index


Message-ID: <35674asstr$1015956606@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: "Peregrinf" <dfowler@catskill.net>
Reply-to: dfowler@catskill.net
Priority: normal
Subject: {ASSM} Beth Naked in School 2/12 (f exhib mast) by Peregrinef
Date: Tue, 12 Mar 2002 13:10:06 -0500
Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail
Approved: <assm@asstr-mirror.org>
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d

<15th attachment, "Beth Naked in School 02.doc" begin>

"Beth Naked in School" is a continuation of the "Naked in School"
series that began with Karen Wagner's "Karen Naked in School."
You might want to start there. Then follow up with my first
contributions to the series, "Carl Naked in School," and "Carl
Naked in School - Beth's Story," before you start this tale. All
can be found in the ASSM archives.

Beth Naked in School 2/12 (f exhib mast)by Peregrinef

Monday Afternoon

Lunch was a welcome respite from the stares and whispers. Carl
walked with me from class, and Karen and Stephanie met me at the
cafeteria door and the three of them escorted me through the
line. We found a table and sat together. With Carl on one side of
me, Stephanie on the other and Karen directly across from me I
felt protected. All three of them had endured a week of nudity,
so they knew what I was going through. 

The protective formation wasn't anything new. Carl and I had done
it for Stephanie the week before, and I had done it for Carl
during his week, so this was sort of a quid pro quo, I guess. No
matter, I was grateful, and I told them so. 

It also made me realize I was joining a very select
sorority-fraternity of students in the Junior class who had spent
a week going to school naked. Eventually it would expand to
include a significant percentage of the class, but so far it was
a very small, select group. 

It was actually shy one member, probably the one who needed it
the most. 

Poor Freschetti. He had to eat at the training table. I could see
his hairy bulk hunched over his lunch tray, obviously suffering
the jibes of his teammates. He was learning what it was like to
be the outsider the hard way. Those jocks, with all their
testosterone - they were pack animals, like wolves, and could be
pretty cruel. The alpha male was vulnerable and they took
advantage of it. 

I ached for him. 

Karen, Carl, Stephanie and I talked about inconsequentials - if
you could apply that term to Freschetti - along with teachers and
classes. Meanwhile, I was still dealing with an incredible tangle
of emotions and sensations. I felt so vulnerable! I was
embarrassed, of course, too, but there was another issue that was
even more scary. 

I wanted to ask them if it had made them horny, but I was too
ashamed. 

Oh, obviously it had made Carl horny. Otherwise I wouldn't have
gotten all those cum showers, would I? And Karen, I suspect, had
yielded to her horniness on the last day, letting herself be gang
banged. I was too embarrassed to ask her, though. I didn't really
know her well, but we shared a bond now. 

But what about Stephanie? I'd never thought of her as a sexual
person. She was just my plump friend. She'd never really had a
boyfriend or a date, until Carl had gotten her together with
Jerry Wilson at the dance. Apparently things hadn't really
clicked between them, because I hadn't seen them together since,
though she'd had a good time, she said. 

Of course the conversation drifted around to The Program, as we
were all now calling it, complete with capital letters. 

"Has anyone asked to feel you up yet?" Karen asked. 

I blushed. "No," I admitted. "Though there've been a few pats and
pinches in the hallways." 

"What will you do if they do?" Stephanie asked. I'd never asked
her what she'd done, and I'd not seen anyone do it to her in the
hallway. 

I was blushing furiously now. "I don't know," I confessed. 

"Let them," Carl suggested. 

"You want me to?" I was a little hurt that he wasn't more
possessive, I admit. 

"It's part of the program," Karen reminded me. "It's a not
unreasonable request." 

"Oh." I knew she was right, but still.... "I'd rather not talk
about it right now," I said, stifling that conversation and they
went on to other matters. 

Meanwhile, I was squirming inside with - well, with lust, simple
lust. Thinking about letting some boy feel me up, right there in
the hallway only stoked my horniness. If I didn't get some
relief, I was really afraid I might do something desperate! 

Then Carl rested his hand on my thigh, and I knew he understood.
When he hesitated, I took matters into my own hands. Or, more
accurately, I placed them in his by spreading my legs and moving
his hand up my thigh to my crotch. 

