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 ï>¿Becca Obeys by Ratios

   Part 3:

   Clothing malfunctions, public displays, and stress relief.

   "Thought so," Nicky announced, as if she had just won some silent
argument, unfolding her arms and relaxing her posture.  "It's nice to know
that you do still have some limits and aren't willing to run around
topless, B."

   When Nicky pulled off her cream colored shawl that she was wearing over
her clothes and handed it to me, my lip quivered and I wanted to pick her
up off the ground and give her the biggest hug ever.  The shawl was not a
shirt, and was obviously supposed to be worn over another top, but it
covered most of my upper body when draped over my shoulders, and only left
a small gap down the front of my body on display; no bare nipples or
anything!  With the shawl on, I suddenly found myself more covered than I
had been at any point in the last couple of hours.

   Having donned Nicky's gifted clothing item, I ducked out from Big Mike's
arms and gave her the great big bear hug she deserved, whispering, "Thank
you," in her ear.

   Even without her shawl, Nicky still had on a T-shirt and jeans, so it
wasn't as if she had stripped herself for my sake but, to a starving woman,
a few crumbs could be more meaningful than gold.

   "You're welcome," she whispered back, reaching up to ruffle my hair. 
Stepping back, she looked me in the eye and said, "Sooner or later, we're
going to have to sit down and hash out what it is that you really want,
though."

   I'll let you know the second I find out myself, I wanted to say, but
Sasha provided an answer of a different sort.

   "I think that figuring out what Becca wants, and how that changes based
on how embarrassed, and thus how aroused she is, is the question we're
trying to answer with our activities tonight and going forward.  Every
request we ask that she does or does not execute upon gives us, and her, a
better idea of where those boundaries lie."

   It sounded sensical enough to my confused brain that I just nodded
dumbly.

   Furrowing her brow, Nicky thought for a moment and then asked, "Sooo...
What, we should all just push Becca around a bit til she hits the walls of
her horniness, like just there when she was topless, and then back off a
bit and try something else?"

   Looking up and swaying her head back and forth a bit, Sasha agreed, "I
wouldn't have put it in quite those colorful terms but, essentially, yes."

   "And, Becca, you're cool with this?"

   All eyes on me, I felt compelled to respond and nodded stupidly.

   "Okaaaay...  Sasha, you said 'our activities tonight and going forward'.
Are you saying this is going to become the norm?  Like, Study Group time is
now also 'push Becca's boundaries until she's a throbbing wet mess' time,
or something?"

   "Again, not quite the terminology I would use, but that is the general
gist of it, yes."

   "And Becca, that's what you want?"

   My future was being decided by parties other than myself with barely a
nod in my direction for performative approval.  This was definitely what I
was used to, though the stakes of the current direction were radically
different than anything my parents had ever decided on my behalf.  Feeling
like I was unable to get off the train that was railroading me away from
the land of logic and reason, I just nodded foolishly.

   Getting official buy-in from me as the group's new playtoy drew a
smattering of applause from Monique and Deeta and a satisfied nod from
Sasha.

   Throwing her hands up into the air, Nicky pronounced, "Fuck it.  Why
not? It will certainly make our study sessions less of a grind, that's for
sure.  Becca, babe, you might have some screws loose in that brain of yours
but, if what you really want is to get shaken until we find out where they
all are, then, I guess: get ready to get shook."

   Sounding majorly hangry, Deeta butted in.  "What I really want is to eat
at least one horse, possibly more.  Are you all coming, or what?"

   One minute before, after Nicky first gave me the shawl, I had been
feeling comparatively clothed and confident.  Now, my focus was being
pulled back towards the future, that place full of terrifying unknowns. 
Once again, I did my best to push those considerations off to the side in
favor of focusing on putting one foot in front of another while I walked
with the rest of the group down the street.

   Occasionally, the breeze would come through and play with the unsecured
halves of the front of my borrowed shawl but, though nobody had expressly
told me to do so, I didn't wrap it around me completely, allowing it
instead to just hang around my neck and shoulders with a gap in the front.
The fact that I was flashing tons of sideboob to the world at large, and
that my lower lips were still parted like The Red Sea when Moses was
fleeing the Egyptian hordes under my short skirt, both kept my inner fire
stoked as we walked.

   Despite what felt like my massive level of exposure, people were passing
us by barely even giving me second glances...  Well, everyone was giving me
second glances, but only a few people were outright staring.  At least the
conversation among the group had turned towards benign topics (meaning, not
related to me or my partial nakedness in any way).  Mostly covered and
feeling somewhat comfortable and confident, I began to feel a return to a
state of something close to normalcy.

   Perhaps I grew too comfortable for the newly awakened desires within
myself.  Without consciously deciding to do so, I found myself keeping my
hands at my sides, not moving to adjust the shawl as it flapped lazily in
the breeze or swished back and forth with my steps.  As such, I knew I was
living with the constant possibility that a strong gust of wind might come
along and inadvertently expose something that I didn't want to be seen.  My
excuse for this behavior was that I had promised the group that I would not
cover up, and that relying on the shawl too much to keep myself hidden was
a form of cheating.  Despite this, I couldn't deny that the constant risk
of becoming suddenly uncovered was thrilling in both a good and bad way.

   Turns out, when you gamble, sometimes you lose, and sometimes that loss
comes immediately.  Channeled down the straight corridor formed by the
storefronts on both sides of the street, a strong wind ripped down the way
yanked the shawl off my body like a kite without a string.  Borne into the
air at first, it settled to whirl and dance away from me along the black
asphalt of the street proper as I stared helplessly after it.

