Felice Navidad

by Greg Ossog - https://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/gossog/www/

This story is part of the Vaughn-Strickland series.

My name is Felice Abrano. You may remember me from Kelly Klein's
stories, or with Moira Fontana, or the Institute. I was one of the
unlucky women who got VS, Vaughn-Strickland syndrome, which turns you
into a big-time exhibitionist, whether you want to or not. I can't even
think of how many people saw me naked when I had VS, or how many
strangers I had sex with. We're very lucky that VS prevents catching
STD's.

Then Kathy and Barbara figured out a cure, and our lives are back to
normal. Sort of. Many things happened that you just can't undo; like
Kelly, who left college and moved away from home. Then again, because of
VS, we've made many new friends we'd never have met otherwise. So you
try to be grateful for the good and learn from the bad.

What changed for me is that I still like showing off for people, getting
"accidentally" naked, and I like to figure out fun ways of making it
happen. Since this was the big problem with VS, you're probably
wondering if I was really cured; or simply what the hell I think I'm
doing.

But once I was cured, life was different. I had control. I could plan
something for months and months and do it on my terms, or even chicken
out and not do it at all. My choice. With VS, things would start without
warning, so fast, even by doing something so simple like answering the
front door. Sure there were some thrills and fun; some of the sensations
I like to duplicate on my own. But there was also the fear of not having
any control, and the sinking feeling that this would never end. So yes,
I like the occasional striptease, but no, I never want to have VS again.

I should probably introduce myself to newer readers. I'm 21 now, a
single woman living in my own apartment, and a freelance writer. My
father's from Brazil, and my mother's from Hong Kong. People look at my
mixed-blood features and usually think I'm from Hawaii.

I'm good looking (otherwise I wouldn't have gotten VS; it's a
discriminating disease). I'm about 5-5 and 115. My skin is sort of dark
cinnamon, and my eyes hint at my mom's Asian background. Dark hair hangs
just below my shoulder blades in the back, not quite enough to cover my
breasts in the front. I have C-cup breasts with small dark areolae, a
slightly tucked waist and medium hips. My aunt on my dad's side has told
me so many times my butt's too small by Brazilian Standards, but
American men have never had such complaints. I might be spurned some day
by a guy just insisting on a big big booty, but it hasn't happened yet.

So back to my story. The moral, which will be evident by the end, is
that I can never really go back to the way things were before VS. I'm a
lot better now, but some problems can still crop up.

It was mid-November, what retailers like to call Christmas season, and
already the shopping malls had Santas in them, getting wishes from kids
who wouldn't see results for another six weeks. I was shopping for
workout gear, and saw a rack of sheer red bodystockings, on clearance
for $3.99. I asked the saleslady why they were being cleared out. She
said they were too sheer for most people; you'd have to wear a leotard
or underwear underneath, and then the color looked really bad.

Suddenly I had an idea of where I could use these. I couldn't try them
on first, but for $4 each there wasn't much risk. I bought five.

At home, I stripped down and put one on. It was bright tomato red, with
closed toes and long sleeves and a little scoop neck. My skin underneath
made it look darker. Everything was covered except my hands, neck and
head. It was a conservative cut, but the saleslady was right; it was way
too sheer. In the mirror, I could see not only my nipples but the
contours of my breasts, everything. I could see my pubic hair, matted
down a little by the fabric; and when I turned around, my butt. Even
from the side, you could see the gap below my breasts, where the clingy
fabric stretched down toward my waist, and my breast curved back toward
my rib cage.

It would be very indecent for me to walk around in public wearing only
this. Still, I had big plans for it.

I got dressed again and wrote down a list of costume stores. It took a
long time to find what I was looking for. Back at home, I put the
bodystocking back on, and put the rest of the costume over it.

Suddenly, I was a Christmas Elf. Too tall, of course, and a little too
risque, not that the dads would mind. The important part was that it
looked real enough for me to get close to a mall Santa. The top layer
was bright green, sleeveless, with a deep V-neck in front and back, and
a very short pleated skirt. It looked more suited to Peter Pan than an
elf, but the red bodystocking added the holiday touch.

