Note: This story was dynamically reformatted for online reading convenience.
 
 Dee Saves The Program 4 By Peregrinf

   I love swimming naked, the play of sensations, the way the water strokes
me, the stretch and flex of my muscles.  I'd like to race naked but the
swimming-powers-that-be refuse to allow it.  Something about keeping the
playing field level.  I'm about as level as any playing field could be, for
a mature (nearly) female high school senior.  But I admit, without
containment of their endowments, more voluptuous swimmers would be at a
disadvantage, hydrodynamically speaking.

   Not that they aren't already, given my record.

   Anyway, the pool at home is too short, so I was taking advantage of the
town pool's early-morning workout hours -- and loose dress code -- by doing
an endless individual medley, switching from stroke to stroke to stroke
with every touch -- butterfly, back, breast, free, over and over. 
Fortunately it wasn't crowded so I had a lane to myself.  With my wingspan
no one wants to share when I'm doing butterfly or breaststroke.  Even
backstroke is cramped.

   On a freestyle lap -- call it "the crawl" if you prefer, though the way
I do it, it is anything but a crawl -- everything is in line, my arms
alternately sweeping down, fingers spread like I'm trying to grab the
water, my legs flutter kicking, three kicks per arm pull, like I learned --
ONE-two-three-FOUR-five-six-ONE-two-three-FOUR-five-six -- over and over
and over.  Now it's just automatic.  Muscle memory.

   Reaching the end of a length my fingertips barely graze the wall and I
smoothly curl and tumble, twisting at the same time to push off for the
butterfly.  One strong underwater arm pull and dolphin kick -- a sinuous
snap beginning at my head and shoulders, proceeding down the length of my
body, muscles working all the way from my shoulders to chest to torso to
waist to hips to knees to ankles to feet -- and I'm on my way back, arms
arching over the water, reaching ahead, pulling down.  My arms work like
wings, my body like a dolphin's.  Learning the stroke -- I think I was
about five -- I'd put myself to sleep figuring out how to fit it all
together into a single, smooth motion -- feeling it as I drifted off into
dreamland.  I swoop through the water, breathing every other stroke,
flying, flying, flying.  God I love it!

   The wall approaches, I reach, touch, flop on my back, planting my toes,
the pool end gritty under the balls of my feet.  Arms above my head, I push
off, my face goes under water, bubbles streaming from my nose, a dolphin
kick or two -- yeah it works on the back, too -- then I break the surface,
take a breath, my right arm taking the first long, strong backstroke pull,
a whipping motion, more out to the side than the crawl, my flutter kick
resuming the same freestyle rhythm.  The morning sun is on my face, warming
my naked tits, my flat tummy, my thighs.  My arm sweeps high on the return,
water streaming off the tips of my fingers, catching the sunlight, a
glittering arc of gems, while my feet churn the water to a froth, my arms
and shoulders stretching to extend my reach, -- the teres major, teres
minor, latisimus dorsi muscles pulling hard with every stroke.

   Beth taught me the anatomy.

   The blood singing in my ears I maintain a steady pace -- the swimmers'
version of a runner's jog -- feeling that I could go on forever beneath the
blue, blue sky.  Out of the corner of my eye, catching sight of the red
warning floats, I arch, stretch, touch, somersault backwards, plant my feet
and push off, face down.

   After a dolphin kick my head comes up, both arms pull wide. 
Breaststroke.  Ugh!  Every choppy stroke lifts me high out of the water, my
muscles working against my diaphragm, making breathing hard.  As for the
so-called frog kick, whoever called it that never watched how frogs push
backwards with their big webbed feet.  The only frog-like thing about the
kick is spreading my legs wide.  There's little backwards thrust from
squeezing them together.  Stupid kick.  Stupid stroke!  Most of the energy
is wasted.  After an eternity I touch, pick up my head to grab a breath as
I haul my ass around for the push-off, and it is back to the freestyle --
stroke -- stroke -- stroke -- ONE-two-three-FOUR-five-six,
ONE-two-three-FOUR-five-six.

   It is very Zen.  It gives me a lot of time to think, and I find myself
wondering what Greg is doing at the moment -- swimming longer, maybe
lifting weights, working harder than I am.

   But he's training to try out for the Olympics.  I'm not.

   My mind skitters away from that line of thought.  He'd made his choice,
I'd made mine.  I miss him.  I miss practicing with him, though it has been
a long time since I'd beaten him.  By our sophomore year his testosterone
had kicked in and he'd put on muscles I could never hope to match.  Win or
lose, racing Greg had been fun and great conditioning, pushing me to try
harder.

   I miss the competition.  It sounds arrogant, but there really isn't
anyone else in the county -- certainly not any girls -- who can give me a
run for my money.  I proved that at the states, though I did have to work a
bit harder to win there.  A lot of it is my genes.  By the time I finally
stopped growing I was over six-feet tall, my arms longer than average,
hence my wing-span.  But I've practiced and trained hard to take advantage
of my gifts.  Greg and I are a good match in that way, both physically and
mentally.  Too bad there's not a mixed-doubles relay race, we'd have smoked
'em.