   "EEK!," I shrieked when my brain caught up with what was happening, and
I sprinted off after it.  So focused was I on my escaping item of clothing
and I was barely looking for cars that might speed by and pancake me, much
less giving any thought to potentially covering my jiggling breasts.

   Afterwards, I would note that not a single one of the other ladies
followed to help me catch my errant garment, instead all choosing to pull
out their phones and record my struggle for posterity while laughing and
shouting after me with encouragement.  The sight of a topless young woman
in a miniskirt chasing a rag down the road drew a lot more attention to me
than I had gotten with any of my previous activities, but none of that
would hit me until later either, when I would remember the laughing, and
the strangers taking photos, and the cars slamming on their brakes as I
streaked by.

   In the moment, my tunnel vision turned out to be a blessing.  Who knows
if I would have caught the shawl if I had been hampered by trying to
prevent my boobs from bouncing all over the place as I ran, or had slowed
myself down by trying to shield myself away from the prying eyes of the
surrounding public.  As it was, I nabbed the escaped clothing item and
returned to the waiting study group ladies, wheezing and out of breath, but
triumphant.  The shawl was once again draped over my shoulders, now tucked
into my skirt for stability, and I felt every bit like a mighty hunter
returning to her waiting tribe with enough food slung over her shoulders to
feed them all through the long, cold winter.

   "Welp, your pre-dinner show was excellent, Bex," Deeta gushed, shoving
her phone in my face.

   On the screen, I watched myself, topless and frantic, zig zagging around
the street after the mischievous shawl, and the reality of my actions
finally hit me.  The adrenaline high I was on started fading almost
immediately as I realized just how much I had shown, and to how many people
I had shown it.  The video lasted a good thirty seconds and, during that
time, I saw at least ten people in the phone's limited view staring at me,
laughing at me, photographing or filming me, or just committing the image
of my bare, bouncing breasts to their memories forever.

   The aspect of the mighty hunter fled me completely, leaving behind only
a glacial chasm filled with shame, and I felt my face get so hot that I was
sure I was sure steam was going to start shooting out my ears and second as
if I was in an old-timey cartoon.  Grinding my thighs together to generate
as much friction against my sopping wet crotch as I could, I turned and
fast walked off down the street, leaving the other four giggling girls to
follow in my wake.

   Brain turned off to avoid thinking about the situation, I mindlessly
fled away from the scene of my embarrassment for what seemed like ages
until I found myself at The Speedway Bar and Grill well ahead of the rest
of the ladies.  Nervous energy had me standing off to the side of the
entryway, my bare right foot pumping up and down on the linoleum, as I
fought not to chew my cuticles down to the bone.  A hostess had asked me if
she could help me when I arrived but I had just muttered something about
waiting for friends and went to stand awkwardly in the corner of the entry
area.  From the looks she was giving me, I wondered if she believed me.

   Waiting for the rest of the group gave me a moment to take stock of my
appearance and I made an attempt to see myself as the rest of the world
might see me.  The bottoms of my feet were blackened by an extended period
of walking around, both in and outside, with no shoes or socks on.  My
reflection in the front window revealed that my hair looked like I had
gotten into a fight with a lawnmower; my usually straight and organized
locks hanging frazzled and wild with grass clippings mixed in.  My back and
the back of my absurdly short skirt had a few streaking grass stains on
them, and it was obvious that the skirt was meant to be longer, but that it
had been purposefully shortened to where it barely covered the bottom of my
butt.

   The top half of my body was covered only by a thin shawl, which left a
large swath down the center of my chest and belly bare.  A generous portion
of the inner sides of my boobs as well as my whole stomach and naval were
open to the air.  The amount of skin that I was showing would have been
more appropriate from a supermodel in a tawdry red carpet dress than from a
nineteen year old college student standing in the lobby of some random
local restaurant.  The swell of my breasts was perfectly visible with the
shawl tucked tightly down the front of my skirt, and my seemingly
permanently stiff nipples were doing their best to poke their way outwards
to reveal themselves to the world.

   During my power walk to the bar, the skirt had even ridden up more, and
the bottom inch or so of my panties were clearly on display.  Turning away
from the hostess station, my face glowing red, I pulled my skirt down as
far as it would go to cover myself.  Curiously, when I did, a feeling came
over me of...  what?  Disappointment?  I wasn't quite sure how to interpret
it in the context of the situation I found myself in.

   Out of some sense of duty to, I'm not sure who, I took the ends of the
shawl tucked into my skirt's thickened waistband and moved them apart a bit
further.  I couldn't tell you why I did it, but it felt right on balance.
Like, if I was going to adjust my skirt down to hide what it had revealed
by creeping upwards, I should provide some commensurate level of exposure
from somewhere else.  Don't ask me why, but it made sense at the time.

   With the shawl as it now hung, I thought to myself that turning abruptly
would end up causing at least a nip slip, if not a total pop-out, but I
found myself accepting that fact as just part of my current lifestyle. 
This thought felt like it should be completely foreign to me, but sailed
right through my mind as if nothing were strange about it at all.

