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 ï>¿Tami Beethoven by Donny Laja

   Part 26

   The atmosphere in the crowded dining room was electric. The seven
onlookers stood around the seated, slightly overweight figure of Mayree,
Tami and Rod's old friend, back in town for the St.  Patrick's Day weekend.
Mayree's husband Brad, tall and dark and silent as always, stood behind
her, watching what she was doing with a quizzical interest.  As was Rod. 
Not so quizzical was the interest of Georgene, Spica, Melissa and Jeane,
their eyes glued to what was on the edge of the table, the brightly-lit,
widely-spread crotch of Tami Smithers as she lay on her back. "Ow!" their
always-naked friend said. "Stop jerking!" Mayree admonished, readjusting
her sweatshirt, shifting in her jeans as she leaned forward in
concentration. "Zhhh," Tami said next, suppressing all motion, yet somehow
giving the impression she was about to laugh. The track lighting, like all
eyes, was trained on Tami's partly green, partly reddish pubic hair, so
bright that everyone could see each hair casting its own shadow.  Peering
closely through the bottoms of her bifocals, Mayree worked carefully with
tweezers and swabs on what was turning into a hair-by-hair de-greening of
Tami's lower hair.  The smell of polish remover competed with the smell of
Tami's musk to give the air a unique pungency. This uncomfortable procedure
was necessary unless Tami was to wait two months or so, up past graduation,
for the green to grow out.  The head hair was easy: Mayree, yesterday
morning, had henna'd it, and Tami had shampooed it out an hour ago.  But
her lower hair -- "Tam, your shorties are as nappy as mine" -- had required
the more permanent stuff.  Which needed special care to remove. Two of the
TL's, Melissa and Jeane, helped by holding Tami's feet back and out so as
to maximize the outstretching of her limber, gymnast's legs.  Jeane's
interest in Tami's crotch alternated with her interest in the toes cradled
in her hands.  She badly wanted to suck them, from "Hester" (her name for
her Queen's right pinky toe) on up to "Hera" (the big toe), but held off.
"Ow!  Christ, that hurts!" Tami said, once again almost giggling as if at
her own stupidity. That hair was right near her left lip.  Having stretched
it out to its greatest extent with the tweezer, Mayree wet the swab in the
solution in the little cup next to her and dabbed the hair down to the
root. Which then stung. They had been like this, Mayree, Tami, and their
rapt audience, for twenty minutes.  They watched as Mayree now spread and
inspected Tami's lips clinically, well apart and wet, in the bright
lighting.  They could see inside too, into her pink cave.  Now Mayree
pulled the hairs on the sides near the thighs as Tami cringed and tried not
to cry out. "OH!  Shit!" Tami said. "Sorry," Mayree said, examining the
hair that she had yanked entirely out.  She set it down carefully to the
intense interest of the TL's who looked at it like a religious relic.  "I
think that one's time had just about come anyway." A few more yanks and
stings and Mayree seemed satisfied.  Now: "Turn over, I've got to get the
ones down near your winkie." Mayree had listened patiently to the TL's
enthuse over lunch in front of the blushing Tami, and had decided to humor
them by adopting some of their terminology. As her husband and friends
watched, Tami exhaled and lethargically rolled over.  They were the motions
of a woman with a heavy pelvic area, congested with the fluids of sexual
desire, an inevitable outcome of Mayree's ministrations, and the fact that
she hadn't had an orgasm since the three that Rod had given her upon
awakening that morning. Tami got on all fours and then lay her head down on
her crossed hands.  She stuck her butt out, legs spread so that her anus
was clearly visible.  As Mayree began pulling the hairs on the perineum one
by one, Tami's toes wiggled and her anus twitched, signs of her
frustration. Then another "Ow!" "I'd love to lick her right now," Spica
said, smacking her lips, though whether it was Tami's pussy or anus she was
looking at was unclear. "No licking!" Mayree said firmly.  "Not for two
hours at least.  You don't want this remover in your mouth." "Two hours!"
Spica said. "That's how long it takes to dry." "You can have some too,"
Spica said, as if Tami was a pie that the TL's didn't mind sharing. As she
swabbed another hair, Mayree said, "Not me.  I'm no funny bunny." A stern
face that dissolved into a tolerant smile.  Like most of Tami's old
friends, Mayree found the TL's quaint and amusing, like eager kids. This
was a female affair so Rod and Brad decided to retreat and sit on the
couch. As Rod watched from across the room, Tami's butt sticking into the
girls' faces, he thought of her decision to "go green" for the parade
yesterday.  At first she was afraid it might be undignified.  The grand
marshals of previous years were always old professors or some other eminent
personages.  But then she decided that after all, her hair was her only
clothes, and "One has to wear green, right?" And then she set things up
with Mayree, who had done such a wonderful job on her on Tami and Rod's
first date, the Black Formal, so long ago. While Tami was gathering with
the rest of the marchers yesterday Rod had lunch with Brad and Mayree, up
from Boston, catching up on each other's lives, then the three of them had
stationed themselves midway down the route.  Campbell was a small town,
largely an appendage of the college, and it seemed like every single person
was out along Main Street.  He wished the weather was a bit better.  A
damp, chilly day, the kind where the cold dampness just pierces right
through you.  Impossible to stay warm even in an overcoat and scarf,
especially when standing waiting.  And then a flurry began, wet
early-spring flakes that looked as big as marshmallows. The street was
cleared and the sound of drums and horns told them the parade was nearing.
Sure enough Tami was leading.  She had been given the option of standing up
in a float but had decided to just walk.  As he knew well by now, feeling
the earth against her bare feet gave her confidence and energy. She plied
the big marshal's stick in her hand, using it as a walking stick, as she
paced carefully but proudly all alone in front, her bareness totally on
view, wearing her nakedness as if it was the most resplendent outfit in the
parade.  Her hair was green and shiny, one of Mayree's masterpieces,
dancing as she walked, framing her beautiful face and being the same shade
of green as her eyes.  The big snowflakes stuck to it like God was adding
his own highlights to Mayree's handiwork. Green sparkles were over the tops
of her breasts, and down below on her concave tummy.  Her green pubic hair
was abundant, teased out and fluffy, as carefully done up as the hair on
her head, and catching its share of snowflakes too.  Green was also the
color of her fingernails and toenails. What was most striking was her
bearing.  Her feet paced the wet asphalt with the well-bred gait of
royalty. And her smile and her wave to the crowds.  She was like a
good-natured and popular queen "doing my queen thing" with aplomb but also
a good dose of whimsy. And the cheering. Everyone knew Tami, of course, and
every single person whistled and applauded as she passed.  It made Rod,
once again, proud to be hers.  And then he felt himself privileged as she
saw him and ran over, giving him a big kiss and hug, before scampering back
out to the middle of the street to continue her queenly duties, her breasts
bouncing into place. Now she went on and Rod and Brad and Mayree found
themselves looking at the Mayor's float, then the firemen, then the high
school band, the majorettes in long-sleeved leotards and protected from the
cold by what looked like three layers of black tights. Their last glimpse
of Tami made them laugh once again.  As her bare buns retreated from them
they could see the green shamrocks painted in the exact center of each,
jiggling very slightly with the motions of her tight glutes.  "Good work,
Mayree," Rod said with a chuckle.  "Fine job," Brad said, giving Mayree a
kiss. Later the three of them went to Scholar's with half the rest of the
town and watched Tami drink buckets of green beer, tie and untie about a
dozen pairs of shoes with her toes, and give an only partly off-key
rendition of "When Irish Eyes Are Smiling" while standing on top of the
bar. They drank too but could not keep pace with their naked companion.  By
then it was dark, and he had to prop her up as she staggered through the
slush back to the house. As she fell face-down onto the bed and immediately
started snoring, Rod contemplated her flushed nakedness, her slush-crusted
soles, the now-smudged shamrocks, the disheveled green hair, with a mixture
of joy and sadness.  Tami Smithers had a happy, happy life.  She was the
most popular person in town.  And yet it could not last... Rod shook
himself into the here and now as he heard Tami squeal and watched Mayree
pull on and swab the last of the pubic hairs.  No green left, Tami's lower
hair was now back to its natural dark red.  Her horniness was palpable. 
Her butt up in the air, the anus twitching, the lips below moist with
arousal, the toes squirming.  Rod felt his dick stirring and wished he
could shoo everyone away so he could thrust in deep.  Brad and Mayree had
to get going for Boston momentarily anyway.  Unfortunately he and Tami had
invited the TL's for a reason.  This was to be their "Tami-thon" afternoon.
The wait enforced by the polish remover procedure was something no one had
planned on, though. "Two hours!" Spica said again, like an outraged,
spoiled child. "Two...  hours!" Mayree repeated sternly. The TL's, who
seemed to act in telepathic concert, took seats at the table, looking up at
Tami from every angle.  Between the four of them, they held her hands and
her feet.  Tami exhaled a ragged breath.  Her head still down, she said,
"Sorry guys." Rod suddenly knew what to do.  Time for the unveiling. It was
best done silently.  He got up and retreated to the bedroom.  When he came
back he stood up next to Tami and held the tail up over her.  The soft
tendrils of the ends of the hairs whispered against her back, making her
shiver.  Without looking she knew what it was.  "Ohhhh...  yes..."



   Part 27

   The TL's looked at it open-mouthed.  The new, improved "pony girl" tail
that Katie had presented to Tami that time in the library when Sarah
Wickland visited.  The two-foot long hair was beautiful, blond with a shade
of red.  But all eyes quickly fastened on the incredibly long and thick
dildo end.  Finally Georgene untied her tongue.  "Th - that's not...  what
I think it is...?" "There's no way that's going to fit into her pussy!"
Spica said. Rod shook his head portentously, then gently directed the end
toward Tami's anus, where the barest contact made his naked wife jolt.
"Oh...  my...  God!" Spica said.  No one could see it but Spica's own
buttocks clenched in response. Rod put the tail into Georgene's hands.  She
held it reverently like it was fragile, even though considering the pony
girl "industry" it was designed for, it could be termed, quite literally,
"industrial strength".  Then he got the remote out of his sweater pocket.
It was a big remote with a lot of buttons and a little touch pad.  In
anticipation of this, the first actual try-out of the tail inside Tami, he
had taped Ms.  Wickland's business card to the bottom in case he and Tami
had any questions. He pressed the white button and the base of the dildo,
near the hair, expanded to three inches across.  Now his first words. 
"This is what you do at the beginning.  It prevents the tail from being
ejected during, uh, excitement phase.  Press it again before taking it
out." Another push of the white button and the base diameter shrank to its
original inch and a half -- still huge, but workable for an experienced
anus like Tami's.  "The dildo part works by pressing against the wall
inside Tami to touch her G-spot." The TL's nodded.  Tami's internal center
of pleasure was a topic they had studied and discussed much. He playfully
threw the remote to Spica.  "Experiment a bit." The punky 19-year-old TL,
fascinated, pressed another button and then another, as bumps appeared and
disappeared at various points.  Georgene almost dropped the moving thing in
her hands while Spica whooped with glee.  Then like children she and Jeane
and Melissa started fighting over the remote.  They eventually settled on
taking turns, trying out all the buttons, and then the touch pad, a refined
delight.  Moving one's finger along the touch pad caused a bump to move
along the shaft of the huge dildo.  It was amazingly responsive and moved
almost as quickly as the controlling finger.  Tami, her face against the
table, eyes closed, smiled, amused by the sounds of their childish delight.
Now the naked student turned to look up at Rod with heavy-lidded eyes.  As
if saying, "Now is the time.  Please satisfy me!" Rod got the remote back
and took control, like an instructor showing his students how something was
done.  Dabbing the dildo generously with a jar of vaseline he had brought,
he set the greasy end against Tami's anus and gently pushed. "Ohhh..." The
TL's didn't know whether to look at her distending sphincter or her face.
It was more than amazing to them.  Though Spica might not have admitted it,
not one of them had ever been anally penetrated themselves. "Ohhh...  oh
God..." Tami's breaths became deep and deliberate, as if she was trying to
inhale the dildo. Georgene leaned forward and said, "How do you do it?"
"Make...  believe...  I'm...  pooping...  push...  down...  ohhhh..." Rod
twisted the tail and slowly increased the penetration until it was in about
six inches.  Georgene and Melissa each grabbed one of Tami's hands and held
tight in support. "Ohhh...  oh man..." Rod was beginning to get concerned.
This was as far as he had ever put a dildo inside Tami.  He knew she was
capable of more, but he had never witnessed it himself and he always had a
fear of hurting her.  He bent down next to her face and said, "Are you O.K.
Babe?" Tami, beginning to sweat, swallowed and nodded.  For about the
millionth time Rod marveled at her self-control, her ability to control her
body and make it do what she wanted.  He figured out a long time ago that
she had learned it the hard way, during that awful freshman year, learning
to control her intense desire for clothes, almost shaking at times from the
strain of resisting the urge to grab something and put it on. The TL's
leaned closer to her butt.  Only half the dildo was in.  Jeane wondered if
Tami's flat tummy would begin to bulge outward from the displacement.  Brad
and Mayree couldn't help standing up and watching from across the room. 
The fully clothed friends watched intently as the naked young woman
continued to be anally penetrated in their midst. "Zhhh..." Rod gently
pushed it in two more inches, then felt some resistance.  He had met the
top wall of Tami's rectum.  Tami would have to shift a little to make the
dildo go through what she called her "inner butthole", up into her colon.
Tami lifted her head and her shoulders, then twisted her hips by getting
off her left knee and planting her foot flat upon the table.  When she was
ready she nodded and Rod pushed in some more, this time meeting no
resistance as the dildo began its journey up her digestive tract.  Tami's
mouth opened as if the object was about to emerge past her tonsils. Pushing
in was easy now.  Rod slid in the last two inches and then pushed in the
first of the two little flanges designed to rest on each side of her
sphincter, one inside and one outside.  Otherwise the tail would fall out
or be sucked in by the natural motion of Tami's internal muscles.  Tami's
anus was now seated against the beginning of the horse-style hair.  The
TL's sat there open-mouthed with awe at this remarkable creature in front
of them. The naked girl took a couple of deep breaths.  Jeane noticed no
bulging, Tami's tummy was as concave and smooth as always.  Then the naked
student pushed up with her arms and stood up on her knees, the rest of her
body upright, her head almost up in the little chandelier, the newly
swabbed pubic hairs teased out and fluffy. Awkwardly, with the help of the
TL's and Rod, she climbed down from the table, bare feet slapping onto the
hardwood floor, and lurched stiffly to the center of the room.  Without
thinking about it everyone got up and gathered in a circle around her. She
stood there, bolt upright as if "at attention", hands at her sides, her
breathing ragged.  Then a crooked smile.  "Pony Tami, at your service." Rod
supposed he should laugh though he couldn't.  The power dynamics were now
clear to him.  She was putting herself at the mercy of whoever had the
remote.  The situation that, after all, the tail had been designed for, at
Taft McNamee's farm with its dominant owners and submissive ponies. Rod
pressed the white button and Tami inhaled and closed her eyes, obviously
intensely feeling the expanding bulb within her.  Her toes spread, grasping
the floor, as if she was in danger of falling off the earth. It had to be
Rod's turn first, but he was feeling magnanimous and wanted to make it up
to the TL's for not being able to lick Tami's pussy as they had fervently
planned.  He gave the remote to Georgene, who he supposed could be best
trusted to start gently. Georgene looked down at the remote carefully and
slid her finger carefully along the touch pad. "Eeeee!" Tami leapt up
seemingly about three feet into the air, arching her back!  Her eyes bugged
out! This greatly concerned everyone.  Then Georgene did it again. "Eeeee!"
Tami leapt up again and then fell forward and crumpled to her knees.  Rod
was about to tell Georgene to stop when he realized Tami was quivering and
on the verge of orgasm. A few presses of buttons and Georgene had forced
Tami down to all fours, where she shouted and bucked and launched into a
terrific climax.  As she spasmed they noticed that the tail, moved by her
anal contractions, waved to and fro rhythmically in a wide sweep like a
parade color guard waving a flag.  After a few more irregular flourishes
the tail subsided and once again hung down straight. Georgene handed the
remote to Melissa, who stroked the touch pad and got Tami to yelp and jump
back up onto her feet.  Tami realized how ridiculous she looked and started
laughing as Melissa, relieved that all was well, stroked and stroked the
touch pad as Tami leapt here and there, practically up to the ceiling,
nearly bumping into people and furniture.  She jumped toward the back
window, breasts bouncing, and then fell onto all fours again as she spasmed
and spasmed, her tail again wagging wildly. "Oh Jesus..." Tami tried to
focus her gaze on Rod.  "This thing is incredi -- eeee!!" The remote had
been passed to Spica, who did not show mercy.  Laughing, Tami yelped and
yipped and jumped, feet slapping against the floor, finally succeeding with
fumbling fingers in sliding the back window open and escaping into the back
yard. It was a warm sunny day, not like yesterday, though the outside was
sodden with mud and melting snow.  The TL's followed Tami outside.  Rod,
Brad and Mayree, once getting over their amazement, had no choice but to
follow.  When they got to the back yard they saw the TL's at the four
corners of the little yard, throwing the remote to each other in a game of
keep-away as Tami frantically lurched toward one and then the other.  Her
bare feet, caked with mud, slipped and soon mud was covering her breasts,
her thighs, her knees, her hands. It took three TL's to hold her but they
did so as Spica flicked the touch pad furiously, causing the naked pony
girl to flail about wildly and scream, crazy-eyed, her feet kicking up bits
of mud, her hand stretching out uselessly for the remote that was three
feet past her grasp.  There was underlying good humor.  As the orgasm
subsided Tami gasped, "You-ll -- pay -- for this -- Spica -- damn you!!"
Tami wrested free and shot through the bushes.  The TL's, more prone to
worry about getting scraped, had to go around the far end.  Rod and Brad
and Mayree followed, laughing at this bizarre turn of events.  When they
emerged out onto the street they saw the pony-girl, her tail swishing
behind her, pumping her arms and trying to maintain a rhythmic, athletic
pace as she pounded the wet broken sidewalk with tough bare feet, trying to
increase the distance between herself and her tormentors. Rod thought to
himself: what is the range of that remote?  Tami being Tami, she was soon
well ahead of the TL's, almost at the corner of Spruce Street by now, over
two hundred feet.  Yet the odd splays of leg and jerking of pelvis showed
that the remote, now in the hands of the quickly tiring Jeane, was still
having its effect.
Rod and his friends followed the TL's up to the corner of Spruce and
then turned up the path to Hightop Park.  They would never forget what they
saw as they pulled even with the TL's at the park gate.  Way over across
the park, just shy of the woods, Tami had slipped in a patch of mud and was
face down in it, her butt up in the air.  The TL's had her where they
wanted her and did not move as they passed the remote around between them
as they caught their breath from running.  Tami's bare sweaty butt,
glistening in the spring sunshine, heaved up and down as she climaxed for
the, well, who was keeping count?  The tail swished to and fro, every 0.8