   Would have.  We're a pair no longer.

   We'd been a good match in other ways, too.  Oooohhhh yesssss.  I missed
those good times.

   My body on autopilot, my mind drifted back to New Year's Eve our
freshman year.  For the first time ever my two Moms and Greg's parents had
let us out at night on our own, giving us passes to the local theme park's
eighteen-and-under New Years Eve party, all rides and attractions included
in a safe, alcohol free venue.  There was music, dancing and shows, and
fireworks at midnight.  They even kicked in money for food!

   Oh they had their reasons for being so generous -- it left Mom and
Elaine free to usher in the New Year in their own kinky fashion, while
Greg's folks chaperoned his sister Drindy's sleepover.

   * * *

   Greg and I were incredibly excited.  Feeling like grown-ups we joined
the throng pouring in through the gates from an endless parade of cars
dropping off their loads.  The park was a wonderland of lights and sounds
-- snatches of music, chattering kids, ringing bells, the thump of
ski-balls, rifle-like cracks and chimes from the arcades, shrieks from the
roller coaster, the air rich with mouth-watering scents of buttered
popcorn, hot dogs, pizza, funnel cake, tacos, barbecue, Chinese stir-fry,
even curry.

   It was cool but not cold, so hoodies and long pants were enough to keep
us warm -- that, and our closeness, of course.  Hand in hand we tried to be
mature, but wound up running and skipping from one attraction and ride to
another, behaving like the kids we were.  Overhead the sky was a dome of
black spangled with stars, and I was with the most wonderful guy in the
universe.  We screamed ourselves hoarse on the roller coaster as it turned
us upside-down three or four times, dizzied ourselves giddy on the Merry
Mixer.  The Death Drop left us gasping.

   Fortunately we had enough sense to do all that before stuffing ourselves
with junk food.  Other kids hadn't been as smart.  We stepped around the
evidence.

   On the ride through the tunnel of love we snuggled and necked like the
real teenagers we were, and of course he tried to cop a feel, but I fended
him off with giggles and wiggles, building the anticipation for later.

   On the bumper cars I perfected a technique for taking out competitors by
nosing up against them in just the right place and giving them a shove to
spin them around backwards, then racing away before they could catch me. 
Naturally I did it to Greg and he retaliated by waiting for me to come
around and T-boning me hard enough to rattle my teeth.  So I sneaked up on
him and sent him into the wall.  From then on it was a no-holds-barred
battle around the track, electric motors whining, the electrical pickups
crackling and snapping blue sparks where they brushed the shining metal
ceiling.  We hammered at each other until our time was up and we were
tottering away, comparing bruises, laughing and hugging.

   A loose group of us from Central High gathered, chattered over mountains
of curly fries, then dissolved again to go our separate ways.  At one point
a bunch of us took over the carousel and rode it round and round, whooping
and hollering like cowboys and Indians before scattering to the four winds
again.  It was one gi-normous party.

   The only dark spot of the evening was a "slut" thrown in my direction by
someone I'd seen around school lately but didn't know.  I grabbed Greg's
arm to keep him from defending my honor.  It wasn't worth a fight, wasn't
the first time I'd caught that insult.  There was a faction at school -- in
town, for that matter -- that had always opposed The Program and it seemed
to be growing bolder and more vocal.  As chair of the committee I was an
obvious and highly visible target, but I was more concerned about what it
meant for The Program than myself.

   All that was forgotten as a whole gang of us -- my Lunch Bunch and their
dates, those of the Dirty Dozen still in middle school and other friends --
spread blankets and snuggled together against the cool breeze on the shore
of the lake, listening to music, then counting down, our voices echoing
across the water, the new year ushered in by booming, blossoming fireworks
that we hardly saw as we kissed, and kissed, and kissed, Greg and I keeping
things "PG" out of respect for the less sexually sophisticated, knowing
that for us the best was yet to come.

   As the park emptied some kids were headed for the Sip'n'Dip or their own
sleepovers, but we had our own plans.  Carl and Beth were home for the
holidays, and double dating with Stephanie (home from Curtis) and Kathy,
who was still agonizing over her college choices.  After dropping us at the
park they'd been off for their own "grown-up" clubbing.

   Half an hour after the fireworks they picked us up and it was back to
the house, my home -- and Carl's, too, I guess, though he was rarely there
-- where we had the run of the upstairs while Mom and Elaine "celebrated"
down in the playroom.  Maybe in other houses it is the other way around,
but in mine the playroom is adults only unless invited, and I hadn't been
invited ...  yet.

   With snacks and drinks on the coffee table the six of us settled in the
living room for what we knew was going to be a lusty but bittersweet
gathering.  The Christmas tree looked defiantly cheery, bedecked with
ornaments and lights soon to be packed away for another year, the tree to
go forlorn and naked out by the curb to be turned into mulch.  In a week or
so Stephanie would be flying back to Philadelphia with her flute, Carl
would be at Stanford with his computers, Beth would be at Harvard with her
stethoscope and scalpels or whatever, leaving Greg, Kathy and me holding
down the home front.

