Life of Corey
a Blanke Schande story
To begin with, I am so very lucky. And no matter how much bare female skin I see around me I just can’t help looking and looking. The same is true of all the guys here, even Dexter and Francesco, who are gay. So lucky to be surrounded by so much beauty.
And it doesn’t get boring, even after three semesters. Naked girl after naked girl, each body is a feast in itself, a story in itself, that reveals more and more the more you look. How do I mean this? In high school you could tell a girl’s personality as much by her clothes, it seemed, as by her face. There was this one girl, Merrie, who was a Phish-head, she always wore flowing hippie dresses and knit vests. Jerry was the school fashion plate, every fingernail perfectly done, each lace on her brand-new sneakers set just so. Trish was the utter nerd, big glasses, unstyled hair, boy’s sports shirt buttoned up to the top. Traci was in a constant storm, always breaking up with someone and telling the world about it -- and she dressed to be noticed, backless shirts, super-low-rise jeans where you could see her thong sticking out the back.
With the women at BSC Alturas, not allowed to wear clothes, I find their naked bodies -- their breasts are, well, as expressive as their face, they have a personality of their own, which fits their real personality like a second pair of eyes. Stacey Peaches, for example, who has “itty bitty titties”, the little nipples poke out cock-eyed, just like she is, looking kooky. Wendy Macalester (or “Mac”, as everyone’s starting to call her), her breasts are tan and hard like the rest of her, the nipples looking straight ahead, focused on where they’re going. Shelly, the really shy girl, hers are always half-retracted (except when it’s cold), as if wanting to hide. Sandy, the older woman, around 35 or so, she’s been a nudist for years, I hear. Her breasts, kind of big, they sag a little, but the nipples, stretched looking and a little droopy, kind of wink at you, as if they’ve been through a lot but it’s been a real good ride. Keisha, who is black (or dark brown really), well her nipples really are jet black and always hard, jutting out into the world, pioneering like she always seems to be doing, plunging into new things. And then Sarah’s, the biggest breasts on campus, balloons bouncing along as big as life itself, the huge brown nipples dancing like at a party, happy and active just like Sarah is.
I could go on and on about each girl’s breasts, and also each girl’s midriff, each girl’s thighs, etc. There are thirty girls here, and thirty guys, up in this mountain outpost, the Alturas campus of Blanke Schande College. If “the Rules” were suddenly changed and the girls decided to go around with faces hidden in ski caps, we guys could still recognize them by their breasts, and talk to them that way too, which is how most of them think we talk to them anyway.
This body-personality business is especially intense when it’s cold out. We were sitting around a few days ago outside, me and Hank and Ahmad and Mac, and she was standing up next to me, talking about her favorite thing, rock climbing, and I looked over and right next to me were her breasts, flushed and red with the cold, which made them tighter, her whole torso seeming even harder than usual, the nipples poking out, hard as pebbles and red-brown, and as I looked more I suddenly realized she was covered with little goose-bumps all over. And she was oblivious to the cold as she was answering a question about, well I forget.
“Um, Corey?” she said, trying to get my attention back to her words. She was nice about it, though. The girls understand our obsession with their bodies, we’re just guys after all, and treat it with good-natured tolerance.
“How do they stand it?” is another thing we think about, along with everyone at the main campus, especially the girls there, most of whom have never gotten comfortable with walking around naked in the warm weather and think of Alturas women as totally nuts. Most of the school year, snow is in evidence around the campus here, and there are blizzards and some truly Arctic nights, yet the girls have to be naked at all times, and though they keep the heat in their dorm cranked to about 80 degrees (or so it seems to us clothed guys, we start sweating as soon as we walk in), they don’t seem to be in a hurry going from building to building outside. I remember last year when I visited here for the first time, as we drove onto campus there were a couple of girls chasing each other in the snow, their bare toes kicking up bits of snow behind them as they ran, firing snowballs at each other. It seemed ostentatious at the time, deliberately trying to be shocking, but of course they weren’t doing it just for me, and I came to see that it was just a fun thing to do and perfectly ordinary around the Alturas campus.
