Note: This story was dynamically reformatted for online reading convenience.
 
 Beth Naked in School

   by peregrinf

   Copyright(c) 2010 by peregrinf

   ------ Description: Part 3 of the Carl NIS series.  It is best to read
Carl NIS first, then Carl NIS - Beth's Story second, then this one.  Beth
helped Carl being naked in school, and now it is her turn.  What will he
do? She's not as shy, now, and isn't about to be bullied.  But what a pep
rally, and after the football game.
Codes: mf ff cons rom reluc les het span gang 1st oral mastrb pett exhib
voy teach sch

   ------

   Chapter 4

   Tuesday Morning

   The next morning, when Carl and I walked up to the school there was the
traditional gathering of boys at the North Entrance, where the girls in The
Program had to strip.  We watched as June Farrow, the senior girl in The
Program that week, stripped and deposited her clothes in the drop for them.

   She's a three sport athlete - track in the fall, basketball in the
winter and softball in the spring.  She's about five foot ten, and built
like a goddess.  If she was blushing it didn't show on her.  Her skin was a
rich, dark chocolate brown, all over.  Her breasts are firm, her nipples a
shade darker, of course.  She wears her hair in a short, natural 'do, and
her bush is kinky, close to her mons.  I had an image of her running the
hurdles in her specialty, the heptathlon, and my breath caught in my
throat. I wondered if the photography club had thought of trying to capture
that image, that fleet beauty!

   She strolled gracefully, confidently into school, her firm buttocks
flexing, and then it was my turn.  I felt totally inadquate following that
exhibition.

   I'd dressed carefully that morning, too.  When he'd been in The Program,
Carl had gone for efficiency, putting on no more than necessary.  I wanted
to make a different statement; don't judge a book by its cover.  All my
life I'd had the image of the demure, studious scholar.  I knew now, after
the homecoming dance, and especially after yesterday afternoon, that there
was more to me than that.

   Oh, I was wearing my usual conservative blouse and skirt.  I really
didn't have much choice, though I had already resolved to expand my
wardrobe as soon as I had a chance.  I began by unbuttoning my shirt,
facing the throng, making no effort to conceal anything, even though my
mouth was dry and I was trembling.

   Removing my shirt, I revealed another of my recently acquired
"frillies," a lace demi-cup bra that lifted my shy breasts, barely
concealed my nipples.  I could see the appreciation in Carl's eyes as he
watched.

   Folding my shirt carefully, I deposited it in the box.  Then I
unbuttoned my skirt and unzipped it, trying to be graceful as I did. 
Stepping out of it, I similarly folded it and put it in the box, leaving me
in my bra, and thong panties.  The turn I made to deposit the skirt gave
everyone a good look at how the back of the panties disappeared between the
cheeks of my ass.

   Turning back to my audience, I uhooked the bra between my breasts, and
opened it, feeling my nipples stiffen in the cool morning air.  Shedding
it, I took what I hoped was a graceful turn to the applause and whistles of
the crowd.

   Into the deposit box the bra went, and I was down to my panties and
loafers, which could stay on, of course, but which I toed off.  Hooking my
thumbs in the waist of the thong, I eased it down with a wiggle of my hips.
The back of it was caught in the crack of my ass as I drew the lacy dainty
down, of course.  It was also clinging to the sticky-wet folds of my pussy
a little, finally pulling free.

   Bending, I slid the panties down my thighs, and stepped out of them. 
Shaking them out, I folded them, and added them to the rest of my clothes
in the locked drop-box.  Stepping over to Carl, I asked him for his comb.

   This he hadn't expected, but he dug it out and handed it to me without
complaint.  Using the glass in the door as a mirror, I combed and
re-ponytailed my hair, then stepped over to a bench by the door.  The guys
sitting there gaped, and I lifted one foot to rest it on some guy's knee,
displaying my cunt to all, my innards squirming as I did.

   Okay, the devil made me - modest Beth - do it.  What can I say?

