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 Dee Does MS 14 By peregrinf

   What can I say about Friday?  TGIF?  As I woke up I could only view it
as a day to get through to get to my birthday.  As it turns out, there was
more getting-through than I anticipated.

   I've been suspended from school next week.  But that didn't come until
the end of the day, so I'll begin where I left off yesterday.

   When Mom got home I told her what had happened, chapter and verse, from
Missy's rescue to swimming practice, even my poor diving.  She'd hugged me,
and listened patiently, and only when I'd relaxed with her arms around me
did I realize how stressed I'd been.  Later, at bed time, she tucked me in,
and, for the first time in years, she read me the story of Winnie the Pooh
and the Heffalump, my favorite, using her different voices for Pooh Bear,
and Piglet, just like old times, and I slept.

   Sometimes it's good to feel like a little girl again instead of an
almost teenager.

   Of course Carl had heard about my allegedly heroic act, but he was
distracted by a recruiter from Stanford that had been nosing around the
pool.  Could it be that he'd get an athletic scholarship there?  Wow!

   This morning Mom heard me alert The Dirty Dozen, so she knew why I was
wearing nothing more than a tee, shorts and shoes.  Like it or not, I knew
we had to deal with the aftershocks from yesterday morning -- the rumors,
the snide backlash from the twerps, the fear that it might happen again, of
some other girl going through what Missy had gone through.  This was the
only way I could think of to defuse the situation.

   Note the word choice -- "defuse," not "diffuse," which means something
entirely different -- but I won't go into that right now.

   By the time I got to school, half The Dirty Dozen was there, the others
quickly arrived, and we huddled up.  I told them we would be NIS until the
Neanderthals got the message that girls are people, too, not just some
sexual toy for them to mess with.  Missy had done the "flirt and tease." We
were going to demystify the biology and teach proper deportment by being
"in-your-face" about how boys and girls are different.

   "How long are we gonna do this?" John asked a little anxiously as he
stripped off his shirt.

   "Until we decide we've made our point, that we're in charge of our own
bodies," Mickey answered, already down to her undies -- very ladylike lace,
I observed.

   A.  J.  was ahead of her, his appendage waving freely in the morning
air. "You know, some of the girls seem to have the same attitude as the
Horaces of the world, that we boys are nothing more than living dildoes."

   "Goes with the hormonal imbalances we're all suffering," Maria Sanchez
pointed out philosophically.  "One of the things we need to teach is to
learn to control these urges."

   "My mom says I've got to keep my clothes on," Missy confessed unhappily.
She'd already apologized for the trouble she'd caused, only subsiding when
we gave her a group hug.  "She says I've done enough showing off."

   "You look really nice," I assured her sincerely.  She had on a modest,
pleated, navy blue skirt, a ruffled white blouse beneath a navy blue
sweater, but, I noticed, the circle pin was gone.  She was a junior version
of her mom, right down to her dainty shoes.

   "Same program as yesterday," I reminded them.  "Pride and dignity, take
no guff but no riot.  Ready to go?"

   I put my hand out, and they followed.  "Who are we?" I asked.

   "We're The Dirty Dozen!  We're The Dirty Dozen!  We're The Dirty Dozen!"
we chanted before turning to face the school day.  I noticed that the
couples that had formed up during sex ed were still together, A.  J.  hand
in hand with Mickey, Terrell with Judy Liu, Mike with Missy, Al Butler with
Judy Greene, Bill Harris with Maria Sanchez.  I led the way with John. 
There's nothing like shared trials to unite a group.  We marched two by
two, and the crowd at the front door parted to let us through.  We were
cheered by most, the few wisecracks and whistles quickly shut down by scorn
from the majority.  That bucked me up a bit.

   I wished Greg was holding my hand instead of John.

   Once inside we went our separate ways, nude figures among the clothed.
After Thursday's turmoil, the morning went smoothly.  The lunchroom gang
kept shooting me sly looks, whispering to each other and giggling.  They
knew more than I did about what Mom had up her sleeve and were joyfully
teasing me without letting any secrets out.

   The afternoon was similarly calm, except I was summoned to Student Court
after classes.  "And wear some clothes," Ms.  Andrews instructed.  "I
talked with your mom.  She can't make it, so I'll be your defense
attorney."

   I felt a chill.  I'd seen the court in action, but never as a
participant.  "Do I need one?"

   "You do," she warned ominously.

   So I was glad to have her by my side when I was called in.  What had
been the conference room converted for sex ed had been reconverted into a
courtroom.  At the table was a panel made up of two students, two teachers,
with a "judge" in the center.  Usually that was the school's Principal or
Vice Principal, but this time it was Mrs.  Lawrence, the District
Superintendent.

   Oh oh.

   Horace's case was heard first.  In addition to a bandage on his nose
that covered the middle of his face he had two very impressive black eyes.
With them he was looking daggers at me.  He testified, heaping lie upon
excuse until the whole reeking pile had my blood boiling.  Ms.  Andrews
kept her hand on my arm to keep me from leaping up with "I object!" like
I'd seen lawyers do on TV.

