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? I 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...
"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 onto 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.
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.
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!!"