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unknowable, mysterious Tami

       The friends went to nibble on the little snacks on the bar.  Rod felt his stomach growl but resolved that, if Tami couldn’t eat because of her tail, he wasn’t going to eat either.  As usual Tami’s nipples picked up his thoughts.  “Go ahead, my hungry man.”

 

        “No.”

 

        Tami took another sip.  She was about halfway through her second martini and, being Tami, none the worse for wear.  “I have to pee.  Hold this, OK?”

 

        He watched as she cantered gracefully away, her tail swishing behind her, looking into her little purse probably for her lipstick.  Those pony tails that white girls like to wear that go down their back; he would never look at one the same way again.  He could probably count every vertebra, from her neck down to the crack in her butt.  Having the tail in her made her stand and walk a little differently.  She had to arch her back a bit, a little like bikini models do when they’re trying to look “hot”.  Once again he counted his blessings.  So many guys, and a lot of women too, lusted after her.  But she was his.

 

        After she was gone Rod tried another sip of the wine.  Bleahhh.  Then despite knowing better he tried a sip of Tami’s martini and almost choked.  Martinis were her favorite bar drink but he didn’t know how she managed it.  They were like pure alcohol.

        Tami’s tastes, he noted, tended to be extreme.  She liked the shower water scalding hot, so hot he could never get in with her.  Well, maybe that was understandable, maybe she was hoarding heat for when she had to go naked in the snow.  But her coffee was the strongest he’d ever tried to taste.  She liked spicy food -- at the campus snack bar she used to order her burritos “suicidal”, whereas he could manage only up to “medium hot”.  When she put on her iPod headphones while studying, the music was so loud he could hear it from the next room.

 

        He loved Tami more than he had ever loved anyone, they were a team, they shared a life and knew many things about each other that no one else knew.  He had seen her in all kinds of moods, in good situations and bad.  Yet somehow he felt like he didn’t know her.  There was something about her that was as inscrutable as a sphinx.

 

        Why was that?

        It must be because her experiences were so different than anyone else’s.  That awful freshman year, in particular.  Bad things happen to people, of course.  What happened to Trent, for example -- he thought this as he saw “Adam”, across the room, holding hands with “Steve” -- loosing your lover on 9/11.  A horrible tragedy.  Yet people lose loved ones, albeit not so dramatically.  It was part of life.  He thought of losing his own father two years ago, now his lonely mother had to sell that old house that was too big for her to take care of, and move in with his aunt.

 

        But Tami -- the terrified freshman forced to go naked all year, terrified to show the slightest sign of modesty.  Strapped to that dildo machine at Chalfont, hundreds of unwanted orgasms, often while having to look at creepy people like McMasters and Henry Ross right in the eye.  Having to go across the country naked, then captured on that pony farm.  Nobody could imagine what all that must be like.  You couldn’t say all that was just “part of life”.  But looking in her eyes you knew all that hurt and pain was in there somewhere, a hurt unlike anyone else’s.

 

        And now she seemed OK.  In fact, with this tail, like the one that was stuck in her at that pony farm, she seemed to treat the past like a little bit of a joke.  How can she do that?  Did her psyche have some superhuman ability to survive?

 

        Maybe she was in denial.  Maybe all those horrible feelings, all those memories, were being repressed, just so she could get through life.  He could almost sympathize with Dr. Abu Jamal and Dr. Kantor over at Chalfont.  It had been two and a half years and they hadn’t been able to cure her allergy to clothes.  Apparently the “treatment” had all been external, testing her skin responses.  Maybe the real problem was in her mind and they were afraid to go there, fearing the can of worms they might open up.


. . . .

       “This is good coffee, thank you,” Rod said.  Indeed it was.  Better than that swill he had to drink at the trailer.

 

        The three of them -- Rod, Dr. Abu Jamal, and Dr. Kantor, were sitting in the lower part of Dr. Abu Jamal’s spacious office, in elegant upholstered chairs around the little table upon which Dr. Abu Jamal’s secretary, an older woman named Grette, had placed the coffee set.

 

        “As you pointed out,” Dr. Abu Jamal said, “Tami’s allergy is psychogenic.”  Rod felt strange.  He did not doubt the sincerity or good intentions of these men, but it was odd for the three of them to be sitting here, in their business clothes, in this elegant setting, discussing their proposals on what to do to a naked girl, someone who did not have a stitch of clothes or shoes to her name.