   Mercifully, the court disposed of his bull swiftly.  He tried to argue
that "she [Missy] was asking for it" and that I'd broken his nose
deliberately.  Didn't work.  The panel didn't even send us out, they just
huddled briefly and whispered.  In the end he got a week's suspension, to
be served in the school's detention room, under close supervision until his
father -- who was present but looked uncomfortable and didn't say much --
picked him up at the end of the work day.  At least they were smart enough
not to leave the little creep unsupervised at home all day.  He'd probably
burn the house down if they did.

   When it was mentioned that a sexual assault charge might be sworn out
against Horace by Missy's family, the lawsuit threatened by Horace's father
evaporated.

   Then my case was called.  I was accused of brawling.  Ms.  Andrews tried
to get the brawling charge tossed out on grounds of self-defense, but that
was denied.  Ms.  Andrews also questioned the wisdom of the Penguin -- I
mean, Mr.  Morris -- calling a staff meeting for when we students were
arriving for the opening of school.

   "That is being addressed by the School Board," Mrs.  Lawrence responded
icily.  "There seems to have been a failure of proper supervision."

   Uh oh.  The Penguin was in hot water.

   After that -- well, I won't bore you with the testimony from various
witnesses.  Missy teared up and tried to blame herself.  I told the truth
as I saw it.  My explanation of how Horace's septum got deviated was
accepted.  Horace's witness said I was psycho, which I took offense to.  I
blushed through some totally over-the-top accounts about my brave,
single-handed action saving Missy from a brutal rape.

   Horse feathers, I thought!  Remembering his contortions, I knew now
Horace couldn't have accomplished the act even if Missy had a big sign on
her that said "insert here" with an arrow pointing the way.  Brave?  If I'd
stopped to think I never would have done what I did.

   One of the teachers chastised me for taking things into my own hands
instead of seeking help -- it was more a speech than a question, I thought.
I also thought he was right.  Michael pointed out that I'd sent him for
help, even though it meant admitting his own failure to protect Missy.

   Then we were sent out while the panel deliberated and I worried.

   When we came back in, I was informed I was suspended beginning Monday.
In view of my previous good record, and subject to Mom's approval and
assurances, I could serve my sentence at home.

   "Oh, and Miss Walker, no more naked in school," the presiding judge --
uh -- Superintendent ordered.

   Darn!  That hurt.  Besides that I liked being naked in school I really
thought it would help.

   "May I dissent, your honor?" Ms.  Andrews surprised me.

   "Speak your piece, Ms.  Andrews," Mrs.  Lawrence agreed.

   "First off, I want to acknowledge my own failures in this unfortunate
incident.  I will accept whatever disciplinary action the board deems
appropriate, and henceforth take a more active role in this program.

   "Which goes to my dissent.  I think Dee has the right idea, getting the
kids acclimatized to nudity, to the differences between boys and girls, by
being NIS.  What triggered the problem wasn't nudity, it was just the
opposite; Missy's deliberate teasing and flirting.

   "What The Dirty Dozen are doing is removing the mystery.  There were no
incidents today, and even the ignorant few who reacted with wolf-whistles
and cat-calls were put in their place by the general populace.  I think The
Dirty Dozen should continue to carry the flag, as it were, as long as they
deem it necessary.  I promise I will monitor the situation closely."

   Mrs.  Lawrence drummed her fingers on the table for a moment.  "Very
well, but we expect you to react quickly, should problems arise, and if
there are any further disruptions the program will be promptly terminated."


   "Understood, your honor."

   I heaved a sigh of relief for Ms.  Andrews, while what Mrs.  Lawrence
had said got me thinking.

   The gavel came down and at that point The Stick took control of my
mouth. "Sir -- Ma'am, uh -- your honor, may I say something?"

   I could feel Ms.  Andrews tense up beside me.  Madam Superintendent
nodded warily.

   I took a deep, shaky breath, wondering just what it was I wanted to say,
then let The Stick handle it.

   "With all due respect, this entire incident grew out of the sex ed
program given by my brother and Beth Finch, under the supervision of Ms. 
Andrews.  First, let me make it clear, I'm not blaming them for what
happened.  They did what they said they would, and did it well, and I am
strongly in favor of the program continuing.  But...."

   "But...?" Mrs.  Lawrence prodded.

   I took another deep breath.  "But, while they taught the physical
aspects of sex -- in depth, you might say..." -- that brought a few nervous
chuckles -- "and covered things like gay sex, sexual identity, sexual
attitudes, stuff like that, the -- well, I guess it's the emotional issues
-- should have been addressed more thoroughly.

   "They told us about our hormonal storms, I guess you could call it --
why we were feeling so confused and everything -- but not how to handle
them.  When the class ended, we were basically turned loose to 'educate our
peers,' with no real guidance.  It was decided -- no, that's not right --
I've been told I'm a natural leader -- I'm not sure I like that, it's a lot
to put on a twelve-year-old, but I guess it's what I am, because, before I
was even told that, I decided, all by myself, to lead.