Neither part of the outfit covered enough by itself to wear alone in
public. If I wore only the green part, I'd show a lot of cleavage,
especially if I leaned forward, or you looked in from the side. The
skirt was really short, enough that I'd show my bare bottom if I bent
over, and I'd show worse if I had to reach up. If I wore only the sheer
bodystocking, same problem in a different form. However, wearing both,
it looked pretty good, almost like they belonged together. The vest and
skirt covered up what the sheer stocking revealed; and if I didn't bend
over, the stocking hid the fact that I was nearly naked underneath the
costume. I just had red arms and legs, that's all.

With the costume ready, I took a trip north in regular clothes to scope
out some malls. Best to do things away from where I lived and worked. I
found three malls that had what I needed: a Santa Claus in a central
courtyard; some sort of house or hut, usually gingerbread, for storage
and changing clothes; and easy access to the outside for quick escapes.
The next weekend, I put on my elf clothes and drove to mall number 1.

The mall was semi-crowded. I felt a little stage fright as I got looks
from a lot of guys, as if they had figured me out already. But I told
myself that guys scope me out when I wear street clothes, anyway. Plus I
was in costume, which helped turn heads. Really nothing was showing, so
I didn't worry. I wasn't even the only miniskirted girl here today. And
besides, I had already been through much worse.

Just a few parents stood with their kids in line for Santa; it wasn't
peak shopping season yet. The cashier was facing the other way from me
as I walked toward the gingerbread house. One of the mothers pointed me
out to her child and I smiled and waved. Then I ducked inside the house
and shut the small door.

There had been no way to find out in advance what was inside the house;
I had to hope it would be good for what I needed. It was. The house was
about 6 feet square, with stacked boxes, a small table, a hat rack
doubling as wardrobe, and a standing lamp keeping the dark out. There
were no windows.

I took off the Peter Pan outfit, hanging it on the rack. I waited,
feeling a little chilly in just the sheer bodystocking. I realized I
didn't have a plan in case the someone else came in first, instead of
Santa. What sort of cover story would explain my waiting here dressed
like this?

I couldn't what was happening outside; all I could hear were muffled
voices and some music. I stood there for about an hour, alternately
excited and bored, before Santa opened the door.

He had a good costume: beard, white hair, cap, everything. He was a
middle-aged guy with a friendly face, and for a moment I felt ashamed at
what I was doing. He was probably a stand-up guy, enjoying his job of
bringing happiness to children, and here I was tempting him. But that
feeling quickly passed. I could tell he liked what he saw.

The sight of me, breasts and pubic hair easily visible under the sheer
material, was enough of a surprise that he still stood there in the
doorway, bent over so he wouldn't bang his head. "Come in," I whispered.
"Shut the door."

He did, but evidently wasn't convinced his eyes were telling him the
truth. He glanced side to side, as if to find someone spying on him, or
a hidden camera. We had the room to ourselves, of course. As far as I
knew.

"Who are you?" he said.

"I'm your Christmas present." I said, arching my back slightly to
emphasize my breasts. I was almost laughing; he would look me up and
down, incredulous that this hot chick in see-through nylon would even be
here talking to him, and then he'd look me right in the eye, trying to
figure me out. Moments later, he'd be back to checking out my body.

I took a pair of scissors and made a one-inch snip in the middle of the
neckline. Small dog-ears of stretched fabric frayed to each side. "Would
you like to unwrap me?"

"Who sent you?" he said, still suspicious.

"Nobody. I'm just here for a little fun. I just picked you at random.
How much time do you have?"

"Fifteen minutes."

"That's plenty of time. Come on. Nobody's gonna know." I took his hands
and placed them on the little corners of fabric let loose where I had
made the cut. "This is not a setup. Afterward, I'll sneak out and you'll
never hear from me again. But for now, just follow along. Unwrap your
gift."

He figured out everything was OK, but instead of pulling the material
apart, he started pawing my breasts. Which was fine; my plan was
working, even if not exactly as I had imagined. Anyway, it felt really
good, what he was doing, and I showed it. You might think that's very
strange, but I'll explain.