 

        He pushed these thoughts aside as he forced himself to listen as Dr. Kantor took up what was evidently a well-rehearsed presentation.  “The allergy certainly has something to do with the trauma of her freshman year.  Tami seems on the outside as a normal girl, I mean young woman, but there is something about her that is unknowable, hidden.  Almost Sphinx-like.  This is perhaps what everyone senses.  I believe it is not simple projection on our part, but an objective reality.  In other words, it’s not us, it’s her.  She really IS a little like a Sphinx.”

 

        Rod nodded.  It was good to know someone else felt the same way.

 

        “The extent of the shame and mortification that Tami endured is almost beyond the comprehension of a normal person.  Imagine being brought to orgasm against your will, and forced to look someone like Henry Ross right in the eye at the climactic moment.”  As Dr. Kantor spoke, Rod remembered that DVD, and closed his eyes and shook his head.  “And that is aside from the shame of being forced to walk around naked in public, and on top of that, not being able to show any sign of being shy about it.”

 

        “Yes, I know, I know.”  Rod did not want to be reminded of Tami’s trauma, which only reminded him of his guilt at being so blind to it and possibly increasing it unwittingly.

 

        “How could that not have something to do with her allergy?” Dr. Kantor asked rhetorically.  “Perhaps it is evidence of a defense mechanism.  Either a form of suppressing the shame, or adapting to it, a kind of ‘sweet lemon’ reaction.”

 

        “Sweet lemon?”

 

        “The opposite of ‘sour grapes’.  ‘I’m given this nasty fruit, but actually it’s pretty good.’”

        “Oh.”

 

        “One obvious piece of evidence in support of the ‘sweet lemon’ theory is her interest in fashion, in designing clothing, even though she can never wear any.”

 

        “I think she would admit that.  The, uh, psychodynamics are real obvious.”  Rod felt pompous using such a word, but in this company it seemed fitting.

 

        Dr. Abu Jamal said, “One can also deduce, perhaps, psychic pain from her orgasmic capacity and frequency, which we understand is quite incredible.”

 

        “What?” This was hard to follow.  “She comes so much because she’s in pain?”

        The Director of the Chalfont Institute stirred his coffee, sipped it, and set it down.  “I speak as a man.  Tami has, quite in abundance, the gift that women have for multiple orgasms.  I’ve always been quite jealous of that capacity that women have.”

 

        Rod nodded.  He barely knew these men, had nothing in common with them, except of course that they were all men.  Maybe that explained why they seemed to be, surprisingly, on the same wavelength as he.

 

        “Forgive me for being so intimate, but a man experiences orgasm, ejaculates, and then is quiescent, unable to go further.  But women...  I ask you to imagine experiencing such an intense climax, and then, a few seconds later, experience another one just as intense? And yet another, a few seconds after that?”

        Rod, a little embarrassed, looked down as he nodded.

 

        “I simply cannot imagine how that must feel, after the intense and final catharsis, to continue to be aroused and experience another explosion of pleasure, another final catharsis.”  Dr. Abu Jamal, stilted and formal, was getting downright eloquent and flowery.  Indeed he had always felt a little jealous of Tami’s orgasms, a jealousy that competed with guilt knowing that so many of them had been unwanted.  “It seems to me like eating a huge chocolate bar, then another, then another.  After one bar, I would not want anything sweet for a while.

 

        “But even among multiply orgasmic women, Tami is special.  Understandably, given her past, she does not like her orgasms to be counted.  But we are aware that there is a small, shall we say, club of female undergraduates who devote themselves to her pleasure.”

 

        “Yes, I know,” Rod said.  He decided to volunteer information which might be helpful.  “They’re called the, uh, Tami Lickers.  Or the ‘TL’s’ for short.”

 

        Dr. Abu Jamal and Dr. Kantor nodded, as if they already knew.

 

        “At any rate,” Dr. Abu Jamal continued.  “We deduce that Tami experiences perhaps thirty orgasms a day, each one considerably longer and more intense than is reported in the literature as average.  It could be that her unfortunate imprisonment in the equipment in Lab 6 increased her desire and her capacity.  But maybe there is something else going on.  Maybe after the chocolate bar, she eats something salty or bitter, so that the next chocolate is welcome, and then she eats something salty again, making her desire another chocolate...”

 

        “I don’t follow you.”

 

        “Maybe Tami suffers constant, if unconscious, psychic pain.  Pain caused by the memory of her freshman year, or perhaps by frustration at not being able to wear clothes, or ongoing shame at being naked which in fact was never burned out of her, which in fact continues to this very day.  That would be the salt.  And each orgasm is a relief from that pain.  That would be the chocolate.  Another woman would get to a certain point and say, ‘OK, enough orgasms.’  But Tami still wants more.”

