There is (was?) an artist named Frederick S. Fudala, somewhere in upstate New York, who (a long time ago) was on deviantart and created this drawing which I “embedded” into “‘Tami Smithers Was Here’” on the writingsofleviticus site. It’s called “Druuna’s Ascent”, a tribute to the graphic novel character created by Paolo Serpieri. As I recall Mr. Fudala’s original comment was: “I picture Druuna, having been stripped by a gang of thugs, escaping by scaling this cliff, only to find herself thrust into yet another peril which she will have to deal with while naked.” It fits in with Tami’s plight in general, and in particular her scaling the cliff to get away from teenage toughs at the end of Part 29 of “‘Tami Smithers Was Here’”. Fred, I’ve been trying to find you for years, please contact me!
Nobody Messes with Patty Kowalski
“Miss Kowalski.” Principal Chones exhales, straightening his tie, and now his big black hands open the folder. He says “What brings you here today?” in a sarcastic tone. This is a regular event by now. He reads. “Oh I see, pushing Tommy Chinchon against the wall.”
“He’s been bugging my brother. I could have really f**ked him up. He would have deserved it.”
“You also ripped his uniform.”
“Just the pocket of his jacket.”
He reads further. “You did that with your toes, I see. So you must have kicked him too.”
“He’s twice Jimmy’s size. I can’t expect Jimmy to fight back.”
“I know you’re the oldest of four, you want to be protective of your siblings, but Jimmy is in ninth grade. He’s not a tiny kid any more.”
Of course his words have no effect. Patty takes a deep breath and exhales, as if steeling herself for another fight. Her breasts swell and her nipples stiffen. They seem to be pointing in Mr. Chones’s direction and he knows what that means: she won’t back down. Every teacher in the school has learned to read Patty Kowalski’s nipples. She is one tough girl.
It’s Wednesday and Kevin Tse and his friends stay behind after school, watching the quivering, sweating girl on the pedestal, strapped into the apparatus, smelling of conductance, her natural juices, and a coconut enema. She looks like she’s suffering, and in a way she is. She has been kept on the verge of orgasm for ten minutes while data is gathered. Her breasts quiver, electrodes taped to her nipples, to her concave tummy, to her shoulder blades. The dial in front, out of her reach, is at 3.
Sensing being watched, she squeezes her eyes shut and then opens them, glaring down at the leering boys. “What -- the -- f**k -- are you looking at?? Go away!”
On a dare, Kevin twists the dial up to 8. Then the clapping of sneakers on floor as he and his friends run away down the hall and out of the school.
“YOU -- F**KING BASTARDS!! COME BACK!! AHHHHHHH!! AHHHHH!!” Her sweating body jolts again and again as her eyes bug out to the ceiling. It looks like she’s being electrocuted.
Kevin’s plan to avoid Patty the next day worked up until now, when school let out. As planned, he takes the side exit, hiding in a clutch of friends. Patty, leaving by the front as always, spots him. He hears the rapidly approaching thudding of the school’s only bare feet on the sidewalk and knows he is doomed. She attracts the attention of everyone on Main Street as she flings her bookbag down and sprints the hundred yards, breasts jiggling violently side to side. Her nipples are stiff like drawn guns; they always get hard when she gets angry (the phrase “Nipples of Doom” has been used). Kevin struggles out of his own bookbag and tries to run, but nobody runs faster than Patty. She pushes him down and starts kicking him in the groin. Hard toes are deadly in such a place. Her shouts echo against the building with each kick. “YOU -- MADE -- ME -- COME -- TWENTY -- SIX -- TIMES!!” She rolls him over with her foot and starts on his butt. “DON’T -- YOU -- EVER -- EVER -- DO -- THAT -- AGAIN!!” Now her hard foot presses his face against the grass. “DO -- YOU -- UNDERSTAND??” They can’t hear his response but it must be a pitiful “I’m sorry.” Nobody messes with Patty Kowalski.
“You must know, Miss Kowalski, that you cannot go around assaulting people.”
“He assaulted me! He thought he was pulling a prank. That stupid machine made me come and come and come. I thought I was going to lose my mind. It was agony.” With a twist of her head she tries to shake away the memory. Her toes flex and her nipples jiggle to and fro. “Thank God Hank heard me and ran over to turn it off.” Hank is the school custodian.
Principal Chones reads Hank’s note. “The readout was twenty-six orgasms? Remarkable.” Like most men, he is capable of only one orgasm. He shifts in his suit and can’t avoid feeling envious.
The naked young victim, of course, has a different perspective. “Not so remarkable if you’re the one suffering through them.” Now in a rare moment of vulnerability she lowers her voice. “I tried to get used to them, but each one . . . Afterwards I couldn’t stop crying. And I had to be back home.” Indeed neighbors noticed the unusual sight of Patty Kowalski apparently in tears, staggering along the broken sidewalk on Fourteenth Street as if the bookbag on her back weighed half a ton.
“Still -- you can’t take the law into your own hands. You have to file a complaint.” He means with the school. They both know that filing charges with the police is not an option. Possibly Kevin knew that too. The publicity would cause the University to pull the plug on the project, and Patty would lose one of her paychecks.