   Standing there, feeling out of place, pulling blades of grass from my
hair, just to let them fall to the floor of the bar, I wondered what the
staff thought of me.  From the looks I was getting, I would bet that they
pegged me as a homeless person, or at least a woman in need of some serious
mental health assistance.  It wasn't clear to me that the second
possibility wasn't at least partially accurate.  After their initial
inquiry as to my needs, none of them came anywhere near me and I'm sure
each was hoping not to draw the short straw that would require them to
eventually ask me to leave when my promised party inevitably failed to
arrive.  Much to the surprise of the staff, though, the rest of the study
group ladies were only a few minutes behind me.

   "There you are, Speed Racer," Monique commented when she finally came
through the door and spotted me.  "We were all wondering if we were going
to find you here.  Deets bet that you went to find the closest bathroom so
that you could flick your bean before rejoining the party."

   "It's what I would have done," Deeta chimed in with a wink.

   The look the hostess gave me when she heard this exchange will be
preserved as a flashbulb traumatic memory in my mind until the day I die.
Furthermore, the idea that flashing my breasts to an entire street full of
people while I made an idiot of myself chasing a shawl down the street had
somehow turned me on so much that I needed to immediately run away and
masturbate to clear my head was both exceedingly offensive and disturbingly
close to accurate.  Upset as I was at the hostess having heard the
accusation, as well as the implication behind it, I couldn't say whether I
was more upset that Deeta had assumed that the purpose of my hasty exit was
to go jill off, or the fact that the only reason it hadn't been was that I
hadn't thought of it first.

   "Let's just get seated," I mumbled, hoping to change the subject.

   Nicky asked the hostess for a table for five and I did my best to hide
at the back of the group, out of her view.  I guess I was somehow hoping
that she would forget I existed, despite having stood in front of her,
acting overtly conspicuous, for the last several minutes, followed by being
the target of Monique's bawdy statement about running off to touch myself.
Peering past the group, the hostess made a point of looking down to my bare
feet, then back up to my eyes, and then down to the big gap the shawl left
on my front, and then back to my face again.

   "I can't put you all in the main room.  Health regulations...  you
understand, right?"

   A collective groan from the group was our only response, and I
immediately began to feel terrible for ruining the evening, but the hostess
graciously threw us a lifeline.

   "Best I can do is the patio."

   We all professed our thanks and she grabbed a stack of menus before
leading us out a door to the side of the building.  The patio in question
was a platform raised about three feet off of street level attached to the
side of the bar with an iron railing around it.  A dozen single-piece
wooden park bench and picnic table combos were evenly distributed around
the area, their large built-in umbrellas having already been closed and
lowered due to the falling sun and rising winds.

   The hostess led us back to the table furthest from the door and told us
that a member of the wait staff would be around to take our order before
leaving.  Picking the closest spot, I started to step over the bench to
sit, but Monique grabbed my arm to stop me and led me to the spot in the
back corner instead.  Since the benches were perpendicular to the railing,
this seat put me essentially facing along the line of the road, only three
feet above it and one foot over.

   When I sat down, I was faced with a dilemma: leave my skirt under my
butt or sit directly on the smooth bench.  If I sat on my skirt, as soaked
as my crotch and panties were, I was sure that I would end up leaving a
giant wet spot on the skirt, and I didn't know if I could take walking back
to Monique's place with an advertisement on my butt of how horny I was.  If
I sat directly on the bench, it would likely cause my already-miniaturized
skirt to ride up, putting my butt, legs, and crotch on greater display to
the rest of the patio and the adjacent sidewalk.

   Not wanting to stain my clothes, I finally elected to pull my skirt up
in the back and sat with my wet panty covered butt directly on the seat; a
decision which drew a snicker from several of the group.  This also had the
unexpected, yet positive, effect of cooling off an area of my body that had
been raging with hormone fueled heat for hours, but that comfort was
tempered by the mortifying idea of what kind of an imprint I might end up
leaving on the wooden bench.  It was best not to think about such things.

   Monique sat next to me, with Sasha next to her, Nicky on the other side,
and then Deeta directly across from me.  The rest of the ladies were
talking about how funny it had been to see me running around in the street,
chasing my windblown clothing, so I just buried my face in my menu and
tried to think small thoughts.  When Deeta stood up from the table and
started bouncing her boobs under her clothes in an impression of what I had
looked like, before collapsing back into her seat with laughter, I could
only hope that none of the twenty or so other patrons sitting at patio
tables could hear what our group was talking about, and that none of them
took Deeta's ape-ish display as a reason to spend further time looking at,
or under, our table

   "Tell me, Becca: did you enjoy it?," Nicky asked, reaching diagonally
across the table to pull my menu down so that she could see my face.

   "You mean getting my top stolen by the wind?," I asked, as indignantly
as I could muster (which wasn't very).

   "No, I meant studying for your math quiz, dork.  'Course I meant getting
natured by nature."

   "It was horrifying," was my response.

   "So, 100% all bad?  No Cardi B down below?," Deeta jumped in and asked.

   "Huh?," I asked, confused.  "Cardi B?"

   With a snort, Monique clarified, "I think she's asking if flashing the
world gave you a Wet Ass Pussy." Grinning, Deeta nodded to this and Monique
smiled along.  "What do you think, ladies?  Should we find out by asking an
expert," at which she pointed to my face, "or by examining the evidence?,"
which she emphasized by putting her hand on my thigh with her fingertips
under my skirt.

   The touch on my bare thigh caused me to draw a sharp inhale of air
through my nose and my core tightened up of its own accord.

   "Show me the evidence!," declared Deeta, gleefully, and Sasha nodded
along amusedly.

