away the key.”

Tami, still clutching her breasts and her crotch, approached hesitantly as the judge beckoned. She read the official-looking document as she returned to her place next to Marcus and the assistant D.A.

“This court is adjourned.” The judge gathered her robes and went back to her chambers.

Tami’s hands dropped from covering herself as she passed by Rod and took his hand on the way out. Rod folded up the order of protection and put it into the pocket of his coat.

Outside it was a nasty, freezing, blustery day. Everyone had to put on their hats and gloves right away, Tami in their midst. They stood around silently, not knowing what to say, feeling pretty miserable as they watched Tami’s nipples grow stiff in the frigid breeze.

Finally Marcus spoke up. “Sorry, Tami,” he said, putting on his gloves and suppressing a shiver. “You are a rare gem… You’ve had it rough. Let me suggest that the best thing for you to do right now is get drunk. Let me take you and Jen and Rod to the pub for some brews and something to eat. It’s all on me.”

Tami seemed tempted. But after a moment she said, “No thanks. I’d rather be alone. I’m going home.”

And she left them, off to her house by the shortest route, which involved cutting across the village green. Rod started after her but tactfully not too close, as if he was in a marching band and she was the majorette whom he was to follow at a certain distance.

As they watched her stride across the bleak commons, icy wind biting every inch of her nakedness, her bare feet squishing through the freezing mud, they thought of Henry Ross, sitting on a warm beach in Florida somewhere, or maybe in elegant clothes living the high life on an offshore casino.

Wherever he was, Henry Ross was now off the hook.

And, with very minor exceptions, free to go wherever he wanted.

Part 30

Acting Dean Anthony Noyes, tall and a little grayer and a little heavier, no longer being able to fit into the three-piece suits that had been his trademark, stood behind his desk and looked out the big bay window on this rainy March day, having hung up the phone. His people had told him just what he had expected. No filings yesterday in state court, and in federal court (the more likely forum) no filings either. The statute of limitations on any suit Tami Smithers could bring against the college had expired. The college was finally in the clear. At least as to lawsuits.

A relief, but not really unexpected. From all signs, she had made her peace with the college a long time ago, blaming her freshman year misfortunes on the machinations of Dean Percy Jorgon and the college attorney Henry Ross, and to some extent Nevada McMasters. Which so far as he knew was pretty close to the truth. Others who were probably culpable too had left before they found themselves in the cross-hairs. Professor Brignon. McMasters’s aides, Brendo and Mr. Zipkin. Not Homer Winant, of course, that wily S.O.B.

So now — what to do about her?

As he looked down on the campus Tami appeared as if on cue, hefting a big bag of dead leaves over her shoulder, squishing through the grass toward the front lawn, oblivious to the cold rain that plastered her hair to her shoulders and had everyone else scurrying around in raincoats. Now she came to one tree with a branch which the brown leaves had somehow clung to throughout the winter. As if she was born to do it, she scurried up on prehensile toes and reached over, her breasts crushed against the rough bark, shaking the leaves free. Then hopped to the ground and stuffed them into the bag with her bare hands. Remarkable.

He turned and sat down at the big oak desk and pondered. The presence of a naked student had never stopped being a trial for the college and its conservative benefactors. There was just no getting around it. It had paralyzed the Dean Hiring Committee; there was no way to say to candidates, “We are a religiously based, conservative institution,” and then say, “By the way, we have a girl who walks around naked all the time.” As a result the Acting Deanship had been a hot potato passed around between him and Vanessa Congi and even Mildred George, who was 75 years old.

Tami Smithers was only two months from graduation — but sure to get a graduate assistantship if that was what she desired. That would mean two more years of enduring her public nudity. And then what if she became an adjunct, or even a professor? She could be here for 20 years! Noyes held his forehead just at the thought of it, it was so agonizing.

The commencement ceremony itself was all too much to contemplate. She would be the valedictorian and giving her speech. It was a near miracle that the college had avoided national press thus far, but commencement exercises were always publicity magnets. “The Naked Valedictorian.” A Newsweek cover for sure. Some of the trustees had suggested canceling the commencement on some pretense. But he just could not do that. Tami had earned the right to give her speech in public just like any the college’s 212 other valedictorians throughout its history.

It would be easy if she was a troublemaker, but she was anything but. Her behavior during her long ordeal, and ever since, had been exemplary. Tami Smithers enjoyed an immense amount of respect, from faculty, the other students, recovering fundamentalists like Rev. Stipend… Even the more stuck-up benefactors grudgingly admitted she was a credit to the college, at the same time as they were waiting on pins and needles for her to leave.

As far as finding out what she might do, he had run into a brick wall. He certainly couldn’t ask her directly. What would be the point? There was no way he could say, “We like you Tami but we want you to leave. Here are some possibilities…” Or even hint it. He had called Abu Jamal about their attempts to cure her allergy but the Chalfont people absolutely would not talk to him. He could understand their position. They had been traumatized by the fallout from the McMasters experiments and were forever in debt to Ms. Smithers for voluntarily re-doing them when their accreditation was threatened. If anything, it would be better for him NOT to know her plans. That way, if he suddenly hit upon an idea that would get her out of here, he could spring it on her more innocently.

He had similar bad luck with the Fashion people. It would be strange, but great, if she won that International competition and got sent back to Rhode Island. But Girardo would not tell him what her chances were. And he had no pull with the people running the competition, of course.

A knock on the door.

It was Tami Smithers herself, wet and muddy, though she had been careful to wipe her feet. She stood in his doorway, naked and strong, her bookbag slung over her shoulder, carrying a four-foot long narrow thing that looked like a folded-up easel. “Hello, Mr. Noyes,” she said, respectfully but with an air of familiarity.

“Hello, Tami.” He was aware, of course, of yesterday’s ruling refusing to extend the statute of limitations in the criminal matter. Tami seemed to have bounced back from what must have been a bitter disappointment. Of course, the college itself being in effect an accomplice, there was no way he could express his condolences or anything like that.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Sure, Tami.” He glanced at her up and down, from her wild, wind-strewn hair, the tanned wet breasts, then down to the fragments of leaves in her pubic bush, finally to the widely-spread toes covered with bits of grass, as if she herself were a wet tree and her toes were the roots. “Is Omar working you too hard? Have a seat.”

“Well no, I shouldn’t, I’d mess up your chair… I’d like to ask your permission… Could I please wear something?”

“Uh — ” He had never been so astonished at a simple question. He almost gasped. Had her allergy been cured? If so, why was she asking permission?

Tami, realized how absurd her request sounded, smiled and set down her bookbag and held out the easel, which it turned out was a narrow, four-foot-long case. “This was a present that was given to me.”

As soon as he saw her bend down to open the case, her breasts wobbling in front of her, he realized with dread what it was. He had been told about it by Sarah Wickland, that West Coast lawyer with the kinky clients. The immense dildo with a two-foot long tail of horsehair.

“It’s called a tail. Ms. Wickland gave it to me. You know, from the pony farm.”

A reminder of Tami’s further horrible tribulations. Which again she had made peace with.

Obviously unaware that he knew about it, Tami stood up with the object in her hand and explained it. “This part goes into my rectum and up into my sigmoid colon. There’s a remote control that makes it into a sexual stimulator. But without the remote, just as a fashion accessory, I think the tail is pretty neat looking. I think I look good in it. See?” She approached him with a photo of herself, half-turned to the camera, with the tail waving behind her, coming out from between her bare butt cheeks, the smile on her face as innocent as if she were seven years old and showing off her First Communion dress. It was jarring to see. As she evidently knew: “I’m asking you because I can see why some people might, um, freak out.

“I won’t wear it anywhere on campus,” she said quickly. “But I was thinking of wearing it to the reception after the Spring Zing. There will be faculty there, so I wanted to know what you thought.”

He looked at the tail and at the picture. He just could not imagine where there was space in that slim body for that gigantic thing. But then, Tami Smithers was remarkable.

He also knew that the Spring Zing reception was traditionally a time when the fashion majors would show off with their most outlandish creations, kind of like a costume party. “I trust you to exercise your good judgment. You have always shown good judgment as a student here, Tami. I think… I think it will be OK But let Mr. Girardo know about it ahead of time.”

“Thank you, Mr. Noyes.” He was relieved to see Tami put that thing away, into the long case.

As she was about to leave he thought of something. “Tami, I have some things for you.”

With the results of those phone calls he was going to send for her to get them anyway. It might as well be now. He couldn’t wait to get them off his hands, and with the statute of limitations having run, the college had no duty to preserve them. He led Tami into the large storage closet down the hall and took a box off the shelf.

“These are some things that were found at Henry Ross’s place after he escaped. Mostly videos and discs that show some of the, uh, things that happened that year. From what I understand the criminal matter against him is now closed. So there is no need to keep them. If you ask me they should be destroyed. But a sense of justice compels me to give them to you. YOU should be the one who destroys them.

“There are also some DVD’s of the Chalfont experiments. As you remember you deleted the computer files in Dr. Schnitzler’s office. But it turns out Nevada McMasters took his own videos from a hidden camera in Lab 6. Possibly to use as evidence against Ross, I don’t know. I really have no idea what was going on between those two. But he left them in a cabinet in Lab 5. So these are yours too, Tami. I know I’ve said it a hundred times, but we are very sorry what you endured, Tami.”

He got a kind of rolling briefcase off another shelf, like people use to pull packages in at airports. “This is called a trial bag, lawyers like Mr. Halifax use it.” George Halifax being the person who replaced Ross as the college attorney. “This one’s extra. Here, let me put the things in here.”

Soon, Tami Smithers, with her bookbag and her horse-tail-dildo and all that odious crap from Chalfont and Ross, was gone. Anthony Noyes looked outside the bay window and saw her leave the building, strolling casually and nakedly through the rain. He exhaled as he saw her wheel away the DVD’s and videos, and though it was Tami who was getting wet, he felt like it was he, and Campbell – Frank College in general, who had been showered clean.

Part 31

Rod, sitting at the kitchen table in his pajamas, looked at the sample logos that Trent had made for Tami’s clothing designs. It seemed unlike the naturally modest Tami to blow her own horn so, but apparently it was recommended for fashion students to create a “brand” for their designs, for copyright protection purposes. He could understand that.

Trent was an art major and, unlike some of the others, was actually good at drawing human bodies and faces. Rod respected that, down-to-earth engineer type that he was. Trent and Tami had gone through a hard time after 9/11, dealing not only with their grief but also their guilt. Both had been invited to Jeffrey’s photo exhibition that day and had not gone; Trent because he had the flu, and Tami declining the ride down with Mandy because she didn’t want her nakedness to distract everyone from what was supposed to be the first big day in Jeffrey’s professional career. Like many others who had lost loved ones that day, Trent and Tami had formed a bond.

Trent’s empathy for Tami came through in his drawings. They were not detailed but they were realistic. The one Tami preferred was a plain line drawing of a girl holding a long coat in front of her. You could tell she was naked from the shoulders, the exposed hip, the toes on the feet below. It was unclear in the drawing whether she was offering the coat to the viewer or about to try it on herself. The ambiguity was a nice touch. Below, the motto: “It’s a Tami Original”.

Now Tami padded in, rolling that damned “trial bag”. She hefted it onto the table and sat up next to it in her usual cross-legged position.

“I don’t really want to look through this stuff,” Rod said.

“I don’t either, but I suppose we should see what’s here,” she said. “So what do you think of Trent’s logos?”

“They’re a product of real talent,” Rod said, “speaking as an engineer who can draw nothing but blueprints. I like the one you circled too. Tami, you really are ‘an Original’.”

“Oh Baby.” She was so limber that it was easy for her to bend her head down and give him a wet kiss. “Not an original-sounding motto, though. I can’t think of anything better at the moment.”

Rod smiled. “I like your new clothes. I mean your old clothes. That really is your color, Babe.”

Tami, still sitting cross-legged, opened her legs some more to show her lower hair. “Plum is for me, I think. It matches my little thing.” She leaned back a little, spread her lips and made her clit jump. “Hi hi! Now… what do we have here?”

As they rummaged through the bag they saw it was a collection of unmarked DVD’s and a few VHS tapes. They sifted through them silently.

“I say, throw them all out,” Rod said. “I don’t know how you can stand viewing them anyway.”

“Maybe… Let me think about it.” She laughed. “Maybe I’ll get Gretchen to sort them out.”

Rod chuckled, glad that so much time had passed that she could laugh at such things. “Don’t torture that poor girl… So you’re going to go down with her?”

“Yes.” Tami was going to Providence to see her parents this weekend. Rod couldn’t go; he had National Guard service.

“I don’t think the VW is going to make it,” Rod said. They drove in it yesterday and it pooped out on a hill, forcing them to turn it around and jump-start it by pushing it back down.

“It just needs the timing checked. I can do that next week. We’re taking her car anyway. Wow, look at this.”

A brown bag obviously holding VHS’s. On top was a handwritten note: “Found these at the house. George Halifax.” Halifax had moved into the college attorney’s house formerly lived in by you-know-who. “Oh Lord!” They were commercial porn tapes. Tami took out the first one. On the box was an interracial couple that looked almost exactly like Rod and Tami! “THIS we’ve got to see!”

Rod wasn’t that into it but Tami set it up like a movie night. She had him microwave popcorn while she pushed the couch in front of the TV and dug out the VCR that hadn’t been used in about two years. She cut the lights and they sat in their usual TV-watching position, him with the popcorn beside him, she stretching her naked self along the couch, her legs over his lap so that he could idly play with her pubic hair. Her dexterous toes tapped on the remote sitting on the arm of the couch.

Rod had seen more porn than he liked to admit, but for Tami it was a new experience. She watched entranced as the first few minutes showed the white woman with red hair writhing on a bed in a tiny negligee, stroking herself, not very skillfully portraying a bored, frustrated wife. She must have been bored by the decor as well: her “bedroom” looked like a motel room.

Now a sudden blast of gangsta rap and a black man in a pimp outfit climbed through the window. He wrestled the woman until she was pinned to the bed, her eyes showing that she was not very interested in resisting.

“Oh Babe, this is insulting.” Rod was offended and embarrassed by hip hop culture.

Tami had long been aware of that, but said, “Let’s see what happens,” as she inhaled another handful of popcorn. Now the man had his pants off and was slapping his half-erect penis across the woman’s face.

“Wow,” Tami said. “That guy is huge.”

“She’s got awfully big hands too,” Rod said. Tami guffawed as he saw what he meant. The effect of the camera angle and what must have been a fish-eyed lens became clear as soon as the woman put her fingers around the porn star’s dick. If his penis was huge, her fingers must be the size of bananas.

Then they both got a laugh as she started sucking him. The camera was from above and the lens made her nose get dramatically bigger with each upstroke, throbbing in size like a cartoon character who has just gotten punched.

About five minutes later, with no discernable advancement of either plot or technique, Tami said, “This is getting boring.”

“Welcome to the world of porn, Babe.”

She flexed her pinky toe and was about to hit “stop” when the man pulled back and shouted, “Take this, bitch!!”

As the music crescendoed the woman smiled and a big spurt hit her on the chin. Then a few dribbles before the black penis above her stopped quaking.

“That’s weird,” Tami said. Rod was surprised at this comment but then reminded himself: the “money shot” might be a convention of the genre, but despite what Tami has been through, she’s hardly ever seen any porn.

“That’s called a ‘facial’,” Rod said.

Tami decided to give up on this movie. “Let’s try one more.” Rod sighed in resignation.

This movie — apparently Henry Ross only liked interracial, black male-white female porn — was a bit easier to take. The black male was a tall skinny guy who was always smiling. No gangsta rap. He seemed to get a kick out of having two blond girls chasing him. At one point he had his pants half down and was trying to run down the stairs away from them, his dick flopping in front.

Ten minutes later, he too doused the white woman’s face with a few hits of semen, with great yowls that sounded like, “Yeeahhhhh — ohhhhh — yeahhhhhhh!!” Rod snorted. But Tami said, “It’s great that he can express himself like that. Why should women be the only ones who get vocal?” It was only then that Rod realized he had snorted to cover his embarrassment.

The blonde gathered up the semen with her finger and slurped it up like it was caviar. She really hammed it up, rolling her eyes. Again Rod snorted. But Tami said, “That’s exactly how I feel. Semen is the stuff of life.”

“It must be an acquired taste,” Rod said.

“Only the first couple of times. When I realized how much your body works to produce it, and how much you loved me, it became yummy.” Of course, they kissed after she said that.

“One more,” Tami said as Rod sighed.

In this one, the black man talked constant trash while humping the white woman from behind. “Take this bitch, you stinkin’ ho, take this n—-r dick all the way, you ain’t nothing but –”

“UGHHH!” Tami said, thudding the “stop” button forcefully with her heel.

They looked at the blue screen for a moment.

“Who watches stuff like that?”

“White guys.”

“So what do black guys watch?”

“Me, I used to watch black on black porn. There’s not a lot of it around though.”

Tami brought her foot up and stroked behind Rod’s ear with her toes, and behind the other ear with her hand. She was getting good at knowing this sensitive area and his dick began to stiffen. With her other hand she munched on a handful of popcorn. With a half-full mouth she said, “What if I told you to pick out what porn you wanted and masturbate to it, what would you pick?”

“I don’t think I would watch porn now. Or even jerk off. It just doesn’t compare with being with you. It’s like playing with a toy, then having the real thing.”

Holding onto Rod’s neck, she did everything with her feet, tapping the “off” button on the remote, then reaching forward to hit the “eject” button on the VCR, then, swinging a leg over, grabbing the tape with her toes and dropping it into the bag. “Ooo ooo,” Rod said playfully.

Rod hefted his naked white prey onto his shoulders and carried her to bed. He kept one eye on the clock radio and decided to lick her for one hour exactly. He realized with some amusement that his motivation was to do better than the TL’s. Pacing himself, he succeeded in managing her orgasms so that she came once every two minutes, ending up with 28 for the hour. Like the TL’s, he knew Tami hated being counted (though only he knew the reason), so he kept the number to himself.

At the end Tami was sweating all over and Rod’s tongue was tired, in fact his whole body was tired. But Tami was not winded in the least. After holding his head against her breasts for a few minutes, she made him stand up and revived him by sucking him.

The porn movies had made an impact on her. As he got close she said, “Come on my face!”

He was surprised and might have been turned off, her sucking tonight was especially ardent and deep. He pulled out at the right moment. He hadn’t come in a few days and it was a big load. He even let himself groan out loud — “Ohhhh Babe!” The four biggest arcs landed on her face, striping it from forehead down to her chin, a little dripping onto her breasts.

Rod, drained, catching his breath, looked down at his handiwork with mixed emotions. He did NOT want to be one of those pimped-out porn minstrels. But he was proud of being able to produce such a big load for Tami. Almost her whole forehead was coated.

Tami quickly unmixed his feelings. She was able to open her eyes and led him to the bathroom where they looked in the mirror, her face next to his.

“You marked me, you dog,” she said with a giggle. “I’m your bitch.” Then she smeared the semen over her face. “Well, it’s good protein, right? Good for the skin.”

He kissed her gently, not even minding that he got some on his own face. Tami could make just about anything sexy and loving.

Part 32

“Baby, after looking at these I think we should keep them somewhere. They are my testament to my dedication to you and my folks and all the people I love.
Tam”

This was unusual, this almost Biblical language from Tami. On this Sunday evening Rod sat in the kitchen and pondered the note she had left yesterday next to the little stack of DVD’s before heading down to Providence with Gretchen. The note just added to the unreality of this weekend, this sense that his world was beginning to tip out of control.

He had left for his National Guard service like always, at 5 a.m. Saturday morning, while she was still asleep. He could barely stand to leave her, as she lay sprawled atop the covers, arms and legs splayed out in all directions, the forest of her lower hair the highest point on her body. Then up to Camp Grafton and it was all hup-hup-hup. The last few services had been disturbing. A platoon of engineers and architects, second lieutenants, and they were being put through paces like infantry. Nobody dared mention the I-word, but it sure looked like they were getting conditioned to go to Iraq. And not to build bridges either.

Worse, some of the guys had not been showing up. He couldn’t believe they would just blow it off, risk getting reported. Some were volunteers of course; they weren’t doing their tour as a condition of having gotten a scholarship like Rod was. But how could you have such a delinquency on your record? At the very least it would come back to haunt you someday.

Rod looked at the note again and at the stack of DVD’s.

“They are my testament to my dedication to you and my folks and all the people I love.” He supposed she meant for him to take a look. And she wasn’t going to be back from Providence until late. Well…

Rod set himself up in the living room and popped in the first DVD. Oh God —

The mechanical, factory-like sound was almost deafening and he had to turn the volume down. The sweaty, naked body of Tami, seen from the waist up, against the brightly lit background of Lab 6, three years ago. She was only 18 then and she looked like a child, not quite as muscular as now, with whiter skin. Her eyes were closed, her breathing ragged. Her sweat-soaked hair was plastered to the sides of her face. Her arms were stretched out to the sides — hands tied to the posts that were out of camera range. He knew the sliding, clanking sounds were from the unseen dildo shafts below, pistoning on their cams aimed at her widely-spread, tied-apart legs, plunging past her cervix, and deep into her colon, in an alternating rhythm. Under her ribs he could see her concave tummy lurching slightly forward and back as she was penetrated front and rear, a mixture of chills and sobs going through her frame as she felt the ridges on the front dildo bump past her clit and inside past her G-spot. Her nipples were stuck in those awful suction tubes that went up and out, bristling and sucking and stimulating…

Oh Jesus — entering the camera’s range, the face of Henry Ross! In his lawyer suit. And now next to him McMasters in his tacky blazer and open collar. “Good afternoon Miss Smithers,” Ross said affably.

Tami’s heavy-lidded eyes opened. Her lips parted slightly but she said nothing.

“So as I understand it,” Ross said to McMasters, “during orgasm her eyes dilate?”

“That is one of the many things we have discovered about female orgasm, thanks to Tami’s participation,” McMasters said eagerly. “To be precise, her pupils dilate, and her eyes lose focus.” He looked down, presumably at dials on a console. “Why don’t you watch on her next orgasm?”

“You mean she’s had more than one?” Ross said with perhaps too much of a play at naiveté.

“Good Lord, Mr. Ross, Tami is the most multi-orgasmic girl we ever heard of.” Looking down again, he said, “She’s been hooked up for about an hour, and has experienced orgasm twenty-two times.”

“Twenty-two times!” Ross looked at Tami’s face, her eyes now closed again. “That’s hard for one to imagine,” he said with a convincing tone of innocent wonder. “The greatest physical pleasure a human being can know, and she’s enjoyed it twenty-two times in just the past hour… You are a lucky young woman, Miss Smithers!”

“I’ll say,” McMasters said. “And each one is an unusually intense experience in its own right. She averages twelve contractions, which is more than the typical person has.” He leaned down out of sight and must have turned a knob, as casually as if he were adjusting the throttle on a lawn mower. Tami’s eyes popped open and she strangled a loud grunt. “There, I’ve increased the RPM and the depth of insertion somewhat. She should climax again soon. Excuse me, Mr. Ross, I have to go down the hall to get a refill for our EKG scroll. Why don’t you stay here and watch. I’ll be back in five. Tami,” he said now in a slightly louder voice, “Remember to open your eyes and look directly at Mr. Ross on your next orgasm, okay?”

Tami, eyes closed, trying to hold back the quaking of her body, waited a second before slowly nodding once.

Rod felt miserable. At the time this was happening, he had no idea. Neither did Rebecca or Jen or Marisol or anyone else. They all thought of Tami as a happy, though quiet, girl who had decided to be a nudist. And he supported her and said he admired her for it! Tami kept her torments a secret from him and everyone, not wanting to let them down, and especially, as he knew now, not wanting to jeopardize her scholarship. Totally out of her element, the first person in her family to go away to college, too frightened and intimidated to tell anyone, too frightened to seek legal advice. He thought of what Rebecca had during her little sermon at their wedding. “One of the hardest things to do is to be brave, when no one can see that you are being brave.”

Now, back on the DVD, Ross could be seen watching McMasters leave. Then he turned to Tami again.

“Totally naked,” he said, looking her up and down. “I can see every inch of you, Miss Smithers. So has everyone else. How does it feel, to be naked all the time and not cover any part of yourself for even one second? This jacket, for example,” he said, grabbing his lapels. “I’m also wearing a shirt, pants, shoes, socks, underwear. Quite comfortable and handy on a chilly day like this. Yet you have nothing.”

He walked around behind her, out of camera range. “I understand many people have seen your, uh, anus. Few people can stand to have anything inserted into this, what most people consider their most private spot. Yet this, uh, dildo like thing is going into you and it is huge. It must be penetrating deep into your gut. In… out… now in again… out again…” Now he moved around in front again, looking down, stroking his chin. “And this front dildo thing is no less remarkable.” He bent down, out of range. “The way it stretches your, uh, vaginal lips wide apart is amazing.” He stood up again. “I understand those ridges provide intense sexual stimulation, both inside and outside.”

He let a moment go by, listening to Tami’s labored breathing and watching her closed eyes. Now he stood up now aggressively, literally getting into her face, not more than a foot away. His tone now was menacing. “Feel those thrills! And that rear shaft going right up into you! You can’t escape me, Miss Smithers! That is ME, going up into you! ME, driving you to orgasm! ME, reaching right into your soul at your most vulnerable moment!

“Ah, I see now you’re beginning to crest up to yet another climax! You MUST open your eyes and look at me! Otherwise I will have evidence that you’re modest and you will be exposed as a liar! ‘Religious nudist’, indeed! Declaring that you don’t believe in modesty, indeed! You were just streaking that night, admit it!! An expellable offense! Keep your eyes closed and you will be EXPELLED!”

Tami’s eyes strained open in anguish and terror. Her body quaked with the onset of orgasm.

“You really think you can win, Miss Smithers?!” Ross got even closer, looking right into her eyes. “You think you’re being heroic, don’t you! The scholarship that made your parents proud! Sticking it out for your stupid, beer-swilling parents! And your stupid, N—-R boyfriend!! It won’t work!

“LOOK AT ME!! I WON’T GO AWAY!”

She opened her mouth and her eyes twitched with the strain of keeping open as she launched into a convulsive climax. Her shouts reverberated through the cold lab.

“AHHHHH!” — “Again!!” Henry Ross shouted into her face, his hateful eyes gleaming into her terrified ones.

“AHHHHH!” — “Again!!”

“AHHHHH!” — “Yes! More!!”

“AHHHHH!”

Was she berating him? Yelling at him? Crying for help? Shouting a prayer to God? Her shouts were unearthly, weird. Rod had heard Tami cry out in orgasm hundreds, possibly thousands of times, but never heard sounds like these.

The orgasm went on and on. Of course, everything being done to her was designed to extend and intensify her “pleasure”. After the last few, irregular cries she dropped her head and started sobbing. So young, her crying sounded like a little child’s. Rod was about to cry himself.

McMasters returned and she raised her head and sniffled, trying to compose herself, though this was not totally possible as the dildos, unaware that she had just suffered an intense, mind-ripping orgasm, kept on pistoning inside her with their constant rhythm. McMasters looked down. “I see she just had number twenty-three,” he said genially. “Did she open her eyes for you?”

“No, I don’t think she did,” Ross said blandly. Tami’s eyes opened and she looked dully at the floor. A tear formed at her right eye and rolled down her face.

“Well, that’s OK, just wait until she has her next one,” McMasters said. “Sometimes she’s too distracted to follow instructions, as you might imagine. At the onset of orgasm ideation and perception become scrambled. That’s another thing we’ve learned. She cries, she sobs, she prays out loud sometimes. Sexual ecstasy can be a religious experience.”

“So one could imagine,” Ross said. As they watched her catch her breath he observed, “This could be a disturbing sight. If one didn’t know she had specifically agreed to it in writing.”

“Indeed. We are eternally thankful to her. Well, like I said, let’s just wait. It shouldn’t be long. She’s on a plateau from which she can peak easily, come down a bit, and peak again. Here,” he said, leaning down.

Tami’s tortured eyes were forced upon and another cry was ripped from her throat. Evidently McMasters had intensified the stimulation again.

“Here she comes, so to speak,” McMasters said as Tami looked up to the ceiling with increased bucking of her hips. He raised his voice. “Now Tami — look Mr. Ross in the eye!”

Tami’s agonized expression again reluctantly focused on her nemesis, Ross’s vicious, sadistic leer staring into the look of pure terror in her tortured eyes —

— Rod couldn’t stand it any more. He hit the “STOP” button and sat back and covered his face. “Jesus,” he said.

Part 33

Rod turned in his bed, then untwisted the pajamas that had tangled around his arms. Tami used to encourage him to sleep naked but he just couldn’t get to sleep like that. Wasn’t she back yet? His bleary eyes looked at the clock radio. It was only 11 o’clock. She said she’d be midnight or later.

He was still upset by that Chalfont DVD. Then he thought of Tami, the Tami of today, the self-assured, proudly naked 21-year-old. He smiled. Ross might be free and off the hook, but in many ways Tami ended up with the better part of the deal. Ross lost his job and his reputation. Where could he find work now? And Tami, happily naked, sexually satisfied, popular…

. . . .

He waited anxiously, nervously fidgeting with the slide of his trombone. Mr. Watson, whom everyone called “Sarge” from his years as a bandleader in the Army, waited impatiently as Jamal fiddled with the A-V equipment. It was first period practice in the crowded rehearsal room. They had just gone through their usual warm-up tune, “Captains and Kings”. Now they were snorting with anticipation. Except for him. And Brigid in the clarinet section, sitting between Debra and Virginia, in her usual jean jacket, white turtleneck, black jeans and Doc Martens. She was easy to pick out because she was one of only five white kids in the whole band. She bit her lip and was as nervous as he was.

Finally — the big screen lit up blue. The screen was ripped here and there. T— High School might be known locally for its marching band but this was not a school district with a lot of money.

Some out-of-synch blurry images and now the genial, grandmotherly face of Melba McCann, the anchor of the local news show. “And now, we have with us guests from the famous T— High School marching band, who will be performing at this Saturday’s regional title football game between their school and Brookline High School.” Her first words sounded like she was talking underwater but then Jamal’s hand slammed down on something in the control room and the sound cleared up. “Here we have — ”

The camera panned over to the three guests, Sarge in his business suit with the black tie, Brigid in her majorette uniform, her baton laid primly across her bare thighs, and he himself in his braided wool uniform, holding his trombone in “rest” position in front of him.

Watching the screen, he cringed as he saw the beads of sweat on his forehead. It wasn’t just nervousness — it had been hot in that studio. Sarge had insisted on getting there half an hour early. Already burdened with his trombone case, he had needed Brigid’s help in hefting his big uniform bag out of the car and through the many hallways before finally getting to the dressing rooms. Brigid went in front of him, holding up the boots end of the bag, her baton slung over her shoulder. At the end of the baton dangled her own uniform bag, a tiny pouch like a beanbag.

Then it had taken him forever to struggle into his uniform in that tiny cubicle, what with the cummerbund, the epaulettes, the big boots. Finally he emerged into what they called the green room, where guests were made up before walking onto the set.

Brigid was there sitting up on a high stool, already dressed, while the gay-looking guy powdered her with makeup. He supposed that a white person would look like a ghost on TV without some cosmetic help. Especially Brigid, whose Irish skin was very white, with a smattering of freckles across her bare shoulders.

She smiled at him as she said, “I’m getting the royal treatment.” The makeup man had a lot of skin to cover, what with her entire uniform consisting of two little circlets covering her nipples, and that tiny triangle over her pubic area held on with silvery strings that went low around her hips and the other string that disappeared between her butt cheeks. Below, her bare feet rested on the bottom rung, the flip-flop style majorette sandals on the floor.

He got the trombone out of his case and sat and watched, having nothing else to do. Brigid’s circlets seemed to have gotten smaller. The uniforms had just come back from their twice-yearly cleaning. Maybe the majorette uniform was subtly altered before it came back. He thought about the photos in the glass case, and wondered about the shrinkage in the majorette uniform over the years, how it was done, how past majorettes dealt with it. Around about 1970, for example, how did the majorette for that year find out that her short skirt and blouse had morphed into a leotard? How did the 1990 majorette deal with a short short that had become a bikini-style bottom? Or the 1999 majorette who found that the strings on her top had disappeared and she now had to wear circlets?

Those first circlets were huge compared to the ones Brigid had to wear. Her breasts were round and firm, maybe a bit bigger than average; and around her circlets all her breast slopes, top, bottom, and sides, were in full view. He wasn’t about to do math calculations but the circlets covered maybe 15% of Brigid’s total breast area. He thought of the big plastic eyeball model in the science room, the area formed by the iris and pupil. About that much.

He saw the makeup man do his work, puffing the powder between Brigid’s breasts. He had seen boobs bounce before, of course, but always in tank tops or bikini tops. Brigid’s breasts, not strapped to her body or to each other, moved independently, one wobbling a bit while the other was still, sometimes bobbing the same way, sometimes toward each other, one moving in a tight little circle while the other lurched left to right…

The makeup guy bent down and Brigid parted her knees as he got that area around her uniform where she had shaved her pubic hair. The triangle bottom seemed to have gotten smaller too, more like a narrow “V” now. She looked down with a neutral expression as the guy powdered industriously. “Spread a little more, please…”

Sarge came in. “We’re on in five minutes. How’s it going?”

The two band members smiled and nodded. Now Brigid spread her toes as the guy powdered them. Pretty toes. She had carefully painted the nails in the black-and-white school colors. Cummerbund and epaulettes and braided jacket and high boots were part of his uniform; toenail paint was part of hers.

He put on his white gloves and looked at them. Even one of his gloves provided more coverage than Brigid’s entire uniform.

Then he remembered getting suddenly nervous as Melba McCann came in to get them, and Brigid picked up her baton and followed Sarge into the big room with all the cameras surrounding the set, and he followed Brigid…

Sarge sat down in one of Melba’s guest chairs and chatted with her quietly while a commercial was being shown. Rod and Brigid, waiting by the big camera setup, looked at each other. Rod was so enchanted with this shy Irish white girl that he choked up whenever he wanted to speak. Finally he croaked out, “How do I look?”

He stood up straight as Brigid, holding her baton in her armpit, adjusted his jacket and tugged at his epaulettes. “Great. How about me?” She held up her arms and her breasts stuck out. “Are my ‘T”s straight?”

Rod was open-mouthed, unsure of what she meant, looking down finally at her ribs and the hollow tummy below. “Your — ”

“My ‘T’s!”

He swallowed and felt flushed as he realized she meant the “T” school logo on each of her circlets. He bent down a bit so that Brigid’s breasts were at his eye level. “Fine. Both straight.”

“Good. Oh no!” Brigid opened her mouth and out came a retainer. “This’ll show! I forgot entirely!”

She frantically looked around for a place to put it. He heroically took it and held it in his gloved hand. “It’s safe with me.”

“Oh thanks, you’re a dear,” she said. He felt his heart skip a beat.

Then Sarge motioned for them to sit down next to him, and the camera guy counted down…

Now, in the band room, watching with everyone else, he sat through Melba McCann’s introduction and then smiled as Sarge fell over his words in describing the marching band, at first saying it was founded in 1527 instead of 1927. Sarge, sitting on his conductor’s stool, covered his face in good-natured embarrassment.

Melba then said, “We have here also Brigid O’Dierna, the band’s majorette, and Rod Sykes, first trombonist. You’re part of a proud tradition. How do you like marching with the band?”

Looking at the big screen, the band saw Brigid and Rod smile at each other shyly. Brigid giggled nervously, her breasts bouncing with her laugh, then jiggling for a second after her body had stilled. He said something to the effect of, “It’s a great band and it’s great marching with your friends.” Brigid said, “We all work together.” Not memorable words, exactly, but what the heck, they were petrified.

“The forecast for Saturday is cold and drizzly,” Melba said. “In your majorette outfit,” she said, looking up and down at Brigid, “how do you stay warm on days like Saturday?”

“You keep moving,” Brigid said. Her stock response.

And now in the band room there was a general shifting of chairs with anticipation as Melba McIntyre announced Rod and Brigid were going to do a tune. His friends in the trombone section smiled at him but he was not nervous because he knew what was coming.

The two band members on TV stood up, him with the trombone up to his lips, her with the baton tucked under her arm. Then she nodded and he launched into a verse of “American Patrol” which was flawless. Watching in the band room, he smiled. He had been so afraid he was going to botch it but he hadn’t. Good tone throughout, not one note flubbed — while successfully hiding Brigid’s retainer carefully in his slide hand. Meanwhile Brigid twirled. She couldn’t do any throws in Melba’s little studio but she did everything else, spinning, fanning, switching arms, down through the legs, even that special trick she did where the baton seemed to crawl back over her shoulders on its way from one hand to the other. She spun around, leading with one breast and timing it so that the other breast followed. A performance as flawless as his.

At the last note he and Brigid froze, as planned. He was sweating in his wool uniform. She was not immune to the studio heat, either. As she posed, her breasts coming to rest, a trickle of sweat was visible that had started below her neck, rivered between her breasts and down her flat tummy, and delta-ed at her navel.

Melba and Sarge clapped, then it went to a commercial and the clip ended. Jamal turned off the screen light. Everyone in the band room applauded.

“Stand up and take a bow, well done,” Sarge said. He stood up in his sweatshirt and long jams. Brigid stood up in her jean jacket and turtleneck and black jeans. Local stars!

“One fine performance deserves another,” Sarge said. “Time for a big tune. Let’s do ‘March Grandioso’!”

. . . .

Rod turned and was again awakened by the twisting of his pajamas. Again he untwisted them. A soft rain raised up and started pelting the roof, feeding the night grass outside, hypnotic, lulling him to sleep…

. . . .

“The long walk”, they called it, from the locker rooms to the football field, everyone trudging through the wet grass before game time, the team and the band and the cheerleaders in front. It was a chilly day, no doubt about it, and it was almost noon and hadn’t warmed up a bit. It had rained yesterday and there were sloppy mud patches to be avoided. Of course, the football players were resigned to getting all muddy, but for a variety of reasons that did not bother them so much. The odd conversation between them mixed with the more subdued chatting of the band members and the much quicker talking of the cheerleaders.

He finagled it so that he was walking near the front, next to Brigid, who was mindful of the cold. Parades were one thing, but games, where the band had to sit for long periods in the stands, were another. She wore her green wool poncho over her uniform, her sandals in her hand as she trod the wet grass with red Converse All-Stars on her sockless feet. The poncho barely came down past her butt and she looked like she was naked underneath. Some of the football players said hi to her as they passed.

He looked up. The clouds were gray but it looked like the sun might break through. With luck…

They got to the field and waited for Sarge, as the players, led by their captain, charged onto the field to go through their warmup plays while the visiting team from Brookline went through theirs. Brookline was a wealthy town and their football uniforms were a dazzling gold and green. The almost all-white team looked like a bunch of future executives. T— should make short work of them today.

He noted, with irritation, the ten or twelve cops hanging out around the stands. Just because we’re a mostly black school they send riot control. Well, at least the cops they usually sent were nice.

Brigid chatted with a couple of the cheerleaders, who wore coverall sweats over their short skirts. They had long sleeves too. Brigid’s bare legs and arms really stood out. He listened to their conversation. They were going bowling later. Cheerleaders traditionally were pretty snobby, and didn’t like the band majorette — maybe they thought she upstaged them during the halftime shows — but they had made an exception for Brigid.

The cheerleaders went off to get their stuff at the storage shed as Sarge showed up, with his little briefcase, wearing thermal gloves, and an open overcoat over his business suit. “Band, this is a big day,” he said, in his “announcement” voice. “Also a cold day. It’s thirty-eight degrees and it might rain. But you know what I say, if our team has the courage to play out there, WE can play too.

“We have one tune before the game, then we sit and then at halftime we’ll do the roll-off with Brigid and the drummers and then ‘Washington Post’. Local TV will be here. But before that happens they’re presenting a dedication to Roddington McNeil. You know who he is? No? Well he was principal here for 25 years. He retired ten years ago. They’re dedicating the new scoreboard to him.

“Now this is the big game for our team. They go to the regionals if they win. While we’re sitting up there waiting, I want you to cheer them on. Remember, we’re their biggest fans.”

He looked up at the sky. “Looks like we might get lucky. Maybe the sun will even come out. Well, let’s go.”

He led them as they walked, not in formation, to the admissions area where the ticket takers were setting up their tables. Past it, the Dad’s Club was setting up their refreshment stand. They had a big metal tub on a dolly with Jamal’s uncle using tongs to put big ice chunks into the tub and then filling it with water to keep the cans of soda cold. Sarge had a brief call to make on his cell phone. The band stood around and watched the tub fill up until he was done.

Now they walked behind the stands, under the announcer’s booth where Mr. Simonelli was opening up, trying to pry open the top compartment which was submerged in three inches’ worth of yesterday’s rainfall. The band, with its majorette right behind Sarge, turned under it.

It was then that the first of Brigid’s many misfortunes that day occurred.

Part 34

Walking behind Brigid, watching her bare legs flushed with the cold under her poncho, he followed her as they turned into the narrow passage between the two grandstands.

At first they thought it was a sudden downpour. But then they saw that the only person getting poured on was Brigid. She shrieked as a narrow but persistent torrent of water came from way above and doused her on her poncho-covered shoulder. Everyone stopped in alarm, trying to help but afraid of being doused themselves. Sarge looked back. Brigid tried to dodge the gush of water but it seemed to follow her as she zigzagged left and right in the narrow passage. Finally a few dribbles and it ended.

Brigid stood there miserably, arms out, her poncho totally soaked and lying heavy and flat against her body, probably weighing about twenty pounds, dripping onto her equally soaked sneakers.

Sarge looked up and yelled. Mr. Simonelli looked down and, mortified, apologized frantically. There was no time for recriminations, though. Brigid breathed heavily, on the verge of tears, and starting to shiver.

“You’ve got to take that thing off, you’ll get hypothermia,” Sarge said. Wearing a sopping wet cold poncho on a day like this was not healthy.

Rod was glad to help. He put his trombone down on the pavement and helped Sarge as they carefully lifted the poncho off her. Sarge folded it up and put it on one of the grandstand benches.

As the band members came up from the rear and encircled Brigid, everyone looked at her, her arms still out to the sides, her white goose-pimpled skin interrupted only by her majorette uniform, the little circlets covering her nipples and the little “V” down below with the strings. Everyone looked around for a towel or something to dry her off or cover her with, but under a grandstand such things are not to be found.

“Maybe we should get you inside,” Sarge said.

“No,” Brigid said, realizing that she would be needed momentarily to lead the band’s pre-game performance. “My uniform’s not wet,” she said, holding up her breasts to get a close look at the circlets. She seemed to be speaking to them as she said, “The rest of me will dry off in the air in a little bit.”

Which was true. The band members had noticed it during that first wet game, the first game of the year back in September. There was a downpour early in the game. At the halftime show everyone else was still soaked except for Brigid, whose bare skin and minimal uniform dried swiftly.

“I’d best get rid of these, though,” Brigid said, noting her sneakers. She got the poncho from Sarge and put it on the ground, then untied the sneakers, wiped her bare feet on the poncho, then slipped on the low heeled silvery flip-flops that were part of her uniform. The rest of the band, fully covered and in their big boots, looked on silently as she wiggled her toes in the sandals as she stood up.

“OK then,” Sarge said, as they resumed their journey through the grandstands.

The stands were filling up quickly and they didn’t have long to wait. The sky looked like it might be clearing up. The wind subsided. This might not be a bad day after all.

Sarge ambled over to Coach Gunderson, who was corralling his players to the sidelines. They chatted a bit and when Sarge came back he said, “Five minutes”.

They stood around and waited. Rod worked the slide of his trombone. On a cold day he was sure to prep with a lot of valve oil, but it looked like it wouldn’t be that cold. So now he was worried he might have used too much, and it might drop onto his gloves. Or worse, his jacket. He kept the trombone away from it, the expanse of white with black borders, with the big “T” on the right side next to the row of black buttons. Behind him, the rest of the band was playing with their instruments too.

He looked over across the field where a van was parked, near the visitor’s grandstand, which of course was a lot smaller, and half-filled with dedicated Brookline fans. They looked almost like a country club crowd, except maybe for some beefy guys with “B” sweatshirts standing up on the top bench.

The van looked like a TV van, and sure enough a crew was getting out. They didn’t look like they would be ready to catch the pre-game set. At least they’d catch the halftime show.

He worked his slide again. Sarge examined the sky. Brigid checked her fingernails with the alternate black and white polish, looked down at her circlets, and then clutched the baton between her bare thighs as she examined her spreading toes on one foot and then the other. He looked down. It must be hard to get the polish on those pinky toes. He pictured her in the locker room, sitting on a bench, carefully painting them while the other girls were pulling on their long trousers, their braided jackets, attaching the epaulettes and cummerbunds, and pulling on the tall boots.

He thought of the time he had seen her in the girls’ gym class, as he was walking through it with the other boys on the way to the b-ball court outside. The girls were doing jumping jacks. In their white T-shirts, black shorts and sneakers with socks, even though Brigid was wearing the same exact outfit as the other girls, the rest of them looked as bare as he’d ever seen them — except for Brigid, who looked unusually covered up.

He looked at the smattering of freckles across Brigid’s shoulders. She had a great body, possibly the best in the school — it was impossible to say, of course, only hers was ever on display like this — but just her skin was so interesting to look at.

Did she really have 83 freckles? Jamal and he had joked about it in the locker room before coming out.

“You mean you really counted the freckles on her shoulders?” he had asked incredulously.

“Of course. During that long roll-off at practice yesterday. She has one on her butt too. On the right cheek, halfway down to her butthole, under that little ‘Y’ over her crack.”

He laughed as they put their shakos on and headed toward the door. “I can’t believe you count the freckles on a white girl’s butt!”

“Hell, no sisters will go out with me, I’ll take what I can get!”

He thought: Jamal won’t admit it but he’s probably as in love with Brigid as I am.

As they emerged, he had said, “Man, another cold day. Brigid will be freezing her circlets off.”

“So what? She’s used to it!” Jamal said.

As they trotted out he had laughed. “Lord, you’re awful!”

Now Mr. Simonelli, evidently having gotten over his guilt at spilling all that rainwater, cranked on the P.A. system and said, “Welcome to our last game of the season! To our guests from Brookline, welcome to T— High School! Today — ”

It was his usual long-winded introduction. He talked about the season record, the presence of the TV crew, rules as to trash and conduct, the snacks and soda and coffee available, the thanks to the Dads’ Club, etc., etc. Sarge waited impatiently. He joked quietly to his band, at least the ones in front who could hear, “The whole game won’t last this long!” Meanwhile Brigid shook out her body, arms and legs, trying to get circulation going. As she did her breasts jiggled tightly.

Finally Mr. Simonelli introduced the band and the crowd woke up and cheered. The band was this school’s pride and joy. Sarge marched out smartly and they followed in double file. They followed him as he detoured around a nasty-looking patch of mud at the sideline, then got into formation astride the 50-yard line.

Sarge, as was his tradition, yelled out, “My name is Herbert Quincy Watson and this is our band — the T— High School Tunemasters!!”

Loud cheering from the stands as Sarge walked off the field. It was his style not to hog the spotlight. The band was a product of his hard work, on both the music and the marching, but he didn’t wear a uniform himself, and didn’t lead. He just got out of the way and let the band shine.

Which it certainly did. They stood there in “attention” position — Brigid in front, feet together, arms down, her baton upright with one end in her left hand (she was left-handed) with the other end pressed against the front of her bare shoulder — and behind her, he and the rest of the line of trombones, then the flutes, clarinets, trumpets, the tubas in back, and on the side, the drum guard. The uniforms were splendid, even Brigid’s, scanty though it was. The black and white colors were the same, the T’s on her circlets and on her little cap matched the T’s on the chests and on the big shako hats of the rest of her band. Her uniform might be different than everyone else’s but it fit in as one of the band.

The cheerleaders, having reluctantly gotten out of their sweat pants, assembled to the side, shivering in their shortish skirts, and posed with their pom poms at their hips. Their uniforms were fine-looking too. All in black and white, the school colors, yarn bows in their hair, long-sleeved sweaters (which they wore in the cold weather — in hot weather they wore tank tops) with an embroidered black “T” over a megaphone. Then pleated skirts that came to just above the knee, long white socks and black sneakers. They would stand there still during the band’s performance and then, at the final flourish, jump and cheer and wave their pom-poms and begin their cheerleader thing that they would do throughout the game.

With a swing of the baton, Brigid started marching in place. That was the drummers’ cue and they started vamping. Now she did her first throw which was the cue for the roll-off.

Rod blasted away as they launched into “Stars and Stripes Forever”, the cut-down version. They didn’t have to march in place or anything but he could feel his boots give a little. He glanced down and saw that the field was still pretty muddy.

As they played, Brigid pranced and twirled and threw. That was how majorettes stayed warm, he mused. Only they were allowed to move around so much. He could see the wisdom of a majorette’s scanty uniform, having free movement in the arms and legs. To go through those moves in a full uniform like his would be uncomfortable, and hot, even on a day like this. Now — a really high throw.

Brigid was serious about her twirling. She did it a lot during recess and after school in that little out of the way courtyard past the gym, pretty much out of view so that people wouldn’t think she was showing off. But he watched her once and noted her diligence. (She was in her regular clothes of course; the majorette uniform would have violated the dress code.) She was totally concentrated on it, trying more and more difficult throws, doing the same throw maybe fifty times or more until she was satisfied she got it right. She would vary what she was wearing, sometimes even throwing while she was wearing a coat. She would use different size batons, and even tied little weights to them. The idea was to be able to throw accurately under any type of condition.

Still, today one could tell that the mud was gumming up her style a bit, the heels of her sandals sinking in and taking an extra split-second to pull up. Being flip-flops, they separated from her feet at the heel and slapped back up against her sole on the upstep more smartly than usual, though with the band playing he couldn’t hear it.

And now a big spin and one real high throw, maybe thirty feet in the air. Brigid spun around and looked up.

It came down a hundredth of a second sooner than she expected and hit her pinky.

Brigid dropped the baton.

It fell on the wet ground and she missed only an eighth of a beat, picking it up and starting the next twirl, but the sense of shock was palpable. The whole season and this was her first drop. Her face was deadpan as she continued her paces and the band finished up, and it was not the end of the world of course, but everyone who knew Brigid knew she had to be mortified. One of the baton knobs was smeared with mud, a reminder of her shame at letting down the band which would not go away.

One final throw, perhaps not as high and risky as she would have done otherwise, and the band finished with a cymbal crash. The crowd cheered, but it was a muted cheer. Not because the crowd appreciated the performance less but because they were stunned.

The cheerleaders did their woo-hoo pom-poming and the players got ready to take the field. The drums started the walk-off vamping and Brigid began to lead them off, baton tucked under her armpit, the mud-smeared knob hidden. She must have still been distracted by thinking about her drop, and eager to get out of view as quick as possible. At least that was the theory everyone had afterward. It explained why she marched straight for the grandstand gate and did not see the patch of mud.

Brigid’s foot slipped back out from under her and she fell forward, face first. As she tried to pry herself up from the cold mud her hands slipped and her face and upper body hit the mud again. Mud slopped to the sides. On her third try, quaking by now, just one hand slipped and she flipped over onto her back.

Across the field, some of the big beefy guys in the visitor’s grandstand hooted.

The band was in disarray. The cheerleaders looked over from their places with concern. Sarge rushed out and shooed the rest of the band to leave the field. Everyone carefully stepped around the patch. Sarge helped his majorette up.

She was crying. One flip-flop fell off and her bare foot squished into the mud. She slipped her muddy foot back into it and almost twisted her ankle before she finally righted herself. Her white face was all muddy. Mud was all over her front, covering her circlets, and actually appearing to be shoved in under them. Mud was over half her tummy. Down below it gummed up and covered the lower half of her uniform such that it looked like she didn’t have a bottom at all and had simply stuffed mud into her crotch. As for her back, brown goo dripped from her butt down her thighs, making it look like she had had a bad “accident”.

In the stands, people stood up to see what was going on. As the band walked up to their reserved area halfway up, trying not to look back, Debra and Virginia stayed behind to help Sarge take the crying majorette under the stands.

Rod felt miserable, about to cry himself. He hated the jeers coming from the visitors’ stands. This was horrible. Aside from the humiliation he just could not imagine how Brigid must feel with gritty cold mud over her body.

The game started and he couldn’t get focused on it. He sat on the near side of the band section, looking down at his trombone and weakly moving the slide. A few moments later he looked over and saw Debra and Virginia with their muddied friend at the Dads’ Club stand, evidently waiting for Sarge who was on his cell phone. They had tried to wipe off the mud with the little paper napkins available but it was pitifully inadequate. Poor Brigid was still smeared from her face down to her bare toes. The wind had kicked up and lifted the used napkins out of the trash. They scattered around the feet of the brown-smeared majorette, looking like used toilet paper.

Someone offered Brigid a coat to put on but she declined, not wanting to get it dirty. She had stopped crying, the dried tracks of her tears visible where they had washed away the mud on her face. She sipped a hot tea as Debra and Virginia, in their full uniforms, their clarinets on the refreshment table, huddled around her.

Rod watched with pity. He had always been too shy and tongue-tied to express his affection for her but he was more in love with her than ever now. He did not know that Brigid’s misfortunes today were only beginning.

Part 35

‘Come on, Brigid, eat something. Have a hot dog. It’ll warm you up.’ That’s what he thought as he played with his trombone slide, looking over at the majorette with her two friends next to the Dads’ Club area. Jamal’s uncle was pushing food on her, free of charge. Of course the cold soda cans bobbing in the ice-filled metal tub wouldn’t be a good idea. But there were hot dogs, chips, bags of popcorn. Brigid refused all this, preferring to stand between Debra and Virginia and sipping her tea, watching the game with them. They were behind the little table that held the napkins and the serving board with the partly covered tins of ketchup, mustard, relish and sauerkraut.

She had composed herself by now. Ms. Farkas, the gym teacher who ran the cheerleading squad, walked over to her and talked. So did one of the policemen. Sarge got off his cell phone and said something to Brigid and Ms. Farkas. Standing still like that, Brigid looked like she was finally beginning to feel the cold, hugging herself with her bare, mud-streaked arms, her legs together, wiggling her gritty toes, tapping the heels of her muddy flip-flops against the gravel, as she sipped the tea and held the cup close, feeling the steam on her smeared face. How was she going to get cleaned up in time for halftime?

Rod got distracted by action on the field. His friend Scotus had intercepted a pass and was running for a touchdown. He got into cheering like everyone else. Scotus went all the way to the 10-yard line before getting tackled, having run 40 yards. Yay team!

The air on this raw, gray day filled with excitement now. This would be the first score of the year. The cheerleaders, spinning around in their shortish skirts, pumped up the crowd, which really didn’t need much pumping up. This town had plenty of school spirit.

Rod looked over. Debra, Virginia and Brigid were cheering too, each jabbing the air with one fist. Brigid’s breasts jiggled in time, the mud-streaked circlets tracing independent epicycles in the air. To be honest, the bouncing of the fringes of Debra’s and Virginia’s epaulettes on their jackets was quite fetching too. There was something about a girl in a uniform, the regular band uniform as well as the majorette uniform, which was sexy.

Now —

Jamal’s cousin Jared, helping out at the stand, engrossed in the game, rested a foot on the dolly holding the ice tub. The dolly gave way, one wheel collapsing, and the tub lurched and nearly slid off it. The tub had been full almost to the brim and now a little tidal wave of ice-cold water washed over the legs and feet of the three girls.

It was a surprise but not an ordeal for Debra and Virginia in their tall rain-proof boots. Quite a different experience, though, for the majorette. Brigid shrieked and hopped back, then yelped with pain as hot tea leapt from her jolted cup and splashed over the slope of one breast, down her bare tummy and onto a thigh. She felt unsteady on the gravel and leaned back on the table to catch herself, unfortunately causing the serving board to slide and flipping the tins, the lids of the tins flying off.

She fell backward and sauerkraut flew onto her face. Before her bare buns hit the gravel, relish had sprayed over her tummy. As her feet went up, one flip-flop flying off, the mustard tin overturned onto her supine body, coating her left circlet.

No one in the stands saw this except Rod, but everyone in the refreshment area was in shock. Debra and Virginia quickly took off their white gloves and helped their friend up. Once again Brigid broke down crying. ‘What a day she’s having,’ Rod thought. As she tried to stand, her bare foot, hunting around for its sandal, lurched forward and stepped into the ketchup tin, the red tomatoey goo oozing up between her toes.

Her face, with sauerkraut around her nose and over her forehead, was pretty disgusting. It looked like she had sneezed with a nose full of boogers. She turned and he could see the bits of gravel stuck to her mud-smeared back, the nakedness interrupted only by the encrusted string across the tops of her butt cheeks. Gravel also coated the backs of her thighs and calves. As she cried, holding the mustard-smeared flip-flop, she staggered forward, collecting gravel between her ketchupy toes. She was led by Ms. Farkas under the stands and out of Rod’s sight. Meanwhile Jamal’s uncle and Jared were scurrying around to prop up the dolly to prevent further spillage. The uncle got a toolbox from his van and set it up on the dolly as he frantically began screwing the wheel back on.

Now Sarge was bounding up onto the stands and stood on the lower aisle, looking up at his band. He spoke loudly. “Brigid is getting cleaned up. She’ll be ready for halftime. If not, I’ll get out there and conduct. Let’s go!” He held up his arms. “Fanfare!”

This was the short tune they played as a cheer. Instruments rose to lips. Nobody in the band liked sitting in the stands on cold days like this, everyone’s butts getting numb on the metal benches. But at least playing warmed you up a bit.

The tune evidently had talismanic powers. Right on the last note, Scotus pushed over the goal line. Six nothing, T—-!