        Rod shook his head.  “I find this idea of ‘unconscious pain’ hard to believe.”

 

        “As you walked to this meeting this evening,” Dr. Kantor said, “you were not conscious of your feet stepping forward, one after the other.  Just as one can perform physical actions without being aware of them, one can think thoughts, or experience feelings, without being aware of them.”

 

        After pondering this, Rod said, “So you think her capacity is an attempt to get rid of the pain, like an alcoholic who drinks to, uh, banish some memory.”

        “Not a conscious attempt, but an attempt.  Another analogy is, an average woman versus a drowning woman.  The average woman paddles as she swims.  Each paddle is an orgasm.  The drowning woman paddles much faster.  A lot more orgasms.”

        “You think Tami is . . . desperate, trying not to drown?”

        “Unknown,” Dr. Kantor said.  “Only in-depth psychoanalysis would reveal her inner dynamics.  They would be brought to the surface and she would become conscious of them.  And that is the comprehensive key to treatment.  Find out how her freshman year trauma caused the allergy, and you likely find the solution to curing it.  But we dare not.  We just dare not.”

 

        “Why not?”

 

        Dr. Abu Jamal said, “In the course of therapy one would rip away Tami’s defenses.  In a sense those are her only remaining vestige of clothes and we would be stripping her even of those.  She would once again feel all that shame from her freshman year, a shame that obviously she has suppressed.  And what if our guesses are wrong, or there is more going on than we thought to address, and the allergy does not abate at that point? Tami would be naked and ashamed of being naked -- and still not able to put on clothes.”

 

        Dr. Kantor said, “To use a surgical analogy, you don’t cut someone open unless you know you can sew her up again.  Psychotherapy would be a disservice to Tami because we are not sure we have the sutures to sew her up.  At worst she would end up a frightened, dysfunctional creature, possibly descending into psychosis, desperately trying to put on clothes she cannot touch without an anaphylactic reaction.”  Rod had heard that word before used in connection with Tami’s allergy.  A person could die from an “anaphylactic reaction”.

 

        He remembered buying Tami that expensive dress, early in her sophomore year after Ross had left and Jorgon had gotten fired and she was freed of having to pretend she was a nudist.  And Tami’s pitiful, pathetic reaction as she told him for the first time that she had developed an allergy.  “Clothes...  please God...  clothes...”  she had whimpered, falling to the floor and stroking the forbidden fabric.  Now, he pictured her in a padded cell, unable to wear a strait-jacket, flailing about, out of her mind, eyes rolled back in her head as she screamed herself hoarse as doctors in their coats and suits watched helplessly through the little window.  “CLOTHES!  CLOTHES!  PLEASE!  CLOTHES!!!”

 

        He shook his head quickly, trying to shake this horrible image from his mind.

 

        Dr. Abu Jamal let this sink in before he said, “You understand, Mr. Sykes, why we asked you not to disclose to Tami the content of this discussion.”

        Rod nodded.

        The three men sipped their coffees, changed their crossed legs, adjusted their pants and jackets, looked down at their shined shoes, and contemplated the plight of the nude girl.

 

        Finally Rod said, “So what remains?”

       

 

51.

        “There is a possible behavioral explanation for her allergy,” Dr. Kantor said, brightening a bit.  “An explanation that was staring us in the face but we did not see it until recently.  The explanation involves simple classical conditioning.  It is like Pavlov and his dog.”

 

        “What?” Rod thought he remembered this from the intro to psych course he took as a freshman but he wanted to be sure.

 

        “A dog salivates when it sees food nearby.  Professor Pavlov rang a bell whenever food was about to be given.  Ultimately the dog salivated when it heard the bell, even though no food had appeared.”

 

        “Right.  So?”

 

        “Think about Tami’s experience.  She comes to Campbell-Frank as a freshman, clothed and insecure.  A year later she is popular, loved, by you especially, amazingly creative, getting straight ‘A’s.  And naked.

 

        “From what we know of her early interviews with us, before the second week of her freshman year, she was clothed, she had no sex life except for very occasional masturbation.  Now, she has what appears to be a fulfilling sex life with you, and a small army of friends whose sole purpose in life is apparently to give her as many intense orgasms as possible.  Clothed, no sexual peaks.  Naked, she has dozens a day.”

 

        Rod looked down at the coffee set.  “I see what you mean.”

 

        “She has associated nudity with love, nudity with scholastic excellence, nudity with creativity, and above all, nudity with sexual pleasure.”

