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 ï>¿Tami Beethoven by Donny Laja

   Part 49

   Rod felt his shaved scalp prickle.  Tami's allergy -- advancing?  How is
that possible?  She already was allergic to the tiniest scrap of clothing.
She couldn't even put one foot into a flip-flop. Dr.  Kantor, a tall white
man of about 60 with a closely-trimmed white beard, brought out a laptop
and switched it on.  "We have been monitoring Tami's GSR, that's galvanic
skin response, twice a week.  I think you were actually at one of these
sessions, as I remember." Yes, he was, once.  It was a disorienting
experience, seeing Tami standing on a lab table, clutching a metal bar
overhead, while Dr.  Kantor and a couple of assistants passed loops of
fabric around her. On the screen of the laptop appeared a close-up of the
top part of Tami's body, her face down to her breasts, nipples puckered up
and even harder than usual.  Her arms were evidently stretched out to the
side, as if they were tied to posts.  The background was gray and metallic
and misty, like she was in a sauna maybe.  Her face was passive, eyes
closed, her hair tied back.  Oddly, her face and breasts and bare shoulders
had a purplish tinge.  In the lower right corner, a little graph that
looked like an equalizer graph you see on recording equipment, low vertical
bars that were a placid green. The image was disturbing, especially when he
saw Tami's breath come out in little clouds and now an insulated gloved
hand drew in front of her with a little swatch of what looked like fur. 
The room she was in was not hot but actually bitter cold! "This is
imitation fur," Dr.  Kantor said, "used because of its ability to afford
warmth." Rod was a bit angry.  "She's -- cold -- " "Yes," Dr.  Abu Jamal
broke in, "to accentuate the natural desire for covering, we have held many
sessions in our cryogenic chamber." Dr.  Kantor chuckled, "Commonly known
in the restaurant trade as a walk-in freezer.  Of course, it's easier to
get grant money for a 'cryogenic chamber'.  During this session the
temperature was, I believe, minus ten degrees Celsius." "But -- " Rod was
about to protest when he saw Tami's breathing get heavier as the fur was
drawn closer to her left nipple.  The clouds shot out from her nostrils,
then her mouth.  In the corner, the little bars leapt up into the yellow
zone and then, briefly, into the red.  Then the gloved hand drew away the
fur and Tami heaved as if in relief.  During all this time, her eyes
remained closed as if she were in a dream, or maybe trying to think of
being on a nice hot beach. Now the image changed.  Tami's bare feet on a
block of ice!  Her spread toes were very flushed.  A contrast with the
heavy boots and pants around her.  Again, a mere wisp of fake fur was
placed near her foot by a gloved hand.  The toes spread even more and
twitched.  He supposed it was an allergic reaction, but one also imagined
the freezing toes were agitated and frustrated by the presence of something
they so desperately craved. "I hope she was all right," Rod said. "Of
course," Dr.  Kantor said.  "You know, of course, that Ms.  Smithers is
acclimatized to the cold.  We were in that chamber for only fifteen
minutes." Now the image changed again to a rainy forest scene, melting snow
here and there.  The researchers stood in their lab suits and coats, safely
dry under umbrellas, as the naked girl carried a large rock on her shoulder
up an incline leading to the huge trunk of a tree.  It was clearly a
strenuous task even for someone of Tami's strength.  Rod thought of some
guy from Greek mythology, he forgot who, carrying a rock up a hill. 
Sisyphus?  Atlas? Tami leaned forward under the strain as her bare feet,
covered with mud and small twigs, carefully scaled the hill without
slipping.  She had been out in the rain for a while; her hair was soaked
and plastered to her back.  Despite his concern Rod could not hide his
admiration for the perfectly toned, evenly tanned body, sleek and wet in
the rain, and his great luck that this most gorgeous of female creatures
should be his wife. Now another image, the same scene, only this time Tami
was carrying a somewhat smaller rock, with a cloth tied around it.  She
struggled more up the incline this time, then straightened up as if
arrested from behind and dropped the rock in front of her.  She breathed
heavily, her concave tummy heaving in and out as the rain continued to pour
onto her hair and drip from her chin and her nipples. "I think you can
deduce what is happening here," Dr.  Kantor said, putting the video on
"pause".  "Tami has an allergic reaction to clothes, as we know.  This has
been carefully monitored.  There have been fluctuations which we first
could not explain, but turned out to be due to barometric pressure,
academic stresses, even to an extent sunspot activity.  But even taking
these into account, in the past few months the GSR reactions have gotten
noticeably more intense, as well as the loss of strength when cloth
approaches her." "Let me ask you, Rod." Dr.  Abu Jamal said, calling Rod by
his first name for a change, "Have you noticed any...  changes recently."
"Um, no...  Wait, yes.  One time, a few weeks ago, she tried to touch a
towel when coming out of the shower and it was, like a shock.  She had to
drop it.  She said the towel felt like fire." The two Chalfont doctors
looked at him as if expecting to hear this, and expecting more. "Also, she
felt sick and didn't want to sit on the couch.  She felt better sitting on
the tile floor in the kitchen." He looked at the still picture on the
laptop, Tami standing upright in the rain, looking down past her dripping
nipples and muddy feet to the cloth-covered rock in front of her, in front
of the clothed researchers.  As he continued looking at this freeze frame,
he decided she appeared to be in the middle of shrugging her bare
shoulders. "Tami doesn't look too concerned there," Rod said. "No, she
seems to enjoy being naked," Dr.  Kantor said.  "As you know, any sense of
shame was burned out of her long ago, at least to all appearances." "She
doesn't think of herself as naked," Rod said.  "She thinks of her hair,
that her hair is her clothes." He forced himself to add: "Even her... 
pubic hair, she thinks she's covered up down there." Like Brigid, the
majorette in those crazy dreams he'd been having.  A "uniform" consisting
only of tiny circlets barely covering her nipples, a minimal G-string
below, skimpy sandals, yet feeling fully dressed and proud to wear her
Tunemasters uniform.  A modest girl who seemed to have no idea how naked
she was.  He had been trying to interpret those dreams.  Brigid clearly
symbolized Tami, and now he saw a similarity.  Naked yet not an
exhibitionist, in a world of clothed people.  Brigid doing difficult
twirling routines in the freezing cold while damn near naked, with everyone
else's uniforms affording full coverage and with thermals underneath.  Tami
doing grounds crew work naked and barefoot in the wind and rain while
people around her trudged by in their overcoats and boots. He knew these
doctors, at least some of them, were psychiatrists too, and had a fleeting
thought of asking them these dreams could mean, what they might say about
his own hopes and frustrations and desires. Dr.  Kantor interrupted Rod's
thoughts to say, "It's natural that Ms.  Smithers would think her hair was
her clothes.  Seems like a reasonable adaptation, or perhaps
rationalization.  Young women tend to, if anything, obsess on clothes. 
They care about how their bodies are adorned and presented to the world. 
We tested Tami's psychological makeup and it is basically that of normal
young woman, so she would be no different." Dr.  Abu Jamal broke in.  "But
the Chalfont Institute bears a heavy responsibility for the incredible
misfortunes that befell Ms.  Smithers in her freshman year." Rod could not
know this, but at the moment the Pakistani doctor was thinking of how he
probed and examined Tami's anus and pussy with Dr.  Harridance as she lay
spread-legged and naked on that cold steel table in the bright clinical
light of Lab 13 upstairs, the terrified and mortified young girl afraid to
protest or let slip any evidence of her burning shame.  He had never gotten
over his guilt and to compensate he was determined to get Tami's allergy
cured.  In fact, it was he who kept ordering Dr.  Kantor to press onward
even though no progress was being made.  "Ms.  Smithers may be happy as a
naked woman at Campbell - Frank, a rather protected environment, but she
will be under a crushing disability after she graduates." "Yes." Tami could
not fully see that, or maybe was pretending not to see that, but Rod could.
He was glad the doctors and he were on the same page. "It's not just
cloth," Dr.  Kantor added.  He hit a few keys and now the laptop showed a
bizarre scene.  Tami, standing up on the table, arms at her sides, with a
series of metal hoops encircling her, apparently supported by a metal post
behind.  The hoops were open-ended, the first around her head, then at
six-inch intervals, the lowest around her ankles.  As Tami stood there in
her nakedness, eyes closed, someone twiddled knobs at a console and the
hoops slowly closed around her, touching her skin, then opened again, at a
regular pace, maybe once a second.  It looked like she was being zapped
with current, a strange electrocution torture, though her face remained
impassive and she stayed motionless. Now Dr.  Kantor typed something and
the equalizer bars appeared in the lower right again.  They rose almost up
to red as the hoops closed, then relaxed to green as they opened. "You
certainly have measured her carefully," Rod said. Dr.  Kantor did not
detect the hint of venom in Rod's voice.  "It's very important, from a
treatment perspective, to get accurate readings.  Fortunately Tami's lack
of modesty makes it easy to...  well, I know I'm sounding like
McMasters..." The white professor blushed in embarrassment. Rod let the
silence punish the man for a few seconds before he decided that it was
unfair.  Kantor hadn't been involved in the McMasters horrors.  Tami had
once told him so.  What they were putting Tami through was with the best of
intentions.  "You mentioned treatment." Dr.  Abu Jamal said, "It appears
that Tami's allergy is to anything covering her or fastened around her, not
just to fabric.  This indicates that the allergy is not physical but
psychological." "Well that's clear isn't it?" Rod said, challenging them.
"How can you treat her if you don't know the cause of the allergy?" Dr. 
Abu Jamal and Dr.  Kantor looked at each other and then at Rod. "Actually,"
Dr.  Kantor said, "we now think we do."



   Part 50

   "This is good coffee, thank you," Rod said.  Indeed it was.  Better than
that swill he had to drink at the trailer. The three of them -- Rod, Dr. 
Abu Jamal, and Dr.  Kantor, were sitting in the lower part of Dr.  Abu
Jamal's spacious office, in elegant upholstered chairs around the little
table upon which Dr.  Abu Jamal's secretary, an older woman named Grette,
had placed the coffee set. "As you pointed out," Dr.  Abu Jamal said,
"Tami's allergy is psychogenic." Rod felt strange.  He did not doubt the
sincerity or good intentions of these men, but it was odd for the three of
them to be sitting here, in their business clothes, in this elegant
setting, discussing their proposals on what to do to a naked girl, someone
who did not have a stitch of clothes or shoes to her name. He pushed these
thoughts aside as he forced himself to listen as Dr.  Kantor took up what
was evidently a well-rehearsed presentation.  "The allergy certainly has
something to do with the trauma of her freshman year.  Tami seems on the
outside as a normal girl, I mean young woman, but there is something about
her that is unknowable, hidden.  Almost Sphinx-like.  This is perhaps what
everyone senses.  I believe it is not simple projection on our part, but an
objective reality.  In other words, it's not us, it's her.  She really IS a
little like a Sphinx." Rod nodded.  It was good to know someone else felt
the same way. "The extent of the shame and mortification that Tami endured
is almost beyond the comprehension of a normal person.  Imagine being
brought to orgasm against your will, and forced to look someone like Henry
Ross right in the eye at the climactic moment." As Dr.  Kantor spoke, Rod
remembered that DVD, and closed his eyes and shook his head.  "And that is
aside from the shame of being forced to walk around naked in public, and on
top of that, not being able to show any sign of being shy about it." "Yes,
I know, I know." Rod did not want to be reminded of Tami's trauma, which
only reminded him of his guilt at being so blind to it and possibly
increasing it unwittingly. "How could that not have something to do with
her allergy?" Dr.  Kantor asked rhetorically.  "Perhaps it is evidence of a
defense mechanism.  Either a form of suppressing the shame, or adapting to
it, a kind of 'sweet lemon' reaction." "Sweet lemon?" "The opposite of
'sour grapes'.  'I'm given this nasty fruit, but actually it's pretty
good.'" "Oh." "One obvious piece of evidence in support of the 'sweet
lemon' theory is her interest in fashion, in designing clothing, even
though she can never wear any." "I think she would admit that.  The, uh,
psychodynamics are real obvious." Rod felt pompous using such a word, but
in this company it seemed fitting. Dr.  Abu Jamal said, "One can also
deduce, perhaps, psychic pain from her orgasmic capacity and frequency,
which we understand is quite incredible." "What?" This was hard to follow.
"She comes so much because she's in pain?" The Director of the Chalfont
Institute stirred his coffee, sipped it, and set it down.  "I speak as a
man.  Tami has, quite in abundance, the gift that women have for multiple
orgasms.  I've always been quite jealous of that capacity that women have."
Rod nodded.  He barely knew these men, had nothing in common with them,
except of course that they were all men.  Maybe that explained why they
seemed to be, surprisingly, on the same wavelength as he. "Forgive me for
being so intimate, but a man experiences orgasm, ejaculates, and then is
quiescent, unable to go further.  But women...  I ask you to imagine
experiencing such an intense climax, and then, a few seconds later,
experience another one just as intense?  And yet another, a few seconds
after that?" Rod, a little embarrassed, looked down as he nodded. "I simply
cannot imagine how that must feel, after the intense and final catharsis,
to continue to be aroused and experience another explosion of pleasure,
another final catharsis." Dr.  Abu Jamal, stilted and formal, was getting
downright eloquent and flowery.  Indeed he had always felt a little jealous
of Tami's orgasms, a jealousy that competed with guilt knowing that so many
of them had been unwanted.  "It seems to me like eating a huge chocolate
bar, then another, then another.  After one bar, I would not want anything
sweet for a while. "But even among multiply orgasmic women, Tami is
special. Understandably, given her past, she does not like her orgasms to
be counted.  But we are aware that there is a small, shall we say, club of
female undergraduates who devote themselves to her pleasure." "Yes, I
know," Rod said.  He decided to volunteer information which might be
helpful.  "They're called the, uh, Tami Lickers.  Or the 'TL's' for short."
Dr.  Abu Jamal and Dr.  Kantor nodded, as if they already knew. "At any
rate," Dr.  Abu Jamal continued.  "We deduce that Tami experiences perhaps
thirty orgasms a day, each one considerably longer and more intense than is
reported in the literature as average.  It could be that her unfortunate
imprisonment in the equipment in Lab 6 increased her desire and her
capacity.  But maybe there is something else going on.  Maybe after the
chocolate bar, she eats something salty or bitter, so that the next
chocolate is welcome, and then she eats something salty again, making her
desire another chocolate..." "I don't follow you." "Maybe Tami suffers
constant, if unconscious, psychic pain.  Pain caused by the memory of her
freshman year, or perhaps by frustration at not being able to wear clothes,
or ongoing shame at being naked which in fact was never burned out of her,
which in fact continues to this very day.  That would be the salt.  And
each orgasm is a relief from that pain.  That would be the chocolate. 
Another woman would get to a certain point and say, 'OK, enough orgasms.'
But Tami still wants more." Rod shook his head.  "I find this idea of
'unconscious pain' hard to believe." "As you walked to this meeting this
evening," Dr.  Kantor said, "you were not conscious of your feet stepping
forward, one after the other.  Just as one can perform physical actions
without being aware of them, one can think thoughts, or experience
feelings, without being aware of them." After pondering this, Rod said, "So
you think her capacity is an attempt to get rid of the pain, like an
alcoholic who drinks to, uh, banish some memory." "Not a conscious attempt,
but an attempt.  Another analogy is, an average woman versus a drowning
woman.  The average woman paddles as she swims.  Each paddle is an orgasm.
The drowning woman paddles much faster.  A lot more orgasms." "You think
Tami is...  desperate, trying not to drown?" "Unknown," Dr.  Kantor said.
"Only in-depth psychoanalysis would reveal her inner dynamics.  They would
be brought to the surface and she would become conscious of them.  And that
is the comprehensive key to treatment.  Find out how her freshman year
trauma caused the allergy, and you likely find the solution to curing it.
But we dare not.  We just dare not." "Why not?" Dr.  Abu Jamal said, "In
the course of therapy one would rip away Tami's defenses.  In a sense those
are her only remaining vestige of clothes and we would be stripping her
even of those.  She would once again feel all that shame from her freshman
year, a shame that obviously she has suppressed.  And what if our guesses
are wrong, or there is more going on than we thought to address, and the
allergy does not abate at that point?  Tami would be naked and ashamed of
being naked -- and still not able to put on clothes." Dr.  Kantor said, "To
use a surgical analogy, you don't cut someone open unless you know you can
sew her up again.  Psychotherapy would be a disservice to Tami because we
are not sure we have the sutures to sew her up.  At worst she would end up
a frightened, dysfunctional creature, possibly descending into psychosis,
desperately trying to put on clothes she cannot touch without an
anaphylactic reaction." Rod had heard that word before used in connection
with Tami's allergy.  A person could die from an "anaphylactic reaction".
He remembered buying Tami that expensive dress, early in her sophomore year
after Ross had left and Jorgon had gotten fired and she was freed of having
to pretend she was a nudist.  And Tami's pitiful, pathetic reaction as she
told him for the first time that she had developed an allergy.  "Clothes...
please God...  clothes..." she had whimpered, falling to the floor and
stroking the forbidden fabric.  Now, he pictured her in a padded cell,
unable to wear a strait-jacket, flailing about, out of her mind, eyes
rolled back in her head as she screamed herself hoarse as doctors in their
coats and suits watched helplessly through the little window.  "CLOTHES! 
CLOTHES!  PLEASE!  CLOTHES!!!" He shook his head quickly, trying to shake
this horrible image from his mind. Dr.  Abu Jamal let this sink in before
he said, "You understand, Mr.  Sykes, why we asked you not to disclose to
Tami the content of this discussion." Rod nodded. The three men sipped
their coffees, changed their crossed legs, adjusted their pants and
jackets, looked down at their shined shoes, and contemplated the plight of
the nude girl. Finally Rod said, "So what remains?"



