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Apokni

 

 

1. Grand Forks

 

 

          Sam looks down at his phone with relief -- and puzzlement.  Finally, a text from Apokni!  So she still loves him.  But a weird text it is, with a photo.  “Here I am in my new internship!”  She’s bare from the shoulders up, with a big smile and braided hair, “squaw” style, the kind of stereotypical Native American look she always avoided.  She must be wearing a strapless dress, like in those unfortunate wedding announcements where the photo is cropped and the bride looks naked.  Must have been at a party.  What kind of internship is this?

 

          Although she was a little odd before that, saying she had gotten a grad school internship without telling him the name of the school.  He assumed it wouldn’t be here in North Dakota.  They were both born and raised and itching to get out.  She grew up on a reservation (Cree).  As for Sam, when his great-grandparents escaped sharecropping in Alabama they must have associated hot weather with economic slavery and therefore Arctic temperatures with freedom.  Anyway, in the Great State of North Dakota there is not much in the way of grad schools so they both long assumed they would be leaving anyway.

 

          Their friends said they were made for each other -- they were matchmaking the two ever since they met in the (tiny) Diversity Club at U.of N.D.  They were considered exceptionally “cute” by the handful of white liberals there, bless their well-intentioned, cringe-inducing hearts.  And they did get along, a little two-person cocoon in that bleak Whiteworld of Bible-toting farmer’s kids and conspiracy believers.  They had gotten physically closer and closer and finally lost their virginity to each other.  It was a process of helping overcome each other’s upbringings.  They imagined it would be a lifelong bond between them.

 

          In her culture premarital sex was associated with alcoholism, and giving in to the White Man.  There was a strip club outside her reservation called “Un-Patchy’s” (get it?  not “Apache”?), filled with drunk Cree (and unsavory white men) stuffing their welfare payments into the g-strings of dissolute “Pocahontases”.  “I hate that place, I hate it!!” Apokni said more than once, and Sam could understand why.  She had to drive past that pit of embarrassment and degradation whenever she went home, or to campus.  As for Sam, his hangups were religious.  He grew up in the church, a pastor’s kid.  Their parents knew deep down that they were starting to have sex but everyone wisely kept their mouths shut.

 

          So what is this bare-shoulders internship?  Any internship is hard to come by of course.  They graduated together but Sam has been striking out on all his applications.  Apokni finally got her acceptance for the new semester starting in January.  Sam’s degree is in English and he is hoping to get into a newsroom on one of the Coasts, or Chicago.  But no -- he’s been reduced to doing short pieces for the Bismarck Daily News, for next to nothing.  And hanging out with his Uncle Bertie and drinking too much.  His parents warned about him, but church life is not much fun, and there is nothing else to do.

 

 

***

 

          It’s been a week since the “naked bride” photo, and now Apokni calls to invite Sam to her internship and meet her “buds”.  Sam is still puzzled; she’s still not saying what this internship is all about.  To Sam’s surprise it’s in-state, near Grand Forks, in a complex operated by a newly-moved-in business called TrapCo.  It’s a clear, cold day, the snow so bright it’s hard to see at times.  Sam drives up and sees it’s a typical six-story glass building, with a smaller one behind it.

 

          And now he walks up to the reception desk, and not ninety seconds after he says he is there to see Ms. Apokni Whitefeather, she bounces down the stairs (some parts of her bouncing more than others) and runs up to hug him.  Wearing not a stitch.

 

          Sam’s seen her naked of course, but only in bed, not out loud, in public, in full light.  He feels her bare breasts crush against him as she hugs, not in the stillness of his dorm room, but in public!  In front of everyone!

 

          “Hi Prince!” she says, for the thousandth time.  She used to imagine him as an African prince, claiming his wife.  At least that was her fantasy; it creeped him out at first (and would have a lot more if she was a white girl), but he came to see it as a sign of not only lust but love.  He doesn’t think he’s especially good in bed -- how could he be, with his lack of experience?  But she makes him feel like a rare treasure, whenever she says that.

 

          “Hi Prince!”  She stands back and lets him have a longer view.  A big “4” is marked in black and over her left breast.  He looks down at her flat tummy -- she’s in better shape than he’s ever seen her -- then down past her pubic hair, which is sculpted into the shape of a heart.  Her bare feet look bigger than he remembered, toes spread out more.  There is a kind of smartphone strapped to her upper arm.  He takes it all in, mouth open.

 

          “Apokni, you’re -- you’re --”  Now his head jerks as he sees another naked girl running across the lobby, breasts bouncing, this one white and blonde, though with an all-over tan, hair flying behind her, wearing that same kind of smartphone thing on her arm, carrying a little tube in her hand like she is in a relay race.  She turns and runs up the stairs, her bare feet slapping up the steps, and then is gone.  Sam blinks.  He currently has that familiar hungover feeling of unreality, after drinking half the night with Bertie, but this is a bit much.

 

          Apokni turns back to Sam and blushes and giggles, putting one hand over her breasts, the other over her pubic hair, but quickly corrects herself.  “This is our uniform.  We’re Mailgirls.”

 

          “Mail -- what?”

 

          She looks at her beeping armband.  “Suite 428.  Mr. Sundberg.  Gotta go.  Look, I’m on break in ten minutes.  Meet me in Room 114, that’s our lounge.”  And off she runs, a nude sprinter, her cute little butt muscles flexing as her tough soles smack against the tile floor and then up the steps, like the blonde girl.  She is as eager as a second-grader proud to be picked to deliver something to the Principal’s office.  Sam sees another “4” over the dimple on her lower back.

 

          Sam has nothing to do but sign in at the desk and get a visitor badge.  He wanders around the big lobby, looking at the exhibits and the photos on the walls.  TrapCo makes solar panels and wind turbines -- “trapping” energy from natural sources.  He walks into the corridor, on a vague quest for Room 114, and now he’s almost clipped by another naked girl running past, white skin with freckles all over.  He watches as her long red hair streams behind her.  Her fingernails and toenails are painted green.  This one has a “3” over her breast and she carries a package in one arm like a football with her running for a touchdown.  She leaves behind a waft of perfumed sweat with a hint of pubic musk.

