That night Vanessa's husband's voice came to her out of the darkness.
"Can't sleep again?"
"Let me guess. Tami Smithers."
"Ricardo... how can I not think about her? And those -- followers of hers."
"Ah yes. The Tami Lickers."
"I wish you wouldn't call them that."
"Sounds like the obvious choice for a name."
"It's just that they... they devote themselves so. It's all about her pleasure, not theirs. It reminds me of the bad old days, when it was a woman's duty to give a man pleasure."
"There you go with that Women's Studies bit again. Honestly, you feminists talk so much about the 'bad old days' that sometimes I think you miss them. Say," he said, grabbing her breasts, "I hear you feminist chicks really put out!"
This was one of their old gags: "Ricardo's Guide to Making It with Feminists". Vanessa smiled but wasn't in the mood. "All they care about is Tami's pleasure, not their own."
"What's wrong with that?"
"It doesn't sound very equal. I don't understand how you can do that without making yourself subservient."
"Well I, for one, understand it. ANY man can understand that, perfectly well."
"Of course. Bringing a woman to orgasm is the most satisfying thing a man can do. And it's not about ego, showing you're a stud. At least not for a man who's mature. It's about love."
Vanessa thought and thought. Ricardo gave up massaging her breasts.
"They bust in on her while she was exercising, and dragged her around that studio like she was a dummy, or a mannequin. And spread her legs, put her up on a high bar, dragged her across the floor, just so they could force orgasms out of her."
"Now you're saying SHE'S subservient?"
"It just didn't seem right. When I broke in on them and saw them attacking her, it reminded me of rape."
"Oh come onů"
"Well, it did. It kind of messed me up. I'm reminded of Liz."
"A teenager I counseled at the center at Boston College. She got raped and in the process of him thrusting, she got her first-ever orgasm. It messed her up for quite a while."
"I suppose it would... This was not Tami's first, though. From what you say, you probably broke in on orgasm number 35,467."
Vanessa sighed. "Yes... She triggers such conflicting emotions."
"I think you should just let her live her life. I think she's quite fine."
"Oh really?" She reached down and placed her hands firmly around her naked husband's testicles, as if threatening to squeeze. Another old gag of theirs.
"I keep telling you," Ricardo said in mock agony. "I imagine it's YOU who's always naked."
That seemed natural enough. To see a woman always naked was the most basic male desire. But... "I can't just let her live her life. I'm the Assistant Dean for Students."
"So... Did you have lunch with her? Did she tell you what her plans were?"
"No, she cagily avoided that, like always. She's a shoo-in for a grad assistantship. She says she's thinking about Hamid in math but that seems like a cop-out."
"Think she suspects what's up?"
"I highly doubt it. Oh Ric, if she only knew... I feel sorry for Tony Noyes sometimes. What a decision."
"Wow. Sympathy for that old coot. That's new."
"Well, he's not a creep, at least. Not like that old crowd that Jorgon and Ross kept so pacified."
Vanessa repeated, "If that poor naked girl only knew... what awaits her. Life has been so unfair to her." It was pitch dark in the bedroom but Ricardo could tell her eyes were wide open.
"There's only one thing to do," he said, sliding his head down under the covers. "I'm a Vanessa Licker. I'm going to -- damn you woman, must you wear panties to bed! I'm going to lick you for a solid half hour and make you come, maybe twice. And then me and my unused dick will go to sleep. Happily."
"OK, now put your arms down."
Gretchen gratefully did so and looked at what was, at the moment, a shapeless white tunic covering her torso. She had a T-shirt on under it but could feel this new fabric against her forearms. It was weird but not bad. A little like chain mail, or how she imagined chain mail might feel like, but also a little like satin.
From her perch on the modeling socle she looked around here in the Fashion Lab. About six or seven models were up on their socles, mostly friends of the student designers who flitted about busily beneath them. Gretchen had learned to respect the science of clothing design. It wasn't easy.
She looked down at Tami, who had pins in her mouth, by turns scurrying to her plan book and looking at the tunic with concern, just like the other designers but for her nudity. The others, being fashion majors, were of course fully and stylishly covered. Gretchen wondered how Tami could run about on bare feet with no apparent concern as to falling pins. Maybe she had a sixth sense as to where they might be.
Tami and the others were planning for the "Spring Zing", the annual fashion show the Department of Fashion Technology put on for the campus and the community. Fortunately this tunic thing seemed to be holding together well. For Tami and Gretchen this was the first real test for their new fabric. They really had to decide on a name for it. Tami was also trying to decide on a logo for her designs. Because she had decided to put in a portfolio for the International. Tami had explained it on the trip out to Gretchen's home that Friday afternoon, three days ago. "Why not go for it?" is how she put it.
It was practically the only good news that weekend. The whole thing was just a bad idea, though Tami as always was a good sport. Gretchen had been telling her parents for a long time now about her friend, who always had to be naked because of a clothing allergy. It took a while for it to sink in, that this girl was for real. Finally they seemed interested and would ask Gretchen how Tami was doing.
Inviting Tami over, though, was a different deal. It was only a moment's hesitation before her mother said of course, she can visit, but Gretchen should have recognized that moment as her chance to cancel the idea. It was a nice, chatty ride over in Gretchen's car, up into the Adirondacks, where there was still a blanket of snow. But then to arrive for dinner and see that her parents had put up a low sheet barrier in the middle of the table so that they would not be caught looking at Tami's nakedness. It was Gretchen and Tami on one side, her parents and her brother Freddy on the other. Her parents were not naturally effusive but the polite conversation was even more stilted than usual. And poor Freddy, still in high school, did not know how to act.