   Part 51

   "There is a possible behavioral explanation for her allergy," Dr. 
Kantor said, brightening a bit.  "An explanation that was staring us in the
face but we did not see it until recently.  The explanation involves simple
classical conditioning.  It is like Pavlov and his dog." "What?" Rod
thought he remembered this from the intro to psych course he took as a
freshman but he wanted to be sure. "A dog salivates when it sees food
nearby.  Professor Pavlov rang a bell whenever food was about to be given.
Ultimately the dog salivated when it heard the bell, even though no food
had appeared." "Right...  So?" "Think about Tami's experience.  She comes
to Campbell-Frank as a freshman, clothed and insecure.  A year later she is
popular, loved, by you especially, amazingly creative, getting straight
'A's.  And naked. "From what we know of her early interviews with us,
before the second week of her freshman year, she was clothed, she had no
sex life except for very occasional masturbation.  Now, she has what
appears to be a fulfilling sex life with you, and a small army of friends
whose sole purpose in life is apparently to give her as many intense
orgasms as possible.  Clothed, no sexual peaks.  Naked, she has dozens a
day." Rod looked down at the coffee set.  "I see what you mean." "She has
associated nudity with love, nudity with scholastic excellence, nudity with
creativity, and above all, nudity with sexual pleasure." "Not just sexual,"
Rod pointed out.  "She gets a lot of pleasure feeling the ground underneath
her bare feet, the wind against her breasts...  Her bare skin touching
everything around her." He smiled with a bit of embarrassment.  "I'm
jealous, tell you the truth.  This sounds wack, but I wish I could go
around naked too, roll around in the grass like she does.  So long as no
one sees me." They all laughed, which broke the tension. "Our theory," Dr.
Kantor then said, "is that the allergy represents the contrapositive of
this association." "The -- what?" "Given a statement, 'If A, then B', the
contrapositive is, 'if not B, then not A'.  If a statement is true, then
the contrapositive is always true." "Oh." Again, a vague memory was
triggered, maybe from high school algebra. "Meaning," Dr.  Kantor said,
"that Tami associates nudity with pleasure, and has extended this to
associate clothing with pain.  Hence, the allergy to clothes.  If the, as
you say, the 'TL's', have been especially active and successful lately in
their attempts to drive Tami to greater orgasmic heights, this would also
explain the recent advancement of her allergy.  It has only strengthened
the association and hence the contrapositive reaction." This was a lot to
absorb.  But after chewing this over, Rod said, "That -(TM)s irrational. 
Tami could be clothed and still have my love, and be creative, and have
orgasms and all that stuff." "Yes, but irrational does not stop something
from being effective, at least not in classical conditioning.  Let's say
you were Pavlov's dog.  Or that we devised an experiment where, I don't
know what you like, say it's a steaming hamburger." "That'll do." Rod was
in fact getting hungry. "And we sounded a bell just before it was served.
You would eventually react like Pavlov's dog did, salivating, or maybe your
nostrils flaring, just at the sound of the bell.  You would say to
yourself, 'this is silly', but the bell would still sound and your nostrils
would still flare." Rod thought for a moment.  "I think this, at least, we
can tell to Tami." "True," Dr.  Abu Jamal said readily.  "From this point
on, I want you to explain to Tami everything we are about to discuss.  If
she wonders why we called you here alone, tell her it would be awkward and
perhaps impolite to discuss conditioning her with her sitting there." He
pointed to another chair next to them.  Rod pictured Tami's nakedness
sitting on that chair, her bare butt on the cushion, a contrast to their
full sets of clothes, her bare toes maybe idly grabbing the coffee table.
He thought of her reaching over with her toes and caressing his dick
through his pants.  This got him hard and then he had to shift in his
chair. He sensed they were finally getting somewhere and was eager to learn
more.  With a touch of raillery he said, "What's the plan, gentlemen?"
"Break the connection," Dr.  Kantor said.  "Get her to associate clothing
with pleasure.  Put clothes on her while she is experiencing orgasm."
"Sounds straightforward enough." "It's not a sure thing.  There might be an
unexpected interaction with some deeper psychodynamic which would even make
the allergy worse.  Also, even if, as we expect, it is straightforward, it
will not be easy, because both elements of the association are extremely
strong.  Tami's nakedness has been utter -- possibly nobody in the history
of the human race has been so naked for so long, in relation to the
person's surroundings, a nude in the middle of a world of the clothed,
often HEAVILY clothed, as when she walks barefoot and naked through snow in
the middle of the campus.  And Tami's orgasmic pleasure has been so great
as to be perhaps unique.  It is off the scale." Dr.  Abu Jamal got up to
his desk and came back with an oversize leaflet which he handed to Dr. 
Kantor. "As you know, when we discovered that Tami's consent to the
experiments in Lab 6 had not been properly obtained, we destroyed all the
records we had made of those experiments.  This included brain wave studies
done during her stages of arousal and climax.  To emphasize our
contriteness we gave the floppy disks to Tami personally -- we were still
using floppies at the time -- and she did the erasing herself, in this very
room." Rod looked over at the computer next to the desk.  "But one record
of her responses does survive: the replication experiment she volunteered
to do when she heard our accreditation was in danger." Rod remembered that,
the airplane trip to Chicago, the brightly lit stage with the dildos, Tami
heaving into ten orgasms surrounded by the rows of professors taking notes,
during the climactic moments looking up at him for support with mixed
feelings of love and shame. As Dr.  Kantor opened the loose leaf, Rod said,
"You folks owe Tami a hell of a lot of thanks." Dr.  Abu Jamal said, "It is
not an overstatement, Mr.  Sykes, to say that we would sacrifice our
professional reputations for her if required." "See this chart," Dr. 
Kantor said.  "These are Tami's delta waves at plateau, orgasm, plateau
again, orgasm again...  Delta waves are 'pleasure waves', as has been shown
in a variety of contexts." "Like when eating chocolate?" Rod meant this as
a little joke but Dr.  Kantor said, with a straight face, "Actually yes. 
Chocolate studies have been done...  During this plateau/orgasm series
here, see how the delta waves were particularly prominent.  This was during
--" he pointed to another squiggly line in the chart, lower down, "a
certain type of clitoral and Graffenberg spot stimulation." "It would
probably be more effective, from a brute force standpoint, to work on the
'pain' end of the association, giving her electrical shocks when naked and
stopping them as she puts on an article of clothing.  But that would be
inhumane and besides, we want to her to be free to be naked when she wants.
We propose instead to work on the 'pleasure' end of the association.  If
clothing could be introduced exactly during that time, perhaps just a small
article at first, then taken away as stimulation ceased, then introduced
again -- " Rod suddenly sat up.  "You're not suggesting strapping her into
that -- Lab 6 -- thing --" "We would hate to do that," Dr.  Abu Jamal said.
"Lab 6 has been boarded up for three years.  The equipment has been
disassembled but is still there.  It probably is not a good idea anyway
because in Tami's mind the equipment has a bad association of its own.  But
it occurred to us that such a mechanical process, the thrusting of dildos
into Tami's vagina and rectum, and the suctioning of her nipples, is too
crude for the split-second timing and delicate manipulation of her genitals
that would be required." Rod swallowed and said, "I will...  perform with
her if that's what's needed." "Actually, more than one set of tongues and
fingers will probably be required.  Tongues and fingers that are intimately
familiar with every nuance of Tami's reactions..."

   By the time Rod came home it was almost ten o'clock.  He was really
hungry now and hoped there was enough in the refrigerator to put together a
sandwich.  Also he needed a full stomach to think about the mouthful Drs.
Abu Jamal and Kantor had said at Chalfont and think about what to tell
Tami. He came in to the kitchen and Tami was at the table, sitting at it
instead of on top, dawdling over a cup of tea.  When she saw him she came
up and hugged him.  She seemed sad.  They separated and she held his hands
in front of her.  Then she brought her limber leg up and placed her foot on
top, grasping over his hand with her flexible toes. Rod looked down and
playfully and made the standard chimpanzee sound when Tami used her feet
like hands.  "Ooo ooo ooo." Tami smiled wanly and looked down at her toes.
Rod gave her toes a closer look and his eyes widened. On her third toe,
where the wedding band used to be, was a tattoo! It was exquisitely made,
evidently done at that place in town.  It was in the shape of a ring,
taking up the area formerly hidden by the band.  In spiderly but flowing
words it read across her toe, "I belong to Rod," with a heart. Rod tried to
form words but couldn't.  Getting a tattoo, marring her perfect nudity, was
always one thing Tami was against.  As was he. "I just had to, Baby," she
confessed through moist eyes.  "I want the world to know I'm married to you
but I can't wear that ring even for one minute now.  It burns like fire. 
And I can't wear a ring on my finger either.  Not even a little necklace.
Baby, I don't know what's happening to me!!"



   Part 52 Snow.

   On the morning of April 4, Tami and Rod woke up at the same time, Tami
on the hardwood floor, Rod on the bed.  Though it was before sunrise the
bedroom was bright and silent.  They knew what it meant.  Wordlessly they
padded to the bay window and saw the white mounds and valleys, the fluffy
white cotton balls encoating the recently sprung buds on the shrubbery,
luminous in the predawn light. The April blizzard, a yearly tradition up
here in the Vermont north country. As Rod watched, Tami slid open the glass
door and stepped out, her bare feet silently and effortlessly fluffing
through the soft white stuff.  Rod crossed his arms, shivering in his
pajamas, as his wife strolled nakedly and languidly through the drifts, at
one point up to her thighs, as relaxed as if she were sauntering along a
warm beach.  Then she sat down in the luminous snow.  Tami had no fear of
being naked in the snow, she knew that it was harmless for short periods,
plus she had built up a resistance to the cold far greater than a normal
person's.  Still, Rod cringed as he imagined the tiny flakes pressing up
into her pussy and her little brown-skinned sphincter. Now she lay back,
and stretched herself out into an 'X'.  She seemed in position to make one
of her 'snow angels' but for her mood.  The snow was so deep that he could
only see the tips of her breasts, disembodied nipples poking out from
behind the drifts. Tami had gotten to love playing in the snow.  She was a
great one at throwing snowballs at friends on campus, a long left-handed
sidearm delivery that would reach a surprised Trent or Gretchen from
halfway across the quad, before laughingly running away from any
counterattack, her toes kicking up bits of white behind her.  Or spending
half an hour hefting rolled-up white boulders across the field in front of
the art building, painstakingly building a snowwoman (always a female, with
breasts and a "V" below) while half the campus walked by. But now she
seemed almost like she was lying down in the snow to die.  It was very
unsettling. She had been depressed since he came back last night and showed
him the tattoo on her toe.  Giving her the Chalfont doctors' explanation
for her allergy improved her mood a little, but just a little.  She must
have been aware of the advance in her allergy over the past few months, and
it was touching that it began to concern her only when it meant she could
no longer wear her wedding ring.  But she had gotten to love being naked
and the prospect of a program to get her back into clothes did not seem to
excite her much. Maybe she sensed that the doctors had told more to Rod
than he let on.  A couple of months ago she said they were holding back on
her.  Maybe she was still sensing that.  Hence the lack of any relief as to
a theory of her allergy finally being disclosed. Rod was so lost in his
thoughts that it gave him a start to see Tami rise out of the snow, like a
corpse coming to life.  The sun was rising and the pale light graced her
bare shoulder and hip as she approached.  Her head down, she padded back to
him, then hugged him, the snow on her bare skin chilling him as it melted
through his pajamas.  Then she knelt down and without closing the sliding
glass door behind her, took his limp dick out of his bottoms and started
sucking him. He wanted to tell her to stop, she was doing it so joylessly.
But her technique was so good, and it occurred to him that she was sucking
him as therapy for herself as well as for his pleasure.  Maybe as a kind of
recompense for not being able to wear the ring that bound her to him. 
Though of course that was not fair.  The tattoo around her toe was far more
permanent that any ring that one could slip off. Rod looked up at the snowy
back yard, the trail incongruously made by bare feet, breathed in the cold
air, looked down past his wife's head at the bits of snow stuck to her bare
butt cheeks, and rose up and deposited a full load of semen down Tami's
throat.  She gulped it down to the last drop and kept sucking until the
last, weak spasms, then took his softening, floppy dick out and kissed it.
She got up and hugged him again and he felt about to cry. He followed her
as she went to the kitchen.  Even though it was morning, she popped open a
can of Naragansett, the cheap beer she knew from Providence that for some
reason one could buy at the supermarket up here in Campbell County,
Vermont. She sat in her usual cross-legged position on top of the table as
she sipped it. "I can't lie to you, Baby," Tami said, looking down at her
nipples, wet with the melted bits of snow, "I have a feeling something bad
is about to happen.  I can feel it in my nips." She could pick up
barometric pressure with her nipples, it had long been clear.  And could
sometimes pick up other people's thoughts with them.  But foretelling the
future was a new ability. "Like what?" he felt compelled to ask. "I don't
know." Another sip.  "I don't feel well.  I think I'll call in sick today."
Tami had always been driven by a work ethic and the need to impress.  Kind
of like he was, though with him it was the words his parents had brought
him up with, the words of Martin Luther King, Jr.  -- "burn the midnight
oil", "I hate being even one minute late".  With Tami, he took it as an
expression of Catholic guilt, original sin.  So this calling in sick was
unusual.  He felt like she wanted to be alone for a while.  So after
sitting around a few moments, he got showered and dressed and went to work.

   The return of snow brought the return of Yvette, once again having
broken up with Pierre, once again dancing at Teaser's and calling up Tami's
house, this time without getting into trouble and leaving it for Luci the
manager to call. "Um, OK/.  Sure," Tami said.  It was after supper and she
and Rod were sitting around glumly watching T.V., almost as if waiting for
the bad thing that Tami had predicted to happen. Yvette needed a place to
crash tonight but was not in crisis.  She simply needed time for a callback
from a friend in Montreal she could stay with.  Now that she was in that
kitchen again, the kitchen she had such fond memories of, she felt a little
guilty, like she was intruding.  There was no atmosphere of gaiety.  Tami
the Naked Girl, the girl who was allergic to clothes, seemed preoccupied,
depressed.  Even her big brown nipples seemed to droop down a little, not
stiff and perky as usual. Fortunately Tami's coffee was as terrible as
before. "Oh, sorry," Yvette said, as she coughed upon the first sip of the
bitter, grounds-filled fluid and spilled it across the table. Tami looked
at her for a moment and then giggled.  It was good to see.  She reached
over with a napkin and cleaned up the spill, her breasts jiggling and
dancing as they pointed downward. After she was done Tami said, "You look
better than last time." "Much.  Partly because of you.  Merci.  My dancing
is better now too.  I think I like it." Tami began to roll her eyes but
then corrected herself.  "OK. "Want to see my new costume?" Tami hesitated
but then said, "Sure." Yvette found herself back in that bathroom, with the
big enema bag near the toilet, and remembered her first conclusions as to
how weird this naked girl was, the enema bag, the smell of vomit that she
attributed to Tami being bulimic but later realized had been her own,
seeing the naked white girl in a kitchen full of black people. In a moment
she was out in the kitchen, proudly showing off what she wore at the
beginning of each set.  A lacy black bikini top, a black g-string with
feathers that stuck out from the waistband, and over it, a sheer red
baby-doll cape.  On her sock-ess feet were high heels with clear glass
soles.  Yes, a typical outfit for a topless dancer, but she liked to think
of it as a bit classier than the usual. As Yvette stood there, tottering on
the high heels, hands on her hips, her 32B breasts stuck out just so, Tami
applauded.  And then, her expression getting more serious, looked Yvette up
and down and walked around her, eyeing her from every angle.  It was a
little disconcerting.  At first she thought Tami was getting turned on. 
Some of the other dancers had made lesbian advances and she still didn't
know how to deal with it.  She didn't dare tell Pierre -- having a
threesome was one of his announced fantasies and if he got wind of it, well
he could be quite overbearing when he wanted something, especially
something sexual.  It still hurt a little when she swallowed, from that
time he forced his dick into her mouth. But then it seemed like Tami's
interest was more clinical, like a doctor doing an exam.  And it was odd
being in this skimpy outfit and yet feeling so dressed next to Tami's utter
nakedness.  She looked down and saw Tami's strong, tanned bare feet next to
her pale white toes strapped into the high glass heels.  And looked
sideways at Tami's plum-colored pussy hair next to her g-string with the
feathers and the baby doll over it.  Even at Teaser's you weren't allowed
to take off your bottom, though some of the girls cheated in the lap dance
booths.  Yet Tami went around bottomless all the time, in public no less.
Tami touched the feathers and said, "If you don't mind," and cinched about
an inch of the waist band between two fingers.  "Does this fit better?"
"Why, yes." The g-string was a little awkward.  She thought that was to be
expected.  But with it taken in like that, it fit her like a second skin.
"I think the bra could use more room in the cups, and a smaller band." She
let Tami's fingers gently tug at the lace so that her breasts jiggled a
bit. "Oh that's a shame, this cost a hundred dollars." "What!  Oh...  a
hundred Canadian?" "Oui." "You don't have to buy another.  This can be
altered.  Look, why don't you let me do it?  I can do it tomorrow.  You can
stay another day." "Merci.  Thank you." Tami looked up at the clock.  It
was seven and getting dark. "Cold outside," Yvette said.  As if Tami
wouldn't know. Tami looked down at her nipples.  "Yes, it's going to be
clear and cold the next few days.  Below freezing." She looked at Yvette
with a smile.  "I bet Homer's flooded the rink.  Want to go skating?"
"What? Skating?" She looked down at her glass heels, then at her boots that
she had taken off in the hall, then at Tami's bare feet, then up at the
rest of Tami's bare body.  "I'm not sure..." "You're Canadian, for goodness
sake.  You MUST know how to skate!" "Well..." She had skated as a kid but
it had been a long time. "C'mon, you can rent skates there.  I'll get mine.
Get dressed.  Let's go!" A few minutes later, she watched Tami fling what
looked like a little sandal bag into the back seat and cringed as she saw
the bare buns settle onto the freezing vinyl of the front seat of the
Volkswagen.  They were headed into town.  Just like before, only now it was
nighttime.  She remembered that bright snowy morning, walking with this
naked girl down the main street, the naked girl who proudly showed her
newly pedicured toes to that old lady and her professor friend, spreading
them as they sparkled, encrusted with snow, in the bright morning sunshine,
then opening her pussy lips and making her little thing jump in the cold
winter air as everyone watched.  Weird, but happy.  A happy woman, this
Tami was.  She wondered why she had seemed so depressed a while ago. As the
outdoor rink came into view, all lit up with lights strung around it and a
crowd of skaters circling round and round, Tami said, "Yvette, I'm glad you
came!" Yvette smiled, feeling good about herself.  Tami was like that.  She
made you feel good about yourself.