 

          The corridor has lifeless gray walls but Room 114 is encased in glass.  Everything in it is open to view, like the Mailgirls themselves.  Two naked young women, one white-skinned and short, one black and tall, stand in front of a coffee machine, their bare backsides to the public, the numbers “2” and “5” above their tight butts, right where some girls have a tattoo.  On the black girl the “5” is in white for better visibility.

 

          “Sam, Sam, the African man!” the black girl says with a smile.  She is big everywhere, big breasts swinging as she turns, big hips, big legs.  The white-skinned girl is Asian and small everywhere.  Both are drop-dead gorgeous.  Sam feels like he doesn’t belong here.  Or is a weak male creature who needs clothes to survive.  He declines the offer of coffee.  Numbers 2 and 5 finish their conversation -- something about Indian elephants on Instagram -- and sit across from him, on the big couch.

 

          The Asian girl crosses her legs, one bare foot pointing in Sam’s direction.  He notices the red toenail paint.  The closest thing Mailgirls have to “clothing”, he supposes.  Now she intertwines her fingers with her toes, spreading them, with a sexy little sigh.  Number 5, cross-legged, is doing the same with both feet, huge feet with big toes being spread by big hands with big fingers.  Her toenails are white.

 

          “It’s been a rough morning,” the black girl says, introducing herself as N’Stange.  She has a vaguely British accent.   “Apokni says lots of good things about you.”

 

          Sam smiles nervously.  “Um . . . why are you . . .”

 

          “We’re Blanke Schande interns!” Apokni says, prancing through the open door, reaching over to tap something on the smartphone thingy on her arm.  She bends over to kiss him, breasts wiggling, nipples stiff for some reason.  She bounces over to the coffee machine.  “Yay!  Columbian again!  Sam, they have the world’s best coffee here.  You should try it.”

 

          Sam gives in this time.  Apokni fixes them the way they like it, black for her, a little milk in his.  It was a joke at U. of N.D., each liking the other’s skin color.

 

          Apokni snuggles in next to Sam, her body giving off heat.  He says, “Blank what?”

 

          “Blanke Schande.  It’s a college in California.  Where the girls go naked all the time.  On campus, and also at internships.  It’s a college rule.  No exceptions!”

 

          This has to be a joke.  “Oh -- come ON!”

 

          All three girls giggle.  “It’s naughty, isn’t it?” the Asian girl says.  “I’m Kathy.  Grab my boob.”  To his horror she clutches one (small) breast and pulls it toward him.

 

          “Kathy, stop,” Apokni says, reaching over to poke her with a big toe.  Apokni’s toenail paint is black.  “No Sam, we don’t have guys grabbing our boobs.”

 

          “They must, um, want to.”

 

          “Only if we say so.  It has to be a clear ‘yes’.”  This is N’Stange.

 

          “It’s just the -- women?”  He’s afraid to say “girls”.

 

          “Yes,” Apokni says.  “All female students have to be naked on campus.  Or when on internships.  Like us.  I got accepted to their master’s degree program.”

 

          “In what?  Nudism?”

 

          “No, silly.  Renewable Energy and Public Policy.”  She looks up at the clock.  “Break’s almost over.  Do me, will you?”  Sam looks alarmed -- back at U.of N.D. this was her request that he “lick” her -- but it’s directed at N’Stange to whom she extends her feet.  The black girl starts a vigorous fingers-between-toes massage.  “Mmmhh.”  The little grunt reminds him of sex -- the same grunt when she lowers herself onto his penis.  She likes being on top.

 

          “Foot time -- umphh -- is important.  We run around ten miles a day in this place.”

 

          “I did twelve point three yesterday,” Kathy says.

 

          “Kath, you are such a braggart,” N’Stange says.

 

          “No, go ahead, look!”  She taps something on her arm thing, which has a readout.

 

          “What are those things?”

 

          “They’re called ‘MMU’s’,” Apokni says.  “That’s short for Mailgirls Monitoring Unit.  They vibrate when we’re called.  Then we look over and see what room.  My guess is, I’ve done about two miles so far this morning.”

 

          “You get a good workout.”  Sam ventures to add, “It shows.”

 

          The girls look at each other.  “Should we report him?” Kathy says.  For a second Sam is scared, but then the girls giggle at each other, breasts jiggling.

 

          “What was that about?”

 

          “The people here are not supposed to touch us, or make lewd remarks, or even comment on our bodies.  But you, you get a pass.”

 

          “Well, gee, thanks,” he responds, a little sarcastically.

 

          “It’s true though.  We heard that Mailgirls used to kneel after delivering a package, until they’re excused.  How weird is that?  We have to bow, but they bow to us, and thank us.”

 

          He looks down at Apokni’s tummy.  She knows what he’s thinking.  She used to be self-conscious about her “tummy poof”.  Now it’s gone, replaced by a hard concavity.

 

          “I’ve lost ten pounds,” N’Stange says.  “It’s great cardio, and good for our legs.  The only problem is upper body.”  Her hands are both busy in Apokni’s toes, so she motions with her head, to a set of dumbbells in the corner.

 

          “Would you believe N’Stange has never worn clothes?  Ever??  Even when she was a little girl?” Apokni says, in awe.

 

          At Sam’s puzzled look, the black girl says, “True, but a long story.”

 

          He distracts his thoughts with a sip of coffee.  “They certainly take good care of you.  And this coffee is the best.”

 

          “Actually, that’s our idea.  Anything we want, we get.  Except clothes and shoes.”

 

          “Shouldn’t you at least wear sneakers?”

 

          “Bare feet is much better,” Kathy says.  “They get tough, and the muscles get stronger.  She how spread out our toes are?”  She gives him a good look, though actually she is showing off her polished toenails, which have little stars on them.  N’Stange, busy with massaging Apokni, stretches out her long leg to match her black foot next to Kathy’s white one.  Their legs are magnificent.  These girls are strong all over.

 

          “Gotta go!  Sam, see me in the penthouse at six.”  With these vague instructions Apokni extracts her toes from N’Stange’s fingers and the three girls dump their cups in the sink, tap something on their MMU’s, and with a quick wave they scamper out into the hall, Kathy in one direction, N’Stange and Apokni in the other, leaving Sam alone, sipping coffee, feeling quite inadequate in his clothes.

 

          Five minutes later, a severe-looking woman in executive style dress stops by.  Sam is a bit surprised to see a female wearing clothes. Then again, the lady at the front desk was clothed also.

 

          “Mr. McCord?”

 

          “Yes?” He stands up, of course.