   I combed out my pussy hair right in front of their eyes, fluffing it up.
Then I had another thought.  Handing the comb to the guy whose knee I was
using, I stretched, putting my hands behind my head, letting him comb my
pussy, flinching slightly as the sharp teeth brushed my tender labia. 
Finishing, he patted my pussy gently, his thumb slipping between my thighs
to tease the opening of my cunt, wringing a gasp from me.

   I shot a glance at Carl, and the rest of the crowd.  Carl licked his
lips nervously, but nodded his understanding as the crowd applauded. 
Taking the comb back, I then returned it to Carl, brushed his cheek with my
fingers, and took my book bag from him.

   Sticking my feet back in my loafers, I made my way into school, the
crowd following me as I made my way to my locker.  I was trembling as I
dialed the combination and got out the things I needed for my morning
classes.  A small group of guys hovered around, watching me, making me more
aware of my exposure than ever.

   "See you in French," Carl bade me as I got ready for chem.

   "See you." I smiled at him.

   Then it was off to the hustling, daily routine, maneuvering the hallways
naked.  Chem was nothing, but then it was French, with Madamoiselle Duclos.

   It was too much to hope for a second reprieve, and I didn't get it.

   "Ah, Madamoiselle Finch," Madamoiselle Duclos greeted me warmly.  "If
you would please just come to the front of the room, I would be most
grateful."

   Oh God, here we go, I thought as I obeyed, conscious of every eye in the
room on me.  Even my participation on the debating team hadn't prepared me
for this kind of public exposure!  My resolve to participate fully and
willingly in all the challenges the program presented began to waver.  I
looked at Carl, and could see the sympathy in his gaze, and the tension.

   "Up 'ere, please," Madamoiselle Duclos directed, making me step up on a
little platform so they could see me better, taking my books from me and
putting them on her desk.  "Madamoiselles and Monsieurs, today, with the
beautiful and able assistance of Madamoiselle Finch, we will cover more
slang vocabulary."

   Blushing furiously, I managed to face the class, first folding my arms
over my breasts, then clasping my hands in front of my pussy, hunching my
arms over my breasts in a desperate effort to protect myself from their
curious stares.

   Madamoiselle Duclos said something to me in French that my dazed mind
managed to translate into "Ah, you are a very beautiful young lady," or
something like that.  I mustered something resembling a smile for her, I
think, and tried to relax, unclasping my hands and putting my arms at my
sides.  I took a deep breath, conscious of the movement of my ribs, the
lift of my breasts as I did.

   God, I felt so exposed!  I shot an anxious glance at Carl, and was
warmed by the sympathy and pride and desire in his return look.  He gave me
a quick "thumbs up" signal that helped ease my terror, if not my
embarassment.

   Then Madamoiselle Duclos began to touch me - feather light touches
barely brushing my skin as she named my features.  My nipples stiffed to
her light caress.

   Her hand cupped my breast warmly, making he shiver.  I'd never been
touched by another woman that way.  It was different from Carl's touch, but
I still felt myself becoming aroused.  Was she lesbian?

   I didn't think so.  I knew she had a boyfriend.  What should I do?

   "These are Madamoiselle Finch's 'doudounes, ' a relatively recent
addition to French slang," Madamoiselle Duclos explained, moving to the
white board to spell it out.  "They are also known as 'les nénés, ' 'les
nichons, ' and even 'les roberts.' If I may say, Madamoiselle Finch 'as
lovely doudounes, by French standards, not being over amply endowed or, as
the French would say, 'y'a du monde au balcon, ' which loosely translates
as 'what a pair of knockers.'"

   That brought some chuckles from the class, and some flushing from the
more well endowed girls as well.

   "The French say that the ideal size of a woman's breast is what will
fill a champagne glass.  Unfortunately, I fear I am a bit too generous for
that." To my astonishment, Madame Duclos proceeded to remove her blouse to
reveal she wore no bra.  Her breasts were larger than mine, but not a lot
larger.  There was more weight to them, a bit more crease beneath them, and
her nipples were darker and more prominent than mine.

   Someone in the back of the room whistled softly.

   Goose bumps flared to life as her fingers gently stroked my soft, shy
breasts again, and I blushed even brighter, if that was at all possible.  I
shot her a nervous glance, but she was looking at the class.  I couldn't
help noticing how stiff and alert her own nipples were, and wondered if she
was finding this as arousing as I was.