   "I didn't do a very good job of it.  In fact, I botched it up."

   I looked at Ms.  Andrews.  She was frowning at the floor.

   "I should have gone to Ms.  Andrews for help as soon as I saw where
Missy was headed.  But I was as much swept along by my hormones as Missy
was by hers, and she's my friend.  I didn't want to tattle on her.

   "That's an explanation, not an excuse.  I screwed up.  I'd hate to see
this experiment ended because of it.  Instead I'd like to work with Ms. 
Andrews or whoever takes it on, to help fix it.  That's all."

   I didn't get any applause, but I did get a thoughtful silence, and an
encouraging pat from Ms.  Andrews.

   "Thank you, Miss Walker.  As to your 'botch,' as you put it, we do not
hold that against you, given your youth and inexperience.  We will take
your suggestion under advisement.  If there is no further business, court
is adjourned."

   So I got suspended.  Shit.  Mom was going to have a cow, and I saw
myself on bread and water for a month.  But that teacher was right, I
should have found an adult and maybe Horace's nose wouldn't be bent out of
shape.  I should have put a halt to Missy's shenanigans right away.

   But still, being suspended hurt, and I wondered how Mom would take it.
I'd gotten detention from time to time, but never suspended before.  I
tried to be philosophical about it.  I'd survived my grounding, I could
handle a week of house arrest, and it didn't start until Monday so maybe,
just maybe, my weekend wasn't threatened.

   At home I hung my head in shame when I told her.  I felt I'd let Mom
down and said so.

   Instead of being angry she gathered me into a warm, loving hug, and
assured me she didn't feel let down.  That made me feel better, and then,
well, I began to get angry as I told her how the trial went.

   God, why can't I make up my mind these days?

   "It's not fair," I finally wailed.  "They know I tried to do the right
thing.  Missy was in trouble.  What was I supposed to do?  I sent Mike for
help, but I thought Missy was -- was about to get raped right then!  I
couldn't wait!"

   She kissed me and cuddled me.  "No, you couldn't wait, and yes, it's not
fair," she agreed.

   "Then why...?"

   "Because they have the whole school to think of, not just you.  If they
let you off, even though you meant well, the Horaces of the world will
think they can get away with anything as long as they have what they think
is a good excuse.  They'll say something like 'I thought he was going to
hit me so I hit him first.'

   "You broke a rule -- you fought.  It was justified.  But they can't make
exceptions to their rule.  It's one of those zero-tolerance things.  It's
not fair, but life itself isn't fair."

   "Are you upset with me?"

   "No, darling, I'm proud of you.  But I also understand why they're doing
what they are.

   "So, you'll be stuck at home, starting Monday, so it won't mess up your
weekend." she added with a gentle smile, and my spirits rose.  " It's house
arrest, but I won't put you in solitary confinement.  You can have friends
over when I'm home, use the phone, the computer, and use the time to keep
up with your studies, though you'll miss a couple of swim practices.  I'll
get the lessons from your teachers.  Okay?"

   "Okay." I sniffed.  "I'm sorry I screwed up."

   She kissed me.  "You didn't screw up.  You just got caught up in
something.  I imagine the ones really being raked over the coals are Mr. 
Morris and Ms.  Andrews.  He really deserves it.  I'm not sure Ms.  Andrews
does, though she certainly dropped the ball, don't you think?"

   "But she's so nice.  I should have gone to her sooner."

   "But it's her job to know, and she missed it.  It's not your fault."

   I know she said it, but I had trouble accepting it.  I slogged my way up
to my room to try to understand.

   Later I came back out.  She'd said it wouldn't mess up my weekend, but I
was curious, too, about what she had planned for tomorrow.  Whenever I sort
of accidentally drifted past she'd be on the phone, either listening not
talking, or she'd wave me away with a playful frown or wink.  I did catch
the word "birthday" at one point.  Finally she retreated to her office and
closed the door.

   So, I went to bed ignorant and anxious, about Kathy, about whatever
might happen.  To get to sleep I used the visualization trick I'd used when
I'd been working out how to combine the butterfly stroke with the dolphin
kick.

   Over and over again I visualized my front one-and-a-half pike, feeling
it in my whole body, trying to figure where I was going wrong.  As I did,
remembering how the dive felt now, how it used to feel, I felt my mind
adjusting to my changing, still growing frame.  By the time I slid into
sleep I was nailing it perfectly every time, at least in my head.  It's way
more productive than counting sheep.

   I was so relaxed I actually overslept.  When I dragged myself out of bed
on my birthday -- MY BIRTHDAY -- the house was empty!  No sign of my
favorite breakfast -- homemade whole wheat waffles made from scratch, with
real maple syrup (hot), lots of butter, and a rasher of bacon.

   Sure, I could have cooked all that for myself, but what's the fun of
that?  So I had a bowl of cold cereal, alone.  <<sniff>> At least there
were funny birthday cards from Mom and Carl, and a sweet one from Missy,
and a flowery one from an aunt I'd never met, with a five dollar bill
inside.

