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Tami at The Hot Spot (San Francisco)

  She wished she hadn’t left her diary with the rest of her things at Terri’s place in Vermont; she wanted to look forward to having a private place tonight where she could write down and vent the shame she was feeling now.  Dragging a gaggle of gawkers behind her, being stared at from every direction, occasionally complimented and once in a while whistled at, the naked girl stopped just before reaching for the door of the Hot Spot.  She would be glad to be off the street, away from the gaze of the multitudes.  But who would be inside this place?  A sleazy sex toy shop.  Ewwww.  The 18-year-old girl knew she’d feel like taking a shower just after stepping into this place.  Preparing to meet the stares of filthy old men, she gulped and opened the door.  Fortunately none of the gawkers came in with her.


        And there she stood, just inside the door, motionless as her wondering eyes took in the scene.  The place was well-lit and done over in beige.  A couple of bookshelves, and a table with a well-organized display of dozens of vibrators on it.  Some affluent-looking women in business suits were picking up a couple of them and holding them against their hands, turning them on to find out how they buzzed.  It looked like the perfume counter at a classy department store.  Trolling the bookshelves were a couple of college-age kids, maybe a few years older than her.  Not a man in sight.  Soft new age-y type music was being piped in.  Behind the counter, a smiling girl with a shaved head and an eyebrow ring was ringing up a book for a woman who looked like someone’s grandmother.


        In a moment all of the customers were looking with wonder and admiration at the naked girl who had just come in.  Tami stood there, her toes sinking into the plush black carpet, not knowing what to do.  She was not prepared for this at all.


        A ruddy-cheeked, jovial woman with quite a few pounds on her came out.  “Tami Smithers!  Miss Tami Smithers!” she said in a raspy, vaguely Irish-sounding voice.  “Look, Marti, she’s here!” Marti was evidently the cashier with the shaved head.  “Miss Smithers, I’m Caroline Dewey, coordinator of the Hot Spot collective.”   As she took Tami’s hand, she said to the customers, “Excuse me, folks, but I can’t contain myself.  This is Tami Smithers, radical nudist, surely the most uninhibited woman in the world.  She has helped test and demonstrate some of the world’s most advanced sexual aids.  And,” she said, still holding Tami’s hand but stepping back a little to look Tami up and down, “quite a sight to see, if you don’t mind my sayin’ so.  I’ve heard it said, by someone who’s seen you, that if I looked like you, I’d go naked all the time as well.”  Despite her life of having shame heaped upon shame, Tami found she still had the capacity for a hot blush that spread over her from head to bare toes as her body was appreciated by the women’s kind but intent gaze.


        The enthusiastic Caroline Dewey led Tami around the store while the customers paused in their browsing to look.  Tami was shown the sexual aids book section, the gay fiction book section, the history of sex book section, and sections on lesbian lovemaking, X-rated films, and sexual health.  Around the walls were posters that were both artful yet sexually explicit.  One caught a brief glimpse of horror from Tami -- a black and white photo of someone’s entire arm, up to the elbow, up inside someone’s butt.  She told herself it must be a trick photo.


        Then the counter with the vibrators.  Tami at first hid her distaste -- her only experience with vibrators had been as an unwilling subject for Chalfont and McMasters -- but then found herself getting a little interested.  These were not sleazy; they were well-made.  Most were not dildo-like, and it took a moment before she figured they must be meant to press against the clit.  The naked girl, who had been roughly buzzed and jangled to hundreds of unwanted orgasms in public, saw that there were subtleties to vibrators that she was not aware of.  Part of her longed to be a clothed person who could enjoy these things in the privacy of her home, maybe in bed at night, in the dark, under the covers, a gentle private buzz.  She took a deep breath.  For now she would settle just for being clothed.


        Under Caroline Dewey’s cheerful maternal gaze, Tami tentatively grasped a big “Magic Wand” vibrator and held it against her palm.  She turned it on; the soft, gentle buzzing made her smile.  Trying to push aside awareness of being totally naked in this place, Tami said, “Very nice .  .  . Mrs. Dewey.”   “Oh!  Don’t call me ‘Mrs.’,” she laughed in her subtle brogue, her whole large body jiggling.  “I used to be a nun, and now in my free life I don’t know if I’ll ever go that married route.  Call me Caroline.”   Still, somehow Tami could only think of this lady as “Mrs.”


        Mrs. Dewey led Tami around and carefully picked a book off the shelf.  “This came in just this week,” she said, opening it carefully.  It was a hardcover called “Techno Orgasm”.  She picked through the crisp, clean pages and pointed out a passage that made Tami’s eyes widen.  It said:


        “Another innovator is Nevada McMasters, whose latest device incorporates not only the ridged dildo noted above, but a second dildo designed to penetrate deep into the rectum.  The subject is carefully strapped in to a semi-chair and the dildos are pistoned alternately via a motor-driven cam under the platform.  The rear dildo, aside from providing its own stimulation, acts to stabilize the subject, whose ankles and hands must also be secured to the sides.  As if this were not enough, the diabolical McMasters has devised bristly suction cups to be worn over the nipples; suction is applied through tubes connected to a suction pump driven by the same cam.  The result is a coordinated stimulation of all the female erogenous zones.  With the help of a “radical nudist”, Tami Smithers, who has an apparently unbounded sexual capacity, McMasters has refined this machine until it has become the preeminent device of its type.  In one session lasting just over four hours, Smithers achieved 136 verified orgasms, most of them of longer duration than normal.  This writer has seen a tape of that session and it has to be seen to be believed.”