   Her hand left my breast, and moved down my torso.  I shivered, and she
spared me a sympathetic glance.  "Are you all right?" she asked.

   I nodded nervously.  "I think so.  It tickles.  I'm - uh - not used to
being touched that way."

   "You are so very pretty, though, and your skin is so soft!  I 'ope you
will let me continue?"

   I summoned my courage, even as it was being assaulted by both arousal
and shame, and nodded tensely.

   She nodded agreeably, and went on, giving the slang term for "navel" as
she touched my belly button.  I balled my fists, knowing she her next
target would be my pussy.

   "And now, since Madamoiselle Finch might like some company..."
Madamoiselle Duclos' voice trailed off as she unfastened her skirt, letting
it drop to reveal her total lack of underwear.  I couldn't not lean forward
to look down at her.

   She was shaved down there, as bare as a baby!  Her puffy labia were
totally exposed!

   I was still dealing with this when her finger brushed into my pubic
hair. "This is, how you might say, 'pussy' and we French would say 'chatte'
which is, of course, 'cat' en Francaise, or pussy," she finished brightly.
"As you can see, I have no 'air, and I 'ave wondered, should it still be
called chatte?"

   "But beneath the 'air is the same and, in polite company it might be
called 'Noune.'" She spelled it out on the board, giving me a brief
respite, prounouncing it 'noonn.' "That is to say, the 'vulva.'"

   I shivered again.  I felt like I was under a microscope, despite her
shared display.  The class was studying my most intimate secrets.  It was
mortifying, but what was even more mortifying, I could feel myself becoming
more and more physically aroused.  I shot Carl an anxious look, and I could
see he knew what I was feeling.  He looked pained, and stimulated, and
shifted awkwardly in his seat.  I saw him reach down, and knew he was
adjusting his hardon in his jeans, but I couldn't help wondering if it was
because of me, or Madamoiselle Duclos with her more mature beauty, her
fuller breasts, or perhaps her exposed vulva.

   "There are other words," Madamoiselle Duclos went on, writing on the
board - I couldn't help turning and watching her.  Her bottom was firm and
round.

   "These include 'con, ' 'conne, ' is the feminine form, of course.  Then
there is 'connard' and, similarly in feminine 'connarde.' These are used as
insults when referring to a man.  If you wanted to insult a woman and call
her a 'bitch' or maybe even - ah, what is the word?  - cunt?  - you would
call her 'connasse' and there is no masculine form of this word."

   She returned to my side, bending down.  "Please, move your feet apart a
little?" she asked sweetly.  "Merci."

   Then she got even more personal, as I fought the urge to squirm.  Her
fingers parted my pubic hair, revealing my slit, and I saw the boys in the
class practically drooling, while some of the girls blushed, and others
stared.  She could have done this on herself, after all!

   "This is called, if the man knows the woman extremely well, 'cramouille'
meaning 'wet slit.'" If 'e does not know her it is, of course, a vile
insult."

   I WAS wet, and I wanted to die!

   "And," Madamoiselle Duclos went on inexorably, "if we part these lovely
lips, which, I might add, are indeed delightfully wet," She paused, and I
actually felt her spreading my labia open!  " 'ere we find the little man
in the hood, the clitoris, non?  In French this is called 'clito, ' making
it easy to remember.  That is, of course, a feminine noun.  A woman who has
a good lover would not hesitate to ask 'im to 'lèche-moi le clito, ' or
'lick my clitoris.' The man might respond to such a request by 'descendre à
la cave' or as you might say, descending to the basement."

   Thinking of what Carl had done to me after the dance, I was blushing
beet red by now, and I could see Carl turning scarlet and trying to sink
down under his desk!  Just the memory of that orgasm was enough to make my
pussy weep.

   "As you might suspect," she went on, stroking her own bare pussy, "a man
doing some - ah - what is that word that I am seeking?  - you know,
exploring caves..."

   "Spelunking?" Carl offered impulsively.