        “Not just sexual,” Rod pointed out.  “She gets a lot of pleasure feeling the ground underneath her bare feet, the wind against her breasts . . . Her bare skin touching everything around her.”  He smiled with a bit of embarrassment.  “I’m jealous, tell you the truth.  This sounds wack, but I wish I could go around naked too, roll around in the grass like she does.  So long as no one sees me.”

 

        They all laughed, which broke the tension.

        “Our theory,” Dr. Kantor then said, “is that the allergy represents the contrapositive of this association.”

 

        “The -- what?”

 

        “Given a statement, ‘If A, then B’, the contrapositive is, ‘if not B, then not A’.  If a statement is true, then the contrapositive is always true.”

 

        “Oh.”  Again, a vague memory was triggered, maybe from high school algebra.

 

        “Meaning,” Dr. Kantor said, “that Tami associates nudity with pleasure, and has extended this to associate clothing with pain.  Hence, the allergy to clothes.  If the, as you say, the ‘TL’s’, have been especially active and successful lately in their attempts to drive Tami to greater orgasmic heights, this would also explain the recent advancement of her allergy.  It has only strengthened the association and hence the contrapositive reaction.”

 

        This was a lot to absorb.  But after chewing this over, Rod said, “That’s irrational.  Tami could be clothed and still have my love, and be creative, and have orgasms and all that stuff.”

 

        “Yes, but irrational does not stop something from being effective, at least not in classical conditioning.  Let’s say you were Pavlov’s dog.  Or that we devised an experiment where, I don’t know what you like, say it’s a steaming hamburger.”

 

        “That’ll do.”  Rod was in fact getting hungry.

        “And we sounded a bell just before it was served.  You would eventually react like Pavlov’s dog did, salivating, or maybe your nostrils flaring, just at the sound of the bell.  You would say to yourself, ‘this is silly’, but the bell would still sound and your nostrils would still flare.”

        Rod thought for a moment.  “I think this, at least, we can tell to Tami.”

        “True,” Dr. Abu Jamal said readily.  “From this point on, I want you to explain to Tami everything we are about to discuss.  If she wonders why we called you here alone, tell her it would be awkward and perhaps impolite to discuss conditioning her with her sitting there.”  He pointed to another chair next to them.  Rod pictured Tami’s nakedness sitting on that chair, her bare butt on the cushion, a contrast to their full sets of clothes, her bare toes maybe idly grabbing the coffee table.  He thought of her reaching over with her toes and caressing his dick through his pants.  This got him hard and then he had to shift in his chair.

 

        He sensed they were finally getting somewhere and was eager to learn more.  With a touch of raillery he said, “What’s the plan, gentlemen?”

        “Break the connection,” Dr. Kantor said.  “Get her to associate clothing with pleasure.  Put clothes on her while she is experiencing orgasm.”

 

        “Sounds straightforward enough.”

 

        “It’s not a sure thing.  There might be an unexpected interaction with some deeper psychodynamic which would even make the allergy worse.  Also, even if, as we expect, it is straightforward, it will not be easy, because both elements of the association are extremely strong.  Tami’s nakedness has been utter -- possibly nobody in the history of the human race has been so naked for so long, in relation to the person’s surroundings, a nude in the middle of a world of the clothed, often heavily clothed, as when she walks barefoot and naked through snow in the middle of the campus.  And Tami’s orgasmic pleasure has been so great as to be perhaps unique.  It is off the scale.”

 

        Dr. Abu Jamal got up to his desk and came back with an oversize leaflet which he handed to Dr. Kantor.

 

        “As you know, when we discovered that Tami’s consent to the experiments in Lab 6 had not been properly obtained, we destroyed all the records we had made of those experiments.  This included brain wave studies done during her stages of arousal and climax.  To emphasize our contriteness we gave the floppy disks to Tami personally -- we were still using floppies at the time -- and she did the erasing herself, in this very room.”  Rod looked over at the computer next to the desk.  “But one record of her responses does survive: the replication experiment she volunteered to do when she heard our accreditation was in danger.”

 

        Rod remembered that, the airplane trip to Chicago, the brightly lit stage with the dildos, Tami heaving into ten orgasms surrounded by the rows of professors taking notes, during the climactic moments looking up at him for support with mixed feelings of love and shame.

        As Dr. Kantor opened the loose leaf, Rod said, “You folks owe Tami a hell of a lot of thanks.”

 

        Dr. Abu Jamal said, “It is not an overstatement, Mr. Sykes, to say that we would sacrifice our professional reputations for her if required.”

 

        “See this chart,” Dr. Kantor said.  “These are Tami’s delta waves at plateau, orgasm, plateau again, orgasm again . . . Delta waves are ‘pleasure waves’, as has been shown in a variety of contexts.”