 

          “I hope all is well.  Welcome to our facility.  I am Mamie Grant, Chief of Operations.”  A polite hand-clasp.

 

          He figures it proper to ask questions.  Otherwise why would she come by?  Of course, the questions are about Mailgirls.  But he gets nowhere.  Asked why they are naked, she answers, “It’s convenient.”  Asked why they are just females, not males, she says, “Those are the terms of the arrangement.”  Asked about Blanke Schande, she lets on only that she knows their rules are “unusual”, but she has never been there, and claims not to know why the females there have to be naked.  Though she does say, “Only the female students.  Not the faculty or the staff.” 

 

***

         

          The “penthouse” is actually a roof covered by a skylight, and it is breathtaking.  The girls keep the lights dim and the stars are out tonight, thousands of them, despite the light pollution from the nearby city.  There is a big, carpeted square in the middle with pillows to rest against.  No chairs.  Sam turns to his left.  There’s a small pool, at the end of which is a round alcove and four naked girls, sitting on an underwater ledge, the water up to just below their breasts.  Now a fifth, Apokni, comes out from the surrounding darkness.  She jumps in at the deep end, emerges, and swims over next to N’Stange.  “Come on in, Sam.”

 

          There is no sound except the gentle bubbling of the water, echoing off the skylight above.  He gulps.  “I -- don’t have a -- suit.  Just boxer shorts.”

 

          “Don’t be such a guy,” the white girl with freckles (Number 3) says.  She says to N’Stange, “It’s the same at the campus.”

 

          “They’re afraid they might have tiny dicks,” Kathy says.  “Their brains are warped by all that porn they watch.”

 

          Apokni says, “Sam’s bigger than average.  By quite a bit.”

 

          Sam chuckles.  “You know that’s not true.”  Actually, he has no idea.  All he knows is he’s not porn star size.

 

          “You don’t want a big dick,” N’Stange says.  “My boyfriend has one.  Ouch!”  Under the water she clutches her legs together and puts her hands over her crotch.

 

          For a long moment the girls look at him.  He sees a stack of folded towels to the side.  Finally he slips out of his jacket and steps out of his shoes.  Absurdly, he turns his back to them.  What he really wants is to be alone with Apokni but then he thinks: Getting into a hot tub with five naked pretty girls!

 

          Naked, he turns to them.

 

          “Woo - hoo!  Monstrous!” Kathy shouts, echoing.

 

          “Don’t get that thing near me!” Apokni shouts.  The other girls giggle.

 

          “Will you stop that!” N’Stange says, playfully hitting Apokni on the boob.

 

          Sam feels himself laughing as the freckled girl steps out and takes his hand, water dripping from her red pubic hair.  “I’m Siobhan,” she says.  She leads him in.

 

          He is glad to get his lower body underwater, next to Apokni, who slides next to him and puts her arm around him and kisses him on the cheek.  It was always nice in bed, feeling the length of their bare skins together, but this is another magnitude of sensuous.

 

          The water seems plenty warm to him, but the tanned, blonde girl says, “Are we a bit too chilly?”  This is the girl he saw running up the stairs when he first got to the lobby.  She gets up to adjust the thermostat, nipples dripping as she bends over.  There is a “1” above her butt.

 

          “That’s Janice,” Apokni says.  “Our supervisor.”

 

          “Just another grad student,” Janice says, sitting back down next to her.  “But I get paid about ten cents a week extra.”

 

          Apokni says, “Note the amazing tan.  She’s from Southern California.”

 

          Sam says, “And now you find yourself in the Arctic.”

 

          “Brrr!” says Siobhan.  “I sometimes wish I was you,” she says to N’Stange.  “You’ve been naked all your life.”

 

          “I keep telling you, don’t be afraid of the cold,” Kathy says.  She turns to Janice.  “We were outside probably a total of -- what?”

 

          “Only two hours, in total,” Janice says.  “But you had the most, forty-two minutes.”

 

          Apokni explains to Sam, “It’s Janice’s job to collate the MMU data when we knock off work at 5:30.”

 

          Sam asks incredulously, “They make you run outside to that other building?  It must be -- a hundred yards!  And it was below freezing!”

 

          “Minus ten Celsius, at four p.m.,” Janice says.  “Less than that in the morning.”

 

          “We can do it,” Kathy says  “We’ve gotten used to it.  I don’t even have to run anymore.”

 

          “Mailgirls can get used to anything,” Apokni says.  “Go -- Mailgirls!”

 

          It’s like a high school cheer.  The five Mailgirls, sitting in the circular tub, raise up one leg and touch each other’s pointed big toes.  The sound of the water dripping off their heels echoes off the skylight.

 

          “I’m used to being naked,” Janice says.  “I grew up in San Diego.  Or maybe I should say I grew up on the nude beaches there.  It wasn’t that big a switch to go to Blanke Schande.”

 

          “I still can’t believe it,” Sam says.  “A college where all the women students have to be naked?”

 

          “It makes us stronger,” Janice says.  “And the guys learn to respect us.  They can look, but they can’t touch.”

 

          “So, you got your bachelor’s degree there?”

 

          “Yes.”

 

          “So did I,” Kathy says.  “But I grew up where girls are supposed to freeze.”

 

          “What?”

 

          “Niigata.  It’s in Japan.”  For the first time Sam detects a slight accent.  “It gets really cold there but the school uniforms are short skirts for the girls, with bare legs, even in the snow.”

 

          “That’s hard to believe.”

 

          “You can look it up.  It’s so unfair.  Boys get to wear nice long pants.  And that’s not the worst of it.  Tights are forbidden.  Bare legs are required.”

 

          “Why is that?  It sounds cruel.”

 

          Kathy shrugs her delicate shoulders.  “It’s the culture.  They think tights look tarty.  A girl with bare legs looks more innocent.  Even though old pervy guys keep passing us and giving us a hard look.  We remind them of hentai characters.”

 

          “What?  Hentai?”

 

          “It’s the porn side of anime.”

 

          “Oh.”  Actually, Sam knows quite well what hentai is.

 

          “And what makes it worse is, on really cold days boys get away with wearing thermals, against the rules, but you can’t see them under their long pants.  So, there we are in January, waiting for the bus, us girls freezing our little butts, our skirts blowing up and our panties showing, snow and wind hitting our frostbitten legs, knees turning blue, while the guys stand there nice and warm with two layers on, all covered up.”

