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 ï>¿Tami Beethoven by Donny Laja

   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.p 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 Hartord, 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 pen 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." eWell, 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, 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 looed 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!