seconds... Now, trying to get to her feet, her toes squirming and sliding,
she slipped and flopped onto her back, all but covered now in mud from face
to feet like a naked primitive dancing in a fertility rite, her muddy tummy
and hips bucking up with the spasms as if she was having intercourse with
the air, the sky, the entire universe. Rod and Brad and Mayree took in this
scene in silence and wonder.  Then Brad, who had not gotten any more
talkative since his days as Campbell-Frank's most laconic SGA President,
spoke up.  "I know this sounds wack, but I envy her.  I wish I had her
ability to feel all that pleasure." Rod looked up at his friend and then
out again at Tami in the distance.  As if by rote, he said, "Well, she
deserves it, after what she's been through." "She certainly does." After
another moment, Rod said, "No, you're not wack."



   Part 28

   "G - got - to - be - k - kidding - mmee - ohhh!" The blonde guy
(prospect no.  3) was so obviously phony in his attempt at bad ballad
singing that Tami's appraisal was echoed by the TL's. "You got that right,
mi amor," Rosaria said, looking sideways at the TV as she plunged her
tongue deep into the pink cave between the lower lips that she was
spreading with her fingers. "He's better than number 1 though," Myra said,
sitting next to Rosaria, bending forward to suck one of the upturned
nipples while rubbing the other one between her fingers.  "Number 1 wasn't
even as good a faker." Jeane, on the other side of Rosaria, smacked her
lips as she interrupted her sucking of Tami's toes.  "You should have seen
last night.  I'm surprised the three guys didn't turn that bimbo into a
dedicated lesbian." "Maybe she WAS a lesbian," Melissa said, sitting on the
floor, resting her head next to Tami's, sucking on one of the smoothies
Tami had made for them, now and then handing it up to Tami's lips so she
could have a sip.  "This is all a fake, you know." Responding to Jeane,
Tami said, "Th - this is on every night??" "Three nights a week," Jeane
said.  "I admit I'm hooked." "You must l - lose three IQ points every time
you watch this -- ohhh," Tami said.  Rosaria had just inserted her greased
thumb into her anus and was turning it round and round inside her.  Then
she sucked Tami's clit hard in between her teeth. "Khhh!  Chkkk!  Gaaahh!
Ohhhh!" The whole couch rocked as Tami exploded again, the four TL's
grabbing whatever part of her that was handy with a mixture of lust and
tenderness. "I think -- " Melissa was about to say something but waited as
Tami kicked through one last, unexpected spasm.  "I think a lot of lesbians
watch this." "Like us," Myra said with a snort.  Among them only Spica, who
was not there tonight, was a declared lesbian.  But the standing joke was
they made an exception for licking and sucking Tami. Tami, catching her
breath, said, "Jeane...  Doesn't this show make you stupid?" "It's just
fun." "I suppose so...  A waste of time though...  ohh..." The three TL's
on the couch turned Tami over, once again.  This gave Melissa another
chance to do some deep-tongue kissing as she turned her head up to Tami's.
Rosaria, recently inducted into the delights of licking Tami's rear
entrance, stuck her tongue into the orifice that Tami had cleaned via enema
earlier, performing the ablutions in the bathroom as the TL's stood around
and watched.  At Rosaria's request Tami had done an extra strawberry enema
she had brought.  As a result Tami was scrumptious!  Jeane got to licking
the toes on the other foot, trying out the taste of a grapefruit-scented
lotion she had bought.  As for Myra, she contented herself with tracing her
fingers over the beautifully formed, tanned back, running her fingers down
to the sacral dimples and onto each butt cheek, then back up to the
shoulders, making Tami shiver. They had been like this for over an hour,
another "girls' night in" at Tami's place, on a night when Rod was working
late.  At Tami's request it was always a low-key affair.  "Let's just hang
out like we're in the dorm," she said the first time.  "I kind of miss
those days." So they either watched TV or sat around chatting.  Though
there were probably no hang-out sessions in dorms where one girl was naked
and constantly being licked and sucked, propped up, spread out, or like
tonight munched on like a five-foot-five hero sandwich, all the while
chatting with the rest to the extent she could. Tonight began with sitting
on the floor, in their stocking feet (except for Tami, of course), over
potato chips and smoothies, moved to an intense session with Tami pinned on
top of the kitchen counter, her ankles up past her face, from whence they
carried her recovering body to the couch to watch the latest "reality"
show. "When is the Spring Zing?" Jeane said in between licks of "Isis"
(Tami's right third toe) and "Osiris" (the fourth toe). "N - next Th -
thursday...  Seven o'clock in the M - multipurpose roommm...  R - reception
later...  ohhh...  But it's at the air - port..." "The airport?" "The --
ffaculty -- cafe is under c - construction -- so -- th-there's a nnnice --
ohhh!  -- restaurant there -- the C - county airport...  " "County
airport?" Melissa said. "It's about five miles down Route 218," Myra said.
Jeane said, "What's your entry going to be like?  A dress?  Or a sports
outfit?" "I'm not tellin' -- ohhh -- God, what a creep!" Prospect no.  2
had just said to an off-camera interviewer, "I think like girls just like
want to be basically controlled?" "I'M not going out with HIM," Myra said,
grabbing Tami's right butt cheek forcefully. Rosaria, diddling Tami's clit
from below, extracted her tongue to say, "He's just brave in saying what a
lot of guys think." "You can let them think they're in control even when
they're not," Jeane said.  "It flatters their ego." "But if you do th --
that," Tami said, "th - they might get into the -- ohhh" -- Rosaria was
diddling her clit more and more furiously now, and the others quickened
their attentions to bring Tami up to another crest -- "habit -- OHHH!" Tami
bucked and bucked as the TL's held on.  Rosaria timed her diddles at 0.8
seconds and then, judging her time carefully, decelerated very slightly. 
This extended her orgasm as hoped. "Ohh -- ohhh -- oh hi -- Roddd!!" Rod,
standing there in his suit and briefcase, smiled and kissed the gasping
face of his wife. As Tami quieted down again, Jeane said, "What do you
think, Rod?" Rod enjoyed watching his wife "come down" and waited until she
was back at what, having been educated by the TL's, he had learned to call
her "plateau" stage.  He thought for a moment.  "I think you shouldn't let
the guy get away with thinking he's in control if he isn't.  The important
thing is to be honest." "Sometimes it's diplomatic to lie a little," Jeane
said, pensively licking Tami's little toe like it was a lollipop. "Well you
don't have to be honest right away," Rod said, speaking louder as he
retreated to the kitchen and took off his coat.  "The church I went to as a
kid, the preacher would say, 'Never go to bed with a argument unsettled.'
That's bullshit, of course.  Just get some rest and things will look better
in the morning." As he returned, he said, "What he MEANT was, don't keep
secrets, if there's a disagreement, deal with it, and soon." He had no
jealousy about the TL's involvement in his wife's life.  He was actually
glad there was someone else to have Tami's needs taken care of, now that
work was heating up and he had to come home late and tired. The only
restriction, which he and Tami agreed on, was that the TL's couldn't use
the tail inside her.  That touch-pad was incredibly powerful and he was
afraid Tami might injure herself jumping around like that.  And both of
them were a little unsure that the TL's could be trusted to be gentle in
inserting such a huge object in such a vulnerable place. Even he himself
was wary about the touch pad.  Though its operation was silent, it seemed
too much like torture, like whipping her from the inside.  He conceded it
was his own hang-up; Tami herself felt nothing but intense pleasure.  But
he much preferred the more mellow delights afforded by the purple button,
which turned the tail into a simple vibrator.  Sunday afternoon had been
particularly pleasant.  He had sat on the porch, taking in the sunshine,
watching the last of the snow melt, the remote in his hand, as Tami writhed
on the floor next to him, periodically spasming and moaning, the buzzing
inside her faintly audible.  Trent had stopped by and the two men had
chatted about this and that, idly watching Tami as she climbed one orgasmic
peak after another, lost in her own world. Now he sat in the big chair,
sipping an orange juice, and watched the TL's feast on her.  He was
impressed with their dedication to her.  And he remembered what Georgene
said once.  "Tami is our feminist hero.  Men stripped her, but she came
back in her nakedness and defeated them." Sounded almost like Jen. He
looked up at the TV and said, "Oh God.  Not again." That idiotic dating
show. "Their p - plan to make me s - stupid," Tami said. "For you, Tam,
that would take a long long time." Rod said.  He snorted as he saw Prospect
Number 2 try to sweep tonight's bimbo off her feet and fall on his butt.
And now the big moment when the bimbo made her selection.  Would it be
Prospect No.  1, Prospect No.  2, or Prospect No.  3?  Unfortunately Tami
was cresting again.  Rosaria had turned her onto her side and her bare foot
flung out, blocking Myra's view.  Myra tried to reach out and push it out
of the way. Biting her lip the blonde on the screen said, "I pick -- "
"Ohhhh...  ohhhh!  OHH!" "Shhhhh!!" the TL's said in unison. "Mmmphh... 
mmphhh...  mmphhh...  " Tami stifled her remaining spasms with a mighty
effort. The bimbo lingered speechless for an excruciatingly long time. 
Then she said, "Number 2!" "Give me a break!" the four TL's said together.
Tami, catching her breath, said, "That girl is stuuuu - pid!" Sounding like
her 19-year-old friends, except for the orgasmic moans, of course. Now the
credits rolled onto the screen and Tami caught her breath and staggered to
her feet and sat in the big chair with Rod, her bare leg draped over his
knee.  The TL's knew it was time to go.  By the time Rod came home they
could hang out for a bit but not too long. After they left, Tami curled up
in Rod's lap like a satisfied cat.  Strong as she was, she knew how to act
like she needed his protection.  It made him feel good, pretense though it
was. Tami stroked the limp package within the pants.  "You want some
tonight, Baby?" "Maybe I can dream about it, Babe.  Sorry but I'm just
about pooped." . . . . Scene: same living room, the next evening. Event:
Second meeting of the SGA Activities Day Committee. Personnel: Seated on
chairs taken from the kitchen, Celine, dressed in a fluffy black sweater
over a pink blouse, jeans, hiking boots with white socks, little assignment
pad, pencil; and her roommate Lorinda, in buttoned sweater over nerdy white
shirt, black pants, saddle shoes with green socks, white loose leaf sheet
over a textbook, pen. Seated on the long couch: Myra, black flannel shirt
under a blue parka, long wool skirt, tights, Birkenstock sandals over thick
brown socks, laptop; and Roberto, SGA President, athletic sweatshirt over
Oxford-collar shirt, jeans, fake-snakeskin boots, a stack of papers in his
hands. Seated, or rather slouched, on the big easy chair: Trent, in long
black coat over a plaid lumberjack shirt, purple velour pants, Pro Keds
with blue socks, note pad, pen. Seated on the floor, leaning against the
easy chair: Committee Head Tami, no clothes, right knee up with a notepad
on the thigh, pen in left hand; and on the floor in front of her left foot,
a clipboard, rested on which was a pen grasped between her second and third
toes. Finally, on the little couch, Samantha, head of the Inter-Greek
Council.  Samantha was one of the sorority pledges dared into streaking
across campus that fateful September evening three and a half years ago. 
Tami had been caught by campus police, and she had not.  On this evening
Samantha wore an exquisitely tailored jacket with matching V-neck blouse,
houndstooth pants, and argyle socks under ballet slippers.  She was
fitfully engaged to a blueblood at Dartmouth named Sterling whom she
suspected of cheating.  She had never had an orgasm. Roberto handed out the
papers, a one-page chart, and waited for the others to absorb its contents.
The first reaction was a snort from Celine.  "What the hell is this?" "My
proposed layout for the Multipurpose Room on Activities Night," Roberto
said presidentially. "That's not what I mean," Celine said. In student
government there are two groups of people: the ones who make the noise, and
the ones who do the work.  Roberto was mostly a noise-maker but the serious
types gathered here gave him some respect because, unlike the previous two
presidents, he at least did some work.  Though not very well. "You put the
Gay Lesbian Bisexual Transgender Alliance next to the ROTC?" Samantha said
incredulously. "The Arab Student Union next to the Jewish Student Union??"
Tami said with amusement. "Planned Parenthood next to the Right to Life
Committee!?" Trent said, beginning a laugh that quickly spread. "Some of
these folks, they deserve it," Lorinda said humorlessly.  Her roommate,
Celine, rolled her eyes at Tami, who smirked in sympathy. Roberto, at a
loss, said, "I was hoping the juxtaposition...  the juxtaposition (he liked
to say this word)...  of opposing groups would put them in contact and get
them to know each other better." "Roberto," Celine explained patiently,
"This might not be the right time.  It's a nice idea but if it fails it
fails big." "So when else and how else can we get them into contact?" There
was silence.  He had a point.  The campus was more contentious recently. 
When else could these strident activist types, who stayed away from each
other as far as possible, be forced into proximity?  They all had a strong
interest in showing up at Activities Night. Tami exhaled, scratched her
nipple with the end of a pencil, making her breast jiggle for a second,
then tapped the pen in her toes, looking around the room.  She waited for
three or four beats and then said, "Maybe he's right.  I say let's go for
it." "If it fails, it fails big," Celine repeated.  "Well, okay, if you're
in, I'm in." The amazed consensus was soon achieved.  Tami as Committee
Chair wrote it down in the Official Minutes.  While writing the same thing
on the pad with her toes, just as neatly, to send to the SGA Secretary.
"Ooo ooo," Trent said, making chimp sounds as he looked at Tami's busy
foot. Myra, the TL, followed with her own "Ooo ooo!", maybe a bit more
lustfully. Tami smiled as she continued writing, with just the barest
knowing eye-flick at Myra.  "I'm a polywriter." "A what?" Samantha said. "A
Thomas Jefferson invention," Celine, a history major, said.  "But he used a
steel bar to connect the two pens." "Maybe started with his toes, who
knows?" Tami said. "He probably diddled two slave girls at once that way,"
Trent said.  This made Tami and Celine chuckle. Tami's phone rang, not the
cell phone, but the phone on the wall. "Excuse me," she said, handing her
pad to Trent.  "Be right back." They saw Tami disappear and waited.  And
waited.  Finally Trent got on with the next order of business, what to do
about publicity. After a space of ten minutes Tami came back.  Trent, who
had known her the longest, saw the change.  She looked shaken, like she'd
seen a ghost. The business of the committee finished up shortly after. 
Trent stayed behind. "Tam, what's wrong?  What was that phone call about?"
The naked girl exhaled, and as she blinked and looked up at Trent he saw
her eyes were a little moist and red. "It was Jen's dad," she said.  "He
says he's found Henry Ross."