As his team launched into the next kickoff Rod wondered how Brigid was going to get cleaned up. Probably they had some towels in Ms. Farkas’ car or something like that. Taking her to the locker room showers was probably not possible. Between the time it took to walk all the way there, and showering, and the time back, they would already be into halftime. And after that, it didn’t matter. The halftime show was the last thing the band did; for the rest of the game, properly he supposed, all eyes belonged to the team.

He saw the camera guys coming around the field from the visitors’ stand. Too bad they missed Scotus’ interception. Well at least they missed Brigid’s misfortunes too. Though he really didn’t think they would put that on the local news. Local news wasn’t as mean-spirited and tasteless as the networks.

It was a long kick. Brookline was forced to make a fair catch. On the next three plays they gained only three yards. The early signs were that T—- was going to win this game.

He flexed his butt muscles to get some circulation back. Man, even through his wool uniform trousers and his thermal underwear his butt was cold. On a day like today the metal benches were like sitting on blocks of ice. He looked around and could tell that everyone else in the band felt the same way.

He thought back to his first-ever conversation with Brigid, last week before their appearance on Melba McCann’s show. His eye was attracted to her whenever he saw her in the hall. It was between periods and she had been walking with Shonday and Luisa. Then she stopped at her locker.

Brigid had a distinct if understated fashion sense. One could call it “the Brigid look”: jean jacket over a white or black turtleneck, black jeans, Doc Martens with the thick soles, pink socks. It was cute, the way her red hair, shoulder length, draped over her jacket. He supposed white girls had plenty of hair options, but Brigid always wore her hair the same, straight and unstyled. She was on the quiet side, though if teased she could give as well as she got. And modest. Even in hot weather she didn’t show much of that white, freckled skin. He had seen her come to school in shorts only once.

That day at the locker, he had come up and, careful to clear his throat and speak slowly, said, “We’re going to be TV stars.”

She smiled; a shy but gorgeous smile. Then she waved her hair back from her face in a way that was adorable. She could be a model if she wanted to. “Yeah. I just know I’ll make a fool of myself.” A little wave to one of her friends passing by.

Another throat clearing. “Probably say the wrong thing. I will, I mean.” Not you, Brigid. I meant ME!

“Yeah, well. I’m sure Sarge will do all the talking. Just so we look nice and our uniforms are straight.”

“Mine will be.”

“Mine too.” She glanced briefly down at herself. He knew they were both picturing themselves wearing their band uniforms, the majorette and the first trombonist, here in the hall.

“Well, gotta go. Later.” He wished he could stay with her but he couldn’t think of what else to say.

“Later.”

As a first-ever conversation, it wasn’t too bad.

Now Rod sat on his cold butt and rubbed his white gloves over the crook of the trombone and idly watched the game.

Then he glanced down and noticed something strange. Between the floor board and his bench, he had a constricted but clear view of what was under the stands and saw what looked like a blanket tied to one of the understruts. Leaning to one side revealed a makeshift triangle of privacy enclosed by tarps and a blanket. In the center was the long metal tub on the dolley, having been quickly repaired and rolled there, Jamal’s uncle’s tool box still lying on the end. To one side was a little tin like the ones that held the condiments. Inside the enclosure were Debra, Virginia, and Ms. Farkas. And Brigid.

A totally naked Brigid.

Rod’s mouth opened and his eyes widened. Brigid was spread out in an “X”, her legs wide apart, her toes gripping along the wide brim of one side of the tub, while her hands grasped struts overhead three feet apart. Scanty as her uniform was, she looked totally different in the altogether. What a magnificent, beautiful, perfect body. The first live naked girl he had ever seen. Thank you, thank you, thank you God, thank you —

Rod’s head bobbed up and he looked at the band members around him. No, nobody was looking down, nobody suspected anything was going on down there, nobody was blessed with the view that he had. Again: Thank you, thank you, thank you God —

He glanced down again, as casually as possible, and made it look like he was adjusting his spit valve. The next thing he noticed was that Brigid had not shaved all her pubic hair like he had theorized: she had cut it down to a “pubic Mohawk”. And it was reddish, kind of like the hair on her head, though partly caked with mud. Miraculously, her head hair and her little “T” cap had not been affected by her misfortunes, the cap still immaculate white and black. It was pinned to her hair which was braided up, no doubt to stay out of her way during her twirling but perhaps not coincidentally giving a clear view of her neck and shoulders.

The next thing he noticed was that the soda cans had been taken out of the tub, leaving only the cold water and that huge long chunk of ice, and that Debra and Ms. Farkas were busily wetting washcloths and applying them, fore and aft, to the many streaks and smears on Brigid’s body. Brigid seemed to be wanting to help, at one point bringing a hand down to grab a cloth, but this made her posture too precarious. She needed to grip with both hands on those understruts.

Now, he noticed Virginia bent over the little tin, her bare hands freezing as they scrubbed in the cold soapy water. It took a moment to figure out what she was doing — cleaning Brigid’s uniform. The little tin was all that was needed.

Brigid was trying not to flinch from the application of the freezing cold cloths, and Ms. Farkas and Debra were trying not to press too hard, but they were not making much progress in de-mudding, de-mustarding, de-sauerkrauting, de-relishing and de-ketchuping their majorette. Brigid closed her eyes, taking measured breaths, shivering but trying to control it. Good thing the blanket and the tarps shielded her from the wind. Ms. Farkas and Debra, their gloves off, frequently shook the fingers of their bare hands, probably going numb from the freezing water.

Now the toes of Brigid’s left foot slipped and the leg gave way and — she flipped sideways into the tub! It was a deep tub, maybe two feet deep, and poor Brigid’s nude body totally went under, her backside making almost a body-long contact with the ice, bubbles exhaling from her nose. She splashed helplessly for a moment, then spun around on her knees and stood up, one foot and then the other pushing down against the bottom of the tub. As she emerged the icy water dripped off her chin, her fingers, and coursed off the stiff red pebbles of her nipples.

“OHH — OHH!!” He could hear her shudder. Then after a few breaths she shook her head free of water and seemed to realize something. Maybe it was the shock of the cold immersion, but she was no longer shivering. Also, due to her little dip her skin was now mostly clean.

She grabbed the cloth from Debra and went to work completing the process, sitting on the edge of the tub, vigorously and of course quickly passing the cloth over her tummy, astringently rubbing it over her nipples, scrubbing her toes.

“Fanfare!” Sarge’s call brought Rod’s gaze back up to what seemed like the outside, daytime world, as opposed to the secret ablutions going on out of sight below. He quickly checked around and saw again that he was the only one privy to Brigid’s trials.

The first quarter ended with T—- ahead, 13 – 6. The teams changed sides.

When the band rested again, Rod looked down. And he was in for another surprise, one that made him almost ashamed to look, as if he as a male should be not invading such a private, female scene. But of course he looked.

Part 36
He turned back up to the game, watching Scotus do another short run. He knew that what was going on below was not meant for his eyes. But he couldn’t help it. He looked down again.

Brigid, face up, was doing a kind of suspended animation crab-walk on the tub, arms and legs spread, her hands grasping each side, her toes grasping each side at the other end, careful to keep her bare butt well clear of the ice floe below. Straining in her awkward posture, she looked down at her upthrust crotch with concern, as Ms. Farkas carefully swabbed it with the dripping wet cloth that she had dunked into the icy water.

Rod’s gaze was as furtive as possible given his degree of amazement. He made it look like he was glancing down at his spit value. He played with it a little to keep the pretense convincing. A quick look around — no, nobody else was privy to what he was seeing.

He was fascinated by the white girl’s pussy. He had never seen an actual pussy before. The closely-cropped tuft of reddish hair, now almost free of mud, framing two lips, with a little pink thing — was it called a clitoris? — at the top. The lips were spread wide by Ms. Farkas as she burrowed the freezing cloth in between two inner, redder lips as part of a sweeping motion. Those inner lips opened and closed with Brigid’s gasps, revealing a narrow open slit where it was too dark to see. Man, I feel like a gynecologist looking at that…

It was hard to believe Ms. Farkas was making Brigid go through this, but as he thought about it it made perfect sense. If it rained or even drizzled during the halftime show, the smallest bit of mud would cause a streak of brown to go down her thigh, painfully visible on this white girl and sure to be detected by the TV cameras. A streak of brown coming from her uniform bottom sure wouldn’t look too good. Possibly the band could do the show without Brigid, with Sarge conducting as he said he would, but they had never done that before and it wasn’t reassuring. They needed Brigid and, though modest and unassuming as she was, she probably knew it.

Brigid winced and jerked as she felt the icy rag deep within her private area. To her side, Debra and Virginia were furiously scrubbing the tiny bits of the majorette’s uniform in the little tin. Without their band gloves, which they had laid carefully on top of Jamal’s uncle’s tool box, their hands were red and probably numb. So were Ms. Farkas’. He felt sorry for them, their hands all exposed and dunked over and over again into freezing water. Yet it was all school spirit. This school was as dedicated to its marching band as it was to its football team.

He looked up, distracted by cheering. Brookline had intercepted a pass but his friend Jaysee had forced a fumble and recovered it. Go, go go!

“Fanfare!”

He brought the trombone up to his lips and as he moved he realized once again how cold his butt was. Man, he hated playing in the cold, especially sitting on these freezing metal benches. Everyone in the band felt the same way. They were counting down the minutes until halftime. Then the halftime show, where at least they got to move around a bit, and that was it for them. The rest of the game belonged to the cheerleaders, who were rushing in and out of their coverall cloaks as they did quick cheers and then covered up again. And of course, to the team.

And halftime would be it. This was the last game of the season. After that, there would be just concerts up until the St. Patrick’s Day parade. Though there were rumors of an invitation to go up to Vermont, the big ski resort at Killington, to play in some kind of winter festival they had up there in January. Please let it be an indoor event…

They finished the fanfare, with a few less flubs than before. As he put his trombone down he looked down and — oh Jesus —

He shut his eyes but of course opened them again. Brigid had turned over, her butt high in the air, fingers and toes grasping the edges of the tub. And now Ms. Farkas was swabbing her butthole! Ewww! He had never looked at a butthole before and averted his gaze. Brigid must be intensely ashamed and he didn’t want to see her in her shame. But he couldn’t resist looking again. How disgusting.

Well, maybe not disgusting. Brigid’s butthole was neat and clean, the cold water coursing over it, spasming now and then as Ms. Farkas poked and probed. The ring of brown skin there winked at him like a little brown eye as the majorette was shocked by the cold water on her most sensitive spot. It was strange to think such a thought but Brigid’s butthole seemed beautiful, just like the rest of her. He thought: Brigid has three eyes, two green ones and one brown one, and they are all pretty!

Not that Brigid was enjoying this. Her face turned upward, eyes squeezed shut, and she clenched her teeth and grimaced, maybe from shame or just discomfort, as Ms. Farkas poked, making sure to get every speck of mud out. Poke, wince, poke, wince, now a deep poke, and Brigid’s eyes squeezed even more, as her toes squirmed against the cold metal rim of the tub. He couldn’t see the muscles of her hollow tummy from up where he was but he was sure they were quaking…

Suddenly he realized that if she opened her eyes she would be looking right at him. He turned up to look at the game. Not much exciting happening, a slow march down the field by T—- as they gradually gained first down after first down.

Whoa — now Scotus had the ball again and was rushing for a touchdown. Twelve-zip T—-. Now a two-point coversion. Sonny, their quarterback, threw a perfect shot to Scotus deep in the end zone.

He thought of Brigid’s anus. Wow, I’ve seen every part of her, even her most secret part. He felt like he possessed some secret knowledge of the majorette, that maybe just Ms. Farkas and Debra and Virginia shared. He looked down and was relieved to see the grueling ablutions were ended. Brigid was once again standing on the rim of the tub, hands stretched up to hold the understruts. And she was smiling, because Debra and Virginia were presenting her with the prize of their frantic labors — Brigid’s uniform, sparkly clean! Debra balanced the circlets on the tips of her index fingers. Virginia had stretched out the tiny V-shaped bottom over her thumb, the strings dangling down. On her other hand dangled the stringy silvery uppers of the majorette sandals.

He smiled, happy for Brigid. She was a modest girl and no doubt wanted to be back in her uniform. Not that it gave her much protection from the cold. Then again, the pinned-up blankets shielded her from the wind. And that involuntary ice bath a few minutes ago had stopped her shivering, probably by shocking her metabolism into higher gear. Like in swim class when you dive into cold water but it doesn’t feel cold after you get used to it.

Also, her body was now dry. “Brigid’s rule”: bare skin dries quickly. Unfortunately there was another problem. As Ms. Farkas handled the circlets he saw that the way of keeping them on had changed. No more bulldog clips. That was good — those must have hurt. Maybe they were too big for the smaller circlet design. He had been right, when he had seen her sitting for that makeup guy in Melba McCann’s studio. The circlets were indeed smaller, maybe two and a half inches across now. And now they had a detachable short threaded cylinders, perhaps half an inch long, which —

He almost laughed but suppressed it because it would have attracted attention. But the little grommets (he thought that’s what they’re called) were designed to slip over the nipples, then the “T”‘s were screwed onto them with a racheting motion. More comfortable than the clips, for sure. The grommets were a little narrower than Brigid’s nipples — he wondered if they had had to be specially fitted? Of course, if they weren’t narrower, they wouldn’t stay on her nipples and the circlets would fall off.

But the cold presented a problem not present in a nice warm locker room. The cold made Brigid’s nipples pucker, made them tight and hard, and Ms. Farkas’s fumbling frozen fingers could not draw them out far enough to slip the grommets on. She pinched the pink nubs and pulled them out, causing Brigid to wince, but just as she was about to slip the grommet on, the little pink pebble slipped from her grasp, making the breast jiggle tightly. He sighed. For poor Brigid this day has been once trial after another, staring with getting her green wool poncho soaked…

A howl from the crowd brought his head back up. Jaysee had gotten tackled and didn’t get up. Mr. Bailey, the trainer, ran over with his first aid bag. Before he got there Jaysee showed signs of life. He struggled to his feet and put his arms up for the crowd. What a relief — football was a dangerous game. One of many reasons he had never tried out for it (another reason being that he was terrible at it).

Jaysee, helped by Mr. Bailey, hobbled from the field. He was replaced by Rodrigo. Four minutes left in the half . . .

He looked down and — good grief — will this ever end!

It was the most shocking sight yet. Brigid was still standing up in an “X”. As Ms. Farkas held the grommets in each hand, waiting for the right moment, Debra and Virginia had taken two pairs of pliers from the tool box and had applied them to Brigid’s nipples!

At first it seemed like torture, like those things that middle-aged people do to each other when they can’t get turned on any other way, like those kinky sites he had seen on the internet. But it wasn’t torture. It was simply the sensible thing to do, with Brigid’s nipples being so tight because of the cold. And her friends were going about it as gently as possible. They were squeezing the pliers, and pulling with them, very carefully.

Still it looked grotesque. Brigid shared her friends’ determination but her face betrayed what she was feeling, once again a grimace, eyes shut, teeth clenched. Her pink nipples, pinched in the jagged jaws of cold metal, stretched out obscenely from the rest of her breasts.

Again he realized that if she opened her eyes she would be looking right at him. So again he turned back up.

“Fanfare!”

After that was done he looked down again. The grommets were on. Brigid looked down at them, and at the ends of her nipples emerging from them just the slightest bit. Ms. Farkas carefully screwed the circlets on. One of them ended up a little crooked, at 11 o’clock instead of 12, and she had to twist the whole circlet together with the now-hidden grommet. Bridget bit her lip and endured…

He decided he would not look down there again. Then during a long time-out he felt the urge. No, no, must… not… look… Brigid… naked…

He exhaled and cheered with everyone else as Brigid, all suited up, bounded up onto the lower aisle. She held her hands up, one with the baton, as if in triumph, the circlets bouncing with the rest of her. Quite a change from the crying, mud-streaked wretch as the band had last seen her.

She hopped up the steps, her low heels clanging echoes against the metal, Debra and Virginia close behind her. In a moment they were seated right in front of him.

He felt like he should avoid eye contact, ashamed at having been a Peeping Tom, though of course they didn’t know it. But they were busy in their own world, chatting about ordinary things as the quarter wound down. Not much was happening on the field. T—- was on the Brookline 30 yard line and was running plays into the line to run out the clock.

“Zhhhh!” Brigid shivered, then got up a bit and massaged her bare butt cheeks. That cold metal bench must be super-cold to her! On top of that the sky was getting gray and the wind was picking up. He felt a tiny raindrop on his nose, then another.

Debra and Virginia offered half a lap each, and Brigid was now spared the cold bench by sitting up on their uniformed thighs. She dropped her sandals off and wrapped her feet around the jacket of Luisa sitting down in front of them. Brigid put her arms around Debra and Virginia as Luisa, putting down her flute, rubbed the majorette’s toes with her gloved hands.

From what he could tell they were talking about bowling again. Mostly about the goofiness of the shoes they gave you. Jeremy, one of the trumpet players, sitting a few rows up, said, “Hey Frigid!” Brigid gave him a killer look and aimed her baton like she was about to throw a spear at him. Then got back to talking.

Sarge passed up a black blanket, donated by a parent probably. Brigid put it underneath her, then curled up cross-legged in what had to be welcome warmth. She looked like an ancient Druid, wrapped up in a black robe, except for the jaunty little Tunemasters cap. And the lovely white neck, with a few strands of her braided-up red hair hanging down, tossed with the cold damp breeze.

One minute left. And now a fine mist filled the air.

Sarge walked over on the lower aisle with a big box and set it down. “Attention folks. It’s almost halftime, then we wait on the track for ten minutes while the crowd gets their snacks, then our big show. The cameras are set up. I don’t have to tell you what a big deal this is. I know you’ll come through like you always do. Brigid, come down and help me OK?”

Brigid unwrapped herself and, toting her baton, bounded down to Sarge. She gave him the folded-up black blanket. He opened the box and showed her the contents, saying something.

Now back to his announcement voice. “Now, it looks like rain. We haven’t had to do this so far, but it’s time to put on the plastic ponchos. You heard me talk about this in September. Walking around in a wet uniform on a cold day is a sure route to hypothermia. Not in my band! These…” Helped by Brigid, he slipped one on. “Fit over the head and will cover your shoulders and down to about your knees. I know they look strange but the point is the crowd can still see your uniforms and believe it or not, you can still play your instruments, even the trombones and drums. They’re that loose. Remember — the formation is just as strict with these things on as otherwise.” He put his gloved hand on the majorette’s bare shoulder. “Brigid, help me hand these out O.K.?”

Part 37

The band milled around in the track area, between the Dad’s Club stand and the end zone, waiting for the signal from Sarge to get into formation for the halftime show. They had gotten used to the clear plastic ponchos that covered them. It was a struggle at first, but once they were fully on down to your knees, and you got your instrument organized under it, they were not so bad.

The band was trying to relax. But the mobile camera truck loomed over them like it was a tank. They knew they’d be on the local TV news tonight, watched at home by their families, their parents, and most embarrassingly, by their younger siblings. Embarrassing, that is, if something went wrong.

So the air of casualness and joking around was forced. He played with his trombone slide and shot the breeze with Jamal and Jaysee, who was on a crutch, his calf bandaged up, out of the game and a lot more relaxed than his friends. Others paced, chatted, blew through their instruments. The color guard, which would lead the formation, hovered near the edge of the field, straightening their jackets, making sure the flag holders were secure. To have the flag drop would be a disaster. As for the cheerleaders, not involved in the halftime show, they were sipping diet sodas at the Dad’s Club.

One of the more relaxed band members was Brigid, near the fence, talking idly with one of the police, Office McElroy, who he remembered was her uncle. He was a big beefy Irish cop kind of guy, with a jolly face, in his heavy coat, gloves, with ear muffs and a ski mask under his cap. On a cold day a guy like him, whose job was just to stand around, had to bundle up. He had pulled the ski mask down to his chin so he could talk. Usually he was three times Brigid’s size, but with him all bundled up next to her in her tiny uniform, it was more like ten times.

The two were laughing at something, Brigid’s circlets jiggling, flexing her purple toes, idly scratching her butt with her baton. In the chilly, damp wind, her body was a raw red from head to toes, though a little whitish blotch could be seen where the hot tea had splashed her, on the inner slope of her left breast. If Officer McElroy was thinking about what his niece must be feeling like, he gave no sign.

They were joking around about the Star Wars present her brother had gotten at his recent birthday party, from what he could hear. As she scratched her left butt cheek he smiled. I know what Brigid’s butthole looks like…

Could anyone else see it? When she was sitting in front of him a few minutes ago, raising her butt to put that black blanket under her, her butt briefly was almost in his face. The string of her bottom, no wider than a shoelace, bisected her butthole; he could see the sides of her secret brown eye on each side. Well, it would never show in performance. Sticking her butt out at the crowd was not part of the majorette’s routine.

Now Brigid, talking to her uncle, lazily tapped the baton against her shoulder, then dropped it and tapped it against her bare heel. Now she casually twirled it, joking with her uncle all the while.

The rest of the band, of course, had the benefit of the clear plastic ponchos, which it turned out also afforded some warmth and shielded them from the wind. After the last of the ponchos had been handed out in the stands, Brigid had looked down at the empty box. Whether this was a surprise to her or not, he couldn’t tell. But it kind of went without saying that the majorette couldn’t perform in a poncho. It turned out, like Sarge said, that he could slide his trombone under it, and the drummers could wield their drumsticks under theirs. But there was no way to twirl in one.

Actually quite warm now in his full-coverage uniform and plastic poncho, he looked at his band’s majorette chatting nearly naked in the cold and felt in love again.

He sat across from her in one class, English. He was hoping she hadn’t noticed how much he looked over at her. In her turtleneck shirt, jeans jacket, black jeans, Doc Marten boots — he could picture her naked body under it, knowing how she really looked underneath, the breasts that were hidden in the turtleneck, the butt cheeks in her jeans, the feet and toes in her Doc Martens. With no other girl could one do that. He felt like he had x-ray vision and was looking through her clothes. Then turned away before she caught him staring.

He imagined taking her to the prom, him in his tuxedo, and her going in her majorette uniform. It was certainly dressy enough for a nice party like that, though not allowed by the dress code. Where would she put the corsage he gave her? Maybe it could hang from a circlet. Or pin it one of the strings of her bottom, below the graceful ridge of her pelvic bone. Well, no, the string looked too thin and fragile for that. Better yet, clip it to her red hair, hair that would be braided up like it now was under her cap, so that he could see her lovely neck and bare freckled shoulders.

Sigh… He would never have the courage to ask her to the prom, of course. It was all he could do not to choke up in her presence even without planning on saying anything. As to what she would actually wear to a prom, he could guess. An elegant but modest dress, floor length, maybe sleeveless at the most. No bare shoulders, definitely no bare midriff or bare legs. Sandals, maybe. But covered up.

He shook his head, trying to stop fantasizing, but he couldn’t. What if she went through the school day every day in her uniform? With everyone else normally dressed? He pictured her sauntering down the hall, talking with her friends, the clip-clop of her heeled flip-flops along with the thumps of their boots, her breasts jiggling and agitated as she laughed, the circlets dancing their crazy little ellipses in the air, her concave tummy moving with her breathing and laughing. Or playing in a concern in her uniform, with everyone else in their nice clothes, the boys in their ties, the girls in their black floor-length dresses. And in the clarinet section, among the black formal fabric, the bare beautiful white body gleaming in the stage lights as she played along with the other clarinetists…

He cleared his throat and blew through his trombone, watching Brigid and her uncle through the corner of his eye. I’m getting all sappy. I hardly even know her. Yet it was hard not to be in love. Probably a lot of other guys were too. Now Brigid turned with her back to him, flexing her arms, changing the baton from hand to hand over her head, as she spoke. From her cap to her backless sandals she presented a rear view of total nudity interrupted only by the tiny T-string of her bottom that disappeared between her butt cheeks. Then she turned slightly. He loved her from that angle. The side of her breast came into view, but not so much that he could see the circlet perched at its tip. From this angle, she looked like she was topless.

Uh-oh — her uncle was looking at him, seeing that he had been looking at Brigid. “How’re ya doin’, young fella?” he said.

He smiled and nodded weakly, thinking he was going to get some sharp warning from this big cop about ogling his niece. But the cop’s smile didn’t seem to hide anything stern.

Then Brigid turned and said, “Oh hi, that’s the guy who was on TV with me. Come heah,” she said in her Providence accent, waving him over.

Still not at ease with the cop, and nervous as he always was about approaching Brigid, he walked over, making a show of conscientiously blowing through his trombone under the poncho and checking the slide.

“Yes, I remembah,” the cop said, with the same accent. “You and Brigid put on a good show.”

“Th – thanks.”

“Even though Sahge had us mahching for almost five hundred yeahs,” Brigid said. A reference to Sarge’s slipup saying that the band was founded in 1527 instead of 1927. She laughed and he did too. He tried not to look at her circlets wobbling. The fine mist had given a sheen to her reddened skin. The scald mark was barely visible, a slightly less reddened area shaped like a flame, along the side of her breast, almost touching the circlet.

He smiled and looked down at his trombone, watching his high boots next to the red bare toes in the sandals. The mist had formed little beads of condensation on the toenail paint.

Now a gust of wind. “Geez, it’s cold,” her uncle said, shaking his arms under his coat.

“Yeah,” Brigid said, shaking her bare shoulders. A rare acknowledgement from her. As she shook the circlets danced. And she smiled, enchantingly.

Now Sarge called her away and spoke to her, his gloved hand on her bare shoulder. He heard him say the word “muddy” but couldn’t make out the rest. Probably giving her a pep talk to avoid the disaster of the pregame show.

Sarge shouted, “Get ready!” As they assembled he said, “Change of plan. There’s a dedication to Roddington McNeil, I told you about that. He has a request. We’re going to do ‘Catch That Tiger’ instead. Then Mr. Simonetti goes on the field with him and he gives a” — he spoke in a stage whisper now — “hopefully short” — back to loud — “dedication speech. Then it’s “Stars and Stripes”, the full version.”

Groans from the flute players. He said, “Now this is the last halftime show of the year, so let’s end in a big way. Remember –” he looked up and saw that it was beginning a light rain now — “it’s more important to look good and stay in formation than to get every note right. The ponchos are going to muffle the sound a bit anyway. But they’re clear plastic and the formation is going to be very visible.”

Sarge looked at the general drift of people from the snack area to the stands. Then, again holding his gloved hand on the majorette’s bare shoulder, he seemed to count off five seconds and said —

“Now!”

Part 38

The six snare drummers lined up behind Brigid and on her signal they began the rat-tat-tat of the opening salvo. This got the crowd’s attention and there was an accelerated movement from the Dad’s Club area up to the stands. Brigid’s signal was to thrust her baton over her head, her breasts wobbling tightly before coming to rest. He loved the way those circlets moved in little, well, circles. Were they being propelled by those hard pink nipples they were screwed onto? Or did the circlets cause her breasts to sway more?

Once again he felt the possessor of secret knowledge, having seen her total nakedness and how the circlets were fastened onto her. He looked at them and wondered how far her nipples, stretched by the hidden grommets, extruded. The circlets themselves didn’t seem to protrude very far. They made her breasts look slightly more puffed-out but that was all. Certainly nothing like that pointy bra Madonna wore in the 80’s. He wondered how Brigid’s nipples felt in this cold. Did the cold make supporting the circlets more bearable? At least it couldn’t be as uncomfortable as those “bulldog” clips.

He took in the rest of her posture — her “call to attention” pose. Her baton up in the air, her other arm extended behind her, fingers outstretched, one leg in front of the other, the rear leg bent slightly at the knee. Kind of theatrical, but that was the name of the game with a marching band. He saw something he’d noticed before. In this posture, the toes of her rearward foot were spread. Her pinky toe, the school colors meticulously painted on the tiny nail, was almost off the sole of her heeled silvery flip-flop and nearly touching the cold muddy ground. It looked so precarious.

But Brigid was strong and, as she began marching and everyone fell into formation behind her as she strutted, she exuded strength and confidence. It had not been a good day for her, one misfortune after another. Being doused by cold water from above. Falling face down into the cold mud which squirmed into her circlets and into her bottom, and squished up between her toes. Having hot tea spilling on the bare slope of her breast and down her tummy, icy water splashing over her bare feet and legs, having a freezing cold cloth poking into her pussy and into her asshole, her whole naked body plunged into ice water with her back against a big block of ice, finally having her nipples bit and stretched by pliers.

But that was then. She had put it all behind her. And now, as he and the other trombones marched out behind the drum majors, the cheering as the band came out in formation, the Tunemasters were supreme. Yes, being in a marching band was considered geeky. The uniforms certainly were, at least in any other setting. But out here on the football field during halftime, no other outfit would do. As they began marching in a circle around the field, each being careful to stay six feet behind the one in front, two feet from the one to the side, the crowd cheered more loudly, a cheering heard even after they started into “Catch That Tiger”, and his heart swelled with pride.

This is where all that practice paid off — all those before-school practices on this same field, at the ungodly hour of 6:30 a.m., in all kinds of weather, enduring Sarge’s benevolent but strict discipline, in the rising sun and often in drizzle and biting cold. Everyone in their regular clothes, with coats on when it was cold, though Brigid had taken her shoes and socks off to get used to marching in the majorette sandals. And now, here at the big game, in uniform, all the drudgery was forgotten.

The TV trucks seemed to be everywhere. He couldn’t tell from his angle but he guessed there were cameras at every corner of the field. They knew this would be on local TV and probably the Boston local news too. This was their moment! All those guys who teased the band members for being geeky, they couldn’t help but envy them at a time like this. The formation was excellent, the band sounded great, not a single flubbed note in spite of the chill. Looked great too. Even though all the band members except one were covered from neck to knees in plastic ponchos, the magnificent uniforms could still be seen clearly, moving in perfect synchronicity around the field as Brigid and the drum majors turned into the center and he hooked up with Jamal in front of him now, and the other percussionists in the rear rank, as the band formed a huge donut circling on the field. In the middle, it was out of his view, but he knew the drum majors were turning around in sync as they did their rolls, and Brigid was prancing and doing some throws.

The cheering continued, audible to him even through the music. The ponchos muffled the sound but only a little. It was beginning to drizzle, as he could tell from looking down on his poncho and feeling it against his face, but he couldn’t hear the pitter-pat against the plastic, everything was so loud and alive! The cheerleaders, in the Dad’s Club area, put down their sodas and just had to clap. Even the tiny bunch of Brookline fans in their little grandstand stood up, getting some circulation going, and seemed impressed.

Now was his big moment. It was his cue, as the first trombonist, the one on the left. Glancing down carefully while still playing, he stopped exactly at the 47-yard line and marched in place. The other trombonists, watching him, stopped with him. He looked forward as Jamal and his line pulled away. Now, he watched Sarge, in his unobtrusive position on the sidelines. Sarge was waiting for the band to bunch up into “tight” formation, just three feet between each rank. Now Sarge signaled. Still marching in place, Rod turned toward the crowd, as the band went into the “B” part of the tune on the last go-round. The trombonists followed him and now they were in a line, working their slides in the direction of the stands.

In a moment, Brigid and the drum majors came down in front. The band played especially loud the last few bars. A few rim-shots from the drums, then some terrifically high throws from Brigid. He could see the wisdom of not having a poncho on the majorette. The baton would get all tangled up in it. One final throw, and then silence. And now cheers!

He couldn’t help but smile. Smiling in formation was O.K. The cheers continued as Mr. Simonetti, with his wireless microphone and a folded-up umbrella, walked tentatively onto the field, at the sideline, about twenty feet in front of Brigid and the drum majors. The cheering had barely died down when he said, “Let’s hear it again for the Tunemasters!”

More cheering, and some whistling. The drum majors stepped off to the right, and stopped in line. He looked to the left, at Brigid, whom he could see in profile, about ten feet in front of him, a little to the side, so as to complement, and not obscure, the presentation of the band in formation. She was in “presentation” position, hands on her hips, baton in her left hand (she was left-handed), again with one foot in front of the other, rear leg bent so that her rear foot was on its toes, the sole of the backless sandal separating from her heel. She was smiling too.

Mr. Simonetti introduced Roddington McNeil, and an incredibly old man hobbled onto the field with a cane. He had on a business suit, a fedora on his head, and rubbers over his shoes. He gave a labored wave to the crowd as Mr. Simonetti introduced him. The cheers seemed to be from the older parents. Nobody in the band had seen this guy before, though they’d seen his name on a plaque in the lobby, near the glass case that had the old band pictures and trophies. Mr. Simonetti motioned to the new scoreboard and asked Mr. McNeil to say a few words.

The old guy grabbed onto the microphone, his hand over Mr. Simonetti’s, and began to speak in a quavering, old-man voice. He began speaking about when he first came to this school, in 1962…

Rod realized this might be awhile so he glanced over to Brigid. What a fine view he had. In profile she displayed to him the slopes of her breasts, her flat tummy, one knee in front of the other… He was in love again.

He looked at her tummy. It was more like a hollow. She was on the soccer team, she was in good shape. He remembered again that time he had walked through her gym class, her doing exercises with the other girls in her T-shirt and gym shorts, sneakers and socks. So covered up compared to now. What a fine-looking tummy, flat and just slightly muscular. Flushed red with the cold like the rest of her, though her toes and fingers were a little purplish by now too. White girls’ skin was so interesting.

He noted the smoothness of the tummy, down to her navel, then the long expanse down, down, down past her delicate hip bones, down, down, down some more, finally to the top of the tiny V-shaped uniform bottom. He knew what her pussy looked like now, and where her clitoris was, and estimated that they began just millimeters below the top of the little triangle of fabric. The skin above was flawless. How did she shave her pubic hair there? What did she use? A razor? Or some kind of cream like girls use to get the hair on their legs?

He thought of last year’s majorette, Grenicia. During one of the halftimes last year, during a moment like this, he noticed she had bumps down there, some kind of irritation. Fortunately for Grenicia her skin was real dark and you couldn’t notice unless you were up close. Maybe she shaved too close, or had some kind of allergic reaction to the cream she used. Brigid, with her white skin, could afford no such mishap. To have a red rash visible above her uniform bottom would look pretty bad.

Of course, Grenicia had been lucky. That whole last year, the band was blessed with beautiful weather. Every Saturday was warm and sunny, even into December. St. Patrick’s Day was a nice day too. Brigid, at the time marching with the clarinets in a full-cover band uniform, must have looked at the majorette and decided to try out for the job when Grenicia graduated. There were about ten candidates, the way he understood it. And she got picked, the first white majorette in years.

And look at how it turned out! To begin with, the uniform got more skimpy. Grenicia’s circlets were four inches across and, her breasts being a little small, covered almost the entire slopes. The uniform bottom had been bigger, the straps going around the waist, and around Grenicia’s quite bigger butt, had been thicker too. The sandals had had a strap around the heel which was now gone. But the worst of it was the weather. Grenicia had strutted in the warm sunshine. But except for those first two Saturdays in September, poor Brigid had had to endure the coldest and wettest autumn on record. It was always raining, or windy, or just plain COLD, and sometimes all at the same time. Yet she strutted and marched and twirled as if it was sunny and 70 degrees out and as if being the majorette was a great honor that she was thankful for. Which it was, of course. Yet no one who saw this girl, this unassuming, really quite ordinary though pretty girl, walking through the halls in her jean jacket, talking with her friends — no one could suspect the steely strength within.

The old guy kept rambling. And now drizzle turned into real rain. Umbrellas went up in the stands, and Mr. Simonetti opened up his big golf-style umbrella so that it covered him and the elderly honoree. Still the old guy kept talking, Mr. Simonetti nodding with just the slightest indication of impatience.

Rod was glad for his poncho. In his full uniform with the thermal underwear underneath, he was not at all cold. In fact the poncho acted like a greenhouse and made him a bit warm. Not a feeling being experienced by the poncho-less majorette. Brigid stood there, in “presentation” pose, smiling, as the rain began to coat her flushed body. Her toes flexed every now and then but otherwise she stayed motionless to the extent she could. He watched as a thin sheet of water developed which ran down her bare back, turned at her sacral dimples, then dripped off the string surrounding her waist. Courses of water ran down further, around the Y-shaped dimple over the beginning of her crack, then washed over the two cheeks of her butt. Jamal was right. Brigid DID have a freckle on her butt, on the right cheek right near her butthole, about halfway down. Then the water ran down the backs of her legs. On the rear leg, it went down to her flexed reddened heel, then dripped off her heel down to the sole of her sandal, from which it ran down and collected under her toes. Through the corner of his eye he could see the TV camera guy, fifty feet away, the camera maybe trained on the speech but could he be actually trained on Brigid?

Rod looked at her frozen smile, as the rain dripped off her nose, off her chin. What was she thinking? Warm thoughts? He saw her start to shiver. That was not unusual. A scantily-clad majorette on a cold day was expected to shiver. It was part of the majorette’s life. But still he felt pity as the freezing rain washed over her in its icy caress. He wished he could throw his poncho over her, no more than that, wrap her near-nakedness in his jacket, give her his long pants, his nice warm boots over her frozen feet… He had a fantasy of the end of the halftime show, Brigid jumping into a hot tub set up on the 50-yard line, splashing around in it gratefully, a special chemical in it making her circlets and bottom dissolve, her warm wet body finally jumping up in triumph in her warm wet nakedness to the cheers of the crowd…

He shook himself away from this bizarre fantasy and thought of Brigid in happier times. Those first two Saturdays in September were hot and sunny. The rest of the band was actually sweating in their wool uniforms and Brigid was having a great time. Maybe too great! There was the Bubble Gum Game, the second Saturday. Debra and Virginia had made the ill-advised decision to chew gum on the way to the field. What to do with it? Up in the stands, having to play “Fanfare”, they had to put it somewhere fast. There not being any place to put it on their own uniforms, Brigid, who had no playing to do, offered her circlets. And so for the rest of the time up there one could see little pink nubs on her circlets. It looked for all the world like her actual nipples were sticking out through holes. It sure gave him a rise. Neither Brigid nor her girlfriends seemed to be aware of this, as they chatted during fanfare breaks and cheered the team on during runs and touchdowns. But to see Brigid jump up when Jaysee caught that long one in the end zone, the pink nubs bouncing up and down — he considered himself lucky to have taken in that sight once in his lifetime.

The old guy rambled on… Mr. Simonette was trying, gently, to wrest the microphone away but McNeil had it in a death grip in his gnarled hand. Maybe he was trying to show how hardy he was despite his age, standing up and talking for a long time in this cold rain.

The rain got more torrential now, and now a gust of wind that almost knocked him over. Maybe others in the band too. Their ponchos flapped ferociously around them. Mr. McNeil, perhaps aware of this, spoke louder and closer to the mic.

Brigid adjusted her toes very slightly to the wind but kept in place, smiling, hands obediently on hips, baton wrapped in the fingers of her left hand. Currents of cold rain ran down the slopes of her breasts into the circlets, no doubt chilling her nipples before re-emerging below. Now there were drips coming from the undersides of her breasts, water accumulating, then dripping, accumulating, then dripping… Cold rain likewise ran down her tummy into her uniform bottom, no doubt running in between her pussy lips, maybe going inside… Cold rain washed down her butt, down her crack, no doubt running against her hidden butthole…

Now with the increased flow the rain began going on top of her circlets and spouting off them. Like skiing, or one of those fountains in Italy you saw pictures of, where water squirts out of a statue’s nipples. Two little streams, coming off Brigid’s breasts. Now her shivering increased and the streams scattered.

How long was this old guy going to go on? Mr. Simonetti leaned forward to the mic, trying to say something, but the guy just kept talking.

He pictured Brigid shivering so much, that her breasts scattered the water like a lawn sprinkler. A comical sight. On sale now — the Majorette Lawn Sprinkler. Then he scolded himself for being so cruel. Still, he was beginning to get concerned about her. Sarge, under his umbrella in front of the stands, seemed to look concerned too. Hopefully the old guy was almost done. Unfortunately he had only gotten up to 1985 or so…

Part 39

He had been getting concerned and the fact that Sarge was concerned made him more so. Sarge had led a band in the Army for years. And this was his tenth year leading the Tunemasters. Marching bands were his life. He could handle any type of situation — like that time last year when Chelsea, one of the flute players, vomited during the Fourth of July parade. Sarge quickly snatched her to the side and got her some medical help, and moved the marchers around so that the march continued with hardly a blip. Fortunately Chelsea was O.K. But it was the kind of eventuality that he knew how to deal with from his years and years of experience.

But now Sarge looked uncomfortable and uncertain. This was a situation he had never had to deal with before. Majorettes had to get used to marching in the cold in skimpy uniforms, it came with the territory. But the marching kept them warm. Standing still in freezing rain was different.

Rod stood there miserably in his sweaty warmth, feeling the rain pelt his poncho, and underneath the poncho was his jacket, then his shirt, then his thermal underwear. The rain was a remote feeling, like being inside a house and hearing it hit the roof. But Brigid had none of these protections. The rain entombed her bare skin, the cold no doubt piercing her to the bone.

She shivered and the rain cascaded over her, into her circlets and her uniform bottom and deep into her most private crevices, then down finally over her bare purple toes. It was not just her toes. Her entire nearly naked body now had a purplish tinge to it. She had no place to hide from the cold.

And now it got worse.

The rain started feeling hard, like little stones. He looked down at the muddy field and saw to his horror that the rain had changed to sleet!

Yet Roddington McNeil, the old fool, kept babbling on. Mr. Simonetti was getting more insistent in trying to interrupt but Mr. McNeil kept on hogging the microphone. The people in the crowd, huddled under their umbrellas or under raincoats, were losing interest, rolling their eyes, no doubt joking to each other as to when this geezer was going to finish.

This was ridiculous. Everyone in the crowd is all bundled up, wearing gloves, under umbrellas, and Brigid was standing out in front of them wearing practically nothing. She stood as still as she could. Her smile was as frozen as the rest of her. And then, finally, a sign of weakness — one knee buckled and she had to switch feet. Now it was the right set of toes that was planted firmly downward, spread a little bit, purple from the cold, millimeters from the muddy ground, and the left heel that was arched up, the last few drops of rain dripping from it onto the sole of her miserably inadequate flip-flop. His feet were warm in their socks and boots. How he wished he could give her his socks!

At least with the ending of the rain she was no longer covered with the coursing of freezing water. The temperature might be even lower now but, with the cruel caress of the wintry wind like the world’s roughest towel, her skin was drying quickly. Brigid’s Rule.

He and the other trombonists decided to check out her goose bumps. A favorite pastime of theirs, on cold days, that is, almost every day of this football season — taking note of the many varieties of Brigid’s goose bumps, where they appeared, how high and how many. Today was a record breaker. She had goose bumps all over — those on her her shoulders, her arms, and her legs were always visible , but the inner recesses of her butt cheeks were always where they were highest. Today they were monumental, sharp little mountains, going right into her crack, someone inside where the tiny hidden black string bifurcated her cheeks and pressed snugly and intimately against her butthole.

As the old man went on, Rod saw Sarge waving from under the little awning in front of the stands. He had gotten an extra coat from somewhere and was motioning as if to open it up. In other words, he was waving for Brigid to come off the field and put some damn covering on.

A drastic measure, perhaps unprecedented in Sarge’s experience, but this was a drastic situation. Rod looked over at Brigid. The freezing majorette evidently saw Sarge — in fact, from where she was, it was impossible to miss him — and did not react. C’mon, Brigid! He sighed. She was stubborn.

His thoughts were distracted by the novel sight of the tiny grains of sleet bouncing off her bare shoulders. And the top slopes of her breasts. And her knees. With so many aspects to this new spectacle, each trombonist decided to pay attention to one. Rod looked at the shoulders. The sleet came down in one direction but bounced off at angles depending upon which angle of her beautiful curves they hit. The ones that hit the tops of her shoulders bounced straight up, then came down again, bouncing either in front or behind on the second bounce. The ones hitting the sides of the shoulders bounced off to each side. Some bounced up and fastened onto the lovely wisps of red hair under her cap.

Sidney, the trombonist next to him, watched the grains bounce off her cute little cap and the braided up hair below. George, the next one, was mesmerized by the scattering of the little grains by her breasts and circlets. The ones that hit the circlets shot out especially far out in front of her. Well, he figured, that made sense. The vinyl of the circlets was harder than the skin on the bare slopes of her breasts. Herman watched the sleet bouncing off her hips and butt. Deion liked the sight of her bare knee and how the white stones shot out in front as if she were kicking them. At the other end of the trombone line, Lorenzo watched Brigid’s right foot and the specks of ice bouncing off her spread toes.

The sleet got a little bigger and fell harder, and made a real racket against the ponchos. It made it hard to hear McNeil and increased the sense of unreality, that this was some kind of dream. Though of course for Brigid it was all too real.

Sarge’s waving became more insistent and he could detect Brigid shaking her head, as slightly as possible so as not to be noticed by the crowd, an incongruous gesture to her frozen smile. Then he realized that following Sarge’s instruction was not a simple matter. The TV cameras were trained on the band as well as McNeil, in fact now that the speech turned out to be so boring they were probably more into the band. And it was certain now that the guy at this corner of the field was focused on the majorette. For Brigid to leave the field would be distracting and disruptive to the show, and possibly would be the one item to make the news. “Frozen majorette can’t take it any more!” The screaming headline on the Boston Globe. The show, the show — with a marching band, it was always about the show.

Still, hardy as she had become from all those days marching in the cold, Brigid must think of her health. And so the words came out of his barely moving lips, words that he couldn’t really believe he had said until they entered his mind through his ears.

“Brigid, go!”

His first thought was that he was in big trouble, talking out loud in formation like that, but no one could hear him through the white noise of the sleet hitting the ponchos, except Brigid and maybe Sidney and George. He waited for a response. Then he cleared his throat and said again, moving his lips as little as possible so no one in the stands could see, “Brigid, go and put that coat on! We’ll be fine!”

Shivering, she replied, “I c – can’t!” He screwed up his courage and said, “Don’t be foolish! You’re freezing!”

“Ya think I don’t knnnnow that!” In her Providence accent.

He had confronted her and, in his nervousness, thought he had lost her friendship. So he had nothing to lose. “I care about you, Brigid! PLEASE go get that coat on!”

“N – no.” She closed her eyes — maybe trying to transport herself into a place of warmth, a hot beach maybe. Or under a hot shower. Or maybe thinking of herself as being one of the rest of her band, all covered up under a poncho, as if she was once again marching with the clarinets.

The sleet began to accumulate on her cap. Little crescents of white crust began to form on top of the circlets. Down below, the white grains were filling up the spaces between her toes.

“Thank you, thank you, Roddington McNeil!” Mr. Simonetti said. The old man had had to catch his breath, finally allowing a space to jump in. McNeil looked around, as if awakened, then looked back at the band and at the majorette who was turning into a kind of frost-encrusted sculpture. “Oh sorry — what a fine band — thanks for your time!” And with that he hobbled with his cane off the field, followed by Mr. Simonetti.

The sleet, as if on cue, ended. Now it was just a gray sky and a chill breeze.

The second the two men were off the field Brigid lurched into action. A bit more stiffly than usual, but it was oh so good to see her come to life. She spun on the sleet-covered muddy field, shaking the white crust from her cap, her circlets, her toes, and thrust her baton into the air. A loud roll-off woke the band up, as instruments went up to lips. And now the intro to “Stars and Stripes Forever”. A bit flubby, but by the time they were two bars into the first section they were back on their game. Their final tune of the year, a big finish, the grandest and most famous of all marching band tunes.

And one of the hardest, especially for the flutes. Fortunately the trombone part was not that hard. As he pumped away on his slide he smiled, watching Brigid twirl, at first slowly, but then her body went from purple to red, and her smile once again became the smile of a living person.

But —

Now she stumbled! The heels of one of her flip-flops sank into the mud.

Part 40

Brigid stumbled, but only for a second. She didn’t seem upset about it. In fact she seemed to expect it. Then, to his astonishment, hardly missing a beat she kicked the heeled flip-flop off to the side, where it landed on the 40-yard line, and on the next beat kicked off the other. And she continued her routine like nothing had happened.

Rod’s eyes widened as he pumped his trombone. So did the other trombone guys. Brigid was strutting and twirling barefoot! Yuck! The sleety mud was up almost to her ankles, oozing up between her toes, as she spun and kicked. On her kicks to the side and front, little bits of mud flew out from her toes. Within seconds the school colors on her toenails were totally obscured by brown muck.

Yuck! What a violation of the rule about what Sarge always called “neat and proper presentation”! Yet Sarge, on the sidelines, was actually smiling. And talking to people to his side, as if answering their comments. Rod realized this was what Sarge had been mentioning to Brigid before halftime, when he had pulled her away from chatting with her uncle the cop. “If it gets too muddy, dispense with the footwear.”

Now the showy part, and the trombones swung to the left and then to the right, in perfect sync. This was the beginning of the “trio” section, the main tune, and as they broke into it the crowd cheered. Nothing like your folks and your family cheering you on. It was a great feeling. The TV cameras were eating it up, scanning the field, each line of the band kicking and high-stepping, all the way back to the percussion line at the rear. But most of all the cameras trained on the barefoot majorette slopping around in the cold mud.

Brigid was having a great time. As she spun and twirled and threw the baton up, it looked like a different type of dancing. Looser-limbed, more relaxed. More African. She was so stiff and formal sometimes, it seemed like she had a second baton up her butt. But not now! It stood to reason that without having to totter on those heels, having to grip her toes to keep those backless sandals on, she could move around more freely. It also just was the sensible thing to kick off the sandals when twirling on a muddy surface. He wondered when she had practiced majoretting barefoot. Certainly each time he had seen her, doing twirls on that grassy patch during recess, she had worn shoes.

Her face was flushed, not with cold now but with exertion. Imagine! Not two minutes ago she was shivering and miserable and battling hypothermia. Now she was alive and hot. He realized for the first time what twirling meant to her, what a thrill it was for her. Nobody would suspect it, seeing her around school in her regular clothes, mostly a quiet normal girl, talking with her friends in the hall… Now, dancing around barefoot and nearly naked in the mud in front of the crowd and the cameras.

And now as she swung around, her jiggling breasts leading the way as she threw them just so, she looked back at him and smiled. Just for him. His heart leapt. Yes!! She wasn’t mad at him for confronting her about running off the field to put on that nice warm coat. He could see now that she had made the right decision to tough it out. How much would have been lost if at this moment the band’s majorette was huddled on the sidelines.

But she was smiling at him — remembering that he had said “I care about you Brigid”! He didn’t know what the future would bring, but right now it looked promising.

With the sleet no longer hitting their ponchos, the band really rang out. Now on the final few bars they hit fortissimo. The drum guard’s beats sounded like cannons. The big climax to the tune, the show, the season! Now Brigid threw an incredibly high throw, the baton going up what looked like a hundred feet, and she spun around and spun around like five times as it took seemingly half an hour to come down.

Holy —-! She was really going to do it! A split! Brigid turned to the side and her left leg went forward and her right leg back — and as her bare butt hit the mud, her muddy toes spread and extended in front, kicking out mud, she caught the baton on the final cymbal crash. The trombone players thrust their instruments up to the sky in unison.

A pregnant second, and then the crowd let loose with a big roar. He thought he could detect a chanting undercurrent in there, some guys in the back rows maybe, “Frigid Brigid Frigid Brigid Frigid Brigid Frigid Brigid — ”

Sarge ran out and helped Brigid up. The insides of her legs were coated with mud but she didn’t care. On his prompting everyone took a bow. Then Sarge playfully waved to the camera guy who was now within ten feet of them. Brigid waved too, with a big smile and a wink, her other hand tucking the baton next to her bare hip.

Rod smiled, looking at her flushed butt, her total nakedness from behind, interrupted only by the splatters of mud on her back, her buns, her legs, and the tiny horizontal string just above her crack, and he thought of her lovely hidden brown eye. Maybe it was winking at him now. It was corny but he decided to wink back.

Halftime show over, the band broke formation and trotted off the field as the football players, now assembled at the sidelines, waited to charge onto it. Brigid ran to retrieve her sandals; then zigzagged back to the fence, her toes kicking up bits of mud behind her. He watched her go.

She ran to the gate where her three little sisters and two little brothers were waiting along with her parents too, all cheering and laughing, and ready with warm washable boots, a big fluffy blanket to wrap herself in while they watched the second half, and a huge thermos full of hot chocolate!

. . . .

Rod stumbled around groggily and realized he had thrust himself upright out of bed too quickly. He still had his shoes on, and his pants and shirt and jacket. For a moment he wondered what was dream and what was reality.

Knowing fresh air would clear that question up he ambled through the kitchen and out the door. Ahhhh, life is good. The sun was shining, the birds were singing. The smell of fresh earth, from the ground wet with the melted snow. A little chilly but spring was here.

And as he noticed the yellow VW half-out of the garage, he could make out the best thing about his life, evidenced by the bare legs and feet sticking out underneath, the soles gritty with grease, the fluff of plum-colored pubic hair under the bumper.

“Hi, Baby,” Tami said as he approached, her hidden face still engrossed in her task. He bent down and kissed her on her lower hair. Then tickled one of her soles.

She giggled and with a good nature said, “S—! You made me miss the eight-thousandths!” She was adjusting the valves, a task she did regularly, taking her sweet time, in her own happy world, her and the valves and the screwdriver and wrench and blade gauge. Tami the Motorhead. She had described the ritual to her friends several times. Rod as an engineer was proud he could understand her because most of her friends sure couldn’t. “The manual says to set the intake at .004 and exhaust at .006, but I set both at .008. It makes it a little noisy and there’s a little less power, but what the hell, it’s only 40 horses anyway, and it saves the valves from burning.”

She had been almost finished when he saw her, and now she was done. She replaced the creaking valve cover with a little grunt and scooted out from under the car, her bare back scraping against the concrete. She wiped her hands on a rag and looked up at him, face speckled with bits of crud, grease marks on her bare shoulders, a black smudge covering her left nipple and areola like a circlet. He helped her up and they embraced in a full-body hug, she with the wrench still in her hand, he not minding any stains that might result on his clothes.

“How was Providence, Babe?”

They separated and she looked down. “Sobering.”

“What, did they get along with Gretchen?”

“Oh of course they did. It’s impossible not to get along with Gretchen. It’s just that Dad works so hard at his store, with his heart condition he really shouldn’t, but… he was hoping Joe would be back by now to help him. And I found out they are really, really proud of me.” Her eyes got wet. “They are such great parents I would do anything for them.”

He saw her wipe her tears and then she put her head back under his shoulder. “Oh Rod… I am so lucky.”

He let a few moments go by and then he said, “I saw that DVD you left. Babe, you went through hell. I just can’t imagine it.” Indeed. It was worse than being raped, he thought. A girl being raped could at least turn her head and try to think of something else. But poor Tami had to face that creep Ross right in the eye as she came and came and came…

Tami hugged Rod more tightly, her toes squirming against the cold, gritty concrete. “It was horrible. I tried to escape in my mind, tried to tell myself to get used to these… orgasms… But each one exposed my every nerve… rubbing each nerve raw… and I had to keep my eyes open! Oh Jesus… I thought I was going to go out of my mind. The only thing that kept me from going crazy was thinking of the love of my family, and of you waiting for me… that after the… session was over I could go back into your arms.”

He almost cried himself. As it was he sniffled, looked at the top of her head, and ran his hand through her plum-colored hair.

They stood there, embracing, listening to the birds sing. Tami’s toes caressed his shoe and the leg of his trousers.

Then he said, “Your parents should know how much you suffered for them. You should — ”

“NO!” Tami stood apart. “Not ever!”

“At least tell them about being forced to — ”

“NO!! And you don’t tell them either!”

“I wouldn’t do that,” Rod assured her. It seemed so wrong, that her parents should not know about all her tribulations, or at least some of them, that she had suffered for their sake, so that she would not lose her scholarship and disappoint them. But of course she was right. Any disclosure would make her parents, and especially her excitable father, very upset. Maybe they couldn’t do any more about it than Tami could now, but it would at least keep them awake at night. Nothing is more unsettling than a grievous wrong that can no longer be redressed.

He didn’t like to see Tami like this, so worried, remembering her past travails. He hefted her into his arms, in a way glad to be the strong one for once, and carried her into the house. Neither one of them had to be anywhere for the next couple of hours.

Part 41

The Spring Zing.

Rod was out of his element, he knew, as he sat with his leg crossed over his knee in his business-style suit. He glanced around quickly, as discreetly as he could from the front row, and realized he was overdressed. He had wanted to wear something “nice” but it was a good thing Tami dissuaded him from wearing a tuxedo. That would have been WAY out of place in the midst of this loose-limbed, flamboyantly dressed crowd.

Must be mostly gay, he told himself. He wondered if he was capitulating to stereotypes until he remembered Tami telling him that, yes, almost all the male fashion majors were gay, and actually most of the female ones too. Even in the dark of the Little Theatre one could make out the bright colors of the blouses and shirts and dresses. The focus of the show was the show, of course, the designs that the fashion students had been working on all year. But most of the students were fashion plates themselves. Even including Professors Girardo and Wanamaker, sitting to one side in their ascots, making notes, in preparation for grading. And Professor Ellen Winckel standing on the edge of the stage, announcing each design and reading from her cards, tall and skinny and fiftyish, in her sparkly green A-frame dress.

And including Tami, in her way. Yes, it was still plum colored hair on her head and down below. But the earrings were unusual, half-coral, half-silver, and her fingernails and toenails were striped in the same colors. He had watched her do them, at least the toenails, her feet splayed wide on the kitchen table, as he went here and there getting his tie and his shoes and his shirt.

On stage, it was not as bad a freak show as he had feared. No outlandish designs that looked like alien outfits from a Star Wars universe. Once again he found himself giving these fashion students some respect. Creativity was important but practicality was the key. These clothes were designed to be worn — more exactly, designed to be sold, to ordinary people who intended to wear them, if not every day, at least often. No dresses made out of balloons or paper clips. No shoes shaped like geese.

Unfortunately the models, few of which were fashion students themselves, more or less fit the runway stereotype — thin, curveless, walking down that runway with one foot crossing in front of the other. Weird. As an outsider Rod thought this over and over again: weird.