That was bad enough. But Gretchen made it worse on Saturday morning by suggesting that Tami go to Freddy's hockey game, out on the outdoor rink. It was a sunny day with no wind and Tami could probably have stayed for most of the game. Tami resisted the invitation while Gretchen stupidly kept pushing it. Tami was adamant and finally Gretchen realized what a situation she almost put her parents and her brother in. She was, if only subconsciously, trying to score points with herself by bravely appearing in her home town with a naked person. While not taking into account the feelings of others.
Instead she drove Tami out to the gorge, where the two sat and watched the little waterfall. She wished she could take Tami up the path to Point Peter and see the view from there, but that was an hour's hike and impossible for a naked and barefoot girl. At Tami's insistence they did get out and walk along the ice-bound edge of the pool. As Tami idly kicked chunks of ice into the water, they ended up with a sullen talk about Roger and Joe in Iraq. There was a scary moment when Gretchen took off her engagement ring to show it to Tami and it slipped out of her hand into the pool. But the water was clear enough to see it lying on a rock under ten feet of icy water. As Gretchen cringed, Tami dove in to retrieve it. Of course Tami had to go immediately into the car where Gretchen cranked up up the heater.
Now, clothed in T-shirt, tunic, jeans, thick socks and boots, looking down at Tami, and thinking of that weekend, Gretchen realized what a terrible loneliness her friend lived with. Tami seemed to have it all together -- strong, popular, a high achiever, a loving family, a good husband. But there were so many places she could not go, so many people she could never meet, so many things she would never connect with.
Rod was not psychic. Nor did he have his wife's ability to sense what people were thinking, though to be fair that ability had been developed through her nipples, exposed to the elements and to the world's gaze for so long. Rod's nipples did not have that kind of experience. Though Tami tried to suck them once in a while. Rod hated that. Though maybe he shouldn't. Was it ultimately homophobia? Too sensitive? Or just too weird?
Nevertheless as he sat in the trailer on the dam site that Monday morning, looking over the plans while drinking that terrible hot-plate coffee, he had a premonition that Tami would call with something along those lines. He remembered what she had said during that strange conversation at the Plaza Diner: "I should devote myself more to pleasuring you." And they hadn't really spoken in three days and he had an inkling that she had done some thinking in that time. She had spent the weekend with Gretchen while he had been down in Boston, helping his mother organize the attic. Poor Mama. She had tried to keep house for the two years since his father died, but finally had to admit it was just beyond her capabilities. It was time to get the house ready for selling and move in with Auntie.
The call came at 11:30 on his cell. "Wait for tonight, lover," she said. "This week is my week to serve you. Don't even try to make me come first. You come first tonight. Love you!" Then she hung up.
As he entered the kitchen he at first thought there was a power failure. It was pitch dark. But the light in the driveway had been on. Where was Tami --
"Boom... pa-chik! Boom... pa-chik! Boom..."
The blast of disco came from the living room, specks of light wandering over to grace the kitchen cabinets opposite. In the living room was a glitter ball spinning multicolored stars into the darkness. A ghostly figure stepped forward and positioned herself underneath. The lights caressed her breasts, her tummy, her thighs. She slowly turned, and now the glitter ball worked its magic on the bare shoulders, the beautifully formed bottom. As his eyes got more adjusted to the light he saw that her arm was pointed to the ceiling, the other hand placed on a jutted-out hip.
Then she turned to him and danced. A vigorous, disco-style dance.
Rod couldn't help himself. He snorted and hated himself for doing so. But he couldn't help it. At first he thought she was being jokey but he then realized that this was an earnest attempt. As a disco dancer Tami was bad. Really, really bad. She might have been a fine gymnast. And he still remembered her performance at the Black Formal when they first met, her glow-in-the-dark, kente-colored fingernails and toenails flying in the darkness as she did basic gymnast moves in the darkness of the Multipurpose Room. But now, trying to be funky, she looked spastic. She twirled and looked like she was trying to swat a mosquito that kept going behind her. She jumped up and looked like she was trying to adjust a light bulb with a itchy butt. Then she went down low and looked like she was constipated.
He lurched around until he found the stereo and turned it off. She didn't seem to want to stop but he held her in his arms, her sweaty nakedness against his work clothes as the disco lights rotated around them silently. Then he gave her a long, long kiss, or tried to, his lips unfortunately breaking into a giggle at the critical moment.
He entered the kitchen, which was fully lit again, and found himself facing Tami's bare butt practically pushed up in his face. With a little American flag sticking out of her butthole. She was on all fours, her head down and her butt up. "Wooo -- wooo! Chugga-chugga-chugga-chugga-" As she made these train sounds she turned her head and smiled at him, face against the table top. More train sounds, and the flag dipped up and down in rhythm with the flexing of her well-practiced rectal muscles.
Now -- "Warning! Big train entering tunnel! Watch out!" A few flips up and down with the little flag pole and then the pole dropped to the floor. Tami's patented anal gape now claimed his attention. The dark aperture, slick with lubricant, expanded to an inch and a half across, then closed, then opened again, in time with the -- "Woo -- woooo! Woo -- woooo!" As always, her toes flexed and spread each time she opened up. Rod had his own gape which did not close, his jaw dropping and staying dropped.
"Big train coming... here comes... open up the tunnel... yummm... big hot dog... yumm..."
Once again Rod stepped into a pitch black kitchen, by now with a sense of dread. This time it was soft music coming out of the living room. No disco lights.
Gingerly making his way toward the flickering dimness, he turned into the living room to see two glasses of wine on the table with a lit candle between them. There was something black draped on the chair.