   The roads were horrible up in the mountains so it took Rod a long time
to get home.  By the time he dragged himself into the kitchen his eyes were
so tired from peering through that salt-sprayed windshield that he had to
get to sleep right away.  He only barely read the note from Tami on the
table, saying she was going skating with Yvette.  Yvette?  Was she back? 
Another Tami project, rescuing wayward strippers.  As if just being a
stripper wasn't wayward enough.  At least it looked like Tami had gotten
out of her funk.  With hardly another thought he stripped off as much of
his clothes as he had energy for and hit the bed face-down.

   They were in between songs in the big practice room and Sarge, up on his
stool, looking down at his stand, itched behind his ear with his baton as
he read from the papers in front of him.  Rod sat in the trombone section,
looking across the sea of black faces and the occasional white one,
especially Brigid in the clarinet section, trying to catch her eye.  She
was very fetching today, no jean jacket, but a purple sweater over a white
collared shirt.  Some girls looked good no matter what they wore.  The
strands of Brigid's red hair, long and loose, played over the shoulders of
the fluffy sweater. Alas, Brigid wasn't looking at him.  Her attention was
fixed on Sarge as he went over the new invitation.  "Now, this is a big
step for us, the Winter Carnival at Killington.  We've never been at an
event like that before.  We'll be doing straight marching, but the affair
is kind of, how shall I say it, glitzy.  You notice the uniforms are gone,"
he said, motioning to the empty coat racks around the perimeter of the
room. "Some shiny piping is being put in.  But we won't be doing any
different moves, just what we did basically at the Patriots pregame in
Foxboro. "Now, this is at night, the middle of winter, up in Vermont.  It
will be cold.  The thermal underwear that some of you were wearing in
Foxboro, well some of it was too bulky.  A couple of you looked like you
were about to explode." There was some laughter; everyone knew exactly the
kids he was talking about.  "So the school has decided to spring for
streamlined thermals, made especially for marching bands.  We have to get
the orders in right away.  Let me know now.  Who is going to be wearing
thermals?" He looked up and saw almost everyone raising their hands.  He
counted.  Now Brigid's hand slowly rose to join the others.  Sarge laughed.
"Not you!!", and good-naturedly waved her hand down with his baton.  Brigid
put her hand on her lap and stuck out her lower lip in an exaggerated pout.
After he had taken the count, Sarge said, "OK, enough talk.  Let's get to
'National Emblem'." He raised his baton and waited for the shuffling of
sheet music until everyone was ready. His baton still up, Sarge covered his
eyes and said, "Sorry, I just had a vision of our band being led by a
majorette in long johns." He shook the thought out of his head as some of
the kids laughed.  Then he looked at Brigid.  "Don't worry, it won't be a
long march.  And not like that last game.  No standing still in the
freezing rain while some old guy gives an endless speech." Brigid,
remembering, momentarily dropped the clarinet from her mouth to say,
"Zhhhh!" and shudder.  Debra and Virginia and some of her other girlfriends
giggled in sympathy. Baton still up, Sarge said, "By the way, we'll be
marching on packed snow, so the majorette's footwear is being revised to be
more secure.  Also, some other uniform changes." Tentatively, Brigid said,
"Like what?" "Well I understand they're doing away with the circlets. 
Okay, let's go!" His baton went down for the first beat.
"Thhhhbbbvvvvssshhhzzz!!!" It was a spectacular flub, from the suddenly dry
lips of the trombone section. The room burst out with laughter as if it had
been the world's loudest fart. "Goodness that was horrible," Sarge said,
cutting off the tune.  "Let's try again." He raised his baton.  "Let's go!"



   Part 53

   Once again, Acting Dean Anthony Noyes looked out the big bay window of
his ninth-floor office, this time onto a campus white with the aftermath of
the annual April blizzard, and once again beheld Tami Smithers, the all but
certain valedictorian, this time hanging from a bare tree whose branches
were thick with white.  Her legs crooked back over the branch, red toes
wiggling, she was conversing with some friends who were standing around,
apparently in the process of climbing down when they arrived.  Her short
plum-colored hair hung down a bit, her face a little flushed as one would
expect.  Her breasts, tight and hard as always, tended ever so slightly
downward in their upside down position.  Her arms hung down to the ground,
fingers playing in the snow.  In her stretched out position one could see
her firm, concave tummy, the secret envy of every woman on campus.
Presently she flipped her feet forward and somersaulted onto the ground,
snow up to her ankles, with the nonchalance of a trained gymnast.  Now,
bookbag slung over her bare shoulder, casually skiffing the snow ahead of
her with her toes, she continued chatting with them as they made their way
down the concourse. It was poetry in motion, the beauty of the feminine
form at its utmost, the true essence of femininity, the spirit expressed in
flesh, that had inspired DaVinci, Velasquez, Renoir... "Look at those
titties!  Lord Almighty!" Noyes closed his eyes in quiet toleration as he
heard the not-unexpected babblings of the college lawyer. The "new" college
lawyer, that is.  After the departure of Henry Ross the Hiring Committee,
shell-shocked by the revelations, had overreacted.  They hired an old
friend of Professor Emeritus Jan Latimer, one George Halifax, who was to
Henry Ross as matter is to anti-matter.  Or maybe the other way around. 
They wanted to turn the page on Henry Ross, secretive, wiry and thin,
always impeccably dressed, with a background as a prosecutor, and a maze of
complicated and, it turned out, evil thoughts behind his Sphinx-like face.
George Halifax was grossly overweight, and was always stuffing himself with
pretzels or potato chips, many of which could be found between the couch
cushions in his cluttered, disgusting office.  His tie always rebelled at
staying tied around his bulging neck, his shirt at staying tucked.  He
babbled constantly and sometimes incoherently at anything that might cross
his mind, usually not touching anywhere near his legal experience, which
had been mostly in entertainment law. He also talked very often and very
fondly about his wife Ethelinda, whom Noyes had met at a luncheon once, as
she and George crowded everyone out from the buffet table.  Ethelinda
weighed only slightly less than George.  Try as he might, Noyes could not
help contemplating the logistics involved in their sex life, which George
referred to often, and which, Noyes concluded, must require some kind of
winch-like device. "Man, those nips must be rock hard in that cold!  What a
super woman!  Isn't she a babe?  You got to admit -- " "Yes, she is
attractive, George," Noyes said limply, trying to shut him up.  What could
he do?  George Halifax had one thing in common with Ross, and that was that
knowing what he did about the Tami Smithers affair, he was basically
unsackable.  And he had a good heart (being the Anti-Ross) and seemed to
know enough about the law to -- well, as Noyes said to Professor Girardo at
a faculty party, "He'll do for now." Halifax popped a pretzel into his
mouth (he had a batch in his jacket pocket) and munched as he watched Tami
as intently as if he were 18 again and watching a peep show in Times
Square. "Now George -- " "Really a super woman," Halifax continued. 
"Popping off 136 times in a row!  Can you imagine that?  iI know it wasn't
her idea, but even now, I bet she could rattle off a few dozen between
classes, with the help of her army of pussy lickers.  Girls just have it
all over us guys.  Me, my record is three, and that took all night.  E (his
shorthand for Ethelinda) tried and tried to get another but I was limp as a
wet noodle and half dead." Again, Noyes thought of winches.  He tried once
again to interrupt these observations, the likes of which Halifax had made
many times.  "George!" "What?" "George, we have to talk about this new
development." "What?" Halifax spat out a speck of pretzel as he spoke, his
eyes still glued on Tami. "The unfortunate news about her brother." "Oh,
man," Halifax said, wiping the pretzel flecks of his jacket as some hit
Noyes -- "sorry" -- then he observed, "That's rough, ain't it.  What a dry
socket that hellhole is.  What a monumental f***up!  And most of the world
saw it coming!" Noyes nodded. Halifax continued, "At least he's not a
casualty." "No, thank God for that." Noyes looked out over the horizon. 
"Almost four thousand dead, fortunately not yet including Joseph Smithers,
age 20." "Not so fortunate for the four thousand...  This will be a big
blow to her." Halifax made a futile effort to straighten his tie, something
he did automatically about 500 times a day. Noyes quickly reviewed, "He was
supposed to return in May, to help with the father's hardware store, which
is struggling.  The father's health isn't too good either." "Yes, he drinks
a lot of beer, probably in heart attack country," Halifax said, without
irony. "So what can be done?" Noyes said. "I looked into it like you said.
Not a good idea to make this known before the news is officially out.  But
then we can send a signal to the International." "Is that all?  Can't we
get her home before the semester ends?  Give her her degree early?" "Don't
you think that would raise eyebrows?  I mean, be honest." Halifax was
right. Noyes had been thinking of how to avoid the commencement, only six
weeks away, with the very naked Tami Smithers on view for the local cameras
and, horror of horrors, finally attracting the national press.  The local
press had been tactful, but the national press was full of vicious armchair
masturbators...  The name of Campbell - Frank would be synonymous with
"radical nudist college"... But, George was right, trying to avoid the
commencement situation was probably impossible.  So maybe angling to get
Ms. Smithers a (bare) leg up on the International was the best hope.
Consuming another pretzel, which was his idea of a diet (his usual
pocket-stuffer was cookies), Halifax said, "It's safe to talk to Girardo
about amending her application." "Oh, good.  That's very good." Somehow
Halifax had gotten Professor Albert Girardo, Chair of the Fashion
Technology Department, to play ball.  Which Noyes had never been able to
do. Give Halifax that much, he could be a successful schmoozer.  Maybe
because he was so honest about his intentions.  Another stereotype about
lawyers, shattered. "Should we do it on our own?" Noyes said.  The
application had a separate section to be filled out by the sponsoring
institution, which the candidate did not see.  They could put the words of
Tami's family hardship there. "Yes, from what we know of her, she won't
want any special consideration." Munch, munch, swallow.  "Best keep it
secret from her." Noyes shook his head.  "She might need such special
consideration, with those weird designs of hers." "Albert said something
which I think is right.  She's been naked so long, she probably forgot what
clothes feel like.  I hear she doesn't even think of herself as starkers.
She thinks her pussy hair and her head hair is her clothes." Noyes winced
at the language.  Despite all he had been forced to witness the past three
years, he was still a churchgoer.  Not like Halifax, who bolted from the
Catholic Church years ago. "When she gets back into clothes, it'll be a
shock." "You think so?" "I KNOW so." Another pretzel.  "The Chalfont people
figured that out a while ago.  The deal is, she gets her rocks off so much
while naked, her body now thinks that clothes mean pain.  This week they've
finally started a program to desensitize her." Noyes's eyes widened.  For a
long time Abu Jamal had refused to tell him what was going on over there.
"Why didn't you tell me that?" Halifax shrugged, causing the tail of his
shirt to finally pop out.  "You never asked me.  Uh oh, here she comes."
Tami, having taken leave of her friends, was heading toward the
administration building.  Whatever reason Tami had to come to them, they
dreaded having to face her, while keeping secret the bad news about her
brother.  It was impossible to lie to Tami Smithers.  Even keeping
something unsaid would be detected somehow, through those extra-sensory
nipples. Noyes and Halifax both exhaled as Tami turned to the right. 
Evidently she was going to the fashion building.  And now a big soft
snowball planted itself squarely into the bush of her plum-colored pubic
hair.  She dropped her bookbag and ran for revenge, her bare feet knifing
through the snow, no doubt soon to overtake her booted and heavily clothed
assailant as they both ran out of view. "The kid in clothes doesn't stand a
chance," Halifax observed.  The two older men were about to turn away from
the window when Tami re-entered their view, her flushed-skin nakedness
prone and wrapped over the shoulder of a tall athletic hispanic girl,
preceded by two other girls who carried one bare foot over their own
shoulders.  Tami's bare butt cheeks, wet with melted snow, glistened in the
sunlight.  It was like barbarians hauling off precious pillage after a
raid, and their captive did shout and beat her fists against the hispanic
girl's back, though her distress was only playful.  They carried their
naked captive out of sight, to a place unknown. "There they go again,"
Halifax said, munching another pretzel.  "What a sight.  This is better
than all that intense, graphic pornography.  I tell ya Tony, I love this
job!" . . . . Tahir Abu Jamal, M.D., Director of the Chalfont Institute,
checked the attendance list for the meeting, a meeting for which he was
late, which was kind of rude.  Ms.  Smithers and her six friends, who would
help with her desensitization to clothes.  Irregular, obscene in a way, but
he agreed with Kantor, who was right behind him.  Really, from a humane
point of view, the best way to do it.  Ms.  Smithers' allergy was formed in
the most invasive situation possible, a place of cold pistons and suction
cups, surrounded by unfeeling, if not outright sadistic, strangers, older
men.  It should be undone in an atmosphere of friendship and love. They
hurried down the hall to Lab 4, which consisted of chemistry tables
surrounded by high lab chairs, used in the old days for recombinant
research.  In these days of computer models, actual lab work was almost a
thing of the past.  He and Kantor opened the door and looked up -- "OHH...
Ohhh...  h - hello...  d - d - doctor..." Ms.  Smithers was up on the
nearest table on all fours, facing the two doctors who stood dumbstruck not
three feet in front of her gasping face.  Her nakedness was being attacked
from every quarter.  One of the undergraduate girls had her head resting on
the table, facing up to suck on one nipple while her hand twisted and
rubbed and stretched the other.  The nipples could withstand such
treatment, big and brown and permanently erect, having been mercilessly
bristled and suctioned in this very building...  Another TL reaching over
with a finger in her crotch.  Two others were seated behind her, each
holding an upturned foot in her hand as she sucked on the toes.  Another,
standing up, was running her tongue over the lithe, muscular bare
shoulders. Most jarringly, the sixth young woman was standing behind the
table, separating the buttocks with her hands, while her tongue was
noodling deep into Ms.  Smithers's anus. He had been expecting a seated
audience, waiting for his presentation.  He blinked and returned to eye
contact with Ms.  Smithers.  Everyone was, of course, very familiar with
her facial expressions while sexually aroused, and it was clear that she
was approaching a climax, perhaps not for the first time. "Y - yess...  d -
doctorrr -- OHH!  OHH!  H - how are yyyou -- OHH!  T - todayyyy -- EEEE!!"
As her eyes popped open her body bucked like a bronco as her six friends
held onto her, not allowing their ministrations to be detached for even one
second. He cleared his throat and decided to say what he had to say.  He
had heard that Ms.  Smithers did not like for proceedings to be interrupted
while her friends were licking her.  From what he understood, it was an
unspoken contest.  As their knowledge of her body increased, they were
determined to bring her to ever more intense orgasms, while she augmented
her self-control by the same amount. "Ms.  Smithers, ladies," he said,
briefly looking over to the quite preoccupied friends, "you have been given
a rough idea of this project.  Thank you for donating your time." "Ohhhh...
ohhhh..." As Tami's moans subsided into ragged breathing one became aware
of the sounds of the TL's, breathing heavily and sucking and licking.  The
woman with her tongue in Tami's rectum, who was facing him across the top
of the bare back, looked up him impassively, but the others did not seem to
acknowledge his existence. "After much study it appears that Tami's body
has..." Tami kept her eyes focused on him to the extent she could, though
her twitching eyebrows betrayed the continued stimulation on all her
sensitive areas.  But her friends appeared to be trained on her body, not
on his words.  Finally he put his foot down. "Ladies, I think you should...
sit and give me your undivided attention.  Please." So intent were they on
extracting another orgasm that Tami had to shake them off, like a dog
shaking off rain.  With obvious disappointment the six clothed young women
wiped their mouths and arranged themselves on the chairs.  The naked girl
stayed on the table, and sat cross-legged.  Tami was still catching her
breath, her breasts heaving, her tummy expanding and contracting.  The TL's
were, also, catching their breath. Dr.  Abu Jamal and Dr.  Kantor pulled up
a couple of chairs and sat down.  After allowing silence to sink in, the
Chalfont Director spoke. "Tami wants to wear clothes." "Awwww...  " The
expression of disappointment and pouting lips from the TL's was playful but
also heartfelt.  They wanted Tami to be always naked so the sight of her
beauty would never be denied them.  But they knew it would be a disservice
to Tami for her allergy to continue, especially with her about to graduate.
"Her body has associated nakedness with pleasure.  Somehow, it has formed a
contrapositive reaction, associating clothes with pain.  We are here to
undo that association.  Now I have some brief handouts here for you to
read..." . . . . The big atrium of the rec hall was permeated with the
smell of sweat, which of course was not unusual.  Only at the moment it was
just one person's sweat.  Mixed with the smell of female sexual arousal. It
was a crowd by any definition, dozens of students in rec room attire
(T-shirts, shorts, sneakers and socks), looking up at the "Hamster Wheel",
the double treadmill, and the naked laboring body up on it, Tami with her
bare feet pressing down on the blades, one foot after the other, the toes
curling over the edges. Arms pressing up againt the overhead bars, her
perfectly toned, tanned body was dripping with sweat.  Sweat ran down her
face, coated her arms and shoulders, dripped off her breasts, ran down her
concave tummy into the wet plum-colored forest at her crotch, down her
widely-spread legs.  Her eyes were closed as she concentrated intensely. 
Her heavy breaths were the only sound as everyone stood there enraptured.
Her pussy lips, slightly opened, glistened in the harsh lighting.  The
young men watching felt their dicks stiffen and were grateful for
jockstraps and long shorts that hid their arousal.  Dr.  Kantor, off to the
side, standing with his clipboard. Now, Spica, who had plenty of room to
stand below Tami's slightly spread pussy lips, carefully raised the dildo
up, up, closer...  as Rosaria, on a stepladder to the side, carefully
encircled a string around Tami's waist, closing in, in...