He inhaled sharply and felt his dick stiffen as supple toes wrapped around his sock-covered calf and inched up a bit like five little inchworms. He discreetly but playfully brushed Tami’s bare foot away.

Now their attention fastened on the next entry, hers. Gretchen, battling her shyness, strode onstage in a tan-colored dress, tall and blond, chunky, with real curves, looking positively huge after the succession of skinny waifs.

“This is Gretchen Spaulding, modeling for Tami Smithers,” Professor Winckel announced. “In this instance the model is a co-creator of the dress. This V-neck midline is made of a fabric designed by Ms. Smithers and by Ms. Spaulding, a new polymer which has been submitted to the Department of Defense for approval. The name they have tentatively picked for this fabric is ‘Cherish’. It is designed to afford warmth and alternately ventilation depending on conditions. I note that both Ms. Smithers and Ms. Spaulding have family members serving in Iraq.”

The audience had been instructed at the beginning not to applaud until the show was over, but as one might expect, even though no others in the room had family in the military, there was respectful and quite vigorous clapping.

As Rod clapped he thought of his National Guard unit, the architects and engineers who had been marched around like infantry. Then his thoughts went to the dress Gretchen was wearing. The first item designed with Cherish — the name Tami had given to the horse that had saved her life in the Texas scrubland, whose color was much like the unbleached color of this new fabric. What a story — like so many others she had to tell concerning her cross-country trek, traveling on her wits, without clothes or food or money.

Truth be told, the fabric didn’t seem to him to be quite clothing-ready yet. It seemed a bit too stiff and rubbery, like Gretchen was wearing a big white fried egg. Then he saw that her breast was about to fall out! With unexpected aplomb Gretchen shifted her hips just so, causing the V-neck to right itself. He heard Tami gasp and bring her hand up to her mouth with concern.

But all was OK. Gretchen smiled at the audience, a shy girl overcoming her shyness, and her body issues. The swing of her hips and her breasts as she turned to leave the stage was a nice touch. Flaunting her curves as if to emphasize that the other models didn’t have any. He had to chuckle. He felt Tami’s head lean against him and he put his arm around her bare shoulder.

Did she get an “A”?

He felt sure of it, as he put it to Tami and Gretchen in their kitchen, having a coffee before heading out to the party at the county airport. There was a two-hour gap between the end of the show and the beginning of the reception. This seemed odd to Rod and Gretchen until Tami explained that the Spring Zing reception was traditionally the time when fashion majors would romp around in their craziest creations, which they needed time to do up.

“I’m not so sure myself, maybe a ‘B’ this time,” Tami said, sitting cross-legged up on the table as usual, then straightening her legs and stretching her toes out past the table edge, taking another sip. “You did a good job hiding it, Gretch, but your boob almost slipped out.”

Gretchen playfully hid her face in her hands. “Lord, that was a close call… For once I was proud to have hips and a big bust. Which reminds me, I hope the food there is good. I’m getting hungry. Oops, sorry.”

“No that’s OK,” Tami said. Gretchen couldn’t be blamed for being sensitive. With Tami meaning to “wear” her tail to the party, the naked young woman could not eat or have anything in her intestines.

“It’s a really good restaurant, from what I hear,” Rod said.

“Strange place for a fine restaurant,” Gretchen said. “In a small airport.”

“It’s a pricey place to fly from,” Rod said. “I suppose with such an upscale clientele, they wouldn’t want just a burger stand.”

“Well time to get into my Spring Zing costume,” Tami said, hopping off the table, soft footfalls on the floor, then off to the bathroom to use the big enema bag.

“It’s OK, you don’t have to say sorry,” Rod said after his wife left. “I still feel funny about it, but you know Tami, she’s so strong-willed. It’s her decision to wear that thing; no one’s forcing her to wear it. Not like at that pony farm. It always amazes me how Tami can put that horrible experience behind her.”

They both snorted at this unintended pun.

They talked for a while about Roger, Gretchen’s fiancé, flying missions in northern Iraq.

“I… am… ready!” Tami said, sauntering into the kitchen as if she were padding onto the red carpet at the Oscars, a little black purse clasped in her hand. She swiveled and planted the other hand on her outthrust hip, showing off the long, plum-colored hair flowing from between her butt cheeks almost down to her bare heels.

Gretchen had been told about the tail but had never seen it. “Wow…” Tami allowed her a few seconds to take it in. The color of the tail matched Tami’s pubic hair exactly, as well as the hair on her head. Tami wiggled her hips and the long delicate filaments swished back and forth like a thin jungle waterfall.

“It’s beautiful,” Gretchen concluded. “Strange but beautiful.”

Rod leaned forward to kiss Tami. “Just like the rest of you.” Then he stood back, hands in his jacket pockets, as if to appraise the sight from afar.

Gretchen had already changed from her Cherish dress into her most formal dress, long, black, spaghetti straps. She looked down at her black pumps, and pictured how she might look in a costume like Tami’s, all naked, her brownish pubic hair maybe bleached blonde like her natural head hair, black polish on the toenails of her bare feet. Maybe all the women at Campbell-Frank College had fleeting fantasies of being naked like Tami. Of course, actually being naked in front of people, well she would just die of shame! A stage through which Tami herself had passed a long time ago.

“I’d better freshen up,” Gretchen said, and excused herself to go to the bathroom. By this she meant she had to pee, and brush her teeth again after having that coffee.

In the kitchen, Rod continued to stand back, hands in his pockets, looking at Tami flaunt her new accessory. The only clothes she could wear. They engaged in idle chit-chat. Then —

“Ohh — ” A flash of recognition in Tami’s amazed eyes, then an accusing look at Rod. “You absolute prick!!” It was the expansion of the tail inside. Then —

“EEEEE!” Tami’s eyes burst open and she jumped three feet into the air, legs splayed out, tail leaping up behind her, then she bent forward as she came down, hands hitting the floor, her crooked, trembling legs stretched out almost into a split, her crotch a mere foot from the floor.

Gretchen came back and stood open-mouthed in concern.

Tami looked up at Rod, hair scattered, and in a husky voice said, “Rod, you are Evil — ”

Actually it was more like “EEEEVV — owww!” She never got the whole word out. Again she leapt into the air, doing a half-turn, this time landing with her back against the counter, her legs spread and her crotch widely displayed almost in Gretchen’s face. Gretchen saw the impish smile on Rod as he pulled the remote control out of his pocket.

For the first time Rod noticed that Gretchen had come back. “Sorry Gretchen.” He seemed to have second thoughts to Tami too. “Sorry Babe,” he said, turning the remote off. “I couldn’t resist.”

Tami’s concave tummy heaved in and out as she caught her breath, or tried to.

“I suppose you have to do your hair up again,” Rod said. He seemed more contrite. “Sorry again.”

Tami looked down, breathing heavily, her toes spreading and grasping the floor.

In spite of being disturbingly fascinated, Gretchen felt compelled to say, “Maybe I should stay in the living room — ”

But she didn’t leave, wanting to stay. She couldn’t help but see Tami’s widely-spread pussy lips, the hard pink nub of her clitoris, palpating tensely.

“N – no, it’s OK,” Tami said. Campbell-Frank’s only naked student looked up at Rod. “D – don’t leave me like this…”

Rod said, “OK, Babe.” As Gretchen watched intently he started working the remote again.

“OHHH!” Tami leapt and spun around again. “OHHH!”

Gretchen watched as Tami danced around. It was amazing how high she would leap with every stroke of Rod’s finger on the little touch pad. Gretchen felt odd watching this spectacle, but then she told herself, ‘This is what Tami does. Be naked and have orgasms in front of people. It’s been a part of her life for so long she’s become used to it. In fact it’s been odd that I’m one of her best friends and yet I’ve been one of the few people on campus not to watch a Tami Smithers orgasm.’

With Rod’s increasing finger pace Tami quickly crested. To Gretchen’s shock she lurched forward and held Gretchen’s hand to anchor her as her body spasmed, her feet slapping on the floor with each jolt.

Gretchen was amazed to see the tail wag back and forth with each contraction, like a dog’s tail, or a horse’s, or a cow’s swatting flies… back and forth, back and forth, swishing with each spasm of Tami’s internal muscles.

For a moment Tami looked up at Gretchen with eyes that seemed to be pleading, or maybe in pain, or maybe as if trying to say something but not being able to… It was the strangest expression Gretchen had ever seen.

When it was over Tami dropped to the floor, on all fours, sweating, catching her breath.

“Oh God…” she said between gasps. Then she lay down on the floor, the tail sticking up, still jerking now and then. Gretchen and Rod watched silently.

Finally Tami struggled to her feet and said, “I suppose we’ll be fashionably late. I gotta shower again.”

Part 42

She should have known that Tami could not sit down with her new accessory inserted. Gretchen smiled as she looked back at her naked friend, who had her knees on the rear seat, looking out the rear window. The things we women do for fashion. Uncomfortable shoes, tight bras, stifling nylons… not that any of these were familiar to Tami, except maybe as vague memories.

It was about five miles to the airport. Rod struggled with the gear shift of the ancient Beetle. There was a whirring sound and then the car shuddered whenever he changed gears. “Sounds like it needs a new clutch, Babe.”

“Actually it sounds like the pressure plate’s warped,” Tami said, looking idly at the road escaping behind them, elbows on the top of the rear seat. With both hands she re-twisted a little braid that had fallen onto her forehead. In the near-darkness of the little car Gretchen looked down at Tami’s bare feet, sticking out between the front seats, caressed by the ends of the long filaments of tail, almost touching the gear shift. “That’s a big project though. Remember, fourth gear is 28.”

“I know, but I just don’t have your touch.”

“What?” Gretchen said.

“At the right speed you can change gears without a clutch,” Tami said. “Fourth gear is about 28 miles per hour on this car.”

“Oh.” Gretchen had driven farm equipment on her family’s dairy but she never knew that.

She looked forward again, at the next curve in the road, and considered how they must look. Here I am in my formal dress, Rod next to me in his suit, and a naked girl in the back seat with a weird “tail” stuck into her rectum. It looks like Rod and I are a kinky couple and Tami is our sex slave.

She looked down at Tami’s feet again, the spread toes. How human feet naturally look, she supposed, without being crimped by shoes. Prehistoric feet. And the hard soles that have walked on all kinds of surfaces, hot and cold, rough and smooth, for over three years. Tough yet sensitive. Last year, at a party in Rod and Tami’s back yard, Tami’s old friends Marisol and Desmond had come up. Desmond was blind and had little Braille blocks. Tami got up on a table, in the same position as she was now, as he pressed them against her soles. Tami got almost every letter right. Even after three beers.

What a super woman Tami was. Men stripped her and made it impossible for her to wear clothes ever again. Yet she turned nudity into an advantage, exploiting the unused abilities of skin, the same way a blind person like Desmond was able to use his hearing so well. Desmond could hear things nobody else could. He was the first to hear the distant thunder that day, five minutes before anyone else. Then the sudden thunderclap which everyone heard, and the instant downpour. They all hurried into the house except Tami. They watched as she scurried around covering up the grill and the food, her body sleek and wet, rain dripping from her chin and spinning off her nipples.

Now Gretchen’s gaze traveled up the long, beautiful tail to where the plug nestled in Tami’s widely-spread anus. She knew there was a bulb inside here, to keep the tail from being ejected, but even the plug part looked huge. Maybe an inch across. And Tami’s anal ring holding it like a — like what? It was stretched out so there were no wrinkles. The only analogy Gretchen could think of had to do with sex. Like the mouth of a woman who is trying to suck a penis that is too large for her mouth.

Not that Tami would be eating tonight. Yet another sacrifice made for fashion. Preparing for an evening with the tail inside her, Tami had stayed off solid food today, drinking nothing but juice and smoothies, then done her enema thing a while ago in the bathroom. Gretchen detected a slight whiff of strawberry. She knew that a few of the TL’s liked licking Tami up there and would bring flavored enemas that they asked Tami to take while they stood around and watched. Yuck. Even with all attention paid to cleanliness, licking an anus was a disgusting thought to Gretchen. Yet she had accepted that others could be turned on to it. Yet another surprise, part of being Tami’s friend.

“How you feeling, Babe?” Rod asked as he negotiated another turn.

“Sehr gut,” Tami said, using one of her German phrases. “So long as you don’t try anything again.”

“No, I took the batteries out,” Rod said. He fished them out of his pocket as Tami turned to look. “And look.” The remote control came out of the other pocket, battery door swinging open and empty. “Of course,” he said in a low voice, “AFTER the party, they might find their way in again.”

Tami giggled. Of course that would happen after they dropped Gretchen off. It was a little embarrassing for all of them when she walked into the kitchen as Tami spasmed. Gretchen couldn’t get the image out of her mind — of Tami’s pulsating pussy lips, pushed out from the bulky thing behind them, moist and wide open between her widely spread legs as she leaned back against the counter under the hidden assault of the moving bump massaging her internal centers of pleasure. And then to look into Tami’s eyes! Gretchen could only stand it for a second before averting her gaze. It was too intense, like looking up at the sun.

Gretchen contemplated the tail filaments next to her, right over Tami’s heel. Except for their plum color they looked like hairs from a violin bow. She couldn’t resist giving one a little touch. To her surprise Tami grunted and her toes curled. “That’s got to be you, Gretchen.”

Gretchen blushed at being found out. “Wow — you could feel that?”

“The vibrations go all the way inside. My gut is very sensitive.”

Gretchen looked up at her naked friend’s firm, tan butt cheeks in amazement. Somewhere deep inside there, Tami felt what I just did. I’ve touched her way deep inside. Tami repositioned one of her knees and a few filaments slid across Gretchen’s wrist. She had to admit it was a thrill.

“This is very beautiful,” Gretchen said, stroking the filaments.

“It was a bitch to get it all the same color,” Tami said. “It’s not real hair, so regular dye didn’t work. Thanks though.”

“Can you wag it back and forth now?”

“No, only when I’m coming. Here. Let me try again.” Without appearing to move, Tami grunted, then looked back. Her anal ring wiggled a bit. “No, only during, um, orgasmic contractions.” The hesitation in her voice — perhaps a slight, vestigial feeling of shame?

Gretchen felt brave and asked something that had been on her mind. “Tam — I’ve heard that you sometimes — have an orgasm — while talking to people — ”

“Never right in public,” Tami stressed. “Never when there’s professors or administration people around. But when no one’s around, sometimes my friends like to lick me.”

Rod snorted. “Sometimes! More like ten hours a day! Those girls are inexhaustible!”

Returning to her question, Gretchen said, “Well how can you — talk — while…”

Sparing her shy friend the task of completing the question, Tami broke in to answer it. An answer that was well-considered and based on years of experience and thousands of episodes. “There’s only three things I can’t control when I come. One is the anal contractions. The other is, my pupils dilate. And the third is my mind goes all fizzy for a few seconds. But when that’s over I can replay in my mind what the person just said and stay in the conversation. So it’s no problem.”

For a few moments the three were silent, Rod watching the dark, winding road, Gretchen looking ahead and then glancing at Tami’s feet, and Tami watching the road going away behind.

“How many people at this thing, Babe?” Rod said.

“Maybe 50, vielleicht. Professors and students, mostly. Some staff. At least that’s what they say. I’ll try to catch Professor Girardo and see how I did at the Zing.”

It was unusual for Tami to talk so much about herself. But then again, this was her night. “I’m getting inspired for that International scholarship.”

Rod shook his head good-naturedly. “They keep telling you the odds are a thousand to one.”

“Well at least get picked as a finalist. That means I go to the finalist fashion show in Montreal next month. I want to make my parents proud.”

“I know,” Gretchen said. On that ride back from Providence she had seen Tami cry, unexpectedly. “I have such good parents,” Tami had kept saying, before drying her tears finally as they approached the Campbell-Frank exit.

“When will they tell you if you made it?” Rod said.

“Soon, according to Professor Girardo. I have to go through an interview with this Dr. Lambert — I mean Lam-BARE,” Tami said. “He’s French. And pompous and a real tough guy to make a good impression on. The Prof wants to prepare me right beforehand, whenever that is. I get the feeling he’s nervous about it, that he wants me to at least make the finals for the good of the school’s reputation.”

“Whether you make it or not, I’m sure you’ll do fine Babe,” Rod said. He fondled Tami’s foot as if he was holding her hand. To Gretchen’s surprise Tami’s flexible toes grabbed up and enclosed Rod’s fingers.

Another turn in the road and the trees cleared away into flat land and now, Campbell County Airport under the full moon. Rows of blue lights crossing the little plain, converging on the FAA tower and next to it, the little terminal, brightly lit, a newish three-story structure with a glass enclosure on the top floor. Small planes were parked in a line to one side. At first it looked deserted. But then blinking lights approached from the side, from over the trees, past the revolving red radar stand, a little ten-seat jet coming in for a landing. Another little airplane was taxiing its way around a far bend. A fuel truck passed behind the terminal. A guy in an orange suit walked across, disappearing behind the terminal.

They came to the sign that said, “Welcome to Campbell County Airport and the Skyview Restaurant”. Rod turned into the parking lot. At the terminal entrance there were a few professor-looking types standing around, and a couple of students, gaudily dressed, passed through. One looked dressed as a dance hall dancer, the other in a Mae West outfit complete with long cigarette holder, though of course without a cigarette in it.

“Time for your grand entrance,” Gretchen said cheerfully as she helped Tami out of the backseat. She looked down at the bare feet and coral-and-silver toenails pressing onto the asphalt, then up to the lower hair ruffled by the chill evening breeze, the concave tummy, the stiff nipples, then the braided hair framing the tanned face and luminous green eyes that caught the rays of the streetlight above.

“Thanks,” Tami said. Then they followed her as she strode in front of them to the entrance, proudly and upright, the long flowing tail waving gently and sensuously with the swing of her hips, sweeping across her lithe but muscular calves.

Part 43

It was a measure of Campbell-Frank’s influence in this county that their naked student could stride proudly and effortlessly into the terminal. The security officers, having been warned, watched tolerantly and in bemusement as Tami and Rod and Gretchen politely nodded to them and crossed the simple little lobby and passed the information desk. Of course the sight of a beautiful naked young woman was not unpleasant. That her companions were fully and formally dressed made her nakedness even more striking. And seeing that tail swish behind her as she sashayed by, her little black purse in one hand, and placed her bare feet on the escalator, well, that was something they’d never forget!

The terminal had three floors, the first of which had the waiting area, the baggage claim, a newspaper stand, and overhead screens showing arrival and departures to cities like Boston, Cincinnati, Toronto, and St. John. As the three young people got to the second floor they saw the airport administration office and offices rented out to various businesses, the Campbell County Development Authority, and a flight school. The few people they passed glanced at Tami as if they couldn’t believe what they were seeing, but then again, there were enough outlandishly dressed fashion majors going up with them that they provided her a kind of cover. Most assumed the tail was just somehow glued on to her outside. They could not have imagined that it was of a piece with a thick, 12-inch dildo that went up into her colon.

Another escalator up to the third floor, the Skyview Restaurant, and now one was in a different world. A world of elegance, with the muted lighting, the circular bar with two bartenders in tuxedos, the big cocktail area with the little high tables to stand around, the soft classical music in the background, the waitresses in their ruffled white shirts and long black pants. Around them, the blackness of night and the glass walls. The lights of the runways and the airplanes were like constellations.

And the hubbub of conversation, the place just beginning to fill up, with brightly colored and outrageous costumes of the students contrasting with the more muted tones of the professors and other “grown-ups”.

It was now that Tami made her entrance. Not being a natural show-off, but realizing she would unavoidably be the center of attention, she strode in front of Rod and Gretchen. Conversation died down and she placed her hands on her bare hips, then turned slightly and shook her tail by shaking her butt. Maybe it would have been a shocking sight otherwise, but everyone had been told. Polite clapping and a few whistles as Tami turned and then, looking down at the carpet for a moment, did a graceful cartwheel, trained gymnast that she was, the purse still in her hand. The long strands of tail whirled behind her, a long spiral caressing her heels and her bare butt and finally wrapping around her hips as she came back up standing. Rod’s mouth went dry and he felt himself getting hard. He shifted his leg a bit and was reassured that no bulge would show through his pants and jacket. His outfit was black and it was too dark to see in this place anyway.

They went to the bar and showed their I.D.’s and got their drinks. Tami got her usual, a martini. Rod was a beer guy but tried to be cultured and got a glass of red wine. Gretchen, after some indecision, decided on a rum and coke.

“Hi Tam,” Trent said, hugging her. “Woo!” That was Tami, looking down at his costume for the first time as they separated. Trent was in a body stocking with a fig leaf design sewn over his crotch. On his feet were red high-top sneakers. His blond hair was set up in braids. Then she looked at his companion, Cyrus, even taller and thinner than Trent, a handsome young black man with a goatee. Cyrus was similarly dressed.

“We’re Adam and Steve,” Cyrus said. Which got a good laugh, even from Gretchen, who was trying not to look at the fig leaf designs, both of which seemed to be hiding large bulges. What was in there? Socks?

Now a couple of girls from Tami’s fashion design class, Claire and Joany. Claire was a very thin Asian girl who tonight was done up in a geisha outfit.

“Socks with sandals? Isn’t that a fashion crime?” Tami kidded her.

Claire said, “Just for once I’m traditional — whoa!” Her flat wooden flip-flops were about four inches high and she tipped over onto Tami, causing a little of Tami’s martini to spill onto a nipple. Tami flicked it off, causing her breast to jiggle.

“Sorry, let me get you a napkin,” Claire said, lurching over to the bar.

“No, that’s OK. I’ll get Rod to lick it off.”

Rod felt his face getting hot. He would always be an outsider to this crowd. He sipped his wine. Yuck. It tasted sour to him but he tried not to make a face.

Now Professor Ling, the faculty supervisor for Tami’s and Gretchen’s polymer project. It was surprising to see him here. But as Rod looked around he saw some other professors he remembered from his math and science classes. It wasn’t just the fashion crowd.

Dr. Ling said hi, his eyes fastened strictly on Tami’s face. Then he got into a conversation with Gretchen and the two drifted off. Tami finished her martini and ordered another. Rod tried like hell to enjoy the wine.

Now, Roberto, the Student Government president, and his girlfriend Maria. Tami and he chatted a bit about the upcoming Activities Night. He said hi to Rod and made some small talk while Maria complimented Tami on her tail. “This is quite an event,” Rod said. “Some wild outfits.” They looked at a male fashion major across the room who was dressed like Barney the Dinosaur, only wearing a lacy white bra.

“Yes,” Roberto said. “Quite a juxtaposition.” His favorite word.

Professor Congi and Mrs. George. As usual they gushed. “Beautiful tail, Tami,” Ms. Congi said. Rod watched as Mrs. George bent down to touch a strand and Tami jumped. The tiniest vibration thrilled Tami’s gut. On a scale like that, bumps protruding from the dildo inside would be like an explosion. No wonder they made her jump halfway to the ceiling. He felt around in his jacket pockets, the empty remote control in one and the batteries in the other.

Now two of the Tami Lickers, Barbara and Melissa. Both were dressed pretty much the way they always did. Barbara was in a granny dress with boots. Melissa, tall and blonde and model-like, wore a black riding outfit, complete with cap. They tried to engage in small talk but were clearly preoccupied with their lust, a lust that found expression when Barbara said, “I can’t believe how lovely your lower hair is, in that color.”

“Thanks,” Tami said, placing her martini on the bar, looking down, opening her legs for their benefit, spreading her lower lips for the small circle of friends. Her toes spread on the carpet to anchor her. Through her spread legs one could see the softly swaying tail filaments falling like a soft summer rain.

“If only — ” Barbara said.

“NO,” Tami said, sternly and playfully at the same time, closing her legs, the toes of one foot wrapping over the other.

The friends went to nibble on the little snacks on the bar. Rod felt his stomach growl but resolved that, if Tami couldn’t eat because of her tail, he wasn’t going to eat either. As usual Tami’s nipples picked up his thoughts. “Go ahead, my hungry man.”

“No.”

Tami took another sip. She was about halfway through her second martini and, being Tami, none the worse for wear. “I have to pee. Hold this, OK?”

He watched as she cantered gracefully away, her tail swishing behind her, looking into her little purse probably for her lipstick. Those pony tails that white girls like to wear that go down their back; he would never look at one the same way again. He could probably count every vertebra, from her neck down to the crack in her butt. Having the tail in her made her stand and walk a little differently. She had to arch her back a bit, a little like bikini models do when they’re trying to look “hot”. Once again he counted his blessings. So many guys, and a lot of women too, lusted after her. But she was his.

After she was gone Rod tried another sip of the wine. Bleacchh. Then despite knowing better he tried a sip of Tami’s martini and almost choked. Martinis were her favorite bar drink but he didn’t know how she managed it. They were like pure alcohol.

Tami’s tastes, he noted, tended to be extreme. She liked the shower water scalding hot, so hot he could never get in with her. Well, maybe that was understandable, maybe she was hoarding heat for when she had to go naked in the snow. But her coffee was the strongest he’d ever tried to taste. She liked spicy food — at the campus snack bar she used to order her burritos “suicidal”, whereas he could manage only up to “medium hot”. When she put on her iPod headphones while studying, the music was so loud he could hear it from the next room.

He loved Tami more than he had ever loved anyone, they were a team, they shared a life and knew many things about each other that no one else knew. He had seen her in all kinds of moods, in good situations and bad. Yet somehow he felt like he didn’t know her. There was something about her that was as inscrutable as a sphinx.

Why was that?

It must be because her experiences were so different than anyone else’s. That awful freshman year, in particular. Bad things happen to people, of course. What happened to Trent, for example — he thought this as he saw “Adam”, across the room, holding hands with “Steve” — loosing your lover on 9/11. A horrible tragedy. Yet people lose loved ones, albeit not so dramatically. It was part of life. He thought of losing his own father two years ago, now his lonely mother had to sell that old house that was too big for her to take care of, and move in with his aunt.

But Tami — the terrified freshman forced to go naked all year, terrified to show the slightest sign of modesty. Strapped to that dildo machine at Chalfont, hundreds of unwanted orgasms, often while having to look at creepy people like McMasters and Henry Ross right in the eye. Having to go across the country naked, then captured on that pony farm. Nobody could imagine what all that must be like. You couldn’t say all that was just “part of life”. But looking in her eyes you knew all that hurt and pain was in there somewhere, a hurt unlike anyone else’s.

And now she seemed OK. In fact, with this tail, like the one that was stuck in her at that pony farm, she seemed to treat the past like a little bit of a joke. How can she do that? Did her psyche have some superhuman ability to survive?

Maybe she was in denial. Maybe all those horrible feelings, all those memories, were being repressed, just so she could get through life. He could almost sympathize with Dr. Abu Jamal and Dr. Kantor over at Chalfont. It had been two and a half years and they hadn’t been able to cure her allergy to clothes. Apparently the “treatment” had all been external, testing her skin responses. Maybe the real problem was in her mind and they were afraid to go there, fearing the can of worms they might open up.

For now he just had to hope for the best. Presumably she could continue the naked life after graduation by staying on at the college as a graduate assistant. As a certain valedictorian she would have no trouble finding such a job. But how long could that go on? He chuckled, thinking of her newfound determination to get into the finals of that International Fashion thing. What if she actually got that fellowship? Going back to Providence — naked!

Well maybe he shouldn’t chuckle. That her parents were supportive had apparently been a surprise to her. Once again, she wanted to make them proud.

And what about these dreams he’d been having?

Tami came back and got her martini and then who wheeled up to them but Homer Winant, working his wheelchair manually as always, in a business suit with his “Grafton Transmissions” cap.

“Hi Homer,” Tami said.

“Hi,” Rod said, still not being able to fully trust this guy.

“Hello friends,” Homer said. “Congrats on having the best costume in this freak show.” What might have been an insult came out as a compliment, the way Homer said it.

“Thanks,” Tami said, turning to show her tail, making a leg, one bare foot up on its toes.

They stood around for a moment as Homer ordered a beer. Then he said, “Got something for you.” He brought a bag out from under his chair and gave it to Tami.

Part 44

“Wow,” Tami said, opening it up. Wooden platforms with metal runners underneath. “A new pair of skates.”

Specially designed by Homer so that Tami could skate at the little rink outside the gym building, which during warm weather served as an outdoor basketball court. They were just hard soles, without tops, molded to the contours of Tami’s feet, with ridges between the toes so that she could grip them without relying on any strap which would trigger an allergic reaction. “The old ones broke,” she said to Rod.

“Yes I remember,” he said. That was about a month ago.

“These shouldn’t break,” Homer said. “The old ones were wood, these are fiberglass. Go ahead, try ’em.”

Tami dropped them to the floor and set them under her feet, balancing on the runners. Of course she could not jump in them but it was possible to grip them, with her well-developed foot muscles, so as to skate pretty fast. Others came around and looked down. She even managed to lift one and then the other, by squeezing her toes together. “Thanks Homer. You’re a genius.” Which of course everyone knew. She put them back in the bag. “It’s a little late for this year though.”

“Nonsense. We always have an April blizzard, and a cold snap. You know that better than anyone.”

“We didn’t have one last year,” Tami observed.

“Then we’re due,” Homer said.

Tami sipped her martini and then said, “Rod, I’d better chat with Ling and Gretchen.” And she left Rod at the bar with Homer.

Rod watched her go. As she chatted with the Professor, Mrs. George joined them, and then some guy from the local Chamber of Commerce. Tami knew how to comport herself on occasions like this. He thought of her adjusting valves the other morning, smeared with grease. And now here she was, as graceful and polished as a princess. He thought of the last time they had been at an elegant affair, last fall at that faculty – administration cocktail party they’d been invited to, that black tie affair. Tami gracefully made the rounds, saying exactly the right thing… totally naked, yet elegant in her braided hair and perfectly done fingernails and toenails, the carefully tended pubic hair. Acting like she clearly had the most beautiful and luxurious gown, yet was too modest to seem to be aware of it.

It was her hair, upper and lower. She considered her hair to be her “clothes”. So she didn’t really feel naked. Or at least that’s what she said.

“How’s the engineering life?” Homer said, waking Rod from his reverie.

“Oh, OK.” He forced himself to take another sip of that wine, then looked out at the blackness through the glass walls, the lights of the runway, lights of a little plane coming in for a landing. A thought hit him and he got concerned. “Can’t everyone out there see in here? Seeing Tami might distract them. Could be dangerous.” It sounded like a joke but he was serious.

“Oh I don’t know,” Homer said, looking out. “Sure is pretty with that full moon. Everyone’s too far away to see anything.”

Rod looked up at the FAA control tower looming over them. “What about that tower? It looks like tinted glass. They could be up there with telescopes.”

Homer laughed. “You’re getting paranoid. That tower’s got to be a hundred feet away or more.”

“Well…” Rod looked up at the tower, then down at one of those guys on the runway in the orange vests, hoping the guy wouldn’t look up at them.

To his relief Homer wheeled away to chat with Ms. Congi. Then Tami came back. A waitress passed by with snacks.

“I keep telling you, EAT,” Tami said.

“No… Babe, were you ever in band in high school? Were you ever a drum majorette?”

“No.”

“A cheerleader?”

A sip from her martini. “No.”

“Do you have an uncle who’s a cop?”

“I have THREE uncles who are cops,” Tami said, pulling back a wayward strand of hair from her face and then scratching a nipple. “I thought you knew that.”

Oh, right. He met them at a family gathering last year.

“These are weird questions. What’s bothering you Baby?”

“Well… lately I’ve been having these strange dreams about –”

“WHOA! OHMIGOD!”

It was Terry, Tami’s old roommate from Pilgrim Hall! Dressed up in a killer outfit, white sleeveless blouse with a plunge neckline, a black miniskirt, fishnet stockings and spike heels. Leading by the hand a dark-skinned, Indian-looking guy in an open collar and brown jacket and dockers.

Rod got his share of hugs from Terry, and shook hands with the guy, who seemed about 40. In the rapid female exchange that followed he gathered that he was a publishing company executive, had a name that sounded like Karu, and they had been living together in Boston for the past two years. Terry hadn’t changed. Always full of energy, admiring Tami’s tail, catching up on the doings of Jen, Mayree, Dawn, the old gang. Rod thought of the great unspoken sadness, the third roommate in that room, Mandy, gone forever.

And now, Professors Girardo and Wanamaker, with something to say. They both seemed a little nervous. Did they already have a grade for Tami’s entry in the Spring Zing? It seemed too early for that. What with the reunion of old friends, they knew they had come in at a bad time but whatever they had to say somehow couldn’t wait.

Terry and Karu ordered drinks and it was as they were sipping them that Professor Girardo spoke.

“Tami, we were impressed with your entry in the Spring Zing,” he said. “I, uh, want to prepare you for something. I apologize but it was out of my control. Dr. Lambert is here.” Pronounced, of course, Lam-BARE.

Behind him loomed a very tall man with a distinguished-looking beard, a high forehead, and a three-piece suit that looked like it was from 1920 or so. Complete with watch chain going into the vest pocket.

His presence was such that conversation around them ceased.

“Tami Smithers, meet Doctor Francoise Lambert,” Girardo said. “Dr. Lambert, Tami’s husband, Rod — uh — ”

“Sykes,” Rod said, shaking his hand.

The Doctor looked down at everyone like a king surveying his court. His words were pure noblesse oblige. “Sorry for this interruption, and sorry for doing this to you, Ms. Smithers, but I am a very busy man and unfortunately I am being called away to Tokyo tomorrow on business. I will have to conduct your International interview now.”

“Oh — well — ” Tami turned and pushed her tail back, embarrassed by it. “I can — just give me a moment — ”

Dr. Lambert laughed gently. “That’s perfectly all right dear. You might not believe me but I have seen stranger, shall we say, ‘costumes’.” He looked up into the middle distance. “Personally I find myself more disturbed by the purple dinosaur with the brassiere.”

There was polite laughter, sycophantic, but actually it was kind of funny.

He looked at Tami’s martini. “I must say, I will give you a pass if you have had a few drinks. I want to be sure you answer the questions with a clear head.”

Tami replied without hesitation. “No, I’m OK.” She put her martini on the bar, took a deep breath, and stood up straighter; her nipples sticking out and up at Dr. Lambert as if saluting.

Girardo’s and Wanamaker’s faces he saw that the fault was not theirs. And he could tell that they were hoping like hell that Tami would do well at this interview. Having one of their students make it to the finals in Montreal was important for the school. And, of course, important to Tami’s parents and therefore to Tami. At the very least, even if she didn’t get in, the way she conducted herself and how she answered the questions would be buzzed about around campus, and around the International design community, to her credit no doubt. He didn’t know anything about fashion design but he was sure Tami would make everyone proud.

Dr. Lambert retreated and asked Tami to join him. He sat down at a table behind the bar where he had some papers out and a checklist of some kind. He asked Tami to sit across from him but she motioned that it was impossible with her tail. So she stood obediently, feet slightly apart, tail flowing down past her calves, waiting. At her request Rod stood by. Behind them, Girardo and Wanamaker sat at the bar, on tenterhooks, nervously sipping their wine. Gretchen was close by also.

It was like Tami was a finalist in a spelling bee. Rod watched as Dr. Lambert began with some kind words.

“Let me say I was quite impressed with your efforts at the polymer you and Ms. Spaulding are developing.” He looked at Gretchen, who was now joined by Professor Ling and Mrs. George. “You are working on the 3,2,5 ester, from what I understand.”

“Y – yes,” Tami said, evidently surprised that this man had such technical knowledge.

“I have here a series of fifty questions,” he said with some weariness, as if the long checklist was not his idea but he was resigned to it. “I’d like you to answer them carefully.” He looked up at her. “Of course for any fellowship given by the International, your composure during this interview is important and it will factor into your score. I apologize for the beauty contest aspect of this, but that it just how things are, if you want to represent the International and become a success in this business.”

Tami cleared her throat and nodded. This was a heavier deal than expected. It was like she was being tested for worthiness to enter the outside world of adults.

He launched into the first question.

“What do you see is the purpose of fashion design?”

Tami must have expected this one. “To make — uh –”

Her eyes opened wide in surprise as the Doctor looked down at his papers, then she regained her composure as he looked up again. “To make clothing that is useful, satisfies the wearer, and makes that person a — visual asset.”

The Doctor wrote the answer down, as Tami looked at Rod with daggers in her eyes.

Rod knew exactly what had happened. Inside Tami, the tail had expanded into a three-inch bulb. As if he had pressed the white button on the remote.

He fished out the remote as quickly yet unobtrusively as possible, and showed it to Tami, the little door swinging from the empty battery compartment. He shook his head helplessly.

Then her body jerked and she gasped, a tiny gasp, and straightened up as the second question was asked.

“What is the secret to a good line? You can give different answers for men and women if you like.”

“Well, it’s the same for both.” Just a tiny quiver of the tail filaments betrayed what must have been happening.

Rod went into a silent panic, as Tami, suppressing an increasingly intense series of quivers, answered the second question in as even a voice as she could. Behind her, Gretchen and Girardo and Wanamaker watched intently, rooting her on. So much depended on this…

Part 45

Dr. Francoise Lambert continued the interview that, if passed successfully, would qualify Tami Smithers for the final phase of the International competition, the fashion show and presentation in Montreal.

“What type of shirring do you prefer in synthetic overgarments?”

“I should say… bias style, to reduce the risk of bunching.”

Rod knew that the short pause in Tami’s answer was to keep a gasp from interrupting the flow of her voice. From making love to Tami he was well acquainted with the telltale quiver in the legs, the slight tensing of the taut muscles in her tummy. The spreading of the toes. Dr. Lambert might have ascribed this to basic nervousness which would be only to be expected during such an important interview. Rod knew it was something much more profound, explosive, deep, disruptive…

Tami’s body jerked slightly. Fortunately the Doctor was looking down at his questionnaire at the time. Her nipples got even stiffer than usual.

As the Doctor recited his fourth question, the tail behind Tami quivered. Then it began waving back and forth like a dog’s.

Rod looked on in horror and suddenly Barbara and Melissa were at his side. They were fixated on Tami anyway, no matter where in the room they were, but the glimpse of the wagging tail was like an alarm — they knew exactly what it meant and they were there like a shot. Rod and the two TL’s looked at each other and then at the tail, still wagging from side to side, then at the face of poor Tami as she struggled to answer the fourth question.

Tami, bringing her hand up in a carefully controlled motion, scratched her head and paused, as if pondering what to say. Then after the last uneven wag, she gave her answer, no doubt having “played back the question in her head”, as she would have put it.

“What’s happening?” Barbara said.

“I don’t know!” Rod said. Once again he brought the empty remote out of his pocket to prove his innocence.

“Someone must have another remote around here!” Melissa said. The three of them looked around, glances darting all around the room in as subtle a way as possible.

“Jesus,” Rod said, watching his naked wife listening to another question, standing straight up in her nakedness before the seated personage of Dr. Francoise Lambert, bare feet placed a foot apart on the carpet, her hands clasped primly in front of her plum-colored lower hair. “Tami’s really suffering!”

“She should excuse herself,” Barbara said.

“No, Tami wouldn’t do that,” Rod said. “I know her. This interview means a lot to her parents. And to the school, I bet.”

“I like to see her come, but not like this!” Melissa said. She looked around. “Some evil person is around here!”

“I didn’t even think there was another remote!” Rod said. Then he exhaled and gathered his thoughts. “Let’s split up and check every person!”

They tried not to be frantic but each of them bumped into someone as they turned. Rod scoured the main area between the bar and the entrance. Melissa checked around the edges of the room. Barbara checked around the circular bar itself. As it turned out everyone’s hands were visible and nobody was holding anything except drinks and hors d’oeurves.

They met in front of the bar and watched Tami from a distance of fifteen feet. They saw the clenching butt muscles, and now the tail began moving back and forth again, back and forth, back and forth, every 0.8 seconds… all the time she was carefully answering the Doctor’s latest question. They thought of the explosive energy the tail detonated inside her, how it made her jump halfway to the ceiling… all that energy now contained in the iron vise grip of her self-control, finding a crimped outlet now in the slight motion of her hand up to her head, smoothing away a lock of hair that had gotten loose from its braid…

In his desperation Rod decided to call on the assistance of Homer Winant.

Homer was on the other side of the bar, chatting with Gretchen, Professor Ling, Vanessa Congi and Mrs. George. “Could I speak with you?” He decided to go for broke; Tami needed all her friends at a time like this. “In fact all of you.” How to explain it? “You see that tail Tami has? Well, it’s not just a tail. Inside it’s… it’s…”

“It’s a sex toy, yes I know,” Homer said. “Works by remote, as I understand.”

“Well here’s the remote,” Rod said, waving it in front of them. “See? I took the batteries out! Tami’s going through that interview; and it’s somehow gotten activated. Look!” They watched as the tail wagged again. “That’s what happens when she has an orgasm with that thing!”

“Oh Lord!” Mrs. George said.

Gretchen and Ms. Congi and Professor Ling looked with widened eyes.

“Well tell that Doctor guy to stop the interview!” Ms. Congi said.

“I’ll try to butt in,” Rod said. “IF Tami will let me. Meantime it doesn’t solve the problem of that… thing… noodling around inside her.”

“Can’t she just pull it out?” Gretchen said.

“No, it’s expanded inside. That works by remote too. It’s expanded to a bulb inside three inches across. It’s physically impossible to take it out unless the expansion button is turned off.” Rod looked around. “We’ve GOT to find that extra remote! We’ve looked around, and everyone here has, um, hands all accounted her.”

Homer took charge. “Let’s move it! I’ll speak to Hank, he’s the security guy. We’ll search the kitchen, the maintenance room, downstairs… What’s the range of the remote?”

Rod remembered the TL’s chasing Tami down the street and into Hightop Park. “I’d say two hundred feet.”

“Oh shit… it could be anywhere in the terminal… Well, I’ll get moving.” And he quickly wheeled past the bar and opened a door that said “Staff Only”.

“God, I hope there IS an extra remote,” Ms. Congi said, voicing what everyone was dreading.

They stood around helplessly, watching Tami suffer through another question. She idly twisted her toes against the carpet, then scratched a nipple. They saw her tummy expand and contract in a deep exhale. The Doctor was engaging her eye-to-eye. Rod and Gretchen, remembering the ride here, and Tami’s description of uncontrollable orgasmic responses, wondered if the Doctor could detect the dilating of her pupils. Rod thought about what Tami had said about her trials at Chalfont, about how she tried to get used to them, tried to get used to the orgasms, but each one just ripped her heart out and shook her emotions to the core.

Professor Ling, quickly up to speed on this, said in his professorly manner, “What if there is in fact no other remote? What if that… device… inside her has simply gone haywire?”

“Oh God,” Barbara said. She and Melissa looked at each other. “They’d have to extract it somehow!”

“Chalfont has an emergency room,” Vanessa Congi said. True. As part of a funding obligation the Chalfont Institute had a small walk-in clinic on the far side, where the highway was, that was open 24 hours. Not widely known among faculty and students. The college had its own health center, and the clinic dealt almost exclusively with people from the town.

“We’ve got to drag her there first,” Rod said. “And that sounds really dangerous. How can they take it out? They’d have to take it apart, inside her.”

Though it was not visible through their elegant clothes, all four of them clenched their buttocks at the thought.

A man in a security guard’s uniform bolted out of the “Staff Only” door and hurried out of the lounge and down the escalator. Conversation began to die down as there was a sense that something was wrong. People looked around.

Rod didn’t want people looking at Tami, he didn’t want a whole crowd of people witnessing her in her dire distress. So when he sidled back toward the table where the Doctor was interviewing the standing naked girl he did it as slowly as possible. Gretchen sidled over with him, leaving the three older people to look on from afar.

He got in next to Professors Girardo and Wanamaker, who had been watching the interview intently, not aware that anything was amiss, thinking that Tami showed a little nervousness — especially that curious nervous twitching of her tail — but was otherwise acquitting herself quite well.

Now all three looked on in alarm as the Doctor paused in the middle of a question.

“Are you all right, Miss Smithers?” he said.

Tami’s eyes were wet and a tear had trickled down which she was wiping away.

“Yes — I’m OK” — the tail began to wag, and Tami timed her words in between wags — “it’s just — hay fever…”

The Doctor laughed. “Oh I quite understand. I sympathize, my dear. I used to suffer from that as well.” How relaxed, how casual he was, as he idly tugged his mustache and looked down at his papers to continue the question, question number seventeen.

“Gentlemen!” Rod whispered urgently to Girardo and Wanamaker.

“Please, Mr. Sykes, we’re busy,” Girard said.

Rod, realizing for all he knew he might be jeopardizing Tami’s chances by doing just this, took Girardo firmly by the arm and led him away. Wanamaker followed.

In a carefully controlled urgency he whispered the situation to them. Both men turned in amazement to Tami’s tail.

“You mean she is having orgasms while being interviewed?” Girardo said, as if in outrage.

“She can’t help it!” Wanamaker said. “We’ve got to do something!”

Girardo was still having trouble assimilating this sudden and astonishing information. “So every time that tail wags — I’ve counted ten times already — ten orgasms?!?”

“Her capacity is incredible. Look, she’s being… violated. We’ve got to stop this interview!”

“Oh Jesus, this will torpedo our chances at the International for sure,” Girardo said. “A candidate who’s allergic to clothes, and now she’s having orgasms during the interview!”

“You’ve got to stop the interview!” Wanamaker said, echoing Rod.

“Well go ahead,” Girardo said.

“No, you’re the head of department. It’s got to be you!” Wanamaker said.

He was right about that. Girardo drained the last of his wine and cleared his throat. He had obligations to the school but his obligations to his students were greater. He approached the table where the Doctor sat.

After a brief hesitation, he said, “Dr. Lambert, I must tell you something.”

“Please!” the Doctor said in his most imperious manner. “I’m in the middle of the interview. You know it shouldn’t be interrupted!”

“But Doctor, this interview must come to an end.” Girardo looked at Tami, up and down, with concern that must have told Tami that he was aware of what was going on inside her. “Miss Smithers is not able to continue.”

“NO! I’m… OK — ohhh!” Tami blinked and her body lurched forward and she looked like she was about to cry, having betrayed her emotions for the first time with that little moan. With tremendous effort she straightened herself up, her toes grasping the carpet. “G – give me the next questionnn…” She looked at both men in the eye, with as even an expression as possible, pupils dilating. Behind her, the tail wagged again.

With a very presumptuous motion Girardo took Dr. Lambert by the arm and led him aside. He motioned for Rod, who quickly explained the situation. The Doctor looked at the suffering naked girl in amazement and approached her.

The distinguished Dr. Francoise Lambert, tall and elegant and exquisitely dressed in his three-piece suit, looked down at the naked five-foot-five quivering young woman, who strained to meet his gaze with wet, twitching eyes.

“My dear, I’m very sorry… I’ve been told about the, uh, device inside you. Under the circumstances we can… postpone the rest of the interview.”

Just then Homer busted onto the scene, wheeling in with an urgency that was very unusual for him.

“We’ve looked everywhere. Nobody has any remote!”

It was then, in the middle of an increasing circle of onlookers, that Tami Smithers shook and collapsed onto the carpet, her butt and the tail sticking up in the air, and began to sob.

Part 46

In the midst of this elegant restaurant and bar, and the fully dressed, if outlandish, finery of the smart fashion set, the naked girl with the tailed dildo deep in her rectum was on the floor, on all fours, her jerking butt high in the air.

Absurdly, she tried to stand up and apologize to the distinguished men. Her tummy quaking, her navel twitching, she staggered up with a great, slow effort on unsteady bare feet as another crest washed over her, shaking her to the core. “D – doc – torrr… P – p – professsssorrr… I’m s-s-so sorrrry you… have to — ohhh!” — she bent forward as if punched in the stomach — “Seee me like thissssss… ohhhh…”

Dr. Lambert got up to speed much more quickly than Girardo had. “We have to take her to an emergency room,” he said. He didn’t look it but he was seventy years old, and gay, from an era when being gay was strange and abnormal and one tended to do other abnormal things too. He remembered the ill-advised experiments with tin cans, ketchup bottles, light bulbs. Embarrassing as it was, going to the emergency room was the only solution.

“What can they do for her there?” Rod said. “That thing inside her is too big now to take out!”

“They’ll have to break it inside her.”

“How?! It will cut her up inside!”

“Make a plaster of paris mold around it, then crush it.”

Homer said, “How can they work inside her with her jerking around like that?” They felt like explorers climbing through the vault of Tami’s rectum, looking for a way out. Meanwhile, in the outside world, Tami had crumpled to the floor again. The horrified and helpless circle of people looked on as she flopped around like a fish on a boat deck.

“Anesthesia, of course,” Lambert said.

“Would that work?” Rod said. Would knocking Tami out stop these intense reactions? This was different than when Spica and the other TL’s were at the house that day, toying with Tami like a marionette on a string. The efforts of their fingers on the touch pad ebbed and flowed with Tami’s crests and troughs. Here, it appeared that the moving bumps massaging and mauling Tami’s innards were continuous. Which was scary. Maybe there was no devious hidden person with a second remote. Maybe the thing was malfunctioning, stuck on “drive Tami crazy!” until whatever batteries worked it ran out. Hours? Days?!

“Oh – oh – oh – ” Tami had flipped tummy up now, eyes squeezed shut, her hands and feet supporting her crab-like, jerking her open, palpating pussy up with each spasm, right into Lambert’s and Girardo’s faces. Her toes spread and squeezed in time.

As they watched this gruesome scene, a strange fascination took hold. Especially on the part of the men, witnessing this spectacular display of the female multiple orgasm. What was it like, to have an earth-shattering climax — and then, a few seconds later, have another, just as intense? And then another? And another? —

“Somebody do something!!” Terry said. She and Rod looked at each other. The only ones there who had read Tami’s freshman year diary, the only ones who knew the horrors the naked freshman had endured at the Chalfont Institute…

Quickly Rod realized something. He pulled out his remote and saw Sarah Wickland’s card that he had taped to it. He whipped out his cell phone.

Tami lay on her side, trying to catch her breath. “Oh Rod… please helppp…”

He dialed the number of Mrs. Wickland’s office in California, turning away from the scene so as to hear better, so that he faced the glass and the starry nighttime view of the runways. Homer wheeled around to his side.

His heart sank as he heard a recording. “This is the law office of Sarah Wickland.” In fact it wasn’t Sarah’s voice, but the voice of her assistant Nina West. “We are moving this week and will reopen at our new location on Monday, March 30. If you need assistance call the Encino County Lawyers Service at 555-2367.”

“Shit!!” Rod said. He said to Homer, who he thought should be in the loop, “a damn recording!”

“Ohhh — ” Tami was in tears, her face beet red, sweating, looking over at him. “Please Rod! Help me!”

“I’m calling Mrs. Wickland!!” he shouted back. With urgent fingers he tapped out the new number. So urgent that he misdialed. Cursing himself, he started over. As he waited, and waited, watching his naked wife in her dire distress, he tapped his foot. Finally a ring. Then another. Then another.

“Good morning,” a sprightly female recorded voice said. “Welcome to the Encino County Lawyers Service automated directory. Please say the name of the attorney you wish to contact. Say the first name first, then the last name. You can interrupt these instructions at any time. Don’t worry, I won’t mind.”

“Ohhh… God…” Terry held Tami’s hand. Now Trent hugged her as she tried to catch her breath again. Nobody was counting but Tami was recovering from orgasm number fifteen.

Rod hated these voice activated menus. With as even a voice as he could manage, he said, “Sarah Wickland.” A long pause.

“Did you say… Farley Pickler?” the sprightly voice said. “Say yes if I have that correct.”

“No!”

“Please try again. Say the first name first — ”

“Sarah… Wickland!”

“Eeee!” Tami wailed as she was pulled up to the peak yet again. Terry and Trent looked at Rod desperately.

A pause. “Did you say… Perry Winkler? Say yes if — ”

“Sarah Wickland!!”

A pause, punctuated by the sound of Tami’s sob. “Did you say… Scary Pinkler?”

“Get me an operator please!” Rod closed his eyes and felt about to cry himself, with frustration.

A pause. “Did you say… Gotmolly Pease?” Sprightly voice.

“Get me an operator please!”

A pause. “Did you say… Gremlin O’Reese?” Sprightly voice.

“Get me a f**king operator please!!”

A pause. “Did you say . . .” — Trent was trying to give the rapidly dehydrating Tami a glass of water — “Gotfranklin Reese?” Sprightly.

“Get me a f**king operator please!!” Rod felt like hurling the cell phone through the glass enclosure.

A pause. A long, long pause. Rod wanted to curse but dare not say anything more. “Let me transfer you to an operator.”

“Thank God!!” Rod said out loud. When he got a live person, an old-sounding female, he blurted out that he needed Sarah Wickland in a hurry. Then was told Sarah’s cell phone was not public knowledge. He was in a private hell before he thought to say the magic words — “Tami Smithers needs her right away!” Evidently the operator had a note allowing the cell to be given out if Tami called.

Rod tapped out the cell phone number and, afraid of what he might see, turned to look. Tami’s body was upright and stretched out into an X, legs apart on the carpet, Terry stretching out her left hand, Trent her right. Her body was all red now and sweating, overheating, dehydrating. Jorge, the bartender, now began aiming water at her from the selzter spritzer hose behind the bar. Jorge must have been risking his job, knowing the water would ruin the elegant carpet. The arcs hit Tami all over, her face, her shaking breasts…

Rod thought of Tami in happier times, sweating after her grounds crew labors, being doused by Jose. And there was that dream about that damn majorette, marching in the freezing cold, then dancing in the jets of fire hoses…

After some hesitating, Jorge conceded the part of Tami that needed cooling down the most, and he began to concentrate the streams on her quaking, pulsating pussy. In an effort to tamp down her reactions, Barbara knelt in front, getting soaked herself, and pulled the outer lips open and apart as wide as she could, so that the ice-cold water could enter her womanly cavity. People crowded around to watch. Tami’s eyes blinked and blinked with her gasps.

“Sarah! Tami wore the tail to a party we’re at and it’s gone haywire! It won’t stop! And it’s not me! I had taken the batteries out of the remote!”

“That’s impossible,” the concerned voice said on the phone. “There’s — ”

A moment of silence. Then Rod realized the connection was lost. Do I call her or wait till she calls me?

“EEEE!!” Tami’s eyes popped open.

Part 47

Fortunately his cell rang right away and Sarah was back.

“There’s only one remote,” Sarah said. “I made sure Stirchak destroyed the prototype. And right now there are no pony girls within a thousand miles of you. We keep track of them, you know.”

“Who’s Stirchak?”

“Ted Stirchak. He’s the guy who invented the new tail. A neurologist. He did the research about the crushing testicles — ”

“Where is he? Could you call him? This is an emergency! I don’t know how much more Tami can take!”

A short pause. “Yes I can call him. I’ll be right back to you.”

Tami had collapsed onto all fours, her head down. Evidently in a blessed gap between orgasms. Jorge had stopped spritzing. The place was quiet, everyone waiting to see what would happen. Tami’s voice was heard, half crying. “Oh Rod… Rod… help… EEEEE!” Her head jerked up and her eyes bugged out. Not again!

Rod watched as Tami went through the strangest agony a woman can know. She bucked back and forth like a bull trying to throw off a rider. And now, to his horror, he felt his dick getting hard! He was not alone. Almost every straight male was having the same reaction.

The cell rang and he was glad to focus on something else. This time it was a man’s voice, with a strange accent. Gretchen, a native of upstate New York, could have told him it was a Buffalo area accent. “Mr. Sykes! Is that you?”

“Yes!”

“I understand there’s no time for chit-chat so let’s go. There’s an override code. Put the batteries back in the remote… OK? Now, press the buttons in this order, purple, purple, white, green, white, green, white. After that you’re in override and you can press the black ‘off’ button.”

“What am I overriding? Is there another remote?”

“There has to be. The tail won’t go on and on just by itself. It’s got no internal battery and has to be activated from outside, and besides, there’s an automatic shutoff if the signal doesn’t vary for more than five minutes. I don’t know how it happened but somebody must have made another remote.”

Rod fumbled with the batteries and dropped them and then picked them up and finally managed to shove them into in the damn remote. “So what’s that sequence again?”

He pressed the buttons as ordered and then, hovering close over Tami, pressed the “off” button and aimed the remote at her as if he was shooting her with it.

Nothing. Tami kept quaking.

He tried it again. Tami kept quaking, waiting for the next onslaught.

“Well then somebody must be overriding the override,” Stirchak said. “I just don’t know what’s going on. I’m sorry about this. Maybe an emergency room?”

Now, an unearthly wail from Tami, as she looked up through the glass enclosure at the black night, and the full moon. Everyone held their breath as she launched into another orgasm, one she dearly did not want, as if in the last stages of an extended, tortured execution devised by… some deviant genius…

“O – ho! O – ho!” It sounded like the wailing of a widow, falling on her husband’s casket. With Tami on all fours like that, bucking back and forth with her tail, it might have seemed almost comical, a dog-bitch howling at the moon. That is, unless you loved her and cared about her.

Homer said, “Let’s get her the hell out of here and out of range. Meanwhile we’ll look again for whoever is doing this to her.”

Rod thought: Of course! Why didn’t anyone think of this! “Gretchen, can you work a stick?”

“Of course, I’m a farm girl!” she said.

“You drive her to our house. Meanwhile Homer and I will tear this damn place apart.”

Terry and Karu and Trent and Gretchen carried the sobbing, sweating naked girl away, holding up her entire weight, her bare feet making only occasional contact with the carpet. She seemed trying to bring her legs together but was unable. “We’ll follow behind,” Terry said as they left.

“Let’s get cracking,” Homer said. Again he divvied up the responsibility for searching each area of the terminal, among Rod, Trent, whoever else could help. It turned out everyone volunteered, without exception, including Girardo and Dr. Lambert. “This time look into corners, into closets… When I find that creep I’ll either run over him with this thing or strangle him.”

It was ten minutes later when Rod got a call on his cell from Gretchen.