   Nicky, at least, gave a glance around to see if anyone was looking our
way, before answering.  The sun had fully set and the patio was only lit by
a few strings of Christmas style lights, so it wasn't super bright out, and
the rest of the patrons on the patio seemed to be mainly concerned with
their own meals and conversations.  Seeing all this, Nicky grinned wide and
concluded, "In the interest of good science, and pushing boundaries, I
think Becca would agree that we need to go straight to the source for this
answer."

   Outvoted without ever casting a ballot, I steeled myself for what had to
come next as Monique pulled up the front of my skirt and tucked it into the
top of the hem.  This had the effect of essentially reducing the front half
of the mini-skirt into a thick belt at waist level.  Reaching between my
legs and poking my thighs, I knew what she wanted, but resisted at first,
hoping that raising my skirt might be the end of it.  This only prompted
her to poke me more insistently so, using my self-promise of enthusiastic
compliance as an excuse, I gave in completely and allowed her to spread my
legs, wider and wider, until my knees hit the bench on both sides.  In
technical terms, the angle of my spread was definitively obtuse, though
'obscene' might have been a better word for it.

   Once she had me spread to her satisfaction, she peeked into my lap and
then, smirking, pulled out her phone and took a photo from above table
level, with flash, of my crotch.  Presenting the photo to each other lady
at the table, Monique announced, "No worries, Bex is still obviously loving
this.  She is one Juicy Lucy."

   Thankfully, Monique sat her phone face down on the table when a tired
looking waitress came out onto the patio and walked over to our table. 
Though there was a two inch thick slab of wood between her eyes and my
spread legs, I still felt myself sweating into my scant clothes and hoping
that she didn't come stand behind me specifically to take my order.

   "Welcome to Speedway, ladies, my name is Laurie.  Can I get you started
with any drinks or appetizers or do you need a few minutes to look at the
menu?"

   After a bit of back and forth, it was decided that we were ready to
order.  Everyone told the waitress what they wanted to eat and then Deeta
requested, "And can we get a pitcher of whatever IPA you have on draft for
the table?"

   Laurie, who looked to be in her thirties, didn't bat an eye at the
request.  "Sure thing, can I see all of your IDs?"

   Deeta began reaching for her purse while the rest of us stared at her
curiously before she paused and frowned.  "Oh yeah, you have to be twenty
one in this bloody country to get alcohol, don't you?"

   Nodding, Laurie confirmed this.

   I couldn't tell if she was joking or not, but Deeta stuck her hand out
towards me and offered, "How about if our friend Rebecca over here flashes
you her lovely breasts?  Will you get us a pitcher then?"

   My heart paused mid beat as Laurie gave me a slow up and down
accompanied by a raised eyebrow

   "Sure-," she replied, to which Deeta high fived Monique across the
table, but then Laurie continued with a big smile, "-as long as you also
all show me photo IDs proving you're over twenty one years of age."

   Sitting back down like a deflated balloon, Deeta muttered, "Mean..."

   In a teasing voice, Laurie asked, "Does that mean that I don't get to
see Rebecca's lovely breasts then?"

   Five pairs of eyes turned to stare at me as I froze up like a deer
watching the approach of the oncoming car that was going to crush it.

   Laughing, Laurie stepped back from the table with a, "Just kidding. 
Better luck next time.  I'll go put your orders in and be back with some
water," before heading back inside the bar.

   Through the entire exchange, my hands never stopped holding onto my menu
with a death grip and, it wasn't until Laurie had disappeared from view
that I realized I had been holding my breath.  Apparently unaware or
uncaring of the fragility of my mental state at the moment, the group
settled in to discuss the differences in legal systems between the USA and
the rest of the modern world, bemoaning our issues with healthcare,
individual liberty, and our specific group's inability to get wasted on a
Saturday night at uni.  As the only person at the table not participating
in the conversation, I was the first to notice the approach of the stranger
from down at street level.

   A girl that looked a few years older than us came walking along the
sidewalk, minding her own business, but did a textbook double as she passed
by my nearly exposed private parts, presented conveniently at her eye
level. Quickly burying my face in the menu still in my hands, I could only
imagine the view she was getting from the street below.  It wasn't until
she addressed me from where she had come to stand next to the edge of the
patio that the rest of the ladies took notice of her.

   "Holy hell, girl.  You need a towel dry and a good fucking, maybe not in
that order."

   Nicky jumped to her feet with a look of concern on her face at the
comment and Sasha half rose as well but Deeta and Monique could see the
woman from where they sat.  Noticing that the passerby was laughing at her
own comment, the rest of the study group began to giggle along as well,
then proceeded to fall all over themselves joining her in laughter.  Though
I wanted to close my legs and cover up, I stoically kept myself positioned
as I had been left, a voice in the back of my mind cooing, Good girl,
without any of the rest of the ladies having to actually say it.  I
morosely wondered how long it would be until we were done eating and could
leave.

   The passerby gathered herself together after a moment with a, "Whew,"
sound and then continued a bit more earnestly.  "Seriously though, you
really ought to be a bit more cautious with the way you're hanging 'all
out'.  Best you keep your legs together if you don't want to get hauled in
for indecency.  I'm not your momma, though, so you feel free to do what you
want."

   Without asking, the woman turned around and pulled out her phone before
taking a quick kissy face selfie next to my goodies and I just about lost
it.  My hands were gripping the plastic laminated menu so hard that, if I
were stronger, I probably would have ripped it in half, and my butt cheeks
were clenched so hard I was afraid they were going to snip the back of my
wedgied undies like a pair of scissors.  Then, the lady on the street
walked away, giggling to herself while tapping on her phone, and I looked
up to find the rest of the ladies at the table staring at me.