   Bother.  That meant I'd have to thank for it.

   But, not being one to miss an opportunity, I also snooped for any hints
as to birthday presents, or indications as to what Mom had planned for the
afternoon.  First stop, her computer.

   There was a Post-it note on the monitor -- "Don't bother.  I changed my
password."

   Curses!  Foiled again.

   With time running short -- I was due at the art studio in an hour -- I
did a cursory search of all the usual hiding places, to no avail.  Then,
bearing in mind the probable (and hoped for) activities and festivities, I
retreated to the shower and made sure my body was stripped of all grunge
and the few superfluous hairs I had.

   Yes, I did wear underpants, though I didn't anticipate having them on
for long, if Kathy and I were on the same wavelength.  By the time I got to
the studio I was, shall we say, damp?  No -- moist.  Well, perhaps sodden
is the appropriate word, thanks to my vivid imagination.  The hallway to
the art studio was shadowy and mysterious on a Saturday morning, the only
light from the exit door at the end, and the door to the studio near there.
That oasis drew me on.

   I fell into Kathy's welcoming arms, burying my face in her smock,
savoring the warm scent of oil paints mingled with the tang of whatever it
is she uses to clean her brushes, with a hint of the dustiness of chalks or
pastels.  Did I dare tip my head and pucker?  I did, and got a fond peck
for my troubles.  She knew how I felt about her and eased me gently away
with a sort of "let's not rush things" manner.

   "Happy birthday!"

   "Thank you."

   "I hear you got suspended."

   I flinched.  "Not until Monday.  And this is my birthday.  I don't think
of anything unpleasant on my birthday.  It's like a natural law."

   "Sorry.  Did you have some breakfast?  Want anything to eat?"

   "Uh uh." I wanted to get down to business.  "I mean, no, thank you. 
Should I?" I asked nervously, plucking at my tee shirt, suddenly shy.  I
hate to admit it, but she intimidates me.  She's so confident!

   "May I help?" she asked, obviously tickled by my eagerness.

   I blushed as she took the hem of my shirt and drew it up to bare my
torso.  I was suddenly, painfully aware of alertness of my nipples, of how
skinny I was.  Raising my arms, I let her draw it off over my head,
tousling my fly-away hair.  Then I reached for the waist of my shorts.

   Stepping out of my shorts, I wished I'd worn sexier panties for her,
keeping my thighs together in an effort to hide the tell-tale wetness at my
crotch.  If she noticed, she said nothing as she knelt and drew them down,
holding them while I nervously danced out of them and toed off my shoes.

   I felt so deliciously, wickedly naked.  From the soles of my feet, up my
long, long legs to the puffy pussylips nestled between my thighs, to my
eager titties, my slender throat, right to the mop top of my hair I was
gloriously naked.

   She rose and took my hand.  "Come over here, where the light is better."
The gauzy curtains were closed, so the light was soft and almost
shadowless. I shivered delicately from the touch of the air and delicious
anticipation.

   "You're going to paint me, right?" I asked fearfully as I stepped up on
a low platform.  "I mean, me, my body?"

   She smiled that lovely smile of hers.  "That is what you want, isn't it?
I could do a painting OF you, if you'd prefer."

   "Oh no, no, it's what I want." God, I felt like a total klutz!

   "Fine.  Now, we'll start by preparing my canvas," she explained, picking
up a bottle.  "This will protect you from the paint, so you won't itch, and
stabilize it so it won't just wash off easily.  Let's keep your hair out of
the way." She took a hair band and confined my blonde mop, making it stick
up so it didn't droop down over my forehead and ears.

   And so it began, her soft, strong, warm hands spreading the lotion over
my face, avoiding my hair, as I closed my eyes.  I could feel myself
warming to her touch.  Oh gosh!

   "You have lovely skin." Her voice was warm, and close, and she was being
very thorough, her fingers tracing the curves of my ears, even behind them,
the sides and back of my neck.  I kept my eyes closed as I luxuriated in
her gentle touch.

   "Thank you," I whispered shyly, closing my mouth quickly so she could
spread the cream on my lips and chin, my throat and neck.  The lotion was
oily, with a light scent, but no flavor.  Was she going to use the edible
paints on me?  Did I dare ask?

   My shoulders, my arms, my back received her attention.  Oh, please, my
chest, my shy little breasts, I prayed.

   Oh yes!  When she touched them my tits were so hard they ached.  She had
to be aware of my excitement!  I was a toy in her hands.

   "What will I be?" I asked, thinking maybe she'd see me as a bird, or
maybe a dolphin?

   "It's a surprise," she answered, her hands sweeping my ribs, down to my
waist, "like the best of birthday presents."

   "I have swimming practice," I reminded her, my mind racing out of
control.  What if she wasn't done in time?  Would I go to practice wearing
the paint?  I'd hate to have it on for so short a time, but I'd feel
foolish, I think.  What if she made me a clown?  She'd said it wouldn't
just wash off, though, so maybe I could swim in it.

