At ASN whenever things were flagging I would post a snippet from my own stuff.
It’s been dead here recently (I hope this isn’t a permanent condition) so you’ll have to endure two snippets.
The first is Part 19 of “Tami the Strong”.
The second is Parts 27 and 28 of “Tami Beethoven”.
Rather long “snippets” I suppose. Let’s start writing and posting again!
As her bare feet alternately pushed down to work the blades of each treadmill, the slim, naked, sweating teenaged girl looked down in desolation and watched as a bead of sweat fell from her forehead straight down all the way to the floor. There it joined the constellation of previous drops. The girl felt another drop run down her out-splayed left leg, finally reaching the treadmill blade at her instep. This drop, too, was one of many, following a well-worn rivulet that began at her armpit, angled around her firm breast, across the hollow of her concave tummy, stopping midway for a moment at her navel, which was a little lake of sweat, then down to hunt through the forest of her pubic hair, into her pussy lips, across her butthole, and then down the inside of her thigh. . .
The whole room smelled of the girl’s sweat as she continued to work the twin treadmills. They were separated by about three feet, forcing her pumping legs to spread open, while her arms thrust up in an “X” on the two widely separated overhead bars. She was on her third session of the afternoon, having taken two short breaks for water, and had been pumping continuously now for twenty minutes. A rigorous aerobic workout, but within her capabilities as a trained athlete. Not that this activity wasn’t serving to make her beautiful, strong, slim body even more toned, strong, and perfectly in shape.
She looked up at the roof as if praying for strength, and licked at some sweat that was caused to run into her mouth. She glanced at the dials on the canisters against the wall but knew that not only were they too far away to read from where she was, but that they would show that she was not nearly finished with her daily quota of three hundred turns. At her last break she was only up to 144. She was stuck here for another hour, at least.
The blades of the treadmills passed slowly and laboriously under her flexing feet. It took constant pushing and quite a bit of force to keep them going. She could not afford to ease off even for a second, or they would grind to a halt, requiring a huge push to start them going again. Her entire body was shiny with sweat. Oddly perhaps, her nipples were erect. The dust in this old wood building had stuck to her body so as to give the appearance that her all-over tan was darker than it actually was. The only evidence that the darker hue was due to dust were the streaks of dirt where she had scratched herself or wiped away sweat. These streaks ran across her face, her thigh, and across her concave tummy.
There were the visitors and their stares, which she tried to ignore. Grounds crew workers, who came by at odd intervals to get some coffee at the table and then stood around and stared at her from every angle, absently sipping from their paper cups. At length the naked girl decided to keep her eyes closed, which made it easier to pretend they weren’t there. In her ears the grinding sound of the treadmill wheels and her heavy breathing blocked out the sounds of footsteps as workers came and went.
Blade after blade passed under her hardened soles as the girl kept her eyes closed and said to herself, forty-one days, forty-one days, forty-one days. . .
This was a bad, bad day for Tami Smithers, the girl who was forbidden to wear clothes, and the shame of this heavy labor just added to her existing frustrations. She still hadn’t found a summer job; the bulletin board in the Student Union was still devoid of any notices for work outside of town, where she could secretly live a summer in clothes. Clothes, clothes, blessed clothes, please God . . .
And then there was the day before, Sunday, the day of the week she and her boyfriend had reserved for all-day sex and togetherness. They had tried oral sex, traditional sex, even anal sex, but she did not have an orgasm all day. She knew the reason but could not face it or express it to her puzzled boyfriend. The weekly session of artificially induced orgasms at the Chalfont Institute lab had become part of the sexual rhythm of her libido. And last week’s session had been cancelled, and like a dog who will not chew a bone until it is thrown and retrieved, she had gotten hung up on this lack of machine stimulation and could not proceed with her boyfriend. She knew it was hateful and shameful to admit to herself, but she had come to need, even crave, the weekly penetrations and vibrations and frictions of cold, metallic scientific instruments.
Then there was the time she had to pee this morning and slipped into the women’s room in the Student Union. On the wall of the stall she found another of the gross, insulting drawings of her, this one with exaggerated sagging boobs and overgrown pussy hair hanging down to the knees. She recognized the work of Lorinda, that geeky bio major. And then to pass Lorinda herself on the paths not five minutes later, with a couple of her geeky bio friends. That crowd was getting bolder and bolder. This time they did not try to hide the fact that they were joking about her, and after she had passed them one of them called out, “Tami! Your feet are muddy!” and heard giggling. She just shut her eyes and tried to ignore it, walking on. She tried telling herself, “Ignore them, they’re so immature,” but she herself was only 18 years old, just out of high school, and the teasing still hurt.