   Part 29

   "Hear, hear!  All rise, Campbell County District Court, State of
Vermont, Honorable Prudence Stanton presiding." All rose, the lawyers and
the crime victim and the three dozen or so spectators in the gallery and
overflowing to the jury seats on the side, as the wrinkled old lady in
black robes entered and ascended the bench in the historic old courtroom,
built in 1773 according to the cornerstone outside. She sat down and
everyone else did too.  She nodded to the young male stenographer to her
side, who poised his hands over the little machine.  "Court now in sesson.
Good morning, all.  As y'know I have strict standards of decorum in heah,"
she said, lilting in her old-Vermonty accent.  She put on the reading
glasses hanging from her neck and looked down.  "I have here a note from
the state medical examiner as to our complaining witness's allergy and I
give it due respect.  Sorry if it's a bit chilly in here," she said to the
only unclothed person in the room.  "It's cold in this place even in the
summer. "Now I see we have only one case on the calendar today, People
versus Henry Ross.  The charge is endangerment in the second degree, which
has a statute of limitations of two and a half years, and the motion is to
upgrade the charge to first degree, which has a statute of four years.  The
two and a half years runs out today, which under Section 789 means also
that this is the last day the motion can be made.  Miss Granby-White?" At
the lawyers' table were the assistant D.A., a thin, young white woman in
glasses and a smart business outfit; Jen's father, Marcus McIntyre, in his
three-piece suit and shined black shoes; and Tami Smithers.  The assistant
D.A.  and Mr.  McIntyre got up and stood in front of the bench.  Ms. 
Granby-White looked up and said, "Your Honor, I believe you have our out of
state attorney application for Mr.  McIntyre for this case?" "Yes I do,"
the judge said, looking at the thin file in front of her.  "And it's
granted.  Welcome to our court, Mr.  McIntyre." "Thank you, Your Honor."
Marcus McIntyre motioned for Tami to stand up next to him.  She hesitantly
and nervously stood her barefoot and naked self beside the two well-dressed
lawyers, her hair, once again plum color, carefully braided up, her
fingernails and toenails done up nicely in the same color. Marcus was well
aware of Tami's fear of lawyers and courtrooms, a fear well justified by
what she had been through.  But he always liked to have his clients in
court if it made for good theater.  This was certainly true of Tami, whose
nakedness vividly illustrated the wrong that had been done to her.  Last
night he had sat down with her, with Jen and Rod in attendance, and went
over what was to happen.  He explained the status of his investigation, the
legal issues involved, the importance of her being there, and the
probability that the judge would ask her questions.  Tami bit her lip and
agreed to appear for the motion. He began in his usual poised manner. 
"Your Honor, my client as a freshman at your local college underwent a
horrible and unending series of humiliations and intimidations at the hands
of the defendant.  Her clothes were stripped from her, all her shoes too,
and she was forced to spend the entire academic year totally naked, not
only while on campus, but wherever she went.  Naked and barefoot through
the cruel blizzards of winter, the cold rains of spring, her most private
areas on view for anyone to see, while being prohibited from showing any
sign of modesty upon the threat of having her scholarship revoked, the
scholarship which was such a source of pride to her and her family --"
"Yes, yes, I've read the indictment," the judge said.  "Now why should the
charge be upgraded?" Marcus was used to giving long, lurid accounts of his
clients' suffering and did not expect to get cut off.  He quickly sized up
this judge as one of those old yankees who hated wordiness.  He changed
gears.  "Since the scheme was exposed, I have had investigators looking for
Mr.  Ross, necessary because the police could not do it, it being clear
that Mr.  Ross had immediately left the state.  For two years we could not
find him.  Last month an investigative search finally retrived a 'hit', an
airplane ticket bought by Mr.  Ross a year ago in Phoenix, Arizona for a
trip to Beaumont, Texas.  We subpoenaed the airline records and found an
address in Arizona, but by that time the residence had been deserted with
no sign of where he had gone. He dramatically lowered his voice.  "Then,
four days ago, a person matching Mr.  Ross's physical description was seen
purchasing a handgun at a shop in Boca Raton, Florida.  Unfortunately we
could not get verification." "Why is that?" "Well as you might know, a new
federal rule requires all background information as to gun purchases to be
destroyed within 24 hours." The judge rolled her eyes.  "Oh, right." "By
the time we got a subpoena signed and served it, it was too late.  It would
be a grave miscarriage of justice if at the last moment this person, who
had subjected my client to such abuse, solely for his sadistic purposes,
who took a young female of her tender years and -- " "Get to the point!"
"Uh, my point being that we are this close" -- he put his thumb and
forefinger an inch apart -- "to capturing this man.  Witnesses can be
interviewed, and the gun shop owner himself seems cooperative.  It was a
cash sale and he had kept the paper receipt, which said 'Henry Ross', which
he had checked by asking to see the buyer's driver's license.  So it seems
we finally have a real lead on tracking the defendant down." Marcus went to
the table and took out a folder from his briefcase.  "I would like to
present documentation of what I've told you." "That's all right, Mr. 
McIntyre, I stipulate to what you say, and I say so on the record." "Well
if you don't mind, I'd like to put it in your file anyway..." Ms. 
Granby-White whispered to Marcus, "What are you doing?" She whispered as
lowly as possible but in the quiet courtroom it was impossible not to hear.
"I'm building a record on appeal," he whispered back. "If she rules against
us, it's not appealable," she said.  "Not in this state." Marcus missed
only a beat before putting the folder back.  Best not to piss the judge
off. The judge said, "Mr.  McIntyre, I see your point as to imminent
capture" -- with her accent it was more like "capcheh" -- "but that is not
relevant to why the charge should be upgraded.  I see you have your client
with you.  If it's OK with you, Miss, I'd like to ask you something." Tami
had been standing quietly, her hands clasped politely in front of her, as
it happened over her pubic bush.  She cleared her throat and said, "Y-yes,
Ma'am." Marcus bit his lip.  He had told her to address the judge as "Your
Honor", not "Ma'am".  But Tami's upbringing was too strong. "Miss
Smithers..." The judge turned to the stenographer.  "Off the record,
please." She looked down at her file and then up at Tami. She was at a loss
for words, seeing what she saw. Tami, still looking up at her obediently,
had crossed one arm over to cover her breasts, and put the other hand over
her crotch. Tami never did that.  There was a silent gasp from the
audience, from Rod and Jen in the gallery behind her, and especially from
those in the jury seats to the side who had a better view. Marcus looked
over in surprise, then down at Tami's bare toes nervously flexing against
the polished wood floor.  Tami's motions were great theater, but that could
not be why she did it.  And any sense of modesty had been burned out of her
long ago.  Maybe this was an expression of "modesty" in the deeper sense of
the word, the modesty that Tami always had.  A sign of respect for the
judge and an uncertainty as to how she should be presenting herself. The
judge collected herself and said what she had been about to say.  "You're
not under oath, my dear.  Let's discuss this informally.  I see here, from
what I read, what amounted to a threat to take away your scholarship if you
put on any clothes.  That fits the bill for endangerment in the second
degree.  But there's first degree endangerment if the threat was physical.
At any time, did Henry Ross, or either of the persons listed as accomplices
here, Percy Jorgon or Nevada McMasters, or any of that whole crowd, did
they threaten you physically, threaten you with bodily harm?" This was the
key point.  Last night Marcus had gone over this carefully.  He could not,
of course, coach his client as to what to say, but had gone as far as the
ethics of his profession allowed: "Tami, you should search your memory and
think, were you ever physically threatened?  At any time, did Henry Ross,
or anyone involved in this say, Tami, if you put on the merest scrap of
clothing, or show any sign of trying to cover up, you will be harmed
bodily? Beaten up or something?  It didn't have to be in so many words, it
could be indirect, or a matter of you putting two and two together.  Of
course," he continued, dropping his voice, "with all the horrible deeds
that will go into evidence at trial, if Henry Ross testifies that he never
threatened you, and you say he did, it's obvious who the jury will
believe." Tami not answering, the judge said again, "Did they ever threaten
you physically, dear?" In the chilly courtroom everyone held their breath,
all eyes on the naked young woman.  Rod and Jen could see goose pimples
rising on her butt.  She seemed to clutch her nakedness tighter and looked
down at her flexing toes.  For the first time in a long long time, she
seemed uncomfortable with being naked.  She looked frightened and cold,
like a scared 18-year-old away from home for the first time and overwhelmed
by her unwanted nudity and the powerful clothed men determined to break
her. Then she looked up and said, "N-no, Ma'am." "Never?" Tami looked down
and shook her head.  She sniffled and rubbed her nose. The judge and Tami
looked at each other for a second, perhaps with a common understanding as
women, but mostly across a wide gulf, separated by age, power, and the
ownership of clothes. The judge turned to the stenographer.  "Back on the
record.  Mr.  McIntyre, the statute is clear as can be.  Without an
allegation that there was a threat to Ms.  Smithers', uh, body, there is no
basis for an upgrade.  Motion denied.  The statute of limitations has run.
The case of People versus Henry Ross is closed." She banged her gavel.  In
the gallery there was weeping, Jen's.  A couple of TL's also sobbed.  The
judge got up to leave. "Your Honor," Ms.  Granby-White piped up, presenting
a paper from her jacket pocket.  "Will you sign an order of protection?"
The judge hesitated and then took the paper as it was handed up to her. 
She put her glasses back up and read it. "On this matter I DO have some
discretion," she said, sitting down.  "I've never signed an order of
protection against someone who has never threatened bodily harm, but in
this case I don't mind." As she signed it she said, "Also I don't like it
that this man bought a handgun.  Here you are, dear.  Henry Ross is not
allowed to enter your home, or call you, or go within 50 feet of you.  If
he does any of that, Sheriff Wheeler will toss him into jail and I will
personally throw away the key." Tami, still clutching her breasts and her
crotch, approached hesitantly as the judge beckoned.  She read the
official-looking document as she returned to her place next to Marcus and
the assistant D.A. "This court is adjourned." The judge gathered her robes
and went back to her chambers. Tami's hands dropped from covering herself
as she passed by Rod and took his hand on the way out.  Rod folded up the
order of protection and put it into the pocket of his coat. Outside it was
a nasty, freezing, blustery day.  Everyone had to put on their hats and
gloves right away, Tami in their midst.  They stood around silently, not
knowing what to say, feeling pretty miserable as they watched Tami's
nipples grow stiff in the frigid breeze. Finally Marcus spoke up.  "Sorry,
Tami," he said, putting on his gloves and suppressing a shiver.  "You are a
rare gem...  You've had it rough.  Let me suggest that the best thing for
you to do right now is get drunk.  Let me take you and Jen and Rod to the
pub for some brews and something to eat.  It's all on me." Tami seemed
tempted.  But after a moment she said, "No thanks.  I'd rather be alone. 
I'm going home." And she left them, off to her house by the shortest route,
which involved cutting across the village green.  Rod started after her but
tactfully not too close, as if he was in a marching band and she was the
majorette whom he was to follow at a certain distance. As they watched her
stride across the bleak commons, icy wind biting every inch of her
nakedness, her bare feet squishing through the freezing mud, they thought
of Henry Ross, sitting on a warm beach in Florida somewhere, or maybe in
elegant clothes living the high life on an offshore casino. Wherever he
was, Henry Ross was now off the hook. And, with very minor exceptions, free
to go wherever he wanted.



