Though there is no Halloweenfest again this year, I decided at almost the last minute to once more write a story in honor of Joe Doe's favorite holiday. It isn't very long or very complex -- I did it in one day -- but it may serve well enough. UNIFORM-ITY by C. Lakewood It was an unseasonably warm day late in October, and I was desperately in need of renewal. I had barely begun my sabbatical and was hungering for a better social life than I was ordinarily able to find. Teaching involves a great deal of time-consuming tedium. And, besides, prospects were bleak. Virtually all my colleagues were elderly, drunken, gay, geeky, or married -- and sometimes all five. Of course, I must admit that I myself may not appear all that eligible. I'm 33, but have an innocent, deceptively youthful face, and, at 5'2", 111 lbs., 32A-23-33, I might even pass as a high-schooler under the right conditions. That could attract pervs, but hardly the sort of men I'd want in a relationship. I suppose I could (and maybe should) upgrade my appearance -- clothes, hair, makeup. But I love reading good AR stories, and their plots usually provide fuel for my masturbatory fantasies (often several times a day!). Indeed, I frequently dream of getting myself into some AR-type situation in real life, but my rational self has always wound up over-ruling my libido, concluding that I had too much to lose to risk it. Anyway, I was about to start on a new and more fulfilling life-style, I hoped. I'd been invited to a Halloween party by some recent acquaintances and wanted to use that occasion to begin breaking free of the boring academic mold I'd been trapped in for far too long. So here I was, poking through second-hand clothes in a seedy thrift shop, looking for something I could make an interesting costume out of. I wasn't having much luck until, at length, I found a small-sized girls' school uniform (vocational school, apparently), a blue plaid polyester jumper bearing an embroidered patch (that read "Harrington School" over some sort of squat castle or fort). It had apparently been made for someone maybe 3 inches shorter than me, but of a similar body size. The hem was therefore VERY high, but otherwise it looked a pretty good fit. Written inside the jumper was a name -- "Sara Santos" -- presumably the girl to whom it had been issued. "Sara" was close to my own first name ("Lara"), and "Santos" wasn't all that far from my surname ("Sandberg"). At the time, I considered that a lucky coincidence, a good omen, a sign that it was meant for me. And, in an instant, The Plan came to me almost fully formed. I had already noticed some other stuff I could use, and I decided to play up my youthful appearance instead of trying to minimize it...and see what developed. (And have some low-risk, kinky fun in the process.) Though trembling and breathing heavily, I managed to slip out of the shop fairly nonchalantly. Driving home, I went over The Plan in my mind...and found it flawless. At home, I scrubbed off what little makeup and faint perfume I wore and braided my hair. I already had natural, unplucked brows and a good complexion; the little sun I'd been exposed to was not enough to tan me, but it had brought out a few freckles. All in all, not bad. Almost as an afterthought, I shaved my crotch bare. I wanted very much to masturbate, but knew that I tended to lose track of time doing that, and I didn't want to risk the shop closing before I got back to it. So I just dressed, made sure my house key was stashed outside safely, and left -- with only the clothes I wore and two bus tokens. I took the bus back to the shop. There, I pretended to rummage for a while, and then I approached the elderly black shop owner with my little bundle of girls' clothes and a pathetic story. I told him that I was going to a masquerade party that very night, and had found the perfect costume, but had also discovered I'd come out without any money...and now was running out of time, too. After dithering about for a bit, I eventually proposed a deal that he accepted. He traded me the jumper, a plain white short-sleeved cotton blouse, a pair of thin white ankle socks, and a serviceable pair of "mary jane" shoes -- in exchange for everything I was wearing (polo shirt, slacks, belt, socks, panties, and practically new sneakers). There was store room in the back of the shop, and I went there to change. The shopkeeper followed, waiting outside the door to collect the clothes I was trading in. (Was there also a peep-hole, I wondered, with a delicious shiver.) Once I was naked, I was mortified as the scent of excited pussy filled the little room. I hoped the shopkeeper couldn't smell it. After I'd dressed in my new outfit, I waited a few minutes for effect, then sheepishly made my way back up to the desk at the front. I was desperately holding down the hem of my jumper. (God, it was even shorter than I had anticipated!) I genuinely blushed as I confessed to him that I'd been so flustered by it all that I hadn't realized that there were no panties among the things I was now going to wear. He shrugged and opened his mouth as if he were going to tell to just pick out an appropriate pair.... But then he paused, and there was a gleam in his eye. He told me I could do an hour's work around the