 

          “That’s horrible!” Sam says, though oddly he feels a bit turned on by the image.  “It seems to me like you’d never want to be cold again.  And now you’re here.”

 

          “She volunteered to go up to the Alturas campus,” Janice says.  “She was there almost the whole four years.  In the mountains up near Idaho.  Snow from October to April.”

 

          “What!”

 

          “The difference is,” Kathy says, “Growing up female in Japan isn’t something I signed up for.  But as an adult I could sign up to be tough.  I actually found it pretty easy.”

 

          Sam turns to N’Stange.  “And you -- you’ve been naked all your life?  Don’t tell me you grew up in snow!”

 

          The big black girl laughs, and her enormous breasts push ripples back and forth across the alcove.  “Kind of.  Altoona.”

 

          “Pennsylvania?”

 

          “Yes.”

 

          “Your parents never put any clothes on you?  Why?  You didn’t want them to?”

 

          “I don’t know.  My family’s from Kenya and descended from chieftains.  I was a special child, given a unique blessing at birth.  I was supposed to live a life untouched by clothes, a life of purity.”

 

          “HA!”  Kathy’s shout reverberates throughout the dimly lit “penthouse”.

 

          “Well, that’s what my mother told me.  I was about six years old, and I came home from school and said, ‘Mommy, how come everybody wears clothes except me?’”

 

          “Weren’t you uncomfortable?  Or shy?”

 

          “No, I was just curious about why, that’s all.  I never felt any sense of modesty.  In fact, when I was growing up, I didn’t see the point of using the bathroom.  My parents had to keep telling me: don’t pee in the front yard!”  She shakes her breasts, which slap against each other, and the tectonic waves of her mounds create another series of ripples.  “As for the snow, it felt cold, but it never bothered me.  I knew it couldn’t hurt me.”

 

          Sam turns to Siobhan.

 

          “You want my story?  I grew up in Boston.  I always hated clothes.  Look at pictures of me growing up, I’m the kid wearing the least possible, at least if my parents let me get away with it.  Little crop tops.  Shorts.  Barefoot, if I could, or just flip flops.”

 

          “You would not be-lieve some of those photos!” Apokni says.  “Walking down Boylston Street, with her friends normally dressed, and her in practically a bikini.”  Sam thinks it odd that totally naked girls are talking about each other this way.

 

          “To be honest, I applied to Blanke Schande because the idea of going around naked was a turn-on.”

 

          “Yeah, that’s definitely not cool, not at Blanke Schande,” Kathy says.

 

          “I found that out pretty quick.  On orientation day, taking off my clothes with the other girls, and putting them in that big charity bin, that was a heavier experience that I was expecting.  I realized it was time to become a serious person.”

 

          “How do the guys control themselves, with you girls being naked around them?”

 

          “They learn,” Janice says.  “There’s no more sex than at any other college.”

 

          “That’s hard to believe.”

 

          “They can’t touch us, even when we ‘present’.”

 

          “What?”

 

          Janice looks to Apokni.  “Think he can take it?”

 

          “I think so.  I only go out with strong men.”

 

          The five naked girls stand up in front of Sam, water dripping off their hips and legs.  And now they plant their feet well apart and with experienced fingers spread their labia wide.  The pool has lights around the sides and Sam’s widened eyes take them in, one by one, the flickering redness of their womanly caves.  Now with a coordinated glance the girls turn around, bend over, and spread their butts.  Their anuses, well-lit, wink at the naked young man three times.  Again all is quiet except for the bubbling water echoing against the skylight.

 

          They turn back toward him and their laughter echoes at his awestruck face.  Now Apokni pulls him out of the water.  He is reluctant and his legs are bent and his hand tries to cover his crotch but it is useless.

 

          “You have a lot to be proud of!” Apokni says.  “Show us!”

 

          The penis, predictably erect, points toward them.  The girls clap.

 

          Sam looks at Apokni with moist, distressed eyes.  Then gradually he forms a smile to match hers.  He stands upright, looking down at the water dripping from the plum-shaped glans.  “Wow,” he says, as euphoria overcomes shock.  Now, as he stands motionless, he bounces his penis up and down with his internal muscles which gets another laugh.  He is in some kind of new heaven.

 

          They dry off and Janice turns on a light.  It turns out there is a little space near the edge of the skylight with pillows to lean against.  Sam looks around.  Despite the size of this place there are no chairs and no partitions.  What looks like a huge mattress, or maybe several mattresses pushed together, is against the far wall.  Nearby is a little kitchenette.  On the other side, a shower and a toilet.  Rudimentary and desolate, yet somehow luxurious.

 

          They lean against the pillows.  The girls have shed their towels though Sam stays wrapped up in his.  It’s hard for him to get comfortable but Mailgirls are apparently natural floor-sitters.  N’Stange, Kathy and Siobhan get out their laptops and do their assignments.

 

          He hates to ruin the mood but he says, “Babe, I made reservations for us tonight, it’s a nice restaurant, Mexican.”  Her favorite.

 

          “Thanks but -- that means I have to wear clothes!”

 

          Janice says, “I think we have a sheet kicking around.”

 

          “I suppose that will do, if you can find one.”  Apokni explains.  “It’s like at Blanke Schande, we sleep here without sheets or blankets.”

 

          “In the dorms on campus the girls’ rooms don’t have doors.  Anyone can come by and look.”  This is Janice, speaking from somewhere in back.  “And the women’s bathrooms are out in the open.”  She emerges with a folded up blue sheet.  “The result?  Young women with no body issues!  Imagine that!”

 

          Apokni looks at the sheet with reluctant distaste.  As Janice folds it just so, she stands up and submits to it being wrapped around her and knotted at the back so that it stays secure.  “Looks kind of nice,” Kathy admits.  Sam says, “You think they’ll let her in like that?”  “I think so.”

 

          They get into the restaurant just fine, Sam fully dressed, Apokni in her “sheath dress”.  With her little clutch purse and her natural way of carrying herself she looks like she is going to an awards ceremony.  No one seems to notice her bare feet.  Apokni orders a diet soda.  Sam orders a margarita -- a slight disapproving glance from Apokni, but he says, “It’ll be just one,” and he keeps his word.  Fortunately, the food is excellent.  “These are the best enchiladas I’ve ever had!” Apokni says.