   "Ah, mais oui, zat is the word I seek," Madamoiselle Duclos agreed
gaily. "A man who has, as we say 'scendre a la cave' finds the experience
even more delightful when ze woman 'as shaved, as I have, because the flesh
is clean and our little friend 'ere is more easily accessible."

   Then Madamoiselle Duclos touched my clitoris and I thought I was going
to collapse.  I reacted!  Of course I reacted.  I was already hot as a
firecracker and I went off!  I flinched, gasped, whimpered softly deep in
my throat as the muscles in my abdomen went into orgasmic spasms.

   "Ah, Madamoiselle Finch, she is 'aving what we sometimes call 'le petite
mort, ' the 'little death, '" Madamoiselle Duclos observed with delight,
and perhaps a touch of envy.  "What you would call 'coming' or an orgasm."

   I wanted to DIE.

   Die!  Die!  DIE!

   But what a way to go.  All I could do was stand there while my cunt
spasmed and a flush spread up my torso, waves of pleasure sweeping through
me while everyone watched.  I could see Carl's fists, balled on his desktop
as he suffered with me.  At least, I assume he was suffering, but I could
be wrong.

   The rest of the class, what little was left, was a blur.  I became a
manequin in Madamoiselle Duclos' hands, shifting numbly as she posed me,
letting the class see my ass, making me bend over, spreading the cheeks of
my ass to expose my rear hole, her finger tickling me as I discovered an
unexpected erogenous zone there.

   When the bell rang I numbly gathered up my books and made my way blindly
to the door, the other students avoiding me, whispering about me.

   Then, out in the hallway, Carl was with me and wrapped an arm around my
shoulders, pulling me close.  I leaned into him, burying my head against
his shoulder, shivering.

   "You were beautiful, and brave," he complimented me.

   "It was humiliating." I couldn't forget how I'd come, right there, in
front of the whole class.

   He chuckled.  "Now you know how I felt the first time I asked for
relief, and every time after that, in fact."

   I managed a sympathetic smile up at him.  "I hadn't thoughtof it that
way," I admitted, managing a deep breath.  "And now that that's over I
don't see how it could get worse," I observed hopefully, conscious of the
eyes flicking over me as we walked to math, my bare flank pressed against
his clothed one, my juices drying on my pussy.

   He gave me a squeeze.  "You get more used to it." Then he laughed.  "Of
course, they say you can get used to hanging if you hang long enough."

   I managed a weak chuckle.  "Very funny.  I wonder what can happen to me
next?"

   Next was math, with Freschetti, and I quickly found out how it could get
worse.

   "Uh, Miss Gallison, I'd like some relief," the hairy hulk announced as
he walked into the room, right at the last minute, as usual.  "And I'd like
some help?"

   Oh God, no, I thought.

   "Are there any volunteers?" Miss Gallison asked.

   Believe you me, I did NOT have to sit on my hands to keep them down on
THAT question!  I heard a few joints pop as hands went up, some of the more
unselective girls nobly throwing themselves into the breach at the chance
to fondle the star fullback, no matter that he had a weeny weeny.

   "I'd prefer Beth Finch," Freschetti announced before some other willing
victim could be chosen.

   I wanted to crawl under my DESK and die.  Die, DIE, DIE!

   Again.

   "Miss Finch?" Miss Gallison asked.  "It seems a reasonable request."

   Oh, yeah, right, I thought.  I considered trying to argue my way out of
it, and thought I might get a sympathetic hearing from Miss Gallison.

   Then I remembered the goals of the program, and sucked up my courage,
deciding to face the challenge instead.  "Yes, Miss Gallison," I agreed,
seeing Carl react out of the corner of my eye.  I tried to give him a
reassuring look as I stood and went to where Freschetti stood to one side
of Miss Gallison's desk.

   Now, you've got to know the back story to understand what I was going
through, so you really should read Carl's account of his week naked in
school.

   In a nutshell, Freschetti was the school's star running back and big
jock on campus.  He had tried to embarrass Carl when Carl had been taking
classes naked, only to be humiliated himself when Miss Gallison made him
drop his trousers to reveal what I assume is one of the least impressive
dicks in school.