        Under this text was a black-and-white picture showing the slender body of a nude female on a little platform, jerking forward while on the machine.  Standing close around, looking up at her, were three men in lab coats, whom Tami recognized as McMasters, Brendo and Mr.  Zipkin.  The photo was taken from the side and, thankfully, her face could not be clearly seen, hidden by swinging sweaty hair.  A sheen of sweat was visible all over her body, her suctioned nipples thrusting up and forward, her arms straining in their bonds, one bare foot visible showing the toes flexed and spread against the platform.  Obviously she was in the middle of a volcanic orgasm.


        Tami closed her eyes in shame.  She couldn’t really be recognized in the photo but her name was mentioned in the text.  Now she was in print.  Forever.  And there was a tape of that long session which was being shown to others.  When she got back into clothes again, she wouldn’t be able to pretend this year of nudity and shame never happened, no matter where she went.  Maybe this book wouldn’t sell well and nobody would remember her name .  .  .


        An elegant, old-fashioned fountain pen was placed in front of her.  “Tami, I hope you don’t mind if I call you that.  .  .  I can see what they say is true, you’re very modest.  But we are all very much honored that you are here.  We’ll keep this copy in the back in our book museum.  Could you .  .  .  please .  .  .?”  Shown the frontispiece of the book, Tami realized that she was being asked to sign it.  Being asked for her autograph, an autograph that would turn this book into a display item, an heirloom of the Hot Spot.


        The naked girl’s eyes became wet in a welter of emotions that were too complicated to sort out.  She switched hands and poised the pen above the paper, trying to think of how to sign.  She felt nothing but kind regard for this affectionate woman, and part of her longed to be the uninhibited, strong girl she took her to be.  Though an undeserving one, she was a hero to these folks.  Finally she decided to write, “Love, Tami Smithers”.  Yes, “Love” was the right word.  She was full of love and had gotten much love in return, albeit from people who did not understand.  She wrote carefully.  She had tried a fountain pen once in high school and quickly gave it up; for a left-handed person smearing the ink seemed impossible to avoid.  She arched her hand carefully over the page.  Fortunately the signature came out fine.


        Mrs. Dewey said, “Thank you dear,” in a warm motherly voice, then carrying the book open so that the ink could dry, she led Tami to the back of the store.


        It was warm, tiny, cozy, reminding her of the coffeehouse Terri had taken her to on campus last winter, or maybe Professor Congi’s office.  A little stove supported a teapot.  Off to the side were jars of flavored instant coffee.  Soft, ancient, comfy couches.  Pictures of friends, posters of concerts.  A bulletin board with various notices of nearby concerts, parties -- what is a “Jack and Jill” party, Tami wondered -- and people needing apartment-mates.  Sitting cross-legged on the couch was a barefoot girl in ripped jeans and a halter top, reading a book called “Tales of the Tail” which had a picture of a woman’s bare butt on the cover.  She wore thick-rimmed glasses and had long, green-tinted hair and blue lipstick.  She looked up and broke into a wide smile.  “Wow!”


        Standing practically on top of her in the tiny room, Tami felt every inch of her nakedness as this girl looked her over.  Soon, it seemed, everybody on the planet would know every inch of her body.  “Tami, this is also Tami.  This is our manager and one of your biggest fans.”


        “Call me Tamara, to avoid confusion,” the green-haired girl said, taking Tami’s hand in hers.  “It is so -- I just can’t -- ” She was finding it hard to get words out in the midst of her worshipful babbling.


        Mrs. Dewey smiled.  “Well Tami, to get business out of the way, what did Nev want?  He called a few minutes ago and said he was sending you alone because he’s having trouble with that old jalopy of his.”


        Yet another shameful thing to do.  The naked girl wished she had forgotten but the memory was too clear in her mind.  “I need -- a -- anal -- clit buzzer.”   She regretted her choice of words immediately.  It sounded like, here she was, walking naked into a sex toy shop with the desire to be buzzed in the butthole and clit.


        “Right,” Mrs. Dewey said.  She gave Tami a little plastic bag, for which Tami found herself thankful.  Finally her hands had something to do.  In a way it was a kind of covering -- once again, the naked girl was pathetically trying to conjure the idea of “covering” from the slightest of connotations.


        “Wow,” Tamara said again.  She closed her book and brought her knees together as if bashful.  “One hundred and thirty six orgasms.  .  .”   She shook her head.  “That must be the most pleasure any person ever got, physically, I mean.  You are so lucky!”


        Tami smiled, not knowing how to respond.  Mrs. Dewey rescued this awkward moment of silence.  “She autographed ‘Techno Orgasm’ for us.”


