5.

 

        Tami hated waiting out in the hall like this.  Her total nudity could not be hid but on a day to day basis it could be managed.  Spreading her legs for art students in that freezing studio at 8 a.m. was unavoidable.  But she had more control the rest of the day.  In her classes she sat to the side, away from the door, out of eyeshot of people passing by.  Between classes she scurried between buildings as quickly as possible.

 

        This was different.  She was stuck here outside Varsha’s office, waiting for the professor to get done with another student.  And it was right next to the lobby, with people always passing by, students and professors.  Fortunately they were all dance majors, familiar with the human body, and they seemed more tolerant of her nudity.  No gawking guys, and Wanda and Lorinda and Heather & Co. had no reason to come into this building.  Still . . . she could not be seen to be covering herself in any way.  There were spies everywhere.  So she stood bolt erect, breasts stuck out as if proudly.  She glanced down, past the always-erect nipples, the pubic hair which had gotten fluffy with exposure to the open air, and made sure that her tough bare feet were exactly twenty inches apart.

 

        Finally after an eternity the professor’s door opened.  It was Vonda, from the yoga class, in her yoga clothes under an overcoat.  With a quick hi she was gone.

 

        Varsha’s office was very comfortable, dimly lit with a whiff of incense.  Tami had never been there before and it was a delight to her poor abused senses.  The soft fluffy rug under her bare soles, the soft sofa under her bare butt, the yarn comforter behind her bare back . . . She wished she could hide here all day.  But she was on a mission.

 

        She started awkwardly.  “Professor . . . Varsha . . .”  The professor, in her stocking feet, sat cross-legged on her chair.  To Tami’s relief she was looking at her face and not lower down.  “About Mr. Murchison and his ‘Placement’.”

 

        “Yes, that’s what he calls them.  You must have visited his web site.”

 

        “Um, yes.  You picked Mei-lin to be the centerpiece.”

 

        “Yes -- ?”

​

        “Well . . . she doesn’t really want to do it.”

 

        Varsha knitted her eyebrows.  “Shouldn’t she be the one to tell me that?”

 

        “She’s too shy to come to you herself.  In fact that’s the reason she doesn’t want to do the Placement thing.  She’s bashful about her body being on display, even with a jumpsuit on.  Very conservative . . . Chinese.”

 

        Varsha’s gaze absently wandered down to Tami’s knee.  “I know she’s shy, but I thought the spiritual element of Seth’s work would appeal to her.  Of all the students in my classes, she’s the one who is most centered in traditional yoga meditation.”

 

        “I didn’t know that.  She doesn’t talk much.”

 

        “At the beginning of the semester I took her to Tung Hing, and we had a long, slow lunch.” Tung Hing was a Chinese restaurant in town.  “That was why I thought she would be the ideal choice for the centerpiece.  That, and also her ability.  She’s the best in the class.  Of course,” Varsha smiled, “you’re a close second.  We all admire how comfortable you are with your body.”

 

        Tami suppressed another pang of shame at her hypocrisy.  “Um . . . she has a sad family history.”

 

        “Yes I know,” Varsha said, without surprise.

 

        “Maybe that’s part of it but . . .”

 

        “Look Tami, I know you’re intervening with good intentions, but I have to hear this from Mei-lin directly.  Besides, if she can’t do it . . . the only other person in the class who can go through all those positions is you, and obviously . . . Seth tells me the jumpsuit is as important to the Placement as the performer’s yoga positions.”

 

        Tami’s throat went dry as she thought of wearing a jumpsuit and sneakers, being covered all over.  She forced the words out.  “Yes, clearly . . . I couldn’t be the one.”

 

        “Maybe if I call her,” Varsha said.

 

        “Yes -- thanks.”

 

        Tami miserably left the office, thinking of that jumpsuit, then saw that it was starting to snow.  It was only February; up here in northern Vermont she had to survive maybe two more months of this.  She shuffled outside, watching her toes knife through the freezing white stuff, flakes sticking to her pubic hair . . . thinking of jumpsuits and sneakers, and spirituality, and yoga, and the Chinese Cultural Revolution, and lonely and scared Mei-lin . . . but mostly of jumpsuits and sneakers, as the wind kicked up and the icy grains assaulted her bare butt like little needles and her feet once again got reddish, painful and then numb.  Now the distant voice of Lorinda -- “Hey Tami -- are you insane??  Why don’t you put on some clothes!!” -- and vicious giggling. The naked girl’s pretty green eyes got wet and then overflowed.  She raised her head up, so that people going past would assume the tears running down her cheeks were caused by the stiff wind.