“F**k those complaints. I want him punished. Do I have to go to Dornberger again?” Charles Dornberger, Ph.D., is the Superintendent of Schools. “And another thing, that butt dick is too big.”
“The proper term is ‘insertion detector’.”
“Whatever. It keeps slipping into my -- ” Is there a trace of embarrassment here? -- “my -- colon.”
“From what I understand, young lady, the use of your lower digestive tract affords you a tidy income.”
“That’s none of your f**king business. Anyway, it’s supposed to be only six inches. We measured it after art class with Stacy’s ruler. It’s seven and a half.”
“I didn’t know you were so familiar with the apparatus specs. That’s a big booklet they gave us.”
“It’s on page 134. Fifteen centimeters, which is five point nine inches.”
Principal Chones shrugs. “It is what it is. We can’t question the judgment of Dr. Posen who wrote the book.”
“If only she knew what it’s like, having a baseball bat up my butt and being double f**ked for half an hour. And in the middle of the f**king lobby!”
“It’s the only place big enough for the antennas. We’ve been over that.”
“I should get paid more.”
“I’m sure you know the grant money has been strictly apportioned.”
“Or maybe I can go to the police.”
Patty wins again. She’s raised from $60 to $100 per session, with the rest coming from the school’s “discretionary fund”. It’s just a drop in the bucket for the school, which is using the matching funds to finally redo the swimming pool. Patty is a very good swimmer, though the reason she always wins the sprints is probably because the other girls wear swimsuits which create drag and restrict movement.
Advanced Placement math class. “For the three differential problems, I’ll pick the students who got 100’s last time around. One, two, three, Miss Hazard, Miss Rodriguez, and Miss Kowalski. I’ll be back in five minutes.” The three girls, two of them fashionably clothed, go up to the blackboard and start, being careful to “show their work”. “Sorry,” Patty and Ana say to each other; Patty is left-handed and their elbows keep hitting. With Mr. Jensen out of the room the kids start chatting. As Ana and Jill finish up Ana looks down at Jill’s new jeans. “Those are cute. Where did you get them?”
“At Hollister. They were only seventy dollars.”
Their naked friend snorts and rolls her eyes as she finishes. Her eyes dart from her bare feet to the girls’ expensive Prada loafers and she shakes her head. When Mr. Jensen comes back it turns out that, as usual, Patty got the right answer.
It is a glorious, brisk March morning, a Saturday, the deep blue sky over the little yards on Fourteenth Street, abutting the yards of the houses on Fifteenth Street. Patty is separating out her siblings’ hand-washed clothes and clips them onto the rotary clothesline, turning it on its unsteady rusty axis.
She works from twelve clothespins at a time: two in her mouth, two on each nipple, and six clipped to her lush pubic hair, which she keeps untrimmed because it is so useful: four across the top, and one on the curls on each side of her labia. She doesn’t have to look down as she places them; she knows the locations by heart. The cold air stiffens her nipples to the point where they can accommodate two each. On the ground is a muddy puddle, the product of last night’s storm. She anchors herself with her right foot, submerged up to the ankle. She puts up with the sting of the clothespins and the numbing, freezing mud. Her breasts and the clips on them wiggle with her motions. Will any piece of clothing fall into the puddle? No. In the first place Patty is a careful girl; in the second place, these are the new pins with the extra-strong springs, which she bought at the dollar store.
“Some home run Jimmy hit!” This is Mrs. Okon, calling out from over the fence. Mrs. Okon is taking out the garbage.
Patty takes the pins out of her mouth and calls out. “Billy did a good job too!” They were both jumping up and down watching that thrilling last-inning rally, just as rain was beginning to fall. Also relieved; the freshman team had finally won a game, making them 1 - 3.
Now Jack Park, age 53, waves at Patty from next door. Patty waves back, both with her free hand and the clips that swing back and forth from her nipples as if hitting little home runs in the air.
Patty inspects Robbie’s pajamas before she hangs them out. A hole in the knee. She decides they will be o.k. for now. She’s now out of clips and reaches back to the basket, fastening another twelve onto various parts of herself with graceful efficiency.
A more difficult problem is Jimmy’s sneakers. One can see the knitted brow of concern as she hangs them out. They are not the “cool” (expensive) brand and Jimmy is getting teased about it at school.
Now Kathleen calls out from inside. “Patty! Jimmy won’t give up the TV!”
Patty turns and calls back. “Jimmy! You’ve had your half hour! Be nice!”
As she turns back to hanging up Kathy’s sweater one might see a soft longing caress, an exaggerated shiver, the raising of heightened goose pimples on her buttocks, perhaps a momentary wetness in the pretty green eyes. Patty is at heart just a normal teenage girl.
Her cell phone, on the stand, rings. She has been expecting this call and has kept her left foot out of the mud so that she could work the phone without ruining it; she can’t afford an upgrade at this time. As she hangs Robby’s little socks and then Jimmy’s bigger ones she answers the phone with her big toe and with her pinky toe she puts it on “speaker”. Even reddened with the cold, Patty’s toes are very useful.
