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Tami’s prayers

Not moving to cover herself was getting to be a strain. Tami gritted her teeth and clenched her fists as they hung by her sides. She closed her eyes and faced upward. Tami had never been particularly religious, but recently she had liked the idea that there was a God who looked over her and would take care of her through this ordeal of public nudity. Standing in front of the busy supermarket on this sub-freezing winter day, the naked teenage girl prayed silently but fervently.

Please God, give me clothes.

If I can’t have clothes, please give me the strength to get through this.

A few minutes went by. Tami was starting to shiver. A cloud then blocked the sun and a breeze kicked up and suddenly she was much colder. To warm herself she squatted down, closed her legs, and hugged her breasts. She then realized that this was not working.

There was only one thing to do. She turned and shot back into Top Food, running past the assistant manager, who said “Hey!!” He started to follow her but she was too fast for him. She ran through the aisles and found Rebecca in front of where the rice was. Rebecca was already looking up when Tami came. “I heard bare feet slapping and knew it had to be you. . .”


. . . .


When the naked girl remembered where she was, she found herself hunched into a squatting ball in front of the bathroom mirror, the towel wrapped around her shoulders and knees. Her eyes were wet and a tear had dropped onto the cold tile floor next to her big toe. Good God, here I am cowering alone in my own bathroom. She stood up and took a deep breath. I must be strong.

The naked girl turned the light off. The fluorescent buzzing stopped and in the dark there was absolute silence. She then did something which she had recently found herself doing every morning. Tilting her head upwards, eyes closed, she extended her arms up and out and prayed. The prayer had become standardized by now but was not any less hearfelt. It had two parts.


1. Please God, give me clothes.

2. If I can’t have clothes, give me the strength to get through whatever awaits me today.

After another deep breath in and out, Tami turned on the light and looked at her trimmed pussy one final time. She decided to let her hair grow out. It will look weird for a while, but in a month when school starts again it should be all grown out like before. Turning to the bathtub, she turned the shower on, stepped in, and reached for the shampoo.


. . . .


The unusual play of muscles, tightened and relaxed, in various parts of Miss Smithers’s body occupied the class’s attention. The scraping of pencils on paper was the only sound in the room as everyone worked industriously. Some of the young community college kids even came up to sit down right in front of the pedestal with their pads, looking up for a close view, some from the rear but most in front, heads nodding up and down as their gaze went from the model to the pad and back again. As for me, I tried my best with my meager drawing ability. It was fascinating to try to capture the lines of the muscles on Miss Smithers’s buttocks, her back, her legs, and her arms. It was easy to see that with a dedicated nudist as a model this class could cover a lot more ground than if poses were strictly circumscribed by the typical model’s sense of modesty.

The hour was winding down and students could be heard out in the hallways heading for their 9:00 classes. No doubt the sight they were presented with as they passed by the door was arresting and unusual. Several stopped by to look in from the doorway. The Professor did nothing to discourage this impromptu audience, after all these were art students too.

As for Miss Smithers herself, I noticed that she maintained the same serious expression, at first looking up at the toes of her upraised foot, which she wiggled occasionally. Then she closed her eyes as if pained by something. She kept her eyes closed, her brow furrowed. It was a moment before I recognized the look on her face. She was praying! So there was some meditation attached to her type of religion, and she was taking advantage of these moments of stillness to engage in it. This was interesting. The intensity of her concentration impressed me, as the furrow in her brow increased. When, after a few all-too-short minutes, the Professor announced the end of the class and told Miss Smithers to come down, the young lady’s eyes opened and I could see that they were a little wet and red. Such is what happens sometimes when a devout person has an intense, fulfilling prayer that has provided insight and regeneration.


. . . .


During this time Tami had her head down in thankfulness and could feel tears starting in her eyes. She struggled to keep her voice even. The conversation wound down as they made various small talk.

Finally, Tami asked a question that brought such emotions to the surface that her voice almost broke. “I’m new up here. Do the summers get cold at night?” The naked teenager sniffed back the tears as she said, “What -- what kind of clothes should I bring?”

“Well, around the end of July the nights start getting pretty cold. You’d better bring your heavy coat and lots of sweaters. Gloves too, and heavy socks. People get surprised their first summer up here.”

