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Subject: {ASSM} Beth Naked in School 4/12 (f/m f/F exhib mast) by Peregrinef
Date: Wed, 13 Mar 2002 20:10:05 -0500
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<15th attachment, "Beth Naked in Schoo 4.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 4/12 (f/m f/F exhib mast) by Peregrinef

Tuesday Morning 

The next morning, when Carl and I walked up to the school there
was the traditional gathering of boys at the North Entrance,
where the girls in The Program had to strip. We watched as June
Farrow, the senior girl in The Program that week, stripped and
deposited her clothes in the drop for them. 

She's a three sport athlete - track in the fall, basketball in
the winter and softball in the spring. She's about five foot ten,
and built like a goddess. If she was blushing it didn't show on
her. Her skin was a rich, dark chocolate brown, all over. Her
breasts are firm, her nipples a shade darker, of course. She
wears her hair in a short, natural `do, and her bush is kinky,
close to her mons. I had an image of her running the hurdles in
her specialty, the heptathlon, and my breath caught in my throat.
I wondered if the photography club had thought of trying to
capture that image, that fleet beauty! 

She strolled gracefully, confidently into school, her firm
buttocks flexing, and then it was my turn. I felt totally
inadequate following that exhibition. 

I'd dressed carefully that morning, too. When he'd been in The
Program, Carl had gone for efficiency, putting on no more than
necessary. I wanted to make a different statement; don't judge a
book by its cover. All my life I'd had the image of the demure,
studious scholar. I knew now, after the homecoming dance, and
especially after yesterday afternoon, that there was more to me
than that. 

Oh, I was wearing my usual conservative blouse and skirt. I
really didn't have much choice, though I had already resolved to
expand my wardrobe as soon as I had a chance. I began by
unbuttoning my shirt, facing the throng, making no effort to
conceal anything, even though my mouth was dry and I was
trembling. 

Removing my shirt, I revealed another of my recently acquired
"frillies," a lace demi-cup bra that lifted my shy breasts,
barely concealed my nipples. I could see the appreciation in
Carl's eyes as he watched. 

Folding my shirt carefully, I deposited it in the box. Then I
unbuttoned my skirt and unzipped it, trying to be graceful as I
did. Stepping out of it, I similarly folded it and put it in the
box, leaving me in my bra, and thong panties. The turn I made to
deposit the skirt gave everyone a good look at how the back of
the panties disappeared between the cheeks of my ass. 

Turning back to my audience, I unhooked the bra between my
breasts, and opened it, feeling my nipples stiffen in the cool
morning air. Shedding it, I took what I hoped was a graceful turn
to the applause and whistles of the crowd. 

Into the deposit box the bra went, and I was down to my panties
and loafers, which could stay on, of course, but which I toed
off. Hooking my thumbs in the waist of the thong, I eased it down
with a wiggle of my hips. The back of it was caught in the crack
of my ass as I drew the lacy dainty down, of course. It was also
clinging to the sticky-wet folds of my pussy a little, finally
pulling free. 

Bending, I slid the panties down my thighs, and stepped out of
them. Shaking them out, I folded them, and added them to the rest
of my clothes in the locked drop-box. Stepping over to Carl, I
asked him for his comb. 

This he hadn't expected, but he dug it out and handed it to me
without complaint. Using the glass in the door as a mirror, I
combed and re-pony tailed my hair, then stepped over to a bench
by the door. The guys sitting there gaped, and I lifted one foot
to rest it on some guy's knee, displaying my cunt to all, my
innards squirming as I did. 

Okay, the devil made me - modest Beth - do it. What can I say? 

I combed out my pussy hair right in front of their eyes, fluffing
it up. Then I had another thought. Handing the comb to the guy
whose knee I was using, I stretched, putting my  hands behind my
head, letting him comb my pussy, flinching slightly as the sharp
teeth brushed my tender labia. Finishing, he patted my pussy
gently, his thumb slipping between my thighs to tease the opening
of my cunt, wringing a gasp from me. 