His hand cupped my cunny, and it was all I could do to keep from
leaning against him. Instead, I dutifully forked another bite of
school ravioli into my mouth as his fingers massaged my pussy,
triggering a hot flush of pleasure. 

Believe you me, considering the school ravioli, that was a
welcome distraction for more than one reason! 

His finger sneaked between my labia and he felt how wet I was.
Bless him, he didn't say anything, nonchalantly answering some
question from the guy across the table from him as he worked his
finger into my sopping cunt. 

I wriggled my hips a little bit, and his finger slid deeper into
my hot depths. With my free hand, under the table, I directed his
moves, pressing on his hand to squeeze my clit as he wiggled his
finger in my hole. 

Oh, it felt good! 

Was I becoming a slut? Here I was in the school lunchroom, being
masturbated by my boyfriend! Since the homecoming dance I was
like a kid with a new toy! I hadn't known how good sex could feel
until that Saturday night with Carl. 

Now I wanted to feel those delicious waves of ecstasy again and
again, as often as possible. I don't know how many times I had
masturbated since then, by myself! Carl and I had gone to the
movies again, twice, and necked and petted up a storm then and
even after school once, but we'd still held back from Doing It,
too scared to venture further down that path. 

My lust rising, I pushed down on Carl's hand rhythmically,
crushing my clit against my pubic bone. Carl obliged by sliding a
second finger into me, and wriggling them deep inside me. It was
all I could do to keep from thrashing and moaning aloud as my
pussy went into spasms. 

Remember that scene in the movie "When Harry Met Sally" with Meg
Ryan and Billy Crystal in the caf**e9** - you know, the one where
she fakes an orgasm at the top of her lungs? It was all I could
do not to scream like she did. But the effort not to was almost
as dangerous as stifling a sneeze! I could have strained
something important! For a few moments my eyes went out of focus.
When they came back in I was looking at the boy sitting across
from Carl and I realized I hadn't quite gotten away with it. 

Stirring from his paralysis, the kid shoveled in the forkful of
food that had made it half way to his mouth before my cumming,
then chewed and swallowed, desperately reaching for his milk to
wash it down. After avoiding suffocation by ravioli, he  grinned,
and winked at me, while I turned a flaming red. 

Stephanie patted me on the thigh herself, and Karen had a knowing
smile on her face! So much for my secret orgasm! I could only
hope the whole lunchroom didn't know. 

As my body descended from its high, Carl extracted his fingers
from me, sniffed them like a fine cigar, and then sucked my
juices off them, shooting me a sly grin as he did. I didn't know
if I wanted to punch him or hug him, so I just gave him a nudge
with my elbow as I tried to regain my composure before heading
off to my drawing class. 

Art class was my one easy course, my break from the academic day.
I didn't have to think like I did in Chem or math, or memorize
like I did in French. I could let my feelings take over, guiding
my hands as I sketched with charcoals or pastels. It gave my
brain a welcome respite. 

Oh, I wasn't any Rembrandt, but at least I could produce
something that resembled what I was looking at. 

Only this time, when I walked into the studio, I was surprised to
see that, instead of the usual table on the podium in the front
of the art studio, usually with a still life like some flowers or
a bowl of fruit on it, there was a wooden stool. 

I got my art smock, welcoming the opportunity to cover myself,
assuming it was a legitimate protective garment, while I studied
the setup, moving to my easel. 

Light spilled on to the podium from the skylight and the floor to
ceiling windows that formed the outside wall of the semi-circular
room. The easels with their stools for the students, their big
tablets of drawing paper, faced the podium. 

The only other things out of place were two full-length mirrors
on stands, set so they wouldn't block any of the student's view
of the stool, but so they would reflect whatever - or whoever -
was on it. 

Everything focused on that stool. 

Uh oh, I suddenly thought. This does not look good. 

That depends on how you define "good" my evil twin argued
lasciviously. 

I felt a little frisson of fear and anticipation as the other
students took their places at their easels. They were chattering,
of course, and shooting glances at me. It made me tug uselessly
at the too short smock that was all that was between me and them.


It was as if they already knew what was coming

As if I didn't! I flinched when the teacher, Mr. Kelly, called my
name. 