   Tonight sleep was not a priority.  Time together was too precious.  We
paired off as you'd expect, me with Greg, Steph with Kathy, Carl with Beth.
We were all headed in the same direction, trying not to hurry to get there.
Under his hoodie Greg was wearing a nice sports shirt and I took my time
unbuttoning it, while my brother was relieving Beth of her classic
little-black-dress, unzipping it to let it drop around her feet, revealing
her petite frame in sexy black-lace panties, push-up bra, garter belt and
stockings!

   That got whistles and comments from all of us while she posed prettily.
Many's the time I've known her to go out with Carl wearing little more than
a smile.  Tonight she'd gone full-formal rather than full-frontal!  I felt
so unsophisticated in my button-down blouse and casual slacks, with nothing
on underneath!  My fingers stroked Greg's chest, spread his shirt open to
expose his nipples so I could toy with them, pushed his shirt off his
shoulders and down his arms.  His hands were unfastening my blouse, and we
were both soon topless, my boobs not much fuller than his swimmer's pecs,
both of us as smoothly hairless from the neck down, as any competitive
swimmer is these days.

   I was about to vow that a little black dress with all the accessories
would be added to my wardrobe when that train of thought was derailed by
Greg biting my tits, sending showers of sparks through me even as he
loosened my slacks to let them drop, knelt to help me step out of them,
deliberately blowing hot breath on my bare pussy, leaving me oh-so naked
and accessible.

   As he stood I sank to my knees, drawing his chinos down, revealing that
he'd been as commando as I had been.  I wasn't surprised.  There had been a
giveaway wet spot at his crotch as we'd teased our way through the Tunnel
of Love, and I'd felt him poking me when we danced to some slow numbers at
the dance hall.  Now his beautiful cock was waving in my face so I just had
to give it a warm, moist welcome.  Without a second thought I slid it all
the way to the back of my mouth and beyond, my nose bumping where there
should have been hair, his glans squeezing my tonsils, my throat working to
swallow him whole.

   We'd been toying with each other all evening, so I knew he was on a hair
trigger.  My fingers found his balls and fondled them and that was all it
took to make him pour hot pulses of come right straight down my throat
while my pussy went into sympathetic pulsations.  So much for taking our
time!  I was boiling as I backed off, his still spurting penis coating my
tongue with his delicious sperm.  I held his cream in my mouth, collecting
it all before swallowing, then looking up at him, my lips shiny with his
jism, a trickle on my chin, my lust obvious.  It was only moments before I
was on my back on the carpet, his face between my thighs, his tongue
exploring my sopping pussy, my fingers clutching his hair.

   But I wanted more.  I wanted him in me, so I used my grip to drag his
face away from my crotch and up to meet my mouth, still ripe with the scent
of his come, his face wet with my juices.  Resurrecting his hard-on was not
necessary, he'd never lost it and he didn't need any encouragement to fill
me.  I wrapped my arms around him and met him thrust for thrust.

   But I wanted him deeper, so I gave a kick and rolled us over so I was on
top.  Sitting up I was banging down on him, and he was banging up, and we
were banging and banging and banging, his long cock whacking my cervix
while I diddled my clitty.  I was vaguely aware of noises that indicated
similar enthusiasm with our partners in carnality and glanced around. 
Steph and Kathy were in a deep 69, clutching each others' asses.  My
brother Carl was making a deep sausage delivery to Beth.  By the sounds of
it, both couples were either trying to make up for lost time or going for
memories to savor when they were again separated.

   Me?  I wanted a coming worthy of the New Year, lighted balls
(figuratively) dropping and fireworks bursting in air, and I was getting
close -- closer -- closer....

   Then Greg reached for my nips and gave them a hard pinch and a twist and
it was like I'd been electrified.  Rockets glared red and bombs burst in
the air while I shuddered and shook and sang an anthem of joy, his dick
pulsing and spurting, my cunt doing its best to wring him dry.  Finally,
our lust slaked, I slumped forward and lay atop him, his dick slowly
shrinking, leaving a swamp of semen sticking us together as we kissed and
cuddled and murmured endearments, swaddled in the musky scent of sex.

   After we'd all recovered, shared a hasty shower, and snacked some more I
found myself with Steph and Kathy, while Greg and my brother Carl were
devoting their attentions to a very willing Beth Finch.

   Kathy happily surrendered herself to our four hands and lips and two
tongues.  While we palmed her firm breasts, pinched her nipples, her arms
embraced us both.  Our lips and tongues were all over her face and ears,
licking and nibbling while she squirmed and giggled.  We made a meal of
her, working our way down to her lovely pussy.

   It wasn't long before I was kneeling between Kathy's thighs while
Stephanie tutored me, making sure I understood how to properly bring Kathy
pleasure with a fluttering tongue.  I'm not actually a flautist, of course,
but Steph taught me how to play a fine twat solo.  Once Steph was sure I
had caught on to her tongue technique she left me to solo on Kathy's clit
and moved behind me, where she proceeded to bury her face in the crack of
my ass, working her magic from my clit to my coccyx and all the interesting
ports of call in between.