   "Plenty of time, and I'll finish with a fixative," she assured me. 
"It'll be good for a about a ten minute dip, or so.  Afterwards just a
little scrubbing, or a lot of licking, if you prefer, will get the paint
off."

   A lot of licking!  I liked that idea.

   Then she was doing my butt, her fingers working into the crack, even
touching my asshole, and I shivered.

   "Sensitive," she observed.

   "Yes," I whispered shyly.

   "And here, too?" Her impudent fingers moved around to my front.

   "Oh yes!" I almost melted as she fondled my pussy.  She was very
thorough there, nudging my thighs apart, cupping my crotch in her hand, her
fingers even touching that sensitive place between my pussy and my anus,
parting my pussy lips enough that she felt my wetness.  Then her hands
slithered down my legs while I struggled to catch my breath.

   I steadied myself with a hand on her shoulder and touched bare skin!  I
opened my eyes.  When had she shed her smock?  She was as nude as I was,
and a zillion times more beautiful, her breasts firm half globes, capped
with conical areolas, peaked with nipples like little pencil erasers.  She
was well muscled but not muscle-bound, sleek and smooth with a controlled
grace.

   She finished with my feet, even the soles and between my toes.  When she
stood I could see she kept her pussy bare, not even a landing strip.

   She looked good enough to eat.

   After wiping her hands on a rag, she wheeled over a little table with a
rainbow of pots of paint on it.  "Finger paints," she explained.

   "Oh wow!" I thought she'd used brushes, or maybe a sponge or something.

   She dipped the tip of her finger in bright red.  "Edible," she assured
me, licking some of it off, "and tasty."

   She offered me her finger and I sucked it clean.  "Cherry!"

   "And lemon, and lime, and orange, and grape, and others," she added,
wheeling the table around behind me to begin on my back.  "Now, all you
have to do is stand there."

   She began at my neck, below the hairline, and I tried to figure out from
her touch what her plan was, but couldn't.  Sometimes she worked with a
single fingertip -- I felt the scritch of a closely clipped fingernail --
sometimes with all her fingers, her whole hand.  The paint was cool, her
touch warm.  A delicate, soft brush tickled the inside of my ears.

   I thought I could feel when she blended one color into another.  Other
times it seemed she was carefully edging one tint up against another.  She
worked her way down the length of my back, my butt, down my legs in long,
flowing sweeps that curled around me.  She had me holding my arms out from
my sides as she tickled my ribs.

   When she started down my arms I tried to look, but she gently turned my
head away.  "Don't look, you'll spoil the surprise!" She had me raise my
arms and fold them behind my head so she could do my armpits, then
straighten them, so she could do the length of them, my hands, even my
fingers.

   "Okay, time for a little break while we let that dry, and then I'll work
on your front," she announced wheeling the table around.  "Want a snack?"

   I was looking around for a mirror, but they'd all been turned around.  I
could see my arms, of course, but it didn't really tell me anything, the
swirls of bright colors sort of spiraling down toward my fingertips, reds
and oranges, yellows, with flickers of blue and green, but none of it made
any sense to me.

   "Let me feed you so you don't mess up your fingers," she cautioned,
popping a grape in my mouth from a bowl of fruit and cheese.  She playfully
teased me and we laughed and chatted.  A little worried about poaching on
someone else's turf, I asked about Stephanie.  It turned out she had just
returned from auditioning at the Curtis Institute in Philadelphia.

   "Is that good?"

   Kathy smiled a little wistfully.  "It's one of the best in the country.
I'd be so happy for her to be there...."

   "But it's a long ways away," I finished for her.

   "It is.  We've talked.  I have another year here.  We're young, still
growing and learning.  We've agreed were not exclusive.  She knows you're
here this morning, and why," Kathy admitted.  "She wanted to be here, but I
wanted you for myself." She flashed a wicked smile.  "I'm greedy.  She'll
be at your party."

   My party!  I wanted to ask what she knew about it, but she went on about
Steph.

   "Before Beth, and before I came along, Steph was confused about her
sexuality.  Now she's more confident, knows what she is, accepts it, her
parents do, too.  She'll blossom into a fine musician and find her niche.
She'll find herself a life partner, I hope."

   "But what about you?"

   Her look to me was speculative.  "I'm open to possibilities.  What about
you?"

   I shrugged.  She was being honest with me.  I couldn't do otherwise. 
"I'm only thirteen."

   It was a delicious shock to realize I could say that now -- not "twelve"
or "almost thirteen." I was really thirteen years old!

   "I don't know yet," I admitted.  "I like girls," I shot her a
flirtatious look, "but I sort of have a boyfriend at the moment, too."

   "Lots of time to decide, to explore your options.  I'll be glad to
help," she added, in a tone that made me shiver again.  "But let's get back
to work."

   "But, what am I going to be?" I asked as I moved back to where she'd had
me.

   "Anything you want to be," she answered, misunderstanding my question.

   "No, I mean this?" I sort of waved my arms to indicate myself.

   "I'm just revealing the real you," she answered cryptically.  "Close
your eyes."