“It’s stopped,” Gretchen said. He could hear in the background the loud clatter of that old VW’s air-cooled engine. He pictured Gretchen looking over at Tami, lying on her side in the back seat. “She’s crying a bit but I think she’s about to doze off.”

“Oh thank God,” Rod said. At the moment he was sweating, shirt unbuttoned, sitting cross-legged in his destroyed suit on the floor of the restaurant kitchen. “Ask her if she can pull that thing out.”

“OK I’ll — oh wait — she already pulled it out. It’s on the floor… Tami? No, she’s asleep now.”

Well… it will be a good long time before Tami wants to have anything to do with that tail. “Gretchen, thanks. Can you stay over tonight?”

“Sure. She needs taking care of now.”

“Amen to that.”

Rod sighed, the emergency suddenly over. He looked around him. He had searched under every cabinet, every table. Found out things about this restaurant that he rather would not have known. Like how dingy the sink was. But nothing that looked like a remote.

He wearily dragged himself up and went out to the bar, which Jorge had practically dismantled. Homer was there in his wheelchair. People were coming back from their searches, exhausted. Tables were overturned, papers scattered. The place looked like a bomb had hit it. In the corner, two security guards were conferring, each looking quite perplexed.

“She’s OK, out of range now,” Rod said.

Homer was frustrated and flustered, not a usual condition for him. “I’ll be danged,” he said. “So it wasn’t a malfunction, there is another remote. But damn well hidden.”

The night framed Homer and Rod, up next to the glass walls overlooking the airport. They looked at each other.

Then their heads slowly turned up to the FAA control tower, unapproachable federal property, its silent tinted windows, black in the night, watching over everything.

. . . .

Of course Tami had to call in sick but he made the calls for her. Everyone on campus knew what had happened; there was no problem with her missing classes and meetings, or her grounds crew assignments. Lots of e-mails asking how Tami was. He answered them all the same. “She’s resting. Thanks for your thoughts.”

Tami slept for two days. Oddly, she felt uncomfortable on the bed, she wanted to sleep on the cold tile of the kitchen floor. A normal person could not do that but Rod kept reminding himself of her trip across the country nude, sleeping on rocks, desert sand, and stiff dry prairie grass. How he wished he could have rescued her from that. Yet it was part of what made her what she was: strong. He tried sleeping next to her on the floor but couldn’t. Finally he dragged the couch into the kitchen and slept on it, waking now and then to look down at her.

Rod made meals for her and walked her to the shower. She was a bit dazed and dead tired. She drank huge amounts of water. He hated himself for having gotten aroused at her torture, hated himself. Yet it was probably a normal male response. He had heard a psychology major friend of his talk about “the wisdom of the penis” — what turns you on is, on some level, good for you. What a crock!

On the third day, a sunny brisk day with a cool wind, he came home and found the house empty. Then he saw that the TL’s had set up a table in the back yard. Upon which was Tami. Each of the six of them was attending to a body part of their naked Queen — massaging her neck, her tummy, her arms, her legs, her feet. Yet staying away from her sexual parts. That must have taken a lot of self-control on their part.

“We’ve done this three afternoons now,” Barbara said. “I think she’s coming around.”

“Indeed I am,” Tami said, surprising her acolytes, turning around and sitting up cross-legged. She sipped an espresso Melissa had given her. Then she leaned forward and hugged Rod. He pulled her up off the table and she wrapped her legs around him, massaging his butt through his pants with her tough heels.

He felt tears coming to his eyes. “Thanks, girls, thanks,” he said.

After a moment, as if in thought, Tami whispered in his ear, “Rod, let’s make love. Nice and gentle. I want to get back to what love feels like.”

“Oh thank God you’re all right!”

The TL’s knew to disperse as Rod carried Tami into the house.

Tami and Rod, after lying in bed for a while, hands clasped. They started slow and did manage to make love. Tami was lazy, drowsy at first, as if she was a virgin, uncertain as to where things might lead.

After about twenty minutes she had her first orgasm, a slow, rolling affair. They both sighed with relief, almost crying. Tami had not been permanently damaged by her ordeal. No doubt the love and concern around her had helped. As opposed to being alone and leered at in a cold, sterile lab.

Soon there were other climaxes.

But a problem surfaced. And it was not Tami.

Part 48

“Nnnhh! Nnnhhh! Nnnnnnhhhh!”

Rod looked up at Tami as she crested yet again. He was so glad that she was back to her old self. That horrible experience at the airport restaurant must have been worse than her travails at Chalfont. True, she was surrounded by people offering love and support, even though they were helpless to do anything aside from hold her hand. Or her pussy lips. That was desperate, Barbara holding open Tami’s pussy so that it would be filled with cold water. He supposed that would normally kill any woman’s desire, even someone so used to the cold as Tami. But it didn’t help.

“Mmmmmmm… mmmmmm…” Tami slowly rode him as she came down to the plateau.

It was grotesque, seeing the spritzes from Jose’s seltzer hose shooting into Tami’s opened pussy, only to see the water squirted back out again at 0.8 second intervals. A horrible experience for poor Tami. At least at Chalfont it was a controlled experiment. No one knew the cause of the pulsations of the tail deep inside her, it might have been a tail malfunction, going on and on and on, maybe a short circuit, a spark deep inside that might electrocute her…

“Oooooohhhh… love you baby…” Tami bent down to kiss him on the cheek. He expanded it to a tongue kiss and then she straightened up and threw her head back, her whole body trembling as she ascended again.

He cursed himself for not thinking of the obvious solution, finally arrived at by Homer, to get Tami the hell out of there. Then they both looked at the FAA tower and got a creepy feeling. It was only a hundred feet away, if that. To someone working a remote up there, the restaurant would be well within range. And with the glass enclosure, at night, he or she could see clearly what Tami was doing, and would enjoy the poor naked girl’s uncontrollable bodily responses. Of course that was just a guess. Finding out what was going on up there in the tower was just unknowable. Even if you tried, you’d probably be suspected of being a terrorist. No, not a good idea for someone in the National Guard completing a scholarship obligation.

He was not much use to Tami during that airport ordeal. At least now, he was useful to her.

“Zhhhh… ohhhh… ” This one was mellow, calm, rolling. Not like her violent ones. He wondered what her mind was like right now, what it must be like to feel all that pleasure. Now that her orgasms were voluntary he felt more at ease asking himself the question he had pondered during Tami’s torture. What was it like — to have a shattering orgasm, and then, a few seconds later, another? And another? And another? And — and so on? Whenever he came, spurting his seed deep into whatever orifice Tami had offered, he always needed at least a few minutes to get hard again. And then it was not easy to have a second orgasm, at least not the past couple of years. From what he knew, it would get even more difficult as he got older. Tonight, he hadn’t come even once yet. He had gotten close at the beginning, but he knew he had to last, so he held back. As she was having her THIRD orgasm. And now, though erect, he was quite a ways from the desire to ejaculate.

“Mmmmmmm… mmmmmmm…”

He looked out the window, to the hedges out back. He could still see them at night because of the streetlight. They were starting to bud, finally. April was almost here, after a wet and cold March. Tonight it was a bit windy. Now one of the azalea buds blew off and arced in a trajectory halfway across the yard, like a long fly ball, before landing in the grass.

“Uhhhhh… uhhhhh…”

The trajectory of that bud — what year was that World Series? 1991? 1992? That fly ball that won the seventh game. Man, that was some series. Braves versus the Twins. His uncle Cabot, from St. Paul, was visiting with his family and Cabot was in heaven. Yeah, spoiled. The Twins had just won a series a few years before. Meanwhile the Red Sox were into the 70th year or so of their curse. At the time it seemed like the Sox would never ever win again.

“Zhhhh…”

Every damn game of that series was a cliffhanger. And then that seventh game. He was only ten years old then but he remembered it vividly. Wait, let me adjust my hip so that Tami’s clit gets a better pressure from my dick —

“OH! Yes Rod! Ohhhh…”

Strange. It was one out and a guy on third, bottom of the twelfth inning or something like that. Who was that? Dan somebody. The batter was Gene Larker, he thought the name was, a benchwarmer, and he hit a fly ball that went over Brian Hunter’s head in left field. Hunter didn’t even try to go for it, he knew it would be deep enough to let that Dan guy tag up and score. He just started trotting in before the ball even landed, as the crowd went wild and Uncle Cabot jumped up and down, knocking his beer bottle over, while Pop smiled tolerantly and said, “How about that!”

“OHH!” Tami’s eyes bugged out as she approached a big one. “OHHH! OHHHH! OHHH! Godddd! Zhhhhhh — OHHH!”

WAS that ball really out of range? He wondered why Hunter didn’t run back and at least try for it. The odds were a hundred to one, but this was the deciding play of the World Series, for God’s sake. Maybe that Dan dude might have slipped and fallen on the way to home plate, twisted his ankle, torn a tendon. Things like that do happen.

Tami rested her gasping, sweaty self onto Rod’s chest. He could feel her nipples poking into him. He massaged her back, right under the shoulder blades. Now she stuck her tongue way into his mouth. Rod returned the kiss and looked up at the ceiling, dully visible with the nightlight on, the Spiderman nightlight she said she had had since she was a kid.

“Mmmmm…” Tami, her sweaty chest slipping over his, moved her hips so that her clit was pushing against his pubic bone. That had been orgasm number twenty-two. “Mmmmm… ohhhhh…”

He looked at the clock radio. It was 8:17, that meant they had been at it for one hour and six minutes. Exactly one orgasm per three minutes. A pretty good clip. He wondered if he could get it down to once every 2.8 minutes. That would be a pretty good E.R.A. He remembered Tim Wakefield, the Red Sox pitcher, trying to get below 3.00, not always with success. Of course, knuckleballers are expected to give up some runs. The important thing is to give up fewer runs than the other guy.

“Gg – ahhh!” Tami jerked in response to a favorable motion against her clit. She tried it again. “Gahhhh… ggg… gahhhh…”

That crack on the ceiling really has to be watched. Last week it was only a foot past the molding, now it was more like two feet. Something up there must be settling.

“Ohhh…” Tami was going up again. “Oh – oh – ohhhh…”

The crack reminded him of the graph of a second degree differential, the one he was using to calculate the stresses on that dam project —

“OHHH!” Tami’s eyes opened. “OHHH! Nnnnnn — nnnn — UHHH!” With a great heave she started bucking her hips in time with the spasms. Rod, looking at the crack, heaved along with her to the last, irregular jolt.

Tami caught her breath and stroked his face. “Your turn, Baby…”

“What?”

A low, womanly giggle. “I said your turn Baby.”

Rod looked up at her. Then at the ceiling. Then he looked down at Tami’s breasts and was silent and motionless for a moment.

Tami’s eyebrows furrowed. “What’s wrong, Baby?”

He tapped her shoulders and said, “I… I just have to be alone a moment.”

He got on his bathrobe and hunted for his slippers. Then he slid open the door in the living room and stepped out to the back yard and inhaled the windy cold air.

Five minutes went by before he returned. He found Tami standing in the middle of the living room, bolt upright in her usual posture. Breasts thrust out, hands at her sides, legs a little apart. She was covered with drying sweat, with her drying juices running down her thighs. There was a look of concern on her face.

Rod sat down on the couch. Tami sat down next to him, caressing his shoulder through his bathrobe. Her toes came up to caress his knee.

He exhaled. “Babe… I’m… jealous.”

“Jealous of what?”

“Of your… capacity. I wish I could come over and over like you do… And I feel so… ROTTEN about it. I think of that DVD of you at Chalfont, being forced to…” He shook his head, then he made himself look Tami in the eye. “And then what happened at the restaurant. That must have been hell.”

Tami looked down and nodded. “Yes it was.” She held his hand. “But I had you there. That’s why I didn’t go out of my mind.”

“Yes, yes, I know. But STILL I’m jealous. I’m always asking myself how it must feel, to come over and over.” He blinked and his eyes became wet. “God, how crummy!”

They sat like that for a few moments. Then Tami said, “I had a feeling something was up.”

Rod chuckled mordantly. “I won’t be up for long, if this goes on. What’s in my head, I mean.” He chided himself for making such a juvenile joke.

Tami knelt between his legs and got out his limp dick.

“No Baby, don’t.”

She toyed with it. “You know Rod, I’m the one who should be jealous. I’m jealous of this. This magic wand. Sometimes I wish I had one.”

Rod smiled weakly. “It’s not what it’s cracked up to be.”

She picked it up with one hand and ran her tongue under it, the sensitive part. Perhaps reluctantly, it began to stiffen. Then she brought her limber foot up and around. “And these two… little items,” she said, hefting his balls with her toes, one by one, with her big toe and second toe, grunting as if they weighed as much as cannon balls. “Mmmmhh! Wow that’s almost beyond my strength!”

She took his dick into her mouth like it was a lollipop and looked up at him with a blank stare.

He chuckled. “You look really innocent.”

She giggled, which with his dick in her mouth was quite a sensation. Then she gave his balls a closer look. “Think of all the billions of sperms in here. Billions!” She looked up at him. “What’s female orgasm anyway? A way to feel good? But when a MAN comes, he’s propagating the species. That’s what life is about, what keeps life going. The male orgasm. When you come, it’s like the whole surging wave of the universe goes through you, in that moment life goes forward into the future. No woman can possibly know what that feels like.” She sucked on his dick loudly, then with a final slurp let it fall. It was mostly hard by now and stuck out at her. “That’s why I’m jealous.”

“Your Catholic upbringing is showing.”

She smiled. “‘Every sperm is sacred.’ As they say, you can leave the Church, but it never leaves you.”

Rod picked up his dick and waved it back and forth slowly, appraisingly, as they both looked at it. “Tell me, were you a good Catholic girl? Did you go to Catholic school?”

“No, but I went to Catechism class, every Monday. They’d let us Catholic kids out early for it. I was a pretty good girl. Well, except once, in third grade.”

“Oh? What happened?”

“Well, we had gotten trained in First Communion, and you know how it goes? The priest says, ‘Body of Christ’, and you say, ‘Amen’, and he puts that wafer on your tongue. It’s really dry and always sticks to the roof of your mouth, but you’re not supposed to stick your finger in there to get it loose. It’s like glue. Anyway, there’s the priest, and the line of kids kneeling at the padella…”

“The what?”

“That low railing, it’s called a padella. So it’s, ‘Body of Christ’, ‘Amen’, ‘Body of Christ’, ‘Amen’, ‘Body of Christ’, ‘Amen’, When he got to me, he said, ‘Body of Christ’, and I said, ‘I know.'”

Rod laughed. “Well DID you know?”

“Of course, I believed all that stuff, so I figured I wasn’t being cheeky. I KNEW it was the Body of Christ and I figured I was just letting the priest know that I knew.”

“I bet you got a talking to.”

Tami’s eyes rolled. “Oh Lord. The priest called my Mom, and then my Dad heard about it… I had to confess it and my pennance was to say 50 Hail Marys.”

“Wow.”

“Actually we kids could rattle them off pretty fast. It doesn’t take much practice.” Tami got up on her knees closed against each other, the rest of her upright as if at attention, breasts stuck out as if she wasn’t aware of them. “Watch.” She cleared her throat.

“HailmaryfullofgracetheLordiswiththeeblessedartthoughamongwomenandblessedisthefruitofthywombJesusHolymarymotherofgodprayforussinnersnowandatthehourofourdeathamenHailmaryfullofgrace –”

It seemed gibberish but eventually Rod slowed it down in his mind and understood what she was saying. By that time she had gone through about eight recitations. Stopping for a quick breath every minute or so, Tami got through all 50 of them before it got boring.

Rod clapped. “You are forgiven.”

Tami lay down against his thigh and played with his dick again. “Do you feel better, Baby?”

“A little.”

Now Tami knelt in front of him, holding his erect dick in front of her face. She made a little bow with her head. “Body of Christ.” Then she inhaled the first four inches of it so as to make him gasp.

He could feel the surging wave of the universe beginning within him. Between his gasps he said, “Oh Babe, you are bad. You’ll burn in hell.”

Tami giggled and between slurps said, “Jesus wouldn’t mind. In fact he’d get a kick out of it. I’m sure of that now.” And now she took him in even deeper.

. . . .

The next afternoon, up in the woods miles away, in the little trailer overlooking the dam site, his subconscious mind was pondering what Tami had said, while his conscious mind was working on the plan for one of the dam buttresses, when his cell phone rang.

It was the polite, tense, Pakistani-inflected voice of Dr. Abu Jamal from Chalfont.

How odd. “Mr. Sykes, I hope you are well.”

“Yes, I am. What’s up? Is Tami all right?”

“She’s not here. I called to speak to you, to discuss her case.”

“Okay…”

“It’s best that we discuss it at our office here, you and I and Dr. Kantor, if you don’t mind.”

He put down his pen and switched the cell phone to his right hand. “What’s up?”

“Can you be at my office at seven o’clock tonight?”

“Tami has a student government meeting then.”

“She doesn’t need to be there, just you. I am glad that she would be otherwise engaged. I ask that you not tell her where you will be.”

“Um… OK I’ll be there.”

“Thank you. Until later.”

After the call was over he began to work on the plans again, but then called right back at the number on his cell phone.

“Dr. Abu Jamal, Tami really should be there. I don’t see why we should be keeping a secret from her.”

“Mr. Sykes, when we began our course of treatment we elicited from Tami an agreement that her case could be discussed with you, outside of her presence, if necessary. It’s BECOME necessary.”

He found it hard to concentrate on the buttress after that. Some time later he called Tami to say he would be working late. He hated lying to her. Fortunately it was on the phone. One should never lie to Tami, after all the lies she had been told, and lying to her face would just be impossible.

At seven o’clock, with a feeling of foreboding that had become overwhelming, Rod stepped into the office that used to belong to that old dignified German guy, Dr. Schnitzler. His successor, Dr. Abu Jamal, of a different race and culture but equally diginifed, greeted him. The room was just like before, portraits of old guys with beards, red textured wallpaper, elegant upholstered furniture, a small bar with brandy snifters to the side. He sat on the plush cushion of the Louis XVI style armchair.

Seated next to Dr. Abu Jamal’s desk was Dr. Kantor. It was he who spoke.

“Mr. Sykes. . . Tami’s allergy is advancing. Significantly.”

Part 49

Rod felt his shaved scalp prickle. Tami’s allergy — advancing? How is that possible? She already was allergic to the tiniest scrap of clothing. She couldn’t even put one foot into a flip-flop.

Dr. Kantor, a tall white man of about 60 with a closely-trimmed white beard, brought out a laptop and switched it on. “We have been monitoring Tami’s GSR, that’s galvanic skin response, twice a week. I think you were actually at one of these sessions, as I remember.” Yes, he was, once. It was a disorienting experience, seeing Tami standing on a lab table, clutching a metal bar overhead, while Dr. Kantor and a couple of assistants passed loops of fabric around her.

On the screen of the laptop appeared a close-up of the top part of Tami’s body, her face down to her breasts, nipples puckered up and even harder than usual. Her arms were evidently stretched out to the side, as if they were tied to posts. The background was gray and metallic and misty, like she was in a sauna maybe. Her face was passive, eyes closed, her hair tied back. Oddly, her face and breasts and bare shoulders had a purplish tinge. In the lower right corner, a little graph that looked like an equalizer graph you see on recording equipment, low vertical bars that were a placid green.

The image was disturbing, especially when he saw Tami’s breath come out in little clouds and now an insulated gloved hand drew in front of her with a little swatch of what looked like fur. The room she was in was not hot but actually bitter cold!

“This is imitation fur,” Dr. Kantor said, “used because of its ability to afford warmth.”

Rod was a bit angry. “She’s — cold — ”

“Yes,” Dr. Abu Jamal broke in, “to accentuate the natural desire for covering, we have held many sessions in our cryogenic chamber.”

Dr. Kantor chuckled, “Commonly known in the restaurant trade as a walk-in freezer. Of course, it’s easier to get grant money for a ‘cryogenic chamber’. During this session the temperature was, I believe, minus ten degrees Celsius.”

“But — ” Rod was about to protest when he saw Tami’s breathing get heavier as the fur was drawn closer to her left nipple. The clouds shot out from her nostrils, then her mouth. In the corner, the little bars leapt up into the yellow zone and then, briefly, into the red. Then the gloved hand drew away the fur and Tami heaved as if in relief. During all this time, her eyes remained closed as if she were in a dream, or maybe trying to think of being on a nice hot beach.

Now the image changed. Tami’s bare feet on a block of ice! Her spread toes were very flushed. A contrast with the heavy boots and pants around her. Again, a mere wisp of fake fur was placed near her foot by a gloved hand. The toes spread even more and twitched. He supposed it was an allergic reaction, but one also imagined the freezing toes were agitated and frustrated by the presence of something they so desperately craved.

“I hope she was all right,” Rod said.

“Of course,” Dr. Kantor said. “You know, of course, that Ms. Smithers is acclimatized to the cold. We were in that chamber for only fifteen minutes.”

Now the image changed again to a rainy forest scene, melting snow here and there. The researchers stood in their lab suits and coats, safely dry under umbrellas, as the naked girl carried a large rock on her shoulder up an incline leading to the huge trunk of a tree. It was clearly a strenuous task even for someone of Tami’s strength. Rod thought of some guy from Greek mythology, he forgot who, carrying a rock up a hill. Sisyphus? Atlas?

Tami leaned forward under the strain as her bare feet, covered with mud and small twigs, carefully scaled the hill without slipping. She had been out in the rain for a while; her hair was soaked and plastered to her back. Despite his concern Rod could not hide his admiration for the perfectly toned, evenly tanned body, sleek and wet in the rain, and his great luck that this most gorgeous of female creatures should be his wife.

Now another image, the same scene, only this time Tami was carrying a somewhat smaller rock, with a cloth tied around it. She struggled more up the incline this time, then straightened up as if arrested from behind and dropped the rock in front of her. She breathed heavily, her concave tummy heaving in and out as the rain continued to pour onto her hair and drip from her chin and her nipples.

“I think you can deduce what is happening here,” Dr. Kantor said, putting the video on “pause”. “Tami has an allergic reaction to clothes, as we know. This has been carefully monitored. There have been fluctuations which we first could not explain, but turned out to be due to barometric pressure, academic stresses, even to an extent sunspot activity. But even taking these into account, in the past few months the GSR reactions have gotten noticeably more intense, as well as the loss of strength when cloth approaches her.”

“Let me ask you, Rod.” Dr. Abu Jamal said, calling Rod by his first name for a change, “Have you noticed any… changes recently.”

“Um, no… Wait, yes. One time, a few weeks ago, she tried to touch a towel when coming out of the shower and it was, like a shock. She had to drop it. She said the towel felt like fire.”

The two Chalfont doctors looked at him as if expecting to hear this, and expecting more.

“Also, she felt sick and didn’t want to sit on the couch. She felt better sitting on the tile floor in the kitchen.”

He looked at the still picture on the laptop, Tami standing upright in the rain, looking down past her dripping nipples and muddy feet to the cloth-covered rock in front of her, in front of the clothed researchers. As he continued looking at this freeze frame, he decided she appeared to be in the middle of shrugging her bare shoulders.

“Tami doesn’t look too concerned there,” Rod said.

“No, she seems to enjoy being naked,” Dr. Kantor said. “As you know, any sense of shame was burned out of her long ago, at least to all appearances.”

“She doesn’t think of herself as naked,” Rod said. “She thinks of her hair, that her hair is her clothes.” He forced himself to add: “Even her… pubic hair, she thinks she’s covered up down there.”

Like Brigid, the majorette in those crazy dreams he’d been having. A “uniform” consisting only of tiny circlets barely covering her nipples, a minimal G-string below, skimpy sandals, yet feeling fully dressed and proud to wear her Tunemasters uniform. A modest girl who seemed to have no idea how naked she was. He had been trying to interpret those dreams. Brigid clearly symbolized Tami, and now he saw a similarity. Naked yet not an exhibitionist, in a world of clothed people. Brigid doing difficult twirling routines in the freezing cold while damn near naked, with everyone else’s uniforms affording full coverage and with thermals underneath. Tami doing grounds crew work naked and barefoot in the wind and rain while people around her trudged by in their overcoats and boots.

He knew these doctors, at least some of them, were psychiatrists too, and had a fleeting thought of asking them these dreams could mean, what they might say about his own hopes and frustrations and desires.

Dr. Kantor interrupted Rod’s thoughts to say, “It’s natural that Ms. Smithers would think her hair was her clothes. Seems like a reasonable adaptation, or perhaps rationalization. Young women tend to, if anything, obsess on clothes. They care about how their bodies are adorned and presented to the world. We tested Tami’s psychological makeup and it is basically that of normal young woman, so she would be no different.”

Dr. Abu Jamal broke in. “But the Chalfont Institute bears a heavy responsibility for the incredible misfortunes that befell Ms. Smithers in her freshman year.” Rod could not know this, but at the moment the Pakistani doctor was thinking of how he probed and examined Tami’s anus and pussy with Dr. Harridance as she lay spread-legged and naked on that cold steel table in the bright clinical light of Lab 13 upstairs, the terrified and mortified young girl afraid to protest or let slip any evidence of her burning shame. He had never gotten over his guilt and to compensate he was determined to get Tami’s allergy cured. In fact, it was he who kept ordering Dr. Kantor to press onward even though no progress was being made. “Ms. Smithers may be happy as a naked woman at Campbell – Frank, a rather protected environment, but she will be under a crushing disability after she graduates.”

“Yes.” Tami could not fully see that, or maybe was pretending not to see that, but Rod could. He was glad the doctors and he were on the same page.

“It’s not just cloth,” Dr. Kantor added. He hit a few keys and now the laptop showed a bizarre scene. Tami, standing up on the table, arms at her sides, with a series of metal hoops encircling her, apparently supported by a metal post behind. The hoops were open-ended, the first around her head, then at six-inch intervals, the lowest around her ankles. As Tami stood there in her nakedness, eyes closed, someone twiddled knobs at a console and the hoops slowly closed around her, touching her skin, then opened again, at a regular pace, maybe once a second. It looked like she was being zapped with current, a strange electrocution torture, though her face remained impassive and she stayed motionless.

Now Dr. Kantor typed something and the equalizer bars appeared in the lower right again. They rose almost up to red as the hoops closed, then relaxed to green as they opened.

“You certainly have measured her carefully,” Rod said.

Dr. Kantor did not detect the hint of venom in Rod’s voice. “It’s very important, from a treatment perspective, to get accurate readings. Fortunately Tami’s lack of modesty makes it easy to… well, I know I’m sounding like McMasters…” The white professor blushed in embarrassment.

Rod let the silence punish the man for a few seconds before he decided that it was unfair. Kantor hadn’t been involved in the McMasters horrors. Tami had once told him so. What they were putting Tami through was with the best of intentions. “You mentioned treatment.”

Dr. Abu Jamal said, “It appears that Tami’s allergy is to anything covering her or fastened around her, not just to fabric. This indicates that the allergy is not physical but psychological.”

“Well that’s clear isn’t it?” Rod said, challenging them. “How can you treat her if you don’t know the cause of the allergy?”

Dr. Abu Jamal and Dr. Kantor looked at each other and then at Rod.

“Actually,” Dr. Kantor said, “we now think we do.”

Part 50
“This is good coffee, thank you,” Rod said. Indeed it was. Better than that swill he had to drink at the trailer.

The three of them — Rod, Dr. Abu Jamal, and Dr. Kantor, were sitting in the lower part of Dr. Abu Jamal’s spacious office, in elegant upholstered chairs around the little table upon which Dr. Abu Jamal’s secretary, an older woman named Grette, had placed the coffee set.

“As you pointed out,” Dr. Abu Jamal said, “Tami’s allergy is psychogenic.” Rod felt strange. He did not doubt the sincerity or good intentions of these men, but it was odd for the three of them to be sitting here, in their business clothes, in this elegant setting, discussing their proposals on what to do to a naked girl, someone who did not have a stitch of clothes or shoes to her name.

He pushed these thoughts aside as he forced himself to listen as Dr. Kantor took up what was evidently a well-rehearsed presentation. “The allergy certainly has something to do with the trauma of her freshman year. Tami seems on the outside as a normal girl, I mean young woman, but there is something about her that is unknowable, hidden. Almost Sphinx-like. This is perhaps what everyone senses. I believe it is not simple projection on our part, but an objective reality. In other words, it’s not us, it’s her. She really IS a little like a Sphinx.”

Rod nodded. It was good to know someone else felt the same way.

“The extent of the shame and mortification that Tami endured is almost beyond the comprehension of a normal person. Imagine being brought to orgasm against your will, and forced to look someone like Henry Ross right in the eye at the climactic moment.” As Dr. Kantor spoke, Rod remembered that DVD, and closed his eyes and shook his head. “And that is aside from the shame of being forced to walk around naked in public, and on top of that, not being able to show any sign of being shy about it.”

“Yes, I know, I know.” Rod did not want to be reminded of Tami’s trauma, which only reminded him of his guilt at being so blind to it and possibly increasing it unwittingly.

“How could that not have something to do with her allergy?” Dr. Kantor asked rhetorically. “Perhaps it is evidence of a defense mechanism. Either a form of suppressing the shame, or adapting to it, a kind of ‘sweet lemon’ reaction.”

“Sweet lemon?”

“The opposite of ‘sour grapes’. ‘I’m given this nasty fruit, but actually it’s pretty good.'”

“Oh.”

“One obvious piece of evidence in support of the ‘sweet lemon’ theory is her interest in fashion, in designing clothing, even though she can never wear any.”

“I think she would admit that. The, uh, psychodynamics are real obvious.” Rod felt pompous using such a word, but in this company it seemed fitting.

Dr. Abu Jamal said, “One can also deduce, perhaps, psychic pain from her orgasmic capacity and frequency, which we understand is quite incredible.”

“What?” This was hard to follow. “She comes so much because she’s in pain?”

The Director of the Chalfont Institute stirred his coffee, sipped it, and set it down. “I speak as a man. Tami has, quite in abundance, the gift that women have for multiple orgasms. I’ve always been quite jealous of that capacity that women have.”

Rod nodded. He barely knew these men, had nothing in common with them, except of course that they were all men. Maybe that explained why they seemed to be, surprisingly, on the same wavelength as he.

“Forgive me for being so intimate, but a man experiences orgasm, ejaculates, and then is quiescent, unable to go further. But women… I ask you to imagine experiencing such an intense climax, and then, a few seconds later, experience another one just as intense? And yet another, a few seconds after that?”

Rod, a little embarrassed, looked down as he nodded.

“I simply cannot imagine how that must feel, after the intense and final catharsis, to continue to be aroused and experience another explosion of pleasure, another final catharsis.” Dr. Abu Jamal, stilted and formal, was getting downright eloquent and flowery. Indeed he had always felt a little jealous of Tami’s orgasms, a jealousy that competed with guilt knowing that so many of them had been unwanted. “It seems to me like eating a huge chocolate bar, then another, then another. After one bar, I would not want anything sweet for a while.

“But even among multiply orgasmic women, Tami is special. Understandably, given her past, she does not like her orgasms to be counted. But we are aware that there is a small, shall we say, club of female undergraduates who devote themselves to her pleasure.”

“Yes, I know,” Rod said. He decided to volunteer information which might be helpful. “They’re called the, uh, Tami Lickers. Or the ‘TL’s’ for short.”

Dr. Abu Jamal and Dr. Kantor nodded, as if they already knew.

“At any rate,” Dr. Abu Jamal continued. “We deduce that Tami experiences perhaps thirty orgasms a day, each one considerably longer and more intense than is reported in the literature as average. It could be that her unfortunate imprisonment in the equipment in Lab 6 increased her desire and her capacity. But maybe there is something else going on. Maybe after the chocolate bar, she eats something salty or bitter, so that the next chocolate is welcome, and then she eats something salty again, making her desire another chocolate…”

“I don’t follow you.”

“Maybe Tami suffers constant, if unconscious, psychic pain. Pain caused by the memory of her freshman year, or perhaps by frustration at not being able to wear clothes, or ongoing shame at being naked which in fact was never burned out of her, which in fact continues to this very day. That would be the salt. And each orgasm is a relief from that pain. That would be the chocolate. Another woman would get to a certain point and say, ‘OK, enough orgasms.’ But Tami still wants more.”

Rod shook his head. “I find this idea of ‘unconscious pain’ hard to believe.”

“As you walked to this meeting this evening,” Dr. Kantor said, “you were not conscious of your feet stepping forward, one after the other. Just as one can perform physical actions without being aware of them, one can think thoughts, or experience feelings, without being aware of them.”

After pondering this, Rod said, “So you think her capacity is an attempt to get rid of the pain, like an alcoholic who drinks to, uh, banish some memory.”

“Not a conscious attempt, but an attempt. Another analogy is, an average woman versus a drowning woman. The average woman paddles as she swims. Each paddle is an orgasm. The drowning woman paddles much faster. A lot more orgasms.”

“You think Tami is… desperate, trying not to drown?”

“Unknown,” Dr. Kantor said. “Only in-depth psychoanalysis would reveal her inner dynamics. They would be brought to the surface and she would become conscious of them. And that is the comprehensive key to treatment. Find out how her freshman year trauma caused the allergy, and you likely find the solution to curing it. But we dare not. We just dare not.”

“Why not?”

Dr. Abu Jamal said, “In the course of therapy one would rip away Tami’s defenses. In a sense those are her only remaining vestige of clothes and we would be stripping her even of those. She would once again feel all that shame from her freshman year, a shame that obviously she has suppressed. And what if our guesses are wrong, or there is more going on than we thought to address, and the allergy does not abate at that point? Tami would be naked and ashamed of being naked — and still not able to put on clothes.”

Dr. Kantor said, “To use a surgical analogy, you don’t cut someone open unless you know you can sew her up again. Psychotherapy would be a disservice to Tami because we are not sure we have the sutures to sew her up. At worst she would end up a frightened, dysfunctional creature, possibly descending into psychosis, desperately trying to put on clothes she cannot touch without an anaphylactic reaction.” Rod had heard that word before used in connection with Tami’s allergy. A person could die from an “anaphylactic reaction”.

He remembered buying Tami that expensive dress, early in her sophomore year after Ross had left and Jorgon had gotten fired and she was freed of having to pretend she was a nudist. And Tami’s pitiful, pathetic reaction as she told him for the first time that she had developed an allergy. “Clothes… please God… clothes…” she had whimpered, falling to the floor and stroking the forbidden fabric. Now, he pictured her in a padded cell, unable to wear a strait-jacket, flailing about, out of her mind, eyes rolled back in her head as she screamed herself hoarse as doctors in their coats and suits watched helplessly through the little window. “CLOTHES! CLOTHES! PLEASE! CLOTHES!!!”

He shook his head quickly, trying to shake this horrible image from his mind.

Dr. Abu Jamal let this sink in before he said, “You understand, Mr. Sykes, why we asked you not to disclose to Tami the content of this discussion.”

Rod nodded.

The three men sipped their coffees, changed their crossed legs, adjusted their pants and jackets, looked down at their shined shoes, and contemplated the plight of the nude girl.

Finally Rod said, “So what remains?”

Part 51

“There is a possible behavioral explanation for her allergy,” Dr. Kantor said, brightening a bit. “An explanation that was staring us in the face but we did not see it until recently. The explanation involves simple classical conditioning. It is like Pavlov and his dog.”

“What?” Rod thought he remembered this from the intro to psych course he took as a freshman but he wanted to be sure.

“A dog salivates when it sees food nearby. Professor Pavlov rang a bell whenever food was about to be given. Ultimately the dog salivated when it heard the bell, even though no food had appeared.”

“Right… So?”

“Think about Tami’s experience. She comes to Campbell-Frank as a freshman, clothed and insecure. A year later she is popular, loved, by you especially, amazingly creative, getting straight ‘A’s. And naked.

“From what we know of her early interviews with us, before the second week of her freshman year, she was clothed, she had no sex life except for very occasional masturbation. Now, she has what appears to be a fulfilling sex life with you, and a small army of friends whose sole purpose in life is apparently to give her as many intense orgasms as possible. Clothed, no sexual peaks. Naked, she has dozens a day.”

Rod looked down at the coffee set. “I see what you mean.”

“She has associated nudity with love, nudity with scholastic excellence, nudity with creativity, and above all, nudity with sexual pleasure.”

“Not just sexual,” Rod pointed out. “She gets a lot of pleasure feeling the ground underneath her bare feet, the wind against her breasts… Her bare skin touching everything around her.” He smiled with a bit of embarrassment. “I’m jealous, tell you the truth. This sounds wack, but I wish I could go around naked too, roll around in the grass like she does. So long as no one sees me.”

They all laughed, which broke the tension.

“Our theory,” Dr. Kantor then said, “is that the allergy represents the contrapositive of this association.”

“The — what?”

“Given a statement, ‘If A, then B’, the contrapositive is, ‘if not B, then not A’. If a statement is true, then the contrapositive is always true.”

“Oh.” Again, a vague memory was triggered, maybe from high school algebra.

“Meaning,” Dr. Kantor said, “that Tami associates nudity with pleasure, and has extended this to associate clothing with pain. Hence, the allergy to clothes. If the, as you say, the ‘TL’s’, have been especially active and successful lately in their attempts to drive Tami to greater orgasmic heights, this would also explain the recent advancement of her allergy. It has only strengthened the association and hence the contrapositive reaction.”

This was a lot to absorb. But after chewing this over, Rod said, “That’s irrational. Tami could be clothed and still have my love, and be creative, and have orgasms and all that stuff.”

“Yes, but irrational does not stop something from being effective, at least not in classical conditioning. Let’s say you were Pavlov’s dog. Or that we devised an experiment where, I don’t know what you like, say it’s a steaming hamburger.”

“That’ll do.” Rod was in fact getting hungry.

“And we sounded a bell just before it was served. You would eventually react like Pavlov’s dog did, salivating, or maybe your nostrils flaring, just at the sound of the bell. You would say to yourself, ‘this is silly’, but the bell would still sound and your nostrils would still flare.”

Rod thought for a moment. “I think this, at least, we can tell to Tami.”

“True,” Dr. Abu Jamal said readily. “From this point on, I want you to explain to Tami everything we are about to discuss. If she wonders why we called you here alone, tell her it would be awkward and perhaps impolite to discuss conditioning her with her sitting there.” He pointed to another chair next to them. Rod pictured Tami’s nakedness sitting on that chair, her bare butt on the cushion, a contrast to their full sets of clothes, her bare toes maybe idly grabbing the coffee table. He thought of her reaching over with her toes and caressing his dick through his pants. This got him hard and then he had to shift in his chair.

He sensed they were finally getting somewhere and was eager to learn more. With a touch of raillery he said, “What’s the plan, gentlemen?”

“Break the connection,” Dr. Kantor said. “Get her to associate clothing with pleasure. Put clothes on her while she is experiencing orgasm.”

“Sounds straightforward enough.”

“It’s not a sure thing. There might be an unexpected interaction with some deeper psychodynamic which would even make the allergy worse. Also, even if, as we expect, it is straightforward, it will not be easy, because both elements of the association are extremely strong. Tami’s nakedness has been utter — possibly nobody in the history of the human race has been so naked for so long, in relation to the person’s surroundings, a nude in the middle of a world of the clothed, often HEAVILY clothed, as when she walks barefoot and naked through snow in the middle of the campus. And Tami’s orgasmic pleasure has been so great as to be perhaps unique. It is off the scale.”

Dr. Abu Jamal got up to his desk and came back with an oversize leaflet which he handed to Dr. Kantor.

“As you know, when we discovered that Tami’s consent to the experiments in Lab 6 had not been properly obtained, we destroyed all the records we had made of those experiments. This included brain wave studies done during her stages of arousal and climax. To emphasize our contriteness we gave the floppy disks to Tami personally — we were still using floppies at the time — and she did the erasing herself, in this very room.” Rod looked over at the computer next to the desk. “But one record of her responses does survive: the replication experiment she volunteered to do when she heard our accreditation was in danger.”

Rod remembered that, the airplane trip to Chicago, the brightly lit stage with the dildos, Tami heaving into ten orgasms surrounded by the rows of professors taking notes, during the climactic moments looking up at him for support with mixed feelings of love and shame.

As Dr. Kantor opened the loose leaf, Rod said, “You folks owe Tami a hell of a lot of thanks.”

Dr. Abu Jamal said, “It is not an overstatement, Mr. Sykes, to say that we would sacrifice our professional reputations for her if required.”

“See this chart,” Dr. Kantor said. “These are Tami’s delta waves at plateau, orgasm, plateau again, orgasm again… Delta waves are ‘pleasure waves’, as has been shown in a variety of contexts.”

“Like when eating chocolate?”

Rod meant this as a little joke but Dr. Kantor said, with a straight face, “Actually yes. Chocolate studies have been done… During this plateau/orgasm series here, see how the delta waves were particularly prominent. This was during –” he pointed to another squiggly line in the chart, lower down, “a certain type of clitoral and Graffenberg spot stimulation.”

“It would probably be more effective, from a brute force standpoint, to work on the ‘pain’ end of the association, giving her electrical shocks when naked and stopping them as she puts on an article of clothing. But that would be inhumane and besides, we want to her to be free to be naked when she wants. We propose instead to work on the ‘pleasure’ end of the association. If clothing could be introduced exactly during that time, perhaps just a small article at first, then taken away as stimulation ceased, then introduced again — ”

Rod suddenly sat up. “You’re not suggesting strapping her into that — Lab 6 — thing –”

“We would hate to do that,” Dr. Abu Jamal said. “Lab 6 has been boarded up for three years. The equipment has been disassembled but is still there. It probably is not a good idea anyway because in Tami’s mind the equipment has a bad association of its own. But it occurred to us that such a mechanical process, the thrusting of dildos into Tami’s vagina and rectum, and the suctioning of her nipples, is too crude for the split-second timing and delicate manipulation of her genitals that would be required.”

Rod swallowed and said, “I will… perform with her if that’s what’s needed.”

“Actually, more than one set of tongues and fingers will probably be required. Tongues and fingers that are intimately familiar with every nuance of Tami’s reactions…”

——————————————————————————–

By the time Rod came home it was almost ten o’clock. He was really hungry now and hoped there was enough in the refrigerator to put together a sandwich. Also he needed a full stomach to think about the mouthful Drs. Abu Jamal and Kantor had said at Chalfont and think about what to tell Tami.

He came in to the kitchen and Tami was at the table, sitting at it instead of on top, dawdling over a cup of tea. When she saw him she came up and hugged him. She seemed sad. They separated and she held his hands in front of her. Then she brought her limber leg up and placed her foot on top, grasping over his hand with her flexible toes.

Rod looked down and playfully and made the standard chimpanzee sound when Tami used her feet like hands. “Ooo ooo ooo.”

Tami smiled wanly and looked down at her toes. Rod gave her toes a closer look and his eyes widened.

On her third toe, where the wedding band used to be, was a tattoo!

It was exquisitely made, evidently done at that place in town. It was in the shape of a ring, taking up the area formerly hidden by the band. In spiderly but flowing words it read across her toe, “I belong to Rod,” with a heart.

Rod tried to form words but couldn’t. Getting a tattoo, marring her perfect nudity, was always one thing Tami was against. As was he.

“I just had to, Baby,” she confessed through moist eyes. “I want the world to know I’m married to you but I can’t wear that ring even for one minute now. It burns like fire. And I can’t wear a ring on my finger either. Not even a little necklace. Baby, I don’t know what’s happening to me!!”

Part 52

Snow.

On the morning of April 4, Tami and Rod woke up at the same time, Tami on the hardwood floor, Rod on the bed. Though it was before sunrise the bedroom was bright and silent. They knew what it meant. Wordlessly they padded to the bay window and saw the white mounds and valleys, the fluffy white cotton balls encoating the recently sprung buds on the shrubbery, luminous in the predawn light.

The April blizzard, a yearly tradition up here in the Vermont north country.

As Rod watched, Tami slid open the glass door and stepped out, her bare feet silently and effortlessly fluffing through the soft white stuff. Rod crossed his arms, shivering in his pajamas, as his wife strolled nakedly and languidly through the drifts, at one point up to her thighs, as relaxed as if she were sauntering along a warm beach. Then she sat down in the luminous snow. Tami had no fear of being naked in the snow, she knew that it was harmless for short periods, plus she had built up a resistance to the cold far greater than a normal person’s. Still, Rod cringed as he imagined the tiny flakes pressing up into her pussy and her little brown-skinned sphincter.

Now she lay back, and stretched herself out into an ‘X’. She seemed in position to make one of her ‘snow angels’ but for her mood. The snow was so deep that he could only see the tips of her breasts, disembodied nipples poking out from behind the drifts.

Tami had gotten to love playing in the snow. She was a great one at throwing snowballs at friends on campus, a long left-handed sidearm delivery that would reach a surprised Trent or Gretchen from halfway across the quad, before laughingly running away from any counterattack, her toes kicking up bits of white behind her. Or spending half an hour hefting rolled-up white boulders across the field in front of the art building, painstakingly building a snowwoman (always a female, with breasts and a “V” below) while half the campus walked by.

But now she seemed almost like she was lying down in the snow to die. It was very unsettling.

She had been depressed since he came back last night and showed him the tattoo on her toe. Giving her the Chalfont doctors’ explanation for her allergy improved her mood a little, but just a little. She must have been aware of the advance in her allergy over the past few months, and it was touching that it began to concern her only when it meant she could no longer wear her wedding ring. But she had gotten to love being naked and the prospect of a program to get her back into clothes did not seem to excite her much.

Maybe she sensed that the doctors had told more to Rod than he let on. A couple of months ago she said they were holding back on her. Maybe she was still sensing that. Hence the lack of any relief as to a theory of her allergy finally being disclosed.

Rod was so lost in his thoughts that it gave him a start to see Tami rise out of the snow, like a corpse coming to life. The sun was rising and the pale light graced her bare shoulder and hip as she approached. Her head down, she padded back to him, then hugged him, the snow on her bare skin chilling him as it melted through his pajamas. Then she knelt down and without closing the sliding glass door behind her, took his limp dick out of his bottoms and started sucking him.

He wanted to tell her to stop, she was doing it so joylessly. But her technique was so good, and it occurred to him that she was sucking him as therapy for herself as well as for his pleasure. Maybe as a kind of recompense for not being able to wear the ring that bound her to him. Though of course that was not fair. The tattoo around her toe was far more permanent that any ring that one could slip off.

Rod looked up at the snowy back yard, the trail incongruously made by bare feet, breathed in the cold air, looked down past his wife’s head at the bits of snow stuck to her bare butt cheeks, and rose up and deposited a full load of semen down Tami’s throat. She gulped it down to the last drop and kept sucking until the last, weak spasms, then took his softening, floppy dick out and kissed it. She got up and hugged him again and he felt about to cry.

He followed her as she went to the kitchen. Even though it was morning, she popped open a can of Naragansett, the cheap beer she knew from Providence that for some reason one could buy at the supermarket up here in Campbell County, Vermont. She sat in her usual cross-legged position on top of the table as she sipped it.

“I can’t lie to you, Baby,” Tami said, looking down at her nipples, wet with the melted bits of snow, “I have a feeling something bad is about to happen. I can feel it in my nips.”

She could pick up barometric pressure with her nipples, it had long been clear. And could sometimes pick up other people’s thoughts with them. But foretelling the future was a new ability.

“Like what?” he felt compelled to ask.

“I don’t know.” Another sip. “I don’t feel well. I think I’ll call in sick today.”

Tami had always been driven by a work ethic and the need to impress. Kind of like he was, though with him it was the words his parents had brought him up with, the words of Martin Luther King, Jr. — “burn the midnight oil”, “I hate being even one minute late”. With Tami, he took it as an expression of Catholic guilt, original sin. So this calling in sick was unusual. He felt like she wanted to be alone for a while. So after sitting around a few moments, he got showered and dressed and went to work.

——————————————————————————–

The return of snow brought the return of Yvette, once again having broken up with Pierre, once again dancing at Teaser’s and calling up Tami’s house, this time without getting into trouble and leaving it for Luci the manager to call.

“Um, OK/. Sure,” Tami said. It was after supper and she and Rod were sitting around glumly watching T.V., almost as if waiting for the bad thing that Tami had predicted to happen.

Yvette needed a place to crash tonight but was not in crisis. She simply needed time for a callback from a friend in Montreal she could stay with. Now that she was in that kitchen again, the kitchen she had such fond memories of, she felt a little guilty, like she was intruding. There was no atmosphere of gaiety. Tami the Naked Girl, the girl who was allergic to clothes, seemed preoccupied, depressed. Even her big brown nipples seemed to droop down a little, not stiff and perky as usual.

Fortunately Tami’s coffee was as terrible as before.

“Oh, sorry,” Yvette said, as she coughed upon the first sip of the bitter, grounds-filled fluid and spilled it across the table.

Tami looked at her for a moment and then giggled. It was good to see. She reached over with a napkin and cleaned up the spill, her breasts jiggling and dancing as they pointed downward.

After she was done Tami said, “You look better than last time.”

“Much. Partly because of you. Merci. My dancing is better now too. I think I like it.”

Tami began to roll her eyes but then corrected herself. “OK.

“Want to see my new costume?”

Tami hesitated but then said, “Sure.” Yvette found herself back in that bathroom, with the big enema bag near the toilet, and remembered her first conclusions as to how weird this naked girl was, the enema bag, the smell of vomit that she attributed to Tami being bulimic but later realized had been her own, seeing the naked white girl in a kitchen full of black people.

In a moment she was out in the kitchen, proudly showing off what she wore at the beginning of each set. A lacy black bikini top, a black g-string with feathers that stuck out from the waistband, and over it, a sheer red baby-doll cape. On her sock-ess feet were high heels with clear glass soles. Yes, a typical outfit for a topless dancer, but she liked to think of it as a bit classier than the usual.

As Yvette stood there, tottering on the high heels, hands on her hips, her 32B breasts stuck out just so, Tami applauded. And then, her expression getting more serious, looked Yvette up and down and walked around her, eyeing her from every angle. It was a little disconcerting. At first she thought Tami was getting turned on. Some of the other dancers had made lesbian advances and she still didn’t know how to deal with it. She didn’t dare tell Pierre — having a threesome was one of his announced fantasies and if he got wind of it, well he could be quite overbearing when he wanted something, especially something sexual. It still hurt a little when she swallowed, from that time he forced his dick into her mouth.

But then it seemed like Tami’s interest was more clinical, like a doctor doing an exam. And it was odd being in this skimpy outfit and yet feeling so dressed next to Tami’s utter nakedness. She looked down and saw Tami’s strong, tanned bare feet next to her pale white toes strapped into the high glass heels. And looked sideways at Tami’s plum-colored pussy hair next to her g-string with the feathers and the baby doll over it. Even at Teaser’s you weren’t allowed to take off your bottom, though some of the girls cheated in the lap dance booths. Yet Tami went around bottomless all the time, in public no less.

Tami touched the feathers and said, “If you don’t mind,” and cinched about an inch of the waist band between two fingers. “Does this fit better?”

“Why, yes.” The g-string was a little awkward. She thought that was to be expected. But with it taken in like that, it fit her like a second skin.

“I think the bra could use more room in the cups, and a smaller band.” She let Tami’s fingers gently tug at the lace so that her breasts jiggled a bit.

“Oh that’s a shame, this cost a hundred dollars.”

“What! Oh… a hundred Canadian?”

“Oui.”

“You don’t have to buy another. This can be altered. Look, why don’t you let me do it? I can do it tomorrow. You can stay another day.”

“Merci. Thank you.”

Tami looked up at the clock. It was seven and getting dark.

“Cold outside,” Yvette said. As if Tami wouldn’t know.

Tami looked down at her nipples. “Yes, it’s going to be clear and cold the next few days. Below freezing.” She looked at Yvette with a smile. “I bet Homer’s flooded the rink. Want to go skating?”

“What? Skating?” She looked down at her glass heels, then at her boots that she had taken off in the hall, then at Tami’s bare feet, then up at the rest of Tami’s bare body. “I’m not sure…”

“You’re Canadian, for goodness sake. You MUST know how to skate!”

“Well…” She had skated as a kid but it had been a long time.

“C’mon, you can rent skates there. I’ll get mine. Get dressed. Let’s go!”

A few minutes later, she watched Tami fling what looked like a little sandal bag into the back seat and cringed as she saw the bare buns settle onto the freezing vinyl of the front seat of the Volkswagen. They were headed into town. Just like before, only now it was nighttime. She remembered that bright snowy morning, walking with this naked girl down the main street, the naked girl who proudly showed her newly pedicured toes to that old lady and her professor friend, spreading them as they sparkled, encrusted with snow, in the bright morning sunshine, then opening her pussy lips and making her little thing jump in the cold winter air as everyone watched. Weird, but happy. A happy woman, this Tami was. She wondered why she had seemed so depressed a while ago.

As the outdoor rink came into view, all lit up with lights strung around it and a crowd of skaters circling round and round, Tami said, “Yvette, I’m glad you came!” Yvette smiled, feeling good about herself. Tami was like that. She made you feel good about yourself.

——————————————————————————–

The roads were horrible up in the mountains so it took Rod a long time to get home. By the time he dragged himself into the kitchen his eyes were so tired from peering through that salt-sprayed windshield that he had to get to sleep right away. He only barely read the note from Tami on the table, saying she was going skating with Yvette. Yvette? Was she back? Another Tami project, rescuing wayward strippers. As if just being a stripper wasn’t wayward enough. At least it looked like Tami had gotten out of her funk. With hardly another thought he stripped off as much of his clothes as he had energy for and hit the bed face-down.

——————————————————————————–

They were in between songs in the big practice room and Sarge, up on his stool, looking down at his stand, itched behind his ear with his baton as he read from the papers in front of him. Rod sat in the trombone section, looking across the sea of black faces and the occasional white one, especially Brigid in the clarinet section, trying to catch her eye. She was very fetching today, no jean jacket, but a purple sweater over a white collared shirt. Some girls looked good no matter what they wore. The strands of Brigid’s red hair, long and loose, played over the shoulders of the fluffy sweater.

Alas, Brigid wasn’t looking at him. Her attention was fixed on Sarge as he went over the new invitation. “Now, this is a big step for us, the Winter Carnival at Killington. We’ve never been at an event like that before. We’ll be doing straight marching, but the affair is kind of, how shall I say it, glitzy. You notice the uniforms are gone,” he said, motioning to the empty coat racks around the perimeter of the room. “Some shiny piping is being put in. But we won’t be doing any different moves, just what we did basically at the Patriots pregame in Foxboro.

“Now, this is at night, the middle of winter, up in Vermont. It will be cold. The thermal underwear that some of you were wearing in Foxboro, well some of it was too bulky. A couple of you looked like you were about to explode.” There was some laughter; everyone knew exactly the kids he was talking about. “So the school has decided to spring for streamlined thermals, made especially for marching bands. We have to get the orders in right away. Let me know now. Who is going to be wearing thermals?”

He looked up and saw almost everyone raising their hands. He counted. Now Brigid’s hand slowly rose to join the others. Sarge laughed. “Not you!!”, and good-naturedly waved her hand down with his baton. Brigid put her hand on her lap and stuck out her lower lip in an exaggerated pout.

After he had taken the count, Sarge said, “OK, enough talk. Let’s get to ‘National Emblem’.” He raised his baton and waited for the shuffling of sheet music until everyone was ready.

His baton still up, Sarge covered his eyes and said, “Sorry, I just had a vision of our band being led by a majorette in long johns.” He shook the thought out of his head as some of the kids laughed. Then he looked at Brigid. “Don’t worry, it won’t be a long march. And not like that last game. No standing still in the freezing rain while some old guy gives an endless speech.”

Brigid, remembering, momentarily dropped the clarinet from her mouth to say, “Zhhhh!” and shudder. Debra and Virginia and some of her other girlfriends giggled in sympathy.

Baton still up, Sarge said, “By the way, we’ll be marching on packed snow, so the majorette’s footwear is being revised to be more secure. Also, some other uniform changes.”

Tentatively, Brigid said, “Like what?”

“Well I understand they’re doing away with the circlets. Okay, let’s go!”

His baton went down for the first beat.

“Thhhhbbbvvvvssshhhzzz!!!”

It was a spectacular flub, from the suddenly dry lips of the trombone section.

The room burst out with laughter as if it had been the world’s loudest fart.

“Goodness that was horrible,” Sarge said, cutting off the tune. “Let’s try again.” He raised his baton. “Let’s go!”

Part 53

Once again, Acting Dean Anthony Noyes looked out the big bay window of his ninth-floor office, this time onto a campus white with the aftermath of the annual April blizzard, and once again beheld Tami Smithers, the all but certain valedictorian, this time hanging from a bare tree whose branches were thick with white. Her legs crooked back over the branch, red toes wiggling, she was conversing with some friends who were standing around, apparently in the process of climbing down when they arrived. Her short plum-colored hair hung down a bit, her face a little flushed as one would expect. Her breasts, tight and hard as always, tended ever so slightly downward in their upside down position. Her arms hung down to the ground, fingers playing in the snow. In her stretched out position one could see her firm, concave tummy, the secret envy of every woman on campus.

Presently she flipped her feet forward and somersaulted onto the ground, snow up to her ankles, with the nonchalance of a trained gymnast. Now, bookbag slung over her bare shoulder, casually skiffing the snow ahead of her with her toes, she continued chatting with them as they made their way down the concourse.

It was poetry in motion, the beauty of the feminine form at its utmost, the true essence of femininity, the spirit expressed in flesh, that had inspired DaVinci, Velasquez, Renoir…

“Look at those titties! Lord Almighty!”

Noyes closed his eyes in quiet toleration as he heard the not-unexpected babblings of the college lawyer.

The “new” college lawyer, that is. After the departure of Henry Ross the Hiring Committee, shell-shocked by the revelations, had overreacted. They hired an old friend of Professor Emeritus Jan Latimer, one George Halifax, who was to Henry Ross as matter is to anti-matter. Or maybe the other way around. They wanted to turn the page on Henry Ross, secretive, wiry and thin, always impeccably dressed, with a background as a prosecutor, and a maze of complicated and, it turned out, evil thoughts behind his Sphinx-like face.