 

       

6.

 

        Tami felt no less miserable as she headed out Friday morning for yoga class.  It was already a bad, bad morning.  Professor Brignon had put her into another series of embarrassing poses.  In one of them, her butt was stuck out in everyone’s face, one leg spread out on a metal stand that felt like ice under her bare foot.  She was sure everyone had a clear view of her butthole.  Her anal sphincter puckered up as cold air hit it, coming in from that always half-opened window.  She was sure everyone could see that too.

 

        Then there was the email from Dr. Harridance at the Chalfont Institute.  That awful “orgasm research” was going to be expanded.  Now she was going to have to look into the eyes of those men as she crested into orgasm, so that they could measure the dilation of her pupils.  Of course they were going to take pictures.  Dr. Harridance was a nice guy but she wasn’t so sure about some of the others.  And it was mentioned that the Dean and that creepy college lawyer, Mr. Ross, might stop in!  And she couldn’t object!  Admitting to any sign of modesty would get her expelled!  Life ruined!  Going back to Providence in disgrace!  Might as well go into waitressing, or have babies and go on welfare, like too many of the girls from her high school.

 

        She couldn’t take any more of this -- the intensifying shame, over and over.  There was no way out!  She was going to go crazy!  She felt very close to the end of something, somehow.  The end of her sanity??

​

        She walked into the dance building.  It was good at least to do something normal, taking yoga class with the other girls, even if she was the only one doing it naked.  She was the last one to arrive, right behind Vonda and Debbie, who were chatting endlessly like always.  They were starting the first lotus position when she realized that, for the first time, Mei-lin was absent.

 

        After class Varsha called Tami in to her office.  Once again the warm, soft surroundings enveloped the grateful naked girl like a big fluffy blanket.  On the shelf was a little Buddha with a stick of incense.  Tami had been raised Catholic, and all this yoga and spirituality and meditation business seemed strange but also fascinating and comforting.

 

        “Tami, I did speak to Mei-lin.  You’re right.  I can’t ask her to be the centerpiece, with that intense sense of modesty and shame she has.  But she feels even worse about backing out, ‘losing face’ as she might say.  I don’t know what we’re going to do.  The exhibit is tomorrow.”

 

        Tami’s eyes wandered to the professor’s desk.  She cleared her throat to get the words out to hide her quivering thirst for covering.  “Is -- that the jumpsuit.”

 

        “Yes,” Varsha said.  It was in a clear plastic bag, along with the sneakers and socks.  She took the jumpsuit out and unfolded it, extending one of the arms out to Tami.  “Very nice material, really.  I know clothing isn’t your ‘thing’ but even you could appreciate it.”

 

        Did something inside Tami snap?  Was it a flash of inspiration?  Desperation?  Her brain being bypassed by some impulsive instinct?

 

        “Professor . . . I will be the centerpiece.  And I will wear the jumpsuit.”

 

        Varsha’s wide brown eyes opened even wider and her mouth opened.  “Tami! . . . I can’t make you go back on your religion!”

 

        “No . . . it’s . . . I’ve been thinking about . . . spirituality . . . and yoga . . . I’ve been, uh, modifying my beliefs.  I’ve decided the jumpsuit would be acceptable.”

 

        “Tami! . . . Gee, I don’t know.”  Varsha looked at the naked girl up and down, then at the jumpsuit.  “It’s your religion that you must never wear clothes or shoes.  We all got the letter from Mr. Ross that we are not to dissuade you from it.  Though you clearly believe in it very deeply, especially seeing you walking naked through the snow.  I think it’s very inspiring, and I’m not the only one.”

 

        Tami cleared her throat again, quivering this time not with longing for clothes but with nervousness as to what she was risking.  “No . . . I mean it.  It’s ok with me to wear the jumpsuit.”

 

        Then Tami’s heart stopped when Varsha said, “I will have to clear this with the Dean.”

 

       

 

7.

 

        The email came in later that day.  It was from Varsha, but the Dean had been copied on it and it sounded like the Dean had written it:

 

        “Tami, The Dean has accepted your decision as to any modifications to your religion.  He wishes you all the best and is glad that the college effectively protected your First Amendment rights during this time.”