One fetish of a sort I had picked up during VS was an affinity for
really average-looking guys. Just the kind you'd see every day. You
might wonder why. Well, really good-looking guys tended to treat me as
some sort of reward or achievement, like they deserved me, and wanted to
show me off. I've never liked that attitude. But the average guy, when
he sees me naked, or has sex with me, usually can't believe his good
luck, and is really enthusiastic and grateful. (Unless he's a jerk too.)
I love making men happy this way. This Santa, a middle-aged guy,
probably married with two kids, definitely had the "average guy"
attitude.

I drew him closer. "Help me out of this," I said, guiding him back to
the cut I had made. He finally figured it out and pulled the two corners
apart, stretching the cut and then expanding it as more material gave
way. "That's it," I said. "Peel it off. That's good."

He grew more enthusiastic and ripped huge holes in the body stocking,
freeing my breasts, tummy and waist. For a moment, he couldn't decide
what to do next; then he peeled the fabric off my shoulders and arms,
leaving me basically topless, still covered below, with tatters of lycra
hanging from the waist. I loved the feeling of his fingers and hands on
my newly bared skin. He kneeled and pulled everything off. I balanced
against two walls as I freed my feet, and I was naked.

Having my muff inches from his face was too tempting for him. He ripped
off the beard, wig and hat, and he stayed down there, exploring with his
tongue. I don't have to tell you how much I loved that. I was wet
already, and trying not to make noise, and still leaning against the
wall for balance, my feet shoulder-width apart. And he stayed there
until I came. What a gentleman! I told him how lovely that was.

He uncinched his huge black belt and dropped the trousers and coat. He
wasn't as fat as the Santa suit made him look, but he definitely had the
middle age spread. Out of my purse I took a condom, stashed for just
this occasion. He understood, and took out his penis and put it on.

The sex was pretty fast, and not the sort of perfect ballet you always
fantasize about having. But one, we were in a hurry, and two, didn't
know each other, or what the other person liked and didn't like. We sort
of had to guess and fumble along. Still, we both had a great time.  Just
being naked, being manhandled and screwed by this man, almost in public,
made me really hot and I had no problem coming. Afterwards, I kissed him
on the cheek, and he ducked back out.

I still didn't want to get caught by someone else. I had to get dressed
and leave pretty quickly. Ripping the body stocking was part of my dare
to myself. Now I only had the green elf costume to wear back out; I'd be
naked underneath. I put it on, and boy was it skimpy. It was obvious I
wasn't wearing a bra. The skirt was so short that the only thing keeping
my pussy out of sight was that everyone's viewing angle was from above.
(And I never use the word "pussy" unless I'm horny. Same probably goes
for the word "horny"!)

I opened the door and stepped out. Immediately people started looking my
way. I was showing way too much bare arm, bare leg and cleavage to blend
into the crowd. I set a beeline for the exit and walked briskly toward
it, steeling myself against the gaze of all those people. If I didn't
look at them, I wouldn't see them looking at me.

Things went OK until I went through the doorway. They were large glass
doors, and when I opened one, a current of air rushed in and blew the
skirt of my costume UP. I think I froze there a second, trying to push
it down, when I figured out I could just walk forward a couple yards and
the wind would be gone. Oh well. I wasn't planning to flash my pussy and
bare ass, but I knew the risk I was taking. Good thing nobody knew me
here.

I played with myself the entire way home, the skirt providing easy
access. I considered the trip a success. Next weekend, I wanted to do
more.

For Mall 2, I made the stakes higher. The Santa House was right across
from a casual clothing store. I arrived in the same costume, but first
walked into the store. I wanted to find a clothes rack close to the
window, but out of sight of as many people as possible. I waited for the
spot to clear, found an empty hanger, and then quickly took off the
green Peter Pan part. Now I was dressed only in the sheer bodystocking,
my breasts, pubic hair and butt easily visible to anyone around. I had
to hurry.

But I took a moment to look at my Peter Pan costume, limp on that wire
hanger. After I was done with Santa, I would have to run back in here
and grab it. If Santa ripped off my bodystocking (as he probably would),
I would have to do that run completely naked. And what if, when I came
back in, it wasn't there?

I had not even left my aisle when a store security guy accosted me.
Turns out a sheer bodystocking was not appropriate attire for the store.
He escorted me out of the store and told me to not come back.

