Note: This story was dynamically reformatted for online reading convenience.
 
 Dee STP 7 by peregrinf

   Now, as a soon-to-be high school grad I have to admit that two solid
days chained to Maria as a lowly frosh had gotten the teamwork idea across.
But that had just been the start of her campaign to win over not just my
body but my heart and mind as well.  Not, I confess, that I'd been at all
reluctant to share my body with her.  She became a regular guest in my
house and my bed, and each visit had been a learning experience, everything
from arrest protocols to investigative techniques to self-defense to
surveillance, to extended explorations of a more sensual nature.

   Yeah, she was using every tool at her disposal to recruit me for the
force, never mind that I was only fourteen.  She wasn't obsessed, was
filled with love, and gave me room to spread my wings.  At the time the
force hadn't seemed a bad idea -- still didn't.  It has a romantic appeal,
but as I grew I saw other opportunities, other places to go.

   And right now, that place was the community art association's studio for
a modeling assignment.  Strapping on my helmet I planted my naked ass on
Old Bessie's twice replaced seat, and off I pedaled.

   Oh, I'd rejected those lambskin covers as unhygienic, given my tendency
to ride au natural.  I also remembered too well the scratchiness of my
early makeshift wrappings of the seat with black plastic electrician's
tape. New seats didn't cost that much, though they were getting harder to
find, given Old Bessie's age.

   I can hear people asking why I don't replace the entire old three-speed
instead of just the seat.  Replace Old Bessie?  I'd rather replace my right
arm!  You're talking infidelity, betrayal!  Abandonment!  If I did that her
heart and soul, her very bones and sinews, would be consigned to the
scrap-heap, chopped up, masticated, and then sent off to -- I don't know,
maybe China -- to return as old tin cans or railroad track or something! 
How ignominious!

   It had been love at first sight at that police auction.  The moment I
saw Bessie she called out to me to be rescued from a dire fate in the
landfill -- this was before the "reduce, recycle, reuse" mantra of today. I
knew she was my ticket to freedom, expanding my horizons beyond the bounds
of my back yard, my home block.  She became the wings beneath my feet.

   Old Bessie and I have been through so much together since -- rides with
Missy, rides with Greg, good times and bad, in sun and rain.  She'd been
stolen once -- my fault, I forgot to take a moment to lock her -- and it
took me a month to track her down.  I was grounded for a week for what I
did to the thief -- the price of a deviated septum -- but it was worth it.
I got Bessie back.

   The first flat tire -- I was ten years old and I'd only had Bessie a
month -- I'd walked her home, crying so hard I tripped over curbs and
banged my shins on the pedals, refusing all offers of help.  She was my
responsibility, my friend, and she was hurt!  After Mom dried my tears,
picked the gravel out of my knee and iced my bruises I replaced the tire,
with the help of a book from the library and Carl's muscle on one nut.  It
was a back tire, so, what with the chain and the gears and all that, I
learned how to fix and maintain Bessie -- oil the chain, adjust the gears
and brakes, tension the spokes.  As I grew I raised the seat and
handlebars, and it was a good thing I stopped growing when I did.  I was
about to run out of growing room.

   Tending her had given me the confidence to tackle other mechanical
challenges, instead of just standing around wringing my hands waiting for
my brother or someone else to repair what's broken.

   I have a driver's license, but no car.  Old Bessie keeps me in better
shape.  I'm a fixture as I pedal around town.  How many naked six-foot-plus
blondes do you see sitting up real straight on an old three-speed, knees
high, legs pumping?  The risk of road-rash makes me very careful.  I keep
an eye on my mirrors.