 

        Later, Varsha sent another email:

 

        “The jumpsuit etc. will be in my office for you to pick up tonight from 7 to 9.  I have to be in town so I’ll leave it unlocked.  Tami, THANK YOU THANK YOU very much for your help!  Yours, Varsha Choudhury.”

​

        ....

 

        It all happened so fast.  As Tami walked into the dance building, through the darkened halls this Friday evening, and approached Varsha’s office, she prayed thankfulness to God, or to Buddha, or whoever it was who finally granted her most fervent wish.  That email was not limited to just the jumpsuit -- it allowed “modification” of her religion.  Once her religion was “modified”, she could say once again that she experienced modesty.

​

        It was the end.  Finally!  No more shame.  No more taunting and teasing from Wanda and Lorinda and Heather and their friends.  No more freezing her butt off walking through a Vermont winter.  No more spreading her legs for art students.    The Chalfont experiments would have to stop.  And she could go on wearing clothes all the time!

 

        She hadn’t told Jen or Rebecca or her other friends, or Rod.  She was going to surprise them, walking back into Pilgrim Hall -- clothed!  She could imagine the reaction around campus.  There’s Tami -- in clothes!

 

        She opened the door . . . unfolded the jumpsuit . . . gave a thankful bow to the Buddha . . . Maybe it was the incense, but she felt like she was part of a bigger world, a bigger situation somehow, a world that was coming to an end at this moment.  She raised her quivering toes to slide into one of the pant legs.

 

       

8.

 

        The weak February sun shone on the main quad of Campbell - Frank College, and on the latest “Placement” by noted Irish performance artist Seth Murchison.  Students, faculty, particularly the art faculty, and the many who came from around the state to see this and the other ArtVermont exhibits around campus . . . They milled around the pillars arranged in catenary curves, the recorded voices and music, the lighting displays around the perimeter, and read the poems on the pillars.

 

        And on the center pillar, a little higher than the rest, the live performer was doing the yoga pose known as “bear”.  Or maybe it should be “bare”.  Because that was what Tami Smithers was, utterly, her legs spread up and out at a 90-degree angle, fingers intertwined with her widely-extended toes.  With her flexibility as a trained gymnast it was no strain at all to keep her back straight, eyes fixed on a point above and beyond, as it happened just past the top floor of Rossland Hall, the administration building.

​

        “Yes, it is an adjustment very good,” Professor Brignon said.  Tami’s crotch was at their eye level but they were careful to look up at her torso, her taut, blank expression, and then down at the bare breasts, reddened and tight with the cold, and the brownish-red pebbles of her hardened nipples.

 

        “Isn’t she cold?” The vaguely Eastern European cadence came from the man next to the professor, a shortish fellow in a beret, overcoat and gloves.

 

        “She has developed resistance,” said Professor Yevtushenko.  “I would not worry.”

 

        “Remarkable young woman,” said the tall man in a thick Irish accent, stereotypically wearing a tartan jacket over jeans and a flannel shirt and thick boots.  And now a change in music, and Tami, with slow, measured motions, untwined her bare feet from her fingers, crossed her legs and began a partial headstand.  Her hands braced alongside her head, her crossed legs raising high up above her straightened back.

 

        “Congratulations, Mr. Murchison, for making the adjustment so quickly,” Dean Jorgon said, adjusting the coat over his usual business suit with the trademark maroon tie.  “It seems to have worked out well.”

​

        “Yes, and thanks to your last-minute suggestion, with the unexpectedly pleasant weather -- what is it now, about 13 degrees?  Not sure what that is in Fahrenheit -- we could move the entire installation outside.  And it turned out the jumpsuit actually could be dispensed with.  The sneakers also.  I suppose yoga poses are more easily done in the nude anyway.  I have never used nude models because of the spectacle aspect . . . I remember well Tom Wesselman’s ‘Bedroom Tit Box’, sorry, but that was the title of it . . . But this is a breakthrough for me, from an artistic standpoint.”  He turned to the Dean.  “It was a surprise getting that call from you this morning,” the Irish man said.

 

        “Yes, I wish I could say what happened wasn’t partly my fault,” the Dean said.  “It was almost a disaster.  Thank goodness Mr. Ross warned me about the lack of proof, and I could alert the security people in time.”  Henry Ross, the campus attorney, took his gaze away from Tami’s now upside-down vulva and smiled modestly.