"Miss Finch, if you please?" He didn't say anything more, simply
gestured to the stool. 

Biting my lip, I took the bit between my teeth, removing my smock
and letting it drape over the stool by my easel. Without even
really thinking about it, I toed off my loafers, and dragged my
socks off, too. How many nudes have you seen painted wearing
penny loafers and socks, after all? 

Feeling like some kind of marionette, I made my way to the front
of the room, stepping up on the podium. The stool came up to my
belly button, so I had to sort of climb up on it. It was one of
those swivel thingies, so it tried to turn with me as I managed
to squirm my ass on the cold, hard seat. Bracing my feet on the
rungs, I hunched there self-consciously. 

"That's not a very attractive pose," Mr. Kelly observed dryly,
stroking his little goatee. 

I blushed. "I'm sorry. How do you want me?" 

"Why don't you try standing on the floor, and just bracing
yourself against the stool," he suggested. 

Awkwardly I climbed off the stool and tried to follow his
directions, but with the stool hitting me just below the small of
my back, it didn't work very well. 

"Hmmm," he mused. "Let's try this." He dragged over a low riser,
as if he'd anticipated the problem. With that under my feet (and
getting on it gave him a very good look at my charms) I was
raised just enough so the seat of the stool was even with my
butt. 

"Now, lean back on your hands," he suggested, "and perhaps raise
one foot to the bottom rung on the stool." 

I tried to follow his directions, my eye caught by my reflection
in one of the mirrors. 

I was so naked! Not even shoes, only that simple gold cross, and
my glasses, of course. My nipples were hard little points on my
perky breasts - that's how Carl liked to describe them - perky -
usually just before his lips closed around one of my aching
titties. 

The thought gave me a rush in spite of myself. Oh, God! Everyone
was looking at me, all the girls, all the boys. I had no secrets
from them. The boys were all staring at my cunt - the angle of my
leg did nothing to hide it from half the class, of course, since
they surrounded me. 

"Arch your back a little," the Mr. Kelly suggested, his hand warm
on my spine as he pushed gently there. "Move this foot a little
this way." 

He exposed me even more. 

"Straighten this leg." His hand was hot on my thigh. 

"Let's let your hair down," he suggested, extracting my pony tail
from the scrunchy. His hands spread my hair over my shoulders,
and I wished it were long enough to cover my breasts, but it
wasn't. 

"We can turn you a little this way, so the light will be better
on your breasts," he went on, his hands on my shoulders as he
adjusted my pose. 

His hands stroked the upper slope of my left breast, then the
underside of that shy mound. "Let's turn your head a bit more to
the left," he went on, touching my chin. "And lower it, just a
little. Look right into the mirror there. No, don't smile, just
relax. Think of something serious, perhaps." 

There I was, a different angle from my first view of myself in
the other mirror. The sun spilled down over my soft, smooth skin,
showing the curves and texture. The hair on my arms glinted in
the bright light, while my bush was in shadow. My legs looked
longer, more graceful than I'd ever thought of them. With my chin
lowered, my direct stare, I realized I looked almost sultry. 

"Oh, one other thing. You won't need these," the Mr. Kelly
pointed out, gently removing my glasses. 

Let me clue you in to something. If you want to make someone who
wears glasses feel totally exposed and incredibly vulnerable,
just take their glasses. Suddenly there's no glass between them
and the world, no invisible shield. 

Worse, it means they can't see what may be coming at them. 

I flinched, and gasped, but managed to contain myself. Suddenly
the world was a blur. I couldn't really see my reflection in the
mirror, only a vague shape within the rectangular frame. I knew
everyone in the room was looking at me, only I couldn't see their
expressions. Their faces were only amorphous blobs. 

I felt totally, totally, totally exposed, and incredibly
helpless. Inside I was wracked by that gut knotting feeling of
excitement and fear you get on a thrill ride. For a moment I was
afraid I was going to pee, and wouldn't that have been the
ultimate last straw? 

"There." The Mr. Kelly turned to the class. "This is a timed
exercise to enhance your sketching skills. You'll have ten
minutes with this pose, then we'll let Miss Finch rest for a few
minutes and try another pose. What we want is to capture the
essence of her in as few strokes as possible. Notice the light
and shading, here, and here." 