   I get honks and waves, an occasional whistle or whoop, but it's been
years since someone deliberately tried to run me off the road. 
Accidentally is another issue.  On the upgrades when I come up off the seat
to put my weight on the pedals I moon overtakers, resulting in distracted
driving.  When I coast down a hill I spread my legs to feel the air on my
naked pussy, or crank the pedals backwards just to stretch unused muscles.
When I pedal through the shopping district's brick-paved plaza I angle my
pelvis so the vibrations through the horn of the saddle buzz my clit.  Even
if I'm not headed downtown I may deliberately go that way just to come that
way, if you get my drift.

   The art studio is upstairs in one of the old downtown buildings.  I
arrived at the bike rack deliciously on edge, you might say.  When I swung
off Bessie I got a chorus of hoots from the bird watchers manning the
benches under the plaza's ficus tree.

   "Ignore the old farts, Dee." The elderly lady pausing in her morning
walk snorted.  "They're like my dog chasing a car.  Even if they could
catch you they wouldn't know what to do with you."

   "Oh I don't mind, Mrs.  Finneran.  I know why they carry those
binoculars.  I'll be posing for them in a few minutes." I waved at the
second-floor studio's big picture window.

   She cackled merrily, resuming her power-walk, arms pumping vigorously. I
couldn't help giggling as she gave the geezers the finger as she passed
them, rolling her hips teasingly, receiving hoots and wisecracks in return.
After locking Old Bessie to the rack and grabbing my swim bag I took the
stairs my usual two at a time, my helmet bobbling on my head, looking
forward to the rest of my morning.

   You might think modeling for an artist would be the most boring job in
the universe but it depends on the artist.  With Henry it is rarely dull --
after all, he is a blind sculptor and I'm usually nude.  But even allowing
for his tactile methods I had plenty of time to think and for some reason
today I had a lot to think about.  Once he had me the way he wanted me --
think Goya's The Naked Maja, one of Henry's favorites for a beginning class
-- I found my mind going back to the SACNISP meeting the Monday after Maria
had "adjusted my attitude." Certainly it had been an interesting meeting --
tumultuous, you might say.

   * * *

   Maria had suggested I find out if others had gotten the same KTP calls,
so I opened the meeting by telling them about mine and asking if anyone
else had gotten them.

   Metaphorically speaking, all the popcorn in the pan went off at once.

   Well, all but one kernel -- two if you count me.  Mrs.  Devers merely
stiffened -- even her tits.

   Especially her tits.

   Oh God those tits!

   We were in Program Uniform, of course, and Mrs.  Devers continues to put
her luscious body on the line right along with the rest of us.  Her mouth
snapped shut, her lips tightening into a thin, hard line, her eyes like
icicles.

   Maybe I should have talked with her about it when it had first happened.


   Ah me.

   And it would've been better if I'd asked for a show of hands or
something, 'cause everyone was talking at once.  I was able to filter the
cross-chatter down to, about evenly, "You, too?" and "Oh thank God, I
thought I was the only one!"

   I almost broke the gavel trying to bring the meeting back to order.

   "And just when were you planning on letting me know this was going on?"
Mrs.  Devers's even tone had the chill of a glacier.  I got that sinking
feeling in my gut, knowing that once again I'd fucked up -- a sin of
omission but a sin nonetheless.

   Well, too late now.  I was about to open my mouth for some snippy
comment like "I just did" when the rest of the committee saved me from that
folly, reacting as if she'd asked them, triggering another outburst, this
time the gist of it being "I just thought it was some nut" mixed with "I
didn't want to worry anyone."

   Nice to know we're so inventive with our excuses -- NOT.

   If this kept up either the gavel or I would have a splitting headache
before the end of the meeting.

   "One at a time, please!" I insisted when they'd again quieted down.  To
delay my head-to-head with Mrs.  Devers I decided to find out who, among
them, had gotten calls and what they said -- not that I had any doubt it
was everyone and the message was the same.  Protocol suggested I start with
my second in command.  "Heather?"

   * * *

   A touch broke into my reverie.  I managed to hold my pose, even as Henry
guided the hands of his students over my skin.  Fingers traced my thigh,
and Henry encouraged them to probe the muscles and tendons while he talked
with them.  I'm not as voluptuous as Goya's model, but he says my physical
conditioning and willingness to -- uhm -- expose my assets makes me a
better anatomy model.