Now, sweating and pushing on the treadmill blades, the naked girl turned her head upward, eyes still closed, as she said to herself again, forty-one days, forty-one days, forty-one days. . .
It was late in her labors, when her breathing became more ragged and she could feel the sweat pouring down off her body, that she detected a faint smell of perfume. She opened her eyes, wiping away the sweat from her eyebrows so that she could see, and was dismayed and shamed to see four well-dressed, important-looking visitors watching her intently with varying degrees of interest, morbid fascination, and horror.
The naked girl blushed as she realized that her visitors were probably being overpowered by her body odor, which permeated the room. She had the urge to cover her breasts with her hands but then saw that two of the visitors were Dean Jorgon and Henry Ross. Doing anything to cover any part of herself would be a big mistake. She thought it polite to stop her exertions, and she brought her hands down to her sides and let the treadmills stop, balancing her widely-spread legs on the blades, the toes of each foot clasping the edge of each blade, so that she stood perfectly upright. She felt the sliminess between her arms and her sides and knew that she must look and smell disgusting.
“How do you do, Miss Smithers?” the Dean said quietly and politely. “I’m sorry to interrupt your assigned task for Mr. Winant.”
Tami didn’t answer. Standing sweating and naked on her precarious perch, the two blades under her at unstable angles, she made a little nod and silently regarded the two other visitors.
The other two were vaguely familiar but she couldn’t place them. One was a minister, black shirt, white collar, wearing an opened black coat. He was tall and middle-aged with black hair that was gray at the temples. He looked at Tami with a steady glare of distaste that was so intense that she averted her gaze from him. The other was a grandmotherly type woman in a green dress and heels, wearing a soft green hat with netting. It was her perfume that had first drawn Tami’s attention. The older woman looked at the naked girl with concern.
“Please come down, Miss Smithers, it must be awkward standing up there like that,” the Dean said. Whereupon Tami carefully stepped back and dismounted and, unsure of where to stand, decided to approach her visitors so that she stood with her back to the treadmills, facing them from a distance of about ten feet, shoulders thrown back, legs slightly apart. Sweat had plastered her hair to her head and to her upper back and had made her feet wet so that she left a track of bare footprints behind her. She was still breathing heavily, her concave tummy moving in and out as her diaphragm flexed and relaxed.
The Dean stepped forward slightly from the rest. “Miss Smithers, you know Mr. Ross. This is Reverend Stipend from the local Baptist church, and Mrs. Millicent Lowell. You might remember them. They are on your scholarship committee.”
Tami felt a shaming flash of recognition that caused goosebumps on her bare buttocks, fortunately out of the view of her visitors. She remembered these two distinguished personages sitting behind that long table last summer as she and her father answered questions as part of the application process for her scholarship. On that day she was wearing her very best, a white silk blouse over a sensible white bra, red linen pants over sturdy white panties, nylons, patent leather heels. She almost wept with longing for those long-ago clothes, and with shame at the thought of how changed was the impression she was making on these people now. Totally naked, sweaty, dirty, a beast of burden . . . She had never felt so degraded.
It was the Reverend who increased her shame by pointing this out. “Miss Smithers, you certainly present a different appearance than the last time we saw you,” he said with a tinge of evangelistic condemnation. This was New England, and he was an American Baptist, not a Southern Baptist, a distinction unknown to the naked teenager, who had been raised Catholic, but there was a shade of that southern fundamentalist lilt in his voice that made it unnecessary for him to say his full thoughts. As in, “You have become a child of the Devil!”
Mrs. Lowell said, “You are a much different, uh, person that what we remember.”
Tami almost cried. She wanted to say, no, I’m the same girl, the same girl that loves to dress in that white silk blouse and linen pants and heels you saw me in, you must believe me!! But she knew how utterly ridiculous the words would sound and they died on her lips.
“This is the way Miss Smithers has chosen to live her life,” the Dean said. “Total nudity at all times. It is her religion and according to Mr. Ross it would be unconstitutional to penalize her for it in any way.”