        “Yes, we have to give it pride of place,” Tamara said, hopping up and placing the book, still open to Tami’s signature, on a shelf next to some pictures.  “Tami -- can we take your picture?”  Of course Tami couldn’t refuse, in fact she was flattered and a little proud of being held in such high regard by kind-hearted and open-minded people, such a different world from the closed, conservative atmosphere she had grown up in.  Professor Congi had once told Tami that she was “the woman of the future” -- to Tami, it was people like Mrs. Dewey, a former nun no less, who were the true brave pioneers.


        The self-actuated camera flashed in the faces of the three women, the naked one in the center, and they all saw purple dots for a few seconds until Mrs. Dewey said, “Tami, I’d like to show you something.”   She took Tami by the hand to a door in the back.  Inside was a small black room, apparently soundproofed with all the surfaces carpeted.  There was a couch and a little recessed shelf but it was hard to tell at first, the room was so dark.  Some of the soft music from the front of the store was piped in here too.  When Mrs. Dewey turned on the light Tami saw, to her utter dismay, a little saddle-looking thing on the floor, with two dildos sticking up from it and a couple of dials mounted to the side.  “This is called the Saddle Mate, it was the most advanced sexual aid before Nevada came up with his ‘Total Lover’ that you know so well.  We keep this one for sentimental reasons; we’ve had it almost since the store was opened in 1988.”   Tami knew where this conversation was going.  Mrs. Dewey bent down to the dials.  “I’m sure you know where these two things go .  .  .  there’s also a little knob in front for, well, you know where.”


        Mrs. Dewey’s back was turned as she twisted the dials; she didn’t see Tami’s legs flinch as the front dildo started vibrating and the rear dildo rotated quickly in a tight little circle.  “We have a nickname for it.  The obvious one.  ‘Flicka.’“ In spite of herself Tami smiled when she got the pun.  Then Mrs. Dewey put a hand on Tami’s bare shoulder and said, “People probably think you’re always horny, because of who you are and what you’ve accomplished.  So you can just relax here if you want, or maybe try some of these items on the shelf.”   Tami could see a line of ten or so vibrators of various shapes and types on the inlaid shelf, next to a carved wooden box holding tissues, a few tubes of lubricant, and a bottle of rubbing alcohol.  “But we felt the best hospitality we could give you was to offer you a ride on Flicka.  If you want.  Take your time.  Relax afterwards if you want.  We’re open until 7 o’clock.”


        Tami watched her close the door and say good-bye.  The naked girl sat down cross-legged on the floor, feeling the black carpet tickle her butthole and bare pussy lips, and contemplated the Saddle Mate.  The leather was well-worn, so were the dials, but the dildos were new and clean, no doubt recently gone over with the alcohol.  She found herself fiddling with them; they could be detached by being unscrewed.  Then she looked back at the door.  Closed.  No one watching.  She was alone in this still, private room.


        With a sigh she realized she was a little horny.  It had been six hours or so since her last “session” with that awful retainer and bristle bra; the experiments done on her had increased her sexual metabolism such that she was ready again.  Yet here was a chance to treat herself to unharassed, gentle, private orgasms.


        Though she would have recoiled at the idea a year ago -- along with the idea of being naked -- Tami found herself grateful as she applied the lubricant and gently lowered herself onto the twin dildos.  As she turned the dials to the lowest setting she said, “Mmmmm .  .  .  “ It felt so good.  She found herself praying:


        Thank you God, for this chance to enjoy my body for myself alone.


        She didn’t know it, but she was repeating the saying of an early feminist which was posted up front in the store.  She turned up the dial and was cresting within seconds.  “Oh .  .  . yes .  .  .”   she murmured.  “Yes .  .  .  God.  .  .  th - thank you .  .  .  mmmmm .  .  .  yes .  .  .  oh God .  .  . oh Rod .  .  .”  She turned the dials down and relaxed, catching her breath, sweating a little.  Then, being Tami, she cranked the dials and starting working up to another orgasm.  Then she did it again.  And again .  .  .


        The light hitting her face finally woke her up.  She was spread out on the couch, one bare foot way up on top, the other touching the floor.  The air caused by the swinging door curled up way inside her and she knew her pussy lips were wide open.  Standing in front of her were Mrs. Dewey, Tamara, and a couple of other women.  “Wake up, sleepy head,” Mrs. Dewey said, as if talking sweetly to her own daughter.


        Tami stretched like a cat and smiled and deep, contented smile.  “Mmmmm.  .  .  that was good.”   She felt no need to close her legs, feeling content to be open and on display before her admirers.  It was just her station in life, a princess whose role in her kingdom was to be always naked and brought to orgasms, nice work if you can get it.  Mmmmmm .  .  .  Stretching again, she said, “Closing time already?”


        Mrs. Dewey laughed gently.  “It’s been five hours, child.”   Tami groggily got up, then teetered on her feet as if drunk, much to everyone’s amusement.  “Whoops .  .  .”   With a hug to each, the naked girl staggered out of the room.  “Don’t forget this, hero,” Tamara said, giving her the anal clit buzzer in its discreet plastic bag.  Happy and relaxed and giddy from the relief of eight long, private, beautiful orgasms, the naked girl strolled through the darkened store and went out into the street.

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