I shot a glance at Carl, and the rest of the crowd. Carl licked
his lips nervously, but nodded his understanding as the crowd
applauded. Taking the comb back, I then returned it to Carl,
brushed his cheek with my fingers, and took my book bag from him.


Sticking my feet back in my loafers, I made my way into school,
the crowd following me as I made my way to my locker. I was
trembling as I dialed the combination and got out the things I
needed for my morning classes. A small group of guys hovered
around, watching me, making me more aware of my exposure than
ever. 

"See you in French," Carl bade me as I got ready for chem. 

"See you." I smiled at him. 

Then it was off to the hustling, daily routine, maneuvering the
hallways naked. Chem was nothing, but then it was French, with
Mademoiselle Duclos. 

It was too much to hope for a second reprieve, and I didn't get
it. 

"Ah, Mademoiselle Finch," Mademoiselle Duclos greeted me warmly.
"If you would please just come to the front of the room, I would
be most grateful." 

Oh God, here we go, I thought as I obeyed, conscious of every eye
in the room on me. Even my participation on the debating team
hadn't prepared me for this kind of public exposure! My resolve
to participate fully and willingly in all the challenges the
program presented began to waver. I looked at Carl, and could see
the sympathy in his gaze, and the tension. 

"Up `ere, please," Mademoiselle Duclos directed, making me step
up on a little platform so they could see me better, taking my
books from me and putting them on her desk. "Mademoiselles and
Monsieurs, today, with the beautiful and able assistance of
Mademoiselle Finch, we will cover more slang vocabulary." 

Blushing furiously, I managed to face the class, first folding my
arms over my breasts, then clasping my hands in front of my
pussy, hunching my arms over my breasts in a desperate effort to
protect myself from their curious stares. 

Mademoiselle Duclos said something to me in French that my dazed
mind managed to translate into "Ah, you are a very beautiful
young lady," or something like that. I mustered something
resembling a smile for her, I think, and tried to relax,
unclasping my  hands and putting my arms at my sides. I took a
deep breath, conscious of the movement of my ribs, the lift of my
breasts as I did. 

God, I felt so exposed! I shot an anxious glance at Carl, and was
warmed by the sympathy and pride and desire in his return look.
He gave me a quick "thumbs up" signal that helped ease my terror,
if not my embarrassment. 

Then Mademoiselle Duclos began to touch me - feather light
touches barely brushing my skin as she named my features. My
nipples stiffed to her light caress. 

Her hand cupped my breast warmly, making he shiver. I'd never
been touched by another woman that way. It was different from
Carl's touch, but I still felt myself becoming aroused. Was she
lesbian? 

I didn't think so. I knew she had a boyfriend. What should I do?

"These are Mademoiselle Finch's `doudounes,' a relatively recent
addition to French slang," Mademoiselle Duclos explained, moving
to the white board to spell it out. "They are also known as  `les
n**n**s,' `les nichons,' and even `les roberts.' If I may
say, Mademoiselle Finch `as lovely doudounes, by French
standards, not being over amply endowed or, as the French would
say, `y'a du monde au balcon,' which loosely translates as `what
a pair of knockers.'" 

That brought some chuckles from the class, and some flushing from
the more well endowed girls as well. 

"The French say that the ideal size of a woman's breast is what
will fill a champagne glass. Unfortunately, I fear I am a bit too
generous for that." To my astonishment, Madame Duclos proceeded
to remove her blouse to reveal she wore no bra. Her breasts were
larger than mine, but not a lot larger. There was more weight to
them, a bit more crease beneath them, and her nipples were darker
and more prominent than mine. 

Someone in the back of the room whistled softly. 

Goose bumps flared to life as her fingers gently stroked my soft,
shy breasts again, and I blushed even brighter, if that was at
all possible. I shot her a nervous glance, but she was looking at
the class. I couldn't help noticing how stiff and alert her own
nipples were, and wondered if she was finding this as arousing as
I was. 