Certainly the girls are conditioned. Lisa has told me about it. The girls all take a course on Body Awareness, taught by a Dr. Tereshkova, a Russian lady with a thick accent. I might take it next semester; for the guys it’s available as an elective. She talks about feral children surviving naked in the snow, the physiology of frostbite, how to watch for the signs of hypothermia. Then there’s the two exercise classes the girls have to take each day that keep the metabolism up.
And the “five minute chill”, which you see the new girls doing starting in October when it gets cold, with a helper who has a stopwatch. The deal is, the new girl walks outside until she starts shivering. Then waits five minutes more by the stopwatch, standing as still as she can, before going in to where a tub of hot water is waiting. Gradually, like with exercise, her body builds up strength and resistance and she can stay in the cold longer and longer, until finally she can stay out quite a long time.
Actually it’s not always cold here. The typical winter day in Alturas is sunny and beautiful, and though technically the temperature is a little below freezing, in the sun it’s pretty warm, enough to start melting the snow. It’s usual to see a bunch of girls sitting right in the it, or lounging around on it, enjoying the warm sun while they’re talking about the usual girl things, idly playing with the snow, lifting it up with their toes, maybe even sprinkling some bits of it on their breasts or thighs where it melts and little rivers of water run down . . . I’m getting carried away again. But the point is, whoever thought that naked girls could be so unfazed and unafraid of being in snow, let alone learn to enjoy it?
Getting back to bodies, the girls’ butts have personality too, we guys having a great time watching the girls after they pass. I like the little Y-shaped dimples over their tailbones, I remember seeing just the hint of them on Traci and other girls who wore low-rise jeans, well here at Alturas I get to see the whole thing. My favorite dimple is Lisa’s, my girlfriend, thin and calm like she herself is, over those two delectable trim cheeks. And her beautiful puckered anus in between. I never thought of a butthole as “beautiful” before, but Lisa’s is, so little and tight and perfectly drawn, the wrinkles like the stippling of a thin-lined pencil. When we were getting closer and I was always asking her to “present”, I just couldn’t stop looking at it.
Let me get this out of the way: we guys have decided, after close observation: Lisa’s butt cheeks are shaped like cherries. Sandy’s are like pears. Keisha’s are like pears, except they’re upside down, a nice high black butt. Mac’s are like apples (how fitting). Sandy’s are oranges, and Shelly’s are like kiwis, though embarrassed because they’ve been denuded of their furry covering. We’ve discussed it endlessly and the above consensus is clear. Sometimes when we would see a few of the girls walking together, four or six or eight butt cheeks in a row, one of us would mutters, “I feel like I’m in the supermarket.” Or: “Produce aisle!” That joke got old after a while, but we all still think it whenever the fruit goes sauntering past.
Getting back to the dimple, Lisa has a very intelligent-looking “Y”. Lisa is so beautiful all over, her knock-out face, those happy and intelligent blue eyes, her sober yet optimistic outlook on life. I’ll never forget our first kiss. We were walking down the path behind the dining hall, it was a bright sunny afternoon, beautiful dark blue sky up in these mountains. There was slushy snow that was quickly melting into puddles. There wasn’t a sound except some birds and us slogging along the path, me with loud slops from my boots, next to the delicate splishing of her bare feet.
We had been walking together a lot and, as I know now, she had been feeling close to me just as I was feeling close to her. It was just “a matter of time”, and our friends sensed it too. Still I was stalling. I said, looking down at her freezing feet, “I still can’t see how you can do that”.
“You get used to it,” she said. She wiggled her toes for me. “I’m not even numb now, though I used to be.” We walked a bit and she stomped onto slush, which splatted to both sides, a little coming up onto her toes. “I like this slush the best. It looks like sugar frosting.”
We stopped. Why didn’t I just kiss her? Looking back, it seemed so silly for me to do, but I see why I did it. As she gaped in surprise, I stepped out of my boots, rolled off my thick hiking socks, and planted my feet square in the slushy puddle right next to hers.
We watched our feet. It was cold, cold, cold unlike anything I’d ever known. And then a tingling, and then my feet felt stiff and numb. I looked up at her, past her stiff nipples and flushed, reddened, hard body, up to those pretty eyes. We knew it was time, and drew together in a kiss. I dropped my boots and socks and wrapped my arms around her, one around her shoulders, the other gently draped over her left butt cheek, and then we really went at it, doing the tongue thing, she grinding her breasts against my jacket as she held my head with one hand and the back of my jacket with the other.
