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Grand Marshal, St. Patrick’s Day Parade

The atmosphere in the crowded dining room was electric.


        The seven onlookers stood around the seated, slightly overweight figure of Mayree, Tami and Rod’s old friend, back in town for the St.  Patrick’s Day weekend.  Mayree’s husband Brad, tall and dark and silent as always, stood behind her, watching what she was doing with a quizzical interest.  As was Rod.  Not so quizzical was the interest of Georgene, Spica, Melissa and Jeane, their eyes glued to what was on the edge of the table, the brightly-lit, widely-spread crotch of Tami Smithers as she lay on her back.


        “Ow!” their always-naked friend said.


        “Stop jerking!” Mayree admonished, readjusting her sweatshirt, shifting in her jeans as she leaned forward in concentration.


        “Zhhh,” Tami said next, suppressing all motion, yet somehow giving the impression she was about to laugh.


        The track lighting, like all eyes, was trained on Tami’s partly green, partly reddish pubic hair, so bright that everyone could see each hair casting its own shadow.  Peering closely through the bottoms of her bifocals, Mayree worked carefully with tweezers and swabs on what was turning into a hair-by-hair de-greening of Tami’s lower hair.  The smell of polish remover competed with the smell of Tami’s musk to give the air a unique pungency.


        This uncomfortable procedure was necessary unless Tami was to wait two months or so, up past graduation, for the green to grow out.  The head hair was easy: Mayree, yesterday morning, had henna’d it, and Tami had shampooed it out an hour ago.  But her lower hair -- “Tam, your shorties are as nappy as mine” -- had required the more permanent stuff.  Which needed special care to remove.


        Two of the TL’s, Melissa and Jeane, helped by holding Tami’s feet back and out so as to maximize the outstretching of her limber, gymnast’s legs.  Jeane’s interest in Tami’s crotch alternated with her interest in the toes cradled in her hands.  She badly wanted to suck them, from “Hester” (her name for her Queen’s right pinky toe) on up to “Hera” (the big toe), but held off.

        “Ow!  Christ, that hurts!” Tami said, once again almost giggling as if at her own stupidity.


        That hair was right near her left lip.  Having stretched it out to its greatest extent with the tweezer, Mayree wet the swab in the solution in the little cup next to her and dabbed the hair down to the root.  Which then stung.


        They had been like this, Mayree, Tami, and their rapt audience, for twenty minutes.  They watched as Mayree now spread and inspected Tami’s lips clinically, well apart and wet, in the bright lighting.  They could see inside too, into her pink cave.  Now Mayree pulled the hairs on the sides near the thighs as Tami cringed and tried not to cry out.


        “OH!  Shit!” Tami said.


        “Sorry,” Mayree said, examining the hair that she had yanked entirely out.  She set it down carefully to the intense interest of the TL’s who looked at it like a religious relic.  “I think that one’s time had just about come anyway.”

        A few more yanks and stings and Mayree seemed satisfied.  Now: “Turn over, I’ve got to get the ones down near your winkie.”  Mayree had listened patiently to the TL’s enthuse over lunch in front of the blushing Tami, and had decided to humor them by adopting some of their terminology.


        As her husband and friends watched, Tami exhaled and lethargically rolled over.  They were the motions of a woman with a heavy pelvic area, congested with the fluids of sexual desire, an inevitable outcome of Mayree’s ministrations, and the fact that she hadn’t had an orgasm since the three that Rod had given her upon awakening that morning.


        Tami got on all fours and then lay her head down on her crossed hands.  She stuck her butt out, legs spread so that her anus was clearly visible.  As Mayree began pulling the hairs on the perineum one by one, Tami’s toes wiggled and her anus twitched, signs of her frustration.  Then another “Ow!”


        “I’d love to lick her right now,” Spica said, smacking her lips, though whether it was Tami’s pussy or anus she was looking at was unclear.

        “No licking!” Mayree said firmly.  “Not for two hours at least.  You don’t want this remover in your mouth.”


        “Two hours!” Spica said.


        “That’s how long it takes to dry.”


        “You can have some too,” Spica said, as if Tami was a pie that the TL’s didn’t mind sharing.


        As she swabbed another hair, Mayree said, “Not me.  I’m no funny bunny.”  A stern face that dissolved into a tolerant smile.  Like most of Tami’s old friends, Mayree found the TL’s quaint and amusing, like eager kids.