Her hand left my breast, and moved down my torso. I shivered, and
she spared me a sympathetic glance. "Are you all right?" she
asked. 

I nodded nervously. "I think so. It tickles. I'm - uh - not used
to being touched that way." 

"You are so very pretty, though, and your skin is so soft! I `ope
you will let me continue?" 

I summoned my courage, even as it was being assaulted by both
arousal and shame, and nodded tensely. 

She nodded agreeably, and went on, giving the slang term for
"navel" as she touched my belly button. I balled my fists,
knowing she her next target would be my pussy. 

"And now, since Mademoiselle Finch might like some company...."
Mademoiselle Duclos' voice trailed off as she unfastened her
skirt, letting it drop to reveal her total lack of underwear. I
couldn't not lean forward to look down at her. 

She was shaved down there, as bare as a baby! Her puffy labia
were totally exposed! 

I was still dealing with this when her finger brushed into my
pubic hair. "This is, how you might say, `pussy' and we French
would say `chatte' which is, of course, `cat' en Francaise, or
pussy," she finished brightly. "As you can see, I have no `air,
and I `ave wondered, should it still be called chatte?" 

"But beneath the `air is the same and, in polite company it might
be called `Noune.'" She spelled it out on the board, giving me a
brief respite, pronouncing it `noonn.' "That is to say, the
`vulva.'"

I shivered again. I felt like I was under a microscope, despite
her shared display. The class was studying my most intimate
secrets. It was mortifying, but what was even more mortifying, I
could feel myself becoming more and more physically aroused. I
shot Carl an anxious look, and I could see he knew what I was
feeling. He looked pained, and stimulated, and shifted awkwardly
in his seat. I saw him reach down, and knew he was adjusting his
hardon in his jeans, but I couldn't help wondering if it was
because of me, or Mademoiselle Duclos with her more mature
beauty, her fuller breasts, or perhaps her exposed vulva. 

"There are other words," Mademoiselle Duclos went on, writing on
the board - I couldn't help turning and watching her. Her bottom
was firm and round. 

"These include `con,' `conne,' is the feminine form, of course.
Then there is `connard' and, similarly in feminine `connarde.'
These are used as insults when referring to a man. If you wanted
to insult a woman and call her a `bitch' or maybe even - ah, what
is the word? - cunt? - you would call her `connasse' and there is
no masculine form of this word." 

She returned to my side, bending down. "Please, move your feet
apart a little?" she asked sweetly. "Merci." 

Then she got even more personal, as I fought the urge to squirm.
Her fingers parted my pubic hair, revealing my slit, and I saw
the boys in the class practically drooling, while some of the
girls blushed, and others stared. She could have done this on
herself, after all! 

"This is called, if the man knows the woman extremely well,
`cramouille' meaning `wet slit.'" If `e does not know her it is,
of course, a vile insult." 

I WAS wet, and I wanted to die! 

"And," Mademoiselle Duclos went on inexorably, "if we part these
lovely lips, which, I might add, are indeed delightfully wet,"
She paused, and I actually felt her spreading my labia open! "
`ere we find the little man in the hood, the clitoris, non? In
French this is called `clito,' making it easy to remember. That
is, of course, a feminine noun. A woman who has a good lover
would not hesitate to ask `im to `leche-moi le clito,' or
`lick my clitoris.' The man might respond to such a request by
`descendre a la cave' or as you might say, descending to the
basement." 

Thinking of what Carl had done to me after the dance, I was
blushing beet red by now, and I could see Carl turning scarlet
and trying to sink down under his desk! Just the memory of that
orgasm was enough to make my pussy weep. 

"As you might suspect," she went on, stroking her own bare pussy,
"a man doing some - ah - what is that word that I am seeking? -
you know, exploring caves...." 

"Spelunking?" Carl offered impulsively. 

"Ah, mais oui, zat is the word I seek," Mademoiselle Duclos
agreed gaily. "A man who has, as we say `scendre a la cave' finds
the experience even more delightful when ze woman `as shaved, as
I have, because the flesh is clean and our little friend `ere is
more easily accessible." 