It is the electric/gas company and the impersonal voice talks about the “hardship plan”. “Do you have to call it that?” Patty says in a slightly hushed voice. The clips on her nipples jiggle as she hangs Kathleen’s little soft-cup bra and gives the 12-digit account number she has memorized, and agrees to the reduced rate, which is hardly a savings at all but permits a fixed monthly payment easier to budget for.
Patty removes the last clip from her pubic curls and finishes hanging up Kathleen’s pretty pink panties and Robbie’s Spiderman T-shirt. She rinses the mud off her toes in the clear part of the puddle. She will scrub them in the tub. The kids well understand that nobody is to interrupt her Saturday morning bubble bath.
Patty dances at Teaser’s Friday and Saturday nights. She prefers Pat Benatar for her first song, Dolly Parton for the second, Rihanna for the third. The other girls use the first song to take off their tops and the second to take off their bottoms, the third to do splits and go man to man. For Patty, who walks in with just her bare body, the routine is different. Her first dance is with a large doglike puppet she sewed together which is kept under the bar. She calls him “Lucky” and spends the dance trying to escape his constant attempts to suck her clit, hump her front or rear, grab her breasts, or force her legs open. This is more amusing than arousing and impresses all the guys with her ingenuity and manual dexterity. Fives and tens hit the stage. Lucky tries to grab them with his mouth but Patty slaps him away. She’s so good with the puppet, she seems like she has four hands.
The second dance is a tribute to the singer’s endowments. Patty does that special trick of jerking one breast, then another. She has learned to isolate her pectoral muscles. She is only a C cup (that is, if she ever were to wear a bra, a bizarre thought!) but moves around as if she is carrying watermelons on her chest. She also does amazing splits, swinging around on that pole. Being barefoot, she can shimmy up it in a way the other girls can’t, and grab it with her amazingly strong toes as she hangs upside down. Tens are thrown, an occasional twenty.
Some of the guys regularly go around “the circuit” and as far as they can tell, the third dance is unique in the strip club world. A guy comes forward with a twenty-dollar bill and sits in a chair six feet away. The teenage girl invaginates a ping pong ball, then on the count of three she spreads her legs, braces her toes on the edge of the stage, and shoots it at the guy. Jerry at the bar has synchronized a popping champagne cork effect on the sound system which makes everyone laugh. If the guy catches the ball, he gets his Andrew Jackson back. Most can’t. Lately Patty has developed a curveball.
It’s very dark in these booths, intentionally so. The nude dancer is on all fours on the little table. Mr. Barker, her biology teacher, gently tugs on the down-pointing nipples. Technically contact isn’t allowed but Marty, walking back and forth, pretends not to see. Now the perpetually depressed Yale graduate watches as Patty reaches around and stuffs another of the big beads past her sphincter. She nods and lets him push in another one. That makes ten. They are the size of walnuts and are on a string. The whiff of Patty’s ambrosia enema is detectable.
As usual, he’s talking about his low salary and problems with his wife. Patty is more therapist than dancer here. As he stuffs in number eleven she says, “They -- unhh -- must pay more in Crompton. It’s a ritzier place.”
“Yes, but they want that Master’s degree.”
“How long does that take? Is it semesters or years?” Patty is not that knowledgeable about higher education.
“Another two years. Can you take another one?”
“I -- unhh -- think so.” Another walnut gets stuffed in. Patty’s toes wiggle. She has to open her knees to accommodate the increase in cargo. She gulps. He pulls gently on her nipples and squeezes them, which Patty enjoys. “Th - thanks. . . Tomorrow night they’re -- locking the doors at -- t - two.”
“Susan will get suspicious if I’m out that late. . . How are things with you?”
“We’ll -- unhh -- make the mortgage this month. With -- eight days to s - spare . . . I c - can finally buy those shingles for the roof. Unhh. I can take -- one -- more.” She gulps. “Maybe -- your wife -- can -- get that -- extra -- class -- in -- UHHH!!” As the thirteenth walnut pops into her already overloaded gut she sweats and takes deep breaths, putting her head down on her hands. Now she turns to him and nods. Carefully he pulls on the string and pulls the beads out, one by one. As each pops out of the girl’s anus her whole body trembles. The thrills are genuine.
“Thanks.” Patty bends forward to lick the vanilla cone Delores offers. A drop falls onto her nipple. She is just able to reach it with her tongue and lick it off if she pulls her breast up. “Finally, a nice day.” She gratefully flexes her gritty soles against the warm asphalt. She’s standing up and she puts her arms back on the handlebars, waiting for the next customers.
It’s Sunday and Delores and her friends Sam and Teresa have stopped by to say hi. From 1 p.m. to 6 p.m. Patty’s job is to operate the big transport tricycle. She takes the one or two passengers around the lake, then for an extra ten dollars, across the boardwalk to the boathouse. It’s about a mile all told, and she’s supposed to go slow so that it takes about ten minutes. When she started this job, back in the winter after they finally cleared away all that snow, her legs would get tired, but then she learned to pull up with her arms on the handlebars as well as pushing down with her legs. The pedals, originally with spiked grips, had been modified to take account of her bare feet.
“Oh boy,” Delores says. A very overweight man, with his none too slim wife, are approaching.