   Oh God, her musically trained tongue worked incredible magic in my ass,
a hot worm wriggling at my asshole.  Then she buried two fingers in my cunt
and played a G spot fanfare while I warbled harmoniously into Kathy's
pussy. I only relented when the tall artist pleaded "no more" and grabbed
me by the ears to drag me away and up.  Steph followed along and I became
the meat in a Stephanie/Kathy sandwich, Kathy licking her own juices off my
lips and cheeks while Steph nibbled on my ear from behind.

   Steph being a big girl, that was a lot of weight even for a big strong
girl like Kathy, so the three of us were soon side by side, Kathy in the
middle, leaning back against the sofa, watching Beth -- petite, demure, Ivy
League Beth -- take on my brother and my boyfriend at the same time.  The
lengthy foreplay over, Carl was now on his back, with Beth straddling him,
tormenting herself and him by lowering herself in slow stages on his cock,
while Greg played with her lovely ass, waiting his chance.

   I reached for Kathy's crotch, only to find that Steph had already taken
possession of it.  Kathy turned to me and kissed me deeply as she drew my
hand up to the warm, firm mound of her breast.  I pinched the stiff nipple
between my fingers as I cupped her boob.  All of us were watching Beth
setting herself up for a double penetration.  Fortunately the popcorn bowl
was greasy enough to make it easy for Greg lube everything up.  Beth leaned
forward to make herself available and Greg's cock knocked at her back door.


   Master of her own body that she was, she relaxed her bung to admit him
and we watched as his lovely dork worked its way into her rectum.  My own
butt twitched in sympathy and I fingered my pussy, until Kathy pushed my
hand aside to take over that chore.  Her strong sculptor's thumb plumbed my
cunt, while a finger found my asshole!  Her other hand was already buried
in Stephanie's crotch, so the three of us were more than satisfied as Greg
and Carl proceeded to use Beth as the stuffing of their own sandwich.

   Never let it be said we wasted resources.  Greg and Carl proceeded to
give Beth the business as we fondled each other to our own pleasure.  Beth
was a soprano, while Greg and Carl were tenor and baritone respectively,
and what a trio they made.  The sight of two cocks sunk in Beth were enough
to make me steam.  Having my own double penetration by Kathy's hand, I
wasn't at all envious.  Kathy deliberately matched their motions in and out
of Beth with her thumb and finger, and from the way Steph was whining she
was getting the same treatment.

   Did I ever mention that while Kathy may not be ambi-sextrous she is
ambidextrous?

   When Carl and Greg and Beth came it was as one.  Both guys completely
buried in her, their balls tight, as Beth's whole body clenched and
clenched with her own double-barrel coming.  I clutched Kathy's hand to my
crotch, my hips working as another orgasm washed through me.  Kathy's chest
was heaving beneath my hand, her own fit body writhing erotically next to
me as Steph brought her off and she brought Stephanie off.

   It had been a celebration to remember.  If I'd known what the New Year
was going to bring I would have stopped the world right there to stay in
the arms of my lovers and friends.

   * * *

   Gliding in through the cool water to touch the wall, my internal counter
clicked over to "enough" and I let my feet catch up beneath me so I could
stand, my lungs working, my muscles loose and hot.  I was filled with that
wonderful feeling a really good workout always gave me, and my pussy was
warm and wet from the memories.

   I've never been able to decide which feels better, the afterglow of
great sex with someone I love dearly or the endorphin rush of a really good
workout.

   Boosting myself out of the water I grabbed my towel and walked on loose
legs to the showers, stripping off the bathing cap that was all I wore, an
effort to preserve my 'do from the ravages of pool water.  I barely noticed
the few other swimmers, or them me.  When training, especially distance
training, I tended to come out of the water in some other world.  When I'm
coaching or teaching it's different, of course.  I especially loved the
little kids, three, four, five years old, bubbly and bouncing, buoyant,
eager to learn, with the same unfettered love of the water that I'd had at
that age, still have today.

   The shower was warm, sluicing away the chlorine as I reached for the
soap.  My hands lathered, I stroked my body, enjoying the sensuous
pleasure. This was as good as it got for me, post workout, no masseurs or
masseuses.  I think Greg had been trying to make me jealous when he told me
how he was pummeled and stretched into submission after every workout. 
Maybe he had.  I did my best to enjoy my shower by paying special attention
to the more sensitive parts of my anatomy.  My nipples squirmed through my
soapy fingers when I pinched them, so I deliberately gave them a scratch
with my nails, too.  Then my hands slithered down my torso, traced the
joint of thigh with body, tracing it inwards to the smooth flesh of my
pussy.

   My inner lips, already aroused by my daydreaming, were swollen and slick
with my juices.  Parting my thighs I openly fondled myself.  Knowing that
someone else might catch me at it only enhanced my pleasure, of course.  I
let my finger slide into me.