   Part 30

   Acting Dean Anthony Noyes, tall and a little grayer and a little
heavier, no longer being able to fit into the three-piece suits that had
been his trademark, stood behind his desk and looked out the big bay window
on this rainy March day, having hung up the phone.  His people had told him
just what he had expected.  No filings yesterday in state court, and in
federal court (the more likely forum) no filings either.  The statute of
limitations on any suit Tami Smithers could bring against the college had
expired.  The college was finally in the clear.  At least as to lawsuits. A
relief, but not really unexpected.  From all signs, she had made her peace
with the college a long time ago, blaming her freshman year misfortunes on
the machinations of Dean Percy Jorgon and the college attorney Henry Ross,
and to some extent Nevada McMasters.  Which so far as he knew was pretty
close to the truth.  Others who were probably culpable too had left before
they found themselves in the cross-hairs.  Professor Brignon.  McMasters's
aides, Brendo and Mr.  Zipkin.  Not Homer Winant, of course, that wily
S.O.B. So now -- what to do about her? As he looked down on the campus Tami
appeared as if on cue, hefting a big bag of dead leaves over her shoulder,
squishing through the grass toward the front lawn, oblivious to the cold
rain that plastered her hair to her shoulders and had everyone else
scurrying around in raincoats.  Now she came to one tree with a branch
which the brown leaves had somehow clung to throughout the winter.  As if
she was born to do it, she scurried up on prehensile toes and reached over,
her breasts crushed against the rough bark, shaking the leaves free.  Then
hopped to the ground and stuffed them into the bag with her bare hands. 
Remarkable. He turned and sat down at the big oak desk and pondered.  The
presence of a naked student had never stopped being a trial for the college
and its conservative benefactors.  There was just no getting around it.  It
had paralyzed the Dean Hiring Committee; there was no way to say to
candidates, "We are a religiously based, conservative institution," and
then say, "By the way, we have a girl who walks around naked all the time."
As a result the Acting Deanship had been a hot potato passed around between
him and Vanessa Congi and even Mildred George, who was 75 years old. Tami
Smithers was only two months from graduation -- but sure to get a graduate
assistantship if that was what she desired.  That would mean two more years
of enduring her public nudity.  And then what if she became an adjunct, or
even a professor?  She could be here for 20 years!  Noyes held his forehead
just at the thought of it, it was so agonizing. The commencement ceremony
itself was all too much to contemplate.  She would be the valedictorian and
giving her speech.  It was a near miracle that the college had avoided
national press thus far, but commencement exercises were always publicity
magnets.  "The Naked Valedictorian." A Newsweek cover for sure.  Some of
the trustees had suggested canceling the commencement on some pretense. 
But he just could not do that.  Tami had earned the right to give her
speech in public just like any the college's 212 other valedictorians
throughout its history. It would be easy if she was a troublemaker, but she
was anything but.  Her behavior during her long ordeal, and ever since, had
been exemplary.  Tami Smithers enjoyed an immense amount of respect, from
faculty, the other students, recovering fundamentalists like Rev. 
Stipend...  Even the more stuck-up benefactors grudgingly admitted she was
a credit to the college, at the same time as they were waiting on pins and
needles for her to leave. As far as finding out what she might do, he had
run into a brick wall.  He certainly couldn't ask her directly.  What would
be the point?  There was no way he could say, "We like you Tami but we want
you to leave.  Here are some possibilities..." Or even hint it.  He had
called Abu Jamal about their attempts to cure her allergy but the Chalfont
people absolutely would not talk to him.  He could understand their
position.  They had been traumatized by the fallout from the McMasters
experiments and were forever in debt to Ms.  Smithers for voluntarily
re-doing them when their accreditation was threatened.  If anything, it
would be better for him NOT to know her plans.  That way, if he suddenly
hit upon an idea that would get her out of here, he could spring it on her
more innocently. He had similar bad luck with the Fashion people.  It would
be strange, but great, if she won that International competition and got
sent back to Rhode Island.  But Girardo would not tell him what her chances
were.  And he had no pull with the people running the competition, of
course. A knock on the door. It was Tami Smithers herself, wet and muddy,
though she had been careful to wipe her feet.  She stood in his doorway,
naked and strong, her bookbag slung over her shoulder, carrying a four-foot
long narrow thing that looked like a folded-up easel.  "Hello, Mr.  Noyes,"
she said, respectfully but with an air of familiarity. "Hello, Tami." He
was aware, of course, of yesterday's ruling refusing to extend the statute
of limitations in the criminal matter.  Tami seemed to have bounced back
from what must have been a bitter disappointment.  Of course, the college
itself being in effect an accomplice, there was no way he could express his
condolences or anything like that. "Can I ask you something?" "Sure, Tami."
He glanced at her up and down, from her wild, wind-strewn hair, the tanned
wet breasts, then down to the fragments of leaves in her pubic bush,
finally to the widely-spread toes covered with bits of grass, as if she
herself were a wet tree and her toes were the roots.  "Is Omar working you
too hard?  Have a seat." "Well no, I shouldn't, I'd mess up your chair...
I'd like to ask your permission...  Could I please wear something?" "Uh --
" He had never been so astonished at a simple question.  He almost gasped.
Had her allergy been cured?  If so, why was she asking permission? Tami,
realized how absurd her request sounded, smiled and set down her bookbag
and held out the easel, which it turned out was a narrow, four-foot-long
case.  "This was a present that was given to me." As soon as he saw her
bend down to open the case, her breasts wobbling in front of her, he
realized with dread what it was.  He had been told about it by Sarah
Wickland, that West Coast lawyer with the kinky clients.  The immense dildo
with a two-foot long tail of horsehair. "It's called a tail.  Ms.  Wickland
gave it to me.  You know, from the pony farm." A reminder of Tami's further
horrible tribulations.  Which again she had made peace with. Obviously
unaware that he knew about it, Tami stood up with the object in her hand
and explained it.  "This part goes into my rectum and up into my sigmoid
colon.  There's a remote control that makes it into a sexual stimulator. 
But without the remote, just as a fashion accessory, I think the tail is
pretty neat looking.  I think I look good in it.  See?" She approached him
with a photo of herself, half-turned to the camera, with the tail waving
behind her, coming out from between her bare butt cheeks, the smile on her
face as innocent as if she were seven years old and showing off her First
Communion dress.  It was jarring to see.  As she evidently knew: "I'm
asking you because I can see why some people might, um, freak out. "I won't
wear it anywhere on campus," she said quickly.  "But I was thinking of
wearing it to the reception after the Spring Zing.  There will be faculty
there, so I wanted to know what you thought." He looked at the tail and at
the picture.  He just could not imagine where there was space in that slim
body for that gigantic thing.  But then, Tami Smithers was remarkable. He
also knew that the Spring Zing reception was traditionally a time when the
fashion majors would show off with their most outlandish creations, kind of
like a costume party.  "I trust you to exercise your good judgment.  You
have always shown good judgment as a student here, Tami.  I think...  I
think it will be OK But let Mr.  Girardo know about it ahead of time."
"Thank you, Mr.  Noyes." He was relieved to see Tami put that thing away,
into the long case. As she was about to leave he thought of something. 
"Tami, I have some things for you." With the results of those phone calls
he was going to send for her to get them anyway.  It might as well be now.
He couldn't wait to get them off his hands, and with the statute of
limitations having run, the college had no duty to preserve them.  He led
Tami into the large storage closet down the hall and took a box off the
shelf. "These are some things that were found at Henry Ross's place after
he escaped.  Mostly videos and discs that show some of the, uh, things that
happened that year.  From what I understand the criminal matter against him
is now closed.  So there is no need to keep them.  If you ask me they
should be destroyed.  But a sense of justice compels me to give them to
you. YOU should be the one who destroys them. "There are also some DVD's of
the Chalfont experiments.  As you remember you deleted the computer files
in Dr.  Schnitzler's office.  But it turns out Nevada McMasters took his
own videos from a hidden camera in Lab 6.  Possibly to use as evidence
against Ross, I don't know.  I really have no idea what was going on
between those two.  But he left them in a cabinet in Lab 5.  So these are
yours too, Tami.  I know I've said it a hundred times, but we are very
sorry what you endured, Tami." He got a kind of rolling briefcase off
another shelf, like people use to pull packages in at airports.  "This is
called a trial bag, lawyers like Mr.  Halifax use it." George Halifax being
the person who replaced Ross as the college attorney.  "This one's extra.
Here, let me put the things in here." Soon, Tami Smithers, with her bookbag
and her horse-tail-dildo and all that odious crap from Chalfont and Ross,
was gone.  Anthony Noyes looked outside the bay window and saw her leave
the building, strolling casually and nakedly through the rain.  He exhaled
as he saw her wheel away the DVD's and videos, and though it was Tami who
was getting wet, he felt like it was he, and Campbell - Frank College in
general, who had been showered clean.



   Part 31

   Rod, sitting at the kitchen table in his pajamas, looked at the sample
logos that Trent had made for Tami's clothing designs.  It seemed unlike
the naturally modest Tami to blow her own horn so, but apparently it was
recommended for fashion students to create a "brand" for their designs, for
copyright protection purposes.  He could understand that. Trent was an art
major and, unlike some of the others, was actually good at drawing human
bodies and faces.  Rod respected that, down-to-earth engineer type that he
was.  Trent and Tami had gone through a hard time after 9/11, dealing not
only with their grief but also their guilt.  Both had been invited to
Jeffrey's photo exhibition that day and had not gone; Trent because he had
the flu, and Tami declining the ride down with Mandy because she didn't
want her nakedness to distract everyone from what was supposed to be the
first big day in Jeffrey's professional career.  Like many others who had
lost loved ones that day, Trent and Tami had formed a bond. Trent's empathy
for Tami came through in his drawings.  They were not detailed but they
were realistic.  The one Tami preferred was a plain line drawing of a girl
holding a long coat in front of her.  You could tell she was naked from the
shoulders, the exposed hip, the toes on the feet below.  It was unclear in
the drawing whether she was offering the coat to the viewer or about to try
it on herself.  The ambiguity was a nice touch.  Below, the motto: "It's a
Tami Original". Now Tami padded in, rolling that damned "trial bag".  She
hefted it onto the table and sat up next to it in her usual cross-legged
position. "I don't really want to look through this stuff," Rod said. "I
don't either, but I suppose we should see what's here," she said.  "So what
do you think of Trent's logos?" "They're a product of real talent," Rod
said, "speaking as an engineer who can draw nothing but blueprints.  I like
the one you circled too.  Tami, you really are 'an Original'." "Oh Baby."
She was so limber that it was easy for her to bend her head down and give
him a wet kiss.  "Not an original-sounding motto, though.  I can't think of
anything better at the moment." Rod smiled.  "I like your new clothes.  I
mean your old clothes.  That really is your color, Babe." Tami, still
sitting cross-legged, opened her legs some more to show her lower hair. 
"Plum is for me, I think.  It matches my little thing." She leaned back a
little, spread her lips and made her clit jump.  "Hi hi!  Now...  what do
we have here?" As they rummaged through the bag they saw it was a
collection of unmarked DVD's and a few VHS tapes.  They sifted through them
silently. "I say, throw them all out," Rod said.  "I don't know how you can
stand viewing them anyway." "Maybe...  Let me think about it." She laughed.
"Maybe I'll get Gretchen to sort them out." Rod chuckled, glad that so much
time had passed that she could laugh at such things.  "Don't torture that
poor girl...  So you're going to go down with her?" "Yes." Tami was going
to Providence to see her parents this weekend.  Rod couldn't go; he had
National Guard service. "I don't think the VW is going to make it," Rod
said.  They drove in it yesterday and it pooped out on a hill, forcing them
to turn it around and jump-start it by pushing it back down. "It just needs
the timing checked.  I can do that next week.  We're taking her car anyway.
Wow, look at this." A brown bag obviously holding VHS's.  On top was a
handwritten note: "Found these at the house.  George Halifax." Halifax had
moved into the college attorney's house formerly lived in by you-know-who.
"Oh Lord!" They were commercial porn tapes.  Tami took out the first one.
On the box was an interracial couple that looked almost exactly like Rod
and Tami!  "THIS we've got to see!" Rod wasn't that into it but Tami set it
up like a movie night.  She had him microwave popcorn while she pushed the
couch in front of the TV and dug out the VCR that hadn't been used in about
two years.  She cut the lights and they sat in their usual TV-watching
position, him with the popcorn beside him, she stretching her naked self
along the couch, her legs over his lap so that he could idly play with her
pubic hair.  Her dexterous toes tapped on the remote sitting on the arm of
the couch. Rod had seen more porn than he liked to admit, but for Tami it
was a new experience.  She watched entranced as the first few minutes
showed the white woman with red hair writhing on a bed in a tiny negligee,
stroking herself, not very skillfully portraying a bored, frustrated wife.
She must have been bored by the decor as well: her "bedroom" looked like a
motel room. oNow a sudden blast of gangsta rap and a black man in a pimp
outfit climbed through the window.  He wrestled the woman until she was
pinned to the bed, her eyes showing that she was not very interested in
resisting. "Oh Babe, this is insulting." Rod was offended and embarrassed
by hip hop culture. Tami had long been aware of that, but said, "Let's see
what happens," as she inhaled another handful of popcorn.  Now the man had
his pants off and was slapping his half-erect penis across the woman's
face. "Wow," Tami said.  "That guy is huge." "She's got awfully big hands
too," Rod said.  Tami guffawed as he saw what he meant.  The effect of the
camera angle and what must have been a fish-eyed lens became clear as soon
as the woman put her fingers around the porn star's dick.  If his penis was
huge, her fingers must be the size of bananas. Then they both got a laugh
as she started sucking him.  The camera was from above and the lens made
her nose get dramatically bigger with each upstroke, throbbing in size like
a cartoon character who has just gotten punched. About five minutes later,
with no discernable advancement of either plot or technique, Tami said,
"This is getting boring." "Welcome to the world of porn, Babe." She flexed
her pinky toe and was about to hit "stop" when the man pulled back and
shouted, "Take this, bitch!!" As the music crescendoed the woman smiled and
a big spurt hit her on the chin.  Then a few dribbles before the black
penis above her stopped quaking. "That's weird," Tami said.  Rod was
surprised at this comment but then reminded himself: the "money shot" might
be a convention of the genre, but despite what Tami has been through, she's
hardly ever seen any porn. "That's called a 'facial'," Rod said. Tami
decided to give up on this movie.  "Let's try one more." Rod sighed in
resignation. This movie -- apparently Henry Ross only liked interracial,
black male-white female porn -- was a bit easier to take.  The black male
was a tall skinny guy who was always smiling.  No gangsta rap.  He seemed
to get a kick out of having two blond girls chasing him.  At one point he
had his pants half down and was trying to run down the stairs away from
them, his dick flopping in front. Ten minutes later, he too doused the
white woman's face with a few hits of semen, with great yowls that sounded
like, "Yeeahhhhh --- ohhhhh --- yeahhhhhhh!!" Rod snorted.  But Tami said,
"It's great that he can express himself like that.  Why should women be the
only ones who get vocal?" It was only then that Rod realized he had snorted
to cover his embarrassment. The blonde gathered up the semen with her
finger and slurped it up like it was caviar.  She really hammed it up,
rolling her eyes.  Again Rod snorted.  But Tami said, "That's exactly how I
feel.  Semen is the stuff of life." "It must be an acquired taste," Rod
said. "Only the first couple of times.  When I realized how much your body
works to produce it, and how much you loved me, it became yummy." Of
course, they kissed after she said that. "One more," Tami said as Rod
sighed. In this one, the black man talked constant trash while humping the
white woman from behind.  "Take this bitch, you stinkin' ho, take this
n----r dick all the way, you ain't nothing but --" "UGHHH!" Tami said,
thudding the "stop" button forcefully with her heel. They looked at the
blue screen for a moment. "Who watches stuff like that?" "White guys." "So
what do black guys watch?" "Me, I used to watch black on black porn. 
There's not a lot of it around though." Tami brought her foot up and
stroked behind Rod's ear with her toes, and behind the other ear with her
hand.  She was getting good at knowing this sensitive area and his dick
began to stiffen.  With her other hand she munched on a handful of popcorn.
With a half-full mouth she said, "What if I told you to pick out what porn
you wanted and masturbate to it, what would you pick?" "I don't think I
would watch porn now.  Or even jerk off.  It just doesn't compare with
being with you.  It's like playing with a toy, then having the real thing."
Holding onto Rod's neck, she did everything with her feet, tapping the
"off" button on the remote, then reaching forward to hit the "eject" button
on the VCR, then, swinging a leg over, grabbing the tape with her toes and
dropping it into the bag.  "Ooo ooo," Rod said playfully. Rod hefted his
naked white prey onto his shoulders and carried her to bed.  He kept one
eye on the clock radio and decided to lick her for one hour exactly.  He
realized with some amusement that his motivation was to do better than the
TL's.  Pacing himself, he succeeded in managing her orgasms so that she
came once every two minutes, ending up with 28 for the hour.  Like the
TL's, he knew Tami hated being counted (though only he knew the reason), so
he kept the number to himself. At the end Tami was sweating all over and
Rod's tongue was tired, in fact his whole body was tired.  But Tami was not
winded in the least.  After holding his head against her breasts for a few
minutes, she made him stand up and revived him by sucking him. The porn
movies had made an impact on her.  As he got close she said, "Come on my
face!" He was surprised and might have been turned off, her sucking tonight
was especially ardent and deep.  He pulled out at the right moment.  He
hadn't come in a few days and it was a big load.  He even let himself groan
out loud -- "Ohhhh Babe!" The four biggest arcs landed on her face,
striping it from forehead down to her chin, a little dripping onto her
breasts. Rod, drained, catching his breath, looked down at his handiwork
with mixed emotions.  He did NOT want to be one of those pimped-out porn
minstrels.  But he was proud of being able to produce such a big load for
Tami.  Almost her whole forehead was coated. Tami quickly unmixed his
feelings.  She was able to open her eyes and led him to the bathroom where
they looked in the mirror, her face next to his. "You marked me, you dog,"
she said with a giggle.  "I'm your bitch." Then she smeared the semen over
her face.  "Well, it's good protein, right?  Good for the skin." He kissed
her gently, not even minding that he got some on his own face.  Tami could
make just about anything sexy and loving.