We separated and put our heads on each other’s shoulders and giggled, with relief and with the satisfaction that we had both guessed right about the other. Hard to think of something to talk about at such a time, so maybe it was lucky that something occurred to me, namely my feet. I discovered I couldn’t move my toes, and it was starting to feel painful.
“My feet hurt,” I said. She looked down with concern. “I still don’t know how you do it.” “You haven’t been conditioned,” she said. “You should get inside.”
With effort I pulled one foot up out of the puddle and I started to put my socks on but she stopped me. “Wet socks is worse than nothing,” she said. “Let’s just go back, like this.” So we headed back to her dorm, barefoot, though I kept on stumbling, not being able to flex my feet with the rocks and unlevel path, so she helped me along.
You might think, requiring the girls to be naked all the time -- what a male fantasy, what a unequal situation, females as sex slaves. Maybe it was at one time, I don’t know, but though we guys love being around naked women -- and all of them with killer bodies, by the way -- we still really don’t what to make of it. It was sprung on us as a complete surprise, I know the girls were told right away, but for those of us who checked “male” on the application, all we had seen was the college brochure, a little private college with very high admission standards, a liberal arts school. And that fleeting reference to “promoting students’ social and psychosexual education and awareness”, which I took, at least, as a sign that we’d get to talk about sex a lot, which is a nice way to “segue” into actually getting it on!
I was in high school then, not far from being a virgin, and it seems so long ago now, like it was a different person. My motivation, though natural and common, seems crude now. Certainly going to that orientation, and having the bombshell dropped on us, that female students were naked at all times while on campus -- and were to “present” any part of their body when asked (politely) -- was some kind of life-changing event for us guys. I almost “had an accident” in my pants, probably the other guys did too, when the girls at orientation, the ones who we had been talking with over coffee and donuts, they seemed pretty but a little nervous for some reason, as we looked at them and tried to discreetly appraise their bodies though they all were wearing heavy clothes for such warm weather -- then suddenly on the second day they walked into the room totally naked, hands over breasts and crotches, then padding over in their bare feet and sitting down among us, squirming in those metal folding chairs that must have felt like ice under their newly bared butts. It was like we guys had walked into paradise. The problem is, once in paradise, what do you do then?
Far from it being a male fantasy, it almost seems like a fantasy for the women sometimes. Maybe that’s going too far. But all in all the girls often seem like they’re having a better time than we are. I’ve noticed two things about the guys here. One, they are very modest about showing their bodies. Usually, I hear, at college the guys are thinking of any way to strip, like streaking, or walking around in just their shorts, trying to turn on the girls. Here, the roles reversed, the guys never walk around in underwear when girls are around, we even hate showing our feet. As for showing our dicks, forget it. We’re all insecure about our size, of course for the girls everything they have is on full view 24/7, so they’re in a different place.
The other thing I noticed is that, even though the mandatory exercise classes apply only to the girls, the guys are always working out, and watching what they eat. Maybe they’re afraid of being inadequate. The BSC women, especially at Alturas, have a reputation for being horny and assertive. Lisa being so low-key, she is almost an exception this way. I remember going to the workout room (it’s just one room here, the campus being so small) the first week I was here, and passing by Jill on the weight bench. Her breasts are like little plums, they ride high on her chest and they’re spaced well apart, and now they were rising even higher, one after the other, as she hefted fifteen-pound dumbbells over her head, one hand and then the next, huffing rhythmically, shining with sweat all over, her legs draped to each side of the bench, her shaved pussy (not that usual at Alturas for some reason) a little bit open as it splayed pressed onto the bench. As I walked past she looked at me, then right at my crotch, as if trying to guess what was hidden in my shorts, then looked up at me again. Pure, unabashed lust. It was pretty intimidating. I felt like she was about to throw the dumbbells down and tackle me and rip my clothes off.