   Ahhhh jeeezzz.  Even though it wasn't Greg it felt so good!  As I began
to come, my hips jumping, my cunt spasming, I imagined him standing naked
and aroused, remembering him as he was during our freshman year, just
beginning to fill out, his dick jutting eagerly from his pale reddish bush,
proud and high.  I humped my hand, my orgasm washing through me in hot,
delicious waves.

   My horniness relieved, my mind drifted as I worked on getting the pool
water out of my hair, carefully following my regimen of shampoo and
conditioner.  My mind wandered back to the weeks after Christmas break, the
second half of my freshman year.  Maybe if I'd seen the trouble coming I
wouldn't felt so smug as I opened the first SACNiSP meeting of the
semester.

   * * *

   Yeah, even I'd begun referring to the Student Advisory Committee to the
Naked In School Program as SACNiSP, though there was an unfortunate
tendency for it to come out SACK-SNIP when I said it.  Given the structure
of male genitalia that always triggered an unfortunate image in my head.

   Anyway, all nine of us -- even Mrs.  Devers -- were flying high.  The
aloe gel gambit at the October Board of Ed meeting had worked like a charm.
Within a week the athletic department was issuing towels to program
participants, the laundry bill covered by funds extracted from building
maintenance and the student health office budgets in spite of their
squawks.

   Encouraged by that victory we SACNiSPers had spent the rest of the fall
concentrating on the slog of figuring out how to quit using The Program as
punishment, and eliminating corporal punishment of program participants. 
We wanted a permanent solution in place before FOSA saddled us with an
official PC who was less enlightened.

   God!  I was thinking in bureaucratic acronyms and initials.  Ick!  FOSA
is the Federal Office of Social Awareness, pinnacle of the NiS pyramid, and
PC is, of course, Program Coordinator.  While FOSA tried to get untangled
from various investigations Mrs.  Devers, being pro tem and de facto
Program Coordinator, simply spared the rod, imposing her own regimen of
community service and detention.

   Not that I would have minded her spanking me, should she wish to.  Being
naked, bent over her naked lap as she palmed my butt, as you might suspect,
would be a reward rather than punishment as far as I was concerned.  I was
imagining it taking place in the main school hallway, outside her office
with everyone watching.  Better yet, how about up on the auditorium stage!
That was enough to have my pussy drooling into the towel I was sitting on.

   Yeah, SACNiSP continues to meet in Program uniform to set a good
example.

   It took a major effort to drag my brain back to Mike reading the minutes
of the meeting held before Christmas break.  At it we'd followed up our
Great Towel Victory by submitting a request to The Powers That Be that The
Program not be used for discipline and eliminating the application of
physical force upon Program participants' buttocks.

   To justify our position we'd looked at the NiS Pamphlet, even quoted
from it in our request.  Included in Mike's minutes to get it on the
record, it said:

   "The Program has been carefully designed to help you become more
comfortable with your body and your sexuality, to treat others in natural
balance as both individual people and sexual beings, to learn to harness
your natural energies, and to behave [in a] more mature and morally
conscious manner.  By becoming more comfortable with your body and
sexuality, your sexual tensions will be diminished.  This is your
opportunity for rapid personal growth."

   With one exception, we all agreed that using The Program as punishment
was totally contrary to that philosophy.  The problem was coming up with
alternative punishments.  After a lot of arguing and a certain amount of
table-pounding we'd reached a compromise that The Program should not be
used for discipline, with one important exception.  'Retta felt that
teasing or bullying of any NiS participant should result in the offender
immediately being placed in The Program for a length of time dependent upon
the severity of the offense, and we all finally went along.  People who
hassled a kid for being NiS deserved a taste of The Program.  Call it sauce
for the goose, or whatever.  Among the offenses warranting it was trying to
force a Participant into satisfying an UNreasonable request.

   What constitutes an unreasonable request was a whole 'nother can of
worms we had yet to deal with.

   Anyway, Mrs.  Devers had presented our proposals to TPTB before the
Christmas.  To no one's surprise, she reported that they were still mulling
them over.  Even in our small group there'd been a lot of wrangling before
we hammered out some feasible plans.  Hammered almost literally.  The
conference room table still bore scars from my gavel, and even from my
forehead.

   Of course, violations of school rules -- such as straightforward
bullying -- would be subject to traditional disciplinary actions, which was
outside our responsibility.  Not that we didn't have some ideas on that
score.  TPTB were going to discover it's very dangerous to put teens behind
the wheels of government.  Fortunately for us, Mrs.  Devers, TPTB that set
up our committee in the first place, was on our side and encouraged us to
stretch the limits.  We were so flushed with our successes at producing
those proposals we'd decided to draw up suggestions for an entirely new
disciplinary structure, with Mrs.  Devers's whole-hearted encouragement.