 

        At a puzzled look from the man in the beret, the Dean went on: “Henry made clear that an unsworn second-hand statement would not be adequate proof that Miss Smithers was no longer following her, uh, religion.  Fortunately the security people found her in Professor Choudhury’s office at the very last possible moment.  Miss Smithers was quaking with what must have been fear and revulsion, I imagine, literally half a second away from putting on clothes, her hands shaking as she was about to slip the jumpsuit on.  In a few seconds she would have been entirely covered up with that jumpsuit, and with socks and sneakers on her feet.  Obviously she had been pressured into agreeing to put on clothes, which would be utterly repugnant to the religion which the college has tried so hard to protect.”

​

        As he recounted the story, loudly enough for everyone around to hear, Tami’s upside down gaze continued to fix on that same spot, up and above.  Her toes, sticking out from the hollows of her crossed knees, twitched ever so slightly.

​

        “I knew we had done the right thing based on what they told me about her reaction.  She cried out, ‘No, no!’, and in her distracted state she actually tried to grab the jumpsuit back!  Fortunately there were two officers, in full uniform of course, and after a violent struggle that unfortunately knocked over a few things in Professor Choudhury’s office, they managed to win that bizarre tug-of-war so her nudity was preserved.  The jumpsuit got ripped but that’s a moot question now of course. Then she ran to the locker room, her bare feet slapping down the hallway, and was heard crying, and then wailing, banging on the lockers with her fists.  Her screams of ‘no! no! no!’ resounded through the empty corridors. She was clearly traumatized by what she was almost forced into doing.  I’m glad it was late, classes were over, and there was no one around to hear.

​

        “Of course Professor Choudhury has been strictly admonished as to what she tried to get Miss Smithers to do.  We have referred the matter to the Faculty Disciplinary Committee.”  In a quieter voice, he looked up at the upside-down nude and said, “Per the advice of Mr. Ross, if Miss Smithers ever wishes to, uh, modify her religion, we will have to have her questioned under oath, to make sure it is a free and uncoerced choice on her part.  This necessarily involves going into matters back to . . . her first week at school, the circumstances under which she declared her religion.  We will also have to find all relevant witnesses.  It sounds very legalistic, I know, but we have to make sure her First Amendment rights are protected.”

 

        The man with the beret, clearly impressed, looked up at the upside-down face.  “Miss Smithers, I admire you greatly.”  She did not respond.  Seth Murchison said, “I’m sure she appreciates the compliment, but she is not supposed to break character.”  “Oh, sorry.”

 

        The six of them -- the Dean, Henry Ross, Professor Brignon, Seth Murchison, Professor Yevtushenko, and the man in the beret -- circled around the central pillar, taking in the exquisite nudity from every angle.  The music changed and, as they came around to once again face the posing nude, Tami brought her legs down, extended them out until they were almost in a split, and ducked her head underneath.

 

        Murchison said, “I believe Miss Smithers’s nudity complements the work more than the jumpsuit would have.  Notice the flushed color of her skin, due to the temperature.  It actually suits the work more than the jumpsuit would have.  Also the rest of her body, outdoors on a day like this, presents an interesting mosaic.”  These comments gave the other heavily clothed adults permission to look at every bit of her.  “The brownish red nipples, hardened from the cold.  The red blotches on the buttocks.  The redness in the toes, and the fingers.  One can even see in this pose, her vaginal lips parted, the redness within offsetting the pinkish character of her inner thighs. These are all variations of the color red, which as you can tell was the theme of the central pillar.”  They took turns drawing their heads close to Tami’s crotch to understand what the artist was talking about.

 

        The man in the beret said, “Her anus is well on display, and even it seems a little reddish in addition to brown.”  The others agreed.  Murchison said, “Yes, the anus of Miss Smithers and her surrounding skin basically sum up the color scheme of the entire presentation.”  They crowded in closer to look.

​

        Tami continued to look up into the distance, as directed.

​

        “And of course the red hair,” Murchison said.  “And by that I mean not only the hair on her head, but her pubic hair.”  The men examined the latter a lot more closely than the former.

 

        Henry Ross looked at the Dean.  The Dean then turned to Murchison and said, “Perhaps a comparison with the jumpsuit . . . ?”