   Part 32

   "Baby, after looking at these I think we should keep them somewhere. 
They are my testament to my dedication to you and my folks and all the
people I love. Tam" This was unusual, this almost Biblical language from
Tami.  On this Sunday evening Rod sat in the kitchen and pondered the note
she had left yesterday next to the little stack of DVD's before heading
down to Providence with Gretchen.  The note just added to the unreality of
this weekend, this sense that his world was beginning to tip out of
control. He had left for his National Guard service like always, at 5 a.m.
Saturday morning, while she was still asleep.  He could barely stand to
leave her, as she lay sprawled atop the covers, arms and legs splayed out
in all directions, the forest of her lower hair the highest point on her
body.  Then up to Camp Grafton and it was all hup-hup-hup.  The last few
services had been disturbing.  A platoon of engineers and architects,
second lieutenants, and they were being put through paces like infantry. 
Nobody dared mention the I-word, but it sure looked like they were getting
conditioned to go to Iraq.  And not to build bridges either. Worse, some of
the guys had not been showing up.  He couldn't believe they would just blow
it off, risk getting reported.  Some were volunteers of course; they
weren't doing their tour as a condition of having gotten a scholarship like
Rod was.  But how could you have such a delinquency on your record?  At the
very least it would come back to haunt you someday. Rod looked at the note
again and at the stack of DVD's. "They are my testament to my dedication to
you and my folks and all the people I love." He supposed she meant for him
to take a look.  And she wasn't going to be back from Providence until
late. Well... Rod set himself up in the living room and popped in the first
DVD.  Oh God -- The mechanical, factory-like sound was almost deafening and
he had to turn the volume down.  The sweaty, naked body of Tami, seen from
the waist up, against the brightly lit background of Lab 6, three years
ago. She was only 18 then and she looked like a child, not quite as
muscular as now, with whiter skin.  Her eyes were closed, her breathing
ragged.  Her sweat-soaked hair was plastered to the sides of her face.  Her
arms were stretched out to the sides -- hands tied to the posts that were
out of camera range.  He knew the sliding, clanking sounds were from the
unseen dildo shafts below, pistoning on their cams aimed at her
widely-spread, tied-apart legs, plunging past her cervix, and deep into her
colon, in an alternating rhythm.  Under her ribs he could see her concave
tummy lurching slightly forward and back as she was penetrated front and
rear, a mixture of chills and sobs going through her frame as she felt the
ridges on the front dildo bump past her clit and inside past her G-spot. 
Her nipples were stuck in those awful suction tubes that went up and out,
bristling and sucking and stimulating... Oh Jesus -- entering the camera's
range, the face of Henry Ross!  In his lawyer suit.  And now next to him
McMasters in his tacky blazer and open collar.  "Good afternoon Miss
Smithers," Ross said affably. Tami's heavy-lidded eyes opened.  Her lips
parted slightly but she said nothing. "So as I understand it," Ross said to
McMasters, "during orgasm her eyes dilate?" "That is one of the many things
we have discovered about female orgasm, thanks to Tami's participation,"
McMasters said eagerly.  "To be precise, her pupils dilate, and her eyes
lose focus." He looked down, presumably at dials on a console.  "Why don't
you watch on her next orgasm?" "You mean she's had more than one?" Ross
said with perhaps too much of a play at naivetÃ(C). "Good Lord, Mr.  Ross,
Tami is the most multi-orgasmic girl we ever heard of." Looking down again,
he said, "She's been hooked up for about an hour, and has experienced
orgasm twenty-two times." "Twenty-two times!" Ross looked at Tami's face,
her eyes now closed again.  "That's hard for one to imagine," he said with
a convincing tone of innocent wonder.  "The greatest physical pleasure a
human being can know, and she's enjoyed it twenty-two times in just the
past hour...  You are a lucky young woman, Miss Smithers!" "I'll say,"
McMasters said.  "And each one is an unusually intense experience in its
own right.  She averages twelve contractions, which is more than the
typical person has." He leaned down out of sight and must have turned a
knob, as casually as if he were adjusting the throttle on a lawn mower. 
Tami's eyes popped open and she strangled a loud grunt.  "There, I've
increased the RPM and the depth of insertion somewhat.  She should climax
again soon.  Excuse me, Mr.  Ross, I have to go down the hall to get a
refill for our EKG scroll.  Why don't you stay here and watch.  I'll be
back in five.  Tami," he said now in a slightly louder voice, "Remember to
open your eyes and look directly at Mr.  Ross on your next orgasm, okay?"
Tami, eyes closed, trying to hold back the quaking of her body, waited a
second before slowly nodding once. Rod felt miserable.  At the time this
was happening, he had no idea.  Neither did Rebecca or Jen or Marisol or
anyone else.  They all thought of Tami as a happy, though quiet, girl who
had decided to be a nudist.  And he supported her and said he admired her
for it!  Tami kept her torments a secret from him and everyone, not wanting
to let them down, and especially, as he knew now, not wanting to jeopardize
her scholarship.  Totally out of her element, the first person in her
family to go away to college, too frightened and intimidated to tell
anyone, too frightened to seek legal advice.  He thought of what Rebecca
had during her little sermon at their wedding.  "One of the hardest things
to do is to be brave, when no one can see that you are being brave." Now,
back on the DVD, Ross could be seen watching McMasters leave.  Then he
turned to Tami again. "Totally naked," he said, looking her up and down. 
"I can see every inch of you, Miss Smithers.  So has everyone else.  How
does it feel, to be naked all the time and not cover any part of yourself
for even one second?  This jacket, for example," he said, grabbing his
lapels.  "I'm also wearing a shirt, pants, shoes, socks, underwear.  Quite
comfortable and handy on a chilly day like this.  Yet you have nothing." He
walked around behind her, out of camera range.  "I understand many people
have seen your, uh, anus.  Few people can stand to have anything inserted
into this, what most people consider their most private spot.  Yet this,
uh, dildo like thing is going into you and it is huge.  It must be
penetrating deep into your gut.  In...  out...  now in again...  out
again..." Now he moved around in front again, looking down, stroking his
chin.  "And this front dildo thing is no less remarkable." He bent down,
out of range.  "The way it stretches your, uh, vaginal lips wide apart is
amazing." He stood up again.  "I understand those ridges provide intense
sexual stimulation, both inside and outside." He let a moment go by,
listening to Tami's labored breathing and watching her closed eyes.  Now he
stood up now aggressively, literally getting into her face, not more than a
foot away.  His tone now was menacing.  "Feel those thrills!  And that rear
shaft going right up into you!  You can't escape me, Miss Smithers!  That
is ME, going up into you!  ME, driving you to orgasm!  ME, reaching right
into your soul at your most vulnerable moment! "Ah, I see now you're
beginning to crest up to yet another climax!  You MUST open your eyes and
look at me!  Otherwise I will have evidence that you're modest and you will
be exposed as a liar!  'Religious nudist', indeed!  Declaring that you
don't believe in modesty, indeed!  You were just streaking that night,
admit it!!  An expellable offense!  Keep your eyes closed and you will be
EXPELLED!" Tami's eyes strained open in anguish and terror.  Her body
quaked with the onset of orgasm. "You really think you can win, Miss
Smithers?!" Ross got even closer, looking right into her eyes.  "You think
you're being heroic, don't you!  The scholarship that made your parents
proud!  Sticking it out for your stupid, beer-swilling parents!  And your
stupid, N----R boyfriend!!  It won't work! "LOOK AT ME!!  I WON'T GO AWAY!"
She opened her mouth and her eyes twitched with the strain of keeping open
as she launched into a convulsive climax.  Her shouts reverberated through
the cold lab. "Ahhhhh! "Ahhhhh! "Ahhhhh! "Ahhhhh!" Was she berating him? 
Yelling at him?  Crying for help?  Shouting a prayer to God?  Her shouts
were unearthly, weird.  Rod had heard Tami cry out in orgasm hundreds,
possibly thousands of times, but never heard sounds like these. The orgasm
went on and on.  Of course, everything being done to her was designed to
extend and intensify her "pleasure".  After the last few, irregular cries
she dropped her head and started sobbing.  So young, her crying sounded
like a little child's.  Rod was about to cry himself. McMasters returned
and she raised her head and sniffled, trying to compose herself, though
this was not totally possible as the dildos, unaware that she had just
suffered an intense, mind-ripping orgasm, kept on pistoning inside her with
their constant rhythm.  McMasters looked down.  "I see she just had number
twenty-three," he said genially.  "Did she open her eyes for you?" "No, I
don't think she did," Ross said blandly.  Tami's eyes opened and she looked
dully at the floor.  A tear formed at her right eye and rolled down her
face. "Well, that's OK, just wait until she has her next one," McMasters
said.  "Sometimes she's too distracted to follow instructions, as you might
imagine.  At the onset of orgasm ideation and perception become scrambled.
That's another thing we've learned.  She cries, she sobs, she prays out
loud sometimes.  Sexual ecstasy can be a religious experience." "So one
could imagine," Ross said.  As they watched her catch her breath he
observed, "This could be a disturbing sight.  If one didn't know she had
specifically agreed to it in writing." "Indeed.  We are eternally thankful
to her.  Well, like I sai, let's just wait.  It shouldn't be long.  She's
on a plateau from which she can peak easily, come down a bit, and peak
again.  Here," he said, leaning down. Tami's tortured eyes were forced upon
and another cry was ripped from her throat.  Evidently McMasters had
intensified the stimulation again. "Here she comes, so to speak," McMasters
said as Tami looked up to the ceiling with increased bucking of her hips.
He raised his voice.  "Now Tami -- look Mr.  Ross in the eye!" Tami's
agonized expression again reluctantly focused on her nemesis, Ross's
vicious, sadistic leer staring into the look of pure terror in her tortured
eyes -- -- Rod couldn't stand it any more.  He hit the "STOP" button and
sat back and covered his face.  "Jesus," he said.