Tami said good-bye and hung up. She looked down past her weather-toughened, permanently erect nipples, to her bushy, windblown pubic hair, down to her gritty, hard bare feet. Then she felt the tears rolling down her cheeks and looked up. She didn’t have to get expelled, she didn’t have to lose her friends. For months she had been saying the same daily prayer: Please God, give me clothes. She didn’t think it would ever happen. There were thirty-one days ahead before the end of finals. Many ordeals lay ahead in those thirty-one days. But now she knew she could get through them because she finally had something to look forward to. She had a summer job in another town where she could wear clothes and no one would know.

God had answered her prayer.


. . . .


These orgasms, most of them unwanted, had awakened in her a ferocious libido, a hungry need that she walked around with. If she didn’t have a bunch of orgasms every day, she would get antsy. Though she had had no problem in her past life with diddling herself -- she used to do it maybe every couple of weeks -- to give in to the urge now would be admitting to defeat, admitting to the effectiveness of the college’s organized campaign to turn her into a sex monster of some kind as a way of humiliating and shaming her. God, what am I turning into? She wanted to stay the way she was before . . . a modest, ordinary girl who wore clothes like everyone else . . . She knew that seeing her pussy lips on full view, unhidden by any pubic hair, prominent and proud and seemingly always a little bit open -- only served to make her hornier. And with no clothes in the way, that horniness was so much easier to take care of. Please God, give me clothes . . . I know it’s just 17 days but I can’t wait . . . with clothes on I could take my mind off this . . . The naked girl closed her eyes and turned her face up to the ceiling, taking another ragged breath, her toes gripping and ungripping the hard tile floor, her hands grabbing the back of the chair with white knuckles. She even wished she was tied up so that her hands could not go to her pussy.


. . . .


Please God, I love the feel of nature on my skin, but I don’t want to be naked any more. Please give me clothes.

Please God, help me plan my escape well. And let it be soon.

Arms stretched out to the rising sun, the naked teenage girl prayed thus, her bare feet planted in the dewy grass, nipples stiff in the cool air, eyes closed, face raised to the blue sky, aware only of the chirping birds.

She put her arms down and opened her eyes, looking at the rising orange ball with a sigh. Time to walk naked through another day. I hope it won’t be as bad as yesterday --

She turned to the motel and froze. There was a guy sitting on the back step of the next room, smiling at her with a missing-tooth smile and polishing a rifle.

Her arms flinched just a bit towards a covering of her breasts, but she got her bearings quickly, suppressing the flinch and continuing to walk to the rear door of her room. She didn’t want him to think she was being impolite by not looking at him; as she got closer she saw he looked about 45, dressed in a hunter’s outfit, his orange hat on a little footstool along with some gun paraphernalia and a lit cigarette poking over the edge. As she looked at his face she realized he was not all that scary. He had a mustache and mussed black hair and he had the same tooth missing as her Uncle Sean had. At first he seemed like a psycho, but now his smile seemed friendly.

“Hi,” Tami said, aware of every inch of her nakedness, feeling the chill and her nervousness raising goose-bumps on her breasts and thighs, the wet dew causing pieces of grass to stick to her toes. She was about to go right to her door when he decided to engage her in conversation.

“Saying a morning prayer?” He had a mild kind of mountain accent. Tami was unfamiliar with such things but it was your standard southern Ohio twang.

She found herself stopping, and noticed he had ceased looking her up and down and was now making eye contact. “Yes . . .” She looked at the rifle. “Going hunting today?”

“Naw, just a turkey shoot,” he said, shining the long barrel in a way which could easily have suggested rubbing a long penis, but didn’t.

“I didn’t know there were wild turkeys around here.”

He chuckled. “We just shoot clay pigeons, there’s no real turkeys. A little sling puts ‘em in the air and we shoot ‘em.”

Tami looked again at the barrel of the rifle, and saw that it had a tiny hole, too small for a bullet. Maybe for BB’s? she guessed.

Looking up from his gun cleaning, he said, “You get up awful early for someone who doesn’t hunt.”

Tami shyly waved her hand back toward the field, her breasts bouncing with her motions, and said, “I -- I don’t like people watching me.” The smile on her face froze as she realized what she had just said. If this guy was a spy she had just given the admission that Wanda and the Dean and Henry Ross had been looking for. She bit her lip, then unbit it. No, please, God, after all I’ve been through, please tell me I didn’t blow everything just now.

She was relieved when the man seemed unaware. But his next words still shook her. “Are you the girl who was changing that tire east of Binghamton yesterday?”

“Y - yes. . . How did you know that?”