        This was a female affair so Rod and Brad decided to retreat and sit on the couch.  As Rod watched from across the room, Tami’s butt sticking into the girls’ faces, he thought of her decision to “go green” for the parade yesterday.  At first she was afraid it might be undignified.  The grand marshals of previous years were always old professors or some other eminent personages.  But then she decided that after all, her hair was her only clothes, and “One has to wear green, right?” And then she set things up with Mayree, who had done such a wonderful job on her on Tami and Rod’s first date, the Black Formal, so long ago.


        While Tami was gathering with the rest of the marchers yesterday Rod had lunch with Brad and Mayree, up from Boston, catching up on each other’s lives, then the three of them had stationed themselves midway down the route.  Campbell was a small town, largely an appendage of the college, and it seemed like every single person was out along Main Street.  He wished the weather was a bit better.  A damp, chilly day, the kind where the cold dampness just pierces right through you.  Impossible to stay warm even in an overcoat and scarf, especially when standing waiting.  And then a flurry began, wet early-spring flakes that looked as big as marshmallows.

        The street was cleared and the sound of drums and horns told them the parade was nearing.  Sure enough Tami was leading.  She had been given the option of standing up in a float but had decided to just walk.  As he knew well by now, feeling the earth against her bare feet gave her confidence and energy.


        She plied the big marshal’s stick in her hand, using it as a walking stick, as she paced carefully but proudly all alone in front, her bareness totally on view, wearing her nakedness as if it was the most resplendent outfit in the parade.  Her hair was green and shiny, one of Mayree’s masterpieces, dancing as she walked, framing her beautiful face and being the same shade of green as her eyes.  The big snowflakes stuck to it like God was adding his own highlights to Mayree’s handiwork.


        Green sparkles were over the tops of her breasts, and down below on her concave tummy.  Her green pubic hair was abundant, teased out and fluffy, as carefully done up as the hair on her head, and catching its share of snowflakes too.  Green was also the color of her fingernails and toenails.


        What was most striking was her bearing.  Her feet paced the wet asphalt with the well-bred gait of royalty.  And her smile and her wave to the crowds.  She was like a good-natured and popular queen “doing my queen thing” with aplomb but also a good dose of whimsy.

        And the cheering.


        Everyone knew Tami, of course, and every single person whistled and applauded as she passed.  It made Rod, once again, proud to be hers.  And then he felt himself privileged as she saw him and ran over, giving him a big kiss and hug, before scampering back out to the middle of the street to continue her queenly duties, her breasts bouncing into place.


        Now she went on and Rod and Brad and Mayree found themselves looking at the Mayor’s float, then the firemen, then the high school band, the majorettes in long-sleeved leotards and protected from the cold by what looked like three layers of black tights.


        Their last glimpse of Tami made them laugh once again.  As her bare buns retreated from them they could see the green shamrocks painted in the exact center of each, jiggling very slightly with the motions of her tight glutes.  “Good work, Mayree,” Rod said with a chuckle.  “Fine job,” Brad said, giving Mayree a kiss.


        Later the three of them went to Scholar’s with half the rest of the town and watched Tami drink buckets of green beer, tie and untie about a dozen pairs of shoes with her toes, and give an only partly off-key rendition of “When Irish Eyes Are Smiling” while standing on top of the bar.  They drank too but could not keep pace with their naked companion.  By then it was dark, and he had to prop her up as she staggered through the slush back to the house.


        As she fell face-down onto the bed and immediately started snoring, Rod contemplated her flushed nakedness, her slush-crusted soles, the now-smudged shamrocks, the disheveled green hair, with a mixture of joy and sadness.  Tami Smithers had a happy, happy life.  She was the most popular person in town.  And yet it could not last...


        Rod shook himself into the here and now as he heard Tami squeal and watched Mayree pull on and swab the last of the pubic hairs.  No green left, Tami’s lower hair was now back to its natural dark red.  Her horniness was palpable.  Her butt up in the air, the anus twitching, the lips below moist with arousal, the toes squirming.  Rod felt his dick stirring and wished he could shoo everyone away so he could thrust in deep.  Brad and Mayree had to get going for Boston momentarily anyway.  Unfortunately he and Tami had invited the TL’s for a reason.  This was to be their “Tami-thon” afternoon.


        The wait enforced by the polish remover procedure was something no one had planned on, though.


        “Two hours!” Spica said again, like an outraged, spoiled child.


        “Two . . . hours!” Mayree repeated sternly.


        The TL’s, who seemed to act in telepathic concert, took seats at the table, looking up at Tami from every angle.  Between the four of them, they held her hands and her feet.  Tami exhaled a ragged breath.  Her head still down, she said, “Sorry guys.”

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