I think the guys here work out so much because they’re trying to be as good as the girls. The girls have got it all -- beauty, strength, intelligence -- all except clothes. We guys can only hope that we can “measure up” to them! Weird, right?
That’s my theory anyway. Fortunately I don’t feel too inadequate because Lisa makes me feel like the Total Love Man. She worships my dick, sucks on it every day, and we find plenty of places to get it on -- deliberately, I think; there seem to be a lot of unused rooms and secluded places around campus. At Alturas everyone gets paired up. Even Scott, the only obvious virgin on campus, lost his virginity to Shelly, and the two are now together a lot, though they both seem (this is silly but also kind of cute) shy at the fact that they are together.
Scott used to be the coarsest one at asking girls to “present” -- there’s a right way and a wrong way to ask, and a right time and a wrong time -- but now he’s calmed down. Now that we all know each other, and the novelty (although not the desire to look) has worn off, a guy generally asks a girl to present if he wants her to feel good, because what always follows is a string of compliments -- “you have a beautiful anus, Keisha”, or “I love your clitoris, Mac, it looks real big today”. No matter how many times we see it -- and every male on campus by now is fully familiar with the size and shape of each girl’s pussy, clit, pussy lips and butthole -- our inevitable response to the sight of a naked girl’s “private parts” is always pretty mindless worshipful babbling.
With the guys having regular sex, once you’ve gotten your rocks off, it gets a lot easier to concentrate on schoolwork. It’s amazing, it seems impossible with naked girls around, but the fact is, we are digesting courses like Advanced Calculus and Igneous Sedimentology with ease. It’s hard work, but after shooting your load your head clears and you can really use all your brain.
The girls use their brains too, they certainly are high achievers, though they find plenty of time to talk. Lisa tells me about their conversations. They lie together at night, skin to skin, on the big bed they’ve made in their suite from pushing the four beds together. A big tangle of naked flesh, I’ve walked in on them like that a couple of times. I could see where Lisa’s face was, but if each girls’ feet and toes didn’t have their own personality too, I wouldn’t have been able to tell which of the limbs of this multi-headed female creature were hers.
Anyway, Lisa tells me of the dreams they have. You might expect girls in their situation to have unusual dreams, mostly about being naked, and it’s true. Mac told her a dream about being stuck on the other side of the country, in Rhode Island or Vermont maybe, totally naked with no money and no I.D., and trying to get clothes from anyone she met, begging for something to put on, but everyone was mean and wouldn’t give her anything, and she finally had to walk clear across the country back to California, eating stuff off trees, sleeping under the stars, climbing over the Rockies, all the time stark naked, and when she finally got back to her home town and her friends gave her things to wear, she found she had become allergic to clothes! That was when her dream ended.
Sarah had a dream about being a scientific exhibit, living in a glass cage on a pedestal, totally naked, no blankets, just a bare plastic bed, clear plastic so that every inch of her was on display all the time, even while she slept. People milled around and visited, looking at her from every angle, as she exercised, and even as she peed and pooped into a hole going to a tube, where her excretions were measured and analyzed. And she was stuck in that cage forever!
Lisa had a dream that made her blush when she told me about it. She was in a courtroom and on the witness stand, a big trial, TV cameras on her, naked of course, and not only that, but she was tied to this scaffold-like thing with seats for four women who were sucking her nipples, licking her pussy, and one even sitting behind her licking her butthole! She hated it but couldn’t help having orgasms while being required to answer the questions, her sweating, contorted face on national TV. Wild!
“I’m thinking of becoming an Absolute, an Ultra Nude,” she told me out of the blue one day. These are girls who have pledged to stay naked even off campus, even during breaks, in other words, never wear a scrap of clothing or shoes ever again. “I don’t know why, it seems crazy, but I can’t get the idea out of my head.”
Like all the girls (except for Sandy, the nudist, who seems to forget that she is naked), Lisa has cravings for clothes. How could she even consider becoming an Absolute, and not have that intense feeling of relief that all the girls have when the semester is over -- “Aaaahhhhh!!” is how they all describe it -- and they slip on clothes again when they start off for home. Also, being an Absolute is logistically difficult. Maybe not if the girl’s rich and can go to some estate or touristy secluded place, but for an average girl like Lisa? She’s from Merced, a kind of blah city in the cow country, her parents are teachers -- how could she just walk naked down H Street?