   Part 54

   "Good afternoon, Ms.  Smithers," Dr.  Kantor said, turning on the harsh
overhead hanglight in the freezing, abandoned lab. The naked girl, splayed
out on the black granite table, opened her eyes and raised her head, eyes
blinking in the sudden light.  She was surrounded by her friends, in gloves
and overcoats.  The doctor was right in front of her, she could see his
face through the forest of pubic hair at the junction of her widely spread
legs.  Being Tami Smithers, having gone naked for years, she felt no need
to close them as she responded, her breath making little clouds in the
still, sepulchral cold.  There was an element of shivering, from the cold
and also from sexual deprivation.  "I'm r - ready...  zhhhh..." Here in Lab
1, a cavernous subterranean space abandoned since 1955, the team went to
work. Fifteen minutes later, what seemed like agonizing stasis was actually
an approach to climax.  The naked girl's body writhed in frustration as her
body was gently, and inadequately, stimulated by the six TL's, none of whom
had taken off their coats or gloves.  Spica and Myra lightly licked the
brown, hard nipples that reached up in vain for greater stimulation than
was offered.  The rough fabric of Melissa's gloved hand scraped along the
concave tummy and along the arms.  Rosaria blew on the red, engorged clit,
almost steaming in the cold air, and licked along the inner thighs, but
never actually touched the clit or the pussy lips.  She had to raise her
head to avoid the straining pelvis as it lurched up with a groan from its
owner; she simply pushed the thighs down with her powerful arms and began
the licking and blowing again.  Barbara and Jeane, their noses red with the
cold, were holding the feet, licking and sucking on the toughened toes. 
The shadows of the TL's, harsh in the overhead light, lurched and receded
across the landscape of the always naked Tami, her butt and her heels
scraping against the rough granite as she writhed and moaned. Dr.  Kantor
stood to the side with his clipboard, his thoughts and desires hidden.  Now
he called Barbara away from her station.  Barbara pulled a flip-flop from
her coat pocket.  A single, solitary flip-flop, the merest possible
covering for the foot, and drew it closer to the straining toes of the
totally naked young woman, closer, closer... . . . . Rod sat alone, having
finished his makeshift supper, after another long day at the project. 
Another afternoon of military maneuvers.  More people not showing up, the
ranks always thinning. He was worried about Tami, even though she seemed a
little better the past couple of days.  He had assumed that Yvette would be
nothing but trouble, but going to the skating rink with her seemed to cheer
her up.  He wished he could have been there.  He wanted to see Tami happy.
Yet he could not get out of his mind what she had said that strange day
when she drank beer and stayed home, about getting the feeling that bad
things were about to happen. And he was worried about her "rehabilitation"
at Chalfont.  He couldn't imagine Tami in clothes.  He knew she had been a
normal clothed freshman her first week, so long ago, but he hadn't
remembered her then.  Like everyone else, he had only noticed her after she
had been stripped.  Thank goodness that first encounter in the dorm lounge
had worked out well, when he had sat in front of her and Jen and ended up
convincing her to run for dorm rep.  Of course, what he took for normal
freshman shyness was actually a deep, cringing shame at being naked in
public...  And then that even bigger risk, inviting her to the Black
Formal. He was always thankful to Jen for convincing her it was O.K.  to
go. So Tami wearing clothes?  Even the idea seemed strange.  He had seen
her playing on the computer, putting her head onto the clothed bodies of
other women, and it always looked fake. He hoped it would work out.  She
had finally gotten motivated, having been freaked out by not being able to
wear her wedding ring and having that blue ring tattooed ont her toe.  He
had been told that the TL's would be helping out, and it was just as well
that he not be involved.  He wouldn't feel comfortable licking Tami with
people watching. Now as it was getting dark he heard the slopping of bare
feet in the slush outside, then the rubbing of tough soles on the doormat.
She surprised him by flinging the door open and bursting in with a loud
"HI!" Then she stood there smiling broadly, her hand placed on a saucily
jutted out hip.  "What do you think?" "About what, Babe?" She waited a few
beats and then -- "MY OUTFIT!" Her shout made him jump.  "W - what?" "MY
CLOTHES!!" He looked her up and down.  Aside from the tattoo on her toe
there seemed nothing to mar her perfect and total nudity.  But now she
swung her hips from side to side.  Then she raised her leg way up, and
gripped the counter with her toes. He peered carefully and saw some kind of
orange sliver between her pussy lips.  "What is that?  Polyester?" She
beamed with pride as she pulled her lower lips apart.  "The fabric isn't
the best, yet.  I call it a C-string.  It came to me in a dream a long time
ago.  I was sitting on a beach in California and these Mexican girls were
wearing thongs and...  well it's a long story.  But I got the idea after
they tried to put a string around my waist and put a flip-flop on.  That
didn't work, but this did.  It only took a few minutes to cut and put it
together in the fashion lab.  Gretchen helped.  I want to make it in
cherish." "Cherish?" "The fabric Gretchen and I are working on?" "Oh right.
How does it stay on?" "The C stands for clitoris.  The top ties around my
clit, and the bottom has a little ball that stays in my butthole.  See?"
She bent down to look at it along with him.  Indeed the top was a little
bud of fabric over where her clit would be. "Hi hi!" She did her trick of
bobbing her clit up and down.  Hidden behind the fabric, it looked like the
head of a modest women who had a sheet pulled over her. "Now watch!" With a
quick motion of her fingers and a little grunt, the C-string was off and
held triumphantly over her head.  The little ball was the size of a large
marble.  The whole item was about three inches long and half an inch wide.
Now she rinsed it in the sink and pressed it dry with a napkin.  And with a
little motion of her hips and fingers, it was back on again. "Oh Baby!" She
giggled and the C-string seemed to giggle too.  "Finally!  Clothes!  Dr. 
Kantor says this is the big breakthrough!  After this I can progress to
even more clothes!  Wheee!!" She hopped onto Rod's stockinged feet and they
kissed.  "Babe, I'm so glad," he said, more as a response to her happiness
than to anything else. Tami then hopped off him and dragged him into the
living room, breasts bouncing, taking little mincing steps that were
unusual for her.  She ran to the CD player.  As she bent over Rod could see
the C-string upside down, coming out of her butthole and disappearing
between into the bush between her legs.  Then she hopped up and stood
before the big full-length mirror. It was Madonna's "Vogue", a song she
rarely played.  As the beat began Tami twisted to and fro, posing like in
the video, all the time keeping her legs open, pushing her pelvis forward,
emphasizing the C-string, and maximizing its visibility.  "Clothes! 
Clothes!  Yay!" she chanted, giddy like a little girl. Rod laughed, taking
this to be a display of good-natured sarcasm.  "Clothes", indeed!  Hardly
more than a thread, lodged between her lower lips.  But as Tami continued
dancing in the mirror, kicking to the side, doing some slow cartwheels and
some other gymnast moves, his smile faded as he realized she really did
consider herself to be wearing clothes, genuinely thrilled to be in her
C-string. He even started to feel his eyes getting wet.  Yes, Tami had been
naked for over three years, had long ago gotten used to being naked, had
long ago lost any sense of modesty about every inch of her being on public
display at all times.  Yet he couldn't help but think that deep inside
there was still that frightened, modest 18-year-old, that Girl in the
Mirror, dying of shame at having to walk around naked, who was joyously
celebrating her dream come true, a happy ending to her fable at long last.
He thought of that long ride home, when he had picked her up in Providence
that dreary cold January day, the negative reaction of her father to seeing
his daughter taken up with a black man, the sudden break of clouds over
John Smithers's head when he decided it was OK, Tami's endless sucking of
his penis on the way up to Campbell-Frank.  That was probably the first
time she had seemed at ease with being naked.  Only later did he realize
that she was deeply ashamed, looking for any way out of her predicament,
desperate for any merest scrap of clothing.  Well, now she had it! The song
ended and Tami had worked up a sweat.  She playfully collapsed into Rod's
arms.  He kissed her deep, then held her away from him to look down again
at her precious wardrobe. "Tugs at your clit a lot," he observed. "Oh
Baby...  With every motion.  That's why it works.  It turns me on as I'm
wearing something." Her legs shook.  "It is time for a f**k!!" And she
pulled him toward the bedroom.  Halfway there she undid his fly.  She
pulled him the rest of the way via his floppy but hardening dick. . . . .
"Unhhh!  Unhhh!  OHHH!!" Tami was cresting into her eighth orgasm.  Rod
looked at the clock radio.  Thirty-two minutes.  Exactly one every four
minutes.  He reached up and kneaded her nipples to extend her orgasm.  She
yelped accordingly. After the last irregular spasms had spent themselves,
she exhaled and lay down on his chest.  She kissed him and then rose up to
begin the ascent to number nine. Rod looked at her sweating face in the
near-total darkness.  Then he looked at the C-string tied to the bedpost.
Then outside at the streetlight.  He thought of the 1991 World Series --
"Ummmm...  " An equation he had been working on on the dam site -- "Ooooohh
yeah...  " That strange sound the fan belt on his Jeep had been making --
"Zhhhhh...  oh wow..." He got distracted by Tami, who now rose up to the
crest of number nine.  "Eeee...  OHHH!  Oh Rod!!  OHHHH!!" Rather fast,
that one. Tami lay down on his chest again and stayed there, catching her
breath.  He expected her to rise up again but she just stayed there,
rubbing his sides.  Strange that she would be finished.  Nine orgasms was
usually just a warmup for her. He thought of the future, when Tami would be
wearing clothes.  After a few weeks her wonderful all-over tan would be
gone, replaced by the tan lines that white girls specialized in.  And her
ability to predict the weather with her nipples, and the sense she got of
other people's feelings, those would probably fade away in time too.  A
shame, really.  If only the whole world could be naked.  The naked Tami was
a kind of advanced human being that the world just wasn't ready for.  But
it would be all for the best.  As a naked woman after graduation, in the
world as it is, Tami would lead a severely restricted life, a life of
horrible loneliness in a way. Tami lifted her head and gave him a slow
kiss. Then she slid off his dick and scooted down.  She held the wet, hard
dick in her hand.  Then began licking up the sides.  Slowly,
philosophically, as if licking a lollipop while thinking on some profound
question. Rod smiled.  He didn't have to come.  In fact recently he hadn't
been coming at all.  "It's O.K., Babe," he said.  Using his standard line,
he said, "I'm a little tired anyway." Tami opened her eyes wide and said,
"Not...  if...  I...  can...  help...  it!" Then she sat up cross-legged,
straightened her throat, opened her jaw like a snake, and dropped her head
to consume more of Rod's dick than she ever had before. "Oh -- wow!" he
couldn't help saying.  How did she do that?  The head of my dick must be
all the way down her throat? "Gahhhh," was the grunting sound Tami made as
she pulled herself off his dick.  As she smacked her lips, strands of
saliva suspended from the tip.  The saliva in the bottom of the throat must
be really thick.  Then she rubbed his dick head with her fingers in a way
to make him jump. He watched her do that for a few seconds.  Then she tried
to speak but couldn't.  She cleared her throat.  Her voice was guttural as
she said, "Tonight, Rod, you will have multiple orgasms!" Rod laughed at
the joke, thinking of that time he had confessed to her that he was jealous
of her orgasmic capacity.  "Yeah, right Babe.  One is fine." "No, I've been
doing some research," Tami said.  "Ever hear of Tantra?" He remembered
reading about that a long time ago.  "You mean, where the man doesn't get
to come at all?" "No, no, you misunderstand," Tami said, casually slapping
his dick against her face.  "You come without ejaculating.  Take deep
breaths, stop before you spurt, then you feel the spasms.  Then they
subside and you go up again.  Only on the last orgasm do you ejaculate." He
was unconvinced.  "Sounds kind of...  contrived." "No, no...  the spasms
without spurting are an orgasm like a woman has.  Try it, please, Baby?"
Her green eyes were so wide and earnest.  It was impossible to say no to
Tami. As she started sucking him again he realized how well she knew his
body.  Probably she knew that his mind had been elsewhere during sex...  He
felt bad about being false to her.  But then all other feelings fell away
as his excitement rose.  Faster and faster, deeper and deeper, her bobbing
head took in his dick.  He breathed deeply as she had told him. He felt
himself getting up into "the zone", then felt that little gate open up in
the base of his dick, the "pre-cum"...  Tami sensed this and hopped up onto
all fours so that he could mount her.  He was more in control in this
position so he could be more careful. As he humped her he began to feel the
big rush inside him and stopped thrusting.  It subsided and he began
thrusting again.  Then it came up higher and he stopped again.  Breathe,
breathe... Now that wonderful instant when his whole body was flooded with
pure pleasure.  But this was not fleeting, it went on for several seconds.
Then his dick jumped and he felt the spasms, maybe four or five of them. 
But no spurting! He came down and then started thrusting again.  The big
rush again, his whole body on a high.  He just couldn't hold back this
time. He kept going and his dick erupted what felt like a quart of semen
into Tami's pussy.  It kept on and on.  It seemed like he would never stop
squirting. Afterward he flopped onto his back, gasping as if he'd just run
up a mountain.  Tami slid onto his chest.  When he seemed able to speak,
she ran her finger around his lips. "So, lover...  seemed like you did it."
Rod, back to earth now, was able to be objective.  "That was great...  but
weird." "You had two orgasms." "That first one was well...  I suppose it
was an orgasm." They lay there for a few moments. "Thanks Babe," he said.
"But you're still the champ.  I don't think I can ever..." "I'd say it was
a good start." They lay there and hugged.  He kissed her one last time. 
Within five minutes they were fast asleep. . . . . Rod straightened his
sleeve and looked down with mixed feelings at his new uniform.  He glanced
around and saw that he was in a big room.  Tunemasters uniforms were
milling all around.  Playing with the slide of his trombone, he decided to
sit down at one of the long tables near the sodas. He looked around for
Brigid.  She was not hard to pick out.