A whisper from the shadows. "Have a seat."
The candle glowing in her green eyes, Tami's nude form approached silently. She floated behind the chair and approached him with her luminous eyes full of desire and love. She tilted slightly, then raised her foot and caressed his ear with her toes. Now she delicately picked up the soft black form that had been draped on the chair.
It was that black evening gown he had bought her early in her sophomore year, after he had found out the truth about her freshman year ordeal, after Jorgon had resigned and Ross had disappeared and Tami was finally free to wear clothes. He had, impulsively but in an act of devotion, blown his entire bank account on the dress, presenting it to Tami, only to hear her confess that she was now allergic to clothes.
Rod's eyes were wet as he remembered her breaking down, crying as she sank to the floor caressing the gown, saying, "Please God please... clothes... please..." He had picked her up and laid her on the bed, licked her gently, and she was soon fast asleep. She told him later that this was the last time she had prayed for clothes. In the morning he had cooked her a big breakfast which he brought to her in bed. As she woke she was bright and cheerful and a different person.
The gown was kept in the closet, preserved in a plastic bag. And now she had brought it out. She held it in front of her, the spaghetti straps in her fingers at shoulder height. Now she leaned down and, the gown between them, kissed him. "Wearing" the gown in the only way she could.
She meant it to be romantic and a prelude to lovemaking but Rod just could not think about sex. Instead, he hugged her and the gown as tight as he could, tears blinking in his eyes as the candle light went all blurry.
The kitchen was lit again as Rod entered. Three empty bottles of beer on the table, one fallen on its side. The naked girl stood unsteadily, leaning back on the table for support, and as Rod watched she downed another beer, gulp, gulp, gulp, all in one draft.
With great concentration she managed to place the new empty behind her. She looked down as if about to vomit, but instead --
"B - U - U - U - R - R - PPP!"
-- rattling every teacup in the cabinets.
She looked up at him with an unsteadily cocked eyebrow. "Wanna f..k?"
Oh no. Another dark kitchen.
This time, no disco lights or music leaking in from the living room. It was pitch dark, silent. He stood there for a few moments. He thought of turning on the light but that was evidently not Tami's plan for tonight. Slowly he crept around the kitchen table, feeling his way, putting his briefcase down. Now around the corner to the living room. He sensed a presence. This was creepy. Tami was here somewhere. He kind of knew her scent.
He thought he heard a motion near the couch. He turned toward it. He could barely see its vague couch shape in the dark. No, not there --
"Oh Jesus!" His heart nearly stopped as he was jumped from behind. He felt the nude skin all over him, like an octopus enveloping its prey with what felt like ten arms and legs. He was wrestled to the floor and turned face up, his arms pinned above his head, the bare knees holding down his thighs. At least tonight's event was successful in getting him aroused, and he felt his dick begin to grow in his pants just below the plum-colored forest he could sense right above it. For a while there was no sound except for the female predator's hard breathing.
Now his shirt buttons were being undone, and his belt buckle. He lay there passively as his shirt was peeled off his shoulders and his fly unzipped. Then the wild naked woman stopped. Seconds passed. What was going on?
It took a while but Rod figured it out. She wanted him to resist, like a dog who wanted him to try to keep a ball away from her. He obliged by straining to get up, finally overcoming the strength of his naked attacker. Then he started to run for the sun room. She grabbed his pants as he tried to pull them up. Harder and harder she yanked as he reached the passageway. Suddenly her hand slipped --
Holding his forehead which had hit the door jamb, he landed on his butt. Game over.
Rod, in his pajamas, lay on the bed holding the ice-filled bag to his eyebrow. It was a nasty cut.
"I'm sorry, Baby," Tami said, caressing his cheek. She was leaned over so that, being so limber, her foot was planted on the bed next to her shoulder.
"It's OK, Babe. You get an 'A' for effort."
Tami sighed. "I want to do things for you."
"Maybe you tried too hard. Just relax."
Tami moved her foot down and opened the fly of his pants. She drew his dick out with her dexterous toes and rubbed it. "How about a blow job?"
Rod laughed. "That... would be perfect."
She went to work.
And now, three days later, the snow having almost all melted, driving home past campus, he stopped to see an unusual sight, a bunch of students (and what looked like a couple of professors) playing an impromptu game of softball on the muddy field. They were having a great time. And of course there was Tami, in nothing except her left-handed mitt from high school, out in center field, now slopping through the muck in her bare feet to snag a long fly ball. She effortlessly threw it in to the pitcher, mud flying off her toes as the followed through.
He had never seen Tami play softball. She was not a natural disco queen but a natural ball player. A few minutes later her team was up and Tami waited for the pitch, her slim body upright, mud striping her bare butt and her feet and ankles, as well as a large smear down her side, maybe from having made a diving catch. She pulled a sharp line drive to right field.
He waved at her and people waved back. When the game was over she ran to his jeep and cheerfully parked her muddy butt on the easy-to-clean vinyl of the passenger seat.
When they got home Rod, being muddy himself from his work on the project, undressed and was the first one in the shower.
And now he emerged in his towel to see Tami sitting on the kitchen table, leaning against the wall, pounding her mitt and looking down gloomily at the dried mud encrusting her toes.
"What's wrong Babe?"
"You know what I miss?" Her eyes had a faraway look. "The Pawsox."
Rod, a native of Roxbury, Massachusetts, knew what she meant. He had never been down to see them but he knew about the Sox's top farm team, the Pawtucket Red Sox.