   "But...." Her finger on my lips silenced me, and I tasted cherry.

   "Close 'em," she insisted.  "I need to do your eyelids.  And keep them
closed while the paint sets."

   "Yes'm," I agreed.  When I wobbled -- it's hard to stand for a long time
with your eyes closed -- she slid something over where I could put my hand
to steady myself.

   She went on painting me as I stood there, her hands filling in my front
-- only she was skipping the Good Parts -- my tits, and then my crotch! 
She knew how turned on I was, what I really, really wanted, but insisted on
teasing me, the lovely witch.

   "Okay, you can open your eyes, and I want you to lie down on your back,"
she directed.

   Now this was more like it!  I stretched out, suddenly aware of how
tiring this all was.  I was afraid that by the time she got done I was
going to be too exhausted to party, so I consciously tried to relax.  I was
surprised when she knelt, her knees next to my ears, and then sat back,
looking down at me, upside down from my perspective.  "Now we get to the
good parts," she said teasingly.

   "You mean...."

   "Shhhh." Again that cherry touch at my lips.  From there she dipped the
fingers of both her hands in paint and toyed with my tits.  The gurgle of
her rinsing her fingers signified a change of color, a scratch of her
fingernail flicking my nipple to fire.

   "Oh my." My eyes closed and my head rolled.

   "Oh yes!  These lovely little berries!" She was leaning over me, and I
was slowly heating up as she fingered my nipples, scratched them, stroked
the gentle mounds of my suddenly super-sensitive breasts.

   I groaned.  Being her canvas was better than I'd even imagined it.

   I peeked.  She took more paint, again orange, and feathered it with some
black, I think?  Then I lost track as she stroked my breasts, painted
trails down my torso, probed my navel, ventured closer to my pussy.

   "Bend your knees," she whispered.  "Open your legs."

   Oh yes!  I opened like a flower for her, and I remembered how she'd done
a wonderful pastel of Beth's pussy in art class.  She was leaning farther
over me, her fingers tracking the crevice where my thighs joined my pelvis,
making my tummy wriggle and my pussy leak.

   "This is what you wanted, isn't it?" she asked with a teasing giggle as
she lightly fingered my pussy.

   "Oh yes, Kathy, please," I moaned.  "Don't you?"

   "I've wanted you since the first time I saw you," she confessed.  "I
wanted you to model for me -- still do -- I wanted to paint you just like
this, and I hope you'll let me do it again.  I want to eat you up!"

   "Oh yes, eat me up, please!"

   She set my pussy ablaze with the touch of her breath.  Her fingers
explored between my thighs, my pussy, my buttocks, and without her even
asking I curled so she could play with my ass.  Was she still painting me?
Even there, too?  Oh, I hoped so, I hoped so, as I felt her finger teasing
my tender pucker.  By this time I was looking up at her oh, so tempting
pussy.  Reaching up I cupped her firm butt, and drew her down to my lips,
her lovely musky scent making my mouth water.

   "Oh you sweet thing," she murmured, her fingers parting my pussy.  "So
beautiful!  You're warm, and wet, and pink.  I must taste you!"

   "Yessss," I said, and my own tongue reached for her slippery scented
folds.  I savored her tangy juices, my lips nibbling at her hot flesh.

   She slowly licked the length of my slit, from my clit, past the gateway
of my vagina, all the way to the heart of my anus, where she lingered,
teasing my back door with her tongue tip before returning to venture into
the welcoming funnel of my cunt.

   What could I do but return the favor?  Kneading the firm roundness of
her buns I dove deeper into her steaming twat, sucking down her juices,
fingered her asshole.  I probed the hot tunnel of her cunt with my tongue,
my nose millimeters from the earthy gate between her buttocks.

   Her lips closed on the berry of my clit and I wailed into her crotch and
searched hungrily for her pleasure pearl to torment it with lips and
tongue, and for the longest time I was awash with the blazing pleasure,
wave after wave of it, feeling her respond, her body writhing as I ate her
out and she ate me out, her fingers probing me deeply, both cunt and ass,
until at last we could take no more and together we slumped wearily,
panting, head to crotch as lingering aftershocks rocked us.

   Once we got untangled, after a cuddle, she giggled.  "Now I'll have to
touch you up!"

   "You look like the cat that ate the canary," I countered as she helped
me up.  "Your cheeks are yellow and orange.  I guess I know what colors you
used on me down there.  And it looks like you've got two bull's eyes on
your tummy from my tits."

   "Well, there's not enough time for you to lick me off now," she laughed,
reaching for her paints.  "Maybe later."

   I loved every little touch, especially since my most intimate area
needed the most repair.

   Finally Kathy shook an aerosol can.  "Close your eyes, this will fix the
paint.  Remember, a short swim and you'll be a sweet treat, should anyone
want dessert." She started with my face and worked her way down.

   "Can I see?  Can I see?" I was jittering as she finished the last chill
sweeps of fine mist on my feet.  I wanted to ask her about the party, too,
but I was more excited about seeing her work.