“News like that gets around pretty quick on the C.B.,” the man said, putting his gun aside and standing it up against the shingles behind him. “From what I hear you either were in a bad mood, or didn’t want to be naked. Or so it seemed to the guys.” Tami thought: “The guys.” Do all hunters know each other? “At first they were sure you were a topless dancer or someone trying to drum up business. But you seemed too, well, innocent, none of that cootchy-cootchy that dancers do. It sure seemed strange to them.”

Then he said something that caused another involuntary twitch of her hands, this time to cover her pussy. “And I saw that little run and swim you did last night. So did half the guys here, I reckon.”

Tami looked at him, frozen facing him in a fully exposed frontal stance, arms stiff at her sides, afraid to cover up, afraid of what he might say next. During her cavorting last night the windows were all dark, but now it turned out they were filled with watching eyes. Such a private moment, now violated.

“You seemed to enjoy it. Of course, you thought no one was looking.”

Tami smiled defensively.

“So why are you always going around naked? Where are your clothes?”

Tami’s throat was dry with nervousness. She felt sure by now that this guy was one of the Dean’s spies. But he was such an obvious local, such an unlikely character . . . But he had her number, somehow. She cleared her throat to make her voice clear. “I don’t have any clothes. I’m a religious . . . nudist.”

The man looked at her with a steady eye. “Are you SURE you are? It sounds like a tough religion to follow.”

Tami nodded, smiling, remembering that she was actually on familiar ground, affirming her “religion”, something which through much practice she had gotten good at.

The man seemed to relax and so did Tami. “My name’s McCaig,” he said, offering up his hand. “Ben McCaig.” That it was a friendly handshake suddenly struck Tami as being no surprise. Odd that he could be so low-keyed after finding a naked teenaged girl frolicking around.

It was almost unreal, but the sitting hunter and the standing naked girl fell into easy banter, talking about the weather, this part of Ohio, how good the wheat smelled. All the time McCaig was sitting with his legs crossed at the thighs, hands folded over his lap, puffing his cigarette but being careful to blow it in another direction, looking out at the wheat and only glancing occasionally at his companion. And the naked eighteen-year-old stood slouching in front of him, her arms casually crossed over her tummy, idly twisting one big toe into the wet grass.

McCaig was talking about when the various hunting seasons start when the back door to another room creaked open and out shuffled McMasters, half awake in his bathrobe with a coffee in each hand. “Well look who’s an early riser,” he said, giving one coffee to Tami. “This was free at the front desk.”

“You’re with her?” McCaig said.

The friendly conversation continued. McMasters spoke proudly of Tami, telling McCaig that they were from “a little college back east” where she was a straight-A student, a religious nudist who had been allowed to go naked all year. And that now they were going across the country on a research project.

“Researching how to change tires on a highway when you’re naked?” McCaig said playfully. Seeing McMasters’s look of surprise, he said, “It got around on the C.B. radio.”

Tami felt herself blush, being talked about this way in front of these two men. And then she saw a couple of other men walking up from the other rooms. And behind them, a guy and a lady in biker leathers coming up. Soon there was a little semi-circle of people around her, looking at her nakedness from front and back and side. What made it worse was that McMasters and McCaig were talking about her “religion”, drawing even more attention to the fact that she was naked. Their words barked out in the stillness of the morning air.

“She doesn’t even wear clothes in winter. She goes barefoot in the snow,” McMasters said, as everyone looked her up and down.

“Amazing,” McCaig said. The naked girl shivered a bit as a soft breeze blew around her. She felt it on her bare butt and her stiff nipples and her bare pussy lips. It was God, reminding her of her nakedness, as if she needed reminding. Yet the tone of the watching group was surprisingly respectful. They were all looking at her but more out of curiosity than ogling. Unlike, say, some of the guys at Campbell - Frank. Or Lorinda and her crowd.

“She does have an outfit she wears,” a scratchy female voice interposed. It was Wanda, emerging in her flannel pajamas and fluffy slippers, her hair messed, actually looking a little cute rather than bitchy. Extending her arm so that the sleeve drew back, exposing a watch, Wanda pointed at it. Soon it would be time for Tami’s morning session.

“It’s just a scientific monitoring device, a couple of hours each day, a temporary project she agreed to,” McMasters said. Tami breathed out in relief, and hoped Wanda wouldn’t add, “It makes her have orgasms like you wouldn’t believe!” Fortunately, she didn’t say anything more.

There was more talking. Tami noticed that McMasters wouldn’t be pinned down on what college they were from or exactly where they were going today. She knew he wanted to make St. Louis by suppertime, but all he said was, “Well we’ve got to shower and eat soon.”