 

        “Like when eating chocolate?”

 

        Rod meant this as a little joke but Dr. Kantor said, with a straight face, “Actually yes.  Chocolate studies have been done . . . During this plateau/orgasm series here, see how the delta waves were particularly prominent.  This was during --” he pointed to another squiggly line in the chart, lower down, “a certain type of clitoral and Graffenberg spot stimulation.”

 

        “It would probably be more effective, from a brute force standpoint, to work on the ‘pain’ end of the association, giving her electrical shocks when naked and stopping them as she puts on an article of clothing.  But that would be inhumane and besides, we want to her to be free to be naked when she wants.  We propose instead to work on the ‘pleasure’ end of the association.  If clothing could be introduced exactly during that time, perhaps just a small article at first, then taken away as stimulation ceased, then introduced again -- “

 

        Rod suddenly sat up.  “You’re not suggesting strapping her into that -- Lab 6 -- thing --”

 

        “We would hate to do that,” Dr. Abu Jamal said.  “Lab 6 has been boarded up for three years.  The equipment has been disassembled but is still there.  It probably is not a good idea anyway because in Tami’s mind the equipment has a bad association of its own.  But it occurred to us that such a mechanical process, the thrusting of dildos into Tami’s vagina and rectum, and the suctioning of her nipples, is too crude for the split-second timing and delicate manipulation of her genitals that would be required.”

 

        Rod swallowed and said, “I will . . . perform with her if that’s what’s needed.”

        “Actually, more than one set of tongues and fingers will probably be required.  Tongues and fingers that are intimately familiar with every nuance of Tami’s reactions.”

. . . .

        Peggy and the rest of the delegation had been waiting here for half an hour.  Having surrendered their cell phones and unable to think of things to say, there was nothing to do but watch.  It was three o’clock in the afternoon, right after the afternoon enema (they were glad they had missed that).  Soon would be the weight lifting, and then the yoga demonstration at which they were guaranteed front seats and could talk to Miss Smithers about what was being arranged.  They would have preferred to arrive right then, but the schedule they had (finally!) been given was too vague and they wanted to be sure.

        This was their second visit.  Ever since their first visit a week ago Peggy, a 29-year-old virgin who had never had an orgasm, who went to bed modestly dressed in underthings and pajamas, had become obsessed with this young woman who had been deprived of clothing for so long that it could be no more than a fond but faint memory.  Who had dozens of orgasms a day in this place, and been put on display and subject to dildos, vibrators, ropes, and the mouths and tongues of the red-clad matrons.  Tami had agreed to being a public sex toy for the summer in this strange and secret place.  But had she agreed to all the other things she had done for the past two years?

 

        This young nude lady was a Sphinx, impossible to get to know, or it seemed so to the diplomats who had access to the file.  She was casually referred to as “the International Nude”.  It was the impetus, somehow, for the ANST policy.  Peggy had read the file -- the reports from Tami’s college, from American authorities, and from clandestine observation.  Everyone in the office had read it.  It was always being added to.  But the more information that was gathered, the deeper the mystery seemed.  Tami’s bare body had been probed and displayed and discussed and documented more than anyone else’s in history, probably, but her mind could not be penetrated.  No one had seen her laughing or acting “natural” or at ease.  She always seemed on her guard.  Or maybe her mind was somewhere else?

 

        Was Tami Smithers really a nudist?  There were several schools of thought.  Nobody believed Miss Smithers’s claim that she had decided, one week into her freshman semester, that nudism was her religion.  That was obviously an excuse concocted on the fly to avoid expulsion after being caught on a streaking dare; it was, as Sir Gregory put it, “plain as a pikestaff.”  The dossier on her was very thorough, and it showed no hint in her previous life of any strong religious feeling, or any eccentricities.  She was a normal girl from a working-class family in the State of Rhode Island, U.S.A., who had good grades and got into college on a gymnastics scholarship, the first person in her family to go past high school.  She had a normal circle of friends and was not a troublemaker.  Only a threat of expulsion, which would be devastating to her family, could prompt such an uncharacteristic profession of faith.  And it was that threat that intimidated her into agreeing into more and more intimate exposures.

        The school of “traumatic adjustment” had more adherents, including Sir Gregory and Peggy’s boss Sir David.  Having declared herself a nudist, Miss Smithers was at first traumatized but gradually realized that being naked was not so bad.  Constant exposure eventually blunted her feelings of embarrassment, and she actually got to enjoy her nudist life.  As Sir David put it, “Once the sense of shame has been conquered, a naked girl, particularly one as fit and attractive as Miss Smithers, has a great deal of power.”  Or as Fiona, another intern in the office, put it: “a naked girl with a body like that can conquer a room and reduce all the men to babbling idiots”.