   "Becca...  Do you realize that the woman who was just here took a selfie
with your private parts?" Sasha asked.

   Did I realize...  What a question.  My mind's eye would show me almost
nothing except for the view I imagined her phone camera would have captured
of the lewd show I was putting on for the world at large.  I knew I should
want to hop over the railing and chase after her so I could beg her to
delete the photo.  After all, no sane woman should want a stranger to have
a picture of her privates in their possession to do with what they would.

   It wasn't like I really wanted the woman to have an upskirt of me...  It
was just that I was too much of a doormat to demand that she not have it.
In my head, I argued back and forth a bit and, per usual, 'roll over and
play dead' won out as the strategy du jour.  The lady wanted the picture of
me, the lady took the picture of me, and I sat there and accepted my lot in
life.  Nothing more to it, no further discussion necessary.

   The knowledge that at least one stranger in the world had both seen my
nearly naked privates AND had permanent evidence to prove the fact had me
oozing down below.  It's not like I could help myself with the reaction,
right?  I wondered if it were some sort of perverse coping mechanism that
my mind and body had conspired (without my conscious input) to provide me
with in order to reward me for being so...  Cowardly?  Weak?  Spineless?  I
decided to call it 'selfless' for the sake of me not wanting to cry.

   All I knew was that the strongest reaction I could come up with to the
knowledge that a stranger on the street had taken a picture of my cooch was
to begin subtly grinding my crotch on the wooden bench surface beneath me,
and even that action wasn't really all that voluntary.  Surely I was
leaving streaky trails of my arousal juices on the seat, but I just
couldn't seem to bring myself to stop...  or care for that matter.

   This internal dialogue about how I should react only lasted a few
seconds and, with a decision having been made, I looked around at my
friends again.  Both Sasha and Nicky were still standing at the ready,
seemingly poised and ready to go chase the lady with the vag shot down, and
I realized that I needed to put their minds at ease.  I don't know how much
of what I ended up telling them was the truth versus how much I made up on
the spot for the sake of conflict avoidance, but I picked a position and
ran with it.

   Summoning as much confidence as I could to stop my voice from wavering,
I told them, "It's fine.  I don't mind.  I'm the one with my legs spread;
it's not like I can blame anybody for wanting to look or take a picture or
whatever.  My face was blocked by the menu anyway."

   Looking appropriately skeptical, Sasha asked for clarification.  "That's
a bit of a departure from what you told me on the walk here, Becca.  I seem
to recall you using the phrase 'really really embarrassing' in relation to
the possibility of other people seeing images of you as 'on display' as you
have been during the course of today's journey of self discovery that we're
helping you out with.  Should we take your new acceptance of such exposure
as an indication that you enjoy that level of embarrassment, and even might
want to explore it in greater detail?"

   Feeling trapped, I squirmed in my seat, grinding my clammy sex on the
rough wooden bench while I felt like I was nailing my own coffin shut with
my words.

   "Mm, yeah, I guess so," I ceded.

   This response caused Sasha to sit back into her seat looking upwards in
thought.  Monique's reaction was entirely different, however.  Looking like
Christmas had just come several months early, Monique picked up her phone
again and pulled up her photo gallery, leaning over until we were shoulder
to shoulder.

   "Awesome attitude, Bex.  Throw it all out there and see what sticks like
ready spaghetti.  So, what should we post first and where?"

   Staring powerlessly back at her as she stared with such glee at me, I
wondered what response I could possibly offer her with my foot stuck so far
into my own mouth.

   "Um...  I...  Uh...," I stuttered, trying to think of a way to obey that
didn't end up with my semi-nudes posted publicly on the internet.

   "I need to use the bathroom," announced Nicky, abruptly standing up from
the table before looking my way.  "Becca, you should come with me."

   Deeta also started to rise, adding, "Yeah, me too.  I'll go w-," but she
didn't finish her sentence before Nicky put a firm hand on her shoulder and
shoved her back down into her seat.

   "You can go next, Deeta.  Becca is coming with me this time."

   Looking from the hand clamped on her shoulder to Nicky's face, which was
laser focused on me, Deeta gave a confused shrug and muttered, "Oooookay."

   Because of Monique's position next to me, I had to squeeze up against
the railing to get out of my seat, but I rose and followed Nicky towards
the inside of the restaurant.  Looking back, I saw Monique watching us walk
away as she whispered animatedly with Deeta across the table.

   Nothing was said as Nicky and I marched towards the neon Restrooms sign
in the back of the bar.  There were four individual stalls and, eschewing
the traditional Men/Women signs, the bar had instead gone a more inclusive
route and had painted each door with its own comical full-door pair of
unique figures.  The stall Nicky pulled me into had a deer on its hind legs
with a mustache and tutu next to a robot with a monocle and high-heeled
shoes.  A small sign at eye level read:

   For Everybody,

   Just Wash Your

   Hooves/Hands/Claws

   When You're Done

   Whatever mirth that the restaurant had intended the paintings to inspire
was lost on me as Nicky closed and locked the door behind us.  For a few
tense, silent seconds, she regarded me with a contemplative expression on
her face.  It looked as if she was psyching herself up.

   "Becca...  Hun...  I have a theory."

   There wasn't much floor in the tiny stall, but Nicky began to pace the
width of it, only getting a few steps before she had to turn around.