More strangeness. I kind of hope Lisa doesn’t decide to become an Absolute, I don’t want her life to be hard, plus it would feel uncomfortable taking her to see my folks if she was naked. On the other hand, the IDEA of her being naked all the time is pretty arousing.
It’s all up to her, of course. I would miss painting her nails. It’s one of our little rituals, I’m getting good at it. She likes clear polish, yet I hear even clear nail polish is considered “wearing” something which Absolutes don’t do. I could probably still brush her hair, though. I sit on top of her prone body lying full length on my bed, brushing stroke after stroke of her lovely, lustrous brown hair, then I turn her over and with the little brush I do her pubic hair, very carefully so as not to hit her clit or her pussy lips. She has to hold her legs open for this, and it makes me so proud when the other guys walk in, showing them the beautiful pussy and pubic hair of my gorgeous girlfriend as I comb it, making it full and fluffy and with just a little hint of her natural perfume.
The big blizzard rolled in last week, all day and all night and then more the next morning. At Alturas the campus is never closed because of snow, everyone being so close. The worst that happens is that maybe a class here and there is canceled if the professor has to drive in from far away, but there are only a few of those. This blizzard hit on a Saturday so it wasn’t an issue.
We all watched from inside the dorms. By the time it ended, on Sunday afternoon, it was a foot and a half, though there were drifts of four and five feet next to buildings. The powdery whiteness was almost blinding in the sun. We were all thinking the same thing. The grounds crew would plow the academic and administration areas, but it was up to us to get the residential area done, and this would be a big job.
Olga, the girl from Siberia who likes to show off how rugged she is, was the first out, with her usual flourish. She jumped from the second story of the women’s dorm into a drift that was so high that when she landed she was in up to her neck. “Jesus,” Hank said, cringing, we all thinking how the snow must have felt pushing up into her lower crevices, but of course BSC girls know what to expect. It’s all in the mind. With an absolutely deadpan face Olga pushed and hopped her way over to the front door to where it was only a foot high, snow sticking to her all over, and opened it. Mac was already there, with the snow shovel each dorm had in the closet near the door, and in a second we saw Mac’s strong, tanned body was bent down, her muscles taut and lovely, her tummy almost freakishly concave, as she began shoveling out a path.
The girls were quick to get out, but we guys first had to get through the ritual of putting on pants, boots, jackets, gloves . . . Olga trudged over to the supply shed where there were extra shovels, then showed up at our door. “Let’s go, weenies!” she said in her tough-girl Russian accent, one of her pukey-smelling cigarettes lit up and hanging from her lips. And so off we began. The sun got warm and we were exerting ourselves, five guys and six girls, except for Shelly, who had hurt her ankle while running track last week and was limping around carrying out water to everyone. We needed water because we were sweating, all of us, even the naked girls, droplets appearing on their foreheads and on their shoulders. I took off my coat and then my sweatshirt. (By the way, I have to revise what I said about a typical winter’s day in Altura being below freezing. According to weatherunderground.com, the daily high in January averages out at 42 degrees.)
Tommy Chen got adventurous and, checking that there seemed to be no sign of movement from the rest of campus, not that they could see anything with the piles of shoveled snow getting higher and higher, he decided to strip to his boots and wool socks. Lots of hooting and joking as his pale, slightly chubby bod took its place besides the buff tans of the girls, his dick tiny and shriveled in the chilly air. Tommy’s a good sport.
“Sure there’s no one around?” someone said. We all checked quickly. Indecent exposure, at least for the guys, is still against the rules. But Tommy shrugged off the concern, finally putting his clothes back on only after he declared, “My itty bitty nuts are about to freeze off!”
Tommy was still not done, though. He hefted a big shovel of powdery stuff and flung it to the side, as it happened right at Mac. His phony “Ooops I’m sorry!” did not delay her counterattack for one second. Blasted from hair to toes like with flour, she ran after him and tackled him into one of the newly-made snow banks, then pulled his pants down and rubbed a softball-sized wad of snow right into his crotch. He screamed in fake agony and ran into the dorm, pants still around his ankles, coming back a few minutes later on his hands and knees, kissing Mac on her toes before humbly (though with a smile) getting back to clearing the path to the quad.