"My dad would take me and Joe to McCoy Stadium. We would sit on the grass behind the center field wall and eat hot dogs. I always brought this old thing," the naked young woman said, pounding her tattered glove. "One time I almost caught a home run hit by Johnny Damon. A fat man got it behind us but then he gave it to me and Joe. We still have it in the living room."
Rod sat down, letting her talk. "And... I miss hanging out with my girlfriends watching the cool college kids on Thayer Street, and playing frisbee in Hopkins Square... Visiting my cousins in Woonsocket... I would bicycle to Attleboro Mass and back with Charlene..." Tami looked to her side, up at the Pawsox hat pinned to the bulletin board, less than a foot from her head. As if wishing she could put it on again. But no.
He had dreaded this day coming, but it was also a relief. With Tami about to graduate she had to decide on what her ultimate plan would be. Obviously she could stay at Campbell - Frank as a grad assistant, for a while. But not indefinitely.
Last year, during her embrace of "the theory of nudism", they had gotten a little drunk and spoke about countries where she might move about freely. Germany topped the list. Then they listed Sweden. Indonesia. Austria. Brazil. Spain. These were just guesses. It never got further than that.
"We don't have to stay here, Babe," he said. "There's other countries -- "
"Yes, but Rod, I'm an American. I do want to stay here. It's where I'm from. I liked Germany, but I'm from here. The people I love are here." Pounding the mitt again, then flexing her mud-caked toes and looking down at them. "Charles Street. Child Street. Charles Street. Child Street."
Tami leapt off the table, being so light on her feet, and without any drama landed on the floor, her landing muffled by the stuff on her soles. She slouched in front of Rod like a tired outfielder, mitt on her hand, though this was a totally naked, barefoot outfielder with dried mud streaks across her nipples and her concave tummy. If she wasn't distressed Rod would have found this view pretty hot. "A Providence native -- I mean someone from Pwovidince -- they would say those the same. I've lost my accent. Charles Street. Child Street. Damn!"
She was overstating a bit now. "It's natural to lose your accent in college," he said, if a bit condescendingly. Rod had always had a standard, neutral African-American accent, pronouncing his R's and such, but he had noticed the loss of accent in others. Tami certainly had lost hers, though even when he first met her as a new freshman, when she was freshly nude, she didn't have much of one. Her family's accent was very strong, as he noticed whenever they went down to visit. Rod could see what was going on here. Tami had always proud of being from Rhode Island. And except for their brief and occasional visits, with her slipping out of the car into her parents' house when the coast was clear, she couldn't go back.
Tami stood silently, then flexed her toes and began to move one foot after another, toward the bathroom, heading for the shower after a long game.
Rod pondered a while and decided Tami would bring up the topic again when she wanted to. He got into his jeans and sweatshirt. Time to finally bring in that stuff from the jeep. The wind had kicked up and it was cold again. He brought in the four big boxes, his old things from his trip to Roxbury. It was sad to have to sell that old house he had grown up in, but it just had to be. His mother just couldn't take care of it any longer.
Now he smiled as he brought in the trombone case. He hadn't played this thing since his high school marching band days. Sitting in the bedroom, listening to Tami in the shower -- she's doing her off-key humming, a good sign she's feeling better -- he looked at the case and contemplated the loss of childhood, Tami's as well as his own.
What the hell. He opened it and assembled the old thing. This was a regular tenor trombone. He never liked those extra valves and crooks. Simplest is best. A naked trombone. He snorted. He preferred to put his mouth to something naked. A sign of the future, though he hadn't known it. Then he chuckled at himself for making this joke, the product of a high school mentality.
He wet his lips and pressed them against the mouthpiece. Wow -- this thing was COLD! Well, what did he expect? It had been lying in the jeep for three days. He inhaled and tried to blow a first-position B-flat ---
God, that wasn't even a note. He wet his lips again, tightened them up, and tried again. The next attempts were hardly better. Now he tried a pedal tone and all that came out was hissing air.
Tami sauntered in, all clean and ruddy and glowing from her rough toweling, and giggled at his atrocious musicianship. It was good to see, her breasts dancing with her laughter.
"Where are you going?" he said, as she gathered her things and hefted her bag over her shoulder.
"SGA committee," she said, casually glancing down at her toes to make sure she'd scrubbed all the mud off. She was still doing the Student Government Association committee thing. "Later."
After she'd kissed him and left, Rod, feeling sleepy, placed the trombone in the corner and lay back.
"Thbbb! ... Th-thbb!"
He licked his lips and tried again on the next group of sixteenth notes, pressing against the mouthpiece that felt like a block of ice no matter how much he blew into it.
Even through his full-length wool uniform, and the long underwear, he could feel the frigid wind knifing right through him. It wasn't just him, of course, as he tried to pt-pt the notes of "Little Giant" along with the seven other trombonists in the front row. The rest of the band wasn't sounding much better. It was nerve-racking being a trombonist, having to be in the front row of the 60-member band to make room for the trombones' slides.
But this was a great day for the band, for their families, for their high school. They had won the national competition down in Atlanta and were privileged to lead the parade into Foxboro Stadium for the Patriots' last regular season game.
They had expected cold this time of year, but not THIS cold. It had snowed two days before and the banks were piled up high on each side of Washington Street. Behind the snow, crowds five deep watched, bundled up, and cheered, or made ridiculous muted clapping with their heavily gloved hands. There was some talk about the parade being canceled, but that was only a dream. They couldn't pass up being seen on national TV.
It was a poor, mostly black school, T----- High, but the marching band program was its pride and joy. They had quite a reputation in the Boston area and were often invited to march in other towns' parades, like St. Patrick's Day and Memorial Day. Their uniforms were resplendent, the tall plumed hats and the braided jackets with the shoulder tassles and striped pants, though with the district finances the way they were, upkeep required frequent fund-raising. He hated doing that.