 

          “There’s one thing I still don’t understand,” Sam says, in between bites.  “Why do they need Mailgirls?  Why can’t they email each other?  There might be an occasional need to deliver a package, but five girls working all day?”

 

          “Well --”  She looks both ways and lowers her voice.  “Janice thinks it’s because there have been big security breaches.  A lot of stuff can’t be done by email any more.  It’s done in hard copy and then scanned.”

 

          “Odd that the -- TrapCo folks won’t tell you that.  I tried to talk to that lady --”

 

          “Mamie Grant.”

 

          “Yes.”

 

          “Didn’t get far, I imagine.”

 

          “No.”

 

          “We think Homeland Security is involved somehow.  At least that’s Janice’s theory.  That’s why they can’t say anything.  Probably unnecessary secrecy.  Another disease of the White Man.  Like firewater.”

 

          Apokni talks like this sometimes.  Sam often tells her, “Don’t cite racial stereotypes, it makes you just as bad as them,” but he decides to let it go this time.  Though she might be right about alcohol.  He looks out the window, at the crusty snow in the parking lot, which half an hour ago Apokni had negotiated in bare feet, toes grabbing, tough and unafraid.

 

          “And why do Mailgirls have to be naked?  Is it something that this Blanke Schande place dreamed up?”

 

          “No.  Mailgirls existed independently of Blanke Schande.”

 

          “Why have only female couriers?  And why do they have to be naked?”

 

          Apokni shrugs.  In fact she almost shrugs out of her “dress”.  She reaches back and re-does the knot.  “I’ve heard that women have more endurance, blah blah blah, with us being naked they save on clothing and sneakers, blah blah blah.  I think it’s just because some devious old pervy rich guy thought it up and it caught on.”

 

          “That’s stupid.”

 

          “Stupid things catch on for stupid reasons.”

 

          “Not that I minded seeing five naked girls around me.”

 

          Apokni smiles.  She orders a side of tacos.  Either she’s especially hungry today, or a life without clothing has increased her appetite.  “Blanke Schande has Mailgirl internships in other places too.  The really prize one is up in Regina.”

 

          “What?”

 

          “Regina, Saskatchewan.”

 

          Sam laughs.  “I didn’t know that’s how you pronounce it.”

 

          “Yes, rhymes with vagina.  I would love to get admitted into that program.  I heard it’s the best.  And -- it’s in the heart of Cree country.  My people!”

 

          “I don’t know how your people would react to naked Mailgirls.  They probably think of --”  Sam hesitates to say it.

 

          “Yes, I know.  Un-Patchy’s.  Where taking off clothes becomes ‘dirty’.”

 

          “And profitable.”  He has heard that some girls at Un-Patchy’s pull in five hundred dollars a night.

 

          “The money is also dirty.”  Sam thinks: yeah, five hundred, in grubby soiled singles, fives, tens.  A few twenties.  That makes him smile: maybe the girls do the same thing Apokni does: whenever she gets a twenty dollar bill, she draws an arrow through Andrew Jackson’s head before passing it on.

 

          Now the waitress, dark-skinned and with a Mexican accent, compliments her on her dress as she brings the check.  They both laugh.  “Where did you buy that?  Qué bella!”

 

          “I, uh, made it myself.”  Sam is about to pay but he finds his wrist in a Cree death grip.  Apokni gets a credit card out of her clutch and leaves a big tip.

 

          They go back to the motel.  Full of confidence, Sam from his experience in the pool, and Apokni just from being Apokni, and also being a proud nude Blanke Schande intern, they have the best sex they ever had.  Once, twice, they are inexhaustible.  When they wake up they go at it again, and Sam has to rush to get her back to TrapCo for the next day’s shift.

 

          Three weeks later Apokni emails Sam to tell him that she’s gotten the transfer to Regina.  He makes frantic plans to fly up there.

 

          Then Covid hits and travel across the border is banned.

 

 

2.  Regina

 

          The sign says Canada Lands Company, at least in English.  The sign is big to accommodate the lengthier French -- “Société immobilière du Canada”.  It’s almost dark now.  He can hardly believe what he’s seeing but there waiting for him on the edge of the road is Apokni, in her unashamed nudity, waving, snow up to her ankles.

 

          As his flight descended to the airport, the sun already low in the sky, he looked down and saw only white on the ground.  But for the buildings and the highways it looked like the Arctic.  He didn’t think she’d meet him outside.

 

          The hug is affectionate, and firm.  She has become a woman of considerable physical strength.  Her stiff nipples poke into his coat.  She asks how the flight was.  And how his parents are, etc.  She makes the small talk last the length of the hundred-yard walkway, not hurrying as she used to do between the TrapCo buildings, but almost sauntering, as if on a nude beach in warm sunshine.  He notices that her hair is braided differently, almost like a dozen dreadlocks on each side.  And her pubic hair is fully grown out, lush, luxuriant.

 

          The building is not imposing from the outside but inside he sees that the interior is an atrium with maybe seven or eight floors.  All around, as one looks up, are balconies.  Like at TrapCo, he sees a naked girl, and then another, but they are not running, they are walking.  And handing papers to clothed men and women.  Also, he doesn’t see any numbers on their butts, or over their breasts.

 

          “Let’s go out back, to the cafe.  There are a couple of people I want you to meet.”

 

          They go out the other side and are once more outdoors.  Some older people, heavily clothed in coats, hats and boots, are sitting at tables.  The menu appears to be hot coffee, soup, and sandwiches.  It is odd to have an outdoor cafe open in winter, but that is not what grabs Sam’s attention.

 

          It is like when he stood open-mouthed upon entering TrapCo, but this time he stands transfixed for a full minute.  Apokni watches his reaction with twinkling eyes.

 

          There is another building out back, just as high.  Connected by zip-lines in the higher stories.  A naked girl, one hand up on the grip, a big envelope in the other, zips from the sixth floor of this building to the fifth floor of that one, one leg extended.  When she approaches the far ledge, she grabs it with her leading toes and hops in through the window.  The dim form of another girl, not so well illuminated because she is far away and on the top floor, slides from the far building to the near one.  This one is carrying a little box.

 

          Now Sam notices that there is a third building to the side.  With another series of zip lines, each carefully spaced so as to not touch.