“See you -- later -- uhh!” Patty says, as her toes curl around the pedals and she grunts mightily, finally getting the big rickshaw in motion. Her friends watch her straining glutes and rippling triceps as she pushes with legs and pulls with arms, standing upright, finally getting a kind of slow rhythm going as she turns onto the lake path, a hundred and ten pounds of teenager transporting probably around five hundred pounds of adult.
Gamal, sitting at his desk in the back room, is used to Patty’s complaints but this one has him flabbergasted.
“You’re saying the club is too cold? You? When you came here to apply, the day after your eighteenth birthday, there was a foot of snow on the ground.”
“It’s not me, it’s the other girls.”
“I already told them, the guys like it a little chilly in here. If the girls don’t like it they can always go somewhere else. I hear Seven Dolls is hiring.” This is his standard response to anything, which is why none of the girls ever complains to him. Except the youngest one, the one without clothes or shoes. They used to resent her popularity, but she’s grown on them, especially after she got Gamal to agree to taking only forty percent of their cash instead of fifty.
“Well I can go somewhere else too.”
“I don’t think you can.”
“I think I can!” She puts her hands on her hips. Her nipples are staring at him. She comes a step closer. Her pubic hair is just above the level of his desk. She’s doing this to bug him: she has consistently refused his requests that she shave it off or trim it to a “landing strip”. Actually the guys like her florid “bush”, so out of style these days. They also like her lack of tattoos. “Another thing -- why are you letting Simon in again? After what he did to Sally in the back?” Meaning, in the booths.
“He’s been behaving himself. You know what a spender he is.”
“It’s not worth it. He’ll just do it again. That really f**ked her up, you know.”
“Look, this is my club.”
“Maybe not for long. We can go to the police. I looked it up. The statute of limitations is two years.”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
“Oh yes I would.” She turns around and bends over and spreads her butt, winking her anus at him, as if to say, “I shit on you!!” It’s Patty Kowalski’s version of “giving the finger”.
2 a.m. and the music stops and the lights go out. Marty locks the door and collects everyone’s cell phones, and the $100 per, expensive but worth it.
This time Patty’s partner is Gloria, over twice her age with a purportedly magic tongue. The stage is lit with a small bore spotlight which cannot be detected from outside. The two dancers embrace and tongue kiss. Patty pulls down Gloria’s panties, then undoes the older woman’s blouse, bra. Gloria steps out of her panties. She keeps her glass heels on. There’s no prohibition against the girls dancing barefoot but Patty is the only one who does it.
A moment later they are on the soft little rug, in “sixty-nine”. Tongues circle around vaginas and then jab inside causing the naked bodies to jolt. There is no music. In the surrounding darkness some of the guys actually take their penises out, surreptitiously, though if they ejaculate on the floor Gamal will never let them back. The two naked females switch, with Patty on top. They spread each other’s butt cheeks and now the serious business begins, the tonguing of each other‘s anus. Gloria Estella Fuentes, age 37, and Patricia Mary Faustina Kowalski, age 18, bring each other to orgasm three times. They take turns. Patty’s last is when Gloria spears her tongue into the teenager’s rectum, the spotlight showing every nuance of Patty’s anus as it opens and closes around Gloria’s tongue with each spasm. Patty arches her back and sightlessly stares at the ceiling, gritting her teeth. She is naturally a “screamer” but suppresses herself; people passing outside at this quiet hour might hear something.
“Unnh! You’re putting too much grit into these -- things!” Patty says, her toes flexing against the rough concrete rail as she raises herself up.
“It’s the same formula as always,” Freddy says. They’re talking softly so that the crowd around them, watching from behind the little fence, can’t hear.
“I feel like I’m -- shitting out -- unnhh! -- a porcupine.”
Patty exhales and lifts her butt off the top of the prong of white clay. It’s softened now, after three minutes in her rectum. As Freddy points out in his presentation, the rectum is the body’s warmest region, and his special clay has been calibrated accordingly, along with Patty’s unique ability to knead it with her internal muscles. He carefully lifts the softened clay with both hands and adds it to the horse’s head. Today he’s making a horse, from the neck up. Last week it was a rhino. Next week it will be a dog, if nobody does a request. Freddy is really good and between the two of them they pull in about two hundred dollars of tips every week.
Patty lowers herself onto the next prong. People cluster around behind to see it disappear into her anus. This is the fifth one. There are four more to go, in a row to her left. She’s squatting all the way down now and with her big toe she presses the button on the timer.
“Another thing -- you clean me out too much at the beginning. Why go so high up? I can taste that orangey stuff in the back of my throat.”
Freddy, ostentatiously dressed in white smock, suit, nice shoes and beret, looks down at his nude assistant. “Again, you exaggerate. We can’t have sculptures smelling like poop, can we? Anyway, you’re supposed to look up and answer questions.”
Patty’s eyes flash but she looks up with as even a glance as she can manage. Faint ripples on her hard concavity of a tummy evidence the skilled workings of her pelvic floor muscles. She had to practice at home for many hours before she got this right. Now she sees a couple of friends from her block and waves with a nod of her head. Now, Mr. Laughton, her English teacher, who comes up.