   At least as The Naked Maja I was relaxed, reclining.  Once, when he'd
heard I was into archery -- part of my PTSD therapy (thank you Ms. 
Andrews) -- Henry had decided I should be the Goddess of the Hunt.

   Well, after all, my given name is Diane.

   Whatever, the first day of that project I'd spent an hour posing with my
bow and arrow -- my personal recurve bow, strung and ready, a real arrow
nocked to the string.  He insisted I hold it fully drawn to bring out the
muscles of my back and shoulders.  He's a demon for accuracy and wanted my
technique to be correct, right down to using only the tips of two fingers
to hold the string.  Ouch!  Even with breaks every five minutes I was so
sore I was ready to put an arrow in his butt by the time he was done.

   As for that ridiculous flight of fancy immortalized by Augustus
Saint-Gaudens in his "Diana Goddess of the Hunt" statue, artistic license
is one thing, but she couldn't hit the broadside of a barn from the inside
with that pose.

   Balancing on one foot?  Puh-leeze!  With my usual lack of modesty I
claim I look just as good -- better, even -- when I do it right!  The
perfect posture, feet spread shoulder width, weight evenly balanced, spine
straight, shoulders back, head up, bow anchored solidly in my left palm. 
You can draw a straight line from the elbow of my drawing arm right through
my fingers down the length of the arrow.  The thumb of my drawing hand is
lightly at the corner of my mouth, the anchor point, the bow itself is
slightly angled so the bowstring carves a groove right in the center of the
tip of my nose.  My eyes are fixed on the target.  Breathe in, breathe out
-- release!

   The only concession I'd insisted on was using a safety arrow with a
padded head, safer, even than to the blunt arrow usually used for target
shooting.  That minimized penetrating power if anything slipped.  As it was
one slip and even it could have done serious damage, so I was real careful
which way I was aiming.  I managed not to let it slip, and holding the pose
did wonders for my conditioning.

   That had been the first of a number of private sessions with my bow. 
Once he'd even had me shoot at the archery club range -- nude, of course
while he "watched" the play of all of my muscles -- and I do mean all!  --
with his fingertips.  The display of my charms had resulted in some shots
by other archers going seriously astray, endangering windows, wildlife and
the occasional passing plane.

   I never knew if anything had come of the project, but that wasn't
unusual.  For all I knew I was now a bronze statue in some millionaire's
wet dream.

   Ooo!  They were working real close to my bare pussy!  One guy in
particular seemed especially interested in my anatomy down there, not that
I objected.

   Arousing?  Of course it was arousing!  It made up for the crummy pay. 
One of the things I loved about posing for Henry was the touching.  It made
me feel so alive to have hands on me.  His free classes were always for
special needs people, limited to no more than six students, usually but not
strictly visually impaired.  He taught autistics, Down syndrome, ADHD,
cerebral palsy, you name it.  He put them in touch -- literally -- with a
world they otherwise had trouble relating to.  His seeing-eye dog Aphrodite
even had therapy dog attributes that let her calm the troubled ones.

   I can also tell you from experience that her cold nose really gets your
attention when you're posing naked and start to sag.

   The class went back to their clay and my mind began to drift again.

   Why did I keep looking back to my freshman year?  Here I was, nearing
commencement, and I was wandering around in the past like those old farts
under the ficus tree.  "Commencement" meant beginning, after all!  My life
was just starting.

   I should know better than to pose such a question in my head.  Up popped
The Stick, of course.  As I'd matured she'd been less intrusive, but after
months of comparative silence she just had to get in her two cents worth.

   Because, she said, you need to remember what you've learned -- all of
it, not just your book-learning.  Think of it as the review before you face
the final exam that's the rest of your life.