store and earn a pair of panties. He worked me pretty hard for that hour, shifting boxes and bundles, mainly, bending and stooping and flashing my naked butt. After a bit, he got a phone call and, a few minutes later, a couple of black men in their late 50s -- obviously cronies of the shopkeeper -- entered the store and proceeded to lounge about, watching me work. I would have been worried, but they seemed harmless enough -- just two more guys to show off for. When the hour was up, the old man smiled (or leered) at me and held up a pair of girls' rather threadbare white cotton underpants. But he kept them just out of my reach. "First, girlie, why don' you jes' come 'roun' here, an' sit on my lap, an' give me a nice, big kiss fo' bein' so gen'rous?" I tried to control my breathing. It was hard, because this was exceeding my expectations...by a lot. I obeyed (delicious word!), climbing onto his lap and kissing him on the mouth. His right hand disappeared under my skirt, and the kiss became a protracted one (with tongues), as his thick fingers explored my hairless crotch. When I finally was allowed to slide off his lap, he gave me the panties. (I was so turned on, though, I could actually have used a diaper; I was literally dripping.) The old man waggled his gooey fingers at his buddies, and they all had a good laugh. They watched me put on the panties and enjoyed a few final views of my soggy crotch. They laughed again when I timidly said, "Thank you, sir," and left the shop. "Come back any time," the shopkeeper croaked. Outside, I walked unsteadily a few steps and the pace quickly turned into a stagger. I fished in the tiny pocket of my jumper, but found it gone. It must have fallen out somewhere in that cluttered shop as I was toting bales, etc. But I couldn't go back. I wasn't all that far from home, so I decided just to walk. The problem was my panties. The elastic waistband was deteriorating, and I had to keep hitching them up. Four blocks on, it just gave up entirely. I nipped into an alley, let the panties slither to the ground, and walked VERY carefully away from them. I was concentrating on minimizing the movement of my skirt as I exited from the alley and so barely noticed a black van with some gold lettering and a crest on the side ease to the curb alongside me. A man got out. He was a big guy, a typical guido, with jowls and a broken nose, wearing a blue double-breasted suit that Dutch Shultz might have liked. "Hold it, sister," he said, in a whiskey voice. It was beginning to get dark, this was not the best section of town, the guy looked like a thug, and I wasn't wearing any panties -- all good reasons for avoiding a stranger. Not wanting to risk my kinky fun adventure turning ugly, I did a 180...and ran right into a big woman who apparently had come around the back of the van and approached me from behind. Easily half a foot taller than me, she was a "plus-size," with the lush body type often seen in Mediterranean women. She had strong, angular facial features, including a hawk nose. Her dark hair was pulled back into a severe bun, her makeup was minimal, and her clothes were rather drab. She was middle-aged...and quite intimidating. "It is well after curfew, so You must be the runaway, who has thrown the school into a turmoil. Well, we will soon put THAT right. A few days...or perhaps WEEKS...on administrative punishment, and you will be a very different girl, Sara...a VERY different girl." Her voice had a smug, pedantic air of authority and condescension. "You've made a terrible mistake, ma'am," I said. "My name isn't Sara, it's Lara, Lara Sandberg, DOCTOR Lara Sandberg in fact, and I'm certainly not...." Over her shoulder, I glimpsed the logo of "Harrington School" emblazoned on the side of the van, and, suddenly, everything became clear. "And I suppose that you have proper identification," she said. "Well, um...." "I thought not. Don't bother to lie further, Sara. You will discover that, the sooner you start telling the honest truth, the easier it will be...for everyone." Her expression was maddeningly self-satisfied. I suppose that one of the effects of living so long in one's own little academic fiefdom is that one becomes unused to being contradicted. At any rate, I exploded. "Goddammit, you fat, self-important cow, just listen to me! I'm not a damn student in your damn school...." "No," she said, making a cut-throat gesture. "I think I have listened to you quite enough." As I opened my mouth to reply, a thick cleave-gag was stuffed into it by the thug behind me, and, a moment later, my arms were crossed over my chest and my wrists cuffed behind me. The woman flung open the rear door of the van, and the man bundled me inside, remarking, "She's not wearing underpants and seems to be...aroused." They closed the van door, but I could still hear the woman's nasal voice as they moved away, back to the driver's compartment. "Before we are through with that...terrorist, we will cure her of many character flaws, including her foul mouth, insubordination, exhibitionism, and out-of-control sex drive. What do you know of aversion therapy, Stan?" As the sound of her voice died away, I wondered how long I'd be trapped in this real-life AR situation.... And I began cumming and cumming and cumming.