Well, that wasn't good; how was I supposed to go back in and get my
costume? But I couldn't stand around outside and figure this out. People
were already staring. I was practically naked already. I strode over to
the gingerbread house, entered and shut the door. Now I really had to
decide whether to even go through with this. The safest thing would be
to forget about the green costume, sneak out now, and go home. Instead,
I waited for Santa.

I overheard people outside talking about me; but fortunately, no one
came in the house. After a while, they lost interest and moved off. When
Santa came in, this time a younger guy, the sex was pretty good. And I
let him tear the bodystocking to shreds. When he left, I waited for a
little while, gathering my courage. I had nothing to wear at all; in
fact, all I had with me was a little handbag with ID, money and car
keys. And I would have to get my costume back before the security guy
caught me.

I braced myself and opened the door, ready to run naked into the store.
My heart was beating like a hummingbird's. I took three steps and
suddenly stopped. The store security guy was at the entrance, and
looking straight at me. He wasn't the only one staring, but he was the
particular problem. I panicked, wrote off the green costume as lost, and
ran down the corridor. As it turned out, it wasn't even the right
direction to where I was parked, but I didn't want to stop running. This
situation had turned bad really fast!

A mall rent-a-cop yelled something and I did not want to deal with him
at all. I flew past people just staring at me. Luckily, I saw a sign for
the one place I could hide: the women's bathroom. Fortunately, it wasn't
three miles down some back corridor, but actually right off the main
concourse. I sprinted inside and found an open stall. Once I locked its
door, then I took deep breaths and tried to calm down.

I sat on the toilet and felt for the first time the grimy floor on my
bare feet. Ick. I had forgotten my sneakers in the Santa house! Oh well,
they were gone. I was really wearing absolutely nothing at all. I lifted
up my feet and folded my legs. I'd have to come up with a plan.

I did have to pee, so I took care of that.

"Security!" A woman's voice called in. "I know you're in here, I just
need to talk to you!" I heard the other women in the bathroom talking,
and the security woman showed them out. Then she said: "I've closed the
bathroom, why don't you come out now."

There was nowhere to go, so I opened the door and stepped out, covering
my breasts and pubic area as best as I could.

The lady was trim and plain-looking, blonde hair in a bun, but still
kind of pretty. It seemed that a simple makeover could bring out beauty
she already had. She smirked at me. "Why so shy now? Everyone in the
mall has seen you already. Anyway, what's your name?"

"Felice Abrano."

"I'm Officer Murphy. Joanne." She looked me over and sighed, seemed to
soften up a bit. "I don't know why you were doing this, but you just
can't. Not in a public place like this. There's kids, and parents...
what were you thinking?"

I felt really small and stupid. "It was a stunt, a prank, and it went
wrong. I was supposed to have other clothes to walk back out."

She shook her head. "Such a pretty girl like you... why screw around
with what you're blessed with? It just makes no sense sometimes."

She seemed almost sad, sympathetic for me in this situation. Just a bit.
And I started thinking I might be able to use that to my advantage. I
put my hands at my sides, showing her my body, making it look innocent.
"What sort of trouble am I in?"

She mulled this over for a long time.

"I don't need to call the police," she decided. "We'll just get you some
clothes, walk you out of here, and call it a day. I can count on you
never to try this again, right?"

"Of course." Not at this mall, at least.

"Joanne?" A man's voice called from outside. "You find her? What are you
doing?" He sounded like the first rent-a-cop that saw me.

"I've got her," Joanne yelled back. "Everything's fine."

"You'd better not just let her go!" the man said.

"I'll take care of it! Just go on!"

Joanne sighed again, looked at me. "We're going to have to do a little
frog march out of here. Bert, the guy outside, says I've been too
lenient."

"What do you mean by that?" I said.

"To keep my record up, I've got to make a big show of marching you out
of the mall and telling you never to come back."

"Without any clothes?"

"Let me think," she said. "Okay, um, you ran in here naked. But suppose
you had underwear in here and put it on. Then I march you out wearing
bra and panties, you get in your car, and you're home free."

"I think I understand. I just need the bra and panties."

"Hopefully you've got some cash. I can go buy them for you."

I told her my sizes, gave her $40 and waited for her to come back. It
was a long wait, and I couldn't rule out the idea that she had just
taken my money and run. But she did return, with a plain white bra with
a front clasp, white bikini panties and change. "Thank you, thank you,"
I said, putting them on. I was pretty fortunate that Joanne had a good
heart and figured a way out of this for me.