   Gee, thanks a bunch!  I told her.

   De nada, she responded courteously.  Sarcasm is wasted on her, and even
my inner voice has picked up some Spanish from Maria.

   Okay, so where was I before I was interrupted by the touchy-feelies?  Oh
yeah.  SACNISP meeting, polling the committee for KTP call data.

   * * *

   As was her way, Mrs.  Devers gave me The Look that said "we'll talk,"
but didn't stop me from running the meeting.  As we went around the table
the story was pretty much the same.  The only difference between them and
me was they'd all had their own phones for years -- either a cell or
private landline in their bedrooms.  At least they didn't have to worry
about their parents picking up on an embarrassing call or voice-mail.

   Too bad.  If any parent had caught a KTP call the shit would have hit
the fan a lot sooner and Mrs.  Devers wouldn't be deciding between the
gallows or the guillotine for me.

   I'd gotten the first KTP call the same day I'd been railroaded into
chairing this zoo, so whoever it was had a good intelligence operation in
the school.  Eventually everyone got them.  In every case, three or four
times a week, the message was "kill the program." Sometimes it was a text
to their smart phone, or an anonymous voice mail, occasionally they'd pick
up to hear it live.  It wasn't always the same voice but it was always the
exact same message.

   Those dorks needed a new script.

   Getting our phone numbers was easy.  None of us made an effort to keep
them a secret.  We're teenagers.  Phones are practically an extension of
our ears, except for me.  I'd learned early that our home line had to be
kept free for Mom's work.  As for the cell, Elaine may have given it to me
but Mom had bluntly told me Elaine's money was not mine to spend.  The
bills came out of my allowance.  Since I paid even for incoming calls I'd
been very careful about sharing my number.

   "They're blocking caller ID," Matt Mozilla observed.  Being the last one
around the table he'd put his phone on speaker and played the latest
message he'd gotten, which was just more of the same-old same-old.  "So we
can't trace 'em back that way."

   "What about star-57?  Has anyone used that?" Maria had brought that up.
Punching *57 sends a signal to the phone company so the calling number is
recorded.  And you can use *-77 to block that calling number.  I was too
embarrassed to admit I hadn't known about it.

   Matt shrugged.  "I didn't see any reason.  The calls seem harmless
enough."

   One look told me at least they'd known about it, but no one else had
used it, either.

   Dorks!

   "Anyone recognize the voice?" I asked.

   Hands went up, but it turned out it was a voice they'd only heard on
their own calls, so that didn't get us anywhere.  I did know who at least
one caller was, so I gave them a very abridged version of my weekend with
Maria, edited down to "I've got a friend with the police department who's
identified one caller.  She's now using my phone records -- my mom's phone
records, that is -- to attach names to others."

   "The police?  You think it's that serious?" Mrs.  Devers asked.

   "They do.  I mean Maria -- I mean, Detective Sanchez -- thinks it is
that serious.  One caller is the same guy that popped up at the board
meeting -- I recognized his voice that night, but didn't get a look at him.
ID-ing him was kind of a fluke.  Detective Sanchez accidentally tripped
over him while she was dealing with another problem and she wondered why he
had my phone number."

   "What was he caught for?" Mrs.  Devers asked.

   I dodged that one.  "Just a traffic stop.  Nothing to do with The
Program."

   "Who is it?  Anyone we know?" Heather asked.

   I shrugged.  "Maria -- Det...  Oh hell, Maria, we're on a first-name
basis -- she doesn't want me to say, it being an ongoing investigation and
all that.  He's a parent, not a student, fairly new in town, has some
issues.  That's all I can say at this point.  Oh, his daughter's in middle
school and he's kinda over-protective.  That may be his motive."

   I took a deep breath.  "Thing is, he's obviously not the only one.  Just
from the voices we know there's at least three other callers, maybe more. I
suppose we can start using that star-57 thingy now, but Detective Sanchez
feels it would be helpful if we can use phone records to pin them down,
find out if there's a common link.  To do that she'll need your
permission...."