But like for any kid it was worth it, being a proud member of this famous band, marching strictly in step as they were trained to do in their daily morning practices, out on the football field and in the gym in bad weather. The big glass case in the school lobby, right after the metal detector, had a slew of trophies, and annual band photos going back to 1937 when it was a segregated school.
Now "Little Giant" ended and they would switch to "Our Director". After the last cymbal crash from the half-frozen arms of his friend Jared ten rows back, he and the other trombonists counted three beats and then dropped their instruments down to waist level in "ready" position. The next tune after that was "Washington Post" and then "Manhattan Beach". This was part of their regular rotation, the traditional marches then "Hold That Tiger", during which the band could finally do a little swinging around to get their blood moving again.
Anything was better than straight marching on a frigid day like this. His feet were getting numb, and the tips of his gloved fingers. The wind was now blowing into their faces as they began marching downhill with the road. He could feel his nose sniffle and hoped snot didn't run down where he couldn't wipe it. Unnecessary motions were much discouraged, they ruined the formation. He thought of their band director, Mr. Weaver -- they called him "Sarge" because he used to direct an Army band -- who was marching to the side twenty feet back. He glanced furtively down at his white fake-leather gloves. Would snot show on them?
The drum guard, way behind him, did their vamping and he looked straight forward as he was supposed to. He could see the city ahead, and the stadium in front of it, looking like it was ten miles away. It wasn't that far, but this was a long parade -- first going down to the park, then a short break, then the final leg down Broadway, in front of the reviewing stand, then finally into the stadium.
The sound off, and now into "Our Director". D-flat was not his favorite key but this was an easy tune, not too many notes. The band didn't make as many flubs on this one. Now he looked a little to the right, to their regular majorette, a white girl named Brigid, prancing and twirling her baton all alone at the head of the parade, and contemplated her very interesting skin.
He had noticed it in the photos in the glass case. As the uniforms for the rest of the band got more abundant and ornate over the years, with the addition of high boots, cummerbunds, epaulettes, the majorette's uniform got more and more skimpy. The 1940's majorettes wore mid-length skirts which showed some leg, but otherwise their uniforms were much like the rest of their band's. And then over the years the big "shako" hat got smaller, the jacket shrank to a vest, then disappeared, the blouse and skirt shrank to leotards, then in the 1980's the midriff appeared, the boots shrank to sneakers...
He liked looking at Brigid's beautiful skin, very white with freckles over the shoulders, a product of her Irish heritage. It was certainly well on display. Her uniform began with a little pillbox-style cap, a shrunken version of the shakos the rest of her band wore, black and white, the school colors, with a "T" on the front. It was pinned to her red, braided-up hair. Her nipples were covered by circles of white fake-leather (called "circlets") maybe three inches across, little rounded cones, with again each with a black "T" on them. He wondered how the circlets were attached so they didn't fall off as she went through her vigorous paces. That was something the girls in the locker room would know, though for obvious reasons, Brigid had emerged from there this morning well before the others.
Further down, her closely-shaved pubic area was covered with a little white V-shaped triangle, certainly the smallest bikini bottom he had ever seen, held on securely by sparkly silver strings that went low around her waist, meeting in the rear at the crack of her butt where they formed a delicate "T" with the band that went down and disappeared between the cheeks. Add a pair of low-heeled, dressy flip-flop style sandals, held on with just the thinnest silvery straps, and that was Brigid the majorette's uniform.
He was fascinated by white girls' skin, how it changed color, getting a tan in the summer, blushing, turning whiter when they were afraid, red when they were mad, red and blotchy in the cold. White folks' skin was pretty funny in general. During the competition in Atlanta, watching the other bands, he and his buddies almost lost it during another band's audition, an all-white band from Kansas or someplace. Five trumpeters did consecutive solos and the face of each started out white and turned red, one after the other.
Brigid was beautiful, though. Nothing ridiculous about her or her skin. He didn't really know her. Her regular instrument was clarinet, and the clarinets were across the band from the trombones. She always sat between her friends Debra and Virginia, black girls who were pretty O.K. And her skin, especially today, was interesting, fascinating really, like a canvas of a painting created by God called, "On a Freezing Cold Day". Her shoulders were reddish, her arms blotchy, her bare back a little lighter, her legs and feet a little purplish, her toes a little more so. Her sacral dimples, a few inches above the T-string, were lighter than the blushing butt cheeks below.
It was kind of callous of him to think of her this way, of course. She must be suffering on a day like this but she didn't show it. She was a real trouper. They had never marched on a day this cold. Feeling his cold hands and chilly arms in their gloves and two layers of sleeves, he thought of how her bare hands and arms must feel tossing and twirling that baton. Feeling his whole body trying to get some blood moving under his full-length wool uniform and long underwear, he felt sorry for her bare torso, the breasts tightly bouncing in the freezing air behind the -- were they glued on? -- little circlets. His butt was freezing -- but how much more freezing Brigid's must be, entirely naked to the winter wind except for the ridiculous tiny string. And his feet were almost numb in their heavy socks and boots. Meanwhile the frigid wind whistled between poor Brigid's bare toes!
But like always, she kept a smile frozen on her face, alternately twirling and the jabbing the baton in the air to keep the beat, then when the band was marching in place, tucking the baton under her arm, stepping in place. He wondered how she kept those backless sandals on her feet while whirling around. It must be hard to grip with toes going numb. Only once did she falter, one heel slipping a bit on black ice, but she recovered right away and hardly lost a step.