 

          On the ground there are rivers of ice connecting the buildings.  A girl somehow “skating” on her bare feet slides by and waves at Apokni.  She has a bag in one hand, looking like an old-fashioned postal bag, and on her pubic hair are two little clips which fly up and down with her graceful one-foot glides.  As she passes Sam sees that the clips are holding thumb drives.  Another girl emerges from the exit near them and with a running start starts on the second river.  One river is roped off, with a lawnmower-sized Zamboni slowly doing its job, driven by a naked girl sitting on top.

 

          The grounds are well lit now that it is dark, and with the sparkling ice and snow cannot help but look magical.  It seems unrealistic for nudity, though Sam suddenly realizes there’s no wind and he doesn’t feel cold.

 

          He finds himself seated at a table next to Apokni and two heavily clothed people.  The older one, a man, is Francois Bolton -- “Frank, to you”, he says with a genial handshake.  The woman, about age thirty-five, with darkish skin, is Marie-Lisa Suchy.  They are wearing business suits under their coats.  A waitress appears (clothed), who they call by her first name and they order tea, with Apokni adding a croissant.

 

          Sam looks back at the girls skating on the frozen rivers, and up on the zip lines.

 

          “How -- do they do that?”

 

          “We’re all strong girls,” Apokni says.  “You already knew that.”

 

          “How do they -- skate?  In bare feet?”

 

          Apokni brushes the snow off her toes and Sam notices that her toenails have been carefully serrated.  “It takes some practice, but our toenails can be used like skate runners.  The important thing is to stay on the far edge of the foot and then turn in to grab the ice with each glide.”

 

          “But -- don’t your nails wear out?”

 

          “Human nails are 2.5 on the Mohs hardness scale,” Marie-Lisa explains.  “Ice is only 1.5.  Nails are harder than ice.”

 

          “Oh.”

 

          Frank laughs.  “Welcome to our project.  With the help of Blanke Schande, of course.”

 

          Sam looks around the table, the two clothed and one naked.  “All I can say is, Wow.”  He looks at Apokni.  “How can you stand being naked -- how can all these girls stand being naked out here like this?”

 

          “We can’t stay out all day.  But a few minutes outside zipping, or skating, is easy.  If we want, we can go in for a hot shower break.”

 

          The four of them sit in silence for a moment, sipping their teas.  Apokni wolfs down her croissant.  Aware of Sam staring at her, she says, “Our metabolism is revved up, so we eat a lot.”

 

          “You don’t look fat.”  He allows himself to bend down a little to see her bare butt planted in the chair.  “You -- Mailgirls -- don’t have numbers on you.”

 

          “It was considered degrading.  Everyone here’s first-name basis anyway.”

 

          Another short silence and then Marie-Lisa says, “You must have a lot of questions.”

 

          In fact, Sam has several, now that he has somewhat recovered his wits.  “Why -- Mailgirls?  Why do you have to have so many things delivered?  Why can’t you just email?”

 

          He was expecting Marie-Lisa or Frank to answer this but it’s Apokni.  “Some things can’t be emailed.  Blueprints, etcetera, are better in hard copy.  Also consent to email forms.  And there’s been a massive hacking problem, worldwide.”

 

          “I didn’t know that.”

 

          “In some countries they don’t want it generally known,” Frank says.  Sam thinks of the tight-lipped Mamie Grant.  Frank continues, “But all kinds of messages are being delivered manually now.  Our agency deals with getting bids, procurement, contracts, as well as maps, building layouts, and above all, payment information.  We don’t want that getting hacked.  And the people we deal with appreciate the better security.  It gives us a competitive edge.”

 

          “Also, by keeping everything offline we protect personal information,” Marie-Lisa says.

 

          “Why just Mailgirls?  Why not have -- guys -- doing it too?”

 

          “According to the research women are better able to stand the cold, and also are more adaptable for TBU.”

 

          “So why do you have to be naked?  And what’s TBU?”

 

          Apokni shifts a little in her seat, then to Sam’s surprise her left breast jerks up and then relaxes.  She smiles and reports to Frank, “Jill wants me to take over tomorrow morning.  Fine with me.”

 

          “That’s good,” Frank says.  “It’s about time we got a Mailgirl in that control room on a regular basis.”

 

          Sam says, “What?  What’s TBU?  And what did you just do?”

 

          Apokni stands up in front of Sam, so that her lush pubic hair is almost in his face.  “TBU is Total Body Utilization.”  She bends down a bit and holds her breasts out to his face.  “I can isolate my pectorals, and I just said ‘yes’, which is one jerk.  I’m left-handed so it’s my left breast.  Two jerks is, ‘no’.  See the ring?  It’s a transducer.”

 

          Sam gulps, feeling awkward.  In the past Apokni holding her breasts out to him would have been a sign to suck her nipples, but now, in front of people . . .  Yet he sees that indeed there is a little ring around her nipple, almost hidden behind the cold-stiffened nub.

 

          She stands back up and Sam says, “But how did you get the message?”

 

          “It was in code.  There’s a cap on my cervix that buzzes.  Actually, my piriformis muscle.  Hard to explain.”

 

          “Mailgirls have developed their own language,” Frank said.  “It’s very efficient.  It has to be.  We have only six here, and they have to deliver hundreds of items a day, files, packages, even simple messages that used to be emailed.”

 

          “We also speak with our clit rings.”  Apokni brings her crotch right next to Sam’s face and opens her lower lips -- is there “steam” coming from her hot internal moistness as it’s exposed to the cold?  There is another ring there, at the base of her little clit, nestled against her labia.  She makes it jump three times and Sam flinches in surprise.

 

          “No -- I didn’t mean that --!”  Who is Apokni speaking to?  Now her whole body trembles, under internal and mysterious multiple assault.  “Oh -- oh --”  Sam recognizes this reaction.  Apokni is one of those girls who undergoes a full body flush at such times.  She staggers back into the chair and her hips jerk up and down.  “OHHHH!  OHHHH!”  It is part orgasm, part laugh.  Frank and Marie-Lisa exchange tolerant smiles.  Jolt after jolt, then a couple of irregular ones.  The naked girl recovers and grabs a sip of tea.  “I’ll get them for this,” she says cryptically.

 

          Now a Mailgirl, skating toward them on a river, slows to a stop by dragging her serrated toenails behind her.  It’s Suzie and she unclips two thumb drives from her pubic hair and fastens them onto Apokni who spreads her legs to make her pubic hair accessible.  Apokni, getting back to sitting upright, tells her, “I’ll wait until I get the transfer from Kay,” whatever that means.