It was a big, big job, something you only want to do once. We wouldn’t have attempted had we not heard the forecast that there wouldn’t be any more snow for the rest of the week. We got the path between the dorms cleared, then a narrow path to the quad to where the plows would go by on Monday morning. Then we decided to widen the paths. We took a break, during which Shelly got us some water, and a couple of bottles of beer that we passed around. Then started shoveling again. Olga would finish one cigarette, rub it into the snow with her heel, then come back with another. Lisa and I worked side by side. I liked pretending we were a married couple clearing the path in front of our house. Looking down, past my hiking boots, though I’m still not used to such a sight, there’s nothing so sexy as seeing Lisa’s bare feet on the snow.
The sun set and the temperature dropped. Yet we were not nearly done. The moon rose, casting a pale blue light on the snow that made it look like we were in Antarctica or the planet Pluto. I suppose the temperature drop wasn’t that great but we no longer had the warmth of the direct sun. Soon the girls were getting seriously cold. It was Lisa who called out, “Time for rubbertips,” and they all agreed.
The girls keep them in a little cabinet in their bathroom. They fit over the toes and fingertips and look like five little thimbles connected by wires, with a sling back strap that on the hand goes around the wrist, and on the foot ones (shorter wires, thicker slings) goes around the heel up where the tendon is. Stretching the sling turns on the little heating elements in the thimbles. Powered by a little battery in a pocket that fits over the thumb and over the big toe, the thimbles stay very warm for hours.
They’re like protective equipment, not really “clothes”, and the girls hardly think of them that way, firstly because they’re so damn ugly, secondly because they’re rather uncomfortable. The girls hate wearing them, but these “rubbertips” (there’s a more complicated term for them that everyone forgets) really are a necessity if they have to be out in frigid cold for any length of time. Once your toes and the ends of your fingers are warm, everything in between is taken care of and you don’t get frostbite. I don’t think these things would help Olga in Siberia when it’s fifty below (not that she’d ever go naked there), but they greatly increase the girl’s ability to stay out in the cold.
Lisa threw the sets of rubbertips to the other girls and they sat their bare butts on the snow, fitting them onto their fingers and toes. (They say that originally the foot ones were one big pocket that squished the toes together. As you might imagine, that would be excruciating for a BSC girl, so they changed it to separate thimbles for each toe.) Fitted and warmed, the naked girls got up and helped us continue. We widened the paths and then made another path around to the back door of each dorm. By the time we were done it was almost nine o’clock, three hours past sunset and it was like the dead of night, hundreds of stars above.
I lay with Lisa up in the top storage room that night, under about fourteen blankets, and we were so happy in our warm little pocket sandwich, our bodies warm and naked against each other as our exposed faces breathed in the nice cold air. We were so tired that we didn’t do anything, we just fell asleep right away and, like almost everyone else, were so exhausted that we overslept and had to really rush to our morning classes. As you can imagine, getting ready for class is much easier and faster for the girls.
I am so, so lucky! Thank you God! The next afternoon, Lisa and I walked back up the high path, up where the woods start in earnest, and sat down in the melting snow, feeling the warm sun, and she laid me down and pulled my dick out and gobbled it so that I was about to burst, then hopped on top of me, her furry wet warm hole taking me in, and as I looked up to her beautiful face, her eyes squeezing shut in ecstacy as her long sweaty hair flung back and forth in abandon, then heard her grunty animal-like cries ring out into the clean mountain air, and felt my dick get real big and I shot my seed up into her, spurt after spurt, like I was giving life and energy to this lovely strong woman, to all naked women -- I felt like this paradise was really as much mine as it was hers, that I was as strong and alive and vital as she was, that my seed was what kept the whole thing going.
It was the happiest I ever was, and maybe for her too. After we finished she lay on top of me, hugging me, her bent legs to each side, wiggling her toes in the soft melting snow -- and then we had to get up and go back to the dorm, because the wet snow had soaked through my jacket and pants and with wet clothes, I was in more danger from the cold than my permanently naked girlfriend was.