N’Stange for Treasurer

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        Four girls huddling outside the school, snow falling on their hair, about to go back in for sixth period after having pizza across the street.  A campaign strategy session.

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        Letitia, speaking through her floppy fake-fur-lined hood.  “We have all the forms in,” Letitia said.  “Sharon will be Student Council President by this time next month.”

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        Sharon smiles, rubbing her nose which is red with the cold.  Pale white girl, blond hair tucked neatly under a ski cap.  “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.  You sure you got Sonia’s name spelled right?”  Sonia, running for Vice President, has a complicated Polish surname.

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        “Of course!” Letitia says.  “So where are we making posters, Ms. Student Council Secretary?”  She looks down at Kathy, a short Asian girl, hatless but in earmuffs.  Snow is falling heavier now, all but covering her black hair.  “I mean, Ms. Future Student Council Secretary?”

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        “How a-b-b-bout my house?” N’Stange says, shivering, hugging herself, bare feet lifting up from the snow, one then the other, her toes wiggling so as to get some feeling back.  She is taller than the rest and hugging herself pushes her enormous breasts forward, big black cold-stiffened nipples almost sticking in their faces.  “T - tomorrow night.”  Her jet black nudity stands out in the snow.  They agree and then go in as the bell rings.
 
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        “This is our last day on human sexuality,” Ms. Bloom says.  She runs a tight class.  “Miss Kilkenny, were you here on Wednesday?”

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        “Yes.”

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        “So you were here for that demonstration with Miss Fairweather in the extended orgasm machine. . . How long did she stay in ‘status orgasmus’?”

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        “Um . . . two minutes, I think.”

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        “Two minutes and eight seconds.  You saw Mr. Amalthus with his timer.  By the way, I’m glad we were able to invite the other class in . . . And how many total orgasms did you have, Miss Fairweather?”

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        “Um . . . I think I came . . . twelve times.”

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        Ms. Bloom, again, corrects a slightly wrong answer.  “Actually it was fourteen.”  Now she cracks a rare smile.  “That’s ok, I imagine it’s hard to count orgasms when you’re the one experiencing them.”  N’Stange gives an embarrassed smile and the class laughs.

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        Prudence has brought the posters, Kathy the markers.  The four girls are having a snack in the dining room when Mr. and Mrs. Fairweather come downstairs, all dressed up, already in their coats.  They are as tall as their daughter and, like her, carry themselves like African royalty.  Mrs. Fairweather wears an ornate headdress which seems to almost touch the ceiling.  “That whole family makes me feel inferior,” Prudence admitted once, and she was not alone.

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        “I see you are well organized,” Mr. Fairweather says, smiling at the girls and then straightening his tie in the mirror, then looking down to check his shoes.

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        “Organization is everything,” N’Stange’s mother says, buttoning her coat.  Like their daughter, the Fairweathers have a vaguely British accent, though more pronounced.

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        Gichinga scampers downstairs, half-buttoned coat flying behind him.

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        “Gich, you can’t wear sneakers in the snow!” N’Stange says.  She gets the boots that were standing next to the door and marches the boy over to the couch.  As she sits on the floor and vigorously laces him up, her breasts sway to and fro.  This position emphasizes the narrowness of her waist, the concavity of her tummy.  To balance herself she puts one foot up on the ottoman.  Her feet are broad and tough like nature made them, with widely spread toes.  Her toenails are painted white, which is striking.  Soon the Fairweathers are off with their youngest to Parent-Teacher Night.

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        The girls clean up after the snack.  Sharon says, “I wonder where Ronda is?”  They decide to start without her.  It turns out the table is not big enough so they work on the floor, using the slogan they had thought up: “The Big Change!”  Sharon Rizzo for Student Council President, Sonia Przezelewski for Vice President, Kathy Hayakawa for Secretary, Ronda Billingsgate for Treasurer.  An all-girl ticket.  Making 20 posters is a big job.  Careful not to make a mistake, they don’t distract themselves with conversation.  N’Stange is the only one left-handed.  The other girls sit cross-legged but she is on her tummy, breasts squashed out to each side, her big bare feet dancing in the air, toes wiggling as if helping her fingers write.

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        A knock on the door.  N’Stange stands up to get it.  It is Ronda, in tears.  The other girls rush up to her.  “I can’t be Treasurer,” she says.  “I - got arrested for shoplifting!”

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        “Where?”

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        “At Blazer’s.”  A department store in town.

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        “They watch black girls extra close,” N’Stange points out.

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        “It wasn’t just me.  They got Debra and Naomi too.”  Sniffles.  “I’ve never been so embarrassed.  What do I tell Momma?”  Ronda’s mother was widowed a few years ago and works as a waitress, supporting Ronda and her sister.