   Part 55

   He wondered why he was fiddling with his trombone.  Everyone else
almost, had their instruments over on those cabinets on the side of the
room.  It was a pretty big place, maybe a cafeteria or something for this
big ski resort, whose Winter Carnival the Tunemasters were marching in. 
Converted to a kind of waiting room for the marchers. He was still not sure
about these new uniforms.  Sarge had explained that the effect was to be a
bit more glitzy, so they had been jazzed up a little.  There were now
ruffles along the buttons and on the cuffs, and extra piping up and down.
He supposed it made them look taller.  The piping, though, was gold. 
Weren't the school colors supposed to be black and white? "I'm not quite
down with it either," his friend Jared said.  Jared had wisely put his
cymbals on the cabinets and was carefully sipping a soda he had gotten from
the little serving table, which had sodas and pretty much nothing else. 
Just something to wet everyone's lips, he supposed, to get ready for
playing.  Jared and Rod looked down their uniforms, at their jackets with
the big "T" over the right breast, the cummerbund, the long braided
trousers with the now-gold piping, down to the long black boots. He shifted
a bit.  This new thermal underwear, necessary because of the intense cold
outside, was a bit itchy. "Good thing it's not too hot," Jared said,
reading Rod's thoughts.  Their own thermals had gotten them hot while they
were inside.  These special-order ones didn't. "Yeah...  " He looked up at
the TV screen mounted from the ceiling.  A Vermont station, from
Burlington, a brief news break.  "And we will have live coverage of this
year's Killington Winter Carnival, starting next." And now a long view of
the route they would be marching, pure white, plowed snow, with ropes
marking off the "street".  Maybe there really was a street there in warm
weather, but you couldn't tell now.  Just to the side, a stand of skis and
other equipment, then a kiosk that led to a path to the ski lifts, with a
few people carrying skis to it.  A big contraption that looked like a
tractor, with a pile of snow behind it -- a snow making machine and a salt
water tank, someone said.  A little silo which contained a gift shop.  And
Christmas-style string lights hung over the route at intervals, held up by
poles on each side.  It was almost sundown -- for some reason this parade
was at night -- but it was still hard for the camera to adjust to the
sunlit whiteness.  The camera got a little better adjusted and now one
could see the orange electrical wires strewn along the sides of the packed
snow "street".  Lots of lights up. He looked around.  The room was mostly
full of Tunemasters kids but also there were some grown-ups.  Some
important-looking guys in top hats and white gloves, maybe the Grand
Marshals or something, talking to Sarge, who was in his usual bland
business suit.  Also some soldiers, a couple of old American Legion guys in
their boy scout-style caps.  Ladies' Auxiliary folks.  But mostly
Tunemasters.  About forty of them were able to make this trip and they
outnumbered the rest. He licked his lips and looked at the soda table. 
Jamal's lips didn't need wetting, he was percussion, but Rod wondered what
it would be like to blow into a trombone in such cold.  Yes, there was that
last game when it sleeted for a while, and that big parade before the
Patriots game, but this parade was actually below freezing.  As in, his
lips might freeze to his mouthpiece!  They had never marched outside in
January before.  It was already maybe 25 degrees and the temperature was
sure to drop once it got dark.  Fortunately there didn't seem to be any
wind. On the TV, two guys in ski outfits were talking in the foreground. 
In the background you could see people filling up behind the ropes. He
decided on soda, but it had to be clear so as not to make a stain on his
uniform if it spilled.  Luckily they had 7-Up.  He returned his trombone to
the cabinets and got a can and sipped. He took another view of the room. 
The new uniforms sure made the Tunemasters look different.  Before, the
effect was kind of military.  Now, with the luxuriant ruffles and piping,
and the big new shako hats with frills that a lot of them already had put
on, the effect was more like entertainment, like a big show in Las Vegas.
Jaycee, Virginia, Debra, Morganna, Sid, Ty, Jacob...  they all seemed to be
wearing more clothes, somehow, taking up more space.  And the gold piping
made their raiment seem all the more abundant.  It was not actually bad, he
decided, just different.  Hard to get used to. He wondered about the
changes to the uniform of the majorette, Brigid.  He looked around for her
but she was hard to find in all this finery.  A - ha!  Behind that clot of
flute and clarinet players, all girls, he saw two bare white butt cheeks
slightly sticking out in profile. He and Brigid had a special bond, he
knew, or he thought he knew, based on that on-field conversation at that
last game, but it hard been hard to build on.  He just couldn't screw up
the courage to ask her out.  Mostly he could just chat in the hall whenever
he saw her between classes.  It was a big high school and hard to "bump
into" someone accidentally-on-purpose.  And he couldn't think of anything
interesting to talk about.  "What's up?" He kept kicking himself for being
so inane. He took a deep breath, sipped from the can, and approached her.
As he walked up behind her he saw she was talking with Velda and Lourdes,
friends of hers from the clarinet section, who were straightening out their
jackets.  Brigid was enthusing about the new piping, feeling the fabric in
her fingers, testing the ruffles "That's so neat, pwiddy!" she said in her
"Pwovidince" accent.  "They'll get a big chahge out of that!" Rod looked
down past Brigid's bare shoulders and slim, bare back, and for a second he
thought she was totally naked!  But no, the strings that held the thong
bottom on were still there, they were just transparent now.  Kind of like
clear plastic, hard to see, and only what looked like an eighth of an inch
wide.  Also they didn't meet at a "T" like before.  They curved down, well
below her sacral dimples, and into her butt crack where they met.  Kind of
like a "V" in script.  Down below, she had on her backless majorette
sandals. "Oh hi Rod!" Brigid said, turning around.  He bit his lip as he
saw her pretty white Irish face, the freckles and the red hair set up in
braids.  "You look real nice!" As she smoothed his ruffles he looked up. 
Her little cap had disappeared. "Nice tiara," he said, thankful he could
remember the name for that little half-crown that was now on her head. 
With a "T" in the middle, otherwise just a little half-circle of metal or
maybe plastic, the ends going into her hair. Brigid turned her head side to
side as if modeling it. "What's that?  A headset?" There was a little piece
of it going into her ear. "No, just a speakah so I can heah Sahge," she
said, tapping it.  "This way he doesn't have to mahch right next to us, he
can give me directions to go fast, go slow...  And how about my new 'T's?!"
His eyes widened as he looked down to her chest.  The ever-shrinking
circlets were now gone.  In their place were black-and-white T's mounted on
her nipples.  They were maybe three inches high.  His mouth opened in
puzzlement.  Behind them he could clearly see the circles of her nipples, a
little below the junction of the "T".  They were about the size of
quarters. He had heard that white girls, their nipples were pink until the
first time they went out topless in the sun.  Then they turned brown and
never went back.  Brigid's nipples, as anyone could see, were pink, against
her white skin. Wasn't this against the public decency code?  Weren't
female nipples supposed to be covered?  He imagined the Tunemasters
majorette would know about such things.  But the "powers that be" must have
decided it was OK.  Maybe it was just the tip of the nipple, the part that
stuck out and supported these letters, that had to be covered. "Aren't they
great?" Brigid said, sticking them out slightly, proud of this change in
her uniform.  "The circlets were too small.  This way my 'T's are more
cleah." As she moved the T's danced a little. "Do they stay on OK?" he
couldn't help asking. "Sure, they fit right on." In the middle of each
letter was a little black circle, as big around as a pencil eraser, that
covered the nub of her nipple.  He couldn't imagine how these things felt.
"Better than those horrid old clips." "I'll say." He noticed people forming
a circle around them as Brigid explained the benefits of her new uniform.
Rod looked further down and saw that her uniform bottom, which used to be a
narrow "V", was now also a "T".  It was clear by now that Brigid had had to
shave off every bit of her pubic hair because her lower T covered only her
pussy lips and her clit, those private parts he had spied on during that
last game when Brigid was being "cleaned up" under the stands by Ms. 
Farkas and Debra and Virginia.  The T was way, way below her navel, maybe
eight inches of flat lower tummy framed by the larger "V" of her hip bones.
The junction of the T had to be right over where Brigid's clit lay hidden
between her lower lips... The clear plastic straps came around from the
sides, crossing the lower parts of Brigid's hip bones, and met at each end
of the T.  The bottom of the T was almost hidden as it disappeared between
her legs. "Looks a little insecure," Marisa, who was standing behind
Brigid, said of the strings in the back. "Oh this is called a V-back,"
Brigid said, turning around and looking back on it to the extend she could.
"It's actually more secuah than a T-back.  I can move around and it stays
put." Everyone looked down at the tiny transparent straps that curved into
her butt crack.  He couldn't help but continue to admire how tight and firm
and curvy her butt was.  Her white skin was beautiful and clear... "Your
sandals changed too," Brian observed. "Yeah," Brigid said, taking one off
and putting her bare foot on the tile floor, surrounded by everyone else's
big ruffled boots.  She held it up at the level of her cute puckered navel.
"See, no heel.  And it's got a tread." Indeed the sandals were now totally
flat flip-flops, with straps that were as transparent as those around her
hips.  And the bottoms did have black treads on them, like sneakers do.
"Snow flip-flops," someone said.  Everyone laughed, including Brigid. 
"Yeah, like tires," she said.  "It was eithah that, or chains," she said.
More giggling. As Brigid put the flip-flop back on, Rod looked down and
told himself: Brigid's entire foot is now exposed.  He regarded again the T
covering her pussy lips, and the tiny bit of coverage afforded by the T's
on her breasts. He held up the pinky on his gloved hand and told himself:
now she's down to less than this.  My pinky has more coverage than Brigid's
entire body does! This little chitchat was interrupted by Sarge, who was
followed by one of the men in top hats, a white guy with a beard about 55
years old, with a ribbon across his ruffled tuxedo-like jacket. 
"Tunemasters, this is the mayor, Mr.  Richfield, who's grand marshaling
this parade.  Mr.  Richfield, we're all proud of them, the Tunemasters!"
Rod and the others said a variation of "good to meet you", the standard
greeting they had been trained to say.  Comportment off the march was very
important, especially since the Killington resort was donating a big wad of
cash to the school for this appearance.  Mr.  Richfield said a few words
about how he was glad to have them here, how he'd heard about them even up
here in the Green Mountains, etc., etc.  Then he said,"It's traditional for
a photo of some of the visiting band members to be taken before the parade.
I'd like a couple of you to stand outside with me for a moment.  We've got
to hurry -- it's almost getting dark." Sarge said, "Well one of them has to
be our majorette, the other -- Jared?  Get your things." By that he meant:
Brigid, get your baton, and Jared, get your cymbals.  In a moment both were
hustling to the foyer and then outside, along with Sarge.  The rest stayed
inside and watched through the big foyer window, through which they could
see the marching route. The photographer, bundled up in his scarf and coat
and gloves and ski cap, was waiting out there for them.  The snow was a
little golden now, with the last rays of sunshine.  As Rod and the rest of
the Tunemasters watched, Jamal and Brigid stood on either side of Mayor
Richfield and smiled, trying not to squint as they faced the setting sun.
Jamal, with his cymbals posed in front of him as if about to crash, Brigid,
with her baton primly placed up against her left shoulder, next to the
Mayor.  Down below, a few grains of snow had dusted up on Brigid's bare
toes.  Her body was flushed from top to bottom in the invigorating cold.
The Mayor's white glove rested on Brigid's bare right shoulder.  Rod
thought: how does a middle-aged guy feel resting a hand on the majorette,
getting to feel her bare skin, if only through his glove?  Didn't he really
wish he was cupping her ass?  He smirked at the thought.
"Come on, Mr.  Watson," the Mayor said, beckoning for Sarge to get into
the photo.  Sarge modestly refused, but the Tunemasters, shouting through
the glass, egged him on.  Finally he shrugged and took his place next to

Jamal as the band inside cheered. Smiles stayed frozen on their faces as
the photographer fiddled with his camera.  A minute went by.  Finally the
Mayor took his hand off Brigid's shoulder and shook off the cold that was
penetrating him even through his suit and gloves and heavy boots.  One
might think that someone who lived up here would be more temperature
resistant.  "Something wrong, Fred?" he finally said. "The contrast with
the girl, she's too white, she blends with the snow," he mumbled.  At his
suggestion there was some shifting around.  Breaths condensed in the cold
air as Brigid got a little more flushed.  Maybe her increasing redness made
the contrast better.  Another minute later, the flash went off.  A second
flash, and now Brigid and Jamal and Sarge ran in to the foyer. They all got
back to the big "ready room" and Rod sat down and sipped his soda.  Jared
sat next to him and they talked about basketball, how the Celtics were
doing this year.  On the TV, it was amazing how dark it got right away. 
The two guys in ski outfits were still talking.  The sound was too low to
hear what they were saying. He turned around, sensing Brigid near him.  And
found himself staring eye-level with Brigid's crotch only a foot away.