   After that he'd harrassed Carl, until the powers that be had warned him
off with the threat of suspension.  This request of his had to be a way of
getting back at Carl through me.  I had to stand up to him, to refuse to be
humiliated by this Neanderthal jerk.

   Even so, getting back to the matter at hand, or soon to be IN hand, I
did not foresee anything good coming out of this encounter.  Freschetti
smirked down at me, his hands on his hips.

   Putting on my best "in your face" face, I looked up at him, and curled
my fingers around his little pecker.

   "How about on your knees," he suggested, and I swear I heard him softly
add the word "bitch" to the request.

   I'd done that for Carl, willingly, happily masturbating him until he'd
cum on my blouse and skirt, even my face.  I'd worn Carl's cum as a badge
of honor and love.  However, I was not about to let Freschetti shower me
with his cum!  Coming from this ape it would be a mark of shame and
humiliation.

   Without really thinking about it, still holding his dick in the fingers
of my right hand, I cupped Freschetti's balls in my left, and squeezed -
not gently, either.  "Not even in your dreams," I answered, very softly, in
a tone that left no doubt that I was ready to bring him to HIS knees if
necessary.

   Freschetti paled visibly, and gulped, his sneer fading, and I relaxed my
hold on his balls, but kept them in my grasp as I began to massage his
cock.

   It wasn't very hard, and it didn't respond much to my milking.  It took
some work, but I finally extracted a few convulsions and a trickle of semen
from him.  Then I remembered something I'd read recently about athletes and
the side effects of the anabolic steroids some of them used to bulk up on.

   Better living through chemistry indeed!

   "Better lay off the steroids," I suggested softly, so only he could hear
me, dropping his quickly shriveling dick.  I wiped my hands on his hairy
belly.  "They'll ruin your sex life." I got some pleasure from the look of
shock that crossed his face.  I could only marvel at his stupidity.  Why
would anyone take something without researching what it would do to him?

   I didn't start to tremble until I was back seated at my desk and he had
gone to the back of the room where he sat.  Then I put my head in my hands
for a moment.  After I'd composed myself, looking over my shoulder at Carl,
I managed a smile, and he gave me discrete "thumbs up" sign, and a grin
that made me feel warm.

   The only other unexpected encounter of the regular school day came in
the washroom after lunch.  Stephanie, the school's star flute player and my
new and best friend, except for Carl, of course, had gone with me and we
were washing our hands together after using the toilet.  She'd been in the
program only the week before, you remember, so she understood what I was
going through.  So I was totally caught off guard by her question.

   "Have you ever had sex with another girl?" she asked suddenly, looking
at me in the mirror, pinking up as she did.

   Somehow I stifled my first reaction, which would have been a shocked
"No!" "Uh, no," I answered, tempted to tell her how I'd lost my virginity
to Carl only the day before.

   "Oh." She looked disappointed, and I remembered how the relationship
we'd tried to set up with a guy at the dance for her hadn't seemed to jell.

   I met her gaze in the mirror.  "Stephanie, are you gay?" I asked
bluntly.

   She looked like she wanted to cry.  "I don't know," she admitted
miserably.  "I can't seem to - to get - interested in boys."

   "That doesn't mean anything," I assured her.  "Maybe you haven't met the
right boy yet." I finished washing my hands and went for a paper towel.

   Stephanie followed me.  "But, when I look at you, like that..." Her
voice trailed off.

   I managed to keep wiping my hands, though they were already dry.  When
they were steady again, I tossed the towel in the waste container, and
instinctively reached down to scoop up three more that had missed the
target.  I hate litter.  When I was steady, I turned to face her.  "You get
turned on?" I asked softly.

   Fighting tears, she nodded her head.  "I'm sorry," she blurted, and I
felt my own heart breaking for her.  "You're so beautiful!"

   "No!  Don't apologize!" I urged her.  "I'm flattered!" I realized that I
loved Stephanie.

   Oh, not exactly THAT way, but I did love her.  She was sweet and kind
and, like I've said, a marvelous musician, for which I envied her more than
a little.

   "You are?" She sounded dubious.