 

        “Yes, thanks for reminding me,” Murchison said.  “I have the, well, remains of it here,” he said with a little chuckle.  He fished out of his bag the ripped-up coverall, the coverall that had come within a few seconds of finally enveloping Tami in soft warmth, and protection from the world’s constant probing gaze. With the help of the man in the beret, they stretched it out so that it lay full length next to Tami’s stretched-out nudity.  It came within an inch of touching her.  The posing nude quivered and quaked.  Her eyes blinked but stayed resolutely fixed on some distant point.

​

        “You see that the uniform color of the jumpsuit, actually this is a pale shade of vermilion, does not make the exhibit come alive as does human nudity.”  He brought the jumpsuit down and the human nudity stopped quivering.

 

        “Also the socks.”  He brought out one of the warm, fluffy wool socks and stretched it out right next to Tami’s freezing bare foot.  Actually too close; part of it glanced ever so slightly against Tami’s little toe, causing another quiver.  “Oh I’m sorry Miss Smithers, I realize it is offensive to your religion to have clothing touching you . . . Anyway, the sock is not as interesting as the various shades of red we see here in a bare foot.”

 

        “I agree, remarkable,” Henry Ross said.  A bit more loudly he said, “My, it’s getting colder.”  With an exaggerated gesture he pulled his overcoat together under his chin and stuffed his hands in the pockets.  They contemplated the nude, spread-out body of Tami Smithers for another moment, the many effects that cold air has on the skin of a white girl; then Murchison led them to the other pillars.  As they drifted off, one could hear him say, “This is a wonderful crowd.  More than I expected.”  “Yes, indeed,” the man in the beret said.  “I think this Placement will give you some much needed exposure.”  “Yes, any artist has to be glad to get exposure.”

 

        “Wow!  Tami you are incredible!”  It was the enthusiastic chirping of Jen, dressed as always stylishly, in a blue peacoat, fake-fur cap, black jeans and heeled boots.  “Look at that beautiful woman-land!  I want to plunge my tongue right into it!  And that cute butthole!”

​

        “Oh Jen,” Marisol said, adjusting the huge breasts under her sweatshirt.  “Shhh . . . this is supposed to be an art exhibit of some kind.  ¡Cálmate!” she added in Spanish.

​

        “Babe, you are amazing!” Rod said.  “I love you more every time I see you.”

​

        “I know you’re not supposed to react to us, Tami,” Rebecca said.  “But let me say, your faith inspires me with every passing day.”

​

        “I wish we were allowed to take pictures,” Jen whispered.  Rebecca, remembering the sign at the roped-off entrance, shook her head.  The four of them contemplated their nudist friend, then said goodbye, on the way to another exhibit across campus.  They would see her at the dining hall for supper, where her afternoon performance would no doubt be discussed and enthused over.

 

        The spectators seemed to be moving around in groups.  They read the poems, enjoyed the drawings and projected images, went from pillar to pillar, but naturally the central exhibit was the cynosure.  Tami’s bare body was soon surrounded and observed by friends from her dorm, then professors from her math classes, then art students who had already seen her pose in many positions, even groups from local churches.  The Dean and Henry Ross returned, watching her intently and minutely for a full two minutes as if on a timer, then left, whispering to each other.

​

        Now Wanda, Heather, Lorinda, and a couple of other girls from the sorority.

 

        “The great, naked Tami Smithers!” Lorinda cackled, as if about to stick her finger into Tami’s anus.  “Butt naked . . . and I mean . . . BUTT naked!”

 

        The music changed, and Tami, remembering the sequence, slowly brought her legs together, sat up, turned around, then stretched herself out again, shifted her butt, leaned back at a certain angle . . . and with the help of her hands drew one foot way back behind her head, then the other.  Steadying herself on her elbows, she faced forward, looking over her breasts, her crotch now split open in front, coming up almost as high as her head, her knees around her ears, her crossed feet behind her, toes spread outward.

​

        “Oh . . . my . . . God!!” Heather said.  They did not know the term but Tami was now in a position called “sleeping yogi”.

​

        Wanda shielded her eyes.  “Tami I know you have no modesty but do you really have to shove your butthole in our faces!”

 

        “This is gross,” one of the girls said.  The brown wrinkled asterisk seemed to wink at them in the sun, as a chill breeze blew over it.

 

        “Wow look,” Lorinda said, her eyes going a bit higher.  “Her woo-woo’s opened up.”

​

        “Tami!” Heather said.  “Do you know we can see right up inside you?”  Of course Tami did not respond, her eyes fixed on that spot somewhere, up over there.