Then Mademoiselle Duclos touched my clitoris and I thought I was
going to collapse. I reacted! Of course I reacted. I was already
hot as a firecracker and I went off! I flinched, gasped,
whimpered softly deep in my throat as the muscles in my abdomen
went into orgasmic spasms. 

"Ah, Mademoiselle Finch, she is `aving what we sometimes call `le
petite mort,' the `little death,'" Mademoiselle Duclos observed
with delight, and perhaps a touch of envy. "What you would call
`coming' or an orgasm." 

I wanted to DIE. 

Die! Die! DIE! 

But what a way to go. All I could do was stand there while my
cunt spasmed and a flush spread up my torso, waves of pleasure
sweeping through me while everyone watched. I could see Carl's
fists, balled on his desktop as he suffered with me. At least, I
assume he was suffering, but I could be wrong. 

The rest of the class, what little was left, was a blur. I became
a mannequin in Mademoiselle Duclos' hands, shifting numbly as she
posed me, letting the class see my ass, making me bend over,
spreading the cheeks of my ass to expose my rear hole, her finger
tickling me as I discovered an unexpected erogenous zone there. 

When the bell rang I numbly gathered up my books and made my way
blindly to the door, the other students avoiding me, whispering
about me. 

Then, out in the hallway, Carl was with me and wrapped an arm
around my shoulders, pulling me close. I leaned into him, burying
my head against his shoulder, shivering. 

"You were beautiful, and brave," he complimented me. 

"It was humiliating." I couldn't forget how I'd come, right
there, in front of the whole class. 

He chuckled. "Now you know how I felt the first time I asked for
relief, and every time after that, in fact." 

I managed a sympathetic smile up at him. "I hadn't thought of it
that way," I admitted, managing a deep breath. "And now that
that's over I don't see how it could get worse," I observed
hopefully, conscious of the eyes flicking over me as we walked to
math, my bare flank pressed against his clothed one, my juices
drying on my pussy. 

He gave me a squeeze. "You get more used to it." Then he laughed.
"Of course, they say you can get used to hanging if you hang long
enough." 

I managed a weak chuckle. "Very funny. I wonder what can happen
to me next?" 

Next was math, with Freschetti, and I quickly found out how it
could get worse. 

"Uh, Miss Gallison, I'd like some relief," the hairy hulk
announced as he walked into the room, right at the last minute,
as usual. "And I'd like some help?" 

Oh God, no, I thought. 

"Are there any volunteers?" Miss Gallison asked. 

Believe you me, I did NOT have to sit on my hands to keep them
down on THAT question! I heard a few joints pop as hands went up,
some of the more unselective girls nobly throwing themselves into
the breach at the chance to fondle the star fullback, no matter
that he had a weeny weeny. 

"I'd prefer Beth Finch," Freschetti announced before some other
willing victim could be chosen. 

I wanted to crawl under my DESK and die. Die, DIE, DIE! 

Again. 

"Miss Finch?" Miss Gallison asked. "It seems a reasonable
request." 

Oh, yeah, right, I thought. I considered trying to argue my way
out of it, and thought I might get a sympathetic hearing from
Miss Gallison. 

Then I remembered the goals of the program, and sucked up my
courage, deciding to face the challenge instead. "Yes, Miss
Gallison," I agreed, seeing Carl react out of the corner of my
eye. I tried to give him a reassuring look as I stood and went to
where Freschetti stood to one side of Miss Gallison's desk. 

Now, you've got to know the back story to understand what I was
going through, so you really should read Carl's account of his
week naked in school. 

In a nutshell, Freschetti was the school's star running back and
big jock on campus. He had tried to embarrass Carl when Carl had
been taking classes naked, only to be humiliated himself when
Miss Gallison made him drop his trousers to reveal what I assume
is one of the least impressive dicks in school. 

After that he'd harassed Carl, until the powers that be had
warned him off with the threat of suspension. This request of his
had to be a way of getting back at Carl through me. I had to
stand up to him, to refuse to be humiliated by this Neanderthal
jerk. 