   I nodded, and put a hand on her arm.  "I am," I answered sincerely. 
"Have you talked with Miss Gallison about it?  She'd give you the straight
skinny.  She's nice."

   Stephanie shook her head.  "I don't know her."

   "I could introduce you, if you want," I offered.

   She shook her head again.

   "Have you ever made love to a woman?" I asked.

   "No," she answered gloomily, turning toward the mirrors, those horrible
things that never lie.  "Who'd want me?"

   I studied her reflection as she studied herself in the mirror.  She was
fairly tall - well, taller than I am, with a big frame, and a little on the
heavy side.  She had lost weight, and I knew she was on a diet and exercise
program, but she'd never be fashion model skinny.

   "I would," I answered, "if I were a guy, or gay." It was a shock to
realize that I meant it!  That was how much I loved her.

   "Would you really?" She was still dubious.

   "I would," I answered firmly, thinking of all the reasons I felt the way
I did about her.  "You're smart, you're talented.  You have lovely eyes,
and a beautiful complexion.  I love your dimples when you smile, and your
laugh.  And you're the kindest, sweetest person I know.  Except for Carl,"
I added loyally.

   "I don't even know that I'm gay, for sure," she said softly, twisting
her hands.  "I only know I've never felt like this - like I do about you -
ever before, with anyone."

   "Would you like to touch me?" I asked softly.

   There, I was willingly offering to let someone other than Carl touch my
naked body.  Only with a person I'd never have thought it would happen.

   "Could I?" she asked timidly.

   I nodded.  "Uh huh," I agreed, my own heart racing.  I remembered seeing
how Karen had done it in the hallway, and put my hands up behind my head,
spreading my feet slightly.  I saw my reflection in the mirror, and
realized just how exposed I was by that pose, how accessible and
vulnerable.

   Vulnerable.  There was that word again.  I shivered.

   Then Stephanie's fingers shyly touched my tit, and it stiffened, and I
felt warmed by it.  Her hand cupped my breast, and I saw her own breathing
quicken as she tested its warmth and softness.  "You're so beautiful," she
said softly.

   I blushed, feeling my own juices stirring from her touch, and had to
tell myself that it was only a logical physical response to the stimulus.
No different than how my own body responded when I masturbated and
fantasized.

   "May I kiss you?" Stephanie asked timidly.  Then someone came in the
door and she jerked her hand away from me.

   "We're going to be late for class," I announced loudly.  "Where are you
headed next?"

   "Uh, gym," she answered.

   "Oh, that's right, you and Carl have gym together, don't you." I led her
out the door to the crowded hallway.  "I'm going in that direction."

   She shot me a grateful glance and we walked together.

   She paused outside the locker room door, looking around, but the hall
was emptying quickly.  "Look, I'm sorry if I - I don't want to ruin our
friendship."

   "You did nothing of the kind," I assured her.  Then I drew a deep
breath. "Look, if you'd - well, if you'd like to - take a test drive -
well, I think, maybe, I - I might be willing.  Let me think about it."

   She looked like she was about to burst into tears again.  "Really?"

   "Let me think about it," I repeated, wondering what was getting into me.
"I do love you," I admitted, rising on my tip toes to give her a kiss on
the cheek, surprised at how soft it was, and how warm and, well, yes,
sweet, even.  It wasn't more than I'd seen other girls do, so no one would
have wondered about it if they'd seen it, but they might have wondered at
the stiffness of my nipples.

   "I do love you," I repeated.  "I don't think I love you THAT way, but -
well, let me think about it.  Now, I've got to rush - I'm modeling in art
again today.  I'll see you later, maybe after band practice?"

   "Later," she said gratefully as I turned away.  I felt her watching me
as I walked away toward the art studio, my mind racing.  Would I do it? 
Could I do it?

   The questions circled in my mind as I posed again, the class sketching
me, portraying my breasts, my curves and flesh, even my pussy, using their
charcoals and pencils and pastels.  During the first break, I made it a
point to visit with Kathy, the girl who had concentrated all her efforts on
my cunt the day before.