   Part 56

   Rod turned from where he was sitting and found himself eye- to-eye with
the majorette's crotch, hardly a foot away. She was standing and sipping
soda, with Virginia and Debra, her fully uniformed friends, on each side of
her, looking out to the gathering crowd on the snow-packed parade route. 
She wasn't aware of his gaze. His close-in view allowed him to fully enjoy
her smooth white skin, from her flat tummy with its cute navel down to her
thighs.  The only interruption from total nakedness was the thin clear
string that journeyed from both sides across her hips, crossing the lower
parts of the big "V" of her delicate hip bones, crossing the smaller "V" of
her pubic mound, meeting in that little black-and-white "T" that hugged and
partly bit into her pubic lips.  She must have taken a lot of care shaving
down there.  Not a hint of stubble, no trace of the pubic hairs that he now
knew were as red as the hairs on her head. The little "T" was as skinny as
his pinky and the top was only half an inch wide.  It looked ridiculously
tiny on her.  Thin as she was, it made her hips look wide as the clear
strings journeyed their way across them, like trekking across an endless
desert toward the tiny oasis of covering that was the "T".  She looked like
a 50-foot woman who had stretched on a normal size thong. And the stem of
the "T" was so thin that it bit into her lips, actually separating them, as
it disappeared between her legs.  From his close view he could see the
little streak of gold running down the middle of the "T", within the black
that was in turn framed within the tiny white border.  So here was the gold
that matched the gold piping on everyone else's uniforms, though shrunk
down to almost microscopic dimensions on the micro-uniform that the
majorette had to wear. "Micro-uniform." That was a good name for it. 
Brigid could hardly be said to be wearing anything, yet she stood straight
up and poised and clearly proud of what was on her.  He wondered what the
scene was like in her house on game days.  For his part, he would shower,
get into his thermals, then his momma would have his uniform laid out on
his bed, shirt next to jacket, then pants, then his socks, with his boots
on the floor.  And Brigid?  He imagined her walking to her room totally
naked, to find the tiny circlets and V-botton carefully arranged, tiny bits
against the expanse of bedsheets, which would take only a few seconds to
tie on.  Then slipping on the flip-flops, and prancing out to get her
baton. Examining her crotch again, he saw the fleshiness of the
white-skinned lower lips, sloping down from each side of the "T". 
Including the crease at the beginnings of her legs, it looked like the
letter "W", though with soft bottoms.  A little "w" in script, maybe. He
quickly turned around, thinking Brigid might be seeing him look at her
crotch.  She was used to being looked at, of course, but it wouldn't be
cool to stare so directly.  He sipped his soda and, looking back, was
relieved to see she was still looking outside. There was a big, flashy
scene that was developing out there.  The place seemed to be in the middle
of nowhere, judging from that long bus ride, so where did all these people
come from?  it was a little city carnival.  Music was piped in, food was
being sold from booths, people milling around waiting for the start of
festivities. His mind wandered and he thought of those dreams he had been
having.  It had been three or four times now.  He was older and had a
girlfriend, or maybe it was a wife.  Her name was Tami and she was
red-haired and white and she was always naked.  Like a natural forest
woman, kissing him and then scampering away through the forest, her tough
bare feet hopping from rock to log to branch, light as a feather, then in
no time disappearing from sight.  These dreams were clearly inspired by
Brigid, especially that last one where this Tami lady was wearing this
little string thing in her crotch and seemed to be as proud and glad of
this covering as Brigid was with her micro-thong. Now Brigid sat on the
bench a few feet down from him, saying hi but then chatting with Debra, who
sat down on the far side.  He watched as they talked about their favorite
TV shows, Brigid with her legs crossed dangling the flip-flop from the ends
of her toes.  You never saw bare toes in January, except with the
Tunemasters majorette of course. Her breasts must have gotten bigger.  It
sure seemed so, as he saw them in profile, sticking out from her rib cage
more than before, jiggling slightly with the motions of her leg.  Well,
most girls her age were still developing.  He saw the pink circles of her
nipples in profile -- they were called areoles, something like that? First
the circlets, then the smaller circlets, now these suspended T's -- it
seemed like the uniform was gradually leaping off the fronts of Brigid's
breasts.  Now only the very tip of her nipple, was covered, in that tiny
half-inch tube that supported the "T"'s which had no other point of contact
with her.  They didn't pull down her breasts at all.  They looked to be
hollow plastic and almost weightless.  They jiggled a little too, with
every little motion. "Ready to get -- Frigid -- Brigid?" a wise guy cracked
as he passed by.  Brigid began to turn but changed her mind and kept
talking about soap operas. "Icy titties," another boy said as he passed by.
Brigid made a quick sign of "f**k you" with her lips but kept talking. Now
a stray comment from some distance away.  "Popsicle toes!" Brigid ignored
him, though it seemed like the skin around her collarbones flushed a bit as
if in anger.  She was used to the occasional jerky comment.  It never
rattled her.  The way some boys acted, it didn't make him proud.  Sometimes
he wished she would jump up and say, "Hey in a few minutes I'll be freezing
my tits off for you idiots!  Just shut the f**k up!" Or thrusting her
breasts in some boy's face and saying, "Go ahead keep talking.  Just know
you will never...  EVER...  get to touch these!!" It would serve him right.
But that just wouldn't be Brigid.  To be the Tunemasters majorette was a
big responsibility and she handled it like a real pro. He briefly wondered
what it would be like if it was him.  That is, a drum major, who had to
wear just a tiny jockstrap-;ike thing.  He'd die of embarrassment.  Kind of
like if Brigid, standing at attention in front of the formation of
full-uniformed Tunemasters, was nervously clutching the baton in front of
her and saying, "P - please, Sarge...  C - could I be allowed to wear more
-- clothes?  Please??" His increasingly weird musings were interrupted by
Sarge's loud bark.  "Attention, troops!" Like what he must have said
hundreds of times in the Army.  Rod and Brigid and Debra and the others got
up, as Sarge addressed them, Brigid as usual by his side. "First question,
how is that thermal underwear working out?  Anyone feeling hot?" A murmur
of approval.  Brigid, crossing her arms, one foot turned to the side,
looked on. "Good.  Believe me, it's a new fabric and it's wonderful. 
Developed for the Army, or by the Army, I understand.  No surprise here,"
he said with a smile.  "You wouldn't get the Navy latching on to something
that good...  Now, it's a packed snow route, as you can see, and real cold.
Out of consideration for the band, I've asked that the route be short. 
We'll be marching only about 300 yards.  We'll be outside no more than ten
or fifteen minutes.  After that, you can come back here and change, or you
can mingle.  Be back by nine o'clock though." Rod knew that the reference
to "consideration for the band" was really "consideration for our majorette
who has to march practically naked".  But Brigid would not want any mention
of special treatment.  A pro. "We'll be doing 'National Emblem', 'Little
Giant' and 'Winter Wonderland', which is the obvious choice.  Remember the
double tonguing on the intro to 'Wonderland'.  I know it's a new tune for
you but I know you'll do fine. "I won't be marching with you, I'll be on
the reviewing stand.  Watch Brigid.  Like always, but especially tonight.
She has a headset and will be hearing my directions.  Remember," he said,
lowering his voice to the majorette next to him, "if my voice is too low,
turn left.  Too high, turn right.  I don't want you going deaf for our
sake." A short old lady appeared next to Sarge.  He said, "Now you voted to
donate our marching fee to the disabled learning center, as you recall. 
Good choice, though all the choices they gave us are worthy programs at our
school.  Here's the director, you've seen her around the school, Dr. 
Bellamy." To his surprise Tommy Blackwell appeared next to her and everyone
felt about to choke up.  Tommy, who had been one of the most popular guys
in the school, his ornate dreadlocks a daily sight swinging down the halls,
the quarterback for the freshman football team, who was in a car crash, who
since then hadn't been able to put a complete sentence together.  His
parents were optimistic but it was obvious he just wasn't getting better.
Dr.  Bellamy said a few words, thanking the band "from the bottom of our
hearts." Then she gave the floor to Tommy. "Th - thank...  you...  g -
guys," he said, struggling with each sound.  Then a labored wave of his
hand, and through his surgically repaired lips, a little flash of his old
smile. Some of the girls sniffled and probably some of the boys too.  Then
suddenly, loud applause. It made Rod proud, once again, to be a Tunemaster.
Sarge gave them ten minutes until lineup time.  Ron went back to his soda
at the table. And felt his left boot go out from under him.  Then a quick
view of the ceiling and an awful pain in the back of his head, like being
hit with a baseball bat. It seemed like a week later when he woke.  For a
moment he thought he was as messed up as Tommy, but he blinked and realized
he was OK except for a headache.  He looked up from the floor and saw
Brigid's T's, dancing gently above him, as she bent down and placed her
hand behind his head. Her breasts were so round and firm and white...  he
looked up past her bare shoulders at her concerned and helpful face. "Are
you OK, Rod?" "Oh Brigid..." He was about to tell her he loved her.  But
then saw the sea of concerning faces standing behind her and thought better
of it.  He tried to help himself up.  Brigid, her toes flexing in her
flip-flops, put her strong arms around his wool jacket.  He placed his
gloved hand on the upper slope of her hip, which helped revive him a lot.
The next moment he was standing up, taking deep breaths... "What happened?"
"You slipped and were out cold for a few seconds," Jared said. He shook his
head quickly and felt a quick chill all over.  "I'm OK, gang!" he
announced. A sigh of relief all around. "All line up!" Sarge shouted from
somewhere in the distance. "That was some spill," Brigid said as they lined
up, he and Brigid and Debra and Virginia near the front, waiting to get
into the vestibule and then out into the loud, light-filled nighttime air.
"You mean someone spilled soda?" he said. She laughed enchantingly, tapping
her baton against the bell of his trombone.  "No, I mean you fell backwids,
gave us quite a scay - uh." They talked about the crowds outside, how the
whiff of hot dogs was making them hungry, whether their parents would see
this event on TV.  Meawhile Debra and Virginia spoke among themselves.  He
and Brigid were having the most relaxed conversation they'd ever had.  It
was a good feeling, he told himself, as he looked down at his long braided
trousers and boots next to her bare thighs, her bare feet in the
clear-strap flip flops. During a lull they looked at the night scene
outside.  For the first time they noticed the lights of the village down
the hill, sharp and clear over the bluish tinge of snow.  A bank
thermometer said it was minus seven degrees.  It must mean Centigrade.  He
wasn't sure he should be mentioning her plight but he said, "Are you going
to be all right out there?" She took a deep breath, causing the T's to rise
and fall, then looked down as she wiggled her toes.  "It's only a shawt
time.  Afterwids I'll run back heah and get into my clothes." "You can wear
my jacket," he said. She laughed.  "Thanks but I don't think that'll do
it." They waited and waited.  Everyone was getting fidgety.  From the front
Sarge said, "There's been a delay.  They can't get one of the floats to
start up.  Hang on, crew." Then they had to move out of the way as some men
rolled dollies by carrying what must be float stuff.  The four of them
moved aside into a little hallway with a water fountain and a door that
said, "Custodian".  They had run out of conversation and were getting
seriously impatient.  He twiddled with his spit valve and slide.  Virginia
played with her clarinet keys.  She was using a size four reed and let
Brigid try to play a few notes.  "Wow, that's a thick reed," she said. 
"It's hahd to get a note out!" She gave it back to Virginia.  They watched
as another dolly went by. Debra began to contemplate Brigid's T's in a way
that only a close girlfriend was probably allowed to do.  "It's hard to
believe that those things stay on." "They feel a little strange, but
they're on good," Brigid said, sticking them out a little and looking down
at them.  "It's spirit glue and a little twist." With a push of her finger
she gave the corner of one T a little turn, maybe five minutes on a
clockface, and it wiggled and came to rest back in place. "Don't they
hurt?" Debra said. "No.  Well just a little.  These little circles, they're
called microcirclets.  I fit the T's on and the microcirclets snap on
last." Ron felt it was O.K.  to look along with the girls.  The T's, like
that microbottom, were black with white borders, though there was a little
lining of gold inside the white.  Halfway up each T, in the middle of the
black, was a little black circle, about the size of a pencil eraser.  You
couldn't tell unless you looked real close.  Which he was thankful he had
the privilege to do. "Still seems dicey," Virginia said. "Not at all. 
Look." Brigid made sure no one was looking in from the main hall, then
shimmied her bare shoulders side to side to make her breasts shake and
wobble vigorously.  Ron's mouth opened. Now with two quick pings, the
microcirclets flew off, one after the other.  They bounced into the hall
unnoticed and were immediately crushed into a thousand pieces under the
wheel of a passing dolley. The nubs of Brigid's bare nipples, bright and
pink amid the blackness of the T's, poked out at the world like little
penlights. "Oh Christ!!"



   Part 57

   The three Tunemasters in full band uniforms, Rod, Virginia and Debra,
and the nearly naked majorette herself, stared speechless and in shock down
at the bright pink nipples, poking slightly out from the little plastic
T's. It was as jarring and indecent as if Rod's own dick had been hanging
out the fly of his braided trousers.  It was horrifying, it was
disgusting...  Brigid was as modest as the next girl, and was deeply shamed
by having her nipples showing... Brigid's fingers quickly flew up to cover
them.  She looked at her friends in panic and misery.  Only two fingers
were needed for each nipple.  The four high school kids turned quickly to
the hallway.  Fortunately nobody was looking.  "Oh...  God..." Brigid saw
Rod looking at her most private nipples and, in an uncharacteristically
pleading voice, said, "Please don't look, Rod!" Reflexively he directed his
glance up and met her anguished face with his own look of empathy and
concern. Debra thought quickly.  She tried the "Custodian" door and it was
unlocked.  "Let's get you out of sight.  Rod, tell them we went to the
bathroom." And the three high school girls closed the door behind them. Oh
man, what a fix we're in, Rod told himself, compulsively working his slide.
Only minutes away from our big moment, the Tunemasters' biggest and most
lucrative engagement yet, that would bring thousands of dollars to the
Special Learning Center to help kids like Tommy Blackwell.  And Brigid, who
would be leading the band, getting instructions from Sarge through her
headset, out of commission!  Disaster! Fortunately no one from the hallway
was looking in at this little alcove.  Sid, one of the other trombonists,
sauntered by and nodded.  Now here came the three faculty chaperones, the
old shop teacher Mr.  Tucker, with Mrs.  Toriello the social studies
teacher and Ms.  Chen, the science teacher.  They were talking among
themselves.  Rod was worried.  If the girls came out of the custodian
closet they would be noticed immediately. Brigid, Brigid...  How could he
show his love for her in this crisis?  He felt helpless, standing out in
the hall with the suffering majorette trapped in that closet.  He decided
to be heroic.  To hell with the band, it's Brigid's welfare first.  She
could not emerge as she was.  He would give her his jacket, which would
serve to cover her nipples.  Then he would go out with her, and she could
act sick with the jacket draped over her, and he'd tell Sarge that Brigid
was ill and he was too, they just couldn't march tonight.  The Tunemasters
would have to go without their majorette this time.  And Sarge would have
to march alongside them as usual, shouting instructions whenever needed. He
bit his lip but congratulated himself.  Yes, a gutsy thing to do, but I'll
do it, dammit! But of course it was not up to him.  He wondered what Debra
and Virginia were planning with Brigid in the closet.  As the moments went
by he got uneasy.  Making sure no one was looking, he put his ear to the
door.  No sound.  Now there was a shot of something like compressed air,
and Brigid's gasp.  His ears were burning now.  He knocked.  "Brigid?" he
whispered loudly. The door opened and Debra pulled him in. It wasn't a
closet, it was a whole office, with shelves of cleaning stuff and tools and
paint.  Debra and Virginia checked his face.  He answered, "No one knows
we're here." "Good." Brigid was facing away from him, giving him a full
body rear view of her utter, total nakedness, from her pinned-up hair down
to her heels of the backless flip-flops, interrupted only by the curvy V of
the tiny clear strings sloping into her butt crack.  Her elbows up, she
seemed to be still covering her nipples with her fingers. "Show him,
Brigid," Debra said. "Oh...  God..." Brigid showly turned around, fingers
on her nipples, afraid to meet his gaze.  Then she cleared her throat and
looked up at the ceiling and brought her fingers down, just a few inches.
The T's were back to being all black!  No more pink! "How did you do that?"
Debra held up a can of black spray paint. He looked closer, and saw the
nubs of Brigid's nipples, now jet black.  "Wow!" "It's obvious, isn't it?"
Brigid said in misery. "No...  it doesn't look bad at all...  They just
look like...  part of the T." "Exactly!" Debra said.  As the three friends
looked at the black-painted nubs, Virginia said, "It looks like rubber
cement.  Black rubber cement.  To keep the T's on." Indeed it did look just
like some kind of glue to keep the T's on, colored black to match.  If one
didn't know... Brigid forced her arms down straight at her sides, her
fingers rubbing her hips.  Looking up as if praying, she said, "You guys
GOTTA look at me like that??" "OK, OK," Rod said quickly, his eyes shooting
down to the floor, where he contemplated their boots and Brigid's squirming
toes. Through the door they could hear Sarge's muffled voice out in the
hall.  "The floats are fixed, people!  Line up in five minutes!  For sure!"
"Let's get out there!" Debra said. "I just -- can't!" He had never seen
Brigid like this, so shy and queasy, though he could well understand. "You
know you have to," Virginia said. Brigid gulped and shook her head in
misery.  "Yeah...  What choice do I have?" "Of course you have a choice,"
Rod said.  "Tell them you're sick.  Here, take my jacket." He began the
laborious task of undoing the fifteen buttons down his front. "No, no..."
Brigid walked forward and gingerly opened the door.  With a deep breath, a
heave of her breasts and a rise of the T's they supported, she walked out
into the alcove. They got out there and Brigid once again reflexively
covered her black-painted nipples with her fingers. "You have to put your
hands down," Debra said.  "Don't give the slightest sign --" Brigid nodded
and straightened her arms down her sides.  She got her baton from where she
had laid it down before.  And the four of them walked out the alcove into
the hall. The band was roughly in line but more or less hanging around. 
After all, they had five more minutes in this endless wait.  The four
friends stood around and tried to act relaxed.  Rod allowed himself just
fleeting glances at Brigid's T's.  He felt Debra and Virginia under a
similar stricture.  The four of them tried to look everywhere but... 
Everyone else was going to see the T's, of course, the rest of the band and
the hundreds of people lining the route, but only the three of them knew
what they would be looking at... "Hi Debra, Rod, Virginia, Brigid," Ms. 
Chen said.  She and Mr.  Tucker and Mrs.  Toriello came up to them.  The
three teacher chaperones, expecting to be outside in a moment, were in
their coats and winter hats, carrying gloves.  "I could make you nervous
and say 'ready for your big moment', but you're all old pros at this." The
four Tunemasters smiled politely, unable to think of anything to say. "Your
new uniforms are positively resplendent," Mrs.  Toriello said. "Thank you,"
Virginia said.  They all felt the need to look down, if only quickly, at
their new duds.  Even Brigid.  With the heavy coats on the teachers and the
new uniforms, the rest of them looked twice her size. "Looks good," Mr. 
Tucker said in his gravelly voice.  "The majorette uniform keeps getting...
more interesting." He looked down at the tiny T that covered and also
separated Brigid's lower lips. Brigid blushed, as if being gushed over,
which was not surprising to the three chaperones. Ms.  Chen, a very short
Chinese woman, looked at Brigid's T's which were almost at her eye level.
Her eyebrow furrowed.  "I thought these were all plastic.  This looks like
-- " The four friends almost died with fright as the three teachers
gathered closer. "It's -- rubber cement," Brigid said. "Seems like it's
coming out," Mr.  Tucker said.  "Excuse me dear." He gently held one of the
T's and -- poked his rough old shop teacher's finger into Brigid's nipple!
Rod could hear the sudden intake of breath, could see the quaking tummy
below -- "I'm afraid it might fall out," he said.  "We don't want that
happening, don't we?" "Rubber cement?" Mrs.  Toriello said. "Looks like
xanthum gum, a good choice I' say, but it doesn't look too good," Mr. 
Tucker said. Ms.  Chen said.  "Excuse me, dear..." She held the other T and
gently poked the other blackened nub... Some of the other band members
approached in curiosity.  Soon there were about ten of them gathered
around, watching the teachers fix Brigid's T's, maybe to prevent a
"wardrobe malfunction" during the parade? "What's wrong?" Jared said.
"Xanthum gum fastener, I think she put too much on," Mr.  Tucker said,
continuing to try to poke the black nub in, but it kept springing back out.
Ms.  Chen was having a similar lack of success with the other one. "Oh... I
didn't notice that before," Jared said.  As indeed none of them had, when
they were viewing all the new uniforms in the big cafeteria room.  They had
not been examining the T's too closely, their attention naturally being
directed to what the T's were covering (or not covering). This can't be
happening, the three friends told themselves as they looked at each other.
They watched in horror as Mr.  Tucker and Ms.  Chen kept gently poking as
Brigid looked down with widened eyes and gulped.  Seeing the faces around
her, she suppressed her natural body reactions and said, "It's -- really -
- O.K.  We'll be mahching in a minute -- " Her fingers fidgeted against the
baton, her toes wiggled and squirmed... Ms.  Chen and Mr.  Tucker gave up
on poking and stood there, contemplating Brigid's T's.  "Maybe we can fix
it." Mr.  Tucker saw the word "Custodian" on the closet and said, "We've
just got to get this xanthum flush with the rest of the T's.  Otherwise it
looks like -- well..." He didn't want to say it but they knew what he
meant. "She'll be on TV, you know.  We've got to act fast." "Where are you
going?" Ms.  Chen said. "There should be some sandpaper in here," the shop
teacher said, walking into the custodian's office.  "Some steady buffing
with 150 or so grit will probably do it." "Get some for me too," Ms.  Chen
said.