   "I think that...  How can I put this delicately?  Heck with it.  I think
that the hornier you get...  the stupider you get.  No offense!"

   "Uhhh..."

   She seized on my hesitation.  "See, right there!  Being humiliated gets
your engine going and then you'll pretty much do anything to keep on
driving.  Am I right?  I mean, you were about to start uploading nudie pics
of you to who knows where on the net.  That's not reasonable, is it?  Your
thinking has gotta be impaired."

   That couldn't possibly be true...  Could it?  Sure, I had given away
most of my clothing, and, sure, I was running around in public without a
top on, and, sure, I had just flashed a crowd full of people and...

   Oh my God.  Nicky was right.  None of that was reasonable!  Somehow,
horniness had transformed me into some sort of a brainless...  slut!  If
someone had told me twenty four, or even just four hours ago that I would
be mostly naked at a restaurant flashing my labia at the phone cameras of
strangers, I would have laughed in their face.  Or, rather, I probably
would have run away in fear; laughing in their face would probably require
eye contact and I wasn't very good at that.

   But now, half of my thoughts over the last several hours had been how
shameful my behavior had been, and the other half had been how turned on I
was by what I was doing and how much I couldn't wait to go diddle myself
back in my dorm room.  Uhn...  I almost couldn't wait.

   Snapping fingers in front of my face brought me abruptly out of my
shameful contemplation.

   "See, this is what I'm talking about.  You just tuned out for like ten
seconds.  Were you thinking about horny stuff?"

   Almost nothing but, I admitted to myself.  "...maybe?," I admitted to
Nicky.

   "Uh huh, 'maybe' like 'maybe' Jason Momoa is hot, or 'maybe' the Pope is
Catholic, or 'maybe' Professor Shamal gives us too much homework, or
'maybe' -"

   "Okay, okay, I get it.  Yes, I was thinking about...," I looked down at
my hands and took a deep breath.  Nicky was my oldest friend, and if I
couldn't talk to her about this, then who could I talk to?  Using the
little nerve I had, I jumped off the cliff and admitted my thoughts.  "I
was thinking about how much being exposed this evening has turned me on and
whether the fact that I really want to go touch myself every time I think
about it makes me some kind of...  some kind of...  Slut," I said, applying
the label to myself with the emphasis of all the shame I had felt over the
entire evening.

   Her fierce hug caught me by surprise.  "Oh, Becca...," she whispered as
she squeezed me.  After a second, I hugged her back.  It was probably half
a minute before we separated.

   "First of all: 'slut' is a label that other assholes might try to stick
on you for a ton of different reasons to make you feel like crap, and all
of those reasons are bullshit.  You'll get called a slut just because
you're a woman, and you'll get called a slut if you sleep with anyone, but
you'll also get called a slut if you don't put out.  You can ignore it, or
you can embrace it, but never let that weapon of a word have power over
you. If you think it's hot to think of yourself that way, then, by all
means, proceed.  BUT, if you want to beat yourself up with it on the
world's behalf, then FUCK THAT.  As women, there are billions of people in
this world that would love nothing more than to keep us under their boot
heels until the day that we die.  Don't.  Help.  Them.  Got it?"

   In awe of Nicky's sudden impassioned speech, I just gulped and nodded,
feeling half ready to cry for a variety of reasons.

   "Good.  Number two: I told you I wouldn't try to hold you back with
whatever game you're playing with the group, but that doesn't mean I'm
going to encourage you to set yourself on fire to get attention, either.  I
brought you in here and told you my theory for a reason; I think you've
been winding yourself up tighter and tighter with all the flashing and
teasing you've been doing today.  It's fresh, it's new, and you're probably
desperate for release right now and willing to do just about anything to
get it.  Am I right?"

   "Oh GOD yes!," I blurted.  It wasn't intentional, and I had no idea I
was going to say it until the words were already out, and by then there was
no putting them back.  After, I just looked at my hands sheepishly

   "Thought so.  Well, you have privacy now.  I suggest you use it to
relieve yourself and turn back on that brain of yours."

   Skewed as my mind was at the time, it took me a couple of heartbeats to
understand her meaning.  The idea of masturbating in a restaurant bathroom
both terrified and thrilled me, and the unexpected excitement I felt at the
proposition scared me even more, but the tiny flame of hope for release
that sparked to light within me was soon snuffed out after a quick look
around at my surroundings.

   Though my body yearned for it, the grimy toilet seat stained with flecks
of strange pee, the tiny overflowing wastebasket filled with used paper
towels and snotty kleenexes, and the blackened grout between the off-white
floor tiles did not constitute the building blocks of an environment in
which my mind could let itself go easily, and so I froze up.

   My actions up until now had been a little slutty, sure, I thought to
myself, but getting myself off in this kind of a place would be a step too
far...  Wouldn't it?

   "Um...  I, uh, don't think-" I cleared my throat.  "I think I'm good for
now," I sputtered lamely.

   Nicky's gaze went to all the places that mine had just been, as if
mentally reviewing the thought process that brought me to my refusal, and
then she sighed, as if in resignation before pursing her lips and nodding
to herself as if answering some unknown question that I wasn't privy to. 
Then, she reached out and gently grabbed my arm, leading me to stand by the
sink facing the mirror there whose edges had been carved with the initials
of a dozen drunken patrons past.

   "Look at yourself, Becca," she said, positioning herself right behind
me. "You can see the desperation on your face.  Look at your eyes."