His mind went back to September. It seemed so long ago now. The measuring for uniforms, one by one in the practice room, though how Brigid was measured, it would have been interesting to see. Then the meeting in the auditorium. One by one the members were called up by the band secretary, Ms. Jillian, to get their uniforms. A big travel bag held up by a coat hanger, with a smaller bag attached which held the boots. The bags were huge, massive, five feet high and heavy. Some of the girls had trouble hefting theirs back to their seats. Then Brigid was called. She was in the back and walked down the aisle in her usual outfit of black jeans, white-collared shirt, jean jacket and sneakers. Ms. Jillian handed her a tiny black thing like it was a little birthday present. It was the flip-flops tied together with a tiny black pouch the size of a CD case. Her uniform bag.
During the rest of the year the uniforms had been hung up on those racks along the walls in the rehearsal room. Big heavy travel bags, except for a hanger that looked like it had nothing on it until you looked and saw the tiny black pouch with flip-flops.
Now "Our Director" ended. Instruments down. The band halted, Brigid having been instructed to stay at least fifty feet behind the flashing fire truck. The whole band, the majorette and the instrumentalists and the drum guard, marched in place, little steps, two inches up, as they had practiced. During those early morning sessions at the school Brigid had taken off her shoes and socks, so she could practice in those backless sandals. Her bare feet were striking with everyone else so fully clothed. He wasn't a foot fetishist or anything but it was pretty sexy.
Of course, now she was almost all bare. He watched her butt cheeks intently, as they jiggled ever so slightly with each in-place step. Nice and tight, a white girl's butt. He knew she was on the soccer team and she was in such good shape. Of course, a majorette at this school had to be. Real narrow waist, flat tummy, nice legs, nice boobs too, not especially big but sticking out firm without a bra. He threw furtive glances at the crowds behind the banks of snow, looking for the TV cameras. None yet; they had to be further down the route.
And the newspapers. The crowd was all bundled up. Standing in place it was easier to get cold. Most of the faces were all but covered with scarves or ski masks. He tried to detect their expressions and supposed they were cringing at the sight of the nearly naked majorette in the cold. He could picture tomorrow morning's front page of the Globe, tabloidy as always. The headline: "CRUEL! School makes majorette march near-naked in freezing parade!" Pictures of horrified onlookers. And of course, a big picture of Brigid front and center, so all the outraged readers could jerk off to her under the breakfast table.
He told himself: I'm obsessing. He had obsessed on Brigid all year, being in the front row of the instrumentalists, having such a constant view of her. And he told himself that exposure to the elements was just part of the life of a majorette. He and the other trombonists had gotten used to following her around during the whole football season, watching her body soak up the sun those hot September days (and being a little envious back then, stuck in their sweaty wool uniforms), mesmerized by the sleek wetness of her bare curves in October drizzles, then counting the goose bumps on her butt during those windy November weekends.
So it was more than just watching her bod. He wanted to get to know her. He admired tough girls. What was she like?
Now on to "Washington Post". This was a livelier tune. He got with the program and concentrated on his playing as they again advanced. Then Brigid spun 180 degrees, twirling, and his thoughts wandered again. That tiny triangle bottom, it's really narrow - maybe no more than like two inches across at the top. Does she have to shave all her pubic hair? Or just pare it down so it's like a pubic Mohawk? Is her pubic hair red like her head hair? Someone told him that all white girls, no matter what their head hair is like, their pubic hair is like a dull brown...
Rod groaned and stretched on the bed, feeling something hard in his jeans like a baton, then turned and curled up on the other side...
It felt so good to wolf down this big burger. Being out in the cold makes you hungry. He sat up, munching on fries, his shako on the table, his trombone bell-down next to him on the bench.
And then Brigid sat down across from him!
Her breasts with their circlets wiggled a bit as she and Debra and Virginia, on each side of her, sat down with their trays. They sucked on the sodas and chatted about this and that as he tried not to look too directly. He could see down to about the middle of her tummy, and her almost total nudity, all that white skin, now turning white in blotches now that it was finally exposed to warmth again, contrasted with her fully-dressed black friends with their gold braids and buttons and epaulettes. Debra and Virginia had taken off their gloves to eat, carefully setting them to the side, but still had their tall shakos on.
It was a big room, with the whole band around them sitting at tables, and over the hubbub the girls were talking about their driver education class, namely that old big Chevy the school had. "It's hahd to control that cahh," Brigid said, and Virginia agreed. "Girl you know it." Brigid's accent seemed a little different than the standard white-person Boston accent. Maybe more like a Providence accent. Then she shifted on her hips and he knew that she had dropped her sandals to the floor and was sitting cross-legged.
Now she pivoted her body toward Debra, still engaged in conversation. Girls talked a lot faster than guys and by now they had gotten into going to the mall next weekend with Maria and Shonday. He realized Brigid was pretty popular. It was such a big school, though, that there was no point of contact between his circle of friends and hers. Now as he finished his burger, trying not to look, Debra scooted away from her and put ungloved hands down, and he realized she was massaging Brigid's half-frozen feet. His eyes leapt as he caught a glimpse, the warm black hands rubbing the circulation back into the white toes, stretching them, spreading them. He supposed it wasn't so skanky if the person was essentially barefoot all day like Brigid was.
"Hey Brigid!" It was a guy he knew as Willy, something of a wise guy. He held up an ice cream on the way to his seat. "Want some COLD ice cream?"
Brigid squinted sarcastically as he passed by.
He straightened up a bit, automatically, as Old Lady McPherson came around, the Principal. She could be (A), an old witch, or (B), a nice old grandma. Right now it was (B). "How are you doing dear?" she said. "Pretty good," Brigid said. "You look fine out there. You all do," she said glancing over at the rest. "We're proud of you."