   "I'm tired of being the bad guy," she'd said.  As dispenser of
discipline she was often referred to by the student body as "The Devil,"
though never to her face.  Of course, anyone who thought she didn't know
about the nickname was an idiot.  It was like she had nerve endings in
every hallway, restroom, classroom, locker room and locker, playing field
and court, stairway and janitors' closet.  Her intelligence network put
mine to shame, and mine was darn good.  I consoled myself that I was just
getting started.  She'd had a few years to perfect hers.  I knew one of her
tricks was to really listen to the meaning behind the words when a kid
tried to tell her something -- a rare trait among adults.

   Anyway, we had a subcommittee already researching what other schools did
on the issues of justice and discipline.  It wasn't a new problem.  I'd
been told that a century ago some Russian writer had already churned out a
thick book about it -- Crime and Punishment.

   It was far down on my reading list.

   The item on today's new-business list was the question of what
constitutes a "reasonable request." There's a whole section of the pamphlet
devoted to the issue, but what it boils down to is that anything beyond
posing is supposed to be at the discretion of the program participant --
sort of.  Right from the get-go a lot of precedents had been set that
stretched the boundaries.

   But I didn't expect we'd get to it today.  Something else was brewing.
When I asked for new business, Walter Mifflin diffidently raised his hand,
so I recognized him, knowing what was coming.  Quiet and shy, the sophomore
boy on the committee, he'd accepted the unwelcome assignment of handling
complaints from and about Program Participants.  I'd heard rumors, as had
Mrs.  Devers, that there was trouble in NiS paradise.

   "We have a problem," he announced unhappily.  "Something strange is
going on."

   Mrs.  Devers nodded her head.  One of the things I loved about her --
other than her tits -- was how she let us run the meetings, so I encouraged
Walter to continue with a nod as well.

   "There's been complaints from the most recent Naked in School
participants -- they've been getting more than occasional nasty comments,
bumpings in the hallways, pinches and pokes, some of them pretty painful.
One girl showed me the bruise on her butt."

   "You musta loved that!" someone snickered, causing me to add another
dent to the table with the gavel.  I kept meaning to bring in a block of
wood to beat on instead of ruining the table's finish.

   Walter made a face.  "It isn't funny.  It wasn't the usual casual pinch.
She was really hurt -- and it scared her."

   "Any idea who's doing it?" Matt Mozilla asked.  As a co-captain of the
football team he was familiar with the usual suspects, often jocks who
tended to be slaves to their testosterone.  As our resident alpha male he
commanded enough respect to squash any problems from that quarter -- even
the Chess Club -- with a quiet word.

   "That's the problem," Walter answered.  "It's real sneaky, not face to
face or anything, and it doesn't seem to be the usual suspects, or even
just one person.  It only happens when the halls are crowded.  Call it a
drive-by assault.  Sometimes there's a yelp or a scream or a curse and
everyone looks toward the sound, but nobody sees anything or anyone
suspicious."

   "Where's the participant's partner during all this?  They're supposed to
protect each other," Mike pointed out, his thumbs busy taking the minutes
at the same time.  Wish I could figure out how he does it.  His phone's
smarter than mine.  Maybe that's the answer.

   Walter shook his head.  "You know partners are often separated by class
schedules."

   "And it's a big school.  With only eight people in The Program at any
one time, they're often pretty dispersed," I pointed out.

   "Some of the girls -- especially ones it's happened to more than once --
are getting kinda scared by all this," Walter pointed out.  "One asked me
if I could get her outta The Program.  I told her to hang in there, that
we'd try to get it stopped."

   "Do you have times and places?  Does it seem to be coordinated?" Mrs. 
Devers asked.  She and I were on the same page, having heard the rumors. 
We'd agreed to wait to see if Walter would bring it up, and were glad he
had, proving he'd been a good choice for the job.  Now it was out in the
open.

   Walter slid a sheet of paper in Mrs.  Devers's direction.  "It seems
pretty random," he answered as she looked at it and handed it on.

   "Targets of opportunity," Heather MacKenzie suggested, glancing at the
list before pushing it to me.

   "There's guys on it, too," I pointed out after looking it over, then
passing it along so they all could see it.  A neat spreadsheet, it had
names and places, times and dates.  "Nice job, by the way, Walter."

   "Thanks." He flushed with pleasure.  God, give 'em a pat on the head and
they'll follow you anywhere.  This being a leader could be scary addictive.


   "With guys it's pokes, a punch in the shoulder, sometimes they're
tripped,'" he went on, "or books get knocked out of their hands, stuff like
that, or it's just a muttered 'faggot' or 'pervert' in passing.  It's
almost as if whoever is doing it has practiced being invisible."

   "I don't see what we can do about it." That from Samantha Keeler,
bookish Librarian-to-Be and our resident authority on the fine print of The
Program rules.  "It's not our job.  We're not a police force, remember."

   "No, we're not," I agreed.  "But there's a pattern here that I don't
like, and we're on the front lines."

   Mrs.  Devers pointed out that we were working in a power vacuum and by
the time TPTB got involved it could get completely out of hand.  It doesn't
take much for something like this to go viral.

   "There's no pattern, but from the list and what you say it doesn't feel
like it's just coincidence," I agreed.  "We need clues to work with."