   "Your parents' permission," Mrs.  Devers interrupted, "given that you're
all still minors.  Except maybe you, Heather, and you Matt."

   "Your parents' permission," I corrected, "to access your phone records."


   Cue the popcorn, which I let run for a minute before once again working
the table over with the gavel, saving my voice but not my wrist.

   "I know.  That means you'll have to tell your parents what's been going
on.  You're on your own there."

   "If there's a problem have them call me," Mrs.  Devers volunteered.

   Rumblings of discontent mixed with moans and sighs.  Parents get so
cranky over stuff like this!  I'd already endured the "we only want to keep
you safe" lecture myself, in stereo-surround sound from both of my Moms and
Maria.

   I did my best to calm my committee's concerns.  "I know you don't want
your privacy invaded.  Detective Sanchez will only be looking for numbers
that fit the pattern -- three or four incoming calls a week at the right
time each day, and putting names to them.  The rest she'll ignore.  Mine
always come after school, when my Mom isn't home but I sometimes am. 
Whoever it is they know my schedule.

   "After the first few I was paranoid enough to keep a diary of the calls
-- date and time.  If any of you've done the same we could use that list.
If you haven't, if you could start doing it now, or use star-57, it will
help Maria, and you.  Unless the pattern changes, it'll only take a week to
give us a starting point and those'll be the only numbers she'll
back-track, so your secrets are safe from her.  I'd trust her with my
life."

   Come to think of it, I already had.

   "What about blocking the numbers with *77?  Oh, wait, if we do that
they'd know we're on to 'em and just switch phones." Sometimes Mike's mouth
gets ahead of his brain.

   "Duh!" someone said, which brought the gavel down sharply, along with a
glare from the chair, namely me.  I'd learned that nothing could kill a
discussion faster than a crack like that and I'd been working on my sharp
glare for just those types of put-downs.

   "Why is Maria -- uh -- Detective Sanchez so worried?" Heather asked. 
She was the only other one on the committee who'd tangled with The Worm and
who knew Maria, though not as well as I did.

   "Well, first of all, now that I know you've gotten them, too, it's
obviously a coordinated attack, which she already suspected," I explained.
"Then she also pointed out to me that recently there've been more -- and
more venomous -- 'kill the program' letters in the paper.  She wants to
compare the names she gets from the phone calls to the signatures on the
letters for a connection.  And I bet you've probably noticed the pickets
are getting noisier, too.  So far the calls can only be considered
harassment, but interfering with The Program is a felony.  "

   Mrs.  Devers nodded, and tried to be reassuring.  "There's always been
opposition to The Program and someone is stirring things up, but I don't
think it's personal."

   Yet, The Stick helpfully added.

   "The forces of evil are gathering," Mike intoned ominously, like
something out of Lord of the Rings.  "What are we going to do, Frodo?"

   Frodo?  No one's every going to mistake me for a Hobbit!

   There were gloomy nods around the table, and Mrs.  Devers was looking
very serious.

   "So, do I hear a motion we all note down the date and time and anything
else useful about our calls, or use that star-whatchamacallit?" I asked.

   Samantha Keeler, our resident nitpicker, parliamentarian and future
librarian, made the motion in her usual precise way, someone else seconded
it and it was unanimously passed, with only a few grumbles.

   "Whack!" went the gavel, Mike's thumbs busily recording the action for
posterity.

   "Which brings us back to our original agenda," I pointed out, pulling a
copy over in front of me.  "Old business; where do we stand with
identifying what I'm calling 'the fanny pinchers,' those charmers who're
harassing the people in The Program?"

   Before anyone could answer I suddenly got an idea and winced.  "Come to
think of it, there might even be a connection there," I added unhappily.

   "How so?" Mike asked, giving his thumbs a rest from taking the minutes.