"Now hang on to your purse," she said. "I'm going to cuff you, but
remember, it's just for show."

That looked ominous, but I wanted to be cooperative. Each step was a
step closer to home. "You'll release me at my car?"

"Yep." She cuffed me and checked the fit. Now I was really at her mercy.
"Ready to go?"

"Sure!"

We walked outside and Joanne asked which way my car was. Unfortunately,
the lot was crowded, and I was parked at the other end. So it would be a
long march.

I tried to make some conversation. "So how long have you been with
security here?"

Joanne was thinking of something else. "You know, they're still going to
think I'm too easy on you. Wait here a moment." And then, with me unable
to resist, she undid the front clasp and pulled the bra over my
shoulders and down my arms, to hang where my hands were cuffed together.

"What are you doing?" I cried. Now I was topless and cuffed, with no way
to cover up!

"You obviously wanted to show off, and I thought this would be a little
more fun for both of us."

"Not fun for me! I'd prefer to have the bra on!"

"You don't get to decide this. Now get moving." We started walking
again, and I was even more humiliated than before. Being marched by
security. In handcuffs. And my breasts bare! People were staring and
laughing, and Joanne made no effort to shoo them away, or even walk
particularly quickly.

It was taking an eternity to walk through the mall, and a small crowd
was walking with us, checking me out from all angles. And the things
they said were so crude. Worst of all were all the camera phones and
digital cameras going off. This had absolutely not turned out the way I
wanted!

And then we ran into Bert. He stared me up and down, and then asked
Joanne where the panties came from. I expected her to defend her
decision, but right away she admitted she had bought them for me to
wear. "That's bullshit," Bert said. "Take  'em off."

"Oh please, no!" I said. "I'm sorry what I did, just please let me go
home!"

"Joanne, you'd better take 'em off," Bert said. "I don't want to touch
her, get sued for sexual har-rass-ment." He faced me. "But don't think
about what we'd like to do with you if everybody wasn't so PC about
things."

Yes, those annoying PC busybodies. Preventing cute girls at the mall
from getting raped.

But I couldn't do anything; was I going to run? In handcuffs? Then they
probably would call the cops. So instead, I let Joanne take off the
panties and I was naked again. Easy come, easy go. At least Bert
probably wasn't going to touch me. But he stared and stared.

If me walking topless was entertainment, then me walking completely
naked was a scandal, judging from people's reactions. There were older
people muttering hurtful things. Boys making crude gestures. And even
mothers covering the eyes of their children. I wanted to see no more of
this, so I tried to look either at the floor or far down the corridor,
toward the exit.

Finally, we were outside the mall. The air was pretty chilly without the
"clothes keep you warm" effect. And they still marched me naked, all the
way to my car. And this was even tougher; it was like the whole wide
world could see me if they looked in the right direction.

Some people had followed us across the parking lot. The two spaces next
to my driver's side door were empty, so there was room for some
spectators for the last bit of my show.

Joanne took my purse, fished out the key, and put the purse on the
ground. She stood there, tossing it up and down. "What are you waiting
for?" I said. "Could you unlock me please?"

"I think we'll leave you cuffed," she said. "You can keep them. Good
luck driving back. And here's your key." She put that on the ground,
directly beneath the door handle, almost underneath the car.

What the hell? I though Joanne had some sympathy for me. I guess I
completely misjudged her. She and Bert walked off as I stood there,
unable to even unlock my car.

"Can anyone help me?" I said to the dozen or so people around me. No one
offered. They just kept their shit-eating grins and stared at me.
"Anyone?" Nope.

"You guys really suck," I said. I would have to figure this out myself.
There was no way I could bend over forward and get the key, with my
hands cuffed in back. And if I lay down, how I was I sure I could get
back up, without using my arms? I certainly didn't want to lay down on
the pavement anyway.

I couldn't figure it out for a while. Nobody would help. They rarely
looked me in the eye, anyway. About 12 guys, all different ages, and
they just kept staring at my body.