“Miss Kowalski, that was an excellent essay you submitted yesterday.”
“Thanks -- unhh.” A yellowjacket bee has arrived to do a reconnaissance of her pubic hair. The best thing is ignore it, not that she has any choice. Fortunately it leaves before the timer goes off. Patty grunts as she excretes prong number five. She stands up and stretches, gripping the rail with her toes, giving the crowd a glorious view of her nipples, big and wind-stiffened in the chilly air, her concave tummy, the goose pimples on her butt, then sidles over to prong number six. This feels bigger than the others -- Patty always complains to Freddy that he makes these things too big -- but she’s not going to interrupt her teacher.
“Where did you get that material on Jefferson?” Mr. Laughton says, watching idly as with a wince Patty sits and forces the too-thick prong through her stretching sphincter.
“American Sphinx. It’s in the -- library online.”
“Oh I’ve heard of that. A good book?”
“A lot of g - good information -- ” the bee has returned and is flitting against her nipple -- also she feels the softened clay inside her in danger of splitting in two and she flexes her puborectalis muscle to put it back together -- “but b - boring.”
After the incident with Kevin Tse, Principal Chones orders someone to keep an eye on things in the lobby during the after-school experiments. At first it’s just the hall monitor, Mr. Gianelli, but soon it becomes a gathering place for teachers and some students, chatting about this and that. In the middle of it Patty sits on the pedestal, at their eye level, gasping and moaning and sweating, looking out into the middle distance, as the ribbed cylindrical “insertion detectors” do their work and her reactions are recorded. Mrs. Bañelos, the Main Office secretary, sees the advantage of an after-school social hour and brings coffee and crackers. The naked student in their midst, of course, is not allowed to eat or drink anything, but they all know she is getting paid well. Occasionally Dr. Posen from the University stops by with an assistant to watch the machinery and make adjustments. Their heads come closer as they examine the rear insertion detector, which they discover is bigger than specified, and decide that the larger size is more suitable; in fact they debate whether to increase it to a volume of 400 cc, given the importance of measuring Patty’s anal contractions as they propagate up into her colon. They discuss this with each other and explain it to some teachers and students, some of them friends of Patty’s, who are curious and get drawn into the conversation. Patty can surely overhear them but whether she can process the words in her distracted state is unknown. Per the programming, the machinery brings Patty to two orgasms, one at the 15-minute mark and one at the end. Conversation has to stop at these times because she screams at the top of her lungs. The screams are so loud they can be heard from outside and even attracted the police on one occasion.
Patty, of course, cannot converse in her state. However today Mrs. Appleton stops by from the elementary school. Evidently Robbie forgot to hand in the permission slip for the zoo trip. In a loud voice the second-grade teacher explains what is needed. She holds the clipboard up and steadies Patty’s shaking hand as she affixes a scratchy signature quite unlike her usual beautiful penmanship.
They’re “unharnessing” Patty after the Monday session, removing the electrodes and lifting her off the “insertion detectors”. It’s not only the usual assistant Clarissa, a pre-med student at the University, but also Dr. Posen and Dr. Stefan Redl, who is technically Dr. Posen’s supervisor, and Principal Chones. They are standing around in a circle as Patty turns around and gets up on all fours, her butt practically in Chones’s face, which might not be an accident. So far he has not been on the receiving end of Patty’s version of “giving the finger” . . . he again notes the tough soles which allow the school’s only naked student to go barefoot everywhere, in all seasons. Sam and Delores and Georgina are also there, standing back at a distance. They know Patty has to get home but were hoping to stop and grab some pizza with her on the way.
After her second and last orgasm of the session Patty is sweating and out of breath. As she often does, she has complaints. “Those -- new -- sucking -- things -- they’re too rough. It’s bad enough I feel like a -- cow being -- milked. They hurt.” Her breasts are pointing downward and Dr. Posen and Dr. Redl, one on each side, squeeze a nipple and then a little tug.
Dr. Posen notes, “They are slightly inflamed.”
“I c - could have t - told you that.”
Dr. Redl says, “Perhaps we should switch from the abrasive to the gelatin based.”
“Yes -- I -- think -- that would be a good idea.” The naked teenager can get away with this lack of deference because she correctly senses her value to the University. They were pretty damn lucky to find a subject for such an experiment. “Another thing -- why is that -- butt dick -- so long? I feel like I’m being -- drilled up to my -- tonsils.” Clarissa inserts in the anoscope -- “Jesus! Do you keep that f**king thing in the freezer??” -- which clicks once, twice, and then again, until Patty’s much-viewed rectal orifice, still gaping from the “butt dick”, is expanded to 35 mm. Dr. Poser peers inside. “No inflammation here.”
Now Patty, as required, spreads her knees apart and rests her head on her crossed hands, allowing access to her vulva. She suppresses a little jerk as Dr. Redl, aware that the vaginal shaft has been increased in diameter, checks her clitoris. “Miss Kowalski -- does this hurt?”
“You could be -- UNNHH! -- more gentle -- but I suppose -- no.”