   Of course I could see it.  So could Nicky.  Hell, half the world
probably could.  I could also feel Nicky's breasts pushing against my back,
and her warm breath in my ear and on my neck...  These things weren't
easing my need at all.

   Nicky was whispering to me now, looking in my eyes in the mirror.  "You
need help, B.  Let me help you.  Can I help you?" Her right hand had
wrapped around me to rest on the bare patch of skin left by the shawl, just
below my belly button.  I wanted to scream for her to stop.  I wanted to
beg for her to continue.  More than anything, I wanted to explode!

   As Nicky's hand creeped lower, I froze again.  I had to stop her, right?
But then a little voice in the back of my brain whispered to me, All you
need to do is nothing, and Nicky will take care of the rest.  Just do what
you usually do and give in.  Just give in.

   I gave her the slightest of nods in the mirror, just barely a head tilt
and back, but it was enough.  The tenseness dropped from her face and her
hand hastened on its journey.

   There was no talking now, just motion.  My breath caught in my throat,
my eyes held on to her gaze for dear life, as if she was the only thing
anchoring me to the planet.  When her fingers made their way past the hem
of the skirt and immediately hit flesh again, I realized that the whole
front was still tucked up into the waistband.  The realization that I had
walked through the restaurant to the bathrooms with my damp, wedgied
underwear on full display should have hit me like a gut punch, but I had no
mental bandwidth to process it now as Nicky's finger tips pushed inside the
elastic band of my panties and pulled their material out of my crotch.  I
had to clench my teeth to keep from calling out.

   Finding my sloppy labia, Nicky's fingers ran up and down their length
several times and I couldn't stop a moan from escaping directly from my
throat out into the world.  When her middle finger parted my lips and
thrust slowly into my waiting hole, I completely lost it.  Ten seconds of
stimulation and I drenched her hand, my unicorn panties, my legs, and the
floor beneath us in slippery liquid.  The shaking of my entire body did not
halt her determined finger from maintaining a manic rhythm pumping in and
out of me and my sustained orgasm seemed to last a thousand times longer
than the embarrassingly brief period of stimulation required to achieve it.

   For a number of blissful seconds, it felt like every muscle in my body
had spasmed all at once, before it finally ended and I went entirely limp
in an instant.  My friend tried her best to hold me up, but my limp and
heavy form slid through her arms to land me on my knees on the dirty
bathroom floor, gasping and wheezing for breath.

   Now standing over me, Nicky was examining her soaked hand and the puddle
on the floor under me with an odd mixture of marvel and disgust.

   "Holy hell...  What a mess!  You really were on a hair trigger, B!"

   How was I supposed to respond to that?  I had no idea, so I just sat
there, leaking.  Above me, the sink turned on and Nicky spent several
deliberate minutes soaping and scrubbing her hand, thoroughly cleaning
herself off before pulling several paper towels from the dispenser.  I just
stared blankly up at her, feeling like I had just been run over by a semi
truck full of dopamine.

   After finishing drying herself off, Nicky looked down at me for a moment
looking slightly guilty.  "This...  this was okay, right?  We're good?"

   "Yeah, we're good," I croaked for her sake, not having anywhere near the
clarity of focus to make such a complicated determination.  My reassurance
seemed to take a major weight off her shoulders, however, and she breathed
a literal sigh of relief when I gave it.  Then, Nicky being Nicky, she went
back into practical mode.

   "This was a one time thing, okay?  You're like a sister to me and I
would never..." She trailed off and then had to pause again and take a deep
breath.  "We're going to treat what just happened like it was a medical
emergency and we're never gonna talk about it again, capisce?  In the
future, I highly advise you to find opportunities to take care of yourself
occasionally to keep your pressure low so you don't get stupid horny."

   She had to grab my head and tilt it to the side to get me to look at
her.

   "I'm going to go back to the table now.  Are you good to clean yourself
up?"

   I nodded dumbly up at her and she straightened her back and flicked a
strand of hair out of her face.

   "Okay, good.  Pull yourself together and I'll see you back there in a
few?"

   Holding her hand out, she waited for me to grab it and then helped me
get to my feet before once again catching my gaze.

   "Remember.  This never happened.  What never happened?  Nothing, that's
what."

   Then she was out the door and I was alone.  Looking back at the mirror,
the face I saw there looked somehow...  changed from the one I had seen
just a couple of moments before.

   The girl in the mirror was glowing.

   Soon after, however, reality began to set in and I began to think
through what had just happened.  My best friend, a woman I had known since
I was tiny, a person for whom I had never had a single sexual thought in my
entire life, had just fingered me off in the ladies restroom of a local
bar. Inexplicably, I had even, in the heat of the moment, encouraged her to
do it.

   At no point in Nicky and my entire relationship together had there ever
been any indication that she was attracted to me, or into women at all for
that matter, and I'm pretty sure that was still the case.  Nicky was a
pragmatic person, and giving me an orgasm had likely been as sexual of an
act in this case as helping me change a tire or unclog a sink.  She saw a
friend in need and buckled down, rolled up her proverbial sleeves, did the
dirty work, and then moved on with her life.  Whether we ever spoke of the
matter in the future, I had no idea whether I would ever be able to look
her in the eyes again without remembering the last five minutes and I
shuddered at the thought.