   She hadn't changed her focus, and my latest pose had involved my thighs
being spread wide in her direction, giving her a perfect view of my pussy.
In spite of all my efforts, posing had aroused me again, so the inner
petals of my cunt were engorged, visible, a delicate ruffle in the soft,
fuzzy, brown nest of my bush.

   What she was doing was beautiful, I had to admit.  Oh, I'd done a bit of
exploration with a hand mirror once, studying myself so I knew what was
there, but she was finding beauty there that gave me a new appreciation of
my - my crotch!

   She added some shading, softening it with a stroke of her thumb across
my vulva - I mean, the drawing of my vulva.  I shivered at the sight.

   "It would look even better without the hair," she observed softly.

   The suggestion rattled me, remembering how Madamoiselle Duclos shaved
her pubic area.  I wanted to ask Kathy if she was gay, but couldn't bring
myself to do it.  I thought of - of pressing my lips to what she was
picturing, of licking it, and blushed, a hot feeling sweeping through me,
and returned to the podium for my next pose before the break was even
officially over.

   Thinking of Stephanie, I tried to tell myself that being gay wasn't the
end of the world, but couldn't quite buy it.  Oh, Stephanie knew as well as
I did that being gay wasn't the end of the world.  But I also knew that
when you're fifteen facing a discovery like that - well, it looms like a
mountain.

   For one thing, there are pockets of homophobia in the most liberal
schools.  Then, too, it so restricts your choices for - ah - sexual
interaction, at a time when your hormones are really running rampant.  And
how would her parents react?  What of the future - a family, children?

   I sympathized with Stephanie, and wondered if I could Do It with her, or
not, or if Doing It would even resolve the issue for her.  Carl had done it
- licked me there, pressed his face into my pussy, probing me with his
tongue, his lips suckling on my clit.  I remembered the orgasm he'd given
me - the best ever up until that time - and felt my pussy soften and swell
at the memory.

   Afterwards we'd kissed, and I'd tasted and smelled my own juices on his
lips and cheeks, on his breath, and it had been so erotic!

   It was an arousing memory, to say the least!

   Could I do that with Stephanie?  The thought gave me goose bumps all
over, and I hoped the people sketching me couldn't see them.  Then I saw
Kate looking at me intently, and knew that at least one of them could see
my cunt's response to these musings, and felt a blush warming my skin.  My
fingers twitched with the urge to stroke my own pussy, to bring myself off,
but I managed to hold my pose.

   I realized then that, when you were naked, it was virtually impossible
to hide even what you were thinking.  Oh, sure, a boy's lust was obvious,
but even a girl's moods and arousal were obvious, if you knew what to look
for - stiffened nipples, distended inner petals to her cunt, blushes and
goose bumps, little bits of body language like a touch to her breast, one
thigh pressing against the other.

   Another lesson from The Program for me to file away in my oh-so
analytical fashion.  I'd started a notebook last night, and knew I'd have
to add this observation to it tonight.

   "Time," Mr.  Kelly announced, to my relief, and I broke the pose,
turning my back on the class and stretching luxuriously, working out the
kinks, and the sexual arousal.

   "Oh!  Please remember that pose, Miss Finch!" Mr.  Kelly ordered in the
middle of my stretch.  "We'll assume that pose when we return from our
break."

   We?  I thought.  Who's we?  That's ME up there naked, you twit, not you.

   But I remembered it anyway, and tried to duplicate it when the break was
over.  Mr.  Kelly helped, shifting my arms a little, pushing my hips
slightly to one side, then forward with his hand on my butt.

   I'm still not sure whether it was easier facing the class or with my
back to them, with them sketching me from behind.  I had no mirror, so I
couldn't see what I looked like - until I saw what they'd done.  It was a
flattering pose, with my arms stretching up and out, my back arched, my
bottom tight.  It made me look taller!

   The girl who had been sketching my pussy had concentrated - you guess it
- on my butt.  Again, she created a thing of beauty - a few graceful
strokes of her charcoal this time, rather than the pastels she'd used for
my cunt.

   It was the last pose of the class, and then it was off to history, and
then I had to pose for the photography club after school.

   Which, along with what happened later, deserves a chapter of its own!