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        N’Stange hugs her.  Ronda, also, is shorter than N’Stange -- practically everyone is.  N’Stange likes to hug.  She puts Ronda’s head between her breasts and as she wraps her long arms around her the distressed girl finds her face pressed in on both sides by warm, soft, nurturing breastflesh.  It is N’Stange’s technique.  Everyone likes getting hugged by N’Stange, boys especially.

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        The campaign committee, in the courtyard.  “So what do we do?” Kathy says.  “We need someone to take Ronda’s place.”  “How about you?” Sharon says.

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        “M-m-me??” N’Stange says.  Shivering, of course.  They’ve been standing out there for fifteen minutes.  “B-b-but math is my w-worst subject!  I c-can’t be t-t-treasurer!”

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        “It’s not that hard,” Kathy says.  “I’ll help you.”

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        “C’mon, N’Stange . . . you’ll be an asset to the ticket,” Sharon says.  “Everybody loves you!”

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        “They sure do!” Letitia says.  “And it gives you an excuse to change your head again!”  They all laugh.  N’Stange colors her hair, both above and below, every few weeks.  Currently it’s orange.  As if about to present herself as a candidate, she self-consciously brushes flakes of snow off her pubic hair.  And then off her head.  Her hair is very short; her head is almost shaved.  Which makes it obvious that each breast is bigger.

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        She hugs herself.  Again, her breasts stick out.  She looks down at her feet, shuffling in the ankle-deep snow, her widely spread toes gripping the dead grass underneath.  “Um . . . ok-k-k-kay!”  Her nipples are in their faces and Sharon comes forward to suck the left one, Letitia the right.  N’Stange shudders and then moans as the stimulation warms her up.  “Th-thanks.”

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        Mr. Stirnweiss paces in front of the blackboard, nervously as always, his fingers dusty with chalk.  Except for the whirring noise near the door the room is quiet.  “Well then, we have a second-order derivative.  What is the power rule for that?  Mr. Stimson?”

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        The shortish white boy in front with the plaid shirt and black pants says, “You just use the power rule for the first order, and do it twice.”

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        “Correct. . . and why is it not a good idea to use the Leibniz notation?  Miss Fairweather?”

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        “Kch - kch -”  Her breasts quake as she struggles to get out a word.  She is in her special chair.  Another orgasm overtakes her and with each jolt her tough soles slap loudly in unison against the floor.  She beats the top of her desk with her fists.  The unseen vaginal and rectal dildos are doing their job, pistoning into her one then the other for the entire class period.  The vaginal dildo has ridges on top to massage her G-spot.  Struts rising from her desk press vibrating cups against the huge nipples.

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        “Kch -- kch -- s-sorrrry -- kchh -- OHH!”  The special bristly pad over her clit just moved again.

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        Sighing, Mr. Stirnweiss calls on Miss Sung who knows the right answer.

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        “And this is the formal apron the women wore for the traditional Muthirigu dance,” N’Stange says, pointing to an old photograph projected onto the screen.  “This was the Kikuyu tribe, which is my tribe.  I understand that my great-great-great-grandmother was a tribal elder. . . Now here is a simpler apron girls wore.  You can see the shawl also. . . Girls and women, they naturally like to dress up I suppose.”  As she points her breasts wave to and fro.  She is talking with them as well as with her mouth.  “Notice how ornate the beadwork is.”

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        “What about the boys and men?” Ms. Stanhope says.  Though N’Stange doesn’t really need such prompting.  Her presentation on Kikuyu culture, well-prepared and delivered in a relaxed manner, is going excellently.

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        “Men and boys didn’t wear clothes.  Well, men did sometimes, like the penis sheath you see on this chieftain.  But usually not.  And the boys always went naked.”

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        Sharon, Letitia, Kathy, Sonia and N’Stange are at Sonia’s house, making the revised posters with N’Stange’s name on them.  Sonia’s mother brings some lemonade.  Detecting the scent of a coconut enema, she asks politely.  N’Stange temporarily withdraws from poster-making as she puts her butt up and spreads her legs, her face resting on crossed arms, as an experienced tongue slithers through her anus and noodles around in her rectum.  She moans as the other girls exchange conspiratorial smiles.  Pre-earthquake tremors propagate through her breasts as her hips undulate.

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         Loaded down with posters, Sharon stands in the hallway, wondering how she will get this done.  Kathy is out sick. Letitia is on a hockey trip.  Hearing the slap of bare feet around the corner she knows it’s N’Stange.  Saved!

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        Twenty minutes later, having put up posters in all allowed places, the two go out to the courtyard.  As they talk about how their speeches will go, N’Stange squats and pees, making a yellow hole in the snow.  Looking up at Sharon she says her speech will be brief but will end like Sharon’s will begin.  The two girls agree this will be a nice touch.

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        “Are you ready, Miss Fairweather?” Hank asks, looking upward.