“The diner here is pretty good,” one of McCaig’s hunter friends said.

“We’ll see you there at a little after seven then,” McMasters said. And he went in with Wanda, leaving the naked girl alone with McCaig and the circle of travelers.

Tami waved and said, “Ten-one hundred,” to McCaig.

This unusual man grinned and took another drag on his cigarette. “Ten-four.”


. . . .


Please God,

I am naked and my -- my everything is exposed for these awful people to see every bit of me,

All stretched out hanging by my hands from this rope over a tiny stream.

I can’t cover any little bit of myself.

They are about to rape me.

I’m just a 19-year-old girl, I haven’t done anything wrong,

I’m modest and shy,

Yet I have been forced to walk around all bare for almost a whole year,

In full view of everyone who wants to look.

I can’t take all these feelings of shame and humiliation,

On and on and over and over,

Begging and craving for the tiniest scrap of clothing,

Yet I still am absolutely naked, no one will give me anything to put on.

You have allowed me to meet some nice people,

You have given me true friends and a true lover,

You have allowed me to experience the wonderful feelings of nature on my skin,

You have given me the ability to live naked in the wilderness.

But now this really is the end.

Tell me God, am I going to get raped?

Or should I end it all and jump?

Is this how my life will end, never ever having any clothes to wear, ever again?

Will I never ever see my family and Rod and Jen and Rebecca and all the other people I love and who love me?

Please tell me God.

Or make these awful people here stop staring at me and go away.

I HATE being naked, I HATE hanging out here without being able even to cover any little bit of myself with my hands,

I WANT CLOTHES!! PLEASE GOD, CLOTHES!!

What will I do now, God?

Should I go over to the side and get raped?

Why make me get raped, God? This can’t be your plan for me!

“Come on over here, darling!” Dyle shouted again to the exquisitely stretched-out form of naked teenage girl.

The girl sniffled. Her body was breathtaking in the dying sunlight, though Dyle and Treena and Roberts were too far away to see the wetness in her eyes.

For a long moment there was the silent tableau, the naked girl on the rope, the rushing waters below, gamesters waiting on either side, the dogs panting and now starting to lie down.

---

“Go, Tami, that’s it. Head over heels. Watch your feet!”

It was the deep, fatherly voice of Coach Ballister from high school, guiding the leotarded Tami Smithers onto a back flip, proud of her, the star of his gymnastics team.

Tami’s hands felt around the rope and she noticed something familiar about it.

Blinking back her tears, she looked down, past her erect nipples and her bare feet, down to the little creek. Ahead of her, maybe about twenty feet out, was a little round area of water with no rocks. She couldn’t make out the bottom, the water was too turbulent. How deep was it there?

“Go Tami, that’s it. Head over heels. Watch your feet!”

A backflip dismount from the high bar. That’s what she was thinking of!

Tami looked up at her hands and then down at the creek. This was crazy. It had to be forty feet down. And right below her were rocks. She couldn’t dismount twenty feet out. Yet so high up maybe she would go out further and further as she went down . . .

Tami knew what she had to do. It was not suicide, it was faith. Faith in God who would deliver her from this horrible predicament. She began to swing back and forth, back and forth. This was much to the delectation of her watchers but her mind was not focused on them. Back and forth . . . This rope had more give than a high bar but the important thing was the trajectory --

With a quick prayer Tami Smithers, star gymnast, swung back one more time and then swung up with pointed toes and executed the best and most important backflip dismount of her young life. As her tormentors looked on in utter amazement, she twisted and touched her toes and leapt down, down, down, finally feet first into the little deep area of the creek.

It was always thus -- God would protect her and save her, so long as she was smart and strong and brave.

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Terri looked up. "I miss hanging out with you, Tam," she said, swallowing the last of her french fries and taking a sip of soda so that her words could be more clear. "You should come by to my apartment. It's right near campus, behind the supermarket."

Tami cringed. The supermarket. Where she had been thrown out for being without shoes (!) and where she had had to wait facing the parking lot while Rebecca finished getting groceries. Afraid spies were watching, forced to stand with her legs parted and her hands at her sides, ankle-deep in the cold slush and freezing in the icy wind, it was there that she first said what had since become her daily prayer:

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donnylaja
donnylaja
Sep 05, 2023
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thanks

though these women don't look they're pleading desperately

surely there's an appropriate pic somewhere

or maybe something for SliceReality to depict

good scenes would be where she's praying while posing in Brignon's class (as recorded by the clueless David Sutcliffe) or praying in the snow at Quaker Lake

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