Even so, getting back to the matter at hand, or soon to be IN
hand, I did not foresee anything good coming out of this
encounter. Freschetti smirked down at me, his hands on his hips.

Putting on my best "in your face" face, I looked up at him, and
curled my fingers around his little pecker. 

"How about on your knees," he suggested, and I swear I heard him
softly add the word "bitch" to the request. 

I'd done that for Carl, willingly, happily masturbating him until
he'd cum on my blouse and skirt, even my face. I'd worn Carl's
cum as a badge of honor and love. However, I was not about to let
Freschetti shower me with his cum! Coming from this ape it would
be a mark of shame and humiliation. 

Without really thinking about it, still holding his dick in the
fingers of my right hand, I cupped Freschetti's balls in my left,
and squeezed - not gently, either. "Not even in your dreams," I
answered, very softly, in a tone that left no doubt that I was
ready to bring him to HIS knees if necessary. 

Freschetti paled visibly, and gulped, his sneer fading, and I
relaxed my hold on his balls, but kept them in my grasp as I
began to massage his cock. 

It wasn't very hard, and it didn't respond much to my milking. It
took some work, but I finally extracted a few convulsions and a
trickle of semen from him. Then I remembered something I'd read
recently about athletes and the side effects of the anabolic
steroids some of them used to bulk up on. 

Better living through chemistry indeed! 

"Better lay off the steroids," I suggested softly, so only he
could hear me, dropping his quickly shriveling dick. I wiped my
hands on his hairy belly. "They'll ruin your sex life." I got
some pleasure from the look of shock that crossed his face. I
could only marvel at his stupidity. Why would anyone take
something without researching what it would do to him?

I didn't start to tremble until I was back seated at my desk and
he had gone to the back of the room where he sat. Then I put my
head in my  hands for a moment. After I'd composed myself,
looking over my shoulder at Carl, I managed a smile, and he gave
me discrete "thumbs up" sign, and a grin that made me feel warm.

The only other unexpected encounter of the regular school day
came in the washroom after lunch. Stephanie, the school's star
flute player and my new and best friend, except for Carl, of
course, had gone with me and we were washing our hands together
after using the toilet. She'd been in the program only the week
before, you remember, so she understood what I was going through.
So I was totally caught off guard by her question. 

"Have you ever had sex with another girl?" she asked suddenly,
looking at me in the mirror, pinking up as she did. 

Somehow I stifled my first reaction, which would have been a
shocked "No!" "Uh, no," I answered, tempted to tell her how I'd
lost my virginity to Carl only the day before. 

"Oh." She looked disappointed, and I remembered how the
relationship we'd tried to set up with a guy at the dance for her
hadn't seemed to jell. 

I met her gaze in the mirror. "Stephanie, are you gay?" I asked
bluntly. 

She looked like she wanted to cry. "I don't know," she admitted
miserably. "I can't seem to - to get - interested in boys." 

"That doesn't mean anything," I assured her. "Maybe you haven't
met the right boy yet." I finished washing my hands and went for
a paper towel. 

Stephanie followed me. "But, when I look at you, like that...."
Her voice trailed off. 

I managed to keep wiping my hands, though they were already dry.
When they were steady again, I tossed the towel in the waste
container, and instinctively reached down to scoop up three more
that had missed the target. I hate litter. When I was steady, I
turned to face her. "You get turned on?" I asked softly. 

Fighting tears, she nodded her head. "I'm sorry," she blurted,
and I felt my own heart breaking for her. "You're so beautiful!"

"No! Don't apologize!" I urged her. "I'm flattered!" I realized
that I loved Stephanie. 

Oh, not exactly THAT way, but I did love her. She was sweet and
kind and, like I've said, a marvelous musician, for which I
envied her more than a little. 

"You are?" She sounded dubious. 

I nodded, and put a hand on her arm. "I am," I answered
sincerely. "Have you talked with Miss Gallison about it? She'd
give you the straight skinny. She's nice." 