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        “G-g-give me a mmmminute,” the shivering girl says, shifting from one foot, numb with cold, to the other, legs spread wide to stready herself.  With skilled but shaking hands she works the lopper and cuts that last withered branch.   It falls to the ground near the others.  Her bare butt is pressed back against the upper trunk, covered with ice after last night’s storm.  Students are walking by and some watch.  This tree is right in front of the school and it’s important that it look nice when spring comes.

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        “Ok-k-kay,” the girl says.  Her toes search for ice-free spots on the branches below as she squats.  She waves to Mr. Simonson, the principal, as he passes by.  Hank raises the bucket.  Excretion takes only a few seconds.  Hank takes the bucket to the garden.  She spreads her buttocks widely and George cleans her anus with bullets of freezing water from the hose.  The people watching notice that no matter how many times this is done, she always grimaces and grits her teeth.

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        There are three “tickets” running for Student Council, which makes for a crowded stage.  The first slate of candidates is finished and now it’s “The Big Change”’s turn.  The three sets of hopefuls sit on folding chairs facing the audience, holding their notes.  N’Stange is between Sonia and Kathy.  Except for N’Stange, of course, they are all in their best outfits.

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        Speeches are to be no more than three minutes.  Sonia is a minute into hers when Ms. Davidson, the art teacher, casually walks onstage with a cushion.  She kneels in front of N’Stange and spreads the big naked girl’s knees widely. Because N’Stange’s legs are so long, her chair was given extra space to each side.  As Sonia talks on the teacher’s head plunges into N’Stange’s crotch.  Now N’Stange’s friend Stephan walks onto the stage and grips her left breast with both hands and not too gently starts chewing on the huge nipple.  Ms. Canto, the home economics teacher, appears and attends to the right breast.

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        Sonia pauses when the moans get loud.  N’Stange drops her notes and her eyes widen, looking upward.  Gutteral grunting tells everyone that this will be a big one.  The variety of her responses is well known.  Now her eyes bug out at the audience and her hips jolt upward, nearly shaking off the three tormentors, but the determined grip of tongues and lips and teeth will not be loosened.  A big inhale, and for about two seconds one can hear a pin drop.  Now the silence is ripped by shriek after shriek, echoing through the General Purpose room and through the open doors down the hallways.  Finally after a few irregular spasms she lays back in her chair.  A sheen of sweat covers her black skin from her closely cropped scalp down to her bare toes.  As she catches her breath the room erupts in applause.  Ms. Davidson, Stephan and Ms. Canto smile and take a bow.  N’Stange, smiling, manages to lift her hands and clap weakly.

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        Sonia turns back to her notes and finishes her speech.  Per Mr. Simonson’s instructions, there is to be no applause except at the very end.  N’Stange picks up her notes and with rubbery, unsteady steps, feet slapping against the floor, makes her way to the lectern.  The room is humid with her female musk and penises near and far hidden inside pants react to this natural signal.

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        She still needs to catch her breath.  “Sorry,” she says, then braces her hands against the lectern as she blinks and clears her throat.  Finally she is ready.  “Good afternoon, my name is . . . huh, sorry . . . N’Stange Fairweather and I am running for Treasurer on the Big Change ticket.  I feel I would make a good Treasurer because . . .”
   
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        It’s Big Help Day.  Letitia and Luz and Maritza, who had been assigned to mop the main lobby, come out to see N’Stange, who had been assigned the one outdoor task, sweeping the snow from the front entrance.  There was only a dusting of an inch or so this morning, but there’s a big expanse of sidewalk to clear.  After half an hour she’s only half finished.  The girls watch through the glass, noticing the firm muscles of her buttocks at work, before opening the door and venturing out. There’s no wind but it’s a lot colder than yesterday.  Will this winter never end?

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        Letitia brought some hot tea.  “Th-th-thanks,” the shivering girl says.  It is hard to hold the cup with shaking hands but she manages.  As she sips the four clothed girls look down at their boots next to her snow-encrusted toes.  The sweeping has dusted some of the snow up onto her pubic hair.

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        They’re all a lot shorter than N’Stange.  One stiff nipple is at Luz’s eye level and she reaches her mouth up to take it in.  “Mmmm . . .” N’Stange says.  Maritza looks down at her snow-flecked pubic hair.  Like the (very short) hair on her head, it’s now beige.  This makes it easy to notice the labia, even though they are shrunken in the cold.

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        “Sorry about the election,” Maritza said.

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        “Th-that’s all right.  We g-g-gave it a good g-g-go.”  Their ticket came in second, but they only lost by 35 votes.

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        The naked girl sips the last of the tea and gives the cup back to Letitia.  “Th-thanks.”  She’s still shivering but not so much now.

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        Letitia, Luz and Maritza go back into the warmth of the school, leaving N’Stange to go back sweeping the snow from the wide entrance.  Her bare feet slip on a patch of smooth ice hidden by the snow and she almost falls, but she recovers and continues.

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