 

          Then Apokni and Suzie get down on all fours in the snow, butts pressing against each other, and there is a series of grunts.

 

          Sam looks to Marie-Lisa for an explanation.

 

          “When on duty Mailgirls carry small canisters in their rectums.  They learn to open them with their internal muscles and accept the contents and expel them.”

 

          As Apokni gets up and brushes the snow off her nipples she laughs at Sam’s wide-eyed disbelief.  “Breathe in to receive, breathe out to deliver.  Or something like that.  We not only carry messages in our hands and on our pubes but we also poop them.”

 

          “Isn’t that -- dirty?”

 

          “No, we clean each other out before each shift.  There’s no odor.  It’s basically a hollow butt plug.  Took a little while to get used to.”

 

          Marie-Lisa says, “The ‘rectals’, as we call them, can beep in code also.”

 

          “Easy to feel,” Apokni says.  “We’re real sensitive up there.”

 

          Frank says, “Sometimes a Mailgirl can carry on two or three conversations at a time, inside her body, not saying a word, while delivering five or six packages.  It’s scary.”

 

          Apokni, sipping tea, says, “You’re exaggerating. . . a little.”  Now Arielle, a slight black girl, arrives to clip four more drives on to Apokni, reaching up to attach two to her short little dreadlocks, and one to each nipple.

 

          “These all go to Howard,” Apokni says to Marie-Lisa, getting up, burdened with six clips that sway with her motions.  “I should go.  Sam, I made reservations for us tonight.  And a hotel.”

 

          “What?”

 

          “Yes, I can swing it.”  With a jokey little smile, she shimmies back and forth, causing all her clips to swing from her head and her breasts and her crotch.  This makes everyone laugh.

 

          “But how will you --”

 

          “It’s in Cree Heights.  They let us go naked there.  Bye!”  With a graceful swing of her hips she places one turned-out bare foot onto ice.  With the other she pushes off with her toenails.

 

          They watch her go.  Sam says, “This doesn’t seem real.  Amazing.”

 

          The three heavily clothed people watch the scene for a few minutes.  A light goes off upstairs.  Frank says, “Five o’clock.  Workday is over. . . Say, can I get you a beer?”

 

          Sam is about to say yes but then says, “No thanks.”  Frank gets a beer, Marie-Lisa gets a red wine.  Then Frank says, “Aren’t you getting cold, Marie?  Let’s go inside.”

 

          His office is on the third floor.  He excuses his secretary, a smiling old lady in a print dress, and the three of them sit at a table next to the window.  Outside, a couple of lights go off.  The whizzing by of Mailgirls gradually ceases.  Sam sees the silhouette of Apokni, in the building across from them, unclipping and handing over things to a man in a suit.  They talk and seem to be sharing a joke.

 

          “Where do the -- Mailgirls -- live?”

 

          Marie-Lisa says, “There’s a communal house next door but Arielle and Jill live in town.  They got married last month.”

 

          “Apokni is still doing an internship?  It’s been what -- three semesters now?”

 

          “She’s applying to stay here permanently.  Didn’t she tell you?  So are Arielle and Jill.  We’re open to that, though we don’t have approval yet.”

 

          Frank adds, “Apokni is a star.  A real star.  Ambitious and focused.  You’re a lucky guy.”

 

          “Yes I know.  Though it’s been long distance.  The damn virus.”

 

          “I’m glad that’s finally just about over.”  Travel was finally allowed last month, though just by air.

 

          “You said something about Mailgirls in the -- control room?”

 

          “That’s the intake office.  We’re moving some girls into management positions.”

 

 

***

 

          “You didn’t need a folded-up sheet this time!”  Sam feels like he can finally relax.  What he’s seen today has finally sunk in.

 

          The food at this restaurant is standard American.  Apokni is easily polishing off a huge hamburger while Sam is only halfway through his.  “I can be myself here, without clothes.  And I’m what they call First Nation.  Canada is much nicer to us.  The neighborhood is even called Cree Heights.”

 

          “Apokni, this is still . . . Canada.  Cold winters.  How can you possibly stay naked all the time?”

 

          “I’ve managed it so far.  That sheet was the last thing I wore and that was a year ago.  Anyway, we Cree have a natural resistance to cold.  You didn’t meet the other Mailgirl, Arnaq.  She’s Inuit, grew up in Yellowknife.  She’s practically immune.”

 

          “There has to be a limit.”

 

          “Let me show you a few things.”  She takes out her phone.  “Look.”

 

          “What?  Is that -- majorette leading that parade naked?  And it’s snowing out?  While the rest of her band is all covered up?  Seems downright cruel.”

 

          “Remember Kathy, who grew up in Japan?  Who had to wear a little skirt with bare legs to school?  Well this majorette signed up for it.  Though she’s not really naked.  See?”

 

          Apokni zooms in with her fingers.  Sam notices tiny green dots on the girl’s nipples.  And a thin thread-like thing on her crotch.  Still, it was a jarring photo.

 

          Other photos were just as strange.

 

          “See this girl who dives naked for pearls in Korea?  See how everyone else on the beach is in coats?  And that’s in cold water!

 

          “Here’s a high school girl in Indiana who’s been naked since birth.  She’s playing soccer with her friends.  In the snow.

 

          “Here’s a girl who goes to college in Vermont.  She’s helping her friends make a snowman on the campus quad!

 

          “So you see it’s not that strange an idea.  I’m at the point where I can walk at a relaxed pace for three hundred meters, in minus ten Celsius.  And -- did I say the summers here are glorious?  Hot sun on my skin!  Mmmm!!”  She closes her eyes and shakes her boobs.  “Celebrating my freedom when everyone else is sweating in their suits -- makes me feel so lucky!”

 

          “Okay, Okay, but . . .”  Sam looks at his diet soda.  He feels like he needs a drink, a stiffener.  Old Grand Dad, 114 Proof, would be perfect.  They probably have it here, or at least Jack Daniels.  He sighs and hopes the sip of soda will do.

 

          “You’re in a protected environment.  Sheltered, even.  You can’t stay a Mailgirl all your life.”

 

          “No of course not.”

 

          “For one thing, you like to lead things.  Mailgirls are -- subservient.”