Stephanie shook her head. "I don't know her." 

"I could introduce you, if you want," I offered. 

She shook her head again. 

"Have you ever made love to a woman?" I asked. 

"No," she answered gloomily, turning toward the mirrors, those
horrible things that never lie. "Who'd want me?" 

I studied her reflection as she studied herself in the mirror.
She was fairly tall - well, taller than I am, with a big frame,
and a little on the heavy side. She had lost weight, and I knew
she was on a diet and exercise program, but she'd never be
fashion model skinny. 

"I would," I answered, "if I were a guy, or gay." It was a shock
to realize that I meant it! That was how much I loved her. 

"Would you really?" She was still dubious. 

"I would," I answered firmly, thinking of all the reasons I felt
the way I did about her. "You're smart, you're talented. You have
lovely eyes, and a beautiful complexion. I love your dimples when
you smile, and your laugh. And you're the kindest, sweetest
person I know. Except for Carl," I added loyally. 

"I don't even know that I'm gay, for sure," she said softly,
twisting her hands. "I only know I've never felt like this - like
I do about you - ever before, with anyone." 

"Would you like to touch me?" I asked softly. 

There, I was willingly offering to let someone other than Carl
touch my naked body. Only with a person I'd never have thought it
would happen. 

"Could I?" she asked timidly. 

I nodded. "Uh huh," I agreed, my own heart racing. I remembered
seeing how Karen had done it in the hallway, and put my hands up
behind my head, spreading my feet slightly. I saw my reflection
in the mirror, and realized just how exposed I was by that pose,
how accessible and vulnerable. 

Vulnerable. There was that word again. I shivered. 

Then Stephanie's fingers shyly touched my tit, and it stiffened,
and I felt warmed by it. Her hand cupped my breast, and I saw her
own breathing quicken as she tested its warmth and softness.
"You're so beautiful," she said softly. 

I blushed, feeling my own juices stirring from her touch, and had
to tell myself that it was only a logical physical response to
the stimulus. No different than how my own body responded when I
masturbated and fantasized. 

"May I kiss you?" Stephanie asked timidly. Then someone came in
the door and she jerked her hand away from me. 

"We're going to be late for class," I announced loudly. "Where
are you headed next?" 

"Uh, gym," she answered. 

"Oh, that's right, you and Carl have gym together, don't you." I
led her out the door to the crowded hallway. "I'm going in that
direction." 

She shot me a grateful glance and we walked together. 

She paused outside the locker room door, looking around, but the
hall was emptying quickly. "Look, I'm sorry if I - I don't want
to ruin our friendship." 

"You did nothing of the kind," I assured her. Then I drew a deep
breath. "Look, if you'd - well, if you'd like to - take a test
drive - well, I think, maybe, I - I might be willing. Let me
think about it." 

She looked like she was about to burst into tears again.
"Really?" 

"Let me think about it," I repeated, wondering what was getting
into me. "I do love you," I admitted, rising on my tip toes to
give her a kiss on the cheek, surprised at how soft it was, and
how warm and, well, yes, sweet, even. It wasn't more than I'd
seen other girls do, so no one would have wondered about it if
they'd seen it, but they might have wondered at the stiffness of
my nipples. 

"I do love you," I repeated. "I don't think I love you THAT way,
but - well, let me think about it. Now, I've got to rush - I'm
modeling in art again today. I'll see you later, maybe after band
practice?" 

"Later," she said gratefully as I turned away. I felt her
watching me as I walked away toward the art studio, my mind
racing. Would I do it? Could I do it? 

The questions circled in my mind as I posed again, the class
sketching me, portraying my breasts, my curves and flesh, even my
pussy, using their charcoals and pencils and pastels. During the
first break, I made it a point to visit with Kathy, the girl who
had concentrated all her efforts on my cunt the day before. 

She hadn't changed her focus, and my latest pose had involved my
thighs being spread wide in her direction, giving her a perfect
view of my pussy. In spite of all my efforts, posing had aroused
me again, so the inner petals of my cunt were engorged, visible,
a delicate ruffle in the soft, fuzzy, brown nest of my bush. 