Dr. Redl, with both hands, spreads Patty’s vaginal lips wide, giving everyone on his side a view of pink labia minora surrounding the rapidly closing hole. He notes the lack of inflammation there. Clarissa inputs all these observations into her cell phone, the special app which connects directly to the University Hospital.
“Patty,” Principal Chones says, “you might be wondering why I’m here with Dr. Redl. The University is proposing a modification to the experiments.”
Patty, still catching her breath, her head down and her butt still in the air, turns her head to Dr. Redl.
He straightens the vest on his three-piece suit. He has a Polish accent, though Patty can’t identify it as such. To her he just sounds “foreign”. “Miss Kowalski, we were surprised at the readout from last week, which recorded that you reached climax twenty-six times in the space of fifteen minutes.”
Patty closes her eyes, having hoped to banish the memory of that ordeal. “It was a bad surprise. To me anyway. I’m still going to rip that f**king little shit’s eyes out.” Her rough toes wiggle, as if getting ready to kick Kevin Tse in the balls again. Delores and Sam and Georgina look at each other, sharing their disgust at what he did to their friend.
“Be that as it may, we did not know you had such capacity. Being capable of so many multiple orgasms makes you a very lucky girl.”
“Really? Do you want it to happen to you?” Actually of course, for everyone there, especially the males, experiencing one orgasm after another is an unattainable fantasy. “I’d call it more of a c - curse. I felt like I was -- going to lose my m - mind.”
“We believe we can utilize your capacity in these experiments.”
“What?” Patty exhales, still recovering. “You -- already make me -- uhhh -- come twice every t - time. Isn’t that enough?”
“We think a regimen of ten orgasms, one every three minutes, is feasible, and will greatly increase our ability to visualize your colonic and deep vaginal contractions.”
“Ten??” Patty blinks her eyes open.
Patty turns her head from him. “No way. F**k that! . . . eeek! Aren’t you done?” She says this to Dr. Posen, who is probing Patty’s sigmoid colon with a 30 cm cannula, checking “post-orgasmic capillary disgorgement”.
“We will increase your compensation from sixty dollars to, well, let’s say it’s a quantitative remuneration. Twenty-five dollars per orgasm, or two hundred fifty dollars per session.”
Patty takes a couple of deep breaths, still recovering from the session, and squirming at the probing cannula. She is trying not to move her hips in response to the wiggling deep inside her, as if trying not to scratch an itch. Sam, Delores and Georgina involuntarily clench their buttocks in sympathy. They have seen Patty’s insides many times but still cannot imagine what it must feel like.
“Still no. You -- folks wear me out -- ahhh -- enough as it is. I have to w - walk half a mile to my house to watch the kids.”
Dr. Posen is done with her probing and she and Dr. Redl look at each other. Principal Chones observes the scene with a stone face. Sam and Delores and Georgina share questioning looks. Now Hank comes in from outside. It’s a cold day and as the door opens a chilly gust hits them and curls up into Patty’s opened rectum, causing a shiver.
“Well I’m sorry you feel that way.” Clarissa gathers up the equipment, and Dr. Posen helps her wipe it off and put back in the large bag.
Patty, still with her head down, her butt in their faces, swallows and takes a few deep breaths. They watch as her anus closes and her rectum once again becomes her own. She is still wrung out. “Wait,” she says in a quiet voice. “I’ll -- uhhh . . . I’ll do it.” She clears her throat. “For forty.”
It all works out. Every Monday and Wednesday Patty stumbles home, her mind still fogged, clutching hidden in her hand the four hundred dollars cash she has earned by having ten orgasms, trying to focus on only one thing, getting back in time so that the kids don’t have to return from school to an empty house. She lands on the couch and is fast asleep when they get home. They know to leave her alone. After a one-hour nap she wakes up, takes a quick shower and, back to her energetic self, starts fixing their supper. She thinks of what can be done with the extra income. Probably get that old Ford back on the road. She’s a “motorhead” and knows how to fix it; it’s a matter of getting the parts, and then the registration, inspection and insurance.
It’s a chilly day at the Community College but Professor Stimson decided to hold the life drawing class outside. It’s a Saturday class and most of the students are adults who have regular jobs. Also some retired people. They are all bundled up and sit on their folding chairs in a circle around the naked model, making tentative renderings on their easels. The bright sun causes the girl’s stiff nipples to cast shadows over her concave tummy. She is standing upright on a low table, arms up, face upturned, eyes closed. She is goose pimpled all over and is trying to suppress her shivering. No matter; the money is good.
The prof suggests another pose and now the teenage girl plants one bare foot onto the grass and another onto the table. She extends one arm out forward and another behind her. Her body, thin and lightly muscled, is ideal for drawing. When she can find the time she does private modeling for the prof, who is making a series of figurines. After these sessions the prof’s friends come over, most of them also professors, and they all have lunch. On a warm day they might go out onto the prof’s patio and watch Patty take a dip in the pool. She’s a good swimmer.
Patty is a charming young girl, they all agree. She blushes when complimented and expresses interest in what they’re drawing. “I admire you artists,” she says. “I don’t know how you can move the pencil and make something that looks like a body part, or a face. Because I can’t draw worth a lick.” They’re all old enough to be her parents (or grandparents) and frequently ask how things are going in school.
