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.