Finally I figured out the only way to pick the keys up. It would require
one final humiliation. I stood with my back facing the door, my hands
above the key. Then I slowly squatted down, knees forward, reaching as
far as I could. But it wasn't enough. My fingers were grasping at air.
It seemed like I was missing by inches.

The only way I could reach lower was to spread my feet a little, spread
my legs as wide as I could, and arch my back. That was about as bad as
it could get: flaunting my breasts, my legs, my pubic hair and even my
pussy lips. "I'll help you!" said one guy and his friends laughed. I
tried to ignore them.

And then one guy stepped forward. Not to help, though. "I know what you
really want," he leered. And then he reached out and fondled my breasts!
The other guys hooted and cheered.

"Fuck off," I said, and tried to get up, but felt my hands restrained.
Not just by the cuffs; the bra had snagged on something and wouldn't let
me up! It was totally unfair. That bra had covered my breasts for only
about five minutes before Joanne took it off, and now was worse than
useless. I was basically stripped and tied up. I'd be better off without
the bra at all.

"I like fucking," the guy said, mocking what I said. He insolently ran
fingers along the undersides of my thighs, a presumption of intimacy
which he had not earned. Not at all. And without being able to stand up
a little, I couldn't even manage to close my legs together. My body was
wide open to his touch.

He forced a meaty finger into my pussy. "Look at this," he crowed, still
fondling my right breast. "You're wet, your nipple's hard... you're
loving this!"

I'm wired that way, goddamn it, I thought. I can't help it. This body of
mine is betraying me. Even though he was rude and rough and I hated him,
I hated everyone around me, this jerk was going to make me come. My
breathing was getting ragged, and my heart was racing. Against my better
judgement, against my will. My breasts were jutting out, nipples hard;
my legs were spread wide, showing my pussy, hungry for sensation. Of
course it looked like I wanted it.

"You like it, don't you," he said. "Your hot little body. After I make
you come here, I'll take you home and I'll fuck you proper. And you'll
really like that. Won't you?"

I wanted to say Not in a million years, you scumbag, you shitstain; but
the thought of him taking me home against my will, even though I
absolutely didn't want that to happen, was making me even hotter.

I closed my eyes, and the picture stuck in my mind wouldn't budge.
Suppose I did go with him? I would get in his car, still naked, riding
in the front seat, his right hand between my legs as he drove. My
breasts would be tingling, my nipples like dark gumdrops, easy visible
to everyone peeking inside. I would be caressing them myself, not caring
what people saw. (Somehow my cuffs would be off.) His finger would be
inside me all the way home, and I would be as wet as I was now.

When we got to his condo, he would park way at the far end and walk me
across the complex, hurriedly, tugging me by the arm. No matter that I
was naked, out in the open, and so horny I could hardly walk or see
straight. I would stumble a few times, trying to keep from falling as he
drags me along.

"I'm not giving you a ride back," he would say as he unlocks his door.
"After we're done, you can either stay here or walk home." He would
stare down at my naked pussy, and add, "I'm not giving you any clothes
either." Oh god. My house, and all my clothes, miles and miles away.

"Get down," he would say, making my lie on my back, not even in his bed,
but on his living room rug, a tacky bear rug, its fur rubbing against my
shoulder blades, elbows and butt. He would lean over and lick my
breasts, sloppily, like a dog drinking water; and then nibble and suck
my nipples until they stood what would seem like an inch high. He would
stick a finger in my pussy, just to check if I'm wet. I would
practically be gushing onto the rug.

He would drop his pants, letting his penis spring out, and then tell me
to get up and kneel. I hate giving blowjobs, and I would dread this one,
but I'd still do it, taking his salty, sweaty, stinky member in my
mouth. With one hand in my hair, he would move my head back and forth.
Please don't come inside me, I would think.

He would pull out before coming, and tell me to lie back down. Then he
would push himself inside me; an easy thing, because of how hot and
slippery I am. After a few strokes, he would come, getting all rigid
like someone electrocuted, and this would make me come too.

As I leaned back against my car, my eyes were still closed in real life,
and I was probably panting and moaning, and the thought of being there
naked on my back, having an orgasm in some stranger's house, and hoping
I could walk home naked before it got dark... that pushed me over the
edge in real life. I came really hard, shuddering, my cuffed hands
banging against the car door.