   Part 33

   Rod turned in his bed, then untwisted the pajamas that had tangled
around his arms.  Tami used to encourage him to sleep naked but he just
couldn't get to sleep like that.  Wasn't she back yet?  His bleary eyes
looked at the clock radio.  It was only 11 o'clock.  She said she'd be
midnight or later. He was still upset by that Chalfont DVD.  Then he
thought of Tami, the Tami of today, the self-assured, proudly naked
21-year-old.  He smiled.  Ross might be free and off the hook, but in many
ways Tami ended up with the better part of the deal.  Ross lost his job and
his reputation.  Where could he find work now?  And Tami, happily naked,
sexually satisfied, popular... . . . . He waited anxiously, nervously
fidgeting with the slide of his trombone.  Mr.  Watson, whom everyone
called "Sarge" from his years as a bandleader in the Army, waited
impatiently as Jamal fiddled with the A-V equipment.  It was first period
practice in the crowded rehearsal room.  They had just gone through their
usual warm-up tune, "Captains and Kings".  Now they were snorting with
anticipation.  Except for him.  And Brigid in the clarinet section, sitting
between Debra and Virginia, in her usual jean jacket, white turtleneck,
black jeans and Doc Martens.  She was easy to pick out because she was one
of only five white kids in the whole band.  She bit her lip and was as
nervous as he was. Finally -- the big screen lit up blue.  The screen was
ripped here and there.  T--- High School might be known locally for its
marching band but this was not a school district with a lot of money. Some
out-of-synch blurry images and now the genial, grandmotherly face of Melba
McCann, the anchor of the local news show.  "And now, we have with us
guests from the famous T--- High School marching band, who will be
performing at this Saturday's regional title football game between their
school and Brookline High School." Her first words sounded like she was
talking underwater but then Jamal's hand slammed down on something in the
control room and the sound cleared up.  "Here we have -- " The camera
panned over to the three guests, Sarge in his business suit with the black
tie, Brigid in her majorette uniform, her baton laid primly across her bare
thighs, and he himself in his braided wool uniform, holding his trombone in
"rest" position in front of him. Watching the screen, he cringed as he saw
the beads of sweat on his forehead.  It wasn't just nervousness -- it had
been hot in that studio.  Sarge had insisted on getting there half an hour
early.  Already burdened with his trombone case, he had needed Brigid's
help in hefting his big uniform bag out of the car and through the many
hallways before finally getting to the dressing rooms.  Brigid went in
front of him, holding up the boots end of the bag, her baton slung over her
shoulder.  At the end of the baton dangled her own uniform bag, a tiny
pouch like a beanbag. Then it had taken him forever to struggle into his
uniform in that tiny cubicle, what with the cummerbund, the epaulettes, the
big boots.  Finally he emerged into what they called the green room, where
guests were made up before walking onto the set. Brigid was there sitting
up on a high stool, already dressed, while the gay-looking guy powdered her
with makeup.  He supposed that a white person would look like a ghost on TV
without some cosmetic help.  Especially Brigid, whose Irish skin was very
white, with a smattering of freckles across her bare shoulders. She smiled
at him as she said, "I'm getting the royal treatment." The makeup man had a
lot of skin to cover, what with her entire uniform consisting of two little
circlets covering her nipples, and that tiny triangle over her pubic area
held on with silvery strings that went low around her hips and the other
string that disappeared between her butt cheeks.  Below, her bare feet
rested on the bottom rung, the flip-flop style majorette sandals on the
floor. He got the trombone out of his case and sat and watched, having
nothing else to do.  Brigid's circlets seemed to have gotten smaller.  The
uniforms had just come back from their twice-yearly cleaning.  Maybe the
majorette uniform was subtly altered before it came back.  He thought about
the photos in the glass case, and wondered about the shrinkage in the
majorette uniform over the years, how it was done, how past majorettes
dealt with it.  Around about 1970, for example, how did the majorette for
that year find out that her short skirt and blouse had morphed into a
leotard?  How did the 1990 majorette deal with a short short that had
become a bikini-style bottom?  Or the 1999 majorette who found that the
strings on her top had disappeared and she now had to wear circlets? Those
first circlets were huge compared to the ones Brigid had to wear.  Her
breasts were round and firm, maybe a bit bigger than average; and around
her circlets all her breast slopes, top, bottom, and sides, were in full
view.  He wasn't about to do math calculations but the circlets covered
maybe 15% of Brigid's total breast area.  He thought of the big plastic
eyeball model in the science room, the area formed by the iris and pupil.
About that much. He saw the makeup man do his work, puffing the powder
between Brigid's breasts.  He had seen boobs bounce before, of course, but
always in tank tops or bikini tops.  Brigid's breasts, not strapped to her
body or to each other, moved independently, one wobbling a bit while the
other was still, sometimes bobbing the same way, sometimes toward each
other, one moving in a tight little circle while the other lurched left to
right... The makeup guy bent down and Brigid parted her knees as he got
that area around her uniform where she had shaved her pubic hair.  The
triangle bottom seemed to have gotten smaller too, more like a narrow "V"
now.  She looked down with a neutral expression as the guy powdered
industriously.  "Spread a little more, please..." Sarge came in.  "We're on
in five minutes.  How's it going?" The two band members smiled and nodded.
Now Brigid spread her toes as the guy powdered them.  Pretty toes.  She had
carefully painted the nails in the black-and-white school colors. 
Cummerbund and epaulettes and braided jacket and high boots were part of
his uniform; toenail paint was part of hers. He put on his white gloves and
looked at them.  Even one of his gloves provided more coverage than
Brigid's entire uniform. Then he remembered getting suddenly nervous as
Melba McCann came in to get them, and Brigid picked up her baton and
followed Sarge into the big room with all the cameras surrounding the set,
and he followed Brigid... Sarge sat down in one of Melba's guest chairs and
chatted with her quietly while a commercial was being shown.  Rod and
Brigid, waiting by the big camera setup, looked at each other.  Rod was so
enchanted with this shy Irish white girl that he choked up whenever he
wanted to speak.  Finally he croaked out, "How do I look?" He stood up
straight as Brigid, holding her baton in her armpit, adjusted his jacket
and tugged at his epaulettes.  "Great.  How about me?" She held up her arms
and her breasts stuck out.  "Are my 'T''s straight?" Rod was open-mouthed,
unsure of what she meant, looking down finally at her ribs and the hollow
tummy below.  "Your -- " "My 'T's!" He swallowed and felt flushed as he
realized she meant the "T" school logo on each of her circlets.  He bent
down a bit so that Brigid's breasts were at his eye level.  "Fine.  Both
straight." "Good.  Oh no!" Brigid opened her mouth and out came a retainer.
"This'll show!  I forgot entirely!" She frantically looked around for a
place to put it.  He heroically took it and held it in his gloved hand. 
"It's safe with me." "Oh thanks, you're a dear," she said.  He felt his
heart skip a beat. Then Sarge motioned for them to sit down next to him,
and the camera guy counted down... Now, in the band room, watching with
everyone else, he sat through Melba McCann's introduction and then smiled
as Sarge fell over his words in describing the marching band, at first
saying it was founded in 1527 instead of 1927.  Sarge, sitting on his
conductor's stool, covered his face in good-natured embarrassment. Melba
then said, "We have here also Brigid O'Dierna, the band's majorette, and
Rod Sykes, first trombonist.  You're part of a proud tradition.  How do you
like marching with the band?" Looking at the big screen, the band saw
Brigid and Rod smile at each other shyly.  Brigid giggled nervously, her
breasts bouncing with her laugh, then jiggling for a second after her body
had stilled.  He said something to the effect of, "It's a great band and
it's great marching with your friends." Brigid said, "We all work
together." Not memorable words, exactly, but what the heck, they were
petrified. "The forecast for Saturday is cold and drizzly," Melba said. 
"In your majorette outfit," she said, looking up and down at Brigid, "how
do you stay warm on days like Saturday?" "You keep moving," Brigid said. 
Her stock response. And now in the band room there was a general shifting
of chairs with anticipation as Melba McIntyre announced Rod and Brigid were
going to do a tune.  His friends in the trombone section smiled at him but
he was not nervous because he knew what was coming. The two band members on
TV stood up, him with the trombone up to his lips, her with the baton
tucked under her arm.  Then she nodded and he launched into a verse of
"American Patrol" which was flawless.  Watching in the band room, he
smiled. He had been so afraid he was going to botch it but he hadn't.  Good
tone throughout, not one note flubbed -- while successfully hiding Brigid's
retainer carefully in his slide hand.  Meanwhile Brigid twirled.  She
couldn't do any throws in Melba's little studio but she did everything
else, spinning, fanning, switching arms, down through the legs, even that
special trick she did where the baton seemed to crawl back over her
shoulders on its way from one hand to the other.  She spun around, leading
with one breast and timing it so that the other breast followed.  A
performance as flawless as his. At the last note he and Brigid froze, as
planned.  He was sweating in his wool uniform.  She was not immune to the
studio heat, either.  As she posed, her breasts coming to rest, a trickle
of sweat was visible that had started below her neck, rivered between her
breasts and down her flat tummy, and delta-ed at her navel. Melba and Sarge
clapped, then it went to a commercial and the clip ended.  Jamal turned off
the screen light.  Everyone in the band room applauded. "Stand up and take
a bow, well done," Sarge said.  He stood up in his sweatshirt and long
jams. Brigid stood up in her jean jacket and turtleneck and black jeans. 
Local stars! "One fine performance deserves another," Sarge said.  "Time
for a big tune.  Let's do 'March Grandioso'!" . . . . Rod turned and was
again awakened by the twisting of his pajamas.  Again he untwisted them.  A
soft rain raised up and started pelting the roof, feeding the night grass
outside, hypnotic, lulling him to sleep... . . . . "The long walk", they
called it, from the locker rooms to the football field, everyone trudging
through the wet grass before game time, the team and the band and the
cheerleaders in front.  It was a chilly day, no doubt about it, and it was
almost noon and hadn't warmed up a bit.  It had rained yesterday and there
were sloppy mud patches to be avoided.  Of course, the football players
were resigned to getting all muddy, but for a variety of reasons that did
not bother them so much.  The odd conversation between them mixed with the
more subdued chatting of the band members and the much quicker talking of
the cheerleaders. He finagled it so that he was walking near the front,
next to Brigid, who was mindful of the cold.  Parades were one thing, but
games, where the band had to sit for long periods in the stands, were
another.  She wore her green wool poncho over her uniform, her sandals in
her hand as she trod the wet grass with red Converse All-Stars on her
sockless feet.  The poncho barely came down past her butt and she looked
like she was naked underneath.  Some of the football players said hi to her
as they passed. He looked up.  The clouds were gray but it looked like the
sun might break through.  With luck... They got to the field and waited for
Sarge, as the players, led by their captain, charged onto the field to go
through their warmup plays while the visiting team from Brookline went
through theirs.  Brookline was a wealthy town and their football uniforms
were a dazzling gold and green.  The almost all-white team looked like a
bunch of future executives.  T--- should make short work of them today. He
noted, with irritation, the ten or twelve cops hanging out around the
stands.  Just because we're a mostly black school they send riot control.
Well, at least the cops they usually sent were nice. Brigid chatted with a
couple of the cheerleaders, who wore coverall sweats over their short
skirts.  They had long sleeves too.  Brigid's bare legs and arms really
stood out.  He listened to their conversation.  They were going bowling
later.  Cheerleaders traditionally were pretty snobby, and didn't like the
band majorette -- maybe they thought she upstaged them during the halftime
shows -- but they had made an exception for Brigid. The cheerleaders went
off to get their stuff at the storage shed as Sarge showed up, with his
little briefcase, wearing thermal gloves, and an open overcoat over his
business suit.  "Band, this is a big day," he said, in his "announcement"
voice.  "Also a cold day.  It's thirty-eight degrees and it might rain. 
But you know what I say, if our team has the courage to play out there, WE
can play too. "We have one tune before the game, then we sit and then at
halftime we'll do the roll-off with Brigid and the drummers and then
'Washington Post'.  Local TV will be here.  But before that happens they're
presenting a dedication to Roddington McNeil.  You know who he is?  No? 
Well he was principal here for 25 years.  He retired ten years ago. 
They're dedicating the new scoreboard to him. "Now this is the big game for
our team.  They go to the regionals if they win.  While we're sitting up
there waiting, I want you to cheer them on.  Remember, we're their biggest
fans." He looked up at the sky.  "Looks like we might get lucky.  Maybe the
sun will even come out.  Well, let's go." He led them as they walked, not
in formation, to the admissions area where the ticket takers were setting
up their tables.  Past it, the Dad's Club was setting up their refreshment
stand.  They had a big metal tub on a dolly with Jamal's uncle using tongs
to put big ice chunks into the tub and then filling it with water to keep
the cans of soda cold.  Sarge had a brief call to make on his cell phone.
The band stood around and watched the tub fill up until he was done. Now
they walked behind the stands, under the announcer's booth where Mr. 
Simonelli was opening up, trying to pry open the top compartment which was
submerged in three inches' worth of yesterday's rainfall.  The band, with
its majorette right behind Sarge, turned under it. It was then that the
first of Brigid's many misfortunes that day occurred.