His fingers gently stroked the slope and curves of my breasts,
coaxing a shiver from me. 

But, except for that tiny tremor, I didn't move. I held my pose,
even as inside I felt like I was in danger of melting down into a
puddle. 

I couldn't see the class, but I could hear them. Pencils and
charcoals whispered on the sketch pads. I could sense the
concentration of my classmates as they tried to capture "my
essence," whatever that was. 

Whatever it was, it was probably visible, exposed, exhibited, on
display. It was all there, all of me. Nothing hidden. My back was
arched, presenting my naked breasts to them, my nipples stiff, my
chest heaving with every breath. My thighs were parted,
displaying my still virgin cleft, and I could feel my pussy
seeping with horniness. Air was touching me all over, and I could
feel the sunlight on my shoulders and my breasts. 

I remembered how Carl had described the experience as "sensuous."
It was. It was as if every nerve had suddenly become
hyper-sensitive. I was more conscious of temperature and touch,
but even my hearing and my sense of smell seemed heightened. I
could hear every pass of charcoal or pencil over the sketch pads,
the rustle as arms moved, the soft squeak of a sneaker on the
floor. There was a mingling of smells in the art room - paper,
and paints, the musty scent of clay. 

The musk of my own pussy. 

Someone sighed, and there was the rubbing of an eraser. A stool
or an easel creaked. 

The air caressed my naked body, and for a moment I could almost
feel the eyes of the class stroking my naked skin. 

The clock ticked. 

"All right, time's up," Mr. Kelly announced. 

With a sigh, I relaxed and stood, shifting and stretching. I was
still without my glasses half blind, of course, but I looked
beyond the class, through the windows at the sun drenched lawn
outside. There was a shifting pattern of people shaped blobs on
the sidewalk, and I realized I was visible to anyone who passed
by. 

Who were these people, walking by, seeing me naked? Were they
looking? I couldn't tell. 

It made me think of Karen walking the streets naked. Would I do
that?

I shivered, rubbing my arms, then let Mr. Kelly pose me again,
feeling his hands on me as he adjusted my torso, my arms, my
legs, my neck and head. 

I was simply a mannequin, like one of those posable dolls of wood
and wire sculptors use. He'd push and I'd move. He had me leaning
back, left hand on the stool, both feet on the floor, spread for
stability, my body arched, the other arm extended upward as if I
were reaching for the sky, looking upwards, and he told me to
hold that pose. 

Again I froze, conscious of my total exposure. The way my feet
were spread I had absolutely no secrets, of course. Even so, my
mind wandered as the class sketched me. 

It was going to be a memorable week. I realized now that, even
with my experience of shopping the mall naked, walking the street
naked one time, and going to the dance naked, this week was going
to have a huge impact on me. 

I was becoming more and more aware than ever of my body, and what
it was feeling. 

I was becoming more and more aware, too, of the effect my nudity
had on others. I could sense the desire of the boys in the class
as they sketched me. I thought of their hands wandering over my
flesh, touching me intimately, and realized the inevitability of
my emergence as a sensuous woman. Carl had awakened my sexuality,
and I *knew* I was going to want to explore this exciting new
facet of my life. 

I thought of a sculptor, molding me in clay, and it seemed as if
I could almost feel his hands on my own flesh, as if I was clay
in his hands. 

Scientific detachment was being overwhelmed. The dispassionate
scientist was becoming passionate. 

I replayed the lunchroom conversation. What should I do if
someone asked to feel me up in the hallway? 

"Let them," Carl had said. "It's part of the program." 

I would, I knew now. I would, and I would do more, before the
week was out. Much more. 

But first I had to make it through this class. After the second
pose, during my brief break, I walked around the room, naked, of
course, stretching out the kinks, and sneaking glances at some of
the sketches that had been done of me. 

With such short poses, they were barely sketches, of course. Some
had concentrated on catching me in just a few lines, while others
had a bit more detail. One boy had concentrated on my breasts,
rather than trying to sketch all of me. 

One of the girls, Kathy, had focused on my pussy, sketching in
the ruffles of my inner lips, distended by their arousal so they
showed in the heart of my delicate bush. As I studied her work,
she smiled secretly at me, and something in the look she gave me
made me prickle. Her tongue traced her lips oh so very
delicately. 

