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the countdown: 54 days to clothes

       In a moment Winant was gone and Tami was left to work the treadmills for the benefit of science, and for the viewing pleasure of this leering guy.  To keep the blades moving required constant exertion of force.  She looked ahead with a blank, desolate stare as she saw another grounds crew guy, and then another and another, come into the room.  She pretended not to notice as a couple of them wandered around behind her and to the sides, to take in the view from all angles: a totally naked, slim, athletically conditioned teenaged girl, standing bolt upright with her widespread hands on the overhead bars, her widespread feet working the two treadmills, unable to cover any part of herself, breasts sticking out, erect nipples pointing forward like little guns, her flat tummy heaving in and out, pussy lips slightly parted between her spread legs, and then beads of sweat forming on her brow and on her chest, running down her face and breasts and tummy into her lush pubic bush, the sweat on her back running into the crack of her tight little butt.

 

        Tami brought her hands down to her sides and crossed them over her breasts, trying for a tiny shred of modesty.  But the treadmills ground to a halt.  Her own slight weight simply did not provide enough downward force to keep them moving.  With a resigned sigh she put her hands back up to the bars and pushed and got the blades going again.

 

        She sensed the guys behind her were sitting down on the floor and she could feel their gaze shooting like arrows at her butthole, no doubt blatantly exposed between her spread, laboring legs.  God this is awful.  .  .  She turned her eyes upward and prayed.

 

        Please God, get me out of this.  Deliver me from this torture of shame .  .  .  I’m only an 18-year-old girl.  I’m naturally modest.  Why put me through this?  Please God, please .  .  .

 

        Of course, Tami did not expect God to answer back, or to do anyting to ease her suffering.  Instead she reflected on her life.  Here I am, forced to be naked all the time.  Why can’t I enjoy it?  Why can’t I enjoy being naked and having people look at me?  She tried to talk herself into it.  I love being naked, I love being naked .  .  .  She said this to herself in rhythm with the blades as they passed under her feet.  I love being naked .  .  .  I love being naked .  .  .

 

        Tears started rolling from her eyes as she gagged on these mental words.  She just couldn’t continue thinking them.  Every fiber of her being wanted clothes, anything, even a scrap of clothing, even a “microminimus” bikini bottom .  .  .  She looked down at her bare feet, the dried mud stains between her toes, her erect nipples .  .  .  She was now wet with sweat and dust was beginning to stick to her breasts and tummy and thighs.  She was naked, sweaty, dirty, and on full view for these jerks.

 

        The grounds crew men looked at the naked girl from every angle and shifted uneasily in their uniforms, trying to hide their erections.  The girl’s tears did not much impress them; they had only a vague idea of why she was here, and assumed that she was being punished in some way.  The tears seemed therefore to be a matter of course.

 

        Tami’s soft sobs did not interfere with her by now skillful working of the blades.  She found she could get more thrust by pushing with the balls of her feet, then letting the foot relax flat on the blade while the other foot pushed.  After her tears had spent themselves she looked forward dully, the dried tracks of the tears still visible on her face, and plodded onward.  She was thinking: let’s get these three hundred turns done a.s.a.p.  so I can get out of here.

 

        After what seemed like forever, her legs feeling like rubber, the naked girl stopped her labors and staggered down from her perch.  With unsteady steps she walked over to one of the dials.  Only 74 turns!  Her bare shoulders slumped.  She listlessly walked between the grounds crew workers, pretending to ignore them, and went over to the cooler.  She bent down to open it, giving everyone a view of her butt and butthole, picked out a bottle of water, and then collapsed into a cross-legged sitting position on the dusty floor and took a few sips.  After resting a few minutes she pivoted herself up and walked back onto the treadmills.  The dust from the floor had clung to the sweat on her butt on the backs of her legs, making them almost black, but she didn’t care.  She thought of the summer, when she would be wearing clothes, and that thought kept her going.

 

        As her exertions caused her to once again breathe heavily and exude sweat, her eyes had a dull glint of determination.  This is hell, she told herself, but I can get through it.  She tried to ignore the stares.  I can get through this.  She calculated in her mind.  Fifty-four days to summer break.  Fifty-four days to clothes .  .  .  fifty-four days to clothes .  .  .  Fifty-four days to clothes .  .  .

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