George Halifax was grossly overweight, and was always stuffing himself with pretzels or potato chips, many of which could be found between the couch cushions in his cluttered, disgusting office. His tie always rebelled at staying tied around his bulging neck, his shirt at staying tucked. He babbled constantly and sometimes incoherently at anything that might cross his mind, usually not touching anywhere near his legal experience, which had been mostly in entertainment law.

He also talked very often and very fondly about his wife Ethelinda, whom Noyes had met at a luncheon once, as she and George crowded everyone out from the buffet table. Ethelinda weighed only slightly less than George. Try as he might, Noyes could not help contemplating the logistics involved in their sex life, which George referred to often, and which, Noyes concluded, must require some kind of winch-like device.

“Man, those nips must be rock hard in that cold! What a super woman! Isn’t she a babe? You got to admit — ”

“Yes, she is attractive, George,” Noyes said limply, trying to shut him up. What could he do? George Halifax had one thing in common with Ross, and that was that knowing what he did about the Tami Smithers affair, he was basically unsackable. And he had a good heart (being the Anti-Ross) and seemed to know enough about the law to — well, as Noyes said to Professor Girardo at a faculty party, “He’ll do for now.”

Halifax popped a pretzel into his mouth (he had a batch in his jacket pocket) and munched as he watched Tami as intently as if he were 18 again and watching a peep show in Times Square.

“Now George — ”

“Really a super woman,” Halifax continued. “Popping off 136 times in a row! Can you imagine that? I know it wasn’t her idea, but even now, I bet she could rattle off a few dozen between classes, with the help of her army of pussy lickers. Girls just have it all over us guys. Me, my record is three, and that took all night. E (his shorthand for Ethelinda) tried and tried to get another but I was limp as a wet noodle and half dead.”

Again, Noyes thought of winches. He tried once again to interrupt these observations, the likes of which Halifax had made many times. “George!”

“What?”

“George, we have to talk about this new development.”

“What?” Halifax spat out a speck of pretzel as he spoke, his eyes still glued on Tami.

“The unfortunate news about her brother.”

“Oh, man,” Halifax said, wiping the pretzel flecks of his jacket as some hit Noyes — “sorry” — then he observed, “That’s rough, ain’t it. What a dry socket that hellhole is. What a monumental f***up! And most of the world saw it coming!”

Noyes nodded.

Halifax continued, “At least he’s not a casualty.”

“No, thank God for that.” Noyes looked out over the horizon. “Almost four thousand dead, fortunately not yet including Joseph Smithers, age 20.”

“Not so fortunate for the four thousand… This will be a big blow to her.” Halifax made a futile effort to straighten his tie, something he did automatically about 500 times a day.

Noyes quickly reviewed, “He was supposed to return in May, to help with the father’s hardware store, which is struggling. The father’s health isn’t too good either.”

“Yes, he drinks a lot of beer, probably in heart attack country,” Halifax said, without irony.

“So what can be done?” Noyes said.

“I looked into it like you said. Not a good idea to make this known before the news is officially out. But then we can send a signal to the International.”

“Is that all? Can’t we get her home before the semester ends? Give her her degree early?”

“Don’t you think that would raise eyebrows? I mean, be honest.”

Halifax was right. Noyes had been thinking of how to avoid the commencement, only six weeks away, with the very naked Tami Smithers on view for the local cameras and, horror of horrors, finally attracting the national press. The local press had been tactful, but the national press was full of vicious armchair masturbators… The name of Campbell – Frank would be synonymous with “radical nudist college”…

But, George was right, trying to avoid the commencement situation was probably impossible. So maybe angling to get Ms. Smithers a (bare) leg up on the International was the best hope.

Consuming another pretzel, which was his idea of a diet (his usual pocket-stuffer was cookies), Halifax said, “It’s safe to talk to Girardo about amending her application.”

“Oh, good. That’s very good.” Somehow Halifax had gotten Professor Albert Girardo, Chair of the Fashion Technology Department, to play ball. Which Noyes had never been able to do. Give Halifax that much, he could be a successful schmoozer. Maybe because he was so honest about his intentions. Another stereotype about lawyers, shattered.

“Should we do it on our own?” Noyes said. The application had a separate section to be filled out by the sponsoring institution, which the candidate did not see. They could put the words of Tami’s family hardship there.

“Yes, from what we know of her, she won’t want any special consideration.” Munch, munch, swallow. “Best keep it secret from her.”

Noyes shook his head. “She might need such special consideration, with those weird designs of hers.”

“Albert said something which I think is right. She’s been naked so long, she probably forgot what clothes feel like. I hear she doesn’t even think of herself as starkers. She thinks her pussy hair and her head hair is her clothes.”

Noyes winced at the language. Despite all he had been forced to witness the past three years, he was still a churchgoer. Not like Halifax, who bolted from the Catholic Church years ago.

“When she gets back into clothes, it’ll be a shock.”

“You think so?”

“I KNOW so.” Another pretzel. “The Chalfont people figured that out a while ago. The deal is, she gets her rocks off so much while naked, her body now thinks that clothes mean pain. This week they’ve finally started a program to desensitize her.”

Noyes’s eyes widened. For a long time Abu Jamal had refused to tell him what was going on over there. “Why didn’t you tell me that?”

Halifax shrugged, causing the tail of his shirt to finally pop out. “You never asked me. Uh oh, here she comes.”

Tami, having taken leave of her friends, was heading toward the administration building. Whatever reason Tami had to come to them, they dreaded having to face her, while keeping secret the bad news about her brother. It was impossible to lie to Tami Smithers. Even keeping something unsaid would be detected somehow, through those extra-sensory nipples.

Noyes and Halifax both exhaled as Tami turned to the right. Evidently she was going to the fashion building. And now a big soft snowball planted itself squarely into the bush of her plum-colored pubic hair. She dropped her bookbag and ran for revenge, her bare feet knifing through the snow, no doubt soon to overtake her booted and heavily clothed assailant as they both ran out of view.

“The kid in clothes doesn’t stand a chance,” Halifax observed. The two older men were about to turn away from the window when Tami re-entered their view, her flushed-skin nakedness prone and wrapped over the shoulder of a tall athletic hispanic girl, preceded by two other girls who carried one bare foot over their own shoulders. Tami’s bare butt cheeks, wet with melted snow, glistened in the sunlight. It was like barbarians hauling off precious pillage after a raid, and their captive did shout and beat her fists against the hispanic girl’s back, though her distress was only playful. They carried their naked captive out of sight, to a place unknown.

“There they go again,” Halifax said, munching another pretzel. “What a sight. This is better than all that intense, graphic pornography. I tell ya Tony, I love this job!”

. . . .

Tahir Abu Jamal, M.D., Director of the Chalfont Institute, checked the attendance list for the meeting, a meeting for which he was late, which was kind of rude. Ms. Smithers and her six friends, who would help with her desensitization to clothes. Irregular, obscene in a way, but he agreed with Kantor, who was right behind him. Really, from a humane point of view, the best way to do it. Ms. Smithers’ allergy was formed in the most invasive situation possible, a place of cold pistons and suction cups, surrounded by unfeeling, if not outright sadistic, strangers, older men. It should be undone in an atmosphere of friendship and love.

They hurried down the hall to Lab 4, which consisted of chemistry tables surrounded by high lab chairs, used in the old days for recombinant research. In these days of computer models, actual lab work was almost a thing of the past. He and Kantor opened the door and looked up —

“OHH… Ohhh… h – hello… d – d – doctor…”

Ms. Smithers was up on the nearest table on all fours, facing the two doctors who stood dumbstruck not three feet in front of her gasping face. Her nakedness was being attacked from every quarter. One of the undergraduate girls had her head resting on the table, facing up to suck on one nipple while her hand twisted and rubbed and stretched the other. The nipples could withstand such treatment, big and brown and permanently erect, having been mercilessly bristled and suctioned in this very building… Another TL reaching over with a finger in her crotch. Two others were seated behind her, each holding an upturned foot in her hand as she sucked on the toes. Another, standing up, was running her tongue over the lithe, muscular bare shoulders. Most jarringly, the sixth young woman was standing behind the table, separating the buttocks with her hands, while her tongue was noodling deep into Ms. Smithers’s anus.

He had been expecting a seated audience, waiting for his presentation. He blinked and returned to eye contact with Ms. Smithers. Everyone was, of course, very familiar with her facial expressions while sexually aroused, and it was clear that she was approaching a climax, perhaps not for the first time.

“Y – yess… d – doctorrr — OHH! OHH! H – how are yyyou — OHH! T – todayyyy — EEEE!!”

As her eyes popped open her body bucked like a bronco as her six friends held onto her, not allowing their ministrations to be detached for even one second.

He cleared his throat and decided to say what he had to say. He had heard that Ms. Smithers did not like for proceedings to be interrupted while her friends were licking her. From what he understood, it was an unspoken contest. As their knowledge of her body increased, they were determined to bring her to ever more intense orgasms, while she augmented her self-control by the same amount.

“Ms. Smithers, ladies,” he said, briefly looking over to the quite preoccupied friends, “you have been given a rough idea of this project. Thank you for donating your time.”

“Ohhhh… ohhhh…” As Tami’s moans subsided into ragged breathing one became aware of the sounds of the TL’s, breathing heavily and sucking and licking. The woman with her tongue in Tami’s rectum, who was facing him across the top of the bare back, looked up him impassively, but the others did not seem to acknowledge his existence.

“After much study it appears that Tami’s body has…”

Tami kept her eyes focused on him to the extent she could, though her twitching eyebrows betrayed the continued stimulation on all her sensitive areas. But her friends appeared to be trained on her body, not on his words. Finally he put his foot down.

“Ladies, I think you should… sit and give me your undivided attention. Please.”

So intent were they on extracting another orgasm that Tami had to shake them off, like a dog shaking off rain. With obvious disappointment the six clothed young women wiped their mouths and arranged themselves on the chairs. The naked girl stayed on the table, and sat cross-legged. Tami was still catching her breath, her breasts heaving, her tummy expanding and contracting. The TL’s were, also, catching their breath.

Dr. Abu Jamal and Dr. Kantor pulled up a couple of chairs and sat down. After allowing silence to sink in, the Chalfont Director spoke.

“Tami wants to wear clothes.”

“Awwww… ” The expression of disappointment and pouting lips from the TL’s was playful but also heartfelt. They wanted Tami to be always naked so the sight of her beauty would never be denied them. But they knew it would be a disservice to Tami for her allergy to continue, especially with her about to graduate.

“Her body has associated nakedness with pleasure. Somehow, it has formed a contrapositive reaction, associating clothes with pain. We are here to undo that association. Now I have some brief handouts here for you to read…”

. . . .

The big atrium of the rec hall was permeated with the smell of sweat, which of course was not unusual. Only at the moment it was just one person’s sweat. Mixed with the smell of female sexual arousal.

It was a crowd by any definition, dozens of students in rec room attire (T-shirts, shorts, sneakers and socks), looking up at the “Hamster Wheel”, the double treadmill, and the naked laboring body up on it, Tami with her bare feet pressing down on the blades, one foot after the other, the toes curling over the edges.

Arms pressing up againt the overhead bars, her perfectly toned, tanned body was dripping with sweat. Sweat ran down her face, coated her arms and shoulders, dripped off her breasts, ran down her concave tummy into the wet plum-colored forest at her crotch, down her widely-spread legs. Her eyes were closed as she concentrated intensely. Her heavy breaths were the only sound as everyone stood there enraptured.

Her pussy lips, slightly opened, glistened in the harsh lighting. The young men watching felt their dicks stiffen and were grateful for jockstraps and long shorts that hid their arousal. Dr. Kantor, off to the side, standing with his clipboard.

Now, Spica, who had plenty of room to stand below Tami’s slightly spread pussy lips, carefully raised the dildo up, up, closer… as Rosaria, on a stepladder to the side, carefully encircled a string around Tami’s waist, closing in, in…

Part 54

“Good afternoon, Ms. Smithers,” Dr. Kantor said, turning on the harsh overhead hanglight in the freezing, abandoned lab.

The naked girl, splayed out on the black granite table, opened her eyes and raised her head, eyes blinking in the sudden light. She was surrounded by her friends, in gloves and overcoats. The doctor was right in front of her, she could see his face through the forest of pubic hair at the junction of her widely spread legs. Being Tami Smithers, having gone naked for years, she felt no need to close them as she responded, her breath making little clouds in the still, sepulchral cold. There was an element of shivering, from the cold and also from sexual deprivation. “I’m r – ready… zhhhh…”

Here in Lab 1, a cavernous subterranean space abandoned since 1955, the team went to work.

Fifteen minutes later, what seemed like agonizing stasis was actually an approach to climax. The naked girl’s body writhed in frustration as her body was gently, and inadequately, stimulated by the six TL’s, none of whom had taken off their coats or gloves. Spica and Myra lightly licked the brown, hard nipples that reached up in vain for greater stimulation than was offered. The rough fabric of Melissa’s gloved hand scraped along the concave tummy and along the arms. Rosaria blew on the red, engorged clit, almost steaming in the cold air, and licked along the inner thighs, but never actually touched the clit or the pussy lips. She had to raise her head to avoid the straining pelvis as it lurched up with a groan from its owner; she simply pushed the thighs down with her powerful arms and began the licking and blowing again. Barbara and Jeane, their noses red with the cold, were holding the feet, licking and sucking on the toughened toes. The shadows of the TL’s, harsh in the overhead light, lurched and receded across the landscape of the always naked Tami, her butt and her heels scraping against the rough granite as she writhed and moaned.

Dr. Kantor stood to the side with his clipboard, his thoughts and desires hidden. Now he called Barbara away from her station. Barbara pulled a flip-flop from her coat pocket. A single, solitary flip-flop, the merest possible covering for the foot, and drew it closer to the straining toes of the totally naked young woman, closer, closer…

. . . .

Rod sat alone, having finished his makeshift supper, after another long day at the project. Another afternoon of military maneuvers. More people not showing up, the ranks always thinning.

He was worried about Tami, even though she seemed a little better the past couple of days. He had assumed that Yvette would be nothing but trouble, but going to the skating rink with her seemed to cheer her up. He wished he could have been there. He wanted to see Tami happy. Yet he could not get out of his mind what she had said that strange day when she drank beer and stayed home, about getting the feeling that bad things were about to happen.

And he was worried about her “rehabilitation” at Chalfont. He couldn’t imagine Tami in clothes. He knew she had been a normal clothed freshman her first week, so long ago, but he hadn’t remembered her then. Like everyone else, he had only noticed her after she had been stripped. Thank goodness that first encounter in the dorm lounge had worked out well, when he had sat in front of her and Jen and ended up convincing her to run for dorm rep. Of course, what he took for normal freshman shyness was actually a deep, cringing shame at being naked in public… And then that even bigger risk, inviting her to the Black Formal. He was always thankful to Jen for convincing her it was O.K. to go.

So Tami wearing clothes? Even the idea seemed strange. He had seen her playing on the computer, putting her head onto the clothed bodies of other women, and it always looked fake.

He hoped it would work out. She had finally gotten motivated, having been freaked out by not being able to wear her wedding ring and having that blue ring tattooed onto her toe. He had been told that the TL’s would be helping out, and it was just as well that he not be involved. He wouldn’t feel comfortable licking Tami with people watching.

Now as it was getting dark he heard the slopping of bare feet in the slush outside, then the rubbing of tough soles on the doormat.

She surprised him by flinging the door open and bursting in with a loud “HI!” Then she stood there smiling broadly, her hand placed on a saucily jutted out hip. “What do you think?”

“About what, Babe?”

She waited a few beats and then — “MY OUTFIT!”

Her shout made him jump. “W – what?”

“MY CLOTHES!!”

He looked her up and down. Aside from the tattoo on her toe there seemed nothing to mar her perfect and total nudity. But now she swung her hips from side to side. Then she raised her leg way up, and gripped the counter with her toes.

He peered carefully and saw some kind of orange sliver between her pussy lips. “What is that? Polyester?”

She beamed with pride as she pulled her lower lips apart. “The fabric isn’t the best, yet. I call it a C-string. It came to me in a dream a long time ago. I was sitting on a beach in California and these Mexican girls were wearing thongs and… well it’s a long story. But I got the idea after they tried to put a string around my waist and put a flip-flop on. That didn’t work, but this did. It only took a few minutes to cut and put it together in the fashion lab. Gretchen helped. I want to make it in cherish.”

“Cherish?”

“The fabric Gretchen and I are working on?”

“Oh right. How does it stay on?”

“The C stands for clitoris. The top ties around my clit, and the bottom has a little ball that stays in my butthole. See?” She bent down to look at it along with him. Indeed the top was a little bud of fabric over where her clit would be.

“Hi hi!”

She did her trick of bobbing her clit up and down. Hidden behind the fabric, it looked like the head of a modest women who had a sheet pulled over her.

“Now watch!” With a quick motion of her fingers and a little grunt, the C-string was off and held triumphantly over her head. The little ball was the size of a large marble. The whole item was about three inches long and half an inch wide.

Now she rinsed it in the sink and pressed it dry with a napkin. And with a little motion of her hips and fingers, it was back on again.

“Oh Baby!” She giggled and the C-string seemed to giggle too. “Finally! Clothes! Dr. Kantor says this is the big breakthrough! After this I can progress to even more clothes! Wheee!!”

She hopped onto Rod’s stockinged feet and they kissed. “Babe, I’m so glad,” he said, more as a response to her happiness than to anything else.

Tami then hopped off him and dragged him into the living room, breasts bouncing, taking little mincing steps that were unusual for her. She ran to the CD player. As she bent over Rod could see the C-string upside down, coming out of her butthole and disappearing between into the bush between her legs. Then she hopped up and stood before the big full-length mirror.

It was Madonna’s “Vogue”, a song she rarely played. As the beat began Tami twisted to and fro, posing like in the video, all the time keeping her legs open, pushing her pelvis forward, emphasizing the C-string, and maximizing its visibility. “Clothes! Clothes! Yay!” she chanted, giddy like a little girl.

Rod laughed, taking this to be a display of good-natured sarcasm. “Clothes”, indeed! Hardly more than a thread, lodged between her lower lips. But as Tami continued dancing in the mirror, kicking to the side, doing some slow cartwheels and some other gymnast moves, his smile faded as he realized she really did consider herself to be wearing clothes, genuinely thrilled to be in her C-string.

He even started to feel his eyes getting wet. Yes, Tami had been naked for over three years, had long ago gotten used to being naked, had long ago lost any sense of modesty about every inch of her being on public display at all times. Yet he couldn’t help but think that deep inside there was still that frightened, modest 18-year-old, that Girl in the Mirror, dying of shame at having to walk around naked, who was joyously celebrating her dream come true, a happy ending to her fable at long last.

He thought of that long ride home, when he had picked her up in Providence that dreary cold January day, the negative reaction of her father to seeing his daughter taken up with a black man, the sudden break of clouds over John Smithers’s head when he decided it was OK, Tami’s endless sucking of his penis on the way up to Campbell-Frank. That was probably the first time she had seemed at ease with being naked. Only later did he realize that she was deeply ashamed, looking for any way out of her predicament, desperate for any merest scrap of clothing. Well, now she had it!

The song ended and Tami had worked up a sweat. She playfully collapsed into Rod’s arms. He kissed her deep, then held her away from him to look down again at her precious wardrobe.

“Tugs at your clit a lot,” he observed.

“Oh Baby… With every motion. That’s why it works. It turns me on as I’m wearing something.” Her legs shook. “It is time for a f**k!!” And she pulled him toward the bedroom. Halfway there she undid his fly. She pulled him the rest of the way via his floppy but hardening dick.

. . . .

“Unhhh! Unhhh! OHHH!!”

Tami was cresting into her eighth orgasm. Rod looked at the clock radio. Thirty-two minutes. Exactly one every four minutes. He reached up and kneaded her nipples to extend her orgasm. She yelped accordingly.

After the last irregular spasms had spent themselves, she exhaled and lay down on his chest. She kissed him and then rose up to begin the ascent to number nine.

Rod looked at her sweating face in the near-total darkness. Then he looked at the C-string tied to the bedpost. Then outside at the streetlight. He thought of the 1991 World Series —

“Ummmm… ”

An equation he had been working on on the dam site —

“Ooooohh yeah… ”

That strange sound the fan belt on his Jeep had been making —

“Zhhhhh… oh wow…”

He got distracted by Tami, who now rose up to the crest of number nine. “Eeee… OHHH! Oh Rod!! OHHHH!!” Rather fast, that one.

Tami lay down on his chest again and stayed there, catching her breath. He expected her to rise up again but she just stayed there, rubbing his sides. Strange that she would be finished. Nine orgasms was usually just a warmup for her.

He thought of the future, when Tami would be wearing clothes. After a few weeks her wonderful all-over tan would be gone, replaced by the tan lines that white girls specialized in. And her ability to predict the weather with her nipples, and the sense she got of other people’s feelings, those would probably fade away in time too. A shame, really. If only the whole world could be naked. The naked Tami was a kind of advanced human being that the world just wasn’t ready for. But it would be all for the best. As a naked woman after graduation, in the world as it is, Tami would lead a severely restricted life, a life of horrible loneliness in a way.

Tami lifted her head and gave him a slow kiss. Then she slid off his dick and scooted down. She held the wet, hard dick in her hand. Then began licking up the sides. Slowly, philosophically, as if licking a lollipop while thinking on some profound question.

Rod smiled. He didn’t have to come. In fact recently he hadn’t been coming at all. “It’s O.K., Babe,” he said. Using his standard line, he said, “I’m a little tired anyway.”

Tami opened her eyes wide and said, “Not… if… I… can… help… it!” Then she sat up cross-legged, straightened her throat, opened her jaw like a snake, and dropped her head to consume more of Rod’s dick than she ever had before.

“Oh — wow!” he couldn’t help saying. How did she do that? The head of my dick must be all the way down her throat?

“Gahhhh,” was the grunting sound Tami made as she pulled herself off his dick. As she smacked her lips, strands of saliva suspended from the tip. The saliva in the bottom of the throat must be really thick. Then she rubbed his dick head with her fingers in a way to make him jump.

He watched her do that for a few seconds. Then she tried to speak but couldn’t. She cleared her throat. Her voice was guttural as she said, “Tonight, Rod, you will have multiple orgasms!”

Rod laughed at the joke, thinking of that time he had confessed to her that he was jealous of her orgasmic capacity. “Yeah, right Babe. One is fine.”

“No, I’ve been doing some research,” Tami said. “Ever hear of Tantra?”

He remembered reading about that a long time ago. “You mean, where the man doesn’t get to come at all?”

“No, no, you misunderstand,” Tami said, casually slapping his dick against her face. “You come without ejaculating. Take deep breaths, stop before you spurt, then you feel the spasms. Then they subside and you go up again. Only on the last orgasm do you ejaculate.”

He was unconvinced. “Sounds kind of… contrived.”

“No, no… the spasms without spurting are an orgasm like a woman has. Try it, please, Baby?”

Her green eyes were so wide and earnest. It was impossible to say no to Tami.

As she started sucking him again he realized how well she knew his body. Probably she knew that his mind had been elsewhere during sex… He felt bad about being false to her. But then all other feelings fell away as his excitement rose. Faster and faster, deeper and deeper, her bobbing head took in his dick. He breathed deeply as she had told him.

He felt himself getting up into “the zone”, then felt that little gate open up in the base of his dick, the “pre-cum”… Tami sensed this and hopped up onto all fours so that he could mount her. He was more in control in this position so he could be more careful.

As he humped her he began to feel the big rush inside him and stopped thrusting. It subsided and he began thrusting again. Then it came up higher and he stopped again. Breathe, breathe…

Now that wonderful instant when his whole body was flooded with pure pleasure. But this was not fleeting, it went on for several seconds. Then his dick jumped and he felt the spasms, maybe four or five of them. But no spurting!

He came down and then started thrusting again. The big rush again, his whole body on a high. He just couldn’t hold back this time. He kept going and his dick erupted what felt like a quart of semen into Tami’s pussy. It kept on and on. It seemed like he would never stop squirting.

Afterward he flopped onto his back, gasping as if he’d just run up a mountain. Tami slid onto his chest. When he seemed able to speak, she ran her finger around his lips.

“So, lover… seemed like you did it.”

Rod, back to earth now, was able to be objective. “That was great… but weird.”

“You had two orgasms.”

“That first one was well… I suppose it was an orgasm.”

They lay there for a few moments.

“Thanks Babe,” he said. “But you’re still the champ. I don’t think I can ever…”

“I’d say it was a good start.”

They lay there and hugged. He kissed her one last time. Within five minutes they were fast asleep.

. . . .

Rod straightened his sleeve and looked down with mixed feelings at his new uniform. He glanced around and saw that he was in a big room. Tunemasters uniforms were milling all around. Playing with the slide of his trombone, he decided to sit down at one of the long tables near the sodas.

He looked around for Brigid. She was not hard to pick out.

Part 55

He wondered why he was fiddling with his trombone. Everyone else almost, had their instruments over on those cabinets on the side of the room. It was a pretty big place, maybe a cafeteria or something for this big ski resort, whose Winter Carnival the Tunemasters were marching in. Converted to a kind of waiting room for the marchers.

He was still not sure about these new uniforms. Sarge had explained that the effect was to be a bit more glitzy, so they had been jazzed up a little. There were now ruffles along the buttons and on the cuffs, and extra piping up and down. He supposed it made them look taller. The piping, though, was gold. Weren’t the school colors supposed to be black and white?

“I’m not quite down with it either,” his friend Jared said. Jared had wisely put his cymbals on the cabinets and was carefully sipping a soda he had gotten from the little serving table, which had sodas and pretty much nothing else. Just something to wet everyone’s lips, he supposed, to get ready for playing. Jared and Rod looked down their uniforms, at their jackets with the big “T” over the right breast, the cummerbund, the long braided trousers with the now-gold piping, down to the long black boots.

He shifted a bit. This new thermal underwear, necessary because of the intense cold outside, was a bit itchy.

“Good thing it’s not too hot,” Jared said, reading Rod’s thoughts. Their own thermals had gotten them hot while they were inside. These special-order ones didn’t.

“Yeah… ” He looked up at the TV screen mounted from the ceiling. A Vermont station, from Burlington, a brief news break. “And we will have live coverage of this year’s Killington Winter Carnival, starting next.” And now a long view of the route they would be marching, pure white, plowed snow, with ropes marking off the “street”. Maybe there really was a street there in warm weather, but you couldn’t tell now. Just to the side, a stand of skis and other equipment, then a kiosk that led to a path to the ski lifts, with a few people carrying skis to it. A big contraption that looked like a tractor, with a pile of snow behind it — a snow making machine and a salt water tank, someone said. A little silo which contained a gift shop. And Christmas-style string lights hung over the route at intervals, held up by poles on each side. It was almost sundown — for some reason this parade was at night — but it was still hard for the camera to adjust to the sunlit whiteness. The camera got a little better adjusted and now one could see the orange electrical wires strewn along the sides of the packed snow “street”. Lots of lights up.

He looked around. The room was mostly full of Tunemasters kids but also there were some grown-ups. Some important-looking guys in top hats and white gloves, maybe the Grand Marshals or something, talking to Sarge, who was in his usual bland business suit. Also some soldiers, a couple of old American Legion guys in their boy scout-style caps. Ladies’ Auxiliary folks. But mostly Tunemasters. About forty of them were able to make this trip and they outnumbered the rest.

He licked his lips and looked at the soda table. Jamal’s lips didn’t need wetting, he was percussion, but Rod wondered what it would be like to blow into a trombone in such cold. Yes, there was that last game when it sleeted for a while, and that big parade before the Patriots game, but this parade was actually below freezing. As in, his lips might freeze to his mouthpiece! They had never marched outside in January before. It was already maybe 25 degrees and the temperature was sure to drop once it got dark. Fortunately there didn’t seem to be any wind.

On the TV, two guys in ski outfits were talking in the foreground. In the background you could see people filling up behind the ropes.

He decided on soda, but it had to be clear so as not to make a stain on his uniform if it spilled. Luckily they had 7-Up. He returned his trombone to the cabinets and got a can and sipped.

He took another view of the room. The new uniforms sure made the Tunemasters look different. Before, the effect was kind of military. Now, with the luxuriant ruffles and piping, and the big new shako hats with frills that a lot of them already had put on, the effect was more like entertainment, like a big show in Las Vegas. Jaycee, Virginia, Debra, Morganna, Sid, Ty, Jacob… they all seemed to be wearing more clothes, somehow, taking up more space. And the gold piping made their raiment seem all the more abundant. It was not actually bad, he decided, just different. Hard to get used to.

He wondered about the changes to the uniform of the majorette, Brigid. He looked around for her but she was hard to find in all this finery. A – ha! Behind that clot of flute and clarinet players, all girls, he saw two bare white butt cheeks slightly sticking out in profile.

He and Brigid had a special bond, he knew, or he thought he knew, based on that on-field conversation at that last game, but it hard been hard to build on. He just couldn’t screw up the courage to ask her out. Mostly he could just chat in the hall whenever he saw her between classes. It was a big high school and hard to “bump into” someone accidentally-on-purpose. And he couldn’t think of anything interesting to talk about. “What’s up?” He kept kicking himself for being so inane.

He took a deep breath, sipped from the can, and approached her.

As he walked up behind her he saw she was talking with Velda and Lourdes, friends of hers from the clarinet section, who were straightening out their jackets. Brigid was enthusing about the new piping, feeling the fabric in her fingers, testing the ruffles

“That’s so neat, pwiddy!” she said in her “Pwovidince” accent. “They’ll get a big chahge out of that!”

Rod looked down past Brigid’s bare shoulders and slim, bare back, and for a second he thought she was totally naked! But no, the strings that held the thong bottom on were still there, they were just transparent now. Kind of like clear plastic, hard to see, and only what looked like an eighth of an inch wide. Also they didn’t meet at a “T” like before. They curved down, well below her sacral dimples, and into her butt crack where they met. Kind of like a “V” in script. Down below, she had on her backless majorette sandals.

“Oh hi Rod!” Brigid said, turning around. He bit his lip as he saw her pretty white Irish face, the freckles and the red hair set up in braids. “You look real nice!” As she smoothed his ruffles he looked up. Her little cap had disappeared.

“Nice tiara,” he said, thankful he could remember the name for that little half-crown that was now on her head. With a “T” in the middle, otherwise just a little half-circle of metal or maybe plastic, the ends going into her hair.

Brigid turned her head side to side as if modeling it.

“What’s that? A headset?”

There was a little piece of it going into her ear.

“No, just a speakah so I can heah Sahge,” she said, tapping it. “This way he doesn’t have to mahch right next to us, he can give me directions to go fast, go slow… And how about my new ‘T’s?!”

His eyes widened as he looked down to her chest. The ever-shrinking circlets were now gone. In their place were black-and-white T’s mounted on her nipples. They were maybe three inches high. His mouth opened in puzzlement. Behind them he could clearly see the circles of her nipples, a little below the junction of the “T”. They were about the size of quarters. He had heard that white girls, their nipples were pink until the first time they went out topless in the sun. Then they turned brown and never went back. Brigid’s nipples, as anyone could see, were pink, against her white skin.

Wasn’t this against the public decency code? Weren’t female nipples supposed to be covered? He imagined the Tunemasters majorette would know about such things. But the “powers that be” must have decided it was OK. Maybe it was just the tip of the nipple, the part that stuck out and supported these letters, that had to be covered.

“Aren’t they great?” Brigid said, sticking them out slightly, proud of this change in her uniform. “The circlets were too small. This way my ‘T’s are more cleah.” As she moved the T’s danced a little.

“Do they stay on OK?” he couldn’t help asking.

“Sure, they fit right on.” In the middle of each letter was a little black circle, as big around as a pencil eraser, that covered the nub of her nipple. He couldn’t imagine how these things felt. “Better than those horrid old clips.”

“I’ll say.”

He noticed people forming a circle around them as Brigid explained the benefits of her new uniform.

Rod looked further down and saw that her uniform bottom, which used to be a narrow “V”, was now also a “T”. It was clear by now that Brigid had had to shave off every bit of her pubic hair because her lower T covered only her pussy lips and her clit, those private parts he had spied on during that last game when Brigid was being “cleaned up” under the stands by Ms. Farkas and Debra and Virginia. The T was way, way below her navel, maybe eight inches of flat lower tummy framed by the larger “V” of her hip bones. The junction of the T had to be right over where Brigid’s clit lay hidden between her lower lips…

The clear plastic straps came around from the sides, crossing the lower parts of Brigid’s hip bones, and met at each end of the T. The bottom of the T was almost hidden as it disappeared between her legs.

“Looks a little insecure,” Marisa, who was standing behind Brigid, said of the strings in the back.

“Oh this is called a V-back,” Brigid said, turning around and looking back on it to the extend she could. “It’s actually more secuah than a T-back. I can move around and it stays put.” Everyone looked down at the tiny transparent straps that curved into her butt crack. He couldn’t help but continue to admire how tight and firm and curvy her butt was. Her white skin was beautiful and clear…

“Your sandals changed too,” Brian observed.

“Yeah,” Brigid said, taking one off and putting her bare foot on the tile floor, surrounded by everyone else’s big ruffled boots. She held it up at the level of her cute puckered navel. “See, no heel. And it’s got a tread.” Indeed the sandals were now totally flat flip-flops, with straps that were as transparent as those around her hips. And the bottoms did have black treads on them, like sneakers do.

“Snow flip-flops,” someone said. Everyone laughed, including Brigid. “Yeah, like tires,” she said. “It was eithah that, or chains,” she said. More giggling.

As Brigid put the flip-flop back on, Rod looked down and told himself: Brigid’s entire foot is now exposed. He regarded again the T covering her pussy lips, and the tiny bit of coverage afforded by the T’s on her breasts.

He held up the pinky on his gloved hand and told himself: now she’s down to less than this. My pinky has more coverage than Brigid’s entire body does!

This little chitchat was interrupted by Sarge, who was followed by one of the men in top hats, a white guy with a beard about 55 years old, with a ribbon across his ruffled tuxedo-like jacket. “Tunemasters, this is the mayor, Mr. Richfield, who’s grand marshaling this parade. Mr. Richfield, we’re all proud of them, the Tunemasters!”

Rod and the others said a variation of “good to meet you”, the standard greeting they had been trained to say. Comportment off the march was very important, especially since the Killington resort was donating a big wad of cash to the school for this appearance. Mr. Richfield said a few words about how he was glad to have them here, how he’d heard about them even up here in the Green Mountains, etc., etc. Then he said,”It’s traditional for a photo of some of the visiting band members to be taken before the parade. I’d like a couple of you to stand outside with me for a moment. We’ve got to hurry — it’s almost getting dark.”

Sarge said, “Well one of them has to be our majorette, the other — Jared? Get your things.”

By that he meant: Brigid, get your baton, and Jared, get your cymbals. In a moment both were hustling to the foyer and then outside, along with Sarge. The rest stayed inside and watched through the big foyer window, through which they could see the marching route.

The photographer, bundled up in his scarf and coat and gloves and ski cap, was waiting out there for them. The snow was a little golden now, with the last rays of sunshine. As Rod and the rest of the Tunemasters watched, Jamal and Brigid stood on either side of Mayor Richfield and smiled, trying not to squint as they faced the setting sun. Jamal, with his cymbals posed in front of him as if about to crash, Brigid, with her baton primly placed up against her left shoulder, next to the Mayor. Down below, a few grains of snow had dusted up on Brigid’s bare toes. Her body was flushed from top to bottom in the invigorating cold.

The Mayor’s white glove rested on Brigid’s bare right shoulder. Rod thought: how does a middle-aged guy feel resting a hand on the majorette, getting to feel her bare skin, if only through his glove? Didn’t he really wish he was cupping her ass? He smirked at the thought.

“Come on, Mr. Watson,” the Mayor said, beckoning for Sarge to get into the photo. Sarge modestly refused, but the Tunemasters, shouting through the glass, egged him on. Finally he shrugged and took his place next to Jamal as the band inside cheered.

Smiles stayed frozen on their faces as the photographer fiddled with his camera. A minute went by. Finally the Mayor took his hand off Brigid’s shoulder and shook off the cold that was penetrating him even through his suit and gloves and heavy boots. One might think that someone who lived up here would be more temperature resistant. “Something wrong, Fred?” he finally said.

“The contrast with the girl, she’s too white, she blends with the snow,” he mumbled. At his suggestion there was some shifting around. Breaths condensed in the cold air as Brigid got a little more flushed. Maybe her increasing redness made the contrast better. Another minute later, the flash went off. A second flash, and now Brigid and Jamal and Sarge ran in to the foyer.

They all got back to the big “ready room” and Rod sat down and sipped his soda. Jared sat next to him and they talked about basketball, how the Celtics were doing this year. On the TV, it was amazing how dark it got right away. The two guys in ski outfits were still talking. The sound was too low to hear what they were saying.

He turned around, sensing Brigid near him. And found himself staring eye-level with Brigid’s crotch only a foot away.

Part 56

Rod turned from where he was sitting and found himself eye- to-eye with the majorette’s crotch, hardly a foot away.

She was standing and sipping soda, with Virginia and Debra, her fully uniformed friends, on each side of her, looking out to the gathering crowd on the snow-packed parade route. She wasn’t aware of his gaze.

His close-in view allowed him to fully enjoy her smooth white skin, from her flat tummy with its cute navel down to her thighs. The only interruption from total nakedness was the thin clear string that journeyed from both sides across her hips, crossing the lower parts of the big “V” of her delicate hip bones, crossing the smaller “V” of her pubic mound, meeting in that little black-and-white “T” that hugged and partly bit into her pubic lips. She must have taken a lot of care shaving down there. Not a hint of stubble, no trace of the pubic hairs that he now knew were as red as the hairs on her head.

The little “T” was as skinny as his pinky and the top was only half an inch wide. It looked ridiculously tiny on her. Thin as she was, it made her hips look wide as the clear strings journeyed their way across them, like trekking across an endless desert toward the tiny oasis of covering that was the “T”. She looked like a 50-foot woman who had stretched on a normal size thong.

And the stem of the “T” was so thin that it bit into her lips, actually separating them, as it disappeared between her legs. From his close view he could see the little streak of gold running down the middle of the “T”, within the black that was in turn framed within the tiny white border. So here was the gold that matched the gold piping on everyone else’s uniforms, though shrunk down to almost microscopic dimensions on the micro-uniform that the majorette had to wear.

“Micro-uniform.” That was a good name for it. Brigid could hardly be said to be wearing anything, yet she stood straight up and poised and clearly proud of what was on her. He wondered what the scene was like in her house on game days. For his part, he would shower, get into his thermals, then his momma would have his uniform laid out on his bed, shirt next to jacket, then pants, then his socks, with his boots on the floor. And Brigid? He imagined her walking to her room totally naked, to find the tiny circlets and V-botton carefully arranged, tiny bits against the expanse of bedsheets, which would take only a few seconds to tie on. Then slipping on the flip-flops, and prancing out to get her baton.

Examining her crotch again, he saw the fleshiness of the white-skinned lower lips, sloping down from each side of the “T”. Including the crease at the beginnings of her legs, it looked like the letter “W”, though with soft bottoms. A little “w” in script, maybe.

He quickly turned around, thinking Brigid might be seeing him look at her crotch. She was used to being looked at, of course, but it wouldn’t be cool to stare so directly. He sipped his soda and, looking back, was relieved to see she was still looking outside.

There was a big, flashy scene that was developing out there. The place seemed to be in the middle of nowhere, judging from that long bus ride, so where did all these people come from? it was a little city carnival. Music was piped in, food was being sold from booths, people milling around waiting for the start of festivities.

His mind wandered and he thought of those dreams he had been having. It had been three or four times now. He was older and had a girlfriend, or maybe it was a wife. Her name was Tami and she was red-haired and white and she was always naked. Like a natural forest woman, kissing him and then scampering away through the forest, her tough bare feet hopping from rock to log to branch, light as a feather, then in no time disappearing from sight. These dreams were clearly inspired by Brigid, especially that last one where this Tami lady was wearing this little string thing in her crotch and seemed to be as proud and glad of this covering as Brigid was with her micro-thong.

Now Brigid sat on the bench a few feet down from him, saying hi but then chatting with Debra, who sat down on the far side. He watched as they talked about their favorite TV shows, Brigid with her legs crossed dangling the flip-flop from the ends of her toes. You never saw bare toes in January, except with the Tunemasters majorette of course.

Her breasts must have gotten bigger. It sure seemed so, as he saw them in profile, sticking out from her rib cage more than before, jiggling slightly with the motions of her leg. Well, most girls her age were still developing. He saw the pink circles of her nipples in profile — they were called areoles, something like that?

First the circlets, then the smaller circlets, now these suspended T’s — it seemed like the uniform was gradually leaping off the fronts of Brigid’s breasts. Now only the very tip of her nipple, was covered, in that tiny half-inch tube that supported the “T”‘s which had no other point of contact with her. They didn’t pull down her breasts at all. They looked to be hollow plastic and almost weightless. They jiggled a little too, with every little motion.

“Ready to get — Frigid — Brigid?” a wise guy cracked as he passed by. Brigid began to turn but changed her mind and kept talking about soap operas.

“Icy titties,” another boy said as he passed by. Brigid made a quick sign of “f**k you” with her lips but kept talking.

Now a stray comment from some distance away. “Popsicle toes!”

Brigid ignored him, though it seemed like the skin around her collarbones flushed a bit as if in anger. She was used to the occasional jerky comment. It never rattled her. The way some boys acted, it didn’t make him proud. Sometimes he wished she would jump up and say, “Hey in a few minutes I’ll be freezing my tits off for you idiots! Just shut the f**k up!” Or thrusting her breasts in some boy’s face and saying, “Go ahead keep talking. Just know you will never… EVER… get to touch these!!” It would serve him right. But that just wouldn’t be Brigid. To be the Tunemasters majorette was a big responsibility and she handled it like a real pro.

He briefly wondered what it would be like if it was him. That is, a drum major, who had to wear just a tiny jockstrap-;ike thing. He’d die of embarrassment. Kind of like if Brigid, standing at attention in front of the formation of full-uniformed Tunemasters, was nervously clutching the baton in front of her and saying, “P – please, Sarge… C – could I be allowed to wear more — clothes? Please??”

His increasingly weird musings were interrupted by Sarge’s loud bark. “Attention, troops!” Like what he must have said hundreds of times in the Army. Rod and Brigid and Debra and the others got up, as Sarge addressed them, Brigid as usual by his side.

“First question, how is that thermal underwear working out? Anyone feeling hot?”

A murmur of approval. Brigid, crossing her arms, one foot turned to the side, looked on.

“Good. Believe me, it’s a new fabric and it’s wonderful. Developed for the Army, or by the Army, I understand. No surprise here,” he said with a smile. “You wouldn’t get the Navy latching on to something that good… Now, it’s a packed snow route, as you can see, and real cold. Out of consideration for the band, I’ve asked that the route be short. We’ll be marching only about 300 yards. We’ll be outside no more than ten or fifteen minutes. After that, you can come back here and change, or you can mingle. Be back by nine o’clock though.”

Rod knew that the reference to “consideration for the band” was really “consideration for our majorette who has to march practically naked”. But Brigid would not want any mention of special treatment. A pro.

“We’ll be doing ‘National Emblem’, ‘Little Giant’ and ‘Winter Wonderland’, which is the obvious choice. Remember the double tonguing on the intro to ‘Wonderland’. I know it’s a new tune for you but I know you’ll do fine.

“I won’t be marching with you, I’ll be on the reviewing stand. Watch Brigid. Like always, but especially tonight. She has a headset and will be hearing my directions. Remember,” he said, lowering his voice to the majorette next to him, “if my voice is too low, turn left. Too high, turn right. I don’t want you going deaf for our sake.”

A short old lady appeared next to Sarge. He said, “Now you voted to donate our marching fee to the disabled learning center, as you recall. Good choice, though all the choices they gave us are worthy programs at our school. Here’s the director, you’ve seen her around the school, Dr. Bellamy.”

To his surprise Tommy Blackwell appeared next to her and everyone felt about to choke up. Tommy, who had been one of the most popular guys in the school, his ornate dreadlocks a daily sight swinging down the halls, the quarterback for the freshman football team, who was in a car crash, who since then hadn’t been able to put a complete sentence together. His parents were optimistic but it was obvious he just wasn’t getting better.

Dr. Bellamy said a few words, thanking the band “from the bottom of our hearts.” Then she gave the floor to Tommy.

“Th – thank… you… g – guys,” he said, struggling with each sound. Then a labored wave of his hand, and through his surgically repaired lips, a little flash of his old smile.

Some of the girls sniffled and probably some of the boys too. Then suddenly, loud applause.

It made Rod proud, once again, to be a Tunemaster. Sarge gave them ten minutes until lineup time. Ron went back to his soda at the table.

And felt his left boot go out from under him. Then a quick view of the ceiling and an awful pain in the back of his head, like being hit with a baseball bat.

It seemed like a week later when he woke. For a moment he thought he was as messed up as Tommy, but he blinked and realized he was OK except for a headache. He looked up from the floor and saw Brigid’s T’s, dancing gently above him, as she bent down and placed her hand behind his head.

Her breasts were so round and firm and white… he looked up past her bare shoulders at her concerned and helpful face.

“Are you OK, Rod?”

“Oh Brigid…” He was about to tell her he loved her. But then saw the sea of concerning faces standing behind her and thought better of it. He tried to help himself up. Brigid, her toes flexing in her flip-flops, put her strong arms around his wool jacket. He placed his gloved hand on the upper slope of her hip, which helped revive him a lot. The next moment he was standing up, taking deep breaths…

“What happened?”

“You slipped and were out cold for a few seconds,” Jared said.

He shook his head quickly and felt a quick chill all over. “I’m OK, gang!” he announced. A sigh of relief all around.

“All line up!” Sarge shouted from somewhere in the distance.

“That was some spill,” Brigid said as they lined up, he and Brigid and Debra and Virginia near the front, waiting to get into the vestibule and then out into the loud, light-filled nighttime air.

“You mean someone spilled soda?” he said.

She laughed enchantingly, tapping her baton against the bell of his trombone. “No, I mean you fell backwids, gave us quite a scay – uh.”

They talked about the crowds outside, how the whiff of hot dogs was making them hungry, whether their parents would see this event on TV. Meawhile Debra and Virginia spoke among themselves. He and Brigid were having the most relaxed conversation they’d ever had. It was a good feeling, he told himself, as he looked down at his long braided trousers and boots next to her bare thighs, her bare feet in the clear-strap flip flops.

During a lull they looked at the night scene outside. For the first time they noticed the lights of the village down the hill, sharp and clear over the bluish tinge of snow. A bank thermometer said it was minus seven degrees. It must mean Centigrade. He wasn’t sure he should be mentioning her plight but he said, “Are you going to be all right out there?”

She took a deep breath, causing the T’s to rise and fall, then looked down as she wiggled her toes. “It’s only a shawt time. Afterwids I’ll run back heah and get into my clothes.”

“You can wear my jacket,” he said.

She laughed. “Thanks but I don’t think that’ll do it.”

They waited and waited. Everyone was getting fidgety. From the front Sarge said, “There’s been a delay. They can’t get one of the floats to start up. Hang on, crew.”

Then they had to move out of the way as some men rolled dollies by carrying what must be float stuff. The four of them moved aside into a little hallway with a water fountain and a door that said, “Custodian”. They had run out of conversation and were getting seriously impatient. He twiddled with his spit valve and slide. Virginia played with her clarinet keys. She was using a size four reed and let Brigid try to play a few notes. “Wow, that’s a thick reed,” she said. “It’s hahd to get a note out!” She gave it back to Virginia. They watched as another dolly went by.

Debra began to contemplate Brigid’s T’s in a way that only a close girlfriend was probably allowed to do. “It’s hard to believe that those things stay on.”

“They feel a little strange, but they’re on good,” Brigid said, sticking them out a little and looking down at them. “It’s spirit glue and a little twist.” With a push of her finger she gave the corner of one T a little turn, maybe five minutes on a clockface, and it wiggled and came to rest back in place.

“Don’t they hurt?” Debra said.

“No. Well just a little. These little circles, they’re called microcirclets. I fit the T’s on and the microcirclets snap on last.” Ron felt it was O.K. to look along with the girls. The T’s, like that microbottom, were black with white borders, though there was a little lining of gold inside the white. Halfway up each T, in the middle of the black, was a little black circle, about the size of a pencil eraser. You couldn’t tell unless you looked real close. Which he was thankful he had the privilege to do.

“Still seems dicey,” Virginia said.

“Not at all. Look.” Brigid made sure no one was looking in from the main hall, then shimmied her bare shoulders side to side to make her breasts shake and wobble vigorously. Ron’s mouth opened.

Now with two quick pings, the microcirclets flew off, one after the other. They bounced into the hall unnoticed and were immediately crushed into a thousand pieces under the wheel of a passing dolley.

The nubs of Brigid’s bare nipples, bright and pink amid the blackness of the T’s, poked out at the world like little penlights.

“Oh Christ!!”

Part 57

The three Tunemasters in full band uniforms, Rod, Virginia and Debra, and the nearly naked majorette herself, stared speechless and in shock down at the bright pink nipples, poking slightly out from the little plastic T’s. It was as jarring and indecent as if Rod’s own dick had been hanging out the fly of his braided trousers. It was horrifying, it was disgusting… Brigid was as modest as the next girl, and was deeply shamed by having her nipples showing…

Brigid’s fingers quickly flew up to cover them. She looked at her friends in panic and misery. Only two fingers were needed for each nipple. The four high school kids turned quickly to the hallway. Fortunately nobody was looking. “Oh… God…” Brigid saw Rod looking at her most private nipples and, in an uncharacteristically pleading voice, said, “Please don’t look, Rod!”

Reflexively he directed his glance up and met her anguished face with his own look of empathy and concern.

Debra thought quickly. She tried the “Custodian” door and it was unlocked. “Let’s get you out of sight. Rod, tell them we went to the bathroom.” And the three high school girls closed the door behind them.

Oh man, what a fix we’re in, Rod told himself, compulsively working his slide. Only minutes away from our big moment, the Tunemasters’ biggest and most lucrative engagement yet, that would bring thousands of dollars to the Special Learning Center to help kids like Tommy Blackwell. And Brigid, who would be leading the band, getting instructions from Sarge through her headset, out of commission! Disaster!

Fortunately no one from the hallway was looking in at this little alcove. Sid, one of the other trombonists, sauntered by and nodded. Now here came the three faculty chaperones, the old shop teacher Mr. Tucker, with Mrs. Toriello the social studies teacher and Ms. Chen, the science teacher. They were talking among themselves. Rod was worried. If the girls came out of the custodian closet they would be noticed immediately.

Brigid, Brigid… How could he show his love for her in this crisis? He felt helpless, standing out in the hall with the suffering majorette trapped in that closet. He decided to be heroic. To hell with the band, it’s Brigid’s welfare first. She could not emerge as she was. He would give her his jacket, which would serve to cover her nipples. Then he would go out with her, and she could act sick with the jacket draped over her, and he’d tell Sarge that Brigid was ill and he was too, they just couldn’t march tonight. The Tunemasters would have to go without their majorette this time. And Sarge would have to march alongside them as usual, shouting instructions whenever needed.

He bit his lip but congratulated himself. Yes, a gutsy thing to do, but I’ll do it, dammit!

But of course it was not up to him. He wondered what Debra and Virginia were planning with Brigid in the closet. As the moments went by he got uneasy. Making sure no one was looking, he put his ear to the door. No sound. Now there was a shot of something like compressed air, and Brigid’s gasp. His ears were burning now. He knocked. “Brigid?” he whispered loudly.

The door opened and Debra pulled him in.

It wasn’t a closet, it was a whole office, with shelves of cleaning stuff and tools and paint. Debra and Virginia checked his face. He answered, “No one knows we’re here.” “Good.”

Brigid was facing away from him, giving him a full body rear view of her utter, total nakedness, from her pinned-up hair down to her heels of the backless flip-flops, interrupted only by the curvy V of the tiny clear strings sloping into her butt crack. Her elbows up, she seemed to be still covering her nipples with her fingers.

“Show him, Brigid,” Debra said.

“Oh… God…” Brigid showly turned around, fingers on her nipples, afraid to meet his gaze. Then she cleared her throat and looked up at the ceiling and brought her fingers down, just a few inches.

The T’s were back to being all black! No more pink!

“How did you do that?”

Debra held up a can of black spray paint.

He looked closer, and saw the nubs of Brigid’s nipples, now jet black. “Wow!”

“It’s obvious, isn’t it?” Brigid said in misery.

“No… it doesn’t look bad at all… They just look like… part of the T.”

“Exactly!” Debra said. As the three friends looked at the black-painted nubs, Virginia said, “It looks like rubber cement. Black rubber cement. To keep the T’s on.”

Indeed it did look just like some kind of glue to keep the T’s on, colored black to match. If one didn’t know…

Brigid forced her arms down straight at her sides, her fingers rubbing her hips. Looking up as if praying, she said, “You guys GOTTA look at me like that??”

“OK, OK,” Rod said quickly, his eyes shooting down to the floor, where he contemplated their boots and Brigid’s squirming toes.

Through the door they could hear Sarge’s muffled voice out in the hall. “The floats are fixed, people! Line up in five minutes! For sure!”

“Let’s get out there!” Debra said.

“I just — can’t!” He had never seen Brigid like this, so shy and queasy, though he could well understand.

“You know you have to,” Virginia said.

Brigid gulped and shook her head in misery. “Yeah… What choice do I have?”

“Of course you have a choice,” Rod said. “Tell them you’re sick. Here, take my jacket.” He began the laborious task of undoing the fifteen buttons down his front.

“No, no…” Brigid walked forward and gingerly opened the door. With a deep breath, a heave of her breasts and a rise of the T’s they supported, she walked out into the alcove.

They got out there and Brigid once again reflexively covered her black-painted nipples with her fingers.

“You have to put your hands down,” Debra said. “Don’t give the slightest sign…”

Brigid nodded and straightened her arms down her sides. She got her baton from where she had laid it down before. And the four of them walked out the alcove into the hall.

The band was roughly in line but more or less hanging around. After all, they had five more minutes in this endless wait. The four friends stood around and tried to act relaxed. Rod allowed himself just fleeting glances at Brigid’s T’s. He felt Debra and Virginia under a similar stricture. The four of them tried to look everywhere but… Everyone else was going to see the T’s, of course, the rest of the band and the hundreds of people lining the route, but only the three of them knew what they would be looking at…

“Hi Debra, Rod, Virginia, Brigid,” Ms. Chen said. She and Mr. Tucker and Mrs. Toriello came up to them. The three teacher chaperones, expecting to be outside in a moment, were in their coats and winter hats, carrying gloves. “I could make you nervous and say ‘ready for your big moment’, but you’re all old pros at this.”

The four Tunemasters smiled politely, unable to think of anything to say.

“Your new uniforms are positively resplendent,” Mrs. Toriello said.

“Thank you,” Virginia said. They all felt the need to look down, if only quickly, at their new duds. Even Brigid. With the heavy coats on the teachers and the new uniforms, the rest of them looked twice her size.

“Looks good,” Mr. Tucker said in his gravelly voice. “The majorette uniform keeps getting… more interesting.” He looked down at the tiny T that covered and also separated Brigid’s lower lips.

Brigid blushed, as if being gushed over, which was not surprising to the three chaperones.

Ms. Chen, a very short Chinese woman, looked at Brigid’s T’s which were almost at her eye level. Her eyebrow furrowed. “I thought these were all plastic. This looks like — ” The four friends almost died with fright as the three teachers gathered closer.

“It’s — rubber cement,” Brigid said.

“Seems like it’s coming out,” Mr. Tucker said. “Excuse me dear.” He gently held one of the T’s and — poked his rough old shop teacher’s finger into Brigid’s nipple!

Rod could hear the sudden intake of breath, could see the quaking tummy below —

“I’m afraid it might fall out,” he said. “We don’t want that happening, don’t we?”

“Rubber cement?” Mrs. Toriello said.

“Looks like xanthum gum, a good choice I’ say, but it doesn’t look too good,” Mr. Tucker said.

Ms. Chen said. “Excuse me, dear…” She held the other T and gently poked the other blackened nub…

Some of the other band members approached in curiosity. Soon there were about ten of them gathered around, watching the teachers fix Brigid’s T’s, maybe to prevent a “wardrobe malfunction” during the parade?

“What’s wrong?” Jared said.

“Xanthum gum fastener, I think she put too much on,” Mr. Tucker said, continuing to try to poke the black nub in, but it kept springing back out. Ms. Chen was having a similar lack of success with the other one.

“Oh… I didn’t notice that before,” Jared said. As indeed none of them had, when they were viewing all the new uniforms in the big cafeteria room. They had not been examining the T’s too closely, their attention naturally being directed to what the T’s were covering (or not covering).

This can’t be happening, the three friends told themselves as they looked at each other. They watched in horror as Mr. Tucker and Ms. Chen kept gently poking as Brigid looked down with widened eyes and gulped. Seeing the faces around her, she suppressed her natural body reactions and said, “It’s — really – – O.K. We’ll be mahching in a minute — ” Her fingers fidgeted against the baton, her toes wiggled and squirmed…

Ms. Chen and Mr. Tucker gave up on poking and stood there, contemplating Brigid’s T’s. “Maybe we can fix it.”

Mr. Tucker saw the word “Custodian” on the closet and said, “We’ve just got to get this xanthum flush with the rest of the T’s. Otherwise it looks like — well…” He didn’t want to say it but they knew what he meant. “She’ll be on TV, you know. We’ve got to act fast.”

“Where are you going?” Ms. Chen said.