On this chilly Saturday afternoon Patty sees the approach of Gertrude, the “babysitter”, who is with Jimmy and Kathleen. “Oh there you are,” Gertrude says. “I’m sorry,” she says to Prof. Stimson.
“What’s up?” Patty does not break her pose; she’s still looking into the middle distance. Gertrude is in a sweater over a turtleneck shirt, with her trademark plaid skirt, heavy socks and boots. Jimmy and Kathleen are in sweatpants and sweatshirts, with sneakers. Their naked big sister gulps, suppressing a shiver.
“Where did you put the keys to the chest?” Gertrude means the chest in the back yard where they keep the hoses and the lawn mower. In that neighborhood it’s best to lock things up.
“That’s o.k., I’ll d - do the garden later,” Patty says.
“That’s great, thanks Patty,” Gertrude says.
“M - make sure the kids’ uniforms are p - pressed for M - mass.” Still looking ahead. “I’ll be b - back at around three. Oh wait -- I’ve got the m - med school. Back at five.”
The teenage girl smiles up at the next young man to reassure him. He is almost shaking under his white lab coat. He is not allowed to ejaculate until married and is afraid he might have an “accident”.
He is the fifth in line. Patty’s toes wiggle in the stirrups. “Let me readjust this,” Dr. Haussner says. He bends over to click open the speculum one setting wider. The young man peers in with the little flashlight. “Note the cervix. Miss Kowalski has not had any children, so there are no creases. It feels like the end of your nose. Go ahead, feel it.”
The young man’s shaking hand, in its latex glove, enters Patty’s womanly cave, and reaches deeper, finally touching the entrance to her uterus. Her hips shift a little; he could have been a good deal more gentle, but Patty, seeing his nervousness, is not going to point that out.
They have already done the breast exam, and the bimanual exam. There are three more gyno students in line. Next will be the rectal exam with the new colonoscope. As the next student peers up inside her she looks up at the clock. She has been doing these for eleven weeks now, and knows her way around the gyno table, and the enema bag. But sometimes the students are very slow with their examining. Should she have told Gertrude she would be back at six?
“Damn!” Maurice says, jumping to his left, hindered by his heavy boots, once again unable to catch the moist ping pong ball. He picks it up off the cold ground and flips it to Sandy. “That was some curve!”
“She’s left-handed, so it’s a screwball,” Tom points out. As Sandy rinses the gritty ball in the bucket she flips another one to Patty. With her left hand Patty pops it into her vagina. In her other hand is a slice of pizza and she takes another bite. The diet soda is to her right.
It’s lunch recess and they’re in the courtyard. The tree well hasn’t had a tree in it for some time but it’s perfectly suited for Patty’s purposes. Her butt sits on the concrete lip, her legs in a wide split, and her toes grasp the two little metal knobs (shaped like flowers) five feet apart. She practices almost every day now. The courtyard, not well tended, is a dreary place this time of year when it’s cold out, but it’s become a hangout as everyone watches Patty perfect her craft. Today she’s working on making the ball curve both ways. Last week she made three hundred dollars doing this at Teaser’s.
Her friends all know about her work there, not that any of them have actually seen it. One has to be 21 to enter (the patrons, of course, not the dancers). Now it’s Tom’s turn and as he stands back, ten feet away, ready for the “pitch”, Maurice says, “I don’t know how any of the guys can catch these.”
“Gamal wants me to -- UNHH! -- shoot three balls, and make it one out of three.” This time she grunted out a straight fastball. Tom was expecting a curveball and jumped to the side when he should have stayed where he was. Once again a gritty ball is flipped to Sandy, who is sitting on the other well, over a bucket of water with about twenty balls floating on the surface. She does the counting; Patty wants to do fifty pitches, which takes about twenty minutes.
Georgina is there, and Sam and Delores and the gang from the front row at Advanced Placement Biology, taught by Mr. Barker, who last week had the strange experience of hearing Patty volunteer an answer about the enervation of the anal sphincter. Besides admiring the achievements of Patty’s vagina, they also are admiring her body. No one else’s is on display, of course, but it’s an unspoken certainty that hers is the best in the school. As she shoots a curveball at Kenny they see the workings of her abdominals and her hard, concave tummy; the flexing of her leg muscles; the curling of her rough toes around the knobs. Tom thinks she might be “telegraphing” her pitches; her big toes point inward when she’s throwing a curve, but her pinky toes point in for a screwball. Above, her breasts are tight and red in the cold air, her nipples stiff and poking out at them. How does she stand it, being naked outside on a day like this? No one really asks the question any more. Patty is a tough girl. Also practical. Yesterday everyone tromped around the school miserably in wet clothes and shoes, after coming in through that morning downpour. The sleek, wet bare body of their friend, who doesn’t even use an umbrella, waltzed in lightly on unburdened bare feet. She plopped her wet butt onto the chair behind her desk in first-period History and by the end of the period was totally dry. Bare skin dries swiftly.
“UNNH!” Her grunts echo off the surrounding school walls, and can be heard from inside the school, if you’re in an abutting classroom with no one talking. She can be seen through the windows but they’ve gotten used to the sight.