   Part 34

   Walking behind Brigid, watching her bare legs flushed with the cold
under her poncho, he followed her as they turned into the narrow passage
between the two grandstands. At first they thought it was a sudden
downpour. But then they saw that the only person getting poured on was
Brigid.  She shrieked as a narrow but persistent torrent of water came from
way above and doused her on her poncho-covered shoulder.  Everyone stopped
in alarm, trying to help but afraid of being doused themselves.  Sarge
looked back.  Brigid tried to dodge the gush of water but it seemed to
follow her as she zigzagged left and right in the narrow passage.  Finally
a few dribbles and it ended. Brigid stood there miserably, arms out, her
poncho totally soaked and lying heavy and flat against her body, probably
weighing about twenty pounds, dripping onto her equally soaked sneakers.
Sarge looked up and yelled.  Mr.  Simonelli looked down and, mortified,
apologized frantically.  There was no time for recriminations, though. 
Brigid breathed heavily, on the verge of tears, and starting to shiver.
"You've got to take that thing off, you'll get hypothermia," Sarge said. 
Wearing a sopping wet cold poncho on a day like this was not healthy. Rod
was glad to help.  He put his trombone down on the pavement and helped
Sarge as they carefully lifted the poncho off her.  Sarge folded it up and
put it on one of the grandstand benches. As the band members came up from
the rear and encircled Brigid, everyone looked at her, her arms still out
to the sides, her white goose-pimpled skin interrupted only by her
majorette uniform, the little circlets covering her nipples and the little
"V" down below with the strings.  Everyone looked around for a towel or
something to dry her off or cover her with, but under a grandstand such
things are not to be found. "Maybe we should get you inside," Sarge said.
"No," Brigid said, realizing that she would be needed momentarily to lead
the band's pre-game performance.  "My uniform's not wet," she said, holding
up her breasts to get a close look at the circlets.  She seemed to be
speaking to them as she said, "The rest of me will dry off in the air in a
little bit." Which was true.  The band members had noticed it during that
first wet game, the first game of the year back in September.  There was a
downpour early in the game.  At the halftime show everyone else was still
soaked except for Brigid, whose bare skin and minimal uniform dried
swiftly. "I'd best get rid of these, though," Brigid said, noting her
sneakers.  She got the poncho from Sarge and put it on the ground, then
untied the sneakers, wiped her bare feet on the poncho, then slipped on the
low heeled silvery flip-flops that were part of her uniform.  The rest of
the band, fully covered and in their big boots, looked on silently as she
wiggled her toes in the sandals as she stood up. "OK then," Sarge said, as
they resumed their journey through the grandstands. The stands were filling
up quickly and they didn't have long to wait.  The sky looked like it might
be clearing up.  The wind subsided.  This might not be a bad day after all.
Sarge ambled over to Coach Gunderson, who was corralling his players to the
sidelines.  They chatted a bit and when Sarge came back he said, "Five
minutes". They stood around and waited.  Rod worked the slide of his
trombone.  On a cold day he was sure to prep with a lot of valve oil, but
it looked like it wouldn't be that cold.  So now he was worried he might
have used too much, and it might drop onto his gloves.  Or worse, his
jacket.  He kept the trombone away from it, the expanse of white with black
borders, with the big "T" on the right side next to the row of black
buttons.  Behind him, the rest of the band was playing with their
instruments too. He looked over across the field where a van was parked,
near the visitor's grandstand, which of course was a lot smaller, and
half-filled with dedicated Brookline fans.  They looked almost like a
country club crowd, except maybe for some beefy guys with "B" sweatshirts
standing up on the top bench. The van looked like a TV van, and sure enough
a crew was getting out.  They didn't look like they would be ready to catch
the pre-game set.  At least they'd catch the halftime show. He worked his
slide again.  Sarge examined the sky.  Brigid checked her fingernails with
the alternate black and white polish, looked down at her circlets, and then
clutched the baton between her bare thighs as she examined her spreading
toes on one foot and then the other.  He looked down.  It must be hard to
get the polish on those pinky toes.  He pictured her in the locker room,
sitting on a bench, carefully painting them while the other girls were
pulling on their long trousers, their braided jackets, attaching the
epaulettes and cummerbunds, and pulling on the tall boots. He thought of
the time he had seen her in the girls' gym class, as he was walking through
it with the other boys on the way to the b-ball court outside.  The girls
were doing jumping jacks.  In their white T-shirts, black shorts and
sneakers with socks, even though Brigid was wearing the same exact outfit
as the other girls, the rest of them looked as bare as he'd ever seen them
-- except for Brigid, who looked unusually covered up. He looked at the
smattering of freckles across Brigid's shoulders.  She had a great body,
possibly the best in the school -- it was impossible to say, of course,
only hers was ever on display like this -- but just her skin was so
interesting to look at. Did she really have 83 freckles?  Jamal and he had
joked about it in the locker room before coming out. "You mean you really
counted the freckles on her shoulders?" he had asked incredulously. "Of
course.  During that long roll-off at practice yesterday.  She has one on
her butt too.  On the right cheek, halfway down to her butthole, under that
little 'Y' over her crack." He laughed as they put their shakos on and
headed toward the door.  "I can't believe you count the freckles on a white
girl's butt!" "Hell, no sisters will go out with me, I'll take what I can
get!" He thought: Jamal won't admit it but he's probably as in love with
Brigid as I am. As they emerged, he had said, "Man, another cold day. 
Brigid will be freezing her circlets off." "So what?  She's used to it!"
Jamal said. As they trotted out he had laughed.  "Lord, you're awful!" Now
Mr.  Simonelli, evidently having gotten over his guilt at spilling all that
rainwater, cranked on the P.A.  system and said, "Welcome to our last game
of the season!  To our guests from Brookline, welcome to T--- High School!
Today -- " It was his usual long-winded introduction.  He talked about the
season record, the presence of the TV crew, rules as to trash and conduct,
the snacks and soda and coffee available, the thanks to the Dads' Club,
etc., etc.  Sarge waited impatiently.  He joked quietly to his band, at
least the ones in front who could hear, "The whole game won't last this
long!" Meanwhile Brigid shook out her body, arms and legs, trying to get
circulation going.  As she did her breasts jiggled tightly. Finally Mr. 
Simonelli introduced the band and the crowd woke up and cheered.  The band
was this school's pride and joy.  Sarge marched out smartly and they
followed in double file.  They followed him as he detoured around a
nasty-looking patch of mud at the sideline, then got into formation astride
the 50-yard line. Sarge, as was his tradition, yelled out, "My name is
Herbert Quincy Watson and this is our band -- the T--- High School
Tunemasters!!" Loud cheering from the stands as Sarge walked off the field.
It was his style not to hog the spotlight.  The band was a product of his
hard work, on both the music and the marching, but he didn't wear a uniform
himself, and didn't lead.  He just got out of the way and let the band
shine. Which it certainly did.  They stood there in "attention" position --
Brigid in front, feet together, arms down, her baton upright with one end
in her left hand (she was left-handed) with the other end pressed against
the front of her bare shoulder -- and behind her, he and the rest of the
line of trombones, then the flutes, clarinets, trumpets, the tubas in back,
and on the side, the drum guard.  The uniforms were splendid, even
Brigid's, scanty though it was.  The black and white colors were the same,
the T's on her circlets and on her little cap matched the T's on the chests
and on the big shako hats of the rest of her band.  Her uniform might be
different than everyone else's but it fit in as one of the band. The
cheerleaders, having reluctantly gotten out of their sweat pants, assembled
to the side, shivering in their shortish skirts, and posed with their pom
poms at their hips.  Their uniforms were fine-looking too.  All in black
and white, the school colors, yarn bows in their hair, long-sleeved
sweaters (which they wore in the cold weather -- in hot weather they wore
tank tops) with an embroidered black "T" over a megaphone.  Then pleated
skirts that came to just above the knee, long white socks and black
sneakers.  They would stand there still during the band's performance and
then, at the final flourish, jump and cheer and wave their pom-poms and
begin their cheerleader thing that they would do throughout the game. With
a swing of the baton, Brigid started marching in place.  That was the
drummers' cue and they started vamping.  Now she did her first throw which
was the cue for the roll-off. Rod blasted away as they launched into "Stars
and Stripes Forever", the cut-down version.  They didn't have to march in
place or anything but he could feel his boots give a little.  He glanced
down and saw that the field was still pretty muddy. As they played, Brigid
pranced and twirled and threw.  That was how majorettes stayed warm, he
mused.  Only they were allowed to move around so much.  He could see the
wisdom of a majorette's scanty uniform, having free movement in the arms
and legs.  To go through those moves in a full uniform like his would be
uncomfortable, and hot, even on a day like this.  Now -- a really high
throw. Brigid was serious about her twirling.  She did it a lot during
recess and after school in that little out of the way courtyard past the
gym, pretty much out of view so that people wouldn't think she was showing
off.  But he watched her once and noted her diligence.  (She was in her
regular clothes of course; the majorette uniform would have violated the
dress code.) She was totally concentrated on it, trying more and more
difficult throws, doing the same throw maybe fifty times or more until she
was satisfied she got it right.  She would vary what she was wearing,
sometimes even throwing while she was wearing a coat.  She would use
different size batons, and even tied little weights to them.  The idea was
to be able to throw accurately under any type of condition. Still, today
one could tell that the mud was gumming up her style a bit, the heels of
her sandals sinking in and taking an extra split-second to pull up.  Being
flip-flops, they separated from her feet at the heel and slapped back up
against her sole on the upstep more smartly than usual, though with the
band playing he couldn't hear it. And now a big spin and one real high
throw, maybe thirty feet in the air.  Brigid spun around and looked up. It
came down a hundredth of a second sooner than she expected and hit her
pinky. Brigid dropped the baton. It fell on the wet ground and she missed
only an eighth of a beat, picking it up and starting the next twirl, but
the sense of shock was palpable.  The whole season and this was her first
drop.  Her face was deadpan as she continued her paces and the band
finished up, and it was not the end of the world of course, but everyone
who knew Brigid knew she had to be mortified.  One of the baton knobs was
smeared with mud, a reminder of her shame at letting down the band which
would not go away. One final throw, perhaps not as high and risky as she
would have done otherwise, and the band finished with a cymbal crash.  The
crowd cheered, but it was a muted cheer.  Not because the crowd appreciated
the performance less but because they were stunned. The cheerleaders did
their woo-hoo pom-poming and the players got ready to take the field.  The
drums started the walk-off vamping and Brigid began to lead them off, baton
tucked under her armpit, the mud-smeared knob hidden.  She must have still
been distracted by thinking about her drop, and eager to get out of view as
quick as possible.  At least that was the theory everyone had afterward. 
It explained why she marched straight for the grandstand gate and did not
see the patch of mud. Brigid's foot slipped back out from under her and she
fell forward, face first.  As she tried to pry herself up from the cold mud
her hands slipped and her face and upper body hit the mud again.  Mud
slopped to the sides.  On her third try, quaking by now, just one hand
slipped and she flipped over onto her back. Across the field, some of the
big beefy guys in the visitor's grandstand hooted. The band was in
disarray. The cheerleaders looked over from their places with concern. 
Sarge rushed out and shooed the rest of the band to leave the field. 
Everyone carefully stepped around the patch.  Sarge helped his majorette
up. She was crying.  One flip-flop fell off and her bare foot squished into
the mud.  She slipped her muddy foot back into it and almost twisted her
ankle before she finally righted herself.  Her white face was all muddy. 
Mud was all over her front, covering her circlets, and actually appearing
to be shoved in under them.  Mud was over half her tummy.  Down below it
gummed up and covered the lower half of her uniform such that it looked
like she didn't have a bottom at all and had simply stuffed mud into her
crotch.  As for her back, brown goo dripped from her butt down her thighs,
making it look like she had had a bad "accident". In the stands, people
stood up to see what was going on.  As the band walked up to their reserved
area halfway up, trying not to look back, Debra and Virginia stayed behind
to help Sarge take the crying majorette under the stands. Rod felt
miserable, about to cry himself.  He hated the jeers coming from the
visitors -(TM) stands.  This was horrible.  Aside from the humiliation he
just could not imagine how Brigid must feel with gritty cold mud over her
body. The game started and he couldn't get focused on it.  He sat on the
near side of the band section, looking down at his trombone and weakly
moving the slide.  A few moments later he looked over and saw Debra and
Virginia with their muddied friend at the Dads' Club stand, evidently
waiting for Sarge who was on his cell phone.  They had tried to wipe off
the mud with the little paper napkins available but it was pitifully
inadequate.  Poor Brigid was still smeared from her face down to her bare
toes.  The wind had kicked up and lifted the used napkins out of the trash.
They scattered around the feet of the brown-smeared majorette, looking like
used toilet paper. Someone offered Brigid a coat to put on but she
declined, not wanting to get it dirty.  She had stopped crying, the dried
tracks of her tears visible where they had washed away the mud on her face.
She sipped a hot tea as Debra and Virginia, in their full uniforms, their
clarinets on the refreshment table, huddled around her. Rod watched with
pity.  He had always been too shy and tongue-tied to express his affection
for her but he was more in love with her than ever now.  He did not know
that Brigid's misfortunes today were only beginning.



   Part 35

    -~Come on, Brigid, eat something.  Have a hot dog.  It'll warm you up.
-(TM) That's what he thought as he played with his trombone slide, looking
over at the majorette with her two friends next to the Dads' Club area. 
Jamal's uncle was pushing food on her, free of charge.  Of course the cold
soda cans bobbing in the ice-filled metal tub wouldn't be a good idea.  But
there were hot dogs, chips, bags of popcorn.  Brigid refused all this,
preferring to stand between Debra and Virginia and sipping her tea,
watching the game with them.  They were behind the little table that held
the napkins and the serving board with the partly covered tins of ketchup,
mustard, relish and sauerkraut. She had composed herself by now.  Ms. 
Farkas, the gym teacher who ran the cheerleading squad, walked over to her
and talked.  So did one of the policemen.  Sarge got off his cell phone and
said something to Brigid and Ms.  Farkas.  Standing still like that, Brigid
looked like she was finally beginning to feel the cold, hugging herself
with her bare, mud-streaked arms, her legs together, wiggling her gritty
toes, tapping the heels of her muddy flip-flops against the gravel, as she
sipped the tea and held the cup close, feeling the steam on her smeared
face.  How was she going to get cleaned up in time for halftime? Rod got
distracted by action on the field.  His friend Scotus had intercepted a
pass and was running for a touchdown.  He got into cheering like everyone
else.  Scotus went all the way to the 10-yard line before getting tackled,
having run 40 yards.  Yay team! The air on this raw, gray day filled with
excitement now.  This would be the first score of the year.  The
cheerleaders, spinning around in their shortish skirts, pumped up the
crowd, which really didn't need much pumping up.  This town had plenty of
school spirit. Rod looked over.  Debra, Virginia and Brigid were cheering
too, each jabbing the air with one fist.  Brigid's breasts jiggled in time,
the mud-streaked circlets tracing independent epicycles in the air.  To be
honest, the bouncing of the fringes of Debra's and Virginia's epaulettes on
their jackets was quite fetching too.  There was something about a girl in
a uniform, the regular band uniform as well as the majorette uniform, which
was sexy. Now -- Jamal's cousin Jared, helping out at the stand, engrossed
in the game, rested a foot on the dolly holding the ice tub.  The dolly
gave way, one wheel collapsing, and the tub lurched and nearly slid off it.
The tub had been full almost to the brim and now a little tidal wave of
ice-cold water washed over the legs and feet of the three girls. It was a
surprise but not an ordeal for Debra and Virginia in their tall rain-proof
boots.  Quite a different experience, though, for the majorette.  Brigid
shrieked and hopped back, then yelped with pain as hot tea leapt from her
jolted cup and splashed over the slope of one breast, down her bare tummy
and onto a thigh.  She felt unsteady on the gravel and leaned back on the
table to catch herself, unfortunately causing the serving board to slide
and flipping the tins, the lids of the tins flying off. She fell backward
and sauerkraut flew onto her face.  Before her bare buns hit the gravel,
relish had sprayed over her tummy.  As her feet went up, one flip-flop
flying off, the mustard tin overturned onto her supine body, coating her
left circlet. No one in the stands saw this except Rod, but everyone in the
refreshment area was in shock.  Debra and Virginia quickly took off their
white gloves and helped their friend up.  Once again Brigid broke down
crying.   -~What a day she's having, -(TM) Rod thought.  As she tried to
stand, her bare foot, hunting around for its sandal, lurched forward and
stepped into the ketchup tin, the red tomatoey goo oozing up between her
toes. Her face, with sauerkraut around her nose and over her forehead, was
pretty disgusting.  It looked like she had sneezed with a nose full of
boogers.  She turned and he could see the bits of gravel stuck to her
mud-smeared back, the nakedness interrupted only by the encrusted string
across the tops of her butt cheeks.  Gravel also coated the backs of her
thighs and calves.  As she cried, holding the mustard-smeared flip-flop,
she staggered forward, collecting gravel between her ketchupy toes.  She
was led by Ms.  Farkas under the stands and out of Rod's sight.  Meanwhile
Jamal's uncle and Jared were scurrying around to prop up the dolly to
prevent further spillage.  The uncle got a toolbox from his van and set it
up on the dolly as he frantically began screwing the wheel back on. Now
Sarge was bounding up onto the stands and stood on the lower aisle, looking
up at his band.  He spoke loudly.  "Brigid is getting cleaned up.  She'll
be ready for halftime.  If not, I'll get out there and conduct.  Let's go!"
He held up his arms.  "Fanfare!" This was the short tune they played as a
cheer.  Instruments rose to lips.  Nobody in the band liked sitting in the
stands on cold days like this, everyone's butts getting numb on the metal
benches.  But at least playing warmed you up a bit. The tune evidently had
talismanic powers.  Right on the last note, Scotus pushed over the goal
line.  Six nothing, T----! As his team launched into the next kickoff Rod
wondered how Brigid was going to get cleaned up.  Probably they had some
towels in Ms.  Farkas' car or something like that.  Taking her to the
locker room showers was probably not possible.  Between the time it took to
walk all the way there, and showering, and the time back, they would
already be into halftime.  And after that, it didn't matter.  The halftime
show was the last thing the band did; for the rest of the game, properly he
supposed, all eyes belonged to the team. He saw the camera guys coming
around the field from the visitors' stand.  Too bad they missed Scotus'
interception.  Well at least they missed Brigid's misfortunes too.  Though
he really didn't think they would put that on the local news.  Local news
wasn't as mean-spirited and tasteless as the networks. It was a long kick.
Brookline was forced to make a fair catch.  On the next three plays they
gained only three yards.  The early signs were that T---- was going to win
this game. He flexed his butt muscles to get some circulation back.  Man,
even through his wool uniform trousers and his thermal underwear his butt
was cold.  On a day like today the metal benches were like sitting on
blocks of ice.  He looked around and could tell that everyone else in the
band felt the same way. He thought back to his first-ever conversation with
Brigid, last week before their appearance on Melba McCann's show.  His eye
was attracted to her whenever he saw her in the hall.  It was between
periods and she had been walking with Shonday and Luisa.  Then she stopped
at her locker. Brigid had a distinct if understated fashion sense.  One
could call it "the Brigid look": jean jacket over a white or black
turtleneck, black jeans, Doc Martens with the thick soles, pink socks.  It
was cute, the way her red hair, shoulder length, draped over her jacket. 
He supposed white girls had plenty of hair options, but Brigid always wore
her hair the same, straight and unstyled.  She was on the quiet side,
though if teased she could give as well as she got.  And modest.  Even in
hot weather she didn't show much of that white, freckled skin.  He had seen
her come to school in shorts only once. That day at the locker, he had come
up and, careful to clear his throat and speak slowly, said, "We're going to
be TV stars." She smiled; a shy but gorgeous smile.  Then she waved her
hair back from her face in a way that was adorable.  She could be a model
if she wanted to.  "Yeah.  I just know I'll make a fool of myself." A
little wave to one of her friends passing by. Another throat clearing. 
"Probably say the wrong thing.  I will, I mean." Not you, Brigid.  I meant
ME! "Yeah, well.  I'm sure Sarge will do all the talking.  Just so we look
nice and our uniforms are straight." "Mine will be." "Mine too." She
glanced briefly down at herself.  He knew they were both picturing
themselves wearing their band uniforms, the majorette and the first
trombonist, here in the hall. "Well, gotta go.  Later." He wished he could
stay with her but he couldn't think of what else to say. "Later." As a
first-ever conversation, it wasn't too bad. Now Rod sat on his cold butt
and rubbed his white gloves over the crook of the trombone and idly watched
the game. Then he glanced down and noticed something strange.  Between the
floor board and his bench, he had a constricted but clear view of what was
under the stands and saw what looked like a blanket tied to one of the
understruts.  Leaning to one side revealed a makeshift triangle of privacy
enclosed by tarps and a blanket.  In the center was the long metal tub on
the dolley, having been quickly repaired and rolled there, Jamal's uncle's
tool box still lying on the end.  To one side was a little tin like the
ones that held the condiments.  Inside the enclosure were Debra, Virginia,
and Ms.  Farkas.  And Brigid. A totally naked Brigid. Rod's mouth opened
and his eyes widened.  Brigid was spread out in an "X", her legs wide
apart, her toes gripping along the wide brim of one side of the tub, while
her hands grasped struts overhead three feet apart.  Scanty as her uniform
was, she looked totally different in the altogether.  What a magnificent,
beautiful, perfect body.  The first live naked girl he had ever seen. 
Thank you, thank you, thank you God, thank you -- Rod's head bobbed up and
he looked at the band members around him.  No, nobody was looking down,
nobody suspected anything was going on down there, nobody was blessed with
the view that he had.  Again: Thank you, thank you, thank you God -- He
glanced down again, as casually as possible, and made it look like he was
adjusting his spit valve.  The next thing he noticed was that Brigid had
not shaved all her pubic hair like he had theorized: she had cut it down to
a "pubic Mohawk".  And it was reddish, kind of like the hair on her head,
though partly caked with mud.  Miraculously, her head hair and her little
"T" cap had not been affected by her misfortunes, the cap still immaculate
white and black.  It was pinned to her hair which was braided up, no doubt
to stay out of her way during her twirling but perhaps not coincidentally
giving a clear view of her neck and shoulders. The next thing he noticed
was that the soda cans had been taken out of the tub, leaving only the cold
water and that huge long chunk of ice, and that Debra and Ms.  Farkas were
busily wetting washcloths and applying them, fore and aft, to the many
streaks and smears on Brigid's body.  Brigid seemed to be wanting to help,
at one point bringing a hand down to grab a cloth, but this made her
posture too precarious.  She needed to grip with both hands on those
understruts. Now, he noticed Virginia bent over the little tin, her bare
hands freezing as they scrubbed in the cold soapy water.  It took a moment
to figure out what she was doing -- cleaning Brigid's uniform.  The little
tin was all that was needed. Brigid was trying not to flinch from the
application of the freezing cold cloths, and Ms.  Farkas and Debra were
trying not to press too hard, but they were not making much progress in
de-mudding, de-mustarding, de-sauerkrauting, de-relishing and de-ketchuping
their majorette.  Brigid closed her eyes, taking measured breaths,
shivering but trying to control it.  Good thing the blanket and the tarps
shielded her from the wind.  Ms.  Farkas and Debra, their gloves off,
frequently shook the fingers of their bare hands, probably going numb from
the freezing water. Now the toes of Brigid's left foot slipped and the leg
gave way and -- she flipped sideways into the tub!  It was a deep tub,
maybe two feet deep, and poor Brigid's nude body totally went under, her
backside making almost a body-long contact with the ice, bubbles exhaling
from her nose.  She splashed helplessly for a moment, then spun around on
her knees and stood up, one foot and then the other pushing down against
the bottom of the tub.  As she emerged the icy water dripped off her chin,
her fingers, and coursed off the stiff red pebbles of her nipples. "OHH --
OHH!!" He could hear her shudder.  Then after a few breaths she shook her
head free of water and seemed to realize something.  Maybe it was the shock
of the cold immersion, but she was no longer shivering.  Also, due to her
little dip her skin was now mostly clean. She grabbed the cloth from Debra
and went to work completing the process, sitting on the edge of the tub,
vigorously and of course quickly passing the cloth over her tummy,
astringently rubbing it over her nipples, scrubbing her toes. "Fanfare!"
Sarge's call brought Rod's gaze back up to what seemed like the outside,
daytime world, as opposed to the secret ablutions going on out of sight
below.  He quickly checked around and saw again that he was the only one
privy to Brigid's trials. The first quarter ended with T---- ahead, 13 - 6.
The teams changed sides. When the band rested again, Rod looked down.  And
he was in for another surprise, one that made him almost ashamed to look,
as if he as a male should be not invading such a private, female scene. 
But of course he looked.