“There should be some sandpaper in here,” the shop teacher said, walking into the custodian’s office. “Some steady buffing with 150 or so grit will probably do it.”

“Get some for me too,” Ms. Chen said.

Part 58

Before Brigid and her friends could decide what to do, Mr. Tucker had come out of the custodian office with two little sheets of sandpaper.

Actually there was nothing they COULD do. Everyone was watching them, standing around waiting for the old shop teacher to emerge. Brigid couldn’t run. She couldn’t tell them the truth, that it was actually her bare nipples sticking out in everyone’s faces. That would be indecent exposure, detention for sure, telling her parents… as well as shame that would last for years. The incident would stick to her name for years. And they were about to go out to march. She and her friends were frozen to the spot, terrified.

Now Mr. Tucker gave one sheet to Ms. Chen. “Only 220 grit, but let’s see what we can do,” he said. He wadded his sheet up into a little section, then grasped Brigid’s left T around the edges. The T was only three inches high and was dwarfed by his rough, burly hand. “This should only take a moment, Miss O’Dierna…”

The first rub of 220 grit onto the majorette’s most sensitive spot caused a little strangled gasp and a quick intake of her bare tummy. He slowly drew the wad all the way across, then back, then forth, back and forth —

In a full band uniform one can always hide the manifestations of one’e emotions. Tummies shake with nervousness, butt cheeks clench with cold, arms and legs and chests sweat with exertion or heat, toes squirm in their boots, and of course also hidden are male erections, which for a teenage boy are frequent events. But a Tunemasters majorette cannot hide her body. As they watched in sympathy and horror Rod, Debra and Virginia looked their suffering friend up and down and noted the twitching shoulders, the flushed collarbones, the quaking of the flat tummy, the flexing of thigh muscles, and the spreading of her meticulously painted toes as poor Brigid tried to withstand the unbearably intense stimulation.

Ms. Chen started working on the right T, holding it in her little hand as she began sanding what she took to be the black gum adhesive. It was almost at her eye level and she peered in very closely. Seeing no progress, the two teachers became more vigorous, brushing back and forth faster, faster, harder, rasping away at the nipples. Behind the T’s, Brigid’s breast flesh jiggled in response to their motions.

Rod shut his eyes. He couldn’t look. But of course he opened them again. Brigid’s eyes popped open and she seemed about to cry. She looked at her friends with pleading. But they could do nothing. They were horrified at what it must feel like. Debra and Virginia folded their arms tightly across their chests, as if to protect their own nipples, which lay hidden from the world and protected by bras, thermals, blouses and jackets. Four layers of covering that Brigid was denied. For Rod’s part, he pictured the sandpaper going over the end of his dick, his most sensitive part, so sensitive that he himself never touched it, not even when jerking off.

Around them, the other band members drew closer, curious about whether the teachers could get that extra gum off. The buffing grew more furious. Mr. Tucker, a bit winded, stopped to tighten his grip on the T. So did Ms. Chen. Then they bore in and rubbed harder, faster, with lightning speed back and forth, back and forth —

Brigid’s breathing grew ragged. Her eyes blinked and opened wide again. It must be agony! Rod felt about to cry. Poor Brigid must be about to jump out of her skin! Her fingers clutched the baton with a white-knuckled grip. Her toes wiggled in her flip flops and spread and squirmed, individually and together, as if speaking urgently and eloquently of her distress in some kind of sign language.

Brigid looked up as if praying for deliverance from this torture. She must be Catholic and Rod pictured this as a stained glass scene. The Agony of St. Brigid.

The teachers rested again, then buffed again. Brigid sniffled. Her eyes squeezed shut. Then she remembered she must not betray the truth and she kept as still as she could. As her nipples were rasped and scraped, she kept her eyes forward, not looking anyone in the eye, in a resolute gaze, as if waiting for the signal to march. She stood up straight, baton at her side. Only an occasional twitch of the tummy or toes evidenced her suffering.

Rod was afraid that the black color might rub off. But it was a penetrating, oil-based paint and could only come off with turpentine.

Finally Mr. Tucker and Ms. Chen stood back and conceded defeat. Brigid closed her eyes and caught her breath.

“We’re not getting anywhere,” Mr. Tucker said.

“If anything, it’s sticking out more than before,” Ms. Chen observed.

Looking around at the gathered Tunemasters, Mr. Tucker said, “Any ideas, folks?” This comment only emphasized how everyone’s gaze was fixed on the black nubs at the center of Brigid’s T’s. She looked about to die from shame, though to everyone else it just seemed like the distress and concern she shared with the teachers, who had seen at the last minute a problem with her uniform that she hadn’t noticed from her vantage point. Rod and Debra and Virginia glanced at each other helplessly.

Mrs. Toriello, a grandmotherly type, came up and stood right in front of the majorette. She gripped the T’s in each hand and examined them appraisingly. In the process she turned them a bit inward to more directly meet her gaze, making the breasts look a little cross-eyed.

“I think we’re under a misimpression here. This not what we think it is.”

Oh no! Brigid, looking down at her T’s, bit her lip.

“I think the gum has separated.”

The four friends exhaled in relief. But then they held their breath again as she said, “It’s in pieces. See all these little bumps? Maybe we can pluck some of the pieces out.”

Mr. Tucker grabbed part of Brigid’s left nub and pulled. She suppressed a gasp. He squeezed again, harder. But his fingers were too big and rough to get a good grip. “This is a job for women,” he conceded. “Someone with long nails.”

“I can do it,” Brigid volunteered quickly.

“No, you can’t see from your angle,” Mrs. Toriello said. “Also I don’t want you to ruin your manicure.” A valid concern. With the disappearance of boots and gloves, fingernail paint and toenail paint had become part of the majorette’s uniform. Brigid’s nails were meticulously done in the school colors, black and white, now with a little line of gold near the cuticle.

Everyone looked on as Mrs. Toriello and Ms. Chen bit into Brigid’s nubs with their fingernails, like pincers, squeezing them and pulling them, delicately and carefully, so as not to dislodge the T’s, but none the less painfully from Brigid’s standpoint.

Brigid’s nipples were squeezed and pinched and yanked on for a minute or more, the sharp fingernails cutting and slicing into the little bumps.

“This material is very tough,” Ms. Chen admitted. She brought out tweezers from her handbag. The nubs were now subjected to the merciless and crushing of the little metal jaws. The Agony of St. Brigid continued. Now Ms. Chen twisted the tweezers, almost half way around, trying to dislodge one little bmp after another Rod brought his hands over his crotch and almost doubled over as he pictured this being done to the end of his dick. The pain must be horrible. Debra and Virginia cringed and squeezed their arms across their chests even tighter.

The majorette reverted to waiting-to-march mode, eyes forward. Though her eyes were now rimmed with red. And now the pink circles behind the T’s, her areolas, which one could see clearly because the stems of the T’s were only a half-inch across… The pinkish hue was becoming more red, and the areolas were getting a little puffy. It made the T’s stand out more from her breasts. Not only were the areolas getting puffy, little goose bumps were forming around the perimeters.

As for the black-painted nubs, they were getting bumpier and more prominent, as each individual little bump was yanked and crushed and squeezed and twisted. Rod had to admit that they did look like bits of some kind of dried glue.

The women were not succeeding in tearing the bits off. “The only thing to do,” Mr. Tucker announced, “is cut. There’s a wire cutter in there,” he said, walking toward the custodian’s office. “I’ll be right back!”

“No!” Rod said. “No!”

Mr. Tucker, not one to brook any disrespect from students, said, “What, young man?”

Rod’s heart was in his mouth and his whole body was shaking as he took his stand. Fortunately the words that came to him were convincing. “This is a… Tunemasters — matter. We help each other in this band. Let us fix it ourselves.”

“Yes, yes,” Debra and Virginia said quickly.

“Th – that’s right,” Brigid said, still recovering from the assault on her sensitive nipples.

“Let me do it,” Rod said. He stood in front of Brigid. Their eyes met. He wanted to kiss her, hug her, take her away from the probing eyes and the tormenting teachers. If only they knew how cruel they had been. But his task now was to pretend to deal with the outcropping black gum.

He looked down at her nipples. She didn’t want him to look but she knew he had to. Under the black paint they looked swollen, abused, maybe angry. Like that time she took those old circlets off at the burger place, during the Patriots game parade, after her nipples had been squeezed by those bulldog clips all morning.

“It’s best to push it in,” he said. Gingerly he brought his gloved hands up. He brought an index finger to each nipple and once again contemplated how just one of his fingers enjoyed more covering than the majorette had for her entire, gorgeous body. He swallowed and looked at her. Her eyes were full of gratefulness. She pictured them going back into the custodian’s office, alone, as he comforted her, crying on his shoulder. “Oh Rod… I thought I was going crazy…”

She gasped as the tips of his gloved fingers rubbed her nubs tenderly, soothingly. He wanted to lick them. They would be soothed by a soft, wet tongue. Actually what she probably needed was ice. Well, in a few minutes her nipples would be hit by to the frigid air outside. That should help, though it would be rough on the rest of her near-nakedness.

The three teachers watched closely, along with Debra and Virginia. “You’re not getting anywhere,” Mr. Tucker complained.

He rubbed gently and then began pushing the nubs in, as tenderly as possible. Brigid sniffled and then smiled at him. He smiled back. They were in love, for sure.

He wanted to kiss her, so, so bad!

“March time!” Sarge yelled from somewhere.

That broke the tension. The scene broke up as the kids turned quickly. “We’ll be okay,” Brigid said to Mr. Tucker as the Tunemasters went back into line. In a moment Rod was walking behind her as she led the band into the vestibule.

As they approached the glass doors the bright lights of the outdoor winter carnival began to play on their uniforms, on Brigid’s skin. And now the frigid mountain air hit them as they walked outside, one by one.

Part 59

He blew through his trombone yet again and crunched his boots in the hard, rocky snow. Man, it was cold. Thank goodness for these new thermals under his full uniform, he was nice and snug, covered up from head to toe. Except for his face! The bank thermometer down in the distance read minus ten degrees. What was that in Fahrenheit? Fourteen? What made it worse was the wind. They weren’t expecting wind. The wind-chill must be zero. His face was beyond cold, it stung with pain, especially his nose.

He was in the front row as always, as the band stood in formation, well behind the beginning of the route, waiting for the local police guy to signal to march. The band was only at half strength on this trip. Despite the big carnival some distance ahead of them, they felt alone. They didn’t feel the usual big rush just before marching. Ahead of them was a space of maybe two hundred feet, then the beginning of the route, where the float before them had paused. Up further, near the slope of the next mountain, past the strings of overhead lights and the crowds cheering the passing floats, he could see the end of the route, and the reviewing stand where Sarge was, with all the other guys in top hats and a slightly out-of-season Santa. It did look like about three hundred yards, like Sarge said. About ten minutes’ march at regular speed.

But from here, it seemed a million miles away. They seemed alone in the bluish moonlit snow of this remote tundra. Like they were about to march on the planet Pluto.

To his right, the other trombones, Sid and Lorenzo and Deion, all suffered from a bad case of Frozen Face just like he was, grateful at least for the flaps from the big shako caps that kept their ears warm. The parts of their bodies not covered by the thermals were feeling the cold too. His hands were stiff and cold in their gloves. And it seemed he could never find socks thick enough. Even with two pairs and these big boots, his toes were cold and he kept on stamping his feet to keep the blood going, albeit with little steps so that he looked like he was still in formation.

He blew through his trombone yet again. It really did seem like his spit had frozen, he could feel the ice crystals. What was the purpose of a marching band in this cold? They seemed totally out of place. The wind bit his nose again and he twitched it, trying to get some feeling back.

Now he contemplated the rear of the blue-skinned naked girl in front of him. No, not really blue; that was just the dull hue of this unearthly scene, a reflection of the snow. But the bare toes in the flip-flops, flat on the crusty snow, the bare legs and butt, the bare back, the thin but strong arms and the delicate bare shoulders — how totally out of place. It was so unfair. They were freezing in their thermals and cover-all uniforms, but the poor majorette had to stand there in the frigid wind with almost no covering at all. Such exquisite nakedness should be soaking up the rays on a tropical beach. Maybe that’s what she was fantasizing about. Or maybe thinking of Tommy Blackwell and how this march would help the Disabled Learning Center.

Of course she was not really naked. But in the dull blue light the V of the clear strings curving into her butt was totally invisible. And from the back one couldn’t see the main parts of her uniform, the little T in her pussy lips, and the T’s perched on her areolas. He missed the riot of White Girl Skin Colors that was Brigid on a brisk day. the blotches of red on her shoulders, the purplish fingers and toes, that cute patch of pink over her sacral dimples, the blushes of red at the ends of her butt cheeks. Tonight she was just blue and naked and motionless, facing the zero-degree wind chill without outward expression. Like she was not really Brigid but some alien woman, from a race of blue people living on an even colder planet than Pluto, who had decided the only way to deal with this “hot” Plutonian weather was to go naked.

He supposed it was not so bad for Brigid, just a temporary chill, then a quick ten-minute march. Colder by some degrees, but not really that much worse than what she had gotten used to as a majorette during that cold, rainy football season. There was a little station at the end of the route, past the reviewing stand, where she could duck in and warm up. After they finished he would gallantly run back to the cafeteria room and get her coat and boots, what she wore on the bus ride up from the motel. After that she could hang out and enjoy the party like the rest, covered up except for her bare legs showing below the knee.

That float just didn’t want to start. It was a styrofoam- looking display of little ski slopes with three women in ski suits who were supposed to be elves or something, perched on them. At first he thought they were just pausing, letting everyone take in the sight before continuing, but bundled-up men were now lumbering around, speaking to each other through their ski masks, and he could see something was wrong. The band stood and waited. And froze. His butt cheeks were so cold they were starting to tingle.

His butt, that is, covered with thermals and jockey shorts and the long braided trousers. Brigid’s butt had no such protection. He looked at it, motionless in front of him, like a double blue moon, and try as he might he just could not make out the plastic V-strings that he knew were there.

Another minute went by. “Come on,” Sid said quietly, impatiently, “I’m half frozen.”

“Jesus, it’s cold,” Deion chimed in.

“No weather for black people!” said Lorenzo, who had the darkest skin of all of them.

“I can’t feel my toes,” Sid said.

Rod saw Brigid turn her head slightly and could see the exhale of her breath in the glint of the faraway lights. Great plumes of condensation, as if she were in a deep freezer.

“Christ, you know nothing about cold, guys!” Debra said from behind them in the clarinet section.

“Yeah,” said Millie, one of the saxophones, and the only other white kid to make this trip. “Our majorette’s freezin’ her bare buns off up there!”

Brigid turned to them halfway and he thought he saw her smile. Then she shivered all over. No longer a trans-Plutonian woman, once again a normal human adolescent, shivering in the bitter cold in a tiny majorette outfit. Poor Brigid!

A moment later, Brigid allowed herself to say, “Oh Jesus!” and shook herself all over. Her baton discreetly changed hands. And now, in a bold move, she raised one foot out of its flip-flop and wiggled her toes in an attempt to get some circulation back. It was forbidden, it was a little obscene, it was erotic, sexy, seeing her bare foot, her bare toes, in this frigid air, inches above the bed of crusty snow. After carefully parking the still- stiff foot back into the flip-flop, she did the same with the other foot.

It was very unusual for Brigid to complain about the cold. He could remember only one other time — that second game in September. They were waiting in the stands to come down for the halftime show. It had clouded over and suddenly gotten chilly. And now a wind kicked up that he could feel right through his uniform. He was standing next to Brigid and saw goose bumps raise up and down her arms, on her butt, and on her thighs. “Oh brother!” she said, then shook all over as if trying to shake the chill off. Cold as it was that day, I bet she wishes it could be that temperature now!

That stupid float up ahead still wouldn’t start. And now a bad sign. A little truck came out from behind that big snow- making machine, and ropes. The bundled-up men were forced to take off their gloves as they began to tie the ropes to the float to pull it. This would hold up things even more.

Now Brigid started seriously shivering. “Ohh… God… P – p – please…”

A couple of men walked up near them, on the way to the parade, not aware that the band was there. They were talking loudly and sipping coffees. “Crikey,” one said. “I’m glad we have this coffee.”

“Good thing these gloves are insulated!” the other said.

“These boots are great,” the first one said, lifting one of his gigantic, bulky moon boots. “I’m nice and snug. I’m almost downright hot!”

Brigid brought her foot up again and wiggled her toes. The men walked away toward the carnival, never having noticed the band. She shivered again, miserably. It was most noticeable in her blue shoulders. Her bare butt cheeks trembled.

Rod felt flushed with anger, making his frozen face a little less frozen. This is an outrage! A wintry night is no place for a nearly naked majorette. At least give her several layers of body stockings! Give her the covering the rest of her band enjoys! Let her march in a regular full uniform and boots! He applied the logic procedure from a recent math class. She probably couldn’t twirl in the full band uniform, and body stockings would look ridiculous. So therefore: you cannot have baton twirling in this cold. You simply can’t. He wished he could do something, at least say something.

Finally! The little truck started pulling the broken-down float and now there was the signal from that police guy, using one of those airport flashlight extensions, to start marching. And now Brigid stiffly strutted into motion, giving the band four beats. Her breasts bounced with her motions. Even her breasts seemed stiff in this cold. Everyone blew silently into their instruments to warm them up as the drum guard did the roll-off. Then they launched into “National Emblem”, doing the familiar “monkey wrapped his tail around the flagpole” leadoff without any flubs, and on the on-beat, took their first step forward.

As they came into the lit route he could feel his circulation going again. He could also sense the crowd coming alive, doubly attentive after that stalled float. Some were even clapping, not very audible because everyone was wearing gloves — everyone except Brigid, of course.

The Tunemasters passed under the first string of lights, held up by poles on each side. Then another string. The lights played off Brigid’s back and butt, off her legs. It was sexy but also beautiful. Everyone was enjoying the light show taking place on the majorette’s body.

The snow crunched under his boots. An odd sensation. Brigid must feel it even more through the thin soles of her treaded flip-flops. She moved a little less stiffly and he could see her body flush with the cold. Good. It showed she was warming up. Now she started her first twirl, and as she turned around to catch it he saw the T’s on her breasts jiggle and shift, in time with the tune, in time with the step, in time with catching the baton as it came down. The T’s were dancing on her nipples. It looked like the majorette’s breasts were leading the band. These T’s were a good idea, they gave a whole new dimension to her twirling and to the whole presentation of the band.

They passed a setup of cameras. Back in the cafeteria room, on the overhead TV, Gus Guy and Pierre Poquette enthused about the visiting band to an audience of several custodians. “And here comes the Tunemasters, from T— High School in Roxbury Mass. One of the best high school marching bands in New England. Winner of last summer’s Regional Competition in Atlanta, Georgia.”

“That is one brave majorette, in this temperature.”

“Yes, her name is… it says here on the band list, ‘Brigid O’Dierna, sophomore’. I’m told her uniform is designed to allow for maximum flexibility in twiring that baton.”

“And she certainly is expert at it! Look at that throw! That must be thirty feet, at least!”

Brigid turned around again and Rod once again fell in love with the brave, flashing smile. She winked at him and he crinkled his eyes, his best substitute for a smile as he tooted away. The band sounded good too.

They approached another string of lights and Brigid tossed the baton over it and caught it as she passed on the other side. This brought some cheers. She raised her arms and pirouetted, showing off her lithe biceps and meticulously shaved armpits. Some snow dusted up on her toes. She spread her toes and expertly flicked the snow off with her next step.

Maybe it was on a signal from Sarge through her headpiece, or maybe it was her own decision, seeing that they were coming too near that float. But as they got near the snow making machine and the biggest bunch of booths and food stands she gave the baton signal to stop. The band kept playing, marching in place. Brigid stepped and turned slowly. It was always amazing how she could keep those backless sandals from falling off her feet while marching in place. She was crunching down with her toes, but just a little.

A whiff of hot dogs came from the booths and Rod got hungry. He pictured the two of them at the stand later, wolfing down hot dogs and soda, he in his uniform, she in her long coat and Uggs, her bare calves showing, as if she had nothing on underneath. And talking with their friends, Debra and Sid and the others. “The most fweezing mahch I’ve evah been in!” she would exclaim in her Providence accent, between bites.

But for now Brigid was still in her micro-uniform, still marching in place, still turning around slowly, round and around. From totally bare backside (the strings on her butt were still invisible) to almost bare front, the dancing T’s on her nipples and the tiny T in her crotch, the lights from overhead played on her body, playing across her curves, caressing them. They hit her head on, then slurred and stretched sideways as she turned, then head on again. All the while, she smiled, exhaling clouds of breath that spiraled off into the wintry night air as she turned.

And the band sounded great! As Rod pumped his slide he never felt prouder of being a Tunemaster. He could see Sarge, on the reviewing stand up ahead, beaming, the men around him clapping him on the shoulder with the thanks he deserved. The cameras moved in closer. Rod thought of the regional competition they’d won, and the Disabled Learning Center, Tommy Blackwell…

They were launching into the final repeat of the “B” section when he saw the string of lights in front of them drop halfway, then fall all the way to the ground. Brigid, turned to face them, did not see. Then she turned and gave the signal, and began marching foward again. One of the bundled-up security men quickly ran to one of the supporting poles on the side and turned a crank that brought the string off the ground again in short, jerky increments.

Brigid, smiling and twirling, still did not see what had happened. With another jerk the string of lights came up about to the level of her breasts as she marched right into it.

Part 60

Getting to the end of “National Emblem”, waiting for the roll-off to lead into “Little Giant”, Brigid spun and twirled. Her T’s looked perkier than when he first saw them in the cafeteria room, facing more upward as they danced on her breasts. Well, of course. Out here in the cold air, her nipples would be erect, pushing the T’s up and out.

The tune ended and the drummers took over. He put his trombone down in front of his jacketed, shirted, thermaled chest. He watched the T’s on her bare chest and smiled. Only the four of us know that the crowd is seeing Brigid’s bare nipples right in the middle of those T’s. Brigid herself must not be thinking of it, engrossed in her twirling. Good. She was tough as nails but basically a modest, unassuming girl. She didn’t deserve to feel embarrassed.

And now he watched with alarm as she spun right into the rising string of lights!

Her T’s got caught on them immediately and they rose up as the guy at the side pole kept cranking the string higher and higher. Rod stopped in shock and so did the other trombones. The rest of the band almost ran into them before they too stood there stunned.

“Aieeee!!” Brigid’s poor breasts got stretched upward as the string of lights went up, up… The T’s were on very securely. They gave way a little bit but were held on by the very ends of her nipples that were so swollen and hard in the cold. You could see the stems of her nipples stretched out from her areolas. As the T’s stretched out and up, the areolas puffed out even more… In a split second her breasts were grotesquely distorted.

She dropped her baton and grabbed the string with both hands to keep it level with her breasts. The guy at the crank didn’t see any of this because he wasn’t looking. Up, up, up… Brigid did half of a wiggly kind of chin-up on the string as her feet left the snow-packed ground. Her legs kicked helplessly. One flip-flop dropped off and then the other. By the time the guy understood the shouts of people telling him to stop, the string was back to where it was, fifteen feet off the ground.

The crowd and the band watched in silent horror as the majorette struggled, trying to disentangle her breasts from the string without doing any damage. Her bare feet twitched and jerked around uselessly above their faces. The string was a tangled interweave of rope and electrical wires and extricating the T’s would have been difficult even without the dire distress of her nipples being stretched.

“Aieee! — Ahhhh!” Cries of pain and exertion cut through the cold night air as Brigid tried to use one hand to hold on and the other to untangle a T. But that was beyond anyone’s arm strength. Next she tried to climb up onto the string. Her toes spread and her legs splayed wildly as she made it up. Straddling the string as if clutching onto a horse, she winced as it cut between her pussy lips, pushing the little T down there deep inside her. He thought of the moisture inside. If there’s a short circuit she would be electrocuted!

There was no danger of that as the guy at the crank unplugged the wire and the lights went out. He tried to lower the string again but the crank was jammed! A friend came over to help him. They tried hitting it with a hammer. With every strike the thin pole lurched and the string jerked, causing Brigid to yelp as the rough rope dug in between her lower lips. Now one guy started running to the building to get some liquid wrench.

Brigid could not stop gravity from pulling her down and she spun around the string. Now she was hanging below it, grasping it in the crooks of her knees and elbows. Now her breasts were squeezed, one pulled up near her neck, the other yanked down toward her navel. Once again she tried to free a hand to work on a T but she kept losing her balance. Finally her legs slipped away and she was back to doing a half chin-up. She looked down and faced the band, her bare toes dangling above them.

She was crying, her face etched with pain, looking down at her friends helplessly. Rod and the others felt just as helpless. Her searching feet were too high up to find a supporting shoulder.

They saw the T’s facing them from up on high. One of them was twisted onto its side. The other was turned completely upside down. Behind them, her areolas were creased with the twisting. Her nipples must be burning in agony!

Rod felt miserably helpless as his eyes met hers in the pleading, suffering face, the short, ragged breaths reflected in her quaking, concave tummy. Below, her little T had disappared into her labia. And one of the clear strings had snapped. It hung down from her bare hip.

“AIEEEE!” A mighty hammer blow to the pole and Brigid’s hands slipped! There was a horrible moment when she hung by the T’s, her head wrenched back, her face heavenward, her breasts stretched out torturously. Then, with a final awful pain, the T’s tore away from her nipples and she fell to the snow, landing on her butt.

In the fall, the last bit of her uniform, her lower T, had flung off to the side. The traumatized majorette, now totally naked, rolled over onto her side, breathing heavily. Everyone was still too shocked to come forward to help. “Oh Jesus…” Her prayer was heard clearly in the still air. Though they all felt sorry for the majorette’s embarrassment, lying there stark naked, they also heaved a sigh of relief. She seemed O.K. There was no other sound.

Her unsteady bare feet came up flat on the snow. Being barefoot on snow must be a freezing shock even for someone of Brigid’s wide experience in being exposed to the cold. In trying to get up one foot slipped. She slowly got up again, onto all fours, still panting. Her breasts hung down, the nipples reddened and tender from the obscene stretching.

Now she tried to get up, splaying one leg out, and the crowd was treated to the sight of her cute brown eye, her little anus, in the valley between her exquisite, taut white butt cheeks, winking at them in the bright lights. The crunching of the snow under her gripping toes resounded in the silence.

And now a strange creaking sound, like a rusty door opening. For it turned out that in swinging the hammer that guy had hit the tank next to the snow-making machine. And now a valve gave way, and…

A ski resort must not only make snow when needed, but sometimes remove snow and ice from paths and equipment. So a supply of salt water, which melts ice, is always kept handy. A special salt is used which is not harmful to skin or membranes, and which further depresses the freezing point.

So the water which now surged from the tipping tank in Brigid’s direction was chilled to minus fifteen degrees Celsius.

Everyone lurched back as the little tidal wave crashed onto the snow-packed path. It slammed into Brigid and knocked her over. And now more, and more of the subfreezing water coursed onto the path. Brigid tried to escape but her hands and feet kept slipping. She flopped down onto her back, then onto her belly, then onto her back again. And now the snow underneath began to melt and Brigid sank into a bathtub-sized hole.

The tank held several hundred gallons. Soon Brigid was totally submerged. When the tank had fully emptied there was nothing but a little pond. Everyone crowded around, careful not to get too close lest they too slip in.

Bubbles issued from below, and then the pretty head emerged. Somehow she made it to the edge of the pond and, after one more slip, she climbed back up on the snow on her crusty bare feet. She stood straight up, shoulders back. Her eyes were wide open, her arms were extended, fingers stretched out. The salted water dripped from her chin, from her nipples, from her fingers, from the center of her shaved crotch.

“OHHHHHH!” she howled in wide-eyed shock, lurching toward them. “OHHHHH!!!”

And now the load of snow on top of the snow-making machine gave way. Once more Brigid was knocked over as the powdery stuff piled on top of her. Soon there was a pile six feet high. Brigid was in there somewhere.

After a few terrible moments of waiting, they saw a set of bluish toes thrust out near the bottom of the snow stack. Now the pile broke up as Brigid fought her way out.

Once again she faced the crowd. Her whole body was encrusted. Snow was jammed into her lower lips, all over her hair. Her eyebrows were white. And her skin color — she really was a blue trans-Plutonian woman now.

Slowly, as if regaining her senses, she blinked and looked around on the ground. Her uniform was all around — one flip- flop here, another there, the T’s flung to each side, and the little bottom T near the pole.

Now she lurched over to the baton. Slowly as if in pain, she bent to pick it up in her left hand. Her anus stared at them blankly, flecked with the white flakes.

The blue, snow-blasted girl looked at Rod blankly, then at the rest of the band. And now she said something.

“L – little… G – g – giant…”

She thrust the baton into the air with a jerk that them jump. Then three violent beats, making her blue breasts bounce, and she turned to march stiffly and nakedly into the winter night.

They could only follow and play. In their shock their sound was uninspired but after a few measures they got playing together. The trombone mouthpiece was almost frozen to his lips. And then he passed over a wet spot from the salted water and his boot flew out in front of him. Then a big blow to the back of his head —

It seemed like a week later when he woke. For a moment he thought he was as messed up as Tommy, but he blinked and realized he was OK except for a headache. He looked up from the floor and saw Brigid’s T’s, dancing gently above him, as she bent down and placed her hand behind his head.

Her breasts were so round and firm and white… he was so happy to see her, warm and happy, in her new uniform which she wore proudly. Thank God that was just a horrible dream… He looked up past her bare shoulders at her concerned and helpful face.

“Are you OK, Rod?”

“Oh Brigid…” He was about to tell her he loved her. But then saw the sea of concerning faces standing behind her and thought better of it. He tried to help himself up. Brigid, her toes flexing in her flip-flops, put her strong arms around his wool jacket. He placed his gloved hand on the upper slope of her hip, which helped revive him a lot. The next moment he was standing up, taking deep breaths…

“What happened?”

“You slipped and were out cold for a few seconds,” Jared said.

He shook his head quickly and felt a quick chill all over. “I’m OK, gang!” he announced. A sigh of relief all around.

“All line up!” Sarge shouted from somewhere in the distance.

. . . .

Rod woke up with a start. He felt sad and blinked and there were tears in his eyes. It was just a dream, and here I am crying. But a powerful one.

He stumbled over to the big window, remembering Tami lying in the snow in the back yard the other day. What did these Frigid Brigid dreams mean? She symbolized Tami in some way – that was obvious. And then he realized why he felt sad. Somehow he knew he would never dream of Brigid again. That almost made him cry. Already he missed her terribly. Then he chided himself for crying over a dream. With a start, the thought hit him — would he at some point also never see Tami again? That last Brigid dream was full of foreboding.

He flopped down backwards onto the bed and stared at the ceiling. Then he took off his shirt and pants, and lay there in his underwear. Thermal underwear, it still being cold out. He remembered hearing something about a *second* April blizzard hitting tonight.

Tami entered the room and he almost cried again with happiness at seeing her. I love her so much. With all my heart, all my soul —

Then he laughed. Tami was walking in upside down, on her hands. Up top, in her feet, she held her slide rule, the museum piece that his internship supervisor, old Mr. Gunderson, had given him.

“Playing with Gunderson’s toy again?”

“Oh Rod, this is a thing of beauty.” She looked at him with her flushed, upside down face, then up at the metal slipstick which she worked with her dexterous toes. “It’s amazing what you can do conceptually on this, with all the scales.”

“Spoken like a true math nerd.” He eyed her lovely plum pubic hair, then the matching hair on her head, hanging down almost to the floor. She steadied herself with her hands as her attention focused up on her feet. “OK,” he said, “what’s two times two?”

She worked the slide with her toes. “Ummm… three point nine nine! Oh shit — ” Her toe slipped and the slide rule came crashing down. In ducking her head out of the way she lost her balance, but with her gymnast’s skill recovered enough to make a graceful cartwheel. She ended upright in the traditional finishing position right in front of him, arms extended, chest out.

“What’s wrong?” She saw the redness in his eyes.

“Oh just another stupid dream. The majorette.”

“That again?” He had kept her up to date on each dream. “Well she and I are about to pass each other.” Tami disappeared and said, “That kid’s getting more naked, but I’m getting more clothed. Ta daaa!!”

She emerged from the bathroom wearing a more substantial C- string, blue this time, thick enough to hide the inside of her lower lips. And she had little pasties on her nipples!

She thrust her breasts out at him as he got up. He felt the pasties with his index finger. They just barely did cover her areolas. “What is this, your new fabric?”

“Yes. Cherish. Held on by spirit glue. I call them circlets.”

“Damn.”

“They’re still a little uncomfortable. I feel like I’m blindfolded, or short of breath. But the girls got me used to it.”

He pictured a long session with the TL’s, no doubt with Dr. Kantor watching with his clipboard, and Barbara carefully sticking the circlets on during her twelfth orgasm.

“Let’s eat,” Tami said. “I’ll reheat the casserole you made. That was good, Baby.”

Part 61

Tami was downright giddy as they ate. She seemed to have forgotten her prediction about bad things happening and he wasn’t about to remind her. The casserole seemed gluey to him but she shoveled it down as she sat cross-legged in her usual position on the kitchen table. Being Tami and it being cold out, she ate about twice as fast as he did.

From time to time she paused to look down at her circlets and the C-string. She put her plate down and raised her crotch up for a close-up look. Rod’s attention was arrested by this, of course, so she played it up. She grunted and did her old trick of jerking her clit up and down, a different effect now that it was hooded under the string.

“Mmmphhh!” Tami acted the part of her clit in a little voice, hand over her mouth. “Let me out! Let me out!” Then a giggle.

“It almost seems a shame to cover it,” Rod said.

“I know… But when I get to wear clothes again, I can always strip down when I get in the house. You will still have a naked wife.” She pointed to the little poem on the wall behind her, when she had proposed to Rod:

“Would you spend your life

“With a naked wife?”

“You will have a lot of clothes shopping to do,” Rod said, with a theatrical shudder.

“I’m not going to go nuts,” Tami said. “I had a dream once where I had a summer job and blew all my money on clothes and shoes. My closet was stuffed with them. I’d be fully clothed from head to toe, even in the summer heat. But that was when I was a freshman, when I was dying for any little bit of covering. It was my fantasy.

“Now,” she said, gulping another bite of casserole, “I love being naked. Ich moechte ja. Sehr nett.” She hadn’t used German phrases in a while. “I’ll wear only as much as I have to. No worries. I could go anywhere! There’ll be a whole wide world I could visit now!” He was glad to hear her admit that. She stretched her legs out in front of her and flexed her toes, meticulously painted plum. “Except for one thing. I’d rather stay barefoot.”

“Really?”

“Being barefoot, feeling the earth under me, reminds me of being naked more than any other thing. I think I can get away with it.”

“Some places won’t let you in with bare feet.” Rod thought for a moment. “Carry around some uncomfortable looking high heels. Then tell them you had to take them off because your feet hurt.” He had seen women do that sometimes, either as slaves to fashion or as a cunning way to get to go barefoot. “That might work.”

They ate some more. “Joe comes back when?” Rod said.

“Next month. I’m so glad. I don’t want him out there in Iraq another day. And not a moment too soon. I can tell Dad’s just exhausted with that store. Last few times I called, he was already asleep.”

“How’s the Student Government thing? Still on that committee?”

“Yeah,” Tami said. “Now it’s turned into the Election Committee.”

“The old guard passes. I bet it went downhill after you turned down running for president.” That was two years ago. She would have won, of course. Tami was incredibly popular. It made him proud.

“Actually this year was not so bad. I have to hand it to Roberto, that Activities Night plan worked out pretty good. No fistfights… The committee is still together, though Lorinda is a pain.”

“I don’t know how you could even talk to that immature bitch.” Just hearing that name made him angry. All that teasing and abuse of Tami during their freshman years. Rod had heard all about it from Jen.

“All that feels like a hundred years ago. Besides,” taking a pause to swallow, “I feel sorry for her… She’s probably like Samantha, all frustrated sexually.”

Rod noticed the Cherish circlets, jiggling invitingly on her nipples as she swallowed. “How is the design business going?”

“Well. Quite well. Gretch and I are working on a full outfit for the International show, if I get picked. I just can’t get the boots right. I don’t know what it is, I have no sense for footwear. We might have to just have her in dress sandals or something.

“And then there’s this problem.” Tami got onto the floor and shook her shoulders, making her breasts bounce side to side. It reminded him of Brigid’s test to see if her circlets were on securely. Then Tami jumped up and down, making her breasts bob.

“What is that all about?”

“The outfit just doesn’t have the right support for the breasts. Gretchen’s keep falling out. It’s pretty embarrassing for her, even though no one’s there to see except me. You know how she is. The topographical formulas work out, looking at the scans I’ve taken of my own bod, but Gretchen’s boobs keep falling out anyway.”

“Her boobs are different from yours.” Not as firm, undoubtedly.

“It should work out the same. It’s still a puzzle. Other than that, the dyeing is working out good. We’ve got six colors going.”

“And this one?” He pointed to her circlets. “Which is that, teal?”

“Yes. Pretty good color ID for a hetero guy!” She looked down at them. “Goes good with my plum hair.” Looking at the plum pubic bush bisected by the teal C-string, it was hard to disagree. “Say Rod, now that I can wear some little bits, can I follow my true professional ambition?”

“What is that?”

She patted his head, then caressed it, her white hands always a contrast to the dark brown elegance of his shaved scalp. “Why being a topless dancer at Teaser’s, of course! Watch!” Hands on her hips, with subtle motions of her shoulders she made the left circlet trace a clockwise circle in the air, while the right one circled counter-clockwise. Rod could only whistle and clap.

“That reminds me,” Tami said, getting up on the table to eat again. “Yvette’s coming over tomorrow.”

Rod rolled his eyes. “STILL at Teaser’s?”

“She seems OK. She’s got me half convinced that you can work there and not be desperate, or nuts.”

“After all the effed-up girls you’ve rescued from that place?”

Tami shrugged and gulped down more gluey casserole.

. . . .

“Looks damn unacceptable,” Acting Dean Anthony Noyes said, appraising the scene from the Dean’s Office window up on the top floor. It was rather dark out, due to the snow clouds, but he could see something like this pretty well.

“Me, I don’t mind,” George Halifax said, leaning forward almost into the pane, stuffing a potato chip into his mouth, wiping a broken piece off his already-greasy tie.

They were watching the apparently naked form of Ms. Tami Smithers on one of the concrete tables, spreading her legs wide for a little crowd of faculty and students who were well bundled up on this cold and windy day. Of course, she was showing off her C-string. Over the past few days this had been a common sight.

“It shows progress, those little bits covering her privates and her tits,” Halifax said. “Almost sexier than wearing nothing at all.”

“I know, but we can’t have her spreading her legs all over the campus. She’s never done anything like that before and it just looks like hell. She’s always acted so . . . modest.”

“You know all you have to do is say something to her and she’ll stop,” Halifax said, searching a pocket for a doughnut. Then he remembered he ate it an hour ago. “Why begrudge her a few last days of happiness?”

Noyes shook his head. “The Pentagon. The damned Pentagon!”

Halifax, for once not chomping on food, said, “You’re going to go along with it? Sometimes your connections are not, you know, helpful.”

“Or at least not the right ones. My crowd left a long time ago… So what do you think?”

Halifax arranged his bulk over the comfy chair next to the window and sat. “They approached you with their idea, and you should let her know. How can you not? She’s an adult, in the eyes of the law.”

“She’d wonder how they found out about her project in the first place.”

Leaning over to look down at Tami, spreading her legs for a new crowd, merrily pushing her crotch in their faces, Halifax said, “She doesn’t seem like the suspicious type.”

“I just don’t want her getting mixed up in all that — crap,” Noyes said.

“It’s a stinking business,” Halifax nodded. “A stinking business!”

Noyes exhaled. After a moment he said, “Another problem is what to tell Girardo.”

“Well he’ll be sure to have Konrad look at it.” The fashion department professor who was also an intellectual property attorney.

“And I bet I know what that guy will say,” Noyes said. “He hates anything connected with the military.”

“Getting busted down and drummed out because you’re gay can do that to you,” Halifax said. “Even if it was twenty years ago.”

Now, down below, the wheeled figure of Homer Winant came into view. Accompanied by Omar, Homer’s replacement as grounds crew chief. They stayed back at a distance, watching Tami spread her legs for yet another crowd. The C-string was not visible from Noyes’s viewpoint but of course he knew it was there. A couple of people reached in between Tami’s legs to touch it.

Listlessly, Noyes said, “And it gets her off campus after she graduates.”

“Yes, yes, yes… There’s always that.”

“What can we do? What ELSE can we do?” Noyes said. “Tell her about the Pentagon grant proposal… when we know she can’t really say ‘no’?”

. . . .

As this conversation was taking place, Homer and Omar, a husky, dark-skinned native of Cuba, approached Tami as she hopped off the table, reached back to flick some concrete dust off her butt, and picked up her bookbag.

“You graduate in a few weeks, my congratulations in advance,” Homer said. “We have something to talk about. Let’s take you this way.”

Tami followed them, not asking any questions, probably because she had a sense of what they wanted. In fact she could read their minds, as she overtook them and strode toward the big black metallic sculpture. They watched, intently as ever, the motions of her muscular thighs, the tight bare butt, the bare back, flushed red in the blustery cold. Finally they arrived and glanced at the little name plate on the socle.

“Tami Takes Flight”.

Abstract but not overly so, a creation of the late Jan Latimer, the eminent sculptor who was on the faculty for so long. A nude young woman, one leg out behind her, bent forward at the hip, arms extended, as if she really were about to fly. The shaping was an exquisitely accurate rendition of Tami’s curves (at least as they were at age 18), though there were no specifics except for the eyes and nose and some lines on the feet that indicated toes.

“Being that the conditions under which you posed for this were, no fault of Jan’s, to be sure, but questionable,” Homer said, “we want to leave it up to you to decide what to do about this.”

“If you want,” Omar, who was still her boss, added, “you can help us break it down and put it into storage. Or the other guys can do it without you. Or, we can move it onto the back lot.”

Tami looked up at it — it was about five times her size — then jumped up to one of the arms. Her breasts, tight and red with the cold, bounced as she swung herself up on top. She looked down at them, hands on hips. The cold metal must have been like ice to her bare feet. Not that Tami would mind, after all this time.

Some people stopped to watch. Now, in a loud voice, the all but naked woman said, smiling, “No, keep it!” And, on top of the statue, she raised one leg out up behind her and spread her arms, giving an exact impression of the statue below her, the pose she assumed as ordered so long ago when she was a scared and
mortified teenager. It was so striking a scene that people flipped out their cell phones to take pictures.

. . . .

The snow fell ever more heavily on the way home and Rod was almost in danger of getting hypnotized by the flakes hitting the windshield. By the time he pulled into the driveway it was totally dark and there were two inches on the ground. It would be good to see Tami. I wonder what extra bits of fabric she could get on today? Maybe bigger circlets? Maybe a string around her butt to hold up a thong bottom? It was like the Brigid dreams in reverse order.

He stamped the snow from his boots and took them off before he got to the kitchen. “Home, Babe!” he announced.

Not hearing a response, he stood still, standing there in his stockinged feet and his coat and hat and gloves. Then he heard sniffling.

He was immediately concerned. Tami hardly ever got a cold. He padded into the bedroom and saw her at the desk, minus C- string and circlets, red eyed, tears down her face, staring at the computer screen.

“What’s wrong?”

Tami sniffled again and looked at him through bleary eyes. “Joe.”

Part 62

Rod’s heart stopped. Her little brother Joe was due back next month. “Is he OK?”

Tami nodded. “No, not that. Thank goodness he’s OK. But they just extended his tour eighteen months. And he’s going into a combat zone.”

Rod closed his eyes. “Jesus.” They had both heard on the news of this kind of thing happening. And kept themselves from thinking that it could happen to Joe. Well, now it had happened.

“And…” Tami had a hard time getting the words out. “Dad is killing himself working all hours at the hardware store. He was looking forward to getting some help from Joe, counting the days!” She stared down at her bare sole grinding into the floor.

“SHIT!!!” Suddenly she slammed her fist onto the desk, causing the keyboard to fall against her knee. She kicked the keyboard away and it disconnected and rattled across the floor. Then the mouse, which she always kept on the floor, got a kick.

Rod could only approach her sobbing nakedness and pick her up, taking her into her arms like a sick child. Then he gently laid her onto the bed.

He sat next to her. “I’m sorry to hear that, Babe.”

Tami sniffled and wiped her nose. After she caught her breath, she said, “And here I am lying about in college. Dad is trying to make ends meet. Joe is fighting a war. And I’m just dawdling around.”

“Hardly. Nobody has worked harder in school than you.”

“Well it’s not helping my Dad, isn’t?” She looked over at the dresser. The C-string was on top, next to her circlets. She looked at these, her entire wardrobe, for a long time. Then she said, “Yvette will be here for dinner. I’ll ask her about Teaser’s. Dad needs some cash.”

Rod was so horrified he was speechless for a moment. “Babe, don’t even think about it!” It was so out of place, he couldn’t even picture Tami dancing in front of creepy jerks stuffing filthy dollar bills into her . . .

“Why not? On a good night Yvette makes three hundred dollars.” Tami got up wearily and looked at herself in the mirror. Then a languid grin. “I don’t mind saying my body will probably be the best one in the place.”

He was glad to see a little lightness. “No doubt. The other girls will be jealous of you. Prepare for a catfight.” Which Tami, of course, would easily win.

Still, asking Yvette for a job as a stripper should be avoided. Rod said, “Maybe you should call Yvette to cancel. This is a bad time to entertain guests.”

“No, it’s too late.” Rod was ready to talk her out of it but then the doorbell rang. “Well here she is…” Tami got up and took a deep breath, her breasts heaving. She wiped her eyes dry with the blanket, briefly checked her hair in the mirror, made a quick adjustment to a pubic curl which had gotten out of place, and got the door.

It was a glum supper. Tami brought out the bean salad and stew she had made and they ate listlessly. Yvette tried to be cheerful, telling her about her parents’ new house in Montreal, how her boyfriend Pierre was nicer recently and they might be living together again, about her plan to go to the “Lycee”, apparently some kind of secretarial school, in a town called Saint Bruno de Montarville. But the oppressive gloominess beat her down until she was as silent as her hosts.

Finally Rod said, “You have to forgive us, Yvette. Tami’s brother Joe is in Iraq. We just found out that his tour has been extended another year and a half.”

“Tour?”

“Yes, time of his… uh, assignment. He’s a, what, a Specialist Third Class now?” Tami nodded.

“Oh. Some of the guys at the club were in Iraq. I very much hope your brother is well. Is that a far place?”

“Yes,” Rod said.

After a moment, Yvette said, “I like your country but I am glad I am… Canadienne.”

Tami and Rod ate silently, deciding not to voice any reactions they might have. Mostly Rod was thankful that Tami was not asking about a job at Teaser’s.

Yvette, clearly feeling miserable, said, “Please to think that I should go.”

“No,” Tami said. Then, looking out the window at the night, where the snow had stopped, she said, “I’ve got a plan.” She went to the sink and bent down to get something from the lower cabinet. Yvette looked at Tami’s butthole, winking in their faces, and wondered once again how this always-naked woman could be so free of shame. Even most of the dancers at Teaser’s, getting totally naked in the private dance booths, were shy about exposing that last, most secret part of themselves.

Tami placed a bottle of Irish whiskey on the table with a loud thump. “I want to get smashed. Anyone want to join me?”

“I have to drive home,” Yvette pointed out.

“You can stay over,” Tami said. Then she grabbed a twelve- ounce class and poured it half full. And quaffed it like it was orange juice.

Well, Rod always knew that Tami had this capacity. Anyone whose favorite drink is a martini… Tami poured another.

“Well, OK, Babe, count me in,” he said, though he filled his glass half full of water before she hit him. Why the hell not? Somehow it seemed the proper thing to do. Bad news and nothing to be done about it. Tami wanted to get drunk and they should get drunk with her. Why not?

He tried to drink as fast as Tami but it was not easy. He had never liked whiskey, it was too strong for him, and after the first glass he felt the dizziness kick in. Through his disorientation he saw Yvette put her glass out, though she mixed it with cola that Tami got from the fridge.

The three drank and then retired to the living room, where Tami put some oldies CD’s on, Beach Boys and Beatles which she said Joe liked. Tami brought in some chips. Rod took a final belt of whiskey and announced he was turning in. He walked into the bedroom, still in his clothes, and fell onto the bed like a dead man, not moving. Yvette and Tami followed him to see this and giggled.

It turned out Yvette had almost as much capacity for alcohol as Tami. “You must be half Irish,” Tami said as she staggered up to change a CD.

“Ooohh, I know this one,” Yvette said, picking out an Enrique Iglesias CD. She danced to it as Tami watched. “They play this at the club.” Tami laughed as Yvette did some dancer moves, exaggerating the swing and sway of the hips, the mugging at the guys sitting around the stage. The Canadian girl was glad to lift Tami’s spirits. She did a modified limited strip tease, getting down to her bra and panties and socks, flinging away each piece of clothing like a stripper from the old days, when the girl would start the set fully clothed and take her time.

After the last CD finished, the two young women sat on the couch silently, Yvette feeling exposed but looking heavily clothed next to her always naked friend. Finally Tami said, “Thanks for hangin’ out.” She got up on unsteady feet and drank the last of the whiskey straight from the bottle. “You can… shtay in the guest room.” Then to Yvette’s surprise, she violently stamped her tough sole on the hardwood floor. “F**KING SHIT!! SHIT! SHIT! SHIT!!” Her breasts bounced with each stomp. Her bleary eyes blinked. She seemed about to throw the bottle on the floor but changed her mind.

Then, “Good night.” And she was off to bed with Rod.

. . . .

Her dream, where the naked Tami, brandishing a machine gun, was leading a platoon of heavily clothed soldiers into battle, was interrupted by a double horn honk. She recognized it with alarm. But it wasn’t part of her dream. And then another double honk. She woke up, head pounding, and lurched out of the guest room, and then put on her coat. She didn’t go outside but looked through the kitchen window, and out past the Jeep and the old yellow VW Bug out to the street.

Yet another double honk. The tall figure on the motorcycle, out on the plowed street, seemed to look straight through her. “Come out, ‘Vette!”

She slipped into her boots and crept outside the door. There was no moon out but the snow everywhere had its own dull glow. In a loud whisper she said, in French, “You should not be here. Please go. I’ll see you at the club.”

“No way. You belong with me!” He was in one of his moods again. “Do I have to come in and make you?”

To Yvette’s horror, a strong, naked, and somewhat drunk woman appeared behind her. “Who is that?” Tami said.

Yvette paused but knew she had to answer. “Pierre.”

Tami’s eyes flashed. “Jesus! What’s he doing here?!” Then she yelled out, “Go home. She doesn’t want you here!!”

“Shhhh!” Yvette whispered to Tami, holding her hand up. Tami pushed the hand down.

“You stay out of this!” Pierre shouted.

“No, YOU GET THE F**K OUT OF HERE!” Tami surged past Yvette and stomped out into the fluffy snow. “You heard me, GO!!”

At first Pierre was shocked to see the naked woman striding toward him, barefoot in the snow. Then he smiled. Another one of Yvette’s dancer friends, the kind of stunt one might see from a crazy stripper chick. As she approached him he prepared to grab her by her skinny arms, wait as she pretended to struggle, then give her a big wet kiss. Maybe they’d be into a threesome . . .

But Tami ran up to him and to his utter astonishment pushed him off his bike. Then kicked him in the crotch with her bare toes. He tried to get up and land a few punches, but the naked girl, sliding and dodging and hitting, was too quick for him. Bare feet on snow are slippery, but unhindered by clothing she was quicker than him. Snow flung up around them, kicked up by her toes as the struggle continued, Tami’s breasts bouncing, her muscular thighs flashing, her fists swinging, always hitting their target.

It was all Pierre could do to retreat and hop onto his bike and gun the engine. He forgot to be careful with the plowed-over snow surface and the bike slipped out from under him. On his second try he managed a more controlled ride and was soon out of sight, the engine sputtering away in the winter night.

Yvette didn’t know what to think as she saw Tami, standing up in the street, catching her breath, snow on her hair and her pubic bush and encrusting her toes, watching where Pierre had escaped. Then Tami turned and scared the hell out of her as she approached her with the same violent intent.

“WHAT THE F**K DID YOU THINK YOU WERE DOING, TELLING THAT CREEP WHERE WE LIVE?” She shouted, apparently too drunk to realize that half the town could hear her, or at least the ones who were up at 1 a.m. “You know how — dangerous that is??! Do me a favor! Get that f**ked up head of yours straight! Jesus!!”

And now Tami stormed back into the house, leaving Yvette out on the doorstep, alone with her thoughts.

She was mortified to the bone, and got back to the guest room and tried to think. And then tried to sleep. Then she got up and thought she might apologize to Tami. But Tami was snoring that loud Tami snore, face down next to Rod in their bed, her foot sticking out, melted snow and some street grit on her bare sole.

Yvette went to the kitchen and got a bottle out of the lower cabinet. It was some kind of sweet cordial. She drank a glass of it. Then she looked out the back door, out to the back lawn, the park area beyond, the long inviting stretch of virgin white snow, peaceful snow, quiet snow, eternal snow… She got into her boots and coat and, with unsteady hands, pried open the big glass doors and walked out. She felt tired and sleepy. Very, very sleepy. She had heard that falling asleep in the snow was the least painful way to go…

Part 63

She awoke with heavy lidded eyes and immediately squinted from the unbearably bright light all around her. So this was what Heaven was like. She thought of all she knew on Earth and was sad. She might be looking down on it but would still miss all those people very much.

Another few blinks and she smelled the disinfectant and heard the shuffling of clogs and knew she was in a hospital of some kind. And she felt relieved. She would have cried with thankfulness if she could.

She tried to get up and found herself being supported by an old nurse. “Steady, my dear,” she said with grandmotherly assurance. “You’ll be fine now, but go slow.”

In another minute she had been sat up and was facing a tray of apple juice and cereal and a banana. This time it was another nurse, much younger, about her age. “Try to drink as much as you can.” Yvette recognized the French Canadian accent, and read the name tag on the uniform: Jeanne.

She drank and ate and savored the tastes on her tongue. In heaven, she decided, one is a spirit and cannot enjoy the sensations of the flesh. Then she said, “I have a pounding headache.”

Jeanne laughed. “Not surprising. Your alcohol level was almost fatal. You’re taking vitamins and water now.”

For the first time Yvette noticed the IV in her arm, going up to the bag on the stand. “Where am I?”

“The Chalfont Institute Emergency Room.” She looked around. It was a very small emergency room, maybe three empty beds and then hers. And a passage into a hall of some kind.

She was not sure where this was. She had never heard of “Chalfont”. But in a flash she remembered something. “Tami. Tami took me here.”

Jeanne nodded. “Ms. Smithers dragged you in over her shoulder at three o’clock this morning, then collapsed.” Jeanne pointed to the hall. “She’s in intensive care.”

“Alors!! Is she OK?”

“She’s OK”

“Can I see her?”

“She’s still sleeping.”

“I still want to just see her. To make sure she’s all right.”

It was a struggle but Yvette got up, on unsteady stockinged feet. Then she realized she had on a hospital gown with an open back. She tried to close it behind her with one hand but then decided to give up the attempt. Having her backside showing was a trivial price to pay for being alive.

Jeanne steadied Yvette as they slowly walked into the hall. They turned into the second door on the left and Yvette gasped.

Tami was lying face up in a glass tank, at about the same height as if she were in a bed. The tank was about as high and wide and deep as a mattress. The water was bubbling gently and was warm, filling the room with a steamy vapor, like a sauna. The naked girl was sleeping, a tube in her nose, patches with wires going to each breast and to each thigh. And another wire going up in between her legs.

Her skin was bright pink, like a baby’s.

Yvette was standing there open-mouthed so Jeanne gave the explanation she would have asked for. “Of course we already knew who she was. She was seriously hypothermic, and the prescribed treatment is warm towels. But because of her — her disability, we could not do that. So Dr. Kantor was called and suggested the tank. It was used in the Institute for lab work. Her temperature came back to normal bit by bit.”

“Oh God…” Yvette wept in misery. “Oh Lord… She’ll be all right?”

“She’s almost back to normal now.” Jeanne looked up at various gauges. “She won’t wake up for a while though.”

And now someone she didn’t want to see, Rod, walking in with a coffee in a styrofoam cup. It was clear he didn’t particularly want to see her either. “Hello.”

“… Hi.”

“I hear you’ll be all right.”

“Yes.”

Yvette, helped by Jeanne, made it back to her bed and sat up as Jeanne put blankets over her. She looked outside at the sun rising over the snowy scene, and thought of last night, and of Tami, and what almost happened. She watched the sun get higher in the sky. She sat and watched for a long time.

. . . .

Rod sipped the coffee, which was really terrible, and felt the pounding of his hangover. He looked at the strange pinkness of Tami’s skin, from head to toe, interrupted only by the wedding ring tattoo around the third toe of her left foot. Called in the middle of the night by the E.R., he had stumbled out of bed. He had heard that Chalfont had an emergency room and medical clinic to serve the town. Someone had mentioned it that awful evening at the airport restaurant as Tami was sobbing through orgasm after orgasm delivered to her by that out-of-control tail dildo deep in her gut. But he had never been here.

Standing there with his coffee, he almost started to cry himself. What a lucky guy he was to have Tami Smithers, the prettiest, strongest, bravest girl in the world. And she loved him as much as he loved her. And he had almost lost her!

He looked at the peaceful face, above the warm bubbling medicated water. He glanced at her nipples, breaking the surface as she breathed. And thought of what had happened. Such a brave girl, going naked through the cold to save someone. Exposed to the elements… bravely doing her duty and marching on… while everyone else is all bundled up…

“Frigid Brigid.”

The words came out of his mouth before he even thought of them. They hung in the air, incongruous in this setting.