        Another school of thought -- “change of mind” -- agreed that Tami had adjusted to nudity but also believed she had grown weary of it and at a certain point decided she wanted to get back into clothes.  This would explain her apparent attempts to put herself in situations where clothes would be required -- for example, her application last year to be an exchange student here in the PRC.  Why China?  This working-class girl did not know much about overseas travel.  She only knew one person, her dorm roommate Jennifer McIntyre, who had been to China, and that was only to Hong Kong.  But Tami must have read that China was a conservative culture and would be unlikely to tolerate a nudist in their midst.  That was why the set of clothes and shoes was waiting for her on arrival -- obviously ordered by her.  Ostensibly this was ascribed to some kind of bureaucratic foulup, but the clothes had been selected with much care, all Tami’s size, and similar to the clothes she had worn previously.

        It must have been torture for poor Tami, standing barefoot and naked in the snow at the airport, with everyone else in overcoats and boots, to see the clothes, moments from her grasp, declared to be an “insult” to her freedom of religion and burned right in front of her.  That was the thinking of the last school of thought, the “desperation” school, which held that Miss Smithers never wanted to be naked, never got over her feelings of modesty, and had been trying, in various inventive and increasingly desperate ways, to be allowed to put on clothing and shoes.  It was the most unsettling viewpoint, but to Peggy, perhaps because she was a modest young woman herself, it was the most obvious.

        The record revealed a long series of attempts by the unfortunate girl to snatch the clothing that was forbidden her -- beginning her first semester with her volunteering for that art exhibit performance, thinking she would get to wear a body stocking; then her applying for a summer job in a different town where the college would not know she was clothed; then her remarkable journey across the country, frightened by that bogus fax from the college warning the police to not give her any clothes, yet certainly she spent that journey trying to find something to put on; then being trapped on that bizarre “pony girl” farm, begging for clothes yet being kept naked and barefoot with the other girls all in leathers and boots -- it went on and on, an endless series of frustrations.  On top of that, Tami was continually put in situations where the desire for covering would be overwhelming -- exposed to cold and wind and rain, hard and rough surfaces under her bare feet, being put right next to clothes which she must have had an intense urge to grab and cover herself with, an urge that had to be suppressed, and suppressed so completely that people couldn’t even detect it.  A phrase from a report stuck in their minds: “Extreme tantalization over an extended period of time.”  They all agreed that Miss Smithers had exceptional inner strength.  But there must be a limit.  It was a wonder she hadn’t gone crazy with frustration.

        A small number of insiders postulated that she actually had gone crazy, that her reserved demeanor masked a personality that at some point had gone over the edge, escaped into a fantasy world where she was warm and clothed and wore an exquisite collection of fancy shoes, like someone being starved to death who in extremis thinks he is eating a five-course dinner.  Indeed retreating into herself must have been the only defense during those horrible Chalfont Institute experiments where the terrified teenager was forced to make eye contact with creepy male researchers during her mechanically induced multiple orgasms.  The problem with that theory was that there was no evidence of a psychotic break.  It might have happened during that cross-country naked journey but that was pure speculation.  The most detailed account from that time was Professor Marge Richardson’s, when Tami passed through her friendly commune of Jewish lesbians in the State of Tennessee.  The Professor related that Tami, though naked, acted in all other respects like a normal teenage girl and they even enjoyed a laugh or two together.

        All the theories were upended by Miss Smithers’s surprising announcement at the American Consulate that she wanted to get back into clothes.  This declaration seemed to vindicate the “change of mind” thinkers, but she picked a strange time and manner.  Why hadn’t she done it earlier?  Perhaps she realized, as she said, that the college couldn’t very well expel her now that it had sent her as an exchange student, and to China of all places, diplomatically sensitive.  But she could have changed her mind on that basis six months ago, indeed, even when she first arrived.

        Tami completed her gymnastics, finishing with a floor routine.  A matron gave her a water bottle and then she walked over to the weight machines.  The delegation moved up to the second row.  The clanking of metal weights began as Tami did the chest press, over 20 kilos.  She was strong in every sense of the word.  The men in front watched intently as her breasts jiggled with every “rep”.  Now the leg press, the naked girl spreading her legs wide as her toes spread and flexed against the footplates.  The men took turns at the vantage point from which one could see her separated vaginal lips as her thighs pushed and drew back above them.  Now they saw the flushed skin and the beads of sweat as they collected in little rivers to run into her pubic hair.  A few more exercises, and finally the hip adductor/abductor, requiring the naked girl to spread her thighs wide, wide, wider for the men.