   Jeez, now I was sounding like Nancy-fucking-Drew.

   I went on.  "The only thing I can suggest is for you guys to ask people
you trust to keep an eye out.  I'll ask my friends.  Tell them not to do
anything.  We don't need brawls in the halls...."

   "She's a poet!" Matt teased.

   I cocked an eyebrow and smirked at him before I went on.  "Thank you,
Longfellow.  Just ask them to tell you anything they see, especially if
they spot who's doing it.  Get names, if possible, but don't just walk up
to a perp -- I mean suspect -- or confront them.  We don't want any scenes.
Make sure all the Program Participants know what's going on, both those in
The Program now and ones that have already been in it, so they can be
'specially alert.  Having been there, they'll be sympathetic."

   Then I thought to ask our advisor what she thought of my suggestion. 
Her look gave me a warm feeling.

   "It sounds like a plan to me," she agreed.  "We need details."

   "Okay, time's up for today.  We can take up other new business next
week," I announced with a look at the clock.  "Do I hear a motion to
adjourn?"

   When I got home the phone was ringing.  As usual I let the answering
machine take it while I got my snack, figuring it was just another "kill
the program" message I'd need to dispose of.  I'd been keeping a record of
them, so I'd write it down once I did.  I'd noticed that for a while the
frequency had dropped off, but it was picking up again.

   "Chiquita!  If you don't pick up on this I am gonna get a warrant and
haul your pretty ass in for questioning.  Don't you ever check your cell
for...."

   "Maria!  Hi!  I'm sorry, I almost never have my cell on.  It's only for
me to use in an emergency." I felt a wonderful rush just talking to my
favorite undercover cop.  After we'd set up her traffic stop outside middle
school we'd gone our separate ways again, not that she hadn't been on my
mind, usually at night, in bed, with my fingers or a vibrator busy -- well,
you get the idea.

   "You've been holding out on me," she said accusingly.

   Uh oh.  She really sounded serious.  One thing I didn't want was her on
my case.  She carried handcuffs and a gun, after all.  "I don't know what
you're talking about!"

   "I can't talk right now, and this is kinda off the record, for now,
something we need to talk about privately."

   I jumped at the opportunity.  "How privately?  Would you like to come to
dinner?"

   "How privately would you like it to be?" she responded suggestively,
before quickly going on.  "I'd like that, but I think some of this your
Mamacitas should be involved in.  Then perhaps, we can resume your Spanish
lessons up in your bedroom, just you and me?"

   I checked the calendar on the wall over the phone.

   "Is it urgent?  Can it wait until Friday?  Tonight's a school night and
I need my beauty sleep," I pointed out.  My last Spanish lesson under her
-- literally -- had consisted primarily of me working on rolling my "Rs"
off the tip of my tongue while it was in contact with her clit, and it had
been a very late night.

   "Chiquita, if you get any more beautiful I don't think I could stand it.
But don't you have a date with your swimmer boyfriend Friday night?"

   I made a face she couldn't see.  I had not been looking forward to the
weekend.  It would be cleaning my room, working on a report for history,
and any workout would be solo, which wasn't much fun.  "He's got some
family thing or something, leaving right after school Friday."

   "His loss, my gain.  Friday it is," she agreed.  "I'll bring my
toothbrush."

   I laughed.  "You do that.  See you Friday.  Spaghetti again?"

   "Suits.  See you Friday."

   That, of course, left me stewing over what it was she needed to talk
with me and my Moms about.  Holding out on her?  How could I be holding out
on her?  What could I be holding out?  Sure, Maria and I had our own
special thing going -- well, we did it once, at least.  But before that my
encounter with the Detective had been under more stressful circumstances,
you might say and that, I sincerely hoped, had been completely wrapped up
and buried.

   Needless to say I was on pins and needles Friday night when we sat down
to dinner, wondering what was so important that my Moms needed to know
about it.  What had I screwed up now?  The only thing I could think of was
that they still didn't know about the KTP calls.  That was more by accident
than design.  Somehow I'd always deleted them before they got home and it
never seemed important enough to mention.  It had been going on all fall,
the same stupid message.

   But not even nerves could spoil appetites for my patented sauce
Bolognese -- freshly made, not thawed, and carefully simmered two hours,
not a minute less -- over angel hair pasta cooked just so.

   "Now, Chiquita, how come you never told me you knew that bus-runner
before you asked me to ticket him?" Maria asked when the feeding frenzy was
over and the adults were sipping their wine.

   "Huh?  I didn't know him!"

   "He had your phone number."

   "He had my phone number?"

   "Is there an echo in here?" Maria chided me.  "I was getting caught up
on paperwork the other day, going through my notebook -- I was gonna call
you to check on a detail of the sting we set up -- and noticed that I'd
written down a phone number he'd had clipped to the visor of his car.  I
had your home number up on my cell at the same time and that's when I made
the connection."