 

        One of the girls, sipping a soda, had a mischievous smile.  Wanda guessed what she was thinking.  “No don’t!” she said, half as warning, half as joking encouragement.  Her friend fished out a little piece of ice and stuffed it into the straw.  They all watched to make sure the coast was clear.  Then, with childish expertise, she took aim.  She found her mark deep within the spread-open girl.  Ice hitting cervix registered only as a little jolt of the pelvis, and a wiggle of the toes.  Tami’s eyes blinked but continued their steadfast gaze.

​

        As it happened Tami’s vagina was exactly at their eye level.  The curious heads leaned closer.  Heather said, “I see it! The sunlight hits it just so.”

​

        “The sign said no pictures . . .”  Lorinda said this with heavy slowness.  Her friend got the perfect angle.  A photo, passed around on her smart phone, caught in one shot Tami’s face, her nipples, her wide-open crotch, the sunlight illuminating the red cave within, and the pretty little anus below.

​

        Wanda said, “Tam, I imagine you won’t mind if we send this to your parents, or your friends from high school.  They would be so proud.”

​

        They looked up and saw a tear fall from each pretty green eye.

 

        “It’s the wind, I see,” Wanda explained.  “Notice it’s getting colder.”

 

        “Yeah, that happens to me too, when I look into the wind and it’s cold,” Heather said.  “Your eyes get wet.  It’s almost as bad as slicing onions.”

​

        This got them on the topic of the cooking show they watched last night in the dorm.  Off they went.  Now some other friends from Pilgrim Hall stopped by, trying not to look at the vagina and anus Tami was thrusting at the world, but unable to control their frequent glances.

 

        Now a short Chinese girl stopped by, shielding her face from the nudity.  With her was an equally tiny older Chinese woman, also with her head averted.  They were wearing traditional Chinese coats, the ones with the clasps down the front.

​

        “Tami, I know you’re supposed to as they say, stay in character,” Mei-lin said, speaking to the ground, hand over her eyes.  “But thank you for stepping in for me. . . This is my mother, visiting on a visa.  I wanted to introduce her to my friend who I admire very much.”

 

        “Yes.”  Her mother’s English was surprisingly good: “My parents were brave, and you are brave.  Thank you for what you did for my daughter.”

​

        Mei-lin added, “You rescued me from a terrible situation.  You made it possible for me to save face.”  Then she and her mother looked at each other.  Coordinating carefully, they stood before the nude on the pillar, as if facing a shrine.  Then they bowed, deeply, respectfully.

​

        “Sleeping yogi”, as the name indicates, is a resting position, which one can maintain for quite long periods.

​

        “So this is how Tami Smithers finishes up on the Academy of Stripping Naked Story Board.”  It was Indian Outlaw, bundled up now that the sun was disappearing.  They looked up at the goose pimples, the slight shivering.  In a breach of her instructions, Tami wiggled the toes behind her head, since they were getting stiff with the cold.  A little gust of cold air into her opened vagina made her anus twitch.

 

        “She’s been written about for almost the entire life of the board.  I created her in 1999,” TrackJim said.

​

        “As far as sheer volume of writing, probably the most written about character, among the many ASN creations,” IO said.

 

        “I’m kind of glad she will never meet me in real life,” donnylaja said.  “She’d probably tear my balls off.”

 

        “Probably poop on me,” Jack Straw said.

 

        “She’d kick me in the head with her rock hard heels and push me down a ravine,” Peter (Leviticus) said.

 

        “I thought you died!” Katie said.

​

        “Well . . .” Peter said.

 

        “Even Zack and Liz had their doubts,” donnylaja pointed out,  “I’m glad his site survives though.”

 

        Indian Outlaw said, “Even as to my many authors, it’s better if we don’t meet in real life.  It’s a fantasy life.  But I’m proud to have sponsored so many fantasies for so long.”

 

        They watched as SliceReality knelt in front of the pillar with his palette, preparing his next image, which as usual would take weeks to complete.

 

        “IO, most of us never wrote erotica until we were inspired by your board,” donnylaja said.

​

        BareLin, Molly, daican, Seahawk, JB Goode, and RJ Tayler (whose caps lock feature finally got fixed) nodded in agreement.  There were others, too numerous to name, crowding around the pillar.  Iionly looked on in expectation.

 

        Katie said, “Tami, we will always love you.  We love you because you’re good and true and loyal and honest and brave.”

 

        They all bowed to the suffering but much-loved naked shrine.

 

-end-