“One out of three?” Sandy says.
“Yes -- he’s a real asshole. ‘You’re not’ -- UNHH! -- ‘being fair’, he says. ‘No one catches them any more.’”
“They should give you more than twenty for each ball,” Kenny says, having wiped his jacket off after tripping over some kind of dead plant.
“I told him just make the guys sit back more. If they -- UNHH! -- move that pool table they can go back twenty feet. Jerry and I measured it last week.” Jerry is Kenny’s uncle. “I’ll still win, of course.” Of that, there is no doubt.
Rajiv, a new kid at the school, shy, ventures a request. “Patty, can you untie and tie my shoes?”
“Not now, my toes are too cold.” Sensing she might have hurt his feelings, she adds, “Later -- UNHH! -- okay? After -- English.” Which is their second-to-last class. When she’s asked to tie shoes with her toes it tends to draw a crowd. Usually it’s before the bell rings, sitting back on top of a desk, knees apart. She can also do buttons and zippers. With her toes the naked girl can clothe the world.
“I saw Kathy’s new dress at church,” Sioban says. “Bright pink! She looked like a little princess.”
“Thanks -- it cost -- UNHH! -- sixty dollars.” And now, having fooled Lawanda with a screwball, Patty pops another one in, turns her pelvis, lifts her butt off the concrete, and aims at the window of Mr. Barker’s freshman biology class, forty feet away. She carefully shoots at a 45-degree angle, which they learned in calculus yesterday maximizes distance. The ball softly taps against the window, causing Mr. Barker to turn. It’s not an insult but an affectionate way of saying “hi” and a show of support. He had a story to tell in the booth on Saturday; it doesn’t look like his marriage will last much longer. The man and the naked girl, separated by gender and age and the possession of clothes and shoes and marital status and a great difference in the things they worry about, and also separated by a window and about fifty feet, exchange a little smile.
“You can shoot farther now,” Tom observes, having gone to the window to retrieve the ball.
“Thanks -- UNHH! . . . How many is that?”
“Forty-four,” Sandy says.
“I think all those orgasms are improving your muscle tone,” Kenny says.
“Ha!” It is Sioban, rejoicing at catching number forty-five. This makes seven catches, three by her. It’s a funny thing, when it comes to catching ping pong balls shot out of a vagina, girls do better than boys.
“I hate to admit it but -- UNHH -- I think you’re right.”
The readout now measures not only number of orgasms but total contractions. The University is now three weeks into the new “regimen” and last Wednesday Patty exceeded 100 contractions for the first time.
“Number eight, yesterday, that was amazing,” Maurice says. “I thought you were going to fall off the pedestal.”
“Yeah, that was --- UNHH! -- bad. I almost passed out.”
“I think that’s why they increased the size of the insertion detectors,” Sandy says. They have all learned to use the proper terminology. “To make her body more, uh, stable.”
“I still hate it -- UNHH! It’s like riding two goddamn baseball -- bats.”
Tom catches number forty-nine, a weak lob, and Jill number fifty, a pop fly. Patty is finally getting winded. Now she brings her legs together, catches her breath, and stuffs the last of the pizza into her mouth. The bells ring and the kids go back into the school, lugging their bookbags, Patty behind the rest, shaking out her legs as she walks. Tomorrow she will be a little sore in places no other girl gets sore. The bucket of ping pong balls stays outside.
“Look at that car!!” George McHenry, waxing the hood, looks around. He recognizes the voice, piercing through the cold clear air, but not whence it comes. “Up here!” He smiles at the naked girl up on the roof across the street.
“Like it?” McHenry, age 40, got a promotion and decided to celebrate with a new Hyundai.
“Wait till the birds poop on it!” Patty says. They both laugh.
Patty is sitting her bare butt on the remains of the old shingles, expertly pounding in the stack of new ones she bought at Roger’s hardware store. Left-handed whacks with the hammer onto the broad-headed roofing nails are perfectly timed as she places each new shingle, two whacks per nail, two nails per shingle. These are galvanized, not like the old ones. With a tough bare heel she kicks away the old shingles as they fall to the side of the house.
Mrs. Turner, the tenant downstairs, sticks her head out the window. “Patty I didn’t think you’d be doing this so early!” It’s 8:15 a.m. on a Sunday.
“I’m sorry . . . I can do this later.” She has to get the kids ready for Mass anyway. And clean herself up too. “Thanks for the soup yesterday.” Mrs. Turner waves and her head disappears. Patty stands up and her hands riffle through her pubic hair, freeing all those specks of disintegrated asphalt. To get up here she had to shimmy up the brickface over the dormer, so there are scratches on her breasts and tummy and thighs.
Now she ascends with careful toe-grips up to the peak. Patty “respects” heights but is not afraid of them. She stands up atop the old house and breathes deeply, looking up at the blue sky. From here she can see all the way to downtown. She counts the steeples; there are twelve churches that she can see, including St. Joseph’s, where she will be in about two hours, in their favorite pew near the back. She smiles, hammer still in hand. Things have been turning out o.k. and she feels like there is nothing she can’t do.