   "What bus-runner?" Mom asked, so we had to remind her of the guy who,
after he picked up his daughter, had been passing all those stopped buses
outside middle school.  The night we set that sting up was the first night
Maria had spent in my bed.  It had involved some very sensitive
negotiations before she'd agreed to dust off her uniform and ticket book to
lay one on him.

   "Well I didn't give it to him," I argued.  "Until that day I called you
I didn't even know he existed."

   "Well he sure knew you, from a ways back before that," Maria countered,
reaching into her capacious shoulder bag.  She hauled out a sheaf of paper
and shoved it toward me.  "I got curious and checked his cell phone records
-- this is all strictly confidential, but considering his history it seemed
a strange coincidence, so I called in a favor to get 'em."

   Mom and Elaine and I practically bumped our heads leaning over the
papers.  Pink hi-lighting made it obvious that he'd called me -- well, our
home number -- about once a week, in the afternoon, starting well before
John and Alice had asked for my help, which was before I talked Maria into
ticketing him.

   Uh oh!  Something clicked in my skull.

   "Hold on a sec." I ducked up to my room and came back with a spiral
notebook of my own, just like the one Maria carried on her job -- okay,
call it hero worship, if you want -- where I'd been keeping a record of the
calls.  When they'd continued I'd started writing them down, starting when
we were still in our old house.  When we moved Mom needed her own number
for her job, so they'd just followed me.

   Recording the times and dates of the calls had just seemed a sensible
precaution.  Now I found myself having to explain the calls to Mom and
Elaine, which resulted in a lot of groveling on my part about why I hadn't
told them before.  I really hadn't meant to hide them, I just didn't want
them worrying, and it just didn't seem particularly ominous.

   Mom did not agree.

   Shit!  Grounded again, I bet.  Well, maybe just the weekend?  After
Maria left tomorrow?  It wouldn't do to be inhospitable to my guest, after
all, would it?  Maria's toothbrush was right there on the table, along with
her handcuffs, stuff caught up in the dragnet she'd run through her
shoulder bag searching for the phone records.  At least she hadn't brought
her gun out.

   Fortunately, comparing the phone records with my notes provided a
distraction.  I still didn't see it as threatening, but it was obvious he'd
been one of the KTP callers.  It could only be a coincidence.  Some of the
times and dates that I'd recorded lined up with calls he'd made to our
number.  All were well within what my chem teacher would call
"observational error."

   "What about these other calls?" Elaine asked, pointing out the ones on
my list that didn't match the records Maria had.

   "There's been more than one caller," I answered.  "Judging by the voices
there've been at least four, counting the bus-runner.  In fact, that 'kill
the program' guy at the Board of Ed meeting sounded like one of them. 
Remember him?"

   As Mom and Elaine nodded Maria swept up both her records and my
notebook. "I think maybe I'd better do a little detecting.  Do I have your
permission to request your phone records for, say, the last three months?
Maybe I can trace the numbers back to some people."

   "Don't take my notebook!" I protested.

   Mom looked confused.  "Our bill only shows calls we've made, and only
long distance ones, at that.  I can give you those."

   "The phone company can provide me with calls made to your phone," Maria
explained.

   "They can do that?"

   "It's like Caller ID.  You should have been told.  For Dee's protection,
the DA's office asked for it to be logged during the Worthington incident.
It's still on."

   Damn!  That man's name still made my teeth itch.  I shoulda bitten him
-- OFF -- when I'd had the chance!

   "You've been recording our calls?" Mom asked.

   Maria raised her hands defensively.  "Only the phone numbers of incoming
callers, not the calls themselves.  Wasn't my idea, and we've never asked
for the records.  Won't, unless you give permission."

   Mom and Elaine looked at each other, then looked at me.  All I could do
was shrug and we all nodded.

   "These calls constitute harassment," Maria explained.  "You should have
told us, or the phone company."

   I felt sick.  "I didn't mean to keep it a secret.  I didn't think it was
all that important.  They were just calls, like a heavy breather or
something.  I'm sorry, guys."

   Mom knows me so well.  She reached for me, and, bit as I'd gotten, I
found myself in her lap, and everything felt better again.  "Maybe you
should get Maria settled upstairs," she suggested softly after agreeing to
let the cops have our records, and offering to make copies of my notebook
for them so I could keep it.

   "I'm not grounded?" I asked hesitantly.

   She kissed away the tear I'd tried not to shed.  I'd gotten better at
that, at least.  "Of course not darling.  As you said, it's probably no big
deal.  But it should be stopped."

   "Okay.  Thanks." As I gave her a grateful hug my eye was caught by
Maria's handcuffs, still out on the table.  Feeling much better, I scooped
them up as I got off Mom's lap, and reached for Maria's hand.  "Come on,
Maria.  I need help with my foreign language homework."

   "I thought you were studying German," Elaine pointed out.

   "I'm going for trilingual, adding Spanish," I answered, dangling the
handcuffs from one finger.  "I'm officially studying German, but I want to
show Maria how good I've gotten at trilling my Spanish 'Rs.'"

   Mom and Elaine were laughing as I led Maria up the stairs.  They knew
what I meant.
   No secrets, remember?