   Part 58

   Before Brigid and her friends could decide what to do, Mr.  Tucker had
come out of the custodian office with two little sheets of sandpaper.
Actually there was nothing they COULD do.  Everyone was watching them,
standing around waiting for the old shop teacher to emerge.  Brigid
couldn't run.  She couldn't tell them the truth, that it was actually her
bare nipples sticking out in everyone's faces.  That would be indecent
exposure, detention for sure, telling her parents...  as well as shame that
would last for years.  The incident would stick to her name for years.  And
they were about to go out to march.  She and her friends were frozen to the
spot, terrified. Now Mr.  Tucker gave one sheet to Ms.  Chen.  "Only 220
grit, but let's see what we can do," he said.  He wadded his sheet up into
a little section, then grasped Brigid's left T around the edges.  The T was
only three inches high and was dwarfed by his rough, burly hand.  "This
should only take a moment, Miss O'Dierna..." The first rub of 220 grit onto
the majorette's most sensitive spot caused a little strangled gasp and a
quick intake of her bare tummy.  He slowly drew the wad all the way across,
then back, then forth, back and forth -- In a full band uniform one can
always hide the manifestations of one'e emotions.  Tummies shake with
nervousness, butt cheeks clench with cold, arms and legs and chests sweat
with exertion or heat, toes squirm in their boots, and of course also
hidden are male erections, which for a teenage boy are frequent events. 
But a Tunemasters majorette cannot hide her body.  As they watched in
sympathy and horror Rod, Debra and Virginia looked their suffering friend
up and down and noted the twitching shoulders, the flushed collarbones, the
quaking of the flat tummy, the flexing of thigh muscles, and the spreading
of her meticulously painted toes as poor Brigid tried to withstand the
unbearably intense stimulation. Ms.  Chen started working on the right T,
holding it in her little hand as she began sanding what she took to be the
black gum adhesive.  It was almost at her eye level and she peered in very
closely.  Seeing no progress, the two teachers became more vigorous,
brushing back and forth faster, faster, harder, rasping away at the
nipples. Behind the T's, Brigid's breast flesh jiggled in response to their
motions. Rod shut his eyes.  He couldn't look.  But of course he opened
them again.  Brigid's eyes popped open and she seemed about to cry.  She
looked at her friends with pleading.  But they could do nothing.  They were
horrified at what it must feel like.  Debra and Virginia folded their arms
tightly across their chests, as if to protect their own nipples, which lay
hidden from the world and protected by bras, thermals, blouses and jackets.
Four layers of covering that Brigid was denied.  For Rod's part, he
pictured the sandpaper going over the end of his dick, his most sensitive
part, so sensitive that he himself never touched it, not even when jerking
off. Around them, the other band members drew closer, curious about whether
the teachers could get that extra gum off.  The buffing grew more furious.
Mr.  Tucker, a bit winded, stopped to tighten his grip on the T.  So did
Ms. Chen.  Then they bore in and rubbed harder, faster, with lightning
speed back and forth, back and forth -- Brigid's breathing grew ragged. 
Her eyes blinked and opened wide again.  It must be agony!  Rod felt about
to cry.  Poor Brigid must be about to jump out of her skin!  Her fingers
clutched the baton with a white-knuckled grip.  Her toes wiggled in her
flip flops and spread and squirmed, individually and together, as if
speaking urgently and eloquently of her distress in some kind of sign
language. Brigid looked up as if praying for deliverance from this torture.
She must be Catholic and Rod pictured this as a stained glass scene.  The
Agony of St.  Brigid. The teachers rested again, then buffed again.  Brigid
sniffled.  Her eyes squeezed shut.  Then she remembered she must not betray
the truth and she kept as still as she could.  As her nipples were rasped
and scraped, she kept her eyes forward, not looking anyone in the eye, in a
resolute gaze, as if waiting for the signal to march.  She stood up
straight, baton at her side.  Only an occasional twitch of the tummy or
toes evidenced her suffering. Rod was afraid that the black color might rub
off.  But it was a penetrating, oil-based paint and could only come off
with turpentine. Finally Mr.  Tucker and Ms.  Chen stood back and conceded
defeat.  Brigid closed her eyes and caught her breath. "We're not getting
anywhere," Mr.  Tucker said. "If anything, it's sticking out more than
before," Ms.  Chen observed. Looking around at the gathered Tunemasters,
Mr. Tucker said, "Any ideas, folks?" This comment only emphasized how
everyone's gaze was fixed on the black nubs at the center of Brigid's T's.
She looked about to die from shame, though to everyone else it just seemed
like the distress and concern she shared with the teachers, who had seen at
the last minute a problem with her uniform that she hadn't noticed from her
vantage point.  Rod and Debra and Virginia glanced at each other
helplessly. Mrs.  Toriello, a grandmotherly type, came up and stood right
in front of the majorette.  She gripped the T's in each hand and examined
them appraisingly.  In the process she turned them a bit inward to more
directly meet her gaze, making the breasts look a little cross-eyed. "I
think we're under a misimpression here.  This not what we think it is." Oh
no!  Brigid, looking down at her T's, bit her lip. "I think the gum has
separated." The four friends exhaled in relief.  But then they held their
breath again as she said, "It's in pieces.  See all these little bumps? 
Maybe we can pluck some of the pieces out." Mr.  Tucker grabbed part of
Brigid's left nub and pulled.  She suppressed a gasp.  He squeezed again,
harder.  But his fingers were too big and rough to get a good grip.  "This
is a job for women," he conceded.  "Someone with long nails." "I can do
it," Brigid volunteered quickly. "No, you can't see from your angle," Mrs.
Toriello said.  "Also I don't want you to ruin your manicure." A valid
concern.  With the disappearance of boots and gloves, fingernail paint and
toenail paint had become part of the majorette's uniform.  Brigid's nails
were meticulously done in the school colors, black and white, now with a
little line of gold near the cuticle. Everyone looked on as Mrs.  Toriello
and Ms.  Chen bit into Brigid's nubs with their fingernails, like pincers,
squeezing them and pulling them, delicately and carefully, so as not to
dislodge the T's, but none the less painfully from Brigid's standpoint.
Brigid's nipples were squeezed and pinched and yanked on for a minute or
more, the sharp fingernails cutting and slicing into the little bumps.
"This material is very tough," Ms.  Chen admitted.  She brought out
tweezers from her handbag.  The nubs were now subjected to the merciless
and crushing of the little metal jaws.  The Agony of St.  Brigid continued.
Now Ms.  Chen twisted the tweezers, almost half way around, trying to
dislodge one little bmp after another Rod brought his hands over his crotch
and almost doubled over as he pictured this being done to the end of his
dick.  The pain must be horrible.  Debra and Virginia cringed and squeezed
their arms across their chests even tighter. The majorette reverted to
waiting-to-march mode, eyes forward.  Though her eyes were now rimmed with
red.  And now the pink circles behind the T's, her areolas, which one could
see clearly because the stems of the T's were only a half-inch across... 
The pinkish hue was becoming more red, and the areolas were getting a
little puffy.  It made the T's stand out more from her breasts.  Not only
were the areolas getting puffy, little goose bumps were forming around the
perimeters. As for the black-painted nubs, they were getting bumpier and
more prominent, as each individual little bump was yanked and crushed and
squeezed and twisted.  Rod had to admit that they did look like bits of
some kind of dried glue. The women were not succeeding in tearing the bits
off.  "The only thing to do," Mr.  Tucker announced, "is cut.  There's a
wire cutter in there," he said, walking toward the custodian's office. 
"I'll be right back!" "No!" Rod said.  "No!" Mr.  Tucker, not one to brook
any disrespect from students, said, "What, young man?" Rod's heart was in
his mouth and his whole body was shaking as he took his stand.  Fortunately
the words that came to him were convincing.  "This is a...  Tunemasters --
matter.  We help each other in this band.  Let us fix it ourselves." "Yes,
yes," Debra and Virginia said quickly. "Th - that's right," Brigid said,
still recovering from the assault on her sensitive nipples. "Let me do it,"
Rod said.  He stood in front of Brigid.  Their eyes met.  He wanted to kiss
her, hug her, take her away from the probing eyes and the tormenting
teachers.  If only they knew how cruel they had been.  But his task now was
to pretend to deal with the outcropping black gum. He looked down at her
nipples.  She didn't want him to look but she knew he had to.  Under the
black paint they looked swollen, abused, maybe angry.  Like that time she
took those old circlets off at the burger place, during the Patriots game
parade, after her nipples had been squeezed by those bulldog clips all
morning. "It's best to push it in," he said.  Gingerly he brought his
gloved hands up.  He brought an index finger to each nipple and once again
contemplated how just one of his fingers enjoyed more covering than the
majorette had for her entire, gorgeous body.  He swallowed and looked at
her.  Her eyes were full of gratefulness.  She pictured them going back
into the custodian's office, alone, as he comforted her, crying on his
shoulder.  "Oh Rod...  I thought I was going crazy..." She gasped as the
tips of his gloved fingers rubbed her nubs tenderly, soothingly.  He wanted
to lick them.  They would be soothed by a soft, wet tongue.  Actually what
she probably needed was ice.  Well, in a few minutes her nipples would be
hit by to the frigid air outside.  That should help, though it would be
rough on the rest of her near-nakedness. The three teachers watched
closely, along with Debra and Virginia.  "You're not getting anywhere," Mr.
Tucker complained. He rubbed gently and then began pushing the nubs in, as
tenderly as possible.  Brigid sniffled and then smiled at him.  He smiled
back.  They were in love, for sure. He wanted to kiss her, so, so bad!
"March time!" Sarge yelled from somewhere. That broke the tension.  The
scene broke up as the kids turned quickly.  "We'll be okay," Brigid said to
Mr.  Tucker as the Tunemasters went back into line.  In a moment Rod was
walking behind her as she led the band into the vestibule. As they
approached the glass doors the bright lights of the outdoor winter carnival
began to play on their uniforms, on Brigid's skin.  And now the frigid
mountain air hit them as they walked outside, one by one.



   Part 59

   He blew through his trombone yet again and crunched his boots in the
hard, rocky snow.  Man, it was cold.  Thank goodness for these new thermals
under his full uniform, he was nice and snug, covered up from head to toe.
Except for his face!  The bank thermometer down in the distance read minus
ten degrees.  What was that in Fahrenheit?  Fourteen?  What made it worse
was the wind.  They weren't expecting wind.  The wind-chill must be zero.
His face was beyond cold, it stung with pain, especially his nose. He was
in the front row as always, as the band stood in formation, well behind the
beginning of the route, waiting for the local police guy to signal to
march. The band was only at half strength on this trip.  Despite the big
carnival some distance ahead of them, they felt alone.  They didn't feel
the usual big rush just before marching.  Ahead of them was a space of
maybe two hundred feet, then the beginning of the route, where the float
before them had paused.  Up further, near the slope of the next mountain,
past the strings of overhead lights and the crowds cheering the passing
floats, he could see the end of the route, and the reviewing stand where
Sarge was, with all the other guys in top hats and a slightly out-of-season
Santa.  It did look like about three hundred yards, like Sarge said.  About
ten minutes' march at regular speed. But from here, it seemed a million
miles away.  They seemed alone in the bluish moonlit snow of this remote
tundra.  Like they were about to march on the planet Pluto. To his right,
the other trombones, Sid and Lorenzo and Deion, all suffered from a bad
case of Frozen Face just like he was, grateful at least for the flaps from
the big shako caps that kept their ears warm.  The parts of their bodies
not covered by the thermals were feeling the cold too.  His hands were
stiff and cold in their gloves.  And it seemed he could never find socks
thick enough.  Even with two pairs and these big boots, his toes were cold
and he kept on stamping his feet to keep the blood going, albeit with
little steps so that he looked like he was still in formation. He blew
through his trombone yet again.  It really did seem like his spit had
frozen, he could feel the ice crystals.  What was the purpose of a marching
band in this cold?  They seemed totally out of place.  The wind bit his
nose again and he twitched it, trying to get some feeling back. Now he
contemplated the rear of the blue-skinned naked girl in front of him.  No,
not really blue; that was just the dull hue of this unearthly scene, a
reflection of the snow.  But the bare toes in the flip-flops, flat on the
crusty snow, the bare legs and butt, the bare back, the thin but strong
arms and the delicate bare shoulders -- how totally out of place.  It was
so unfair.  They were freezing in their thermals and cover-all uniforms,
but the poor majorette had to stand there in the frigid wind with almost no
covering at all.  Such exquisite nakedness should be soaking up the rays on
a tropical beach.  Maybe that's what she was fantasizing about.  Or maybe
thinking of Tommy Blackwell and how this march would help the Disabled
Learning Center. Of course she was not really naked.  But in the dull blue
light the V of the clear strings curving into her butt was totally
invisible.  And from the back one couldn't see the main parts of her
uniform, the little T in her pussy lips, and the T's perched on her
areolas. He missed the riot of White Girl Skin Colors that was Brigid on a
brisk day.  the blotches of red on her shoulders, the purplish fingers and
toes, that cute patch of pink over her sacral dimples, the blushes of red
at the ends of her butt cheeks.  Tonight she was just blue and naked and
motionless, facing the zero-degree wind chill without outward expression.
Like she was not really Brigid but some alien woman, from a race of blue
people living on an even colder planet than Pluto, who had decided the only
way to deal with this "hot" Plutonian weather was to go naked. He supposed
it was not so bad for Brigid, just a temporary chill, then a quick
ten-minute march.  Colder by some degrees, but not really that much worse
than what she had gotten used to as a majorette during that cold, rainy
football season.  There was a little station at the end of the route, past
the reviewing stand, where she could duck in and warm up.  After they
finished he would gallantly run back to the cafeteria room and get her coat
and boots, what she wore on the bus ride up from the motel.  After that she
could hang out and enjoy the party like the rest, covered up except for her
bare legs showing below the knee. That float just didn't want to start.  It
was a styrofoam- looking display of little ski slopes with three women in
ski suits who were supposed to be elves or something, perched on them.  At
first he thought they were just pausing, letting everyone take in the sight
before continuing, but bundled-up men were now lumbering around, speaking
to each other through their ski masks, and he could see something was
wrong. The band stood and waited.  And froze.  His butt cheeks were so cold
they were starting to tingle. His butt, that is, covered with thermals and
jockey shorts and the long braided trousers.  Brigid's butt had no such
protection.  He looked at it, motionless in front of him, like a double
blue moon, and try as he might he just could not make out the plastic
V-strings that he knew were there. Another minute went by.  "Come on," Sid
said quietly, impatiently, "I'm half frozen." "Jesus, it's cold," Deion
chimed in. "No weather for black people!" said Lorenzo, who had the darkest
skin of all of them. "I can't feel my toes," Sid said. Rod saw Brigid turn
her head slightly and could see the exhale of her breath in the glint of
the faraway lights.  Great plumes of condensation, as if she were in a deep
freezer. "Christ, you know nothing about cold, guys!" Debra said from
behind them in the clarinet section. "Yeah," said Millie, one of the
saxophones, and the only other white kid to make this trip.  "Our
majorette's freezin' her bare buns off up there!" Brigid turned to them
halfway and he thought he saw her smile.  Then she shivered all over.  No
longer a trans-Plutonian woman, once again a normal human adolescent,
shivering in the bitter cold in a tiny majorette outfit.  Poor Brigid! A
moment later, Brigid allowed herself to say, "Oh Jesus!" and shook herself
all over.  Her baton discreetly changed hands.  And now, in a bold move,
she raised one foot out of its flip-flop and wiggled her toes in an attempt
to get some circulation back.  It was forbidden, it was a little obscene,
it was erotic, sexy, seeing her bare foot, her bare toes, in this frigid
air, inches above the bed of crusty snow.  After carefully parking the
still- stiff foot back into the flip-flop, she did the same with the other
foot. It was very unusual for Brigid to complain about the cold.  He could
remember only one other time -- that second game in September.  They were
waiting in the stands to come down for the halftime show.  It had clouded
over and suddenly gotten chilly.  And now a wind kicked up that he could
feel right through his uniform.  He was standing next to Brigid and saw
goose bumps raise up and down her arms, on her butt, and on her thighs. 
"Oh brother!" she said, then shook all over as if trying to shake the chill
off.  Cold as it was that day, I bet she wishes it could be that
temperature now! That stupid float up ahead still wouldn't start.  And now
a bad sign.  A little truck came out from behind that big snow- making
machine, and ropes.  The bundled-up men were forced to take off their
gloves as they began to tie the ropes to the float to pull it.  This would
hold up things even more. Now Brigid started seriously shivering.  "Ohh...
God...  P - p - please..." A couple of men walked up near them, on the way
to the parade, not aware that the band was there.  They were talking loudly
and sipping coffees.  "Crikey," one said.  "I'm glad we have this coffee."
"Good thing these gloves are insulated!" the other said. "These boots are
great," the first one said, lifting one of his gigantic, bulky moon boots.
"I'm nice and snug.  I'm almost downright hot!" Brigid brought her foot up
again and wiggled her toes.  The men walked away toward the carnival, never
having noticed the band.  She shivered again, miserably.  It was most
noticeable in her blue shoulders.  Her bare butt cheeks trembled. Rod felt
flushed with anger, making his frozen face a little less frozen.  This is
an outrage!  A wintry night is no place for a nearly naked majorette.  At
least give her several layers of body stockings!  Give her the covering the
rest of her band enjoys!  Let her march in a regular full uniform and
boots! He applied the logic procedure from a recent math class.  She
probably couldn't twirl in the full band uniform, and body stockings would
look ridiculous.  So therefore: you cannot have baton twirling in this
cold. You simply can't.  He wished he could do something, at least say
something. Finally!  The little truck started pulling the broken-down float
and now there was the signal from that police guy, using one of those
airport flashlight extensions, to start marching.  And now Brigid stiffly
strutted into motion, giving the band four beats.  Her breasts bounced with
her motions.  Even her breasts seemed stiff in this cold.  Everyone blew
silently into their instruments to warm them up as the drum guard did the
roll-off.  Then they launched into "National Emblem", doing the familiar
"monkey wrapped his tail around the flagpole" leadoff without any flubs,
and on the on-beat, took their first step forward. As they came into the
lit route he could feel his circulation going again.  He could also sense
the crowd coming alive, doubly attentive after that stalled float.  Some
were even clapping, not very audible because everyone was wearing gloves --
everyone except Brigid, of course. The Tunemasters passed under the first
string of lights, held up by poles on each side.  Then another string.  The
lights played off Brigid's back and butt, off her legs.  It was sexy but
also beautiful.  Everyone was enjoying the light show taking place on the
majorette's body. The snow crunched under his boots.  An odd sensation. 
Brigid must feel it even more through the thin soles of her treaded
flip-flops.  She moved a little less stiffly and he could see her body
flush with the cold.  Good.  It showed she was warming up.  Now she started
her first twirl, and as she turned around to catch it he saw the T's on her
breasts jiggle and shift, in time with the tune, in time with the step, in
time with catching the baton as it came down.  The T's were dancing on her
nipples.  It looked like the majorette's breasts were leading the band. 
These T's were a good idea, they gave a whole new dimension to her twirling
and to the whole presentation of the band. They passed a setup of cameras.
Back in the cafeteria room, on the overhead TV, Gus Guy and Pierre Poquette
enthused about the visiting band to an audience of several custodians. 
"And here comes the Tunemasters, from T--- High School in Roxbury Mass. 
One of the best high school marching bands in New England.  Winner of last
summer's Regional Competition in Atlanta, Georgia." "That is one brave
majorette, in this temperature." "Yes, her name is...  it says here on the
band list, 'Brigid O'Dierna, sophomore'.  I'm told her uniform is designed
to allow for maximum flexibility in twiring that baton." "And she certainly
is expert at it!  Look at that throw!  That must be thirty feet, at least!"
Brigid turned around again and Rod once again fell in love with the brave,
flashing smile.  She winked at him and he crinkled his eyes, his best
substitute for a smile as he tooted away.  The band sounded good too. They
approached another string of lights and Brigid tossed the baton over it and
caught it as she passed on the other side.  This brought some cheers.  She
raised her arms and pirouetted, showing off her lithe biceps and
meticulously shaved armpits.  Some snow dusted up on her toes.  She spread
her toes and expertly flicked the snow off with her next step. Maybe it was
on a signal from Sarge through her headpiece, or maybe it was her own
decision, seeing that they were coming too near that float.  But as they
got near the snow making machine and the biggest bunch of booths and food
stands she gave the baton signal to stop.  The band kept playing, marching
in place.  Brigid stepped and turned slowly.  It was always amazing how she
could keep those backless sandals from falling off her feet while marching
in place.  She was crunching down with her toes, but just a little. A whiff
of hot dogs came from the booths and Rod got hungry.  He pictured the two
of them at the stand later, wolfing down hot dogs and soda, he in his
uniform, she in her long coat and Uggs, her bare calves showing, as if she
had nothing on underneath.  And talking with their friends, Debra and Sid
and the others.  "The most fweezing mahch I've evah been in!" she would
exclaim in her Providence accent, between bites. But for now Brigid was
still in her micro-uniform, still marching in place, still turning around
slowly, round and around.  From totally bare backside (the strings on her
butt were still invisible) to almost bare front, the dancing T's on her
nipples and the tiny T in her crotch, the lights from overhead played on
her body, playing across her curves, caressing them.  They hit her head on,
then slurred and stretched sideways as she turned, then head on again.  All
the while, she smiled, exhaling clouds of breath that spiraled off into the
wintry night air as she turned. And the band sounded great!  As Rod pumped
his slide he never felt prouder of being a Tunemaster.  He could see Sarge,
on the reviewing stand up ahead, beaming, the men around him clapping him
on the shoulder with the thanks he deserved.  The cameras moved in closer.
Rod thought of the regional competition they'd won, and the Disabled
Learning Center, Tommy Blackwell... They were launching into the final
repeat of the "B" section when he saw the string of lights in front of them
drop halfway, then fall all the way to the ground.  Brigid, turned to face
them, did not see.  Then she turned and gave the signal, and began marching
foward again.  One of the bundled-up security men quickly ran to one of the
supporting poles on the side and turned a crank that brought the string off
the ground again in short, jerky increments. Brigid, smiling and twirling,
still did not see what had happened.  With another jerk the string of
lights came up about to the level of her breasts as she marched right into
it.