        These activities had no sexual component so they were easier to watch than the forced-orgasm exhibition the first time they were here.  On that date the delegation had already endured watching Tami, suspended and stretched out with ropes, subjected to the matrons’ tongues, front and rear.  They were glad to yield their seats to some arriving Americans and sit back here in the stands, where they discussed their options.  They were about to leave when the matrons withdrew from Tami’s well-worked vagina and well-worked anus.  She was still cruelly stretched out by the ropes, sweating and exhausted, by then having endured perhaps six or seven orgasms, her head hanging down, catching her breath, her concave tummy heaving.  They thought the matrons would untie her and let her rest but the show was not over.

        The huge painted head of a traditional Chinese dragon was brought in from the rear, carried by two of the security guards.  From the front another matron approached with a pail of warm water, out of which she fished a long floppy rubber-like thing that looked like a giant tongue, maybe a foot long, pointed at the end but thick as a cucumber at the base.  They attached it in some manner to the inside of the dragon’s mouth.  Peggy’s eyes widened when she realized what was about to happen.

 

        Like everything the Chinese did, it was well thought out and effective.  And diabolical.  The prehensile rubber tongue was lubricated and slid up into Tami’s rectum.  Her head jolted upright and her eyes looked up in alarm.  As it slid in further she emitted what sounded like choking sounds.  Finally the works was set in motion in retro fashion by a large hand crank on the side of the dragon’s head.  The long tongue slithered in and out, bending and twisting but always managing to snake all the way in, evidently connected to a cam which changed the angle of attack with each thrust.  Tami shivered and shook and the ropes vibrated once again as the tongue must have gone past her rectum and up into her colon.  The matron, who like everyone else in the world (it seemed) knew the nuances of Tami’s levels of arousal, cranked more vigorously as orgasm approached.  The naked girl’s knees quaked to the extent they could as a strangled cry was ripped from her throat.  From reading the Chalfont reports Peggy could deduce that Miss Smithers was now experiencing not only stimulation through her anus and rectum, but through the entrance into her sigmoid colon (what someone referred to as “Tami’s inner butthole”) and up further.

        Suddenly Peggy, and the rest of the delegation, noticed that the men watching around the perimeter all looked Asian . . . and were wearing PRC pins!  An American woman, stripped and tied up, was being anally invaded by a Chinese dragon and driven to orgasms she did not want.  One could hardly imagine a grosser insult.  It was well known that the Chinese harbored lingering resentments at being so degraded and humiliated by Western imperialist powers in previous centuries.  This was a form of revenge, a conclusion reinforced by the malevolent smiles and laughter of the Chinese men.

        “What a -- !”  Mr. Donaldson was outraged.  He got up as if to leave until he felt Sir Gregory’s hand on his shoulder.  Leaving now would look like a form of protest.  They had to be as faceless and discreet as possible.  They all knew that any American objection would be politicized and fumbled at any rate.  That was part of the reason this matter had been handed to the British.  The delegation had to just sit and watch, silently cursing their impotence.  Was their humiliation greater than Tami’s at the moment?  The naked young woman was driven to two more orgasms, so powerful that her shrieks resounded up to the glass windows.  Finally the tongue was withdrawn.  Sudden and surprising applause, with a hint of viciousness and glee, erupted.  The matrons, smiling for a change, took a bow.  Up on the balcony the windlasses were unwound, ropes loosened, and Tami’s limp body was untied so that she could collapse onto the bare floor where she quickly fell asleep.

 

        That was bad.  Today, much to their collective relief, it was just Tami exercising for the crowd.

 

        Now Miss Smithers, having done the circuit on the machines, padded back to the shower and washed off the sweat, sweat caused this time not by orgasms but by simple exertion.  A towel was provided by a matron which of course, as soon as Tami finished drying herself, was quickly snatched away.

 

        Miss Smithers went to the yoga mat on the little square stage and now the delegation got their chance to sit right up next to her.  The flexible gymnast easily and comfortably got into the initial postures.  Peggy had taken yoga and recognized the lotus positions, then the peacock, the scorpion, the bird of paradise . . .  Now Tami faced the man at the end of the stage and slowly and sensuously thrust up her crotch at him, spread her legs wide, extended her arms back, and intertwined her fingers with her toes.  This was an advanced position; Peggy remembered it was called “bear” . . . although with Tami it would be “bare”.