   "Close your eyes," she ordered, and I heard a soft rumble.  "Okay, now
you can look."

   She'd turned a full-length mirror around, and I gasped.  My feet and
ankles started a deep violet, almost black, shading to an intense blue on
my shins that slowly transformed into swirls of scarlet and orange and
yellow up my torso, neck and head, mostly yellow, crowned, of course, by
the shaggy mop of my chlorine bleached blond hair.  She pulled off the hair
band and my locks fell into their usual pompom disarray.

   But it wasn't as simple as I'm making it sound.  The red and orange and
yellow mingled in subtle patterns, and there was more, here and there
flecks of violet, blue, green, just little flickers and flashes, slivers
and sparks, flashes of sparkling silver and gold, shadings and contours
that seemed to shift and move as I squirmed.  It wasn't what I'd expected
-- she hadn't highlighted anything, like my nipples or pussy.  It all
flowed together, and it reminded me of something, but I couldn't think
what.

   "Put your arms up, your hands over your head as if you were diving into
the water," she whispered from close behind me.

   I did, and it all slid into place.  I was a fire, a single slender
flame! I remembered, then, the swirl of the pep rally bonfire, how the
flames had danced upward, orange and yellow, with flickers of blue and
green and red constantly moving, dancing, sparks flying up into the night
sky.  Even as I stood still it looked like I was shifting, swirling with
every excited breath.

   My blue eyes stood out from my mask of orange and yellow.  My blond hair
feathered in with the shades of pale yellow on the insides of my arms where
they came close to my ears.  How had she done that?  When she'd done my
arms they'd been nowhere near my head.  Somehow she'd seen how it all would
go together when I stood up straight with my arms up.

   "Move your arms out, as if you were doing a swan dive," she suggested.

   I did, and I changed, from a flame to a bird -- a firebird!  -- my arms
like wings!  I flapped them slowly, sinuously, my fingers feathered.

   Then I couldn't stop myself.  I whirled and threw my arms around her and
showered her with kisses.  "Thank you, thank you, thank you!  You made me
beautiful!"

   She kissed me back, then slipped out of my embrace so she could step
back.  "You are beautiful.  This is you, how I see you, all the fire and
life in you.  I hope you never lose it.

   "But this won't last, so I need pictures." She reached for an expensive
camera, and the next thing I knew I was posing for her as she snapped away.
I kept looking at myself in the mirror as she posed me, unable to believe
how she'd transformed me.  She was still taking pictures when Greg suddenly
appeared at the door.

   "Holy shit!" was all he said at the sight of me.

   I looked at myself, looked at him, saw the wonder in his eyes.  He
seemed to be struck dumb, then shook himself.

   "Uh, Dee, practice?"

   "Oh shit!  Kathy, I gotta dash!"

   "Tell them five minutes," Kathy said to him, and he turned to someone in
the hallway.  I heard a familiar, impatient voice, then the sound of bare
feet scampering away.  What was Drindy doing here?

   "I'm sorry, I lost track of time," she apologized to Greg.

   "She's beautiful," he breathed in a tone that raised goose bumps on me.

   "Thanks."

   I remembered my manners.  "Oh, Greg, this is Kathy.  She's an artist."

   "She certainly is!" he agreed.  "Uh, pleased to meet you, Kathy."

   I blushed, again, not that it was visible under my coat of paint, and
leaned up to her to give her another kiss.  She was still taller than me,
but I was getting closer.  "Thank you."

   "No, thank you," she answered softly.

   "Come to the pool.  I have a gift for you," I whispered.  "Bring your
camera."

   "Wouldn't miss it," she responded.  "Boyfriend?"

   I nodded shyly, took Greg's hand and we headed in the direction of the
pool, the hall floor cold under my bare feet.  "How'd you find me?"

   "A little bird told me where you'd be," he answered.

   "A little bird named Drindy?"

   "You heard her, huh?  Yeah, someone told her to look here."

   "Uh, yeah." I was wondering how I was going to explain my reservations
about her being here.  "What's she doing here?  This isn't going to be your
normal, everyday birthday party, you know.  I have a certain -- uh -- call
it reputation."

   He slammed on the brakes.  "Birthday party?"

   "Yeah!  You aren't you here just for....." Then I remembered.  I'd never
told him about the party.  I'd never even told him when my birthday was!

   "SHIT!" I exploded, my heart sinking into my well-painted toes.  "Oh
shit, oh shit, shit, shit."

   He touched me, shyly, gently, then more firmly.  "Wait, Dee, what's
wrong?  Someone's having a birthday?"

   I was almost crying.  How could I have been so stupid?  Mom couldn't
have arranged an invite for him 'cause she didn't even know he existed! 
I'd been holding him close to my heart, a secret treasure.  Oh, Mom knew
I'd beaten him at practice, but not who he was, or how I felt, or how to
contact him.  Shit, shit, shit.

   "I am," I muttered.  "Today is my birthday, and I didn't invite you
'cause Mom always does these things as a surprise and I wasn't even sure
there was gonna be a party or where or when, or if you'd want to come, and
now I've gone and ruined everything and you hate me, and....."