Looking down at Brigid's feet, then at her hands, Ms. McPherson said, "You did a good job on the nails, girls. I didn't think you could get another year out of those old bottles."
"Well they WERE about empty," Virginia said. "I did the feet," Debra said proudly, as she held them up for the Principal to see, Brigid trying to spread her still-reviving toes with some effort. This was no small matter. With the disappearance of boots and gloves, fingernail paint and toenail paint had become part of the majorette's uniform. And like everything else about the band members' appearance it was expected to be meticulously perfect. The paint was the school colors, black and white, alternating on each finger and toe.
After the old lady had gone on, another guy came by with a giant-sized soda. "Brigid -- want some -- COLD -- soda?" The majorette stuck her tongue out with a sour face.
Sarge came by. "Don't eat too fast," he said. "We've got a mile and a half to go. How's everyone doing?"
Having finished his burger and used his napkin, he spoke up with a smile. "It's hot in here," he said. Indeed he was getting sweaty indoors, encased in his thermals and full uniform.
"Pfft," Sarge said with a good-natured dismissive wave. "Talk to Brigid about that."
It was the first time he referred to Brigid's plight. With the forecast being for cold, there was some talk about canceling the parade. But that was just impossible. It was to be their big day. At the last band meeting Sarge had talked about it. "Now it will be chilly out, so it will be all right for all band members to wear thermal underwear, except the majorette of course, providing it's not bulky and doesn't show." Half the guys must have looked over at Brigid sitting in the clarinet section. Brigid showed no reaction to this passing mention, but Debra and Virginia glanced sideways at their friend. Everyone could wear thermals except the band member who needed them the most. Of course everyone knew for the majorette it would be impossible. Even a body stocking or something like that would look ridiculous. It probably would make the sandals slip off. And mabye there would be no way to keep the circlets on.
"Hey Brigid," another guy said as he passed, "are ya -- FRIGID?"
He could detect Brigid giving him the finger from under the table. He was fascinated by her even more now. She could give as well as she got.
"Woo! Look! The girl scouts!" Debra's announcement got the three of them up. Careful to put her sandals on first, Brigid joined the rest of them as they went up to the big window facing the street. They stepped up onto the low sill and pressed their hands against the glass, waving at their old troop leader, Miss Pikarski, who waved back as she passed by leading the pack of smiling little girls in overcoats. Debra and Virginia, standing against the window covered all up in their jackets and long-legged trousers and boots, and in between, Brigid in her backless sandals, her total nakedness from the rear interrupted only by the little T-string in her butt, and the little cap clipped to her hair.
They got down and for a while they ate silently. Now another clown came by and said, "Were ya frigid, Brigid?" He could see it might become a nickname now whether she wanted it or not. Frigid Brigid.
Her eyes were darting around the room, as if making sure no one was looking. Then she said, "This uniform is killing me."
Debra and Virginia seemed to know what she meant and looked around too.
"Make sure the coast is cleah, O.K.?" And then his mouth dropped as Brigid took the circlets off with a little sideways squeeze from each hand. He saw now they were kept on by springy metal clips like you use to keep papers together, or on a clipboard -- "bulldog clips", he thought they were called. God, they must hurt!
Her nipples stood out, stiff and red, like they were angry at being tortured all morning. Brigid sighed and closed her eyes as she massaged them between her fingers. It was almost as if taking them off was as painful as having them on.
And then she opened her eyes and looked up at him for the first time -- smiling and giggling a little bit, with a shyness and sense of slight embarrassment that was unusual for this tough girl, as she cupped her breasts in her hands. He smiled back and felt at that moment like he was in love.
She returned to massaging her abused nipples then put her hands at her sides. Her breasts wiggled a bit more freely now with the motions of her arms as she ate. She looked up warily now and then. Any T---- High majorette was aware of public indecency laws and knew she shouldn't be out like this.
Her breasts looked even more protruding, more pointy, with her red nipples exposed and sticking out. Again, a fascinating aspect of white girls -- he had never seen a real live white girl's nipples before, so expressive, angry and red. Especially against the breasts which were returning to the normal white color, as they spent more time in this warm fast food place.
Brigid's breasts needed more soothing, apparently. She finished her soda with a loud slurp and then she stuck her fingers in it. She fished out two chips of ice which she now held up against her nipples. "Mmmm..." It was a sensual sound that made his dick hard. Fortunately it wouldn't show under all his coverings. She checked around for grown-ups, rubbing the quickly melting chips againt her.
Now a clap from across the room. Sarge's signal. "Quick, do me up heah," Brigid said, turning to Virginia and sticking out her breasts. Virginia hurriedly clipped the circlets on. "Ow ow ow," Brigid said, taking off the left one. Virginia had clipped it too near the end of the nipple. He imagined it must have hurt like hell. Virginia re-did it.
"How do I look?" Brigid said, turning to Debra. "This one's crooked," her friend said, resetting one so that the "T" stood straight up.
Then Frigid Brigid shook her breasts violently side to side, making them bounce like miniature soccer balls. This took his breath away. But it was the only way to make sure the circlets were secure.
The band got up and made for outside. He put on his shako and picked up his trombone and followed. Having gotten hot in his uniform, he was almost grateful to feel the freezing air hitting his face as they emerged onto the sidewalk. They were bottlenecked as members filed through the narrow cutout in the three-foot-high snow bank to get back onto the street. Brigid was needed at the front and couldn't wait. So she took off her sandals and, using her baton as a walking stick, scaled the snow bank in her bare feet, her toes grabbing the refrozen slippery chunks of white with care. It caused people to look but it was simply the sensible thing to do.