What she was doing was beautiful, I had to admit. Oh, I'd done a
bit of exploration with a hand mirror once, studying myself so I
knew what was there, but she was finding beauty there that gave
me a new appreciation of my - my crotch! 

She added some shading, softening it with a stroke of her thumb
across my vulva - I mean, the drawing of my vulva. I shivered at
the sight. 

"It would look even better without the hair," she observed
softly. 

The suggestion rattled me, remembering how Mademoiselle Duclos
shaved her pubic area. I wanted to ask Kathy if she was gay, but
couldn't bring myself to do it. I thought of - of pressing my
lips to what she was picturing, of licking it, and blushed, a hot
feeling sweeping through me, and returned to the podium for my
next pose before the break was even officially over. 

Thinking of Stephanie, I tried to tell myself that being gay
wasn't the end of the world, but couldn't quite buy it. Oh,
Stephanie knew as well as I did that being gay wasn't the end of
the world. But I also knew that when you're fifteen facing a
discovery like that - well, it looms like a mountain. 

For one thing, there are pockets of homophobia in the most
liberal schools. Then, too, it so restricts your choices for - ah
- sexual interaction, at a time when your hormones are really
running rampant. And how would her parents react? What of the
future - a family, children? 

I sympathized with Stephanie, and wondered if I could Do It with
her, or not, or if Doing It would even resolve the issue for her.
Carl had done it - licked me there, pressed his face into my
pussy, probing me with his tongue, his lips suckling on my clit.
I remembered the orgasm he'd given me - the best ever up until
that time - and felt my pussy soften and swell at the memory. 

Afterwards we'd kissed, and I'd tasted and smelled my own juices
on his lips and cheeks, on his breath, and it had been so erotic!


It was an arousing memory, to say the least! 

Could I do that with Stephanie? The thought gave me goose bumps
all over, and I hoped the people sketching me couldn't see them.
Then I saw Kate looking at me intently, and knew that at least
one of them could see my cunt's response to these musings, and
felt a blush warming my skin. My fingers twitched with the urge
to stroke my own pussy, to bring myself off, but I managed to
hold my pose. 

I realized then that, when you were naked, it was virtually
impossible to hide even what you were thinking. Oh, sure, a boy's
lust was obvious, but even a girl's moods and arousal were
obvious, if you knew what to look for - stiffened nipples,
distended inner petals to her cunt, blushes and goose bumps,
little bits of body language like a touch to her breast, one
thigh pressing against the other. 

Another lesson from The Program for me to file away in my oh-so
analytical fashion. I'd started a notebook last night, and knew
I'd have to add this observation to it tonight. 

"Time," Mr. Kelly announced, to my relief, and I broke the pose,
turning my back on the class and stretching luxuriously, working
out the kinks, and the sexual arousal. 

"Oh! Please remember that pose, Miss Finch!" Mr. Kelly ordered in
the middle of my stretch. "We'll assume that pose when we return
from our break." 

We? I thought. Who's we? That's ME up there naked, you twit, not
you. 

But I remembered it anyway, and tried to duplicate it when the
break was over. Mr. Kelly helped, shifting my arms a little,
pushing my hips slightly to one side, then forward with his hand
on my butt. 

I'm still not sure whether it was easier facing the class or with
my back to them, with them sketching me from behind. I had no
mirror, so I couldn't see what I looked like - until I saw what
they'd done. It was a flattering pose, with my arms stretching up
and out, my back arched, my bottom tight. It made me look taller!


The girl who had been sketching my pussy had concentrated - you
guess it - on my butt. Again, she created a thing of beauty - a
few graceful strokes of her charcoal this time, rather than the
pastels she'd used for my cunt. 

It was the last pose of the class, and then it was off to
history, and then I had to pose for the photography club after
school. 

Which, along with what happened later, deserves a chapter of its
own! 


<15th attachment end>

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