   Part 60

   Getting to the end of "National Emblem", waiting for the roll-off to
lead into "Little Giant", Brigid spun and twirled.  Her T's looked perkier
than when he first saw them in the cafeteria room, facing more upward as
they danced on her breasts.  Well, of course.  Out here in the cold air,
her nipples would be erect, pushing the T's up and out. The tune ended and
the drummers took over.  He put his trombone down in front of his jacketed,
shirted, thermaled chest.  He watched the T's on her bare chest and smiled.
Only the four of us know that the crowd is seeing Brigid's bare nipples
right in the middle of those T's.  Brigid herself must not be thinking of
it, engrossed in her twirling.  Good.  She was tough as nails but basically
a modest, unassuming girl.  She didn't deserve to feel embarrassed. And now
he watched with alarm as she spun right into the rising string of lights!
Her T's got caught on them immediately and they rose up as the guy at the
side pole kept cranking the string higher and higher.  Rod stopped in shock
and so did the other trombones.  The rest of the band almost ran into them
before they too stood there stunned. "Aieeee!!" Brigid's poor breasts got
stretched upward as the string of lights went up, up...  The T's were on
very securely.  They gave way a little bit but were held on by the very
ends of her nipples that were so swollen and hard in the cold.  You could
see the stems of her nipples stretched out from her areolas.  As the T's
stretched out and up, the areolas puffed out even more...  In a split
second her breasts were grotesquely distorted. She dropped her baton and
grabbed the string with both hands to keep it level with her breasts.  The
guy at the crank didn't see any of this because he wasn't looking.  Up, up,
up...  Brigid did half of a wiggly kind of chin-up on the string as her
feet left the snow-packed ground.  Her legs kicked helplessly.  One
flip-flop dropped off and then the other.  By the time the guy understood
the shouts of people telling him to stop, the string was back to where it
was, fifteen feet off the ground. The crowd and the band watched in silent
horror as the majorette struggled, trying to disentangle her breasts from
the string without doing any damage.  Her bare feet twitched and jerked
around uselessly above their faces.  The string was a tangled interweave of
rope and electrical wires and extricating the T's would have been difficult
even without the dire distress of her nipples being stretched. "Aieee!  --
Ahhhh!" Cries of pain and exertion cut through the cold night air as Brigid
tried to use one hand to hold on and the other to untangle a T.  But that
was beyond anyone's arm strength.  Next she tried to climb up onto the
string.  Her toes spread and her legs splayed wildly as she made it up. 
Straddling the string as if clutching onto a horse, she winced as it cut
between her pussy lips, pushing the little T down there deep inside her. 
He thought of the moisture inside.  If there's a short circuit she would be
electrocuted! There was no danger of that as the guy at the crank unplugged
the wire and the lights went out.  He tried to lower the string again but
the crank was jammed!  A friend came over to help him.  They tried hitting
it with a hammer.  With every strike the thin pole lurched and the string
jerked, causing Brigid to yelp as the rough rope dug in between her lower
lips.  Now one guy started running to the building to get some liquid
wrench. Brigid could not stop gravity from pulling her down and she spun
around the string.  Now she was hanging below it, grasping it in the crooks
of her knees and elbows.  Now her breasts were squeezed, one pulled up near
her neck, the other yanked down toward her navel.  Once again she tried to
free a hand to work on a T but she kept losing her balance.  Finally her
legs slipped away and she was back to doing a half chin-up.  She looked
down and faced the band, her bare toes dangling above them. She was crying,
her face etched with pain, looking down at her friends helplessly.  Rod and
the others felt just as helpless.  Her searching feet were too high up to
find a supporting shoulder. They saw the T's facing them from up on high.
One of them was twisted onto its side.  The other was turned completely
upside down.  Behind them, her areolas were creased with the twisting.  Her
nipples must be burning in agony! Rod felt miserably helpless as his eyes
met hers in the pleading, suffering face, the short, ragged breaths
reflected in her quaking, concave tummy.  Below, her little T had
disappared into her labia.  And one of the clear strings had snapped.  It
hung down from her bare hip. "AIEEEE!" A mighty hammer blow to the pole and
Brigid's hands slipped!  There was a horrible moment when she hung by the
T's, her head wrenched back, her face heavenward, her breasts stretched out
torturously.  Then, with a final awful pain, the T's tore away from her
nipples and she fell to the snow, landing on her butt. In the fall, the
last bit of her uniform, her lower T, had flung off to the side.  The
traumatized majorette, now totally naked, rolled over onto her side,
breathing heavily.  Everyone was still too shocked to come forward to help.
"Oh Jesus..." Her prayer was heard clearly in the still air.  Though they
all felt sorry for the majorette's embarrassment, lying there stark naked,
they also heaved a sigh of relief.  She seemed O.K.  There was no other
sound. Her unsteady bare feet came up flat on the snow.  Being barefoot on
snow must be a freezing shock even for someone of Brigid's wide experience
in being exposed to the cold.  In trying to get up one foot slipped.  She
slowly got up again, onto all fours, still panting.  Her breasts hung down,
the nipples reddened and tender from the obscene stretching. Now she tried
to get up, splaying one leg out, and the crowd was treated to the sight of
her cute brown eye, her little anus, in the valley between her exquisite,
taut white butt cheeks, winking at them in the bright lights.  The
crunching of the snow under her gripping toes resounded in the silence. And
now a strange creaking sound, like a rusty door opening.  For it turned out
that in swinging the hammer that guy had hit the tank next to the
snow-making machine.  And now a valve gave way, and... A ski resort must
not only make snow when needed, but sometimes remove snow and ice from
paths and equipment.  So a supply of salt water, which melts ice, is always
kept handy.  A special salt is used which is not harmful to skin or
membranes, and which further depresses the freezing point. So the water
which now surged from the tipping tank in Brigid's direction was chilled to
minus fifteen degrees Celsius. Everyone lurched back as the little tidal
wave crashed onto the snow-packed path.  It slammed into Brigid and knocked
her over.  And now more, and more of the subfreezing water coursed onto the
path.  Brigid tried to escape but her hands and feet kept slipping.  She
flopped down onto her back, then onto her belly, then onto her back again.
And now the snow underneath began to melt and Brigid sank into a
bathtub-sized hole. The tank held several hundred gallons.  Soon Brigid was
totally submerged.  When the tank had fully emptied there was nothing but a
little pond.  Everyone crowded around, careful not to get too close lest
they too slip in. Bubbles issued from below, and then the pretty head
emerged.  Somehow she made it to the edge of the pond and, after one more
slip, she climbed back up on the snow on her crusty bare feet.  She stood
straight up, shoulders back.  Her eyes were wide open, her arms were
extended, fingers stretched out.  The salted water dripped from her chin,
from her nipples, from her fingers, from the center of her shaved crotch.
"OHHHHHH!" she howled in wide-eyed shock, lurching toward them. 
"OHHHHH!!!" And now the load of snow on top of the snow-making machine gave
way.  Once more Brigid was knocked over as the powdery stuff piled on top
of her.  Soon there was a pile six feet high.  Brigid was in there
somewhere. After a few terrible moments of waiting, they saw a set of
bluish toes thrust out near the bottom of the snow stack.  Now the pile
broke up as Brigid fought her way out. Once again she faced the crowd.  Her
whole body was encrusted.  Snow was jammed into her lower lips, all over
her hair.  Her eyebrows were white.  And her skin color -- she really was a
blue trans-Plutonian woman now. Slowly, as if regaining her senses, she
blinked and looked around on the ground.  Her uniform was all around -- one
flip- flop here, another there, the T's flung to each side, and the little
bottom T near the pole. Now she lurched over to the baton.  Slowly as if in
pain, she bent to pick it up in her left hand.  Her anus stared at them
blankly, flecked with the white flakes. The blue, snow-blasted girl looked
at Rod blankly, then at the rest of the band.  And now she said something.
"L - little...  G - g - giant..." She thrust the baton into the air with a
jerk that them jump.  Then three violent beats, making her blue breasts
bounce, and she turned to march stiffly and nakedly into the winter night.
They could only follow and play.  In their shock their sound was uninspired
but after a few measures they got playing together.  The trombone
mouthpiece was almost frozen to his lips.  And then he passed over a wet
spot from the salted water and his boot flew out in front of him.  Then a
big blow to the back of his head -- It seemed like a week later when he
woke.  For a moment he thought he was as messed up as Tommy, but he blinked
and realized he was OK except for a headache.  He looked up from the floor
and saw Brigid's T's, dancing gently above him, as she bent down and placed
her hand behind his head. Her breasts were so round and firm and white...
he was so happy to see her, warm and happy, in her new uniform which she
wore proudly.  Thank God that was just a horrible dream...  He looked up
past her bare shoulders at her concerned and helpful face. "Are you OK,
Rod?" "Oh Brigid..." He was about to tell her he loved her.  But then saw
the sea of concerning faces standing behind her and thought better of it.
He tried to help himself up.  Brigid, her toes flexing in her flip-flops,
put her strong arms around his wool jacket.  He placed his gloved hand on
the upper slope of her hip, which helped revive him a lot.  The next moment
he was standing up, taking deep breaths... "What happened?" "You slipped
and were out cold for a few seconds," Jared said. He shook his head quickly
and felt a quick chill all over.  "I'm OK, gang!" he announced.  A sigh of
relief all around. "All line up!" Sarge shouted from somewhere in the
distance. . . . . Rod woke up with a start.  He felt sad and blinked and
there were tears in his eyes.  It was just a dream, and here I am crying.
But a powerful one. He stumbled over to the big window, remembering Tami
lying in the snow in the back yard the other day.  What did these Frigid
Brigid dreams mean?  She symbolized Tami in some way - that was obvious. 
And then he realized why he felt sad.  Somehow he knew he would never dream
of Brigid again.  That almost made him cry.  Already he missed her
terribly. Then he chided himself for crying over a dream.  With a start,
the thought hit him -- would he at some point also never see Tami again? 
That last Brigid dream was full of foreboding. He flopped down backwards
onto the bed and stared at the ceiling.  Then he took off his shirt and
pants, and lay there in his underwear.  Thermal underwear, it still being
cold out.  He remembered hearing something about a *second* April blizzard
hitting tonight. Tami entered the room and he almost cried again with
happiness at seeing her.  I love her so much.  With all my heart, all my
soul -- Then he laughed.  Tami was walking in upside down, on her hands. 
Up top, in her feet, she held her slide rule, the museum piece that his
internship supervisor, old Mr.  Gunderson, had given him. "Playing with
Gunderson's toy again?" "Oh Rod, this is a thing of beauty." She looked at
him with her flushed, upside down face, then up at the metal slipstick
which she worked with her dexterous toes.  "It's amazing what you can do
conceptually on this, with all the scales." "Spoken like a true math nerd."
He eyed her lovely plum pubic hair, then the matching hair on her head,
hanging down almost to the floor.  She steadied herself with her hands as
her attention focused up on her feet.  "OK," he said, "what's two times
two?" She worked the slide with her toes.  "Ummm...  three point nine nine!
Oh shit -- " Her toe slipped and the slide rule came crashing down.  In
ducking her head out of the way she lost her balance, but with her
gymnast's skill recovered enough to make a graceful cartwheel.  She ended
upright in the traditional finishing position right in front of him, arms
extended, chest out. "What's wrong?" She saw the redness in his eyes. "Oh
just another stupid dream.  The majorette." "That again?" He had kept her
up to date on each dream.  "Well she and I are about to pass each other."
Tami disappeared and said, "That kid's getting more naked, but I'm getting
more clothed.  Ta daaa!!" She emerged from the bathroom wearing a more
substantial C- string, blue this time, thick enough to hide the inside of
her lower lips.  And she had little pasties on her nipples! She thrust her
breasts out at him as he got up.  He felt the pasties with his index
finger. They just barely did cover her areolas.  "What is this, your new
fabric?" "Yes.  Cherish.  Held on by spirit glue.  I call them circlets."
"Damn." "They're still a little uncomfortable.  I feel like I'm
blindfolded, or short of breath.  But the girls got me used to it." He
pictured a long session with the TL's, no doubt with Dr.  Kantor watching
with his clipboard, and Barbara carefully sticking the circlets on during
her twelfth orgasm. "Let's eat," Tami said.  "I'll reheat the casserole you
made.  That was good, Baby."