I blushed, surprised by my own libidinous reaction to her obvious
interest. 

I was surprised, too, at the beauty she had brought out, turning
my inner labia into the petals of a sensuous flower. It gave me
something more to think about as I returned to the podium. 

I had two more poses to endure. By the time I was done I was
exhausted. Posing is hard work! 

When the class ended and I was about to leave, Mr. Kelly pulled
me aside. "Miss Finch, I do have another request for you." 

I trembled, wondering what could be next. 

"The photography club meets tomorrow afternoon, and they need a
live model," he continued. "A reasonable request, wouldn't you
say?" 

I shivered at the feelings that raced through me, and I felt my
nipples stiffening even more. I'd just finished posing for
drawing class, and now I was being asked to pose for the
photography club? The thought of cameras being focused on me
terrified me. And aroused me. "Yessir," I agreed shyly. 

"Meet us on the soccer field," he went on. 

The soccer field? Outdoors, in the open? I shivered at the
thought, remembering that clothes weren't allowed during
extracurricular activities, either. "Yessir," I agreed, wondering
what was happening to me, how I could be looking forward to
something like almost as much as I dreaded it. 

I fled to the library. I was excused from gym this term because I
was prepping for the PSATs that might earn me a Merit
Scholarship. Needless to say, I didn't get much prepping done as
I wrestled with what was happening to me. 

My last class, American History, could only be suffered through.
Not because I was "exhibit A" but because Mr. Witherspoon was
about ninety zillion years old, and the dullest teacher on the
faculty. His lectures could put a speed freak to sleep. 

For a moment I was reviewing my CPR training, the way he reacted
when I walked in the room. I guess I was the first student in The
Program that he'd had. He dropped a bunch of papers. Then he
dropped his glasses and couldn't find them, until I helped. And
then I helped him with his papers. And then when he went to erase
the white board the eraser went flying, and - well, you get the
idea. 

He mumbled his way through the lecture, stumbling even more than
usual. He kept looking at me, and licking his lips, and he was
sweating. I wondered if he was even capable of getting a hardon.
Finally the bell rang and we were free! 

I dashed for my clothes. Carl, bless his sweet heart, was there
to greet me. Handing him my book bag, I dug into the pile of
clothes, and slowed down, thinking hard. 

I'd come to some conclusions as I'd posed for drawing class, and
afterwards, and had come to the conclusion that this week was
going to be, like, a major turning point for me. No way could I
go through a week of being naked in school without that! 

It had led to the conclusion that there was a major issue that
had to be Dealt With, and the time had come to Deal With It. 

Fighting the urge to cover myself, I dressed slowly and
carefully, balancing on first one foot, then the other as I, I
hoped gracefully, I drew on my delicate, lacy panties and
smoothed them on my hips, tugging them up snugly against my
pussy, even smoothing them against it with my fingers before I
reached for my similarly dainty bra and drew it on, turning to
give Carl the most advantageous view as I hooked it. 

Needless to say, there were other boys there avidly ogling me as
I dressed, but Carl was my target, and I did my best to make sure
he knew it. 

Judging by the lump in his jeans, he did. 

Once dressed, I tucked my arm through his, drawing it against my
breast, wondering if he could feel me trembling. "Let's go
someplace private," I suggested softly. 

"How about my house?" he suggested, obviously getting the idea
that something, other than his cock, was definitely Up. 

I squeezed his arm more firmly against my tit. "Sounds perfect."


<15th attachment end>

----- ASSM Moderation System Notice------
Notice: This post has been modified from its original
format.  The post was sent as an email attachment and
has been converted by ASSTR ASSM moderation software.
----- ASSM Moderation System Notice------

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+
| alt.sex.stories.moderated ----- send stories to: <ckought69@hotmail.com> |
| FAQ: <http://assm.asstr-mirror.org/faq.html>  Moderator: <story-ckought69@hotmail.com> |
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+
|Archive: <http://assm.asstr-mirror.org> Hosted by Alt.Sex.Stories Text Repository |
|<http://www.asstr-mirror.org>, an entity supported entirely by donations.         |
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+