“Is it true, child, that you have discarded all your clothing, and intend to stay totally naked for the rest of your life?” the Reverend asked, as if interrogating her at an inquisition.
Tami had caught her breath by now and stood calmly and nakedly in front of her audience. She felt the urge to at least clasp her hands in front of her pussy, but knew she could not. Then she noticed that, standing behind the others, Henry Ross was looking at her with a raised eyebrow that told her with fatal certitude what her answer to the Reverend’s question must be. “Yes,” she said, briefly looking the Reverend in the eye, but then glancing downward again. She thought again of summer, and clothes . . .
“And that you consider modesty a — a sin?” the Reverend said with incredulity.
“Then shouldn’t we all be naked? Are you calling us sinners?” The Reverend stepped forward slightly, getting agitated, but was held back by the gentle arm of Mrs. Lowell.
Tami thought quickly. “My — religion is just for me. . . I can’t explain it.”
Mrs. Lowell spoke with concern. “This . . . assignment with the ground crew, I hear, was a substitute for your athletic requirement. Is this suitable? It looks like hard work.”
The naked girl said, “No more than gymnastics workout,” which was only partly true.
The older woman had other questions. “The . . . research at the Chalfont Institute, is that acceptable to you?”
Again, a quick look at Henry Ross gave Tami the cue. “Yes.” Tami felt a drop of sweat running down her tummy and again felt the slimy feeling as her arm shifted minutely against her side. She wished she at least had a towel to wipe herself off with, which probably would have been allowed, but this big bare room had nothing, not even a dirty mechanic’s rag. She longed for her dorm shower, but that was more than an hour away, after more laboring on the treadmills and a dirty, sweaty, embarrassing walk across campus.
Then Henry Ross spoke up for the first time. “Is your participation in the project with Dr. Harridance, and then the project with Mr. McMasters — is all that freely acceptable to you?”
Tami knew this was not a fair question. She didn’t know what the McMasters project would entail. She had her fears. But under the intense stares of these people she could not think of a way to express her misgivings without giving lie to her professed religion. She said what she had to say. “Yes.”
There was some silence as the naked girl and her four questioners regarded each other. She tried not to notice as their gazes tended to fix downwards to her breasts and her lush pubic hair.
Mrs. Lowell’s warm, grandmotherly voice was heard. “Dear, are you happy like this?”
That was the question of questions. Henry Ross’s eyebrow cocked again and he gave Tami a very, very suspicious look. Tami’s voice almost cracked but she said quietly, “Yes.”
“Well now you have it,” the Dean said to the two scholarship committee members. “Miss Smithers is living her religion and appears to be thriving. I don’t mind saying,” he said, with a bland look at Tami, “that her grades have been perfect A’s, and her conduct under the campus rules has been impeccable.”
The Reverend gave Tami a long, roving look up and down her naked body with undisguised contempt. It was all Tami could do to keep from crying with shame.
After a little shuffling around the Dean said, “Well, I think we’re done here. Miss Smithers, you might remember that your scholarship involved freshman year interviews in December and in April. Mr. Noyes conducted the December interview, and this is all that was needed for the April interview. In fact, we usually dispense with the April interview entirely if the grades are good, but in your special case the committee decided that you should be, uh, viewed in person. . . I thank you for your time. You may continue with what you were doing.”
“Viewed in person.” These words just reinforced Tami’s sense that she was like an animal being stared at in a zoo. The Dean led the others out of the mill. Standing in her moist footsteps, afraid to move, Tami watched them go. The last one was Henry Ross, who turned back for a long, thorough gaze at Tami’s nakedness, somewhat like the Reverend had done, but instead of contempt, Ross’s gaze was full of gleeful, sadistic lust. Tami glared at him, trying to project hatred through her helplessness and shame.
After they left, the naked girl dutifully climbed up and splayed her legs out onto the treadmills and put her arms up to the overhead bars. She grunted with a big, long push down and up as she got the machine moving again. She briefly looked down at her dirty, naked, sweaty body, stained with dust, her erect nipples, her gritty bare feet. The naked teenager, barely out of high school, closed her eyes. She thought of lacy bras and nylons and silk blouses and patent leather shoes and all kinds of pretty things to wear. Tears slowly rolled down her face as she wordlessly trudged on.
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 with a twinkle of self-deprecation.
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…”
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.”