        A matron handed the man a small flashlight.  Tami gave a little grunt and displayed one of her many talents: her womanly cave opened up in his face.  This was another Chinese man in a business suit with a PRC pin.  He gulped and peered into the pinkness inside, his hand shaking as he aimed the flashlight.  It was too intense, especially with Tami looking directly at him, from his perspective her eyes emerging right over her pubic bush.  After only a couple of seconds he gave the flashlight back with a trembling hand, almost dropping it.  An American girl so discomfiting him -- was this her own revenge for that dragon stunt?  Tami’s body, inside and out, was a formidable weapon and she had learned how to use it.  The matron gave the flashlight back to the man again and pointed.  Evidently each was to hand the flashlight to the next.  The second man shined the light up Miss Smithers’s vagina but likewise could only stand it for an instant.

        Peggy noticed the faces of the men in her delegation going pale.  They were a few seats away.  It was clearly expected that they, too, would be expected to shine the flashlight into Miss Smithers.  The effect created by her cute pigtails, which they now saw had pink ribbons in them, made it worse, more transgressive, more embarrassing, not to the young naked girl but to the clothed men.  Poor Mr. Zinowsky was first.  Never at ease, he bit his lip as he dutifully looked into the interior of Miss Smithers.  One could hardly do this without looking Tami in the eye, so close was the line of sight.  He tried to avoid that but a quick eye-flick showed that he had succumbed.  Lady Fanshaw was next.  The unflappable aristocrat peered inside as if she were examining a rare stamp, without any apparent consciousness that it was something she and Tami had in common.  She fastidiously flipped the flashlight to Peggy.

        Tami’s interior was pink and bright, almost as if the illumination originated from her insides instead of the other way around.  Her cervix was a lighter-colored knob with a little hole in the middle, the entrance to her very womb.  So odd to think that Peggy had one too.  She tried to imagine where her own cervix was inside her, whether she had ever felt anything there.  Tami, of course, was used to feeling air against it as part of her daily life.  She probably felt Peggy’s breath now.  Weird!

        Now she heard Sir Gregory’s voice -- “Miss Smithers, we want to show you our documentation” -- and Tami answered -- “I’m glad to hear that, finally!” -- and the cervix wiggled with each word Tami spoke!  Peggy’s eyes widened.

        Sir Gregory handed up a piece of paper for the International Nude to look at.  To do this he had to reach over Tami’s thigh.  She untangled her left foot and hand.  To their surprise she clasped the paper not with her fingers but with her flexible toes.  It made sense because her foot was closer.  Now Tami slid her hips over to Sir Gregory.  It was his turn with the flashlight.

        The proper British gentleman was outwardly stoic as he took in the interior of Miss Smithers’s vagina, waiting for her to read the paper, but dryness of mouth was betrayed by a clearing of throat.  With her gymnast’s flexibility Tami brought her foot over so as to draw the paper to her face.  After a quick read she said, “I’m sorry, Mister . . . Gregory, but this will not do.”

        Sir Gregory must have seen Tami’s cervix wiggle with her words, as just above it Tami’s face was talking to him and looking at him.  “Miss -- Smithers --  we -- cannot do more.”  It was a conversation between man and cervix.

        “You will have to!”  Tami said with a loud whisper.  She twisted her toes so that the paper hanging from them was now facing Sir Gregory.  The red white and blue toenail polish glistened in the overhead light.  “This is just a statement from you.  It doesn’t even have a direct quote!”  Her cervix must have been bobbing up and down vigorously in the man’s face, or rather, side to side like a little head shaking “no”.  The rest could see Tami’s pigtails swing with her (big) head shaking, like a little girl complaining that someone took her doll.

        With a deep exhale Sir Gregory passed the flashlight, much to Mr. Donaldson’s dread.  “You must trust us, Miss Smithers.”

        As Tami swiveled her legs over to her fellow American, she turned her head to Sir Gregory and said, “I’ve been deceived by men in suits, over and over.”  Then she mellowed a bit; even in this situation Tami remembered to be respectful to her elders.  “I don’t want to insult you, Sir.  But you understand this is not for me that I’m -- going through -- this.”

        “Yes, I know that, ch -- Miss Smithers.”  Fortunately he had stopped himself from saying “child”.

        Twenty minutes later they emerged from the hall into the waiting limousine, bound for the British consulate.  During the two-hour drive they knew they should be brainstorming as to aggressive strategies, but all that occupied their minds were the pink, brightly-lit folds of Tami Smithers’s innermost feminine sanctum, and being scolded by her cervix.



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