   "Happy birthday," he interrupted gently.

   "How can it be when I didn't even invite you to my party!" I wailed. 
"Now I've gone and insulted you and ruined stuff, and, oh shit.  I mean
shoot!" I corrected myself before the cuss jar overflowed.

   "May I come to your birthday party?" he asked wistfully.  "I don't have
a present for you or anything, but I can get one."

   I bit back tears.  Swallowed hard.  Tried not to snuffle.  "Would you,
please, please, please come to my birthday party?  I think it's going to be
after practice.  It's s'posed to be a surprise.  It always is.  An' you
don't need to bring a present, just you being there is all the present I
want from you, and...."

   He drew me close, and held me, and the warmth and affection melted away
the last of my misery.  "I'd love to.  Is that why you're -- whatever that
is?"

   "It's paint," I explained.  "Body paint.  Kathy is a super artist, and
this is her birthday present to me, part of it," I added, thinking of the
good loving.  "When my arms are up all the way I look like a flame, but
when my arms are out I'm a bird, a firebird.  She's a genius."

   "No doubt about that.  You are beautiful!  Come on, let's get to
practice before Coach suspends us."

   A cute face, bracketed by blue-streaked ponytails peeked around the door
to the pool, then disappeared.  "They're coming!  They're coming!  And wait
'til you see what Dee has on!" Drindy shrieked, and all Greg and I could do
is look at each other and laugh at her enthusiasm.

   Then we were into the humid, chlorine-scented air of the pool and there
was a cacophony of applause and whistles at the sight of me, and all I
could do was stand there and blush a blush that no one could see through
the paint job.  Even Coach was stunned for a minute, while I
self-consciously posed, raising my arms slowly so I transformed through
firebird into flame.

   Coach quelled the uproar with a quick tweet on his whistle.  "Okay, and
thanks for coming, I've got an of announcement.  Uh -- Dee, very
impressive, but I think you're out of uniform again."

   What could I do but nod, exquisitely aware that the only thing between
me and the world was a coat of paint.

   "Okay, anyway, this is going to be a very short informal meeting, but I
wanted you all together for an important announcement.  As you know, I pick
two swimmers to be co-captains each year, and this year I was in a real
quandary.  I pick senior members of the team, and base my choice on ability
and leadership qualities.  One pick, to me, was obvious, but the other was
harder.  Usually I pick long-time team members, but this year the senior
boy, in terms of both age and ability, is a newcomer.  I discussed this in
private with the boy's team, and they concurred with my choice, even though
it meant Billy Dwyer loses his chance to be the boys' captain this year.  I
promised him a shot next year, since he has a year to go yet."

   I held my breath.  Billy should have been a shoo-in.  If it wasn't
him....

   "Greg Anderson is my choice as the captain of the boys' team," Coach
announced.

   I found myself bouncing up and down applauding.

   I felt him stiffen in surprise.  "Me?  But...."

   "You," Coach insisted.  "In the short time I've known you I've seen your
leadership, and the boys all agree.  Give him a round of applause."

   So Greg stood there and shuffled his feet and blushed.

   "And the other one, the one there was no question about, the girls'
captain is Dee Walker!"

   I stood there while there was an explosion of applause and cheers.  I'd
been so involved with so much other stuff I'd never even given this a
thought.  Then I was being mobbed by the team, until Coach whistled us back
to order.

   "And I apologize for dragging you all out here, but knowing the
grapevine around here I wanted to make the announcement today before you
heard it somewhere else.  Those of you who want to can stay and enjoy the
pool.  Use the buddy system, since we don't have a lifeguard on duty.  I'll
be in my office."

   "Wait, Coach, please?" I interrupted.  "I won't be like this again,
ever, and I want you to see something."

   "All right," he agreed amiably, and followed me down to the deep end and
the diving board, the rest of the team following along.

   I think they all knew what I had planned.

   "This isn't going to mess up my pool, is it?" he asked warily.

   "No, sir," I assured him, hoping Kathy was right as I stepped up on the
board.  I saw Kathy in the back row of the bleachers, camera at the ready.
She gave me a nod.

   There was a hush as I centered myself.  No warm up this time, no
practice bounces, but I knew, just knew....

   Three steps and I was up, my arms rising like wings, then back down on
the board as it bent under my weight, arms driving down, compressing all
that energy, gathering it in, then lifting again as it rose with me and I
lifted off.

   I soared, spread my wings -- my arms, I mean -- as I dipped into my
pike, fingers feathered, toes pointed, legs straight, the pool beneath me,
still and blue and glassy.  Snapping out of the dive at the exact right
time, my hands above my head, I arrowed into the water's wonderful, cool,
welcoming embrace with what, to me sounded like almost a hiss from my
flames.

   Nothing in this world feels as good as when you rip a dive.

   Well, almost nothing.  In my limited experience, it's a close second to
sex.  At that moment, if my tits hurt I didn't even notice.