Tami’s eyes popped open. “What did you say?”

“Oh Babe! You surprised me. I didn’t know you were awake!”

“I didn’t know you were here!”

“How do you feel?”

Tami glanced down at her pink nakedness and took a deep breath. Her breasts rose up and emerged from the water to the extent of — well, about as much as was covered by Brigid’s circlets. From the dream where they were on the local TV show.

“I feel warm, thank goodness.” She smacked her lips. “And thirsty.”

“Here,” he said, giving her a bottle of water from the tray. “They say you should drink as much as possible.”

“I sure did that, last night,” Tami said, holding her head.

Rod laughed. “Non-alcohol, that is.”

Tami sat up in the tank and sipped. “Oooh,” she said, shifting. “This wire is way up my butt.” It was obviously a thermometer. They looked at a gauge that said 97 degrees.

“Looks like I’m back to normal,” Tami observed.

“I thought it was a dream I was hearing,” Rod said. “You beating up that guy and yelling at Yvette.”

Tami shook her head slowly. “Good thing I woke up later when I did. I suddenly had the sense that something was wrong. My nips told me so.”

“And then you saw the open back door and followed the prints of her boots in the snow.”

“Yes.”

“You carried her… it must be a mile to here. Why didn’t you drive her?”

“I was too drunk to drive. Or maybe to think of that. We were all drunk.”

Rod looked out to the hall that led to the emergency room. “Damn stupid girl.”

Tami put the bottle back on the tray and lay down again, until the water was up to her chin. “It was my fault. I can’t believe I yelled at her like that.”

“Babe, don’t be wack.”

Tami’s features darkened. “Knowing how… fragile that girl is mentally… I just shouldn’t have.” She looked up at him. “And look what almost happened. Oh Rod… I’ve never been so embarrassed in my life.”

Rod looked down at the plum-colored pubic bush, exposed to the world’s gaze for three and a half years, and thought of the mortified, scared naked child he had fallen in love with. Then up at the brooding face.

She brought her dripping hand up to hold his. “Rod, I love being in this warm water. I don’t ever want to be cold again.” She closed her eyes. “Going through that snow… I was so cold… so cold…”

Now she sat up again and cleared her throat. “I’ve got to wear clothes, and fast.”

As if on cue, Dr. Kantor walked in and smiled. “Ms. Smithers, I’m glad you’re O.K. Welcome to our clinic. I came over to be your attending physician. Let me express on behalf of all of us our appreciation. You saved that girl’s life.” He looked at his clipboard. “The average person would have died. You simply had hypothermia.”

“You sound a bit cavalier about what she’s been through,” Rod observed.

“Sorry, but in fact she was not in any real danger. She was at eighty-eight degrees. We were more concerned about the girl. She was fully clothed but also badly poisoned by alcohol… How do you feel? How do your toes feel?”

Tami sat up, water dripping down her breasts. The old nurse walked in and now there were four people standing around the naked young woman in the warm water tank. They watched as she flexed her toes and wiggled them, causing little waves. “I’m fine. Doctor, I’ve got to get a job right after I graduate. I’ve got to wear clothes like the rest of you do. Can we… accelerate the desensitization sessions?”

Dr. Kantor clearly wasn’t expecting to talk about this. He scratched his scrawny beard. “Accelerate?”

“After two years I can only wear that little C-string and those circlets. That’s not fast enough. My family’s in a fix. I’ve got to be fully employable in a month.”

Part 64

They sat in the front row of the Little Theater: Barbara, Rosaria, Melissa, Spica, Jeane, Myra, Tami and the special guest, Ms. Jen McIntyre, studying the twenty-page stapled handouts. All stylishly clothed, in their own way, Barbara, the 30-year-old grad student, in her studied frumpiness, Rosaria, in her female jock attire, Jen in her Peter Pan hairdo and leotard and leg warmers. All stylishly clothed except of course for Tami, whose stark nakedness contrasted with their fashion sense. All had their legs crossed in the usual female fashion, one foot out front, forming a row of shoes sticking out toward the stage, interrupted by Tami’s bare foot. A few rows back, Ms. Gretchen Spaulding, in a sweater and jeans, holding her coat in her lap, and Tami’s husband, Mr. Rod Sykes, having just gotten back from work, in his engineer’s suit and mud-stained project boots.

In front of the stage, Dr. Kantor, in his white lab coat and scrawny beard, and the rather shorter Dr. Abu Jamal, standing stiffly and formally in his three-piece suit. To their sides, on folding chairs, several Chalfont Institute interns, and a six members of the Chalfont faculty.

This was the 150-seat Little Theater of the Chalfont Institute. Not a place for plays, but for medical education films and guest lectures. There were no curtains, no catwalks, no colored lights. The lights were fluorescent and buzzed away quietly overhead as the TL’s and Jen read.

“Let me begin,” Dr. Kantor said. “You’ve been given a brief review of the literature which you can fully peruse later. Do not hesitate to e-mail me if you have any questions. Please use the campus intranet, of course. You can understand why this matter should be disclosed to others.

“Ms. Smithers — I hope you don’t mind if I call her Tami — during her prolonged nudity, developed a contrapositive reaction toward clothes. Having experienced abundent orgasmic pleasure while naked, her body came to associate the wearing of clothes with pain. Thanks to the efforts of what we’ve been calling the desensitization team, the six of you, a small amount of progress has been made. Through timing the attachment of covering with the onset and duration of orgasm and its associated endorphins, Tami can now wear an amount of fabric totaling in the aggregate approximately ten square centimeters.

“However, this amounts to coverage of only one-fifth of one percent of Tami’s body. Due to circumstances in her life, progress has to be accelerated. This presents a problem. Our current limited knowledge of how to stimulate the brain’s pleasure centers is limited. Physical orgasm remains the most powerful known pleaurable stimulus, and the most powerful reinforcer of associated sensations. Tami’s orgasms are unusually intense and long. How can we, shall we say, ‘improve’ on that?

“The answer lies in a qualitative leap to a type of response that has been reported in the literature, firstly by Masters and Johnson in 1966. This is the ‘status orgasmus’. On page 3 of your handouts is the description and an electrocardiograph of one recorded instance, showing levels of stimulation of the vaginal opening, heart rate, and contractions of the uterus.

“As you can see, this status orgasmus lasted 25 contractions, extending over 45 seconds, which we can assume that is not the maximum possible. It was associated with hyperventilation and extreme tachycardia, up to 180 beats per minute or more. Only someone in superb physical condition can therefore achieve it for any length of time. Ms. Smithers certainly fits that category, given her rigorous exercise habits.

“Your task will be to induce status orgasmus in Tami. With an extended period of orgasm, we hope that a much greater amount of clothing can be placed on her, and there will be enough time before the end of the episode that her body will become used to the covering.

“I now will ask Tami to come up here on the table to illustrate what you should be looking for. Tami?”

The naked girl silently and solemnly climbed up on the table and lay down facing them. She extended her legs wide, wide, wider, until she could hold her bare feet with her hands. With her hands pulling, her legs were extended almost to a ballet dancer’s split. The TL’s got up and crowded around the table. They were joined by the interns and the faculty until every spot around the table was taken by the people standing around, peering intently at the spread naked girl. Rod and Gretchen stayed back in their seats.

Tami’s stretch caused the familiar sight of her pussy lips opening. Pointing to them, Dr. Kantor said, “Status orgasmus begins with a sharp contraction lasting two to four seconds. Tami has practiced this and will now show us what it might look like. Tami?”

A violent closing and then opening of Tami’s lower lips, which caused her whole body to shake and the table to wiggle. It so suprised the observers that they lurched backward.

“Let’s try that again.”

Another violent snapping of the pussy.

“Now, if you study the chart, you see that as status orgasmus progresses, the contractions are at first not as pronounced, the inter-contraction period being almost as myotonic as the contractions themselves, but after the first ten or so, it becomes a more all-and-nothing situation, meaning the spasms become more pronounced and more violent, there being a greater contrast with the inter-contractory period. Oone might guess that the subject would feel as if she were being jerked from one end of the universe to the other. We feel it is at that point that the clothing can be attached. Tami has also practiced what such contractions might look like. Tami?”

Tami grunted rhythmically, as the students and faculty were treated to the sight of her pussy lips opening and shutting like doors being flung open and slammed shut. For the TL’s, it was a more violent motion than they had seen during the hundreds of times they had brought their naked Queen to orgasm. All the time, Tami’s eyes were open, staring impassively at the ceiling.

“Similar contractions, as you might guess, would occur anally. Tami?”

Tami got up onto all fours and turned around. She put her face down to the table and spread her butt cheeks with her hands. She had long had the ability to make her anus gape. Now, her anal orifice opened to the amazing width of almost two inches. The buzzing overhead lights allowed everyone to see the dark, red recesses of her recently irrigated rectum. As heads craned in to look, they could even see the little “inner butthole” that led into her sigmoid colon. Now Tami shut herself closed, then opened again to two inches, then shut again. She grunted with each motion, as her butt bucked and the table shook. Her upturned toes wiggled and flexed wildly.

“Thank you, Tami. Now if you would…”

They looked up as Campbell-Frank’s only naked student, as prearranged, stood up on the table, separated her legs, held up her arms, and stretched herself out into a big “X”. Dr. Kantor pointed here and there. “Other physiological changes you should look out for are those typical of orgasm. Of course Tami’s orgasmic response is well known to all of us and, indeed, all around campus. The flush over the breasts, the puckering of the nipples, the engorgement of the labia… note here, here and here… the flaring of the nostrils up there, the spreading of the toes down here.”

Tami turned around so that her rear was facing them, still stretching to the ceiling in an “X”, giving them a full view of her thin but strong arms, butt and legs.

“The clenching of the buttocks, the flush on the rear of the thighs and the upper back, and so on.”

Tami hopped off the table, her bare feet slapping onto the tile floor. “You can sit now.” Everyone did except Tami, who remained standing facing them.

Dr. Kantor, standing to the side, said, “You have all been assigned your stations on Tami’s body. As you might guess, the violence of the motions in status orgasmus makes some type of fixation necessary. Fortunately, one of you, Spica, has alerted us to a device that has already been designed by one of the undergraduates majoring in sculputuring.”

On cue, Sessu, the modest Japanese art major, appeared on the rear of the stage, pushing a large scaffold-looking thing on wheels. It was the device he had shown Tami a couple of months ago, his invention for placing Tami upright and having seats for each of the TL’s around her. Sessu, who had wished he could be a TL but knew that as a male he would not be permitted, now felt relieved and maybe vindicated, though he wished it could have been in a happier setting. When he first showed this device to Tami, she had not yet been approached about having more than one TL lick her at a time. And she had shown a wordless but obvious dislike for the device, for reasons she did not give.

The scaffold was wheeled up to the lip of the stage, right up behind Tami. She glanced back at it briefly, with no expression.

“Each of you has your own station, as I said.” Dr. Kantor pointed up to the seven color coded seats in front, up to the sides, in the rear, and at the bottom. He looked down at his clipboard. “Ms. McIntyre at Tami’s vagina and clitoris, Ms. Villareal and Ms. Thomas at Tami’s nipples, Ms. Simpson at Tami’s face and scalp, Ms. Jones and Ms. Schreiber at Tami’s toes, and Ms. Firenza at Tami’s anus.

“Note also the cuffs for Tami’s wrists and ankles,” Dr Kantor went on. “Again, the necessity of fixation. This has to be carefully coordinated and controlled. As I’m sure you know and as I understand you have much experience in that. In particular, as the final session begins you must resist the urge to bring Tami to a quick orgasm. She may beg, she may plead, but you must hold back, and build up and build up.”

He stood behind Tami as she continued to face the audience impassively. “Our plan is for there to be a ‘test run’ of this fixation device early next week. Then at a designated point we will begin Tami’s preparation for the actual immersion into clothes. As part of this preparation it is important that Tami not have an orgasm for two weeks.” The sense of loss among the TL’s was palpable but, knowing what was at stake for their Queen, they suppressed any pouts. “Also, Ms. Smithers, if you would refrain from wearing any of your bits of clothing during that time. You must stay absolutely naked.

“Also, it is recommended that you expose yourself to cold as much as possible. I know that, after that second April blizzard the other day, it has finally gotten warm, but try to roll around in whatever snow you can find that hasn’t melted. The status orgasmus itself will be attempted up on Mount Washington, in subfreezing temperatures, and the clothing immersion will be into a preheated, full-length imitation fur coat and preheated insulated boots. The idea is to sharpen your body’s desire for clothing and warmth, as well as sharpening its desire for orgasmic release. Again, the ramping up to the first violent contraction will be very slow and controlled. Excruciatingly slow, from your perspective. I apologize for all of the above, but we have to maximize the chances for success.

“I have to repeat, as I did in the handout, that there are risks. We are on untravelled ground here. Tami might not be able to achieve status orgasmus, or her reaction to clothes might not be what we hope. There is always the possibility of anaphylactic shock. An EMT will be on hand.

“But, as we know, this is something that Ms. Smithers has requested and, given her family situation, something that has to be done. Tami,” he said, turning to the naked girl, “we are all in support of you. We dearly hope to help you.”

“Yes!” the TL’s said almost at once. “Amen,” Rod said. “We love you Tami!” shouted out Spica. This made Tami smile for the first time. Spica hopped up and hugged the bare shoulders in her jacketed arms.

“Are there any questions?”

Barbara tentatively raised her hand. “I don’t want to sound pessimistic… but… Tami is in a very stressful point in her life right now. Isn’t it unrealistic to expect her to be in the right… mood… for a status orgasmus?”

Blandly, as if nothing strange was about to be discussed, Dr. Kantor said, “Gentlemen, ladies, I think this concludes the orientation into what you will be observing. I thank you for your time. We will just have a little chitchat now.”

As if as a matter of course, the faculty and interns got up and left, leaving Dr. Kantor, Dr. Abu Jamal, Jen, the TL’s and Sessu, Rod and Gretchen.

Of course, something like Barbara’s question had been on their minds. Tami looked over briefly at Dr. Kantor and then at the TL’s. She twisted her big toe against the floor, then scratched a nipple, signs of uneasiness. Then she said: “I have… a lot of experience in… coming… over and over… when my heart wasn’t in it.”

Dr. Kantor let silence sink in for a few moments. Then he said, “Ms. McIntyre has a few things she will explain to you about Ms. Smithers’s freshman year experiences at the Chalfont Institute. Tami, do you want to stay?”

Tami thought and said, “No, I’d rather not. Thank you all.” And she left with Rod and Gretchen.

Jen got up and waited until they were gone. Then she stood up and faced the TL’s, and Sessu, who had sat down with them. In her quiet, graceful voice, she said, “This will take a while. I’m going to tell you a story. About how Tami got to be naked and how she got to be multi-orgasmic. It is really a horrible story…”

Part 65

The purple, tired face of the unconscious man was clearly visible through the thick plastic of the oxygen tent. There were tubes in his nose, an IV in his arm, and monitors all along the side of the bed. A nurse checked his chart and the readouts, and spoke quietly to the frightened woman in the chair on the other side. Now, a doctor fiddling with his name tag came by to speak to her. They were a lot more calm than she was. Because the time of emergency was over? Or because they’d seen it all before?

Now the frightened woman, about 45 or so, got up and held the man’s clammy hand. Now she let go and nervously paced. Then chanced a little trip out to the ICU lobby.

Her brother was there, and her niece, a skinny girl of about 20 with trendy clothes on. And a chubby young woman of about 22, with a hispanic-looking man her age who looked to be her boyfriend. All yet in their coats, and sweating, not having thought to take them off.

The doctor fiddling with his name tag came out. In response to the unasked question, he said, “He had quite a close call. But he’s stable now, finally. He’ll be OK but reoovery will be slow. He’s GOT to rest for a good while. And lay off the fatty stuff.”

“He hates doing that,” the brother said.

“Well he has to. No other way.”

Now a commotion in the ICU and the scrambling of nurses. A gurney was quickly pushed into the operating room. No — that was another patient…

The frightened middle-aged woman, obviously the sick man’s wife, crossed herself and closed her eyes and prayed. After a moment’s thought her brother closed his eyes too.

Into his gathering of white Rhode Island Catholics entered a tall young black man with a shaved head, neatly dressed in a business suit, holding his hat and coat. Instead of closing the door behind him he held it open, waiting for someone to enter.

Her steps were unsteady, her breathing labored. She wore nothing but three-inch-wide coral blue pasties over each nipple, and a tiny matching thong bottom held on by barely visible threads that crossed her hips and disappeared between the cheeks of her bare butt. On her feet were nothing but string-held flip- flops, the soles paper thin. The young black man helped her into the lobby. The doctor could not but notice her entry, and approached. Such minimal clothing would normally be unacceptable in a guest to his unit, of course, but he had been advised. The young woman was fighting an allergic reaction but had insisted on being as clothed as possible.

They all hugged, hands clasping Tami’s bare shoulders and bare back gently, though her own hugs were firmer.

Her concave tummy quaking with discomfort, she brushed back the strands of red hair that had shaken across her forehead. She said, “D – doctor — P – perini? H – how is m – my Dad?”

The doctor quietly repeated when he had told the others. “He was working too hard, I told him that last time I saw him.”

“C – can I… see him?” She shook and her companion steadied her, placing his hand on her bare hip.

Rod let Tami go and be alone with her father. Then he went in and joined her, holding her hand. He watched as she contemplated her father’s face, with a serenity that was remarkable.

When they got back to where her family was, her mother and Uncle Robert and her cousin Amaryl, and Tami’s old friend Charlene and her boyfriend Carlos, and a handsome young priest walked in.

“H – hi Father George.”

In measured tones, he said, “I’m awfully sorry about this. Your father’s a good man, I think he’ll pull through. Your family is lucky to have you, Tami. They look up to you. And to your brother.”

“Th – thanks.”

“I see your allergy is being treated bit by bit.” Father George surveyed Tami up and down. He was gay, a carefully kept secret, but could not help but notice.

“This is… all I can wear. At the moment. I’ve got to g – get a job as soon as I g – graduate.”

“I’m sure you’ll have no trouble with that. You’ll be the valedictorian, as I understand. Congratulations.”

“Th – thank you.”

Father George went on to talk to the other family members. Rod and Tami sat down.

Tami crossed her legs. The quivering caused by her allergy caused her foot to shake. It caused the papery flip-flop to fall off. With a lurching motion Tami bent down to put it back on, clumsily threading the string between her toes.

“Babe, you don’t have to have all that on. Take it off. They’ll understand.” She was supposed to stay naked as the beginning of her “status orgasmus” preparation, but had insisted on being as clothed as possible here.

“N – no.”

“At least take your shoes off.”

“N – no.”

They sat in silence and then Tami, unable to keep still, stood up and listened to the conversation between Father George and Tami’s mother. Rod watched, seeing Tami’s total nakedness from the rear, interrupted only by the little strings sloping into her butt crack, amid the heavy clothing of the others. He thought of his marching band dreams and imagined Sarge, the band director, had had a heart attack during a parade and the rest of the band, having found out that he was going to be OK, were chatting in the hospital lobby. Frigid Brigid in her micro- uniform, respectfully listening to the fully-clothed grown-ups. The other Tunemasters were no doubt nearby.

So Tami’s premonition of bad things happening had been correct. First her brother gets his tour extended in Iraq, now her father has a heart attack. With a shudder he thought of the old saying that bad things happen in threes. What would be next?

He thought of Joe getting a hardship discharge. Of course it should be tried. But from what they had heard this was not the kind of situation that would qualify these days. No children involved. And her mother was around to take care of John Smithers. Unfortunately Martha knew nothing about running the store. Tami had, but obviously could not do that naked, or nearly naked. It would cause a riot on Chalkstone Avenue. He could picture cars honking and a traffic jam as everyone rushed to get a look at the naked chick behind the parts counter.

Once again, Rod felt helpless, inadequate. He wished he could do more than just stand around and be a shoulder to cry on. He wished he could make Tami’s problems go away. He wished he knew how to run a hardware store. The thing to do was just to sell it. But without John Smithers around they would probably have to close it down and see if they could get out of their business lease. Who would buy a defunct hardware store? They’d be reduced to selling the stock for ten cents on the dollar.

Tami had worked out her thoughts on the three-hour drive down here, once she had collected herself after the first shock. “In high school I used to do his books. I could do that again, and the ordering, and payroll. I’ll go down on weekends. Friday night, after hours.” Of course, they both knew the store hadn’t been doing well. Having to look at those books would distress Tami even more.

Idly, he thought of his own mother. They should really stop by Roxbury and see her on the way back. No, it would be too late. And he and Tami both had early morning things to do tomorrow. That old house, how he would hate to see it go. But she just couldn’t take care of it by herself, since his father died. She seemed about ready to admit things and put the “For Sale” sign up. The sale should set her up pretty well. The house was in good shape and the neighborhood had improved in recent years. Naturally she would give much of her windfall to Rod and Tami, and they could use it to help out Tami’s folks. But that would be, at the earliest, months away.

Twenty minutes later they all tried to get Martha Smithers to come home, but she insisted on staying the night at her husband’s side. A nurse brought in a cot. The group dispersed, Tami having gotten the phone number for the nurse’s desk.

The drive back to Vermont was a silent one. Rod looked over at Tami as much as he could while keeping his eyes on the road. He thought of the first time they had made this trip together, how she had gotten into his old, drafty car, clothed only in a blanket, and sucked him all the way to Vermont. Happier times.

Tami had placed her “clothes” on the dashboard. She spent an hour contemplating them. In a delayed reaction, she cried. Rod patted her thigh.

It was around two a.m. when they finally pulled into their driveway. Tami sniffled and said firmly: “I need to make some big bucks p.d.q.”

“Please DON’T go dancing at Teaser’s.”

Tami didn’t answer. She was looking down at her bare feet, flexing her toes. She was tired but obviously wide awake.

As he got out of the Jeep, Rod said, “Think you can sleep?”

“I’m going to have to try. Big day tomorrow.”

. . . .

George Halifax, General Counsel of Campbell – Frank College, swallowed the last bite of his doughnut and ambled across the quad to take in one of his favorite sights, Miss Tami Smithers sprawled out napping on top of one of the concrete tables like a lazy cat.

She must enjoy every ray of sunshine on this warm day, he mused, after that long Vermont winter with the two April blizzards. There was still melted snow in shady corners but the day was glorious. As was her body, arms and legs spread wide, her nipples lazily erect in the sun, her pussy lips slightly opened.

Her rest was fitful, though. He could tell that. The bags under her eyes, the lack of that gentle smile. One could hardly blame her for being sleepless.

She turned a bit, the concrete scraping under her bare back, opened her eyes, and squinted at the sky, with a sexy little tired moan. George felt his dick stiffening. Fortunately, it was well hidden by clothes and his sizeable gut. And now Tami sensed his presence and looked down at him, realizing of course that her pussy lips were spread wide in his face, knowing he could see right up inside her, but showing no bashfulness nor making any motion to close her legs. It was all a part of Tami Smithers’s life, a part she had long gotten used to.

“Hello, Mr. Halifax,” Tami said to him across her pubic hair.

“Hi, Ms. Smithers, Tami,” George said. “I’m sorry to hear about your father. It’s been all over the campus intranet.”

“Thank you.”

“I’ve come to show you something.” Realizing, in his dirty middle-aged man’s mind, how that sounded, he quickly revised it. “I mean, a document came in for you. It’s in my office.”

Tami sat up and stretched her arms skyward, her breasts riding up. George took a deep breath and suppressed the urge to grab them. It was almost irresistible. He thought of this Smithers girl over and over, during sex with his wife, it got him fired up. He was going to say something about it on his sex blog (lawyer.tonsoffun.com) but didn’t want to blow his cover.

She got up and they walked together. On the path to Rossland Hall he said, “What happened to your outfit?” He had gotten turned on by those little pasties, and that clit strap.

“It’s the treatment at Chalfont, with Dr. Kantor, I’m supposed to stay naked for now.”

“Oh.” He pretended ignorance. She waved blandly at a friend who passed by. Then as they passed a pile of snow she stooped next to hit and desultorily smooshed sloppy handfuls onto her breasts and into her crotch. “I’m supposed to stay cold too.” The snow made her nipples poke out more than usual. As she stood up George had to look away and take a deep breath.

As they saw the sign to Rossland Hall, he thought of Henry Ross. He’d never met him, of course, his infamous predecessor, but he’d seen him on those secret Chalfont DVD’s before he handed them over to Tami. God, that scene with her being pistoned to orgasm, again and again, looking so young and frightened, having to look Ross in the eye as he shouted insults at her family and racial epithets at her boyfriend. The agony and terror and unwanted ecstasy in her eyes… He had to admit it was an incredible turn-on. He was charged up with his wife for two weeks after seeing that. Did that make him bad?

As they entered his office on the ninth floor he realized how cluttered it was and how Tami had no clear place for her bare feet. Tami didn’t mind as potato chips crunched under her soles.

He handed her a large envelope. “This is important, Ms. Smithers. It came in today by overnight. A government contract. Or, actually, one of the companies that supply the government. They want to mass produce your fabric.”

Tami’s bloodshot eyes widened as she held the envelope in her hands. “Mass produce?”

“Somehow they’ve heard of it and they’ve decided it might be useful as military outfitting. Which is what you wanted it to be, right? Suitable for both heat and cold, for our boys in Iraq?”

Tami looked down at the sealed envelope in wonder. “What does it say?”

“I don’t know, it’s really for you to look at. You and Gretchen Spaulding.”

“Gretchten will let me sign for everything.”

“Well, you then. Make sure a lawyer looks at it though.”

“You’re a lawyer, right?”

“Yes, but I’m only the college lawyer. I look out for the college. YOU need a lawyer to look after YOU.”

Tami opened the envelope and drew out the twenty-page document.

George didn’t want to say it, knowing where it would lead, but felt he had to. “Dr. Konrad, in the Fashion Technlogy Department, he’s an intellectual property lawyer. BURRRRP!” He cleared his throat. “Sorry. Have him look at it, OK?”

Tami’s tired, worry-lined face started to read. “OK. Thank you, Mr. Halifax.” And she turned and left, stepping between crumbs, George’s eyes following her with complicated thoughts until they fastened on her trim little butt cheeks.

He was startled when she came back ten minutes later.

“I’ve read it,” she said, breathlessly. “I agree. It says the advance is a hundred thousand dollars, payable in 30 days.”

“Wow.” Actually not unheard of in that business, but to a naked 22-year-old college student… “Still, talk to Konrad –”

“I’ve already signed it. Do you have a fax machine?”

“Uh… sure… next to Miss King’s office… but you should — ”

She ran off, her soles slapping against the tiles in the hall. And so Tami Smithers faxed a signed contract to a Texas phone number that in fact rolled over to a fax machine in Dubai. The contract had been carefully drafted by a recently hired lawyer in the Department of Defense, who had had some professional difficulties, including leaving a position hastily, and a more recent order of protection. But he had connections, so of course the normal vetting process was waived.

Part 66

Horace Konrad, Esq., Ph.D., tenured professor in the Fashion Technology Department, smoothed his ruffled cuff and glanced at the twenty-page document with the fax transmittal sheet, lying on his desk. Then he smoothed his other ruffled cuff. This trim, 55-year-old was the most “out” of all the gay professors on campus, the most foppishly dressed. One could even see the rouge on his cheeks, the penciling on his eyebrows. Today he wore a pink striped shirt, an orange ascot, and a Little Lord Fauntleroy blue jacket. His pants were purple velvet, his boots fake- snakeskin with sapphire studding. His gray hair was highlighted with blond streaks. With this colorful attire and makeup, an unkind observer would say he looked a little like a circus clown, lacking only the red bubble nose.

A sad, serious clown. He glanced at Mr. Rod Sykes, in his suit and engineer boots, sitting to the side. And then he studiously regarded the naked young woman standing in front of his desk, her pubic hair looming over the photo of him and his long-time partner that perched on the far edge. He had offered her a chair but she was too nervous to sit. Her big toe corkscrewed uneasily into the carpet. Her nipples, normally big and brown and erect, sticking themselves into everyone’s face (Dr. Konrad was not enamored of nipples in general, at least not female nipples), were parched, receded, as if trying to go into hiding. Something not possible for nipples that happened to belong to Tami Smithers.

“Yes, as you point out, there is a huge advance payable in 30 days, but there are conditions that have to be met, before the 30 days starts to run,” he said.

“Like what?”

Rod, having a side rear view of Tami, noticed her butt cheeks flexing and braced himself for bad news. This meeting was Tami’s idea. She had tossed and turned through another sleepless night, wondering at what she had signed. Several times during the night she had gone over to the kitchen table to go over the contract yet again, trying without success to penetrate the legalese. There were also some references to “incorporated protocols” but no hint as to what those protocols were. Finally in the morning she called on Dr. Konrad to look at it. Just three hours later he asked her to come in at 5:30 p.m. Rod left work early to get here with her for support.

Exhaling, as if in weariness and exasperation, Dr. Konrad said, “It took me a while to find the referenced protocols, they are supposedly on the Department of Defense web site but the link is dead. They are a relic of a time when it was much harder to get contracts for core services. That’s a term of art, it means things the Army, for example, traditionally does for itself. That includes uniforms. I know this, I used to be in Quartermaster Corps. One of my old pals had the protocols in his files.”

He made a limp-wristed wave at a thirty-page fax to his side. “The relevant provision is a kind of bootstrap, where you have get a similar contract before you get THIS contract. And it has to be with a, what it calls a ‘qualifying institution’.”

“What does that mean?” Rod said.

Dr. Konrad looked up at the naked girl. “In your situation, it basically means you have to win the International to get the advance.”

Tami shut her eyes. “Oh Jesus.” She crossed her arms in front of her, squeezing her breasts so that they spilled out over her arms.

“In the meantime this company, this, uh, Graywater Enterprises, they have dibs on the fabric you have invented. Since you haven’t patented it, they are free to get a patent themselves, or declare it a government secret. I know that sounds unfair, but to quote Ronald Reagan, ‘when you get into bed with government, you get more than a good night’s sleep’.”

“This is a private company, right?” Rod said. “How can they declare Cherish a government secret?”

“They can, trust me.”

Finally Tami sat down, her now clammy butt sticking to the vinyl of the chair, and she drew her legs up and wrapped her arms around her knees, as if to curl up into a ball, a very unusual gesture for her. Dr. Konrad had a full view of her lower lips, and the wink of butthole below. He tried not to look. Her toes flexed and writhed in front of her. “Lord… win the International!”

“You can use your fabric in your International submission, of course, because it would be what the contract calls ‘for demonstration purposes’. But you can’t sell it and you can’t license it to anyone else.”

Rod felt miserable for his poor wife. True, she had learned that she had made the finals of the competition, she would be going to the finals show in Montreal, two weeks from now. But she had also been told that the odds were against her winning. That would be so sweet if it happened, though. A fully paid scholarship to the Rhode Island School of Design, back in her home town, and if this status orgasmus experiment worked out she’d be back to fully clothed by then… “You can win it, Babe!”

Tami grunted, putting her head between her knees. “Maybe… maybe…”

“I have to be honest. You shouldn’t delude yourself,” the professor said. “The panel of judges who will be at that event in Montreal, well they have their own prejudices, or maybe I should say predilections. They are not familiar with the military, they are suspicious of what they picture as the military mentality, and they do not like Americans, especially recently. And now you have signed up to be, in essence, a defense contractor. There has been a lot of bad publicity about defense contractors lately. I won’t lie to you. Having signed this . . . contract . . . will be a powerful mark against you, in their book. I would be on firm ground if I said it would in effect disqualify you.”

“Can’t I get out of it?”

“I’m afraid not. Listen, Miss Smithers,” Dr. Kantor said, slouching and wrapping his hands in front of him, “I may seem cold about this but I’m supposed to be a lawyer to our fashion students, and a good lawyer must be honest with his client. Like everyone else around here I have a great deal of respect for you. And I understand the family pressures that caused you to rush into signing. But you’re over 18, and there is nothing that can be called duress or unconscionability or anything else that the law recognizes as a reason to erase that signature. As far as legal protections go, you are now… shall we say… quite naked.”

“This contract… it’s a mark against her only if the judges know about it,” Rod said. “What if they don’t find out?”

“I won’t say a thing. Halifax is sworn to secrecy too. But…” He paused. “The government has no problem outing people when it serves its purposes. And even if you won the International, if they found out about this contract later, and they almost certainly will, there could be adverse consequences.”

Rod and Tami sat there in uneasy quietude, unavoidably facing the essence of what Dr. Konrad was saying. Tami had made a big, big mistake.

“So Cherish is… out…”

“From what I understand you are an accomplished designer, well apart from your involvement in that fabric. I’ve seen some of your ‘Tami Original’ designs, they’re quite unorthodox but, in the hands of the right people, they could sell. Perhaps… aggressive marketing… of your brand…”

The silence of this remote, faint prospect hung heavy in the air. “Thank you, Dr. Konrad,” Tami said. And she gathered up the contract and left with Rod.

She walked ahead of him, eshewing the elevator as usual, and Rod watched as her dusty bare feet slapped down the concrete steps. She descended loose limbed as if very tired, breasts bouncing, that wretched contract in her hand. When she came to a landing she stopped.

She looked out the window, onto a playing field, beyond which lay San Beueno Hall and, beyond that, the Chalfont Institute. On the field, girls in soccer uniforms were having a scrimmage in the springtime mud, running and kicking a ball around. They seemed happy, oblivious to the mud on their sneakers and tall socks. Happy and clothed. For once, Tami seemed unhappy about being naked. Having to forego orgasms the past few days, as part of her preparation for the status orgasmus session, didn’t help. That certainly contributed to her inability to sleep.

Now he was chilled to the bone as Tami asked the questions he had dreaded for three years.

“Rod… how come I’m the only one in the world who is always naked? What’s it like… to wear clothes?”

He couldn’t think of how to answer that, except to say, “You’ll know soon enough, Babe.”

To Rod’s surprise Tami sniffled and turned to him. A tear fell onto her nipple just before she buried her face in his jacket. “Oh Rod… I’ve let my family down… and how can I explain this to Gretchen? I’ve signed away all her hard work!”

. . . .

Gretchen, holding her arms up in the uncut sleeves, stood on the little stand in the Fashion Lab and looked down at the tired, bleary eyes of her best friend. Even her nipples drooped a bit, as if tired of facing the world 24/7.

“Ouch!”

“Sorry, Gretch.” Another pin prick, very unusual for Tami. Her naked friend shook loose some threads that had gotten tangled between her toes and moved behind her to cinch up the back.

It was another attempt at getting that evening dress just right. On previous occasions Gretchen’s boob kept popping out, to her intense chagrin, Gretchen being such a shy farm girl from a conservative background. Though at the moment she felt not shame but guilt, guilt she knew was irrational but felt nonetheless. Her fiance Roger, having survived a year in Iraq as a fighter pilot, was coming back in a couple of weeks, while Tami’s brother got his tour extended at the last minute.

And there was the palpable guilt that Tami exuded, at having signed away the rights to Cherish. Gretchen had given Tami permission to sign for them. Despite this huge mistake she kept telling Tami, “It’s OK, Tam, it’s OK!” Surely Tami’s family situation made the whole Cherish business trivial. Gretchen would have gladly signed away Cherish if it somehow would bring Joe back, or make Tami’s father healthy again.

Now, watching Tami, with pins in her mouth, pick out a thread that had fallen into her plum-colored lower hair, she put her thoughts as gently as possible. “Tam, why don’t you take a break? Go home and rest.” Tami went back to cinching and Gretchen suppressed a yelp as she was pricked again, near the waist.

“No,” Tami said with finality. Then she stood back, hands on her hips. “How is that?”

Gretchen hopped off the socle and landed softly on her stockinged feet.

Unknown to both of them, the door had swung open slightly. Students were passing by in the hall, on the way to the Intro to Fashion class. Mostly non-majors who had signed up for it as a lark, not realizing all the reading they would have to do. And now including Lorinda, who had mercilessly abused and tormented Tami during that awful freshman year, who had gotten that summer accounting job with Ned and Ethel that Tami had longed for… accompanied by her roommate Celine, who could just barely tolerate her.

“Turn, Gretch.”

Gretchen turned and, unfortunately, her right boob once again popped out.

“Woooo!” squealed a delighted Lorinda, whose view through the open door was unobstructed.

“Oh Jesus!” Gretchen, suddenly aware of her audience, blushed furiously and drew the flap of Cherish over her right breast. Only now it was her left breast that popped out.

“Wooo! Wooo!” Lorinda squealed with delight. “Nice tits, Gretch!”

“Oh Lord Almighty…” Gretchen turned and fled to the dressing closet in teary-eyed shame.

Campbell – Frank’s only naked student, a being possessed, flew through the opened door and tackled Lorinda. Then threw a punch square in the jaw with her powerful arm. A few seconds later Lorinda Summerton lay face-down in the hallway, surrounded by shocked students and faculty, motionless, with a pool of blood forming on the floor under her head.

Part 67

Sitting in the kitchen, Rod and Gretchen looked at their coffees and then up at each other.

“I don’t hear a sound from up there,” Gretchen said.

Rod nodded. Tami had been in the attic since they woke up an hour ago.

Gretchen hesitated at what she was to say next, but said it. “Aren’t you afraid she’ll do something… stupid?” She pictured Tami hanging by a noose.

Rod shook his head and took another sip. “All in all, Tami’s seen worse.” He thought of the stories he had dragged out of Tami about that naked cross-country trek back home. Nearly freezing and starving to death on the tar paper roof of a diner in Arizona. Nearly baking to death on the hot Texas chapparal, until she was rescued by that horse. Trussed up in that harness on that pony farm, almost going mad with pain as she refused to have that horrible fax sent to her father, while that tail dildo pounded her ovaries mercilessly. He thought again of what the Chalfont people had told him, that it was as painful as having one’s testicles squeezed in a vise until they popped. He shifted uneasily in his chair.

“She’ll find a way to survive. She always does. And she’s with us, not alone. Surrounded by our love and our support.”

“Amen.” They both looked up at the ceiling. Then gazed out at the misty early April morning, hearing the birds sing as they fluttered among the newly sprung flowers. A season of hope and promise. “The cruellest month.”

Then together they got up, Rod in his sweats, Gretchen in her bathrobe, and ascended the stairs silently, Rod in his stockinged feet, Gretchen in her tennis shoes.

The attic of this small house was a bare expanse of dusty hardwood boards, under the bare joists of the sloped roof, holding nothing except some boxes stored in the corners. Three peaked windows afforded a view of the street and Mrs. Blanton’s house and the mountains beyond. As Rod and Gretchen ascended, the first thing that hit their eyes was the well-known ring of brown skin around Tami’s anus, winking at them from between widely separated butt cheeks as she kneeled prone on the floor, her head down and her arms extended in front of her. To the side was a bottle of water and, further out, a laptop. Next to the laptop, an envelope with Tami’s careful block lettering:

CPL JOSEPH P SMITHERS
C CO,784 BSB
101ST INF DIV
OIF VII
FOB SPEICHER
APO AE 03574

They recognized Tami’s pose as one of her gymnastics positions. Now as they stepped up onto the boards she turned on her side, clasped one foot and veered into one of her stretch positions, legs split apart. Then with her hand she turned the upper foot so that it almost touched the low ceiling. The dust from the boards clung to her butt cheeks and the side of her thigh. Her pussy lips were split open and they hung out obscenely, engorged with arousal from days and days of not having release. The smell of female filled the room. Rod’s dick stiffened at this natural signal, despite his mood. As he sat down cross-legged with Gretchen he had to shift it around so it ran down his leg.

Tami turned again and now she faced them, legs apart in a split, hands in front. Then she extended her hands out to rest on her knees and opened her dexterous toes. The toes spread so wide they looked like fingers opening to clasp a softball. Like a chimpanzee’s feet. Rod thought of lightening the mood by saying “Ooo! Ooo!” but changed his mind.

“How are you holding out?” Gretchen said at last.

Tami reached over to the water bottle and took a sip. Her face, drawn with lack of sleep, was serious but somehow serene. “Considering I’m under indictment, and under the college code of conduct I’m suspended from classes and barred from campus, and I’ve signed away our invention and my degree is in grave danger and I might be expelled, and my brother is in a combat zone and my dad is in critical condition, I’m OK.”

Thank God Lorinda hadn’t been killed. Tami was so strong that one punch could have done it. But Lorinda’s jaw was broken, and had to be wired shut for at least a month. And then there was that arraignment. Judge Prudence Staton, in shock, had listened to the heartbroken Assistant D.A., Miss Granby-White, ask for a charge of first degree aggravated assault. Tami had listened nakedly and almost in tears next to the exquisitely dressed Marcus McIntyre as Lorinda’s mother, a stringy-haired shrew who was like an older version of her daughter, screamed for a charge of manslaughter. But the judge wouldn’t do that.

Then the judge really set Lorinda’s mother off by refusing to set bail. It was patiently explained that the purpose of bail was to prevent flight and Tami was not a flight risk, not only because she was Tami but because it was hard for a naked woman to flee town without detection. This did not satisfy Lorinda’s mother one bit. Rod supposed he could sympathize. After all, her daughter had almost been killed.

Rod’s and Gretchen’s thoughts were interrupted by the naked young woman, speaking with her hands on her knees again, her pussy lips languid and hanging down, right in their face, her toes separated. “I’ve made three big mistakes. I yelled at Yvette and she almost committed suicide, then I signed that contract, then I socked Lorinda in the jaw. From now on . . . ooohhh . . . nothing stupid. Everything I do has to be exactly the right thing.”

That shudder was a product of her extreme horniness. Rod hated to see her suffer. “Babe… let’s go to bed. I’ll lick you.” Which made Gretchen blush.

“No!” the naked girl said firmly. “I have to stay — unsatisfied. The buildup to the — status orgasmus. When I get into clothes again. And can lead a normal life and find a job where I can.”

The three sat on the floor in silence, Rod and Gretchen cross-legged, Tami in her split. Then Rod said, “I think there was a lot behind that punch you gave Lorinda.”

“There’s no need to psychoanalyze me, Baby. I know EXACTLY why I punched her so hard… It was all that shame from my freshman year coming out. I thought I’d let it go, but it was still inside me. When she started in on someone else, on my best friend, well then I had to…” All this delivered without emotion, with clear-eyed, or maybe cold-eyed, seriousness. Tami seemed like a different person. There was no joy in her. No sense of dreams and hope. Just brutal honesty.

Gretchen thought of something Jen had told her, of Lorinda’s finger up Tami’s butt, feeling the rectal contractions as Jen brought Tami to orgasm after orgasm at that demonstration arranged by Dr. Congi in the basement of the admininistration building. “She’s squeezing my finger to death!” Lorinda had squealed, as her immature friends had held Tami’s hands and feet, while Jen used all her skill to intensify and extend Tami’s orgasms, not knowing the mortal shame Tami was suffering. Yet after all that freshman year humiliation, it was only when Gretchen herself had been shamed, that Tami let her anger out.

“So now what?”

Tami said, “Well… I can still keep up with classes by e-mail. My professors are seeing to that. And I’ve been looking at… options.”

She pivoted on her butt to the laptop and turned it on with her pinky toe. In a moment Rod and Gretchen were shocked to see it was set to some kind of porn site.

“Watch this,” Tami said. “She calls herself the Pussygun.”

A quick video showed a platinum blonde with fake breasts, naked except for high glass heels, spreading her legs and leaning back and squirting a stream of what looked like water from her crotch.

“That’s easy,” Tami said, extending her foot to pause the video with her second toe. “I can do better.”

Rod’s heart sank because he knew Tami’s talents and knew what she was about to do. It was a surprise to Gretchen, though. Tami upended the water bottle into her pussy, then turned toward the windows. She raised her widely spread legs on flat bare feet, raised her butt off the floor, then with quick grunts she directed a narrow, laser-like stream at each window, hitting each dead center. She managed a second hit on each before the water ran out.

“I’ve looked into it,” the naked young woman said. “Setting up the web site and the cam is easy. And I’ll use an alias. Maybe pixellate my face. Nobody will ever know it’s me.”

“Oh Babe…” Rod said. “That would be so…”

“Cheap?” Tami’s eyes flashed. “Rod, even once I get into clothes, even if they let me graduate, I won’t be able to make real money for a long time. My family needs cash NOW.”

“And I have other tricks too. Like this.” She leaned forward and reached one of Gretchen’s sneakers with her feet. Then did her trick of untying the laces with her toes. And tying them up again. “And then there’s putting that tail in. I bet not many women could do that. And the gymnastics. Not many totally naked gymnasts on the web, from what I’ve seen. Or at least no good ones. If I can learn to do status orgasmuses at will, that will be an extra. Put it all together, probably a unique site. I should draw a lot of paying subscribers. And, on top of that, there’s Teaser’s, or some such place.”

“Oh Babe…” Rod said again.

“It won’t be so bad,” Tami said, deadpan. “I’ll be cured by then and can wear clothes for my day job, maybe being a grad assistant. Again, if they let me get my degree. This web site will be my cash cow, though. I can work on it on weekends.”

That she had carefully thought this all through made it worse. Rod and Gretchen looked at her, then at each other, in great sadness.

Now Gretchen contemplated the envelope with the military address on it. Similar to the address she used to write her fiance Roger, whose tour ended next week. “I see Joe got promoted to Corporal.”

“It’s lateral only,” Tami said. “Same pay grade as Specialist. Only now he can order Privates around. Necessary now that he’s in a combat zone. . . I’m writing him a long letter explaining what happened.” Tami exhaled, raggedly, then stood up, her head nearly touching the joists. She shook her muscles all over, evidently to redistribute the blood that kept collecting in her pelvis. Her breasts bounced and she looked down at her two companions. In a perfunctory sign of vanity, she ran her fingers over the short hair on her head, then fluffed up the plum-colored hair below. “Joe’s gotten a lot more interesting to talk to now that he’s grown up. The Army matured him. I think it might be good therapy for me, to explain myself.”

“Speaking of therapy, Tami,” Gretchen said, “if you can’t go on campus — ”

“The Chalfont folks said screw you to the rules,” Rod broke in. “They told Tami that her sessions will continue for the buildup. She goes again on Monday.”

“Right… and…” For once Tami showed a trace of emotion as she looked up at Rod. “It’s Friday. I’ve got to go down, you know. Do Dad’s books.”

“I’m coming too, Babe,” Rod said.

“Yes… I’ve got to face Dad. I’ll need you next to me, Baby.”

. . . .

Rod sat in the hall next to Tami, who was suffering in her little pasties and stringy thong bottom and paper thin flip flops. They overhead John Smithers’s raspy, weak voice speaking on the phone behind the partition.

“No, no, Walt, what are you doing buying rakes? It’s the end of the season! Now don’t go higher than five bucks per on the outdoor clocks. They don’t have to be huge… Oh Christ, I don’t know what we’ll do. We’ll have to close on Sundays then. Just keep the damn place going…”

A nurse passed them and walked behind the partition. She made him end the call. Evidently she told him about his visitors. She came out and looked at the young couple and shrugged, then went on to her next task.

Rod and Tami sat uneasily. Then her father lurched out from behind the partition in a motorized wheelchair. They stood up, out of politeness. John Smithers, thin and pale and with an IV in his arm, strugged with the controls and wheeled up to them halfway.

He stared at Tami with a look that could pierce metal. Tami gulped and drew her hands in front of her, then forced them to her sides.

He let the silence go on and on, never dropping his stare. Then he said, in a short-breathed voice, “Young lady… I am very disappointed in you.”

“S – sorry Dad…”

“How COULD YOU — ” He coughed and breathed and held his chest, then made sure the I.V. was still in. “After all you’ve done… how could you do something… so STUPID… so GODDAMN STUPID!!”

Tami sniffled, like a little child being scolded who was waiting for the spanking.

John Smithers caught his breath and spoke now in a low scratchy voice. “To throw all that… four years of hard work… to throw all that away… Tami… is there something I don’t know about? Why exactly did you slug that girl?”

Rod closed his eyes and felt like a great weight was about to be lifted from Tami’s shoulders. Now was the chance to tell her father about the shame she had experienced. Not to go into detail about the Chalfont experiments, but at least to tell him of all the teasing and taunting… how it was like Hell on earth to have to go around naked… how this was why she suddenly lost control…

“Is there some reason you felt the need to slug her?” he asked again.

Tami closed her eyes and then opened them. In a teary voice, she said, “N – no, Daddy.”

John Smithers’s nostrils flared and he slammed his hand on the arm of his wheelchair with what little strength he possessed. “Then I am ASHAMED of you! ASHAMED!! I don’t want to talk to you… ANY MORE!!”

Rod jumped up next to Tami and was about to say something. But Tami shook her head vigorously and held him back.

John Smithers worked the controls and mananged to turn the wheelchair around. In a moment he was back behind the partition. Tami stood there, sniffling, forcing herself to stand up straight, a picture of utter misery.

They waited there for a few minutes. Then from behind the partition a nurse emerged and told them Mr. Smithers wanted to be left alone. They had no choice but to leave.

Part 68

“How could he not accept her apology? With her miserable and crying like that? Can’t he figure out she’s been under stress?? He’s just a stupid, stubborn, closed-minded old jerk!” Rod said, shaking his head at his eggs. “I’m sorry Bec, but even though he was in a wheelchair, I was about to whoop him upside the head.”

Rev. Rebecca Stanton, sitting across from him tonight at the Polka Dot Diner in White River Junction, N.H., nodded. “It sure sounds like he was being jerky.”

“But I stayed back because I just had to respect Tami’s wishes. She always wants to keep the past a secret from her folks. Yet another thing that she holds in. Maybe she didn’t want to get him even more excited, with his weak heart. Yet another sacrifice she makes for that old buzzard who’s too stubborn to open up and realize what she goes through for him.”

Rebecca looked different these days. She dressed more like a minister, not in her former lumberjack shirts and jeans. Longer, freer hair, and some wrinkles around the eyes. Not wrinkles of worry. Wrinkles of someone who has learned to laugh a lot.

But the helpful, intelligent demeanor was the same. “I can see how you feel paralyzed. Obviously an unfinished situation.”

“Yes… and with her father’s health the way it is… What if he dies tomorrow? With that… scene… being the last words between them?”

They sat and looked out the big windows at the parked cars in front of the diner, then out into the night, down at the river, flush with the melting snow from the mountains. Further on, the trucks boomed by on the interstate.

“So…” Rod lurched himself into a smile. “How’s the… conjugal life? What’s his name? Rodrigo?”

Rebecca blushed and her eyes crinkled. She flung back her long hair. “Oh Lord… Sex… I’ve never known such pleasure. Wow!!”

She and Rod laughed together. Rod reached across and patted her on the shoulder. “Good for you! You deserve it, after all the helping people you do.”

Rebecca these days was doing mission work in Kenya. She was “in the States” on a two-week leave, to see her brother and the rest of her family. She was going to stop by the Campbell – Frank area next week. But Rod had called her ahead of time and arranged this meeting, 30 miles out of town, because he needed what he called “some pastoral counseling”. And of course to say hi and catch up on things.

“I don’t mind being frank with an old friend, if you don’t,” Rebecca said. “But feeling Rodrigo’s penis stretching me, going way up into me, riding him like a cowgirl… it’s heaven on earth. And he’s such a good man.”

Rod smiled. It was so weird to hear Rebecca talk this way. “Are you going to tie the knot?”

“That is a question for next year. But we sure fit together.” She giggled naughtily, something Rod had never heard from her. “In so many ways.”

They both smiled and then looked out into the night again.

Rod exhaled and said, “John Smithers… what a jerk.”

Rebecca said, “Let me ask you something… That incredible strength Tami has. Where do you think she gets it from? Do you think it suddenly sprung up inside her at age 18 when she was forced to go naked and forced into all those trials? No, it was already in her. She got it from her dad. She’s just as stubborn and mulish as he is. In the context she was in, that quality turned into courage and sacrifice, being brave when no one could see she was being brave. That inner stubbornness allowed her to survive, allowed her to keep her scholarship and get straight A’s and make her parents proud. A weaker girl would have gone crazy, or cracked. But not the daughter of John Smithers.”

Someone got into one of the cars to leave. The headlights turned on and illuminated Rod’s face.

“If he’s as Catholic as he sounds,” Rebecca continued. “Have there been any divorces in Tami’s family? Or annulments?”

“No.” It was a point of pride with Tami. “We Smitherses marry for life,” she once said.

“Well, then, to him marriage is forever. You can’t stop being Tami’s husband any more than Joe can stop being her brother. It’s not a question of you coming between Tami and her dad. You have every right to intercede… And say what you think is the right thing to say.”

After a few moments Rod said, “It’s time to step up. And be brave like Tami.”

“A form of being stubborn.”

. . . .

Wanda Percival, Suffolk County (Mass.) Assistant D.A., put her arm around her old friend’s bare shoulders. She looked down at her slacks and her fashionable pointy-toed heels next to the hard, tanned bare feet. Then looked out with her friend at the blinking lights of the runways out here at Campbell County Airport.

“I wish I could help you,” she said, looking down at her rum and coke, “but I’m not admitted to practice law in this state. And from what Jen’s dad says, there’s no research to be done. I wish you the best. You deserve it.”

Tami took a sip from her martini. The bar here made really big ones. Her glass was like a cereal bowl. “How is life as an A.D.A.?”

“Not like I hoped. I thought I could be mean in a good cause. But a lot of these criminals, they remind me a little of myself. They just grew up on the wrong side of town, that’s all. Or were in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

Tami’s toes rubbed Wanda’s shoes, whether in curiosity or appreciation or envy, Wanda couldn’t tell. “I think I liked you more when you were Wandabitch. You’ve gone all squishy now.”

Wanda laughed. “Maybe it’s because right now I wish I was naked and you were clothed.”

Tami’s big toe pushed on the points of one of Wanda’s shoes. “You could still kill someone with those.”

It was called a “solidarity dinner” for Tami Smithers, here at the Skyview restaurant, the scene of that horrible orgasmic torture Tami had undergone, though of course tonight she wasn’t about to wear that tail. Marcus McIntyre, who arranged it and paid for it, had decided on an out of town location. And, Tami being “persona non grata”, no one official was here from the college.

Except George Halifax. “Tony Noyes wishes you the best,” the college’s lawyer said as he drank up a diet soda and drank in Tami’s naked charms up and down. “He can’t say so, of course. But they wanted to, uh, strip you of being valedictorian, so you wouldn’t give that speech, but he said, Not while she’s a student here. You are a fine young woman, Ms. Smithers.”

“Thanks.”

As she stood next to Rod, he in his best suit, she with a new manicure and pedicure and pretty flecks of sparkles in her plum-colored hair, both above and below, and greeted the line of well-wishers, one could tell she was blushingly shy about all the compliments but also glad she had so many friends. Now some of the TL’s came up, Barbara and Myra and Rosaria, and also Sessu, hugging her and complimenting the sparkles in her lower hair. This got a smile out of the naked woman. As Rod held her martini she spread her lower lips and waved with her clit. “Hi hi!”

Now a look of surprise. Yvette!

“Merci, merci,” she said, almost tearfully, hugging so hard that Tami’s breasts squeezed out to the sides against Yvette’s blazer.

Tami took a deep breath, her breasts heaving, as she looked Yvette up and down. She also had on a button-up blouse, long skirt, and black sneakers. And had cut her hair and permed it. “What are you doing these days?”

“I thought a long time, a very long time, after you saved me. I told Pierre to stay away. I went up to his house in St. Hubert, and told him so. Then I went back to the pere, the priest, with the closet of clothes, remember? Now I have a job, a real job, being a secretary at his friend, he has a lumber company in Grafton. So nice people.”

A genuine smile from the naked woman. “I’m so glad!” Another hug.

A few moments later, the line of well-wishers was finished. People stood around in small groups, drinking, chatting, eating the snacks brought around by waitresses in their long black slacks. Rev. Stipend came by and apologized for being late. He had to counsel a battered woman for whom he had arranged transportation to a shelter. “I pray for you and for Lorinda too,” he said.

“Reverend, I will accept all the responsibility for what I did,” Tami said, gravely, as those near her turned and watched. “I’m glad I have so many friends, but what I did was…”

“I pray it turns out well for you and for her,” the gray- haired minister said. “So does my congregation.”

After he left, Rod and Tami sipped their drinks and looked out onto the nighttime airport. They were approached by Gretchen, in a sensible long black dress, who had been staying in the background. The two young women looked at each other.

Gretchen’s eyes reddened and she sniffled. “I share a little of your pain, I suppose.”

They didn’t hug but instead clasped hands. Rod looked down and gently shook his head. They had heard the news earlier today. Roger’s tour had been extended at the last minute, just as Joe’s had. It was worse when it’s a fiance, as opposed to a brother. He thought of the intimate moments Gretchen and Roger had been looking forward to. Now, put off till next year. That is, IF he came back at all.

Trent came by with a revised “Tami Original” logo. The girl holding the coat was more obviously naked now. One breast could now be seen. “I think Jeffrey would have gotten a kick out of it,” Tami said. “It’s the least I could do,” Trent said. His new boyfriend Cyril came up and put his arm around his shoulder. “Life goes on,” Trent continued. “Tam, you’re coming to the end of another phase of your wonderful life. I get the feeling this one’s going to end happy. Maybe surprising, but happy.”

Jen and her father stopped by. Jen wordlessly hugged her naked old friend, then playfully flicked a nipple, then looked admiringly down at the flecked pubic hair. She whispered in Tami’s ear, “I SO want to lick you right now!” “Stop!” Tami said. “Please have mercy. I had to take a cold shower before we came here!”

Rod looked around. It was not exactly a happy occasion, but people could get their minds off Tami’s predicament and talk about other things. Of course, her situation didn’t apply to them. There was no uproarious laughter but the conversation was lively.

There was an observation deck above the restaurant, a glass- enclosed bubble, reachable by stairs. Homer Winant sat up there in his wheelchair with the lights off, listening to the hubbub below, taking in the 360-degree view of what stars could be seen in the glare of the lights, watching the occasional small plane land or take off. He put his martini on the railing that ran along the sides. He sensed someone behind him and turned. It was Tami, who had crept up silently on her bare feet, looking up at the sky, her toes twisting against the cold hard marble floor.