Now out on the street, they got into formation. Sarge and Brigid stood in front. When everyone was all set Sarge said, "How are your toes, Brigid?"
Standing in front with the other trombones, he saw her look down, flexing her toes in the dressy flip-flops. "OK"
"Folks," Sarge barked out, "I... know... we don't... sound too good... today." He was speaking slowly so as to be heard clearly, his breath forming little clouds. "This is probably the coldest parade we've ever been in. There's just no way to play well in this temperature. Don't... worry about it. Concern yourself with formation. We'll be in front of TV cameras soon... so how we look... will be what counts.
"I've noticed the formation isn't too good." He pointed over to the majorette. "Watch... Brigid. She's freezing herů BUNS off... for us. The least we can do is follow her beat. Brigid," his voice lowering, "lead as much as possible. Twirl only when the band seems in step, and only one throw at a time." Brigid nodded.
And with a sound off from the drum guard, they were off, marching forward, beginning "Son of a Preacher Man". They were still going downhill and now the wind was so stiff that it was an effort to push ahead. The cold sun disappeared and now it was overcast. He glanced up and it looked like snow clouds. Brigid led, her baton jabbing into the air, stepping high, the icy wind no doubt piercing like needles into her near-nakedness...
In a few moments her skin was multicolored again, and he was grateful for his thermal underwear.
They got to the reviewing stand and stopped. Aside from entering the stadium itself, this was their big moment. As planned, the majorette turned and faced the Governor and the other important, formally-dressed personages up there in their top hats, overcoats and white gloves, as the drum guard marched single file around the instrumentalists and formed behind her. Cameras were everywhere, on the reviewing stand, perched up on scaffolds here and there, all aimed at Brigid.
The drum guard did the sound-off, then launched into a furious barrage of gunshot-like drum shots and cymbal crashes as Brigid twirled and spun and pranced. Her skin was a little purplish now, maybe from her exertions. He could tell she was breathing heavily, and realized what an athletic workout it was.
Now she flung the baton high, high up into the air, spun around once, and deftly caught it over her head in time with the last cymbal crash. She stayed in that position, baton up, her breasts wobbling for a split-second before coming to rest, her pelvic bones framing her concave tummy, one foot in front of the other, the other arm straight out from her side, the majorette's permanent smile frozen on her face.
The men and women up on the stand cheered, as did the rest of the crowd. He would have cheered too if he had been allowed. If she had dropped the baton it would be all they would hear about in the media, it would be how T---- High School would be known. But she had come through. Good old Frigid Brigid!
Now they marched down the hill again, behind the fire truck, as they went the last leg down to the stadium. Another easy tune, "Under the Double Eagle". Brigid's body stayed purple as she led the beat. He wondered how long she could go like this. Her exertions would heat her up to some extent, but there had to be a limit.
As he worked the slide his mind went into fantasy. He pictured the fire truck stopping and the firemen jumping off it with their hoses. And training them on Brigid, the great arcs crashing onto her and splashing her all over. Now there were more firemen, from all directions, coming out of the crowds, till there were ten or more big jets of water bombarding her. It was cold water of course, but to her it would feel warm and she would be grateful. Swinging her baton wildly over her head, she would dance in the massive downpour like it was a shower, kicking her sandals off, laughing as she flung up her bare feet. Her breasts were hit to and fro by competing jets and now the circlets came off, one after the other, and she gratefully accepted the water on one nipple then the other, soothing them. Another shot to her crotch and the little triangle flew off, shooting away from her with the tiny strings, and now Brigid the majorette danced joyfully nakedly in the fire hose shower, and now the whole band put down their instruments and cheered...
"Wha -- "
Rod awoke with a start.
He felt disoriented and overpowered, like someone had just shaken him violently. As he blinked and sat up in his bed he saw Tami looking at herself in the dresser mirror. For some reason he smoothed his scalp as if to check if he was wearing a hat.
"Hi Baby," she said, turning around, her cute little white-girl butt presenting itself in profile. Her bookbag was on the floor next to her. She must have just gotten back from campus. She was playing with her hair. "Guess what?"
"The College - Town council asked me to grand marshal this year's St. Patrick's Day parade!"
"My Irish half is real proud." She laughed. "I wonder what I should tell my Dad."
Rod chuckled. Much to think about there. "That's very open-minded of them. A naked grand marshal." "Rod, Rod, Rod," she said, shaking her head tolerantly. "I'm not naked. These are my clothes!"
She shook her head, scattering her shoulder-length hair like a shampoo ad model. Then she opened her legs and surveyed her "lower hair". This was a point she had made now and then. She gloried in her hair, loved making fashion statements with it. She really did think of it as her "clothes".
She bit her lip appraisingly. "Now the obvious question. Should I go green for the parade?"
"Does it come out?" He knew the answer, from long experience of living with her. Taking hair dye out was a real chore, but letting it grow out would take a month or more. Both above and below.
Tami didn't answer, but turned gaily in the mirror and twisted her hips. "Maybe I should paint a green shamrock on my butt."
Rod smiled and got up. "I love you Babe," he said, giving her a full body hug.
"Whoa, what is this?!" She looked down at his dick bulging out in his jeans. Prevented from standing straight out, it ran down his thigh. The hardest it had been in a while.
He hefted her in his arms like a caveman claiming his woman, and threw her onto the bed. As soon as he could unzip his jeans he fell on her and ravished her energetically, taking charge much more than usual. Not that there was any chance he could outlast her. But tonight he was determined to give it a try!