 

          “Did we look subservient to you?”

 

          “You’re amazing but you’re still just -- couriers.”

 

          “Do you realize how many things we Mailgirls can do?  How many parts of our bodies we use?  When I first applied, a year and a half ago, it seemed to me almost like a joke.  But when you combine it with Blanke Schande’s idea of strength through nudity, the Mailgirls idea has potential.  I can say that I believe in it now.”

 

          “What?”

 

          “Mailgirls!  As a point of beginning.  A strong, naked woman, unafraid, not cringing, or worried about modesty -- don’t you see how she can walk into a room of clothed men and just take over?  Think of places where women have to be always covered up.  They have no rights.  Afghanistan, for example.  But the less women wear, the more power they have.  I know it sounds crazy, but . . . a world of completely nude women and completely clothed men.  That would be the endpoint.”

 

          Sam hadn’t thought of it that way.  He tried to think of something to say.  Then he said, “Do you have anything -- on you or in you -- now?”

 

          “No, we take it all out when we go off shift.  It’s an inventory of thirteen items.”

 

          A little smile.  “There’s nothing in your butt?”

 

          “No.”

 

          “I think that was the weirdest part of it.  You and that -- other girl --”

 

          “Suzie.”

 

          “With your butts against each other, and she -- pooping into you.”

 

          “On a cold day it’s nice to feel a girl’s warm butt against mine.  And it wasn’t poop of course.  We were passing messages.  Actually, we were talking with our rectums, beyond what the messages actually said.  It’s a way of communicating.”

 

          “Oh come on!”

 

          “Go ahead, laugh.  We have our own world.”

 

          Sam clears his throat, again wishing for a whiskey.  “I feel like your world is moving away from mine.”

 

          Apokni looks at him.  Then she gets up and comes to his side of the table.  She puts her arms around him and hugs him, each breast coming around to crush against his ears. “Don’t think that.  I am not leaving you.”

 

          “You seem so -- grown up now.  Where’s the smartass Women’s Studies major I met four years ago?  Meanwhile I’m just running in place.”

 

          She resumes her seat.  And consumes her pickle almost in one bite.  “Don’t you have a plan?”

 

          Sam sighs.  “No.”

 

          “I tell you what.  I will send you a note every week.  With a picture.  And some kind of inspiring quote.”

 

          “Yes, please do that.”

 

 

***

 

          She takes him all in that night, all the way down her throat, her nose pressed against his pubic bone.  This was after they made the rounds twice.  Then he licks her and licks her, thinking he owes her something, or maybe to show that he too could do something well.

 

          In their post-orgasmic haze they look at the ceiling.  Then out the window.  This is a high-class hotel, with a big couch and a table and a desk and a beautiful view of the distant mountains under the full moon.  Apokni gets up drowsily and starts the coffee machine.

 

          Propped up by the bedstead, they sip decaf.  “I still don’t know why you want to always be naked.  Never putting on a stitch.”  A long silence.  Then he ventures, “All this time you’ve been escaping the idea of Un-Patchy’s.  You want to prove that being naked is not obscene.  Not some half illegal thing that men pay money to see.”

 

          She nods and Sam is glad he at last got something right.  “The Cree had no nudity taboo.  Sweat lodges, swimming in rivers, not wearing anything in summer, kids going naked until puberty.  I want to take that back.”

 

          “‘Take that back’.  You sound like Women’s Studies again.  Take back the reservation?”

 

          “The reservation is the White Man’s cage.  It cannot contain us First Nations.”

 

          Sam takes a long sip.  In a quiet voice he says, “Is there room in that world for a black man?”

 

          Somewhat to his surprise she has a ready answer.  “The land welcomes all peoples if they respect her.  The White Man did not know that.  At least not for a long time.”

 

          She gets up and turns toward the moon as if speaking to it.  “This is where we are all from, where we return when we die.”  Sam sees the cute pre-Columbian, Cree profile, the one he fell in love with, as it is framed against the mountains, then as she stands up fully, against the sky and the face of the moon, the shape of her own round face as she turns up to it.  “I feel the earth under my feet, or” -- a brief smile -- “the snow.  When I feel the air on my skin, water, wind, rain, spirits of the past, of the future, I am united.”  She spreads out her arms, framing the moon.  “Mother, father, children, sisters, brothers, all creatures . . .”

 

          Sam has never seen her like this.  She is so . . . beautiful, her words as well as her nude body.  Then he recovers.  “That’s deep.”

 

          “Laugh if you want.  I think you know what I’m talking about.”

 

          He does.  Then a short pause.  “It’s making your blow jobs even better, that’s for sure.”

 

          She snorts and giggles.  “You men are such pigs!”  Now she jumps on him and picks up his shrunken penis and swallows it whole, again.  He’s come three times and just wants to sleep.  He tries to push her off, but she takes total command by grabbing his testicles.  Any move by him to escape and she squeezes.  She forces the unwillingly growing erection into her throat, then out, then in.  He begs for mercy, but she is determined to extract another ejaculation out of him, squeezing her tonsils around the reluctant penis, humming around it, and finally his body jolts and three weak spurts disappear down into her stomach.

 

          But she is not finished.  She turns around and sits on top of him and pulls on the slick penis with two twisting hands, as he cries and begs for her to stop, but she will not stop, she is driving him out of his mind with pleasure too intense to be endured so that it becomes pain, and when he tries to push her off she grabs his balls again, and she goes on and on with her twisting skillful hands until he’s almost dead.

 

 

***

 

          Sam’s overtaxed testicles are still aching on the long drive home from the airport.  By the time he’s halfway there he knows what to do.  When he comes in it’s two a.m. and his parents are asleep.  He goes to the refrigerator and takes out that six pack of his favorite beer -- you know the brand, the one with the Indian chief on the label -- and one by one he empties the bottles down the sink.  This is how alcohol exits his life.

 

          He goes up to his room.  He thinks about taking his clothes off but realizes it’s beside the point.  He takes a long breath, makes lists, and sets about looking at all the best colleges in the Prairie Provinces.  He starts writing the best graduate applications he ever wrote.  No more fooling around.  He’s fallen in love all over again with Apokni, who will never wear clothes again, who is as strong as she is naked, and hopes with all his heart that he’s a man strong enough for her.  He knows he has it in him, somewhere.

 

THE END

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