   Part 36

   He turned back up to the game, watching Scotus do another short run.  He
knew that what was going on below was not meant for his eyes.  But he
couldn't help it.  He looked down again. Brigid, face up, was doing a kind
of suspended animation crab-walk on the tub, arms and legs spread, her
hands grasping each side, her toes grasping each side at the other end,
careful to keep her bare butt well clear of the ice floe below.  Straining
in her awkward posture, she looked down at her upthrust crotch with
concern, as Ms.  Farkas carefully swabbed it with the dripping wet cloth
that she had dunked into the icy water. Rod's gaze was as furtive as
possible given his degree of amazement.  He made it look like he was
glancing down at his spit value.  He played with it a little to keep the
pretense convincing.  A quick look around -- no, nobody else was privy to
what he was seeing. He was fascinated by the white girl's pussy.  He had
never seen an actual pussy before.  The closely-cropped tuft of reddish
hair, now almost free of mud, framing two lips, with a little pink thing --
was it called a clitoris?  -- at the top.  The lips were spread wide by Ms.
Farkas as she burrowed the freezing cloth in between two inner, redder lips
as part of a sweeping motion.  Those inner lips opened and closed with
Brigid's gasps, revealing a narrow open slit where it was too dark to see.
Man, I feel like a gynecologist looking at that... It was hard to believe
Ms.  Farkas was making Brigid go through this, but as he thought about it
it made perfect sense.  If it rained or even drizzled during the halftime
show, the smallest bit of mud would cause a streak of brown to go down her
thigh, painfully visible on this white girl and sure to be detected by the
TV cameras.  A streak of brown coming from her uniform bottom sure wouldn't
look too good.  Possibly the band could do the show without Brigid, with
Sarge conducting as he said he would, but they had never done that before
and it wasn't reassuring.  They needed Brigid and, though modest and
unassuming as she was, she probably knew it. Brigid winced and jerked as
she felt the icy rag deep within her private area.  To her side, Debra and
Virginia were furiously scrubbing the tiny bits of the majorette's uniform
in the little tin.  Without their band gloves, which they had laid
carefully on top of Jamal's uncle's tool box, their hands were red and
probably numb.  So were Ms.  Farkas'.  He felt sorry for them, their hands
all exposed and dunked over and over again into freezing water.  Yet it was
all school spirit.  This school was as dedicated to its marching band as it
was to its football team. He looked up, distracted by cheering.  Brookline
had intercepted a pass but his friend Jaysee had forced a fumble and
recovered it.  Go, go go! "Fanfare!" He brought the trombone up to his lips
and as he moved he realized once again how cold his butt was.  Man, he
hated playing in the cold, especially sitting on these freezing metal
benches.  Everyone in the band felt the same way.  They were counting down
the minutes until halftime.  Then the halftime show, where at least they
got to move around a bit, and that was it for them.  The rest of the game
belonged to the cheerleaders, who were rushing in and out of their coverall
cloaks as they did quick cheers and then covered up again.  And of course,
to the team. And halftime would be it.  This was the last game of the
season.  After that, there would be just concerts up until the St. 
Patrick's Day parade.  Though there were rumors of an invitation to go up
to Vermont, the big ski resort at Killington, to play in some kind of
winter festival they had up there in January.  Please let it be an indoor
event... They finished the fanfare, with a few less flubs than before.  As
he put his trombone down he looked down and -- oh Jesus -- He shut his eyes
but of course opened them again.  Brigid had turned over, her butt high in
the air, fingers and toes grasping the edges of the tub.  And now Ms. 
Farkas was swabbing her butthole!  Ewww!  He had never looked at a butthole
before and averted his gaze.  Brigid must be intensely ashamed and he
didn't want to see her in her shame.  But he couldn't resist looking again.
How disgusting. Well, maybe not disgusting.  Brigid's butthole was neat and
clean, the cold water coursing over it, spasming now and then as Ms. 
Farkas poked and probed.  The ring of brown skin there winked at him like a
little brown eye as the majorette was shocked by the cold water on her most
sensitive spot.  It was strange to think such a thought but Brigid's
butthole seemed beautiful, just like the rest of her.  He thought: Brigid
has three eyes, two green ones and one brown one, and they are all pretty!
Not that Brigid was enjoying this.  Her face turned upward, eyes squeezed
shut, and she clenched her teeth and grimaced, maybe from shame or just
discomfort, as Ms.  Farkas poked, making sure to get every speck of mud
out. Poke, wince, poke, wince, now a deep poke, and Brigid's eyes squeezed
even more, as her toes squirmed against the cold metal rim of the tub.  He
couldn't see the muscles of her hollow tummy from up where he was but he
was sure they were quaking... Suddenly he realized that if she opened her
eyes she would be looking right at him.  He turned up to look at the game.
Not much exciting happening, a slow march down the field by T---- as they
gradually gained first down after first down. Whoa -- now Scotus had the
ball again and was rushing for a touchdown.  Twelve-zip T----.  Now a
two-point coversion.  Sonny, their quarterback, threw a perfect shot to
Scotus deep in the end zone. He thought of Brigid's anus.  Wow, I've seen
every part of her, even her most secret part.  He felt like he possessed
some secret knowledge of the majorette, that maybe just Ms.  Farkas and
Debra and Virginia shared.  He looked down and was relieved to see the
grueling ablutions were ended.  Brigid was once again standing on the rim
of the tub, hands stretched up to hold the understruts.  And she was
smiling, because Debra and Virginia were presenting her with the prize of
their frantic labors -- Brigid's uniform, sparkly clean!  Debra balanced
the circlets on the tips of her index fingers.  Virginia had stretched out
the tiny V-shaped bottom over her thumb, the strings dangling down.  On her
other hand dangled the stringy silvery uppers of the majorette sandals. He
smiled, happy for Brigid.  She was a modest girl and no doubt wanted to be
back in her uniform.  Not that it gave her much protection from the cold.
Then again, the pinned-up blankets shielded her from the wind.  And that
involuntary ice bath a few minutes ago had stopped her shivering, probably
by shocking her metabolism into higher gear.  Like in swim class when you
dive into cold water but it doesn't feel cold after you get used to it.
Also, her body was now dry.  "Brigid's rule": bare skin dries quickly. 
Unfortunately there was another problem.  As Ms.  Farkas handled the
circlets he saw that the way of keeping them on had changed.  No more
bulldog clips.  That was good -- those must have hurt.  Maybe they were too
big for the smaller circlet design.  He had been right, when he had seen
her sitting for that makeup guy in Melba McCann's studio.  The circlets
were indeed smaller, maybe two and a half inches across now.  And now they
had a detachable short threaded cylinders, perhaps half an inch long, which
-- He almost laughed but suppressed it because it would have attracted
attention.  But the little grommets (he thought that's what they're called)
were designed to slip over the nipples, then the "T"'s were screwed onto
them with a racheting motion.  More comfortable than the clips, for sure.
The grommets were a little narrower than Brigid's nipples -- he wondered if
they had had to be specially fitted?  Of course, if they weren't narrower,
they wouldn't stay on her nipples and the circlets would fall off. But the
cold presented a problem not present in a nice warm locker room.  The cold
made Brigid's nipples pucker, made them tight and hard, and Ms.  Farkas's
fumbling frozen fingers could not draw them out far enough to slip the
grommets on.  She pinched the pink nubs and pulled them out, causing Brigid
to wince, but just as she was about to slip the grommet on, the little pink
pebble slipped from her grasp, making the breast jiggle tightly.  He
sighed. For poor Brigid this day has been once trial after another, staring
with getting her green wool poncho soaked... A howl from the crowd brought
his head back up.  Jaysee had gotten tackled and didn't get up.  Mr. 
Bailey, the trainer, ran over with his first aid bag.  Before he got there
Jaysee showed signs of life.  He struggled to his feet and put his arms up
for the crowd.  What a relief -- football was a dangerous game.  One of
many reasons he had never tried out for it (another reason being that he
was terrible at it). Jaysee, helped by Mr.  Bailey, hobbled from the field.
He was replaced by Rodrigo.  Four minutes left in the half . . . He looked
down and -- good grief -- will this ever end! It was the most shocking
sight yet.  Brigid was still standing up in an "X".  As Ms.  Farkas held
the grommets in each hand, waiting for the right moment, Debra and Virginia
had taken two pairs of pliers from the tool box and had applied them to
Brigid's nipples! At first it seemed like torture, like those things that
middle-aged people do to each other when they can't get turned on any other
way, like those kinky sites he had seen on the internet.  But it wasn't
torture.  It was simply the sensible thing to do, with Brigid's nipples
being so tight because of the cold.  And her friends were going about it as
gently as possible.  They were squeezing the pliers, and pulling with them,
very carefully. Still it looked grotesque.  Brigid shared her friends'
determination but her face betrayed what she was feeling, once again a
grimace, eyes shut, teeth clenched.  Her pink nipples, pinched in the
jagged jaws of cold metal, stretched out obscenely from the rest of her
breasts. Again he realized that if she opened her eyes she would be looking
right at him.  So again he turned back up. "Fanfare!" After that was done
he looked down again.  The grommets were on.  Brigid looked down at them,
and at the ends of her nipples emerging from them just the slightest bit.
Ms.  Farkas carefully screwed the circlets on.  One of them ended up a
little crooked, at 11 o'clock instead of 12, and she had to twist the whole
circlet together with the now-hidden grommet.  Bridget bit her lip and
endured... He decided he would not look down there again.  Then during a
long time-out he felt the urge.  No, no, must...  not...  look... 
Brigid... naked... He exhaled and cheered with everyone else as Brigid, all
suited up, bounded up onto the lower aisle.  She held her hands up, one
with the baton, as if in triumph, the circlets bouncing with the rest of
her.  Quite a change from the crying, mud-streaked wretch as the band had
last seen her. She hopped up the steps, her low heels clanging echoes
against the metal, Debra and Virginia close behind her.  In a moment they
were seated right in front of him. He felt like he should avoid eye
contact, ashamed at having been a Peeping Tom, though of course they didn't
know it.  But they were busy in their own world, chatting about ordinary
things as the quarter wound down.  Not much was happening on the field. 
T---- was on the Brookline 30 yard line and was running plays into the line
to run out the clock. "Zhhhh!" Brigid shivered, then got up a bit and
massaged her bare butt cheeks.  That cold metal bench must be super-cold to
her!  On top of that the sky was getting gray and the wind was picking up.
He felt a tiny raindrop on his nose, then another. Debra and Virginia
offered half a lap each, and Brigid was now spared the cold bench by
sitting up on their uniformed thighs.  She dropped her sandals off and
wrapped her feet around the jacket of Luisa sitting down in front of them.
Brigid put her arms around Debra and Virginia as Luisa, putting down her
flute, rubbed the majorette's toes with her gloved hands. From what he
could tell they were talking about bowling again.  Mostly about the
goofiness of the shoes they gave you.  Jeremy, one of the trumpet players,
sitting a few rows up, said, "Hey Frigid!" Brigid gave him a killer look
and aimed her baton like she was about to throw a spear at him.  Then got
back to talking. Sarge passed up a black blanket, donated by a parent
probably.  Brigid put it underneath her, then curled up cross-legged in
what had to be welcome warmth.  She looked like an ancient Druid, wrapped
up in a black robe, except for the jaunty little Tunemasters cap.  And the
lovely white neck, with a few strands of her braided-up red hair hanging
down, tossed with the cold damp breeze. One minute left.  And now a fine
mist filled the air. Sarge walked over on the lower aisle with a big box
and set it down.  "Attention folks.  It's almost halftime, then we wait on
the track for ten minutes while the crowd gets their snacks, then our big
show.  The cameras are set up.  I don't have to tell you what a big deal
this is.  I know you'll come through like you always do.  Brigid, come down
and help me OK?" Brigid unwrapped herself and, toting her baton, bounded
down to Sarge.  She gave him the folded-up black blanket.  He opened the
box and showed her the contents, saying something. Now back to his
announcement voice.  "Now, it looks like rain.  We haven't had to do this
so far, but it's time to put on the plastic ponchos.  You heard me talk
about this in September.  Walking around in a wet uniform on a cold day is
a sure route to hypothermia.  Not in my band!  These..." Helped by Brigid,
he slipped one on.  "Fit over the head and will cover your shoulders and
down to about your knees.  I know they look strange but the point is the
crowd can still see your uniforms and believe it or not, you can still play
your instruments, even the trombones and drums.  They're that loose. 
Remember -- the formation is just as strict with these things on as
otherwise." He put his gloved hand on the majorette's bare shoulder. 
"Brigid, help me hand these out O.K.?"