Somehow she didn’t know he was there. She placed her heel up on the railing and leaned her head down onto her leg, a ballet stretch.

Homer watched the play of muscles in her perfectly formed butt, the turn of the jiggling breast, the gentle valley of the spine. Then he decided to not remain covert. “Hello, Miss Smithers.”

Tami turned. “Oh hi, Homer,” she said quietly, continuing to stretch.

“Best of luck to you,” he said.

“Thanks.”

“Also, best of luck on the experiment to get you into clothes. I’ve heard something about it. From what I understand, it might work, it might not.”

Tami straightened up and faced her drink on the railing. “I’m sure it will,” she said. She had gotten a second martini and tookg the first sips. She idly scratched a nipple and continued to look out.

Homer plucked an olive out of his. “I see we’re both martini people.”

Tami looked his way.

“Too strong for most folks.”

This got a little smile, which pleased him.

“How did those new ice skates work out?” The ones made out of wood, that he had designed so that they could bear Tami up without covering any part of her foot.

“Excellent. You’re a genius. Everyone knows that.”

“Thanks,” he said, turning to face her head on across the circular deck. “Ever since I lost the use of my legs, my mind has improved. That’s how I invented the full body flexor, that you tried out when you were a freshman, that gives everyone a real workout now at the Rec Center.”

Tami took a big sip. “The hamster wheel.”

“What?”

A pause. “When I was sweating on it, up at the Dixon Mill, when I was eighteen, all stretched out. And anyone who wanted could just come by and look at me, every part of me. I used to think of it as ‘the hamster wheel’,”

“Well, I didn’t know your true situation then.”

“Of course.”

He paused. So much unspoken, but they understood each other. “That was another life. You won out over those creeps and came out naked and happy about it.”

He was gauging her reactions. This comment elicited none. So he went on with what he was going to say.

“Back when I had my legs, I was just another stupid wrench, working on tractors and lawnmowers, the low man on the totem pole over there. Then I slipped off that icy roof. Now I’ve invented that body flexor, and those skates… and I’ve patented those, and seven other designs, all in what they call these days ‘ergonomics’. Professor Konrad might be the world’s biggest fruitcake but he knows his stuff.

“Stuck in this chair, I learned to watch people. And in the back of my mind I’m always thinking about how people move, how their legs work. That’s how I get the ideas. I lost my legs, so now I keep thinking about how it must be to have them. It turned my mind on.”

Tami sipped and looked out as if trying to make out Orion in the glare. The lights of an incoming mini-jet played faintly over the slopes of her breasts, then along the hollow of her tummy. “I’m sure you’d rather have your legs back.”

“True. But they’re gone. In their place, I’ve been given a big gift. How could I not use it? Being legless AND stupid, that would be the worst of both worlds. It’s my role in life to be legless and smart. So I grab that gift and make the most of it. That’s the way to happiness.”

Tami and Homer remained up there in the observation deck for some time, Homer glancing over at Tami from time to time, Tami looking at the stars.

Finally Tami said, “See you later, Homer,” and descended the stairs with the gracefulness of a trained gymnast, holding her drink.

Gretchen had been holding Tami’s cell phone. Now it rang. “Tami! It’s your dad!”

Tami stood in the corner with it for a few minutes, then sat cross-legged on the floor, her bare butt cheeks pressed against the polished coldness. Then she closed the little clamshell and went over to Rod and hugged him.

“Thanks Baby,” she said. “Dad is OK. He says he’s sorry.” She had a lump in her throat for sure. “That’s not easy for him to say.”

Rod felt good, having stuck his neck out, been brave for Tami, for a change.

Now Tami, her mood having totally changed, ran her toes along the leg of his pants. “I think I owe you…”

Part 69

She had gotten him naked in the kitchen, and they had hugged there, then walked hand in hand through the living room. It felt unusual. He didn’t usually walk around naked, but it felt nice, like an interracial Adam and Eve, about to walk into the world and procreate a race of tan-skinned children.

She had something in mind and he didn’t know what it was. He thought of that “solidarity dinner”. She was melancholy until that phone call from her father. That changed everything. He was so proud of himself for getting up the courage to make that long trip down to Providence, unbeknown to her, taking a personal day while she thought he was at work. Good thing she didn’t call on the cell. On the way back from the dinner, she had said, “I can take anything now. I’ve got you, Baby, and my dad and the rest of my family, and all my friends…”

Now she was up to something as she led him naked into their bedroom. It had to be for his pleasure, not hers. She was determined to stay unsatisfied until the great status orgasmus expriment, the shock treatment that would reverse her clothing allergy, scheduled for this Saturday. It had been a while since she had taken charge of giving him pleasure, not since that disastrous week when she had tried greeting him upon his return from work with a different idea each day.

It was with a lot of nervousness that he agreed to be tied to the bed. Of course he trusted Tami, so he was surprised at his hesitation. “Just let go,” Tami said, as she tied his ankles to the little posts below and his wrists to the tall posts at the head, with soft cords that she seemed to have bought for the occasion.

“Where did you get these, Babe?” he asked, checking how securely he was fastened. The bonds didn’t hurt and yet he couldn’t hope to get free.

“No concern of — yours,” Tami said, breathing a bit irregular, a product of her unquenched horniness. She hopped off the bed and left the room. Her words now came from somewhere distant. “All I — think about now that I can’t — come is — sex. I’ve been reading a lot on the internet. Did you know there are — blogs by couples who — make a diary of when they — make love? And with pictures too . . .”

“I think a lot of those are made up,” he said, twisting uneasily, looking down at his widely-spread legs, his half-hard dick arcing uncertainly down between them, the base obscured by his belly. He really should work out more. His belly was a little more convex than he wanted it to be.

“Possibly. But I’m sure a lot are real,” Tami said, walking in with a little bag from which she got out a tube of lotion. She worked it onto her hands and then rubbed some onto his thighs. She worked down to his shins, and then worked some onto his feet. She separated his toes with her fingers. It felt good and Rod laid his head back and relaxed. Being given a massage by a beautiful naked woman. I can deal with that.

“I’ve bookmarked — fifteen blogs that look — real to me.” Now she came up to lotion his chest. “I read them every day. It’s hard to — stay focused on classwork. Of course… not having to go to actual classes gives me more time.”

“How do you work that? What about your grounds crew job? Your tutoring?”

“SHHHH!” Tami’s eyes flashed in mock imperiousness. “Don’t worry your pretty little head about such things!” He felt like giggling but he didn’t.

“Ohh Babe!!” She was now tickling the base of his dick, and his balls, tracing her fingers around, the merest touch. His dick stiffened, hoisting up by stages with his heartbeat up to a 45-degree angle, and now she wrapped one hand around the lower part of the shaft and the other above it, leaving the big acorn of the glans. She squeezed to make the acorn bigger. Their eyes met. Then she flicked her tongue against that sensitive spot under the head, making his whole body jump, to the extent it could.

He strained his arms and legs uselessly against the cords. She held his dick in her hands for a moment more, tantalizingly breathed on it, then went back to rubbing in the lotion, this time around his ears, tapping his forehead, his nose. At the same time she reached around with her limber legs and traced her dexterous spread toes up and down his hip bones, reaching for his dick, then drawing back, reaching for it, then drawing back…

Then she ground her bare body against his, lying on him full length, her rock-hard nipples poking holes in his pectorals.

This torture had been going on for twenty minutes. His legs shook with frustration. “Please Babe… finish me off.” He shut his eyes.

“Tonight, Mr. Rod Smithers Sykes has multiple orgasms,” Tami said breathily. Then she flicked her tongue against his dick again, making it jump.

Now, silence. Where was she?

His eyes still shut, he whimpered, “P – please Babe… please…” In the back of his mind he knew this was pretty funny, but that did not ease his frustration.

After a few moments of excruciating silence, he opened his eyes.

Tami’s face was six inches above his.

“Listen, Mack… do you want multiples, or not?”

He opened his mouth and didn’t know what to say.

“You SAID you were jealous, right?”

He thought for a moment and nodded weakly.

“Well then,” she said in a sudden soothing voice, caressing his face in her hands, “I’ve done a lot of reading about it. A LOT of reading. Listen then… Pretend I’m a majorette leading you.”

He could identify with that, certainly. He decided that he could do what Tami was trying to achieve. He could follow Brigid, or follow Tami, anywhere faithfully.

“You have two ways to go,” she said, fluttering her hands up and down his legs, barely touching them. “You can squirt, or hold onto your seed and go the other way. Breathe deep. Hold the squirt in.”

“OHHH!” Tami was working her widely-open, engorged pussy lips right over the tip of his dick! Back and forth, back and forth, sawing wetly, just a tiny bit more each time. Rod felt the sap rising and breathed in and out furiously. Now his whole body tensed and was filled with a euphoric glow. He felt his fingers and toes spread. He was marching in his uniform, his fly open and his dick out and erect, feeling the cold air on it as it swung to and fro in front of him, watching the blotches and patches of redness on the bare skin of the white majorette in front of him, Frigid Brigid naked except for a little string passing across her waist and running into her butt, twirling and leading with the baton in her left hand. And now he was in his Jeep going up the mountain, brights on in a snowy night, then the lights illuminated a fork in the road, and instead of turning right over a cliff he turned left —

His body jumped up and spasmed! Then jerked up again! It was like any other orgasm except he felt no shooting, no emptying, except for a great clearing of the congestion in his pelvis, a great relief of all that pent-up tension…

As the spasms died down he opened his eyes. Tami was sitting between his thighs, watching his dick, bigger than he had ever seen it, leaping back and forth a few last times. A little river of clear wetness ran down the side.

He caught his breath. “Oh God…”

Tami cleared her throat. “Was that a real orgasm?”

“Oh Babe… That was the best!”

“Feel wrung out?”

“Oh man… yes…”

“Can you go again?”

Rod felt himself coming back to earth and realized something. “Yes, Babe, I can. I think, anyway.” A strange feeling.

“OHHH!” Tami’s lower lips once again worked their magic, sawing back and forth, back and forth… Again he was raised up the mountain, again he turned left… and again he spasmed and spasmed, even longer than the first time.

As he came down again he said “Oooh!” Tami was gently licking his nipples. A strange but pleasant sensation. His dick was still hard.

“W – what’s that… wet stuff?”

“That’s your pre-cum. That’s why you’re not getting what we white folks call blue balls.”

“Oh… OHHHH!” Now she had his dick in her throat, sucking it. “Babe — tchhkk — p – please — n – no – more — TCHKKK! OHHH! Ohhhhhh…” Another turn to the left, this time without having to think about it —

. . . .

He sat at the kitchen table naked, in a fog, a big dumb smile on his face, his dick hanging between his legs as he hunched forward. He smelled the bacon and eggs and blinked and looked up.

Tami eyed him gaily as she forked the bacon out of the pan. “How about some burnt connective tissue?”

“Yum.”

She brought the plate over to him with a halting gait. He felt sorry for her continued state of frustration but he was hungry.

“You are really devious, know that? Rod Sykes. Who would have suspected?”

He smiled again as he ate. She was referring to the blow job she had given him upon awakening. Last night, after coming who knows how many times, he had finally squirted down her throat, at her request. Then she had united him and he curled up to sleep right away. Then this morning she started sucking him again. He came without squirting. After which she said, “Come on, Baby, this time squirt.” Then as he crested again he said, “Here it comes — Babe!” She took him in deep, only to be greeted with a few drops of pre-cum. Half laughing, half pissed off, she had said, “Come on! You’ll be late for work! Feed me, Baby! I’m hungry!” “OK, OK.” A minute later he unloaded a generous serving of protein.

She had a laptop open near the toaster that she went to.

“Babe,” he said, “I am so lucky. I love you love you love you.”

She smiled and went over to him and kissed his shaved scalp. “I figured — I only started having multiples — when I was tied up — in Lab 6 — that would be the way for you to learn too.”

“I wish I could get you off,” he said, looking at her swollen pussy lips hanging out from her lush plum-colored forest. “I hate to see you suffer so.”

“That’s — nothing,” Tami said. “Now that I’m horny and — coming… I can’t imaginge how it must be… to be a man. Having that big dick hard, and with clothes! Rubbing against the pants all the time, rubbing, rubbing… I don’t know how you guys control yourselves! Look at this…” She turned the laptop torward him. “This blog is called ‘married and loving it’. This man says… ‘Wifey had another good strong orgasm. That was number ten. I hadn’t come in about two weeks so she told me it was my turn’… Two weeks! He keeps himself unsatisfied so that he can please his wife over and over. Rubbing against pants every minute of every day… Such — unselfishness… Such — love…”

Poor guy, Rod thought. Denying himself while bringing hi wife so much pleasure. Then he realized that Tami could have been talking about himself, up until last night.

“Of course…” She kissed his scalp again. “That’s not something you have to deal with any more! I’m so proud of you!”

She was turning back to the frying pan but he held her hand. “Babe… I’m so lucky. You gave me the finest thing any stone fox can give a dude.” He wasn’t fond of using “pimp” slang from his youth but he wanted to sound different on such an occasion. “Wow.”

“I wanted you to be able to come like I can.”

“Wow,” he blubbered. “I’m still wiped out.”

She returned to the pan and made her own plate. “So was I, the first time. It’s like a muscle you build up. In time, you can get taken up a lot of comes and then go on with your day.”

He wanted to ask but, knowing how Tami hated quantification, hesitated. Tami read his mind. “You came eight times. About the same as me, when I started.”

Rod looked down at his dick, semi-erect. Usually it was hard this time of morning. Well, it had gotten a workout.

“Next time, we work on other body parts. Your dick doesn’t have to be hard. It’s good you like having your nipples licked. Tonight we’ll do more stuff.”

Rod laughed. He couldn’t help it and didn’t know why he did it. But he laughed, a happy laugh. This morning he was just a giggling idiot.

Tami smiled, then before she sat down to eat, looked down at her lower hair and picked out a piece of napkin that had gotten stuck there, then fluffed it, as if it were a lush fake-fur coat, or a fine angora sweater.

When his laughter had died down, Rod said, “So what’s going today, Babe?” He wondered how she would spend yet another day not being allowed on campus.

“Today… I heard Lorinda’s back in the dorm. My next project is to tell her I’m sorry.”

“Oh man… Do you think there’s any chance? That dried up immature…”

“I have to try, don’t I? Maybe she’ll — understand and drop the charges.”

“Maybe pigs will fly.”

“Like I said, I have to try. There’s no downside.”

“Yes there is. You can get caught by campus security. You’re not supposed to be on campus.”

Tami didn’t answer, except to watch Rod finish his breakfast and then to say, “Now get some clothes on, you naked shameless stud.”

Part 70

On this spring evening, around the dorms at Campbell – Frank College, the scent of newly risen flowers and fertile, moist earth mingled in the air with young voices from the open windows. From Pilgrim Hall, Rankin Hall, and the other dorms, students could be heard chatting, laughing, sometimes singing, music from CD’s playing here and there. Mid-terms over, finals a long way away, an easy, carefree season.

In Pilgrim Hall, Room 207, Jeanette and Latosha, sociology majors and best buds, dawdled over their texts for tomorrow’s little quiz, stockinged feet up on their desks, lazily lobbing questions at each other while interrupting themselves with what 19-year-old girls talk about, clothes, boys, hair, what’s on TV, clothes, shoes, boys, clothes, what’s on TV, hair, clothes, shoes, clothes…

Three years ago, on a night like this, a happy naked freshman girl held court in this same room, a room full of friends, her legs casually spread wide, her crotch full of depilation cream, with a little pink clit poking out the middle, a pink mountain poking up from creamy clouds, perking up and down as the girl laughed with her friends, at her jokey hints as to her opinion of the hugeness of her boyfriend’s penis.

Tonight, way down below Jeanette and Latosha, a more tanned, older, somewhat more muscular nude crouched furtively and illegally behind a bush, her toes sinking into the moist soil, trespassing and subject to arrest, waiting for the coast to clear. When no one seemed to be on the paths, she took a quick look at the ledges and cornices above her and then leapt up like a cat, scaling the side of the dorm, fingers and toes curling around each brick, sticking into each crevice, thighs and knees and rough browned nipples scraping against the masonry, tacking to the right, then to the left, her tight gluteals rippling… then up to one side of Jeanette and Latosha as they traded ideas as to their summer wardrobe, then up past them, approaching the window of Room 313.

Somehow Celine, studying in her jeans and T-shirt, was not startled by the tapping on the window. She had long thought she was psychic, and maybe she was. She got up from her desk and leaned over and saw the face of Tami Smithers, eyes and forehead partly obscured by the mussed plum-colored hair. Quite impressed, she craned her neck and noted the trim butt cheeks, then lower down the dexterous bare feet grabbing the two widely separated ledges.

Celine looked around the paths, and saw no one was around. This unusual and intelligent girl turned the handle on the old- fashioned wrought-iron window and it creaked open. A bare foot, the sole smeared with wet dirt, thrust in incongruously over the sill, the toes flexing and spreading in a strange sign language as their limber owner worked her way in. Clutching fingers appeared above on the door jamb, and in a moment Tami Smithers, only a little winded, stood her naked self upright in front of Lorinda’s roommate, her chest stuck out, nipples erect as always, bare feet well apart, concave tummy undulating with her breathing.

Without having to speak they looked over at Lorinda, asleep in her bed on the other side of the room.

“You have a lot of courage,” Celine said.

“Please don’t tell anyone,” Tami said.

“You’re OK with me. And with every girl on this wing. What you did wasn’t right but with all the shit you’ve gone through they should have gone easier on you.” They looked at the injured girl, her jaw wired shut, slumbering in pink pajamas, under a fluffy green comforter.

“If you’ve come to apologize, or get her to drop the charges,” Celine said, “even if she was awake, you’d be taking a huge risk. You’re taking a huge risk anyway. You’re not supposed to be on campus and she’s sure to report you.” They looked at Lorinda’s regular breathing. “Not that she’ll wake up.”

“How is she doing?”

“She’s back at class but she’s always a little doped up. So she’s not quite her usual snotnose self. And when she comes in at night, she takes the strong stuff. Tylenol IV.”

Tami suddenly noticed her dirty feet. “Oh sorry.” She tiptoed ridiculously to the doorway and rubbed her soles on the mat there.

When they got back to regarding the sleeping roommate, Celine said, “She’s out cold, Tam. She can’t hear us. You might as well go… Caroline has a car, she can take you home. We’ll sneak you down the back way so campus security won’t see you.” She picked up her bag and started to put on a sweater. “I have to go tutor someone now anyway.”

Tami thought for a moment. “Can I just sit with her?”

Celine shrugged. “You can stay if you want. Suit yourself. I’ll tell Caroline you’re here, if you need her. Room 309.”

As Celine was about to open the door she turned and pensively drank in the tanned form of one of the most beautiful female bodies in the world. Celine had the gift of eloquent speech and now she used it.

“Strange, isn’t it? By rights it’s she who should be apologizing to you, for all the abuse she heaped on you all that time. As her roommate I’ve seen more of it than anyone. Four years of constant teasing and humiliation, her seeing every inch of you, into the depths of your embarrassment, you having to look into her eyes as you went through all those unwanted orgasms as a freshman. And then the teasing and abuse went on and on, all through your undergrad lives, hers and yours. Tami, forced to be naked, freezing your bare butt off, teased; Lorinda, all protected by clothes and shoes, the tormentor.

“And now, at the very end, your graduating from this school, your career — all depends on whether SHE will forgive YOU.” Celine put on her knit cap and left.

Tami turned off the overhead light, leaving just the nightlight on. In the semi-darkness she sat down cross-legged on the fluffy rug. After a moment she looked up and said, “It’s just you and me now… Lorinda? Lorinda? Can you hear me?”

She bent forward as if to shake her awake, then changed her mind.

“Well if you can’t hear me, I can say anything, can’t I…”

She stretched her toes out and wiped a speck of mud off the third toe of her right foot. “Sorry for dirtying up your carpet… I gotta do my toes. I suppose it’s coming up on pedicure season for everyone, now. For me, it’s always pedicure season. I’ll stay with the plum… it goes well with snow.”

A little mordant grunt. “Weird. Wirklich, as they say in German. I’m in this dorm room surrounded by clothes and shoes. It sounds strange to talk about toes in the snow. But it’s my life. At least until tomorrow, when we do the big… status orgasmus project, and I get clothes again.” She shut her eyes and hugged her knees to her chest. “Clothes, clothes, clothes. I love being naked but it would be so good to be like everyone else. I remember in California, at that awful art gallery, when I was stretched out and freezing and Henry Ross –” a half- serious noise of spitting on the floor at the mention of this name — “he finally got me to confess that I wasn’t really a nudist, I was crying and panicky and freezing and shaking, and I begged him… I didn’t beg for clothes, I begged just to be normal. That’s what I am, really. A normal girl with a good heart, and I love and want to be loved in return. Just like anyone else.”

She stood up. “I’m not really a nudist, you know. It was all a pose. I was a phony. I went on a stupid streaking dare the first week and got caught. I told security that nudity was my religion. The idea just popped into my head. It was a lie, I was being a coward. I was just a kid then. But then Jorgon, remember him, told me that if it was my religion then I had to follow it.” She laughed. “So now you know. Crazy, right? Like some sex story you read on the internet.”

She looked over at the long mirror that all dorm doors had on the inside. “Being naked is great though. Everyone should be that way. It’s like you feel everything, so much more. Once you get over the shame. Being clothed seems like living with a blindfold on. And you can pick up things, like the change of weather, tiny changes in temperature… I can even ‘smell’ girls’ perfume with my skin. Don’t ask me to explain it.” She cupped her breasts and looked down at her nipples. “I can even tell when people are thinking, sometimes. I’d hate to lose that. So after tomorrow, when I put on clothes, I’ll still be naked at home, on weekends, any chance I get.”

She looked at her reflection and playfully brought her arms up to a flexing-biceps pose. “Quite a bod, won’t you say? Look at my waist, it’s tiny! Every girl on campus wants this bod, most of the women professors too.” She turned this way and that. “I’m not modest at all about it. All that grounds crew work, and being out in the sun all the time…”

Now she put her arms down and looked at the sleeping girl. “I know you want this body too. I’ve seen you look at me, when you’re not ragging me. Well every little bit of me is out for all the world to see. Every bare toe, each nipple, my ‘private parts’ which aren’t private at all… no matter what the time of year. And not only that, but inside me too. Everyone knows what the inside of my — pussy — looks like. And the inside of my rectum.” She seemed to think a moment, then turned and got down on all fours, and spread her butt cheeks. “Don’t worry, I cleaned myself a while ago. Jeane keeps giving me flavored enemas, this one’s coconut, nice, right? Unhhh… See my ‘inner butthole’? A drawing class did it last year. It’s not gross at all. You stuck your finger in here once, remember? To feel my clenching? I was terribly shamed but I have to admit, those were some fierce orgasms. Jen’s tongue is amazing.”

She stood up again and spread her lower lips. Her clit jumped up and down. “Hi hi!” She giggled, her clit laughing too. “Weird again. I talk about my daily life and in this room it sounds weird. Like I’m an alien. Maybe I am… The only naked person on the planet.”

Tami drifted toward Celine’s desk and looked out at the stars. “Sometimes I imagine I’m from somewhere else. Like there’s a bunch of people who see me and read about me, like I’m a character in a story. A story board. Where girls are stripped naked. And there’s other girls. I’m not the first, or the most popular. Maybe not the best written, but I am surely the nakedest. And the story goes on and on.

“I was stripped so long ago, been naked so long… And I imagine people out there saying my story’s run its course. But I have to keep on living. That’s what they don’t understand. They can turn away from my story and go on with their lives… But what about MY life? I have to still get up every morning, naked, and make my way through the world, naked…

“Sometimes I want to say to those people who read about me: I’m in your head forever. You read about me going across the country without any clothes or money or stuff, just my bare body and my wits, and I’m still journeying. Look around. Behind that bush, there’s a naked girl looking at you. Under that bridge, there’s a naked girl looking up at you. Behind that tree. Under those stairs. Behind that garage. Splashing across that river. No, that wasn’t a dream. That was Tami, naked, desperately searching for clothes, hoping you’ll give her some.

“A naked girl in a world of the clothed. I feel, like, so alone, unique. And you know… people keep telling me how strong I am, all the things I’ve been through, physically, mentally, how all those things were done to me and I didn’t crack… how I’m like a super-girl. . .”

She shook her head and stood up straight, her breasts stuck out. “They’re RIGHT, dammit! I AM a super-girl! Who could have gone through all that! I went through hell, I walked naked through blizzards, I made my way naked across the country, hiding from the police, I had…” She bent over, clutching her stomach. “I wouldn’t let those pony farm people hurt my parents even though that horrid tail thing inside me was banging my ovaries. God, that’s the worst pain I ever felt in my life.” She stood up again. “I am incredibly strong. It’s just the truth.

“But…” Her shoulders slumped. “I don’t want to be a super-girl. When people tell me how strong I am, they set me apart. It’s a way of being lonely. I want to be a regular girl like everyone else, who wears clothes… I just want to be normal.

“Thank God I have Rod, and my friends, and my family.” She looked down at the tattoo on her toe — I BELONG TO ROD. “Rod, he’s my anchor. I am SO lucky to have him. He feels like he’s inadequate, not as strong as me. But think of how he must feel, walking next to me, with everyone looking at this naked white girl next to him. Thinking he’s a pimp? Or something. Not being able to know how in love he really is. It’s been as nerve- wracking for him as it was for me, I can feel it,” she said, looking down at her nipples. “Sticking with me takes courage.

“And a strong tongue.” She laughed. “Finally I got to give something back to him. I gave him multiple orgasms last night. It’s possible for guys, you know.”

She knelt down next to the sleeping girl. “People want to know what it feels like, to be naked all the time, have orgasms in public and carry on conversations while my body is jerking like a marionette on someone’s tongue. Well I’ll tell you. I feel like I’m turned inside out and everyone can see my guts and and secret inner self… And… it’s really not so bad. I was stripped naked in every way you could think of. But I got back a lot more than what was taken from me. A LOT more.”

She stood up and looked at herself in the mirror, and fluffed her pubic hair. “And I’m not really naked. My hair is my clothes. And it’s all over me. Most of me has tiny, tiny hairs if you look close enough. I’m a beautiful animal. It’s my natural fur.” She fluffed the hair on her head, fluffed her pubic hair again. “I love my clothes.”

A loud snore from Lorinda gave Tami a start. Without waking, the sleeping girl turned. In a moment her breathing was as low and regular as before.

“It’s the most wonderful feeling. To come, and come… loud and heavy and… Since I’ve been, like, abstaining, the last two weeks, I’ve obsessed on the topic of orgasms. I’ve done a lot of reading on it. There’s so much about sex that the average girl doesn’t know. A lot of it is spiritual stuff. I’m not like that. I like my orgasms to be physical. The all-body spasms, jerking right through me, the pounding in my veins, the scream of pure ecstacy. Yes, yes, YES!!” She clutched herself, knees shaking, having awakened the sexual urge that she had been trying to suppress.

“GOD I’m horny… Tomorrow’s the big day. Finally my friends’ll make me come again. On and on. And then… clothes!”

With a sudden look she turned to Lorinda. “You don’t know, do you? It just struck me. You’ve never had an orgasm in your life. That explains a lot. That’s the real reason you went to that workshop with me and Jen and Ms. Congi. You’re jealous, aren’t you? I saw that look of yours. A few weeks ago, my friends were licking me in the library and you passed by with Celine. I was going into my spasms, Rosaria was licking my… vagina, Jeane was sucking my toes, Barbara was sticking her finger into my butt and sucking on a nipple, man oh man she likes to bite… and as I crested and my eyes got back into focus, I saw you glance at me. You were jealous. No wonder. I’ve gotten so much more pleasure than you can ever imagine.

“That was a long, long come. I thought it would never stop. People passed by, I think I said hi to Trent, and the waves just kept on and on. I remember all my comes, really well. . . That one was the twelfth of the day… Twelfth…”

The naked girl’s face went slack and she stared at the window.

“Thirty-four thousand, seven hundred sixteen.”

She blinked and her eyes got wet. “Ever since that first one, with that knob up my butt, in Lab 6, Dr. Harridance checking it off on his clipboard… I’ve counted every damn one. Thirty-four thousand, seven hundred sixteen.” She shut her eyes. “DAMN it!! Why do I have to be so good with numbers! I can’t help counting. Every single — come — I’ve had, in the back of my mind I COUNT it! Every damn one for three and a half years!” She shook her head. “No matter how close I feel to Rod, no matter how… great… explosive each one is, reaching deep into my… soul… in the back of my mind I COUNT! Like that damn scoreboard thing in Lab 6!” Now hands went up to eyes as if to block out a horrible sight. “I want to wipe it out, forget about it… but I just can’t ever stop it. It’s in the marrow of my bones, that deep secret place where no one can ever go but me, but in that secret place, there’s Mr. McMasters and those assistants and those damn giant dildos pumping into me… and I have to look them in the eye each time!!! Ross! I hate Henry Ross!! But he’s always in that secret place!! Shouting at me, calling Rod a — a bad word… his face staring right into me… ohhh…”

Tami crumpled to the floor and sniffled, her hands still over her eyes, curled up into a fetal position, clutching her knees closed with her elbows, one foot over the other so that at least one set of bare toes would be covered. She sobbed sofly for a few moments. Then she was quiet. A few minutes went by, the naked girl curled up on the rug, Lorinda snoring in her drug- induced slumber before turning again and breathing silently.

Tami recovered, catching her breath. She uncurled and opened her eyes. “Sorry,” she muttered ridiculously to her unconscious audience.

She stood up, breasts heaving as she caught her breath, and faced Lorinda’s sleeping form.

“Lorinda, I just want to say I’m really sorry for what I did. I lost control, but that’s no excuse. I knew how strong I was and I came this close to killing you.” Tami held up her hand and put her thumb a half inch from her index finger and looked at it. “This… close…

“I don’t blame you if you don’t forgive me. But just think of me sometimes, OK? When you get the urge to feel mean to someone, when you get jealous of a girl who’s got a good body and you want to humiliate her by ripping her clothes off… just think of me.”

Tami went to the window and looked out. It was late now and the voices were fewer and quieter, the paths deserted. She opened the window and looked out at the campus. “Guess my time here is over. Or nearly so. It’s been a really long and wild ride. A naked ride, of course.” And then she flipped around and set her toes down on the brickface outside and was gone.

Part 71

The frigid wind blowing in their faces, the ten heavily clothed friends, and Rod and Dr. Kantor and Dr. Abu-Jamal, stood in a circle, some of them sipping hot coffees, and regarded the naked young woman in their midst.

Tami Smithers, once and soon to be wearer of clothes, stood upright, her bare feet, the reddened toes, the world’s thickest soles, flat on the crusty ice, her bare skin flushed with the cold, her breasts bravely thrust forward, her nipples rock hard facing the cold blasts, her shoulders back, the wind ruffling her neck-length hair, the plum color sparkling in the bright arctic sun, her green eyes barely visible as she squinted, her pubic hair ruffling furiously in the wind, her hands in tight fists at her hips.

This was Mount Washington, New Hampshire, famously cold and windy, even on what was a pleasant April day down at the college. A spot carefully chosen by the Chalfont committee. To the left, a little gulley deep with snow, and further up, a level clearing with Sessu all bundled up, beating his gloved hands together, stamping his clumpy Inuit boots, next to his scaffold-like device, which he referred to informally as “the Tami lover”.

Rod, the appropriate M.C. of this event, tried in vain to scratch his itchy thermals under three layers of clothes and thick gloves. He felt miserable, thinking once again of a high school band in nice long wool uniforms and thermals marching behind a nearly naked majorette who was twirling a baton and freezing her bare buns off. He was not good at extemporaneous speeches. He had composed something to say, as he held up in front of him the warm fake-fur coat just in Tami’s size. Next to him, Jen and Leisha held up the fluffy gloves, the warm fluffy boots.

“Babe, I know you told me you didn’t want to be cold any more. Today you will be cold, very cold, but you are clothed with love from me and from your many many friends. And in a little while your friends will… love you, and you will have clothes again. It will be a big jolt, and a big risk, but I know it’ll end up OK. You will not be cold any more. You will be all snuggled up in warmth, all over your body, and you will never have to be naked again. Only when you want to be. No more having to be. And you can go anywhere you want.” He felt himself getting wordy and cut himself off.

He nodded to Dr. Abu Jamal, who took the long thermometer out of its case and tapped on the remote reader to turn it on. Then he handed it to Georgene and Spica, the TL’s who had drawn lots to win this honor.

Spica had wanted to be naked too, out of solidarity, but Georgene had wisely talked her out of it. So Spica in her bright purple peacoat and black jeans and Uggs, and Georgene in her full-length insulated jacket and ski cap and hiking boots, approached their naked Queen. Tami turned around and bent to touch her ankles. She spread her legs, her toes spreading and grabbing the ice, and limber as she was, bent and bent until her forehead was on the ground.

They had practiced it over and over so it was easy. Georgene applied the vaseline to the tip and then Spica brought it to the world’s most recognized anus, part of the TLs’ playground, which Tami helpfully dilated to the size of a quarter. Everyone cringed in their coats as they thought of the subfreezing wind curling around inside Tami’s most secret place. Spica slid the long flexible tube in to the place that the TL’s playfully referred to as the “vault”, further, further, until it met a little resistance, and Tami twisted her hips a little and it slid in even further, ten inches or so. Then the anus closed around it.

For the TL’s this was a bittersweet day. They wanted to do what was best for Tami, but knew that it meant the end of their way of life, that beginning soon they would not have the benefit of the sight of their Queen’s beauty at all times, the ready access to every precious curve and crevice of her body. Georgene and Spica each placed a gloved hand onto a bare butt cheek and kissed it. “We love you, Queen.”

Tami was starting to shiver but was able to bob the end of the thermometer up and down, waving it in everyone’s faces. Then, as only she could do, she waved it left to right, then in a circle. Which brought a smile to everyone.

She stood up and turned to them and gave her body an exaggerated shake all over, meant to be jokey, but they still cringed, and almost cried, thinking of the warmth they enjoyed in their coverings, which she was still denied, which she had been denied for three and a half years… but now…

Georgene and Spica held her hands as she walked over a little ridge, her toes curling over the icy rocks, then into the little valley where she lay down on her side. This was the most disquieting part of the process and Rod just didn’t want to take part, no one did. But Rosaria and Jen and Trent and Cyrus and Melissa got the shovels out of the big van and carefully spread the snow onto the white naked form. Rod could barely look. The shovelfuls fell gently, as if burying a beloved pet.

In five minutes Tami Smithers was hidden under a pile of snow. Rod sidled over to Dr. Abu Jamal, watching his remote reader. Tami’s rectal temperature was 36 degrees Celsius, which was normal. The plan was to chill her to 30, the verge of hypothermia, then fish her out and…

He looked at the fluffy pile of snow and kept telling himself that Tami was in no danger. Abu Jamal had told him about cryogenic surgery in Russia, how they would chill the body so as to minimize infection and unexpected bleeds. Of course, those patients were put under first. Poor naked Tami was wide awake and could feel every degree of the intense cold, cold, colder…

He shut his eyes and turned. Then he made himself turn back. The TL’s, and Trent, and Cyrus, they were gathered around, as if it was a snowy grave and they were paying their respects. In a sense the image was apt. The old Tami was being buried away and a new Tami would soon emerge, the clothed Tami, like a phoenix rising from ashes, though instead of immolation it was via deep freeze.

His gaze lifted up to the deep blue of the clear mountain sky. He pondered that he was actually looking at the stars, too faint to consciously detect, but they were out there anyway. Like the stars in the desert sky that Tami looked at long ago, naked and cold and praying for help, or baking in the sun, or contemplating the nighttime gegenschein and the universe, as the rough grass of the Texas chaparral scraped her bare butt. How he wished he could have helped then. At the time he was doing an engineering internship, thinking she was doing similar work for a math professor.

It was like a segment of her life that was ending… Tami: The Naked Years. He would miss her…

Giving him a playful goodbye kiss, then taking the short way to campus, hopping through the woods like a rabbit, breasts bouncing, bare feet finding each stone and log, deceptively speedy, suddenly disappearing behind the thickets of leaves and bushes…

Her amazing capacity for alcohol. She was particular about her martinis. “I’m not allergic to vermouth, you know…”

The footraces she would always win at the annual charity carnival, scooting way past the competition on the quad on tough bare feet…

The public celebration of her glorious nudity, the “match Tami’s nipples” contest to benefit the local food bank, two tickets to a Red Sox game for the person who could find a scarf the same color as her areolas, a matter of weather forecasting as much as anything else as more sun meant tanner nipples, Tami proudly and smilingly holding up the winning scarf next to her nipples for the campus paper…

Tami convulsing from orgasm to orgasm as she cheerfully chatted with friends passing by in the library lounge, waving hi to professors, talking about classes and politics and “American Idol” in sentences punctuated by moans and gasps, as TL’s licked and sucked and noodled her from below, in front, behind… Laughing at jokes… Jeane’s boyfriend Mike expressed the campus consensus. “The sound of Tami coming and laughing at the same time is the happiest sound in the world.”

The refusal to take bullshit. That creep at the math major convocation making a crack about him being her pimp, and then getting all embarrassed and saying, “I’m sorry, Tami. I didn’t know he was your husband.” And Tami downing her martini and flicking a drop off her nipple and saying, “If he wasn’t, it would have been just as big a mistake. Apology NOT accepted…”

The occasional German phrase. “Mochtest du wein?” “Would you like some wine?” “Germany is such a totally naked-friendly country…”

The spunky Recording Secretary of the Student Government, standing up pluckily and nakedly in front of the monthly meetings, taking attendance, chiding those who were late…

The wild fashion ride of her sophomore year, her crotch the center of the campus’s attention, the riot of pubic hair dyes, shavings, braids, ribbons, stopped on the campus paths with legs widely and proudly spread as seemingly half the campus crowded around to compliment her… showing off her new toenail polish, her spread toes sparkling with snow…

The surprisingly good reception of his old neighbors in Roxbury when they took a chance and visited together. Having tea in that old house, that his mother really couldn’t take care of any more. The neighborhood had aged, it was still mostly black but all those folks were now old, and they cottoned to her (children of sharecroppers) and treated her like visiting royalty, old Mr. Granger and Mr. Madison and Mr. McCabe and their wives, who looked on tolerantly as the wizened old men politely but eagerly took in the doubly out of place whiteness of Tami’s magnificent nudity…

The bareness of her body next to the lab coats of everyone else, working closely with Gretchen on the new fabric that would be warm in the cold and breathe in the heat, for people like Joe and Roger, serving their country…

That Tami, the Tami who was soon no longer to be, would always be with him, would always be with everyone who met her. They would see visions of a naked girl for the rest of their lives, hiding behind buildings, lounging in streams, crouched on tree branches, darting through hallways, watching, bearing witness to misfortunate and evil and meanness and how simple loving bravery can win out…

“Rodney! Mr. Sykes!”

Rod’s reverie was interrupted by the high-pitched voice of Dr. Abu Jamal, who pointed out the 30 degrees on the remote reader, and the bluish toes sticking out of the pile of snow. Trent and Cyrus and Melissa and Spica dug down with their gloved hands to the interred hands and feet and head, per instructions. They gently leveraged the bluish, stiff, naked form upright, snow stuck to her all over. They held her by both arms as her snow- encrusted feet stumbled up to where Sessu and the scaffold awaited.

She had to be tied to it; otherwise she would slip out. Wrists and ankles were fastened and Tami now was stretched out into a bent-forward X, every inch subject to the full force of the biting wind. The TL’s carefully assembled near their stations.

Jen and Georgene stood in front, looking up to contemplate the snowy face, the closed eyes, the hair frozen to the scalp. “Well, it’s time,” Georgene said. “Go ahead.”

“No, you.” Jen’s pretty African-American face framed in the Peter Pan haircut smiled magnanimously.

“Oh thank you…” Georgene hugged Jen, surprised and grateful for the honor. Then Georgene composed herself and sat on the ledge in front of Tami’s pussy. She breathed on the chunks of snow stuck to the plum-colored lower hair to melt them. Then her tongue reached out, sparklng wetly and brightly in the mountain sun, and made contact, laying flat against Tami’s vulva.

Jeane and Melissa were seated down on each side and, in coordination, each sucked on a little toe, then worked their way up. Spica and Rosaria sucked on fingers. Starting with the extremities was the best way to get the blood going again, beginning the long journey up. Now Leisha took a place at one nipple, Jen at the other, holding hands. Finally Myra took her seat behind, spread Tami’s butt cheeks, and noodled her tongue inward.

The men, Rod and the two doctors and Trent and Cyrus and Sessu, stood around, Rod holding the coat, Trent holding the gloves, Cyrus the boots, as the young women slowly brought the half-frozen corpse to life. Tami’s eyes opened, at first a dull stare, and then she blinked and slowly turned to Rod and a weak smile, until her head was jerked away by an ardent suck by Georgene coordinated with an ardent thrust by Myra’s tongue. The TL’s were once again, maybe for the last time, frolicking in their playground, Tami’s body. The naked skin lost its bluish hue and went to purplish and then to reddish. Tami was being escalated by stages.

Status orgasmus is a sustained orgasm, Rod had been instructed, starting with a two to four second “spastic contraction”, then lasting possibly lasting 45 seconds. He pondered that. 45 seconds. He sat down once, with his watch, and waited the full 45 seconds. That was a long, long orgasm. Working with the TL’s, Dr. Kantor had plotted the surest way to get there, so that endorphins could be maximized and prolonged as clothing was applied.

The first grunt from Tami grabbed the men’s attention. The TL’s were working together, playing each part of Tami’s body in tandem, like an orchestra in the first movement of a symphony. Tongues were now assisted by gloved hands and coated arms as Tami was rubbed and caressed, her butt, her legs, her back, her shoulders, her face, her tummy. As if in aggregation the tongues and arms were her covering, her clothes.

Soon she was grunting rhythmically, as if she were an animal with no power of speech, as the TL’s jabbed with their tongues. “Huh… unhh… huh… huh…” They were going up too fast. Jen, her mouth not leaving the nipple, held up her arms and the tongues slowed down, backed off somewhat. Tami gritted her teeth as if in agony, being so long denied, now forced to wait when she least wanted it. Her legs stiffened, her toes spread. Still going up too fast, Jen brought down her flat palms, like a conductor signaling pianissimo. The sucking ceased, tongues barely kept contact, gloved hands caressed butt cheeks and shoulders and thighs gently, very very gently, barely touching the electrified skin.

“Ohhh… Jesussss… ” Tami’s concave tummy quaked, her body reddish and actually sweating in the cold, her breath making a little clouds. She was actually giving off heat, as if she could melt the mountain all by herself. The TL’s were sweating too under their coats, in their own peculiar euphoria.

Sessu had been overseeing how his invention had held out — pretty well — but now had another role. He handed out the contents of his bag to each TL. A short whip-like thing, with ribbons two feet long. The TL’s drew away from their Queen’s body and flicked the ribbons lightly against her, drawing them lightly over each inch of her body, across her nipples, along her anus, between her pussy lips, across her soles.

“Ohhh… ohhh please…” Tami strained mightly at her bonds with all her considerable strength. The scaffold groaned and creaked but held. The whole structure shook with her frustration.

Now the TL’s withdrew further and started whipping her with the ribbons. Harder and harder, the sibilant smack of each blow crackling through the wintry air. Jen and Leisha seared each breast alternately, making them jump back and forth. Myra whipped at the anal ring furiously. Georgene was assisted by Spica, who held the lower lips wide apart as Georgene whipped the ribbons against Tami’s clit, poking out red and stiff and wet, steam seeming to come off it.

“AIEEEE!! AIEEEE!!” Tami’s body jumped with each lash, jumping in a different direction depending on where the lash fell.

And now the whips were flung aside and all eight tongues bore in, and Tami’s eyes popped wide open as the TL’s worked all their strength and all their skill and all their love, pushing her up, up, up to the top —

The great spastic contraction rocked the scaffold and almost threw the TL’s back onto the snow. Rod and his assistants looked at each other and approached for the great moment. Now the first jolt shook the scaffold, then the second, then the third…

It was not an ordinary orgasm. Rod counted. Jolt, jolt, jolt… he could hardly imagine the ecstasy the naked girl was experiencing… twelve jolts, thirteen, fourteen…

He looked quickly at Dr. Kantor and Dr. Abu Jamal. Yes, this was it — the status orgasmus!

“I LOVE YOU BABE!” he shouted as he enshrouded the heavy coat around Tami’s heaving shoulders. Trent fitted the gloves at the bound wrists. Cyrus slipped on the boots at the bound ankles.

“AAIIIRRGGHHHHH!!” A great roar tore from her throat, echoing off the wintry slopes, off the rock face, as the metabolism of Tami Smithers was wrenched violently and permanently and irrevocably into another direction —

Part 72 (Conclusion)

Rod blinked, wondering why he kept staring at those overhead stage lights, and shifted uneasily in his itchy, rented tuxedo. He again opened the glossy program at his little table, keeping track of where they were in the presentation. Then he glanced around at the tables all around him.

The place was huge. This International Fashion Foundation was a well-heeled outfit. Such an opulent setting. There had to be a thousand people here. Not many were alone like he was. Most were in couples, or in groups of three or four. All well done up. “Black tie”, the invitation had said.

And it was freezing in this place. Maybe in Montreal they assumed everyone else had the same tolerance of cold as Canadians. He was thankful for once for being covered in long sleeves and pants, cinched up to the neck. Despite the things weighing on his mind he was bemused by all the women in backless and sleeveless gowns, the bare legs and sandals. Usually he resented dress codes. They were so unfair to guys, and pure hell in hot weather. But it was funny to see all these white arms and bare shoulders — well, some were brown — rubbed by their owners’ hands to keep warm. A few had been draped with tuxedo jackets by their chivalrous companions.

“Now, entrant number eight, Nadya Walewska, University of Gdansk, modeled by Cerena Jacunski…” Yet another pretty, skeletal model, strutting up the runway with the standard pissed- off expression, this one wearing a diaphanous metallic-looking pants suit… Rod tried to pay attention. But he could not take his mind off that notice that was burning a hole in his jacket pocket.

2LT SYKES, RODNEY S 045-374875-347
MASS N.G. DETACHMENT BURLINGTON VT
YOU ARE BREVETED TO 101ST DIV
REPORT TO FORT DIX NJ 21 APRIL 0900 HOURS

He hadn’t told Tami about it yet. Yet he had known it was coming. Notices had been raining down on his National Guard regiment, even as more and more of the engineers had started not showing up for the weekend maneuvers to receive them. He didn’t want to burden Tami with the possibility, with all the rest she had to deal with. But now, of course, the worst had come true. A few weeks at Fort Dix, then off to Iraq.

Breaking it to her was best if he had a plan. And he had one, distasteful as it was. That big project near Toronto that was hiring. Several of his regiment had escaped there after they had gotten the call, and had told him a spot was waiting for him, even as he pretended not to hear. He disliked them calling it an “underground railroad”, it trivialized the past, but in a way that’s what it was. He had shut his mind to it; it was totally against his nature. His mother would be ashamed, for sure. But he had to do what was right. He was a husband with responsibilities. In Canada he would be employed, he would be sending home money… and he would be alive. Tami had a father in critical condition, the family business shuttered, deep in debt, a mother plunged into depression, a brother stuck in Iraq for another year dodging car bombs, and a dubious future for herself.

At least Tami wasn’t going to get expelled from Campbell – Frank College. That disciplinary hearing was a heart-stopper. Tami, standing bravely in front of that committee, admitting that breaking Lorinda’s jaw was all her fault — Acting Dean Noyes about to announce, reluctantly but inescapably, her expulsion — and then Lorinda’s surprise appearance, speaking through wired teeth, saying that she realized all that she had put Tami through and that she was withdrawing the charges, then leaving with her eyes down. What a shock. Whatever Tami said to Lorinda that night in the dorm, it had obviously worked.

So Tami was going to graduate. And then what? Grad school was out of the question. She had to make money right away for her family. But she was precluded by that defense contract from patenting or selling her Cherish formula, and really Cherish was all she had that was sellable. Her clothing designs were too weird to be marketable — they might be “Tami Originals” but they were not recognizable. Pants or overalls? Boots or leggings? He was too kind to point it out to her but it was clearly true.

And the money from the defense contract wouldn’t come in unless she won this goddamn competition. Which was impossible. The International judges would never reward someone in bed with the American military industrial complex. And they knew about the contract. He blew his stack when the programs came in the mail. The blurb under Tami’s name, on page 6, mentioned that she had sold her creation to the Pentagon. He was immediately on the phone screaming bloody murder at Girardo. The old man protested that he hadn’t included that in what he sent them. But somehow they had found out. Someone was trying, over and over, to screw Tami from afar. The guy who drafted the contract. The guy operating the torturing tail from the FAA control tower. Rod was certain who…

As it was, the mention at the end of Tami’s blurb sat there, in plain print, damning her. It was perfectly clear to everyone reading the program that THIS girl wasn’t going to win. Once again, he felt so mad, but had no outlet for his anger.

Rod wearily looked at page 6 as the latest model exited the huge, wide stage. The MC, a stern-looking woman named Pierrette Louis-Jacques, in silvery hair and a red long-sleeved gown, had told everyone to hold their applause till the end. Now she looked out into the audience and announced the next entrant and the next model. Suddenly Rod realized that Tami’s design was the next after this one. He hoped that backstage Gretchen wasn’t breaking a heel as she fidgeted and got ready.

This one was a tall black woman of about 30, maybe. She was wearing a flowing robe over very tight leggings. She actually gave a half-smile as she teetered on high heeled shoes with pointy toes. With so much on his mind, Rod’s observations became irritable. What is it with women and shoes, anyway? They gravitate to styles that hurt their feet as much as possible…

He took in a breath and braced himself. “Next, entrant number fourteen, Tami Smithers, Campbell – Frank College, South Lowell, Campbell County, Vermont, modeled by Gretchen Spaulding.”

Gretchen, being Gretchen, was nervous, conscious of her height and the slight chubbiness that set her off from the other models, but she did not do too badly as she sauntered to the front of the runway, and did her well-rehearsed little turn. The tan garment was Tami’s most conservative cut, a longish tunic- style dress, flowing around the arms, successfully hiding Gretchen’s love handles, setting off Gretchen’s pale skin and blonde hair nicely. Her low-heeled pumps looked downright sensible.

It was time for the narrative. Ms. Louis-Jacques said, “This entry uses a polymer-based fabric that Ms. Smithers has developed with Ms. Spaulding’s help. It is lightweight and designed to hold in body heat, but to wick heat away in hot weather. This purpose is achieved through catenary-style shirring…” As the technical jargon flowed out, probably making some sense to this pretty sophisticated crowd, Rod tried to catch Gretchen’s eye. He succeeded. She winked and he smiled and gave him a thumbs up. And now a broad smile from Gretchen, lighting up the room, a first for the night’s models, and a little playful sway of the hips, from the first model tonight who had any.

The brief narrative ended. With an unusual (for her) graceful skip, Gretchen turned back and strutted off the stage. Whew. Rod was afraid she’d trip. But she did well and was quite fetching.

Now his smile faded and he found himself again falling into despair. He put his head in his hands. There were no good choices. He would have to tell Tami he was going to Canada. In his mind he rehearsed his exact words. And rehearsed them again. They still seemed to come out wrong.

He felt so inadequate and helpless, and once again pictured himself working his trombone, all dressed up on a freezing cold day, having marched in the front of the band for five miles through the biting icy wind, now finally entering Foxboro Stadium, for the pregame show before the Patriots took the field, a great honor for his high school, and as the band turned onto the field, all covered from head to foot with their thermals on, they followed in silent unease behind the faltering steps of their nearly naked, blue-skinned, now seriously hypothermic majorette —

Third place and second prize had been announced while he was in his miserable daze. Now Ms. Louis-Jacques said, “Before I announce the winner of this year’s International, I must note that we have had more publicity this year than ever before. You obviously notice that many from the press are here. We are happy to have them, and it is good that more people know about us. The winner of this prize will be interviewed and his or her creations will widely publicized. Let me just advise the winner to handle this new-found fame with caution and responsibility. I don’t want to be seeing you a year from now you on the cover of National Enquirer.” Some laughter, mostly from the women rubbing their cold bare shoulders and arms.

“And now the winner of the fifty-first annual International Fashion Foundation Award. The winner receives a full scholarship to the Rhode Island School of Design, with adjunct professor status. Also he or she will have a slot at this year’s Bryant Park show in New York.” She opened the envelope. And opened her eyes wide and blinked. “Tami Smithers, for her design called ‘Cherish’!”

Rod’s head shot up. He had been rubbing his eyes and they were bleary. The thunderous applause stunned him. It took a few seconds before he could gather his wits and remember who he was, and begin to rise.

“Accepting the award for Ms. Smithers, her husband, Rodney Sikes.”

He almost stumbled as he lurched down the carpeted aisle, fumbling in his pocket for the little speech Tami had written on the off chance that she would win. As he got closer he strode more upright. He felt borne up as if on a cloud, weightless, going up to a new world, as the realities of that world flashed before him.

Tami was going home to Rhode Island.

She was going to get that huge defense contract advance. Her family’s financial problems were solved.

His mother didn’t have to sell her house. Tami could stay with her. It was only a 20-minute drive in to Providence from there.

And, of course, he had to report to Fort Dix. She couldn’t very well receive Department of Defense money if her husband was a deserter.

Going to Iraq scared him, of course, as it would anyone. But he was weirdly happy. Finally I get to sacrifice for Tami’s benefit, after all the sacrificing she had done. In his dream life he dropped the trombone and grabbed Frigid Brigid, and carried her over to throw her into a heated pool that had materialized in the middle of the field, and as her body tingled and came back to pinkish, ruddy life he himself stripped and they hugged and kissed in the hot water as the stadium and the rest of their band cheered.

He scaled the steps and his shoes stepped from the red carpeting onto the cold polished marble, and shook hands with Ms. Louis-Jacques, who handed him the little pyramid-shaped trophy, which he held up playfully. He unfolded the short speech and looked out to the crowd and was amazed at their applause that went on and on, like one of Tami’s orgasms, or like his own lately.

Rod thought of people who surprise you: of liberal fashionistas honoring a defense contractor; of foppy, limp- wristed professors with sharp legal minds; of immature, abusive girls who suddenly forgive; of stuck-up fundamentalist college people who found a warm place in their hearts for a naked student; of ground crew workers who turned out to be ingenious and wise; of a traditional black family that welcomed a white girl. And of a scared freshman, stripped and terrified, who survived her trials to become the bravest and strongest person he had ever met.

As the applause died down he cleared his throat, and was glad the words were in front of him to read. “I would like to thank you for this great honor and sorry I could not appear to receive it. I dedicate this award to my husband Rod,” — a little smile — “and to my friends, and to Gretchen, who helped me with the chemistry, and most of all to my family. My design Cherish is named after a wild horse that saved my life. I hope that it will be of use to our soldiers in inclement conditions, to people like Gretchen’s fiancé Roger, and especially to my brother Joe. Joe, your big sister loves you. And finally I hope that…” Rod found himself choking on the words but went on. “… I hope that all our soldiers like Joe and Roger come home soon.”

This brought down the house. The applause became a standing ovation.

Rod bowed modestly, felt like he had to hold up the trophy again but decided against it, and in the pandemonium and flashing lights of dozens of cameras Ms. Louis-Jacques came over and held her hand up. Such was her presence that people stopped cheering almost on cue and the light flashes stopped.

“In your kit I’m sure you noticed the little zippered pouch with instructions not to open it until the show is over. Well I’d like you to open it now. It contains a half-yard of Cherish. Drape it over your shoulders, ladies, I think you’ll be surprised.”

Some unzipping and then the nearly weightless tan cloths came out. After two seconds or so, a massed chorus of female cooing filled the huge hall as cold shoulders suddenly got warm. Then laughter at the uninhibited cooing. Then another buildup of applause.

Now clapping was joined by whistling and shouts from the gratefully warmed women and the tuxedoed men. Rod and Ms. Louis- Jacques looked at each other and smiled. At a sign from Rod, Gretchen came out and bowed, now in her formal black dress, holding the long tunic made of Cherish up on a hanger, as the shouts got louder and more flashbulbs popped.

Her name was Caroline Unger and she was the stage manager of the event, and not one to let a good turn go unappreciated. She appeared from behind the curtain, clipboard in hand, pulling ferociously on a bare arm. And now the arm was followed by its owner.

One’s first impression was of illness, but the bald scalp was tanned, the eyebrowless face strong and pretty, the naked bronze body lithely muscled, from the squared shoulders down past the firm breasts, the concave tummy, the bare lower lips with the little clit peeking out above, the strong legs and tough bare feet with widely spaced toes. Allergic not only to fabric but to her own hair now, she must undergo twice-weekly full-body depilations, a communal endeavor best done in the open air. Hence her desire to stay hidden and not a visual distraction to the proceedings.

Caroline Unger would have none of that. She turned Tami Smithers to the crowd so that the naked young woman could acknowledge their applause. Tears ran down many faces as they cheered the creator of this revolutionary fabric, which enshrouded so many bare shoulders in its warm, velvety embrace. Careful to keep her bare feet away from the carpeting, Tami bowed modestly, the constant popping of camera lights playing across her body. Gretchen walked over and handed her the tunic on the hanger.

Smiling happily at Rod and Gretchen, looking out at the standing, shouting crowd, thinking of people far away, Tami stood in the chilly auditorium air, holding up the wire hanger with the tunic next to her — though not close, because she could not allow the merest touch against her tanned, cold-stiffened nipples, not even for a second.

THE END

(NOTE: Google “Caroline Unger” and “Beethoven”)