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shaved -- III (or, Tami gets to wear clothes!)

McMasters was very helpful with the next step. “Here, let me show you,” he said, as he brought together the velcro straps on one hip. Tami tightened them on the other side. Then McMasters took her hand and helped her down. Tami was not unaware of the significance of this event. She felt straps around her hips, like the long-ago feel of bikini panties, and her pussy and butthole were covered. For the first time in months, she was actually wearing a scrap of clothing! Not very much, of course -- little straps across her hips, a thong-like strap running into her butt crack, and the panties stopped way below her navel, showing her hip bones, covering just her clit and not much more. Still, it was like clothes. But she was not able to enjoy this moment as she had hoped. Because as soon as she stood up she felt weak in the knees. The twin dildos filling up her pelvis were almost debilitating her with sexual stimulation. Especially the knob on her clit. And there was that rough gritty material between her pussy and her butthole. She couldn’t help it. She moaned and bent down, hands on her knees. “Ohhhh . . . Oh God . . . ” This was not worth it, she quickly decided. These panties might be clothes but they were worse than being naked. She was thinking, “Take these off!! Get me out of these!!” They were horrid. Every little movement was like getting fucked in both holes, like being stimulated all over. To stand there wearing this thing, with people looking at her and knowing she had a dildo up her butt and another in her pussy and was being turned on against her will . . . she closed her eyes and longed for being simply naked and left alone. She exhaled and stood up, her body jerking slightly with unwelcome pleasure as the knob shifted a fraction of an inch over her clit. She looked with fear in her eyes as McMasters brought over the bristle bra. “Now this,” he said. She had almost forgotten those once-familiar movements of her arms, bringing bra straps up around her shoulders, around her back. This bra attached in the front. She clasped it on, the bristles scraping over her nipples, and told herself: For the first time in months I’m wearing a bra. Not much of a bra -- the little black cups, with strange little protruding knobs, were only about three inches across, covering only her nipples and the brown areolas and very little more. “Now let’s adjust the cups,” McMasters said, and he slowly twisted the little knob over each nipple. They were clamps of some kind. The no-longer-naked girl inhaled and gasped as the bristles tightened over her nipples, squeezing them. Finally when the bristles were almost at the point of poking into her, McMasters pulled on each cup, stretching the nipple a bit away from the breast, and decided they were on tight enough. Tami felt about to cry. This bra was even more horrid than the panties. It felt like her nipples were being encased in steel wool, some horrid itchy rough material that she couldn’t get away from. She gulped and began taking deep breaths, her face flushed. Dr. Harridance, who had been watching the attachment of these devices from afar, looked at his watch. “Well Tami, it looks like this invention is having its desired effect. All in the name of science, you know. Have a good time. Getting paid for it, too!” he said in his amiable way. “Gotta go. Remember, watch out for this guy!” he said with a smile, pointing to McMasters as he left. Tami didn’t want Harridance to leave. She trusted him and his easy manner and was uneasy and afraid with McMasters. She watched the door close and then looked at him with trepidation. “Well,” McMasters said, “how does it feel?” Tami didn’t know what to say. Finally, she said, “Weird.” “That’s what we expected. You really are a most fortunate young woman,” he said, which made her want to scream. Then, to her surprise, he took what looked like a remote control out of his pocket and pressed a button. Tami heard a quick, low beep. It reminded her of when she had a hearing test in high school and she had to put on headphones and there was a low note in one ear, then the other. Then she heard another low beep. “A new refinement, put in only a few days ago,” McMasters said. “The beeps reflect your level of arousal. Orgasm is a steady tone. And here -- ” he pointed down to a spot in the middle of the panties, “is a counter.” Tami looked down. There was a little electronic display at the top of the panties, right over where it covered her clit. The lit number was clearly visible. “0”. She knew what it meant immediately. Another orgasm counter, in full view for everyone to see. She closed her eyes and prayed. Please God, get me through this . . . “Now, Miss Smithers,” McMasters said in a strong voice, “let’s try this out.” He opened up another door and Tami saw sunlight and felt fresh air. The door led out to a long garden-like area with a path down the center and a small fountain at the end, maybe a hundred feet away. A very pleasant place, with benches here and there, to relax between classes, at least for a person in average circumstances. Gasping with each step, trying hard to smother her arousal, Tami followed McMasters’s lead until they were out on the beginning of the concrete path. Mr. Zipkin stood behind. Tami took a deep breath of the fresh air. It was good at least to be out of that antiseptic lab environment, but . . . “I’d like you to walk out to that fountain, go around it, and then come back. Try to keep a steady, relaxed pace. No matter what you’re feeling,” McMasters said with an air of firmness. Her eyes wet, knowing what was bound to happen, Tami took a breath and started with uneasy barefoot steps down the path. And was immediately attacked by a swarm of horrid sensations. It was like being stung by bees, licked by tongues, sucked, fucked . . . her clit, her pussy, her nipples, the dildo in her butt like a huge prod pushing her into a rasping noisy riot of intense stimulation she could not escape. The little beeps came at quicker intervals. She tried to hold her breath, holding in her gasps, but after about twenty feet breath exploded from her in a load moan. She looked back for a second, her face etched with fear, and saw that McMasters and Zipkin were staying at the doorway. Glad she was getting farther away from them, she turned ahead and permitted her moans to build, until they were rhythmically pulsing with each tortured step. “Ohhh . . . oh - ohhh . . . oh - ohhh . . .” The beeps, getting faster and faster, only served to remind her of her increasing arousal and spurred her on, in the best tradition of biofeedback. Finally as she approached the fountain she cried out, trying to pray in the crisis of orgasm. “Oh God please -- p - please -- pleease -- . . .” Her steps faltered but she remembered what her instructions were and kept going. The beeps were now an unbroken tone, just like McMasters said. As she rounded the fountain she had to lean onto it a couple of times to keep from falling over. The orgasm spent itself and the beeps slowed down and she longed to take this horrid outfit off, lie down and rest, but knew she could not. The walk back was worse because she had to face her tormentors. With a superhuman effort that turned her face red and caused the veins to bulge out on her neck she kept her arousal down until she was two-thirds of the way back. But the quickening beeps gave lie to her efforts. The second orgasm announced itself to her audience by the bugging out of her eyes as the girl gazed forward with an unearthly stare, rhythmic spasms causing her legs to splay to the side, pitch forward, then bend over, arms swinging wildly, her ragged gait bringing her closer and closer to the watching men, who listened as the steady low tone got nearer and nearer. Wave after wave assaulted her body and then she found herself standing right in front of McMasters and Zipkin, sweating, her eyes crazy, jolting again and again with the last spasms, until she caught her breath and wailed, covering her eyes, tears running down her cheeks, crumpling down on the concrete. “Oh God . . . oh please . . . no . . . no more . . .”

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