I opened my eyes. The man had stood back, to let everyone see me climax.
I just stared at the ground. What would happen next? Just more of this
until a good Samaritan came along? If he ever did? Or would I follow my
baser instincts and let this guy take me home to his bear rug? As my
arousal subsided, I started feeling very gloomy.

Then a new guy walked up. "What the fuck is this?" he yelled. How much
had he seen? It didn't matter; you didn't have to see much to know that
this was an unnatural situation. He was tall and solid, about 22 or so,
and taking control. "All right, all of you, scram."

"Who the fuck are you?" This was the guy who had molested me.

The new guy ignored him. "Look at you people. Come on. What's wrong with
you?" He pulled out a cell phone. "I'm calling the cops. If you don't
want to talk to them, now would be a good time to leave."

In ones and twos, they straggled out. He squatted down next to me, and
after a few rapid-fire questions and answers he was up to speed. He
untangled the bra (how did it get stuck on the corner of the door?),
unlocked the car, and helped me into the back seat. "Lay down, and I'll
give you my shirt to cover up," he said. "I've got tools at home where I
can pick that lock."

Within a few moments, we were on the freeway, and I was sorta covered by
the shirt.

"Who are you?" I said.

"My name's Lance. I heard the commotion, came over, and saw what was
happening. I can't believe some people, you know?"

"I'm Felice." I laughed. "You probably think I'm a nutcase, getting into
that situation."

"I don't know what you did. But there's no excuse for what they did," he
said. "None of them. The first guy that saw you should have helped you."

"I'm glad you showed up," I said. "I wonder; when we get to your house.
Are you married? This could look really bad, no matter how you explain
it."

"Girlfriend," he said. "She won't be in; and probably the roommates
won't be in either. I'll call first when we're almost there."

We lucked out; no one was in. It took ten minutes for him to pick the
cuff lock; I was finally free. I stretched my arms to the ceiling, then
tried to loosen them up. Lance looked very attentively as I did this. He
was a knight in shining armor, but still had appreciation for a naked
princess. "I have an idea," I said. "Give me a shirt to wear, I'll drive
you back to the mall, and then you follow me to my place."

He agreed with that idea. I was so happy that the day was turning out my
way again. I wore one of his dress shirts, just to avoid drawing more
attention as I drove. But I wore nothing else, and I didn't even button
the shirt. And as soon as I took him inside, the shirt was off and
forgotten. We made love twice that night, and again in the morning
before he left. I never saw him again.

After we said goodbye, I showered, dressed and called my friend Dina.
She's cute, and a really good listener. She doesn't say much at all, but
when you talk you know you have her full attention. Then she's so serene
that you end up not saying much either, just enjoying the silence.

Dina and I hiked up one of the foothills and found a grassy spot to
ourselves, with a view of the ocean. We sat there and watched the
scenery for a long time. I had some serious stuff to mull over, but I
wasn't going to bring it up with her. She was there mainly to help me
clear my head.

We had an early dinner and headed back to my place. Dina asked if I
wanted her to stay, but I apologized and said no. If she stayed, we'd
probably end up naked under the sheets, and more sex was not what I
needed that day.

After she left, I locked the door and turned out all the lights except
one, near the sofa, and curled up with a book. I did strip down to sheer
panties, because that's about the most I ever wear around the house
alone. It's just more comfortable. I tried to get engrossed in the book
but just found my mind wandering. I couldn't concentrate on the text,
and found myself instead stroking my pussy lips through the thin sheer
material.

I gave up, found a clean towel to spread under me, stripped off my
panties and threw them into a dark corner of the room. There was just
the pool of light from the lamp outlining me, nude again, getting myself
off. And what I was thinking about when I climaxed was not Lance, the
handsome Samaritan with the lucky girlfriend somewhere. No, instead I
imagined myself back on the bearskin rug, being screwed by that guy,
hating it and loving it.

I fell asleep in that same position and woke up late for work, Monday
already. I had dreamed about the bad guy all night, letting him take me,
and walking home nude along the sidewalks of busy streets, my pussy
dripping with our love juices.

Was I really cured from VS, I wondered. It sure seemed like a relapse to
me. Or had I deliberately taken risks that were too great? I called
work, telling them I'd be late. And then I called Barbara Strickland.




  
navidad