   Once I felt that my legs would hold me again, I stopped leaning on the
sink and took inventory of myself.  My panties were no longer just damp;
now they were completely soaked to the point of transparency.  Both of my
legs had streaks, smears, and splatters of my greasy arousal juices sprayed
down them and the floor beneath me looked like someone had spilled a glass
of water on it.  Cringing at the unsanitariness, I realized that it was
even under my filthy feet and between my toes.  My post orgasmic bliss was
fading rapidly and the inevitable mental recriminations started closing in
hot and fast, blame and humiliation pouring over me regarding the
circumstances of my illicit orgasm.

   "Oh my god, you're such a dumb slut", I chastised myself and felt my
pelvis clench at the thought.  Grabbing a handful of paper towels, I
started wiping up the slime wherever I found it, mentally kicking myself at
the necessity of the task As I worked, however, I remembered what Nicky had
said: Slut wasn't a bad word, and sluts weren't bad people.  This was a
novel concept to me and everything in my conservative upbringing railed
against the idea, telling me that I should hate the way I was acting. 
But...  If I was supposed to hate all of my recent behavior, then why in
the hell did I feel So Damn Good?

   Taking Nicky's advice at face value, I decided that I probably shouldn't
beat myself up over the idea that I might be acting in ways that I- no,
scratch that -acting in ways that my parents wouldn't consider acceptable.
Standing there, holding a sticky mess of soaked and dirty paper towels that
were drenched in my squirt, coming down from my orgasmic high, I found
myself wondering how I would go about internalizing that particular level
of acceptance.  Shoving the bundle down in the overflowing wastebasket, I
buried the shameful evidence beneath a handful of other, more traditionally
wetted paper products and then stood to wash my hands.  While I did so, I
examined myself in the mirror.

   My face was flushed, my nipples were doing their best to poke through
the thin shawl around my shoulders, and the small restroom stall STANK of
my feminine arousal.  Orgasming had taken the edge off of my now constant
horniness for a brief period, but guilt and embarrassment over the orgasm
had sharpened it again.

   There were so many things about the situation that conflicted with how I
thought my life should be right now, and it tore me up inside to admit to
myself that I kind of liked...  no...  loved the way it made me feel. 
Shaking the remnants of the water off of my hands, I leaned on the sink and
gave my reflection a hard stare and remembered Nicky's words: "If you think
it's hot to think of yourself that way, then, by all means, proceed."

   "You're a slut," I whispered to myself experimentally, feeling a surge
of shame and arousal to say it out loud.  A renewed throbbing in my sex
drove me onward.

   "You are a dumb slut," I repeated, more deliberately.  "A dirty slut," I
added.  "You just seduced your straight friend and made her finger you in
the bathroom.  You're disgusting."

   My hips moved themselves forward almost of their own accord and, with
the front of my skirt pulled up, my crotch found the edge of the sink. 
Burning with renewed need, I subconsciously began to hump the smooth
porcelain.

   "You just want attention, don't you, slut?  You took off and gave away
all your clothes on purpose, didn't you?  You must have wanted this.  I
must have wanted this."

   The exposed skin of my chest and neck were reddened, and I wasn't sure
whether it was due to the humiliation caused by my self-taunting, or caused
by the new wave of arousal that was coming over me.

   "I should be ashamed.  I should want to be good.  I shouldn't be able to
wait for the night to end to get back to normal...  And part of me does,
but the rest of me knows the truth," I told myself, unsure of whether what
I was saying had any grain of factualness to it.  All I knew was that it
was what I needed to hear at that moment.  "I am a dumb slut.  I have to
be. There is no other explanation."

   Grinding harder on the edge of the sink, I started whimpering between
words.  "That's right.  I'm not worthy of respect.  I'm not worthy of
redemption.  I'm a dumb *hahn* filthy *hahn* SLUT!"

   And, just like that, I was cumming again.  There was no squirting this
time, just the sweet release of orgasm shadowed by a looming feeling of
dread that something was broken inside of me.  I hated what I was doing,
but I loved doing it.  I hated that I loved it, but that just made me love
it even more.

   Peeling myself off the sink, I studiously avoided my own eyes in the
mirror, now fearful of the stern look of judgment that I would surely find
there.  Instead, I got busy straightening myself out: running my hands
through my hair to get the lingering grass out, washing my face and hands,
brushing the dirt and grass off my limited clothing, patting my panties and
crotch with a dozen paper towels until they stopped coming away spotted
with moisture, and then thoroughly washing and drying every surface that I
had dirtied with my presence.

   Eventually, once I couldn't come up with any other tasks that I could
use as excuses to delay my ultimate exiting of my private sanctuary, I made
a final set of adjustments to myself before I could think of one of the
million reasons not to.  Heart beating fast, I pulled the shawl wider to
the sides of my chest, barely sparing an inch where it covered my nipples
and providing a shameless amount of cleavage.  After that, I pulled my
panties taught against my slit with one hand and used the thumb and
forefinger of the other to spread my lips wide around the gathered fabric.

   With the front of my skirt still flipped up and tucked, I'm sure I was
giving the world one hell of a show, but I kept my eyes straight ahead to
avoid my brain having to visually acknowledge that fact.  Given a thousand
years, I'm not sure I could explain why I did these things; my animal brain
just told me that this was how I was supposed to be.

   Now physically prepared to face the world, I hoped I could find a mental
equivalency of that preparedness somewhere and forced myself to open the
door of the bathroom, striding out with as much counterfeit confidence as I
could summon.  After all, it was either that or lock myself in the tiny
room so I could sit on the toilet and cry for the rest of the night.
   I still couldn't tell you if I made the right choice.