   "What better way is there to discredit the program than creating a riot
in the halls?" I asked.

   That suggestion produced instant silence.

   Gotta remember that!  -- get 'em thinking.  It's easier on my wrist --
and the table -- than the gavel!

   "Shee-it!!" That was from 'Retta of the Bountiful Brown Boobies. 
"Sorry," she apologized.  A good churchgoer, she isn't one normally given
to vulgar outbursts.

   Note to self about broadening my religious foundations: Find out more
about her church.

   "Why would there be a connection?" Matt asked.

   "The apple doesn't fall far from the tree," Samantha pointed out,
drawing on her vast store of aphorisms.

   "Meaning?" Max Wang asked.

   "Meaning," never-call-her-Sam Samantha continued in her very soft, very
precise way, "that maybe the callers are parents who are putting their kids
up to their nasty little games in school.  They might not even mean to do
it, but their kids pick up the attitude from them, like homophobia in a
family can produce kids who bully gays."

   Brows furrowed unhappily.

   "Exactly," I agreed.

   Silence.

   Shit!  That got us nowhere.

   "So, what do we have?  Anything?  Anybody?" I prodded.

   More silence.  I let it drag out, reminding myself that sometimes
silence would goad someone into filling it.

   "White shirts."

   "Walter?"

   "Oh, it's probably nothing."

   I shook my head.  "Nothing's what we've got.  Maybe you've got
something?"

   Walter Mifflin was a soph, our quietest member.  He never said much.  I
think that's how he got stuck with sorting reasonable requests from
unreasonable ones and mediating the latter.  He didn't say "no" fast
enough. When he did say something it's usually worth listening to. 
Besides, he was the one keeping the record on the fanny pinchers for us, at
least the when and where and victim.

   "It's just that -- well -- uh -- three times I've been around when it's
happened.  You know, hear the scream take a look?  Like everyone else I've
never actually seen anything -- but I just realized something.  Every time
it's happened there's been someone wearing a white shirt leaving the area.
Not hurrying, just walking away." He frowned "Come to think of it, I don't
remember 'em ever turning to look back, when most people do...."

   His voice trailed off.  I shushed the others with a wave of my hand, not
wanting to scare Walter back into his hole.  "What sort of white shirt? 
Tee shirt?"

   He shook his head, toying with his pencil nervously.  "Nuh-uh.  White
dress shirt.  Permanent press.  Probably button down collar.  And pants. 
Black pants.  It's prob'ly nothing."

   I thought about that.  Something about it made me uncomfortable.  "White
shirt," I muttered.

   "And black pants," Walter added.

   "And black pants," I agreed, looking around the table, then looked at
the neat piles of our clothes along the wall.  Damn that dress code!  "Wait
a minute!  We can't go assuming anyone wearing a white shirt is a villain
-- we'd -- what's the word I want?  -- starts with 's'?"

   "Scapegoat," Samantha responded promptly.  I sometimes think she
swallowed a dictionary at birth.

   "That's not it.  Sorta like make 'em a target."

   "Stigmatize them," Samantha promptly filled in for me.

   I rest my case.  She probably farts synonyms -- in her sleep.

   "That's the word.  If we start looking at it that way half the people in
this room would be in cuffs." I waved at our piles of clothes, three of
which were topped by white shirts, one of them mine.

   Mrs.  Devers nodded thoughtfully.  Maybe I'd gotten off the hook with
her for not telling her about the calls with that observation -- not that I
deserved it.

   "Has someone been keeping a record of the -- uh -- incidents?" Heather
asked.

   When Walter diffidently held his hand up she apologized for forgetting.
He was easy to forget.  But maybe that would turn out to be an advantage.
In the hallways he was the invisible man.  Maria'd pointed out to me that
people like that were particularly useful for surveillance.  Since I stand
out like a giraffe in a herd of zebras I figured that excused me from
standing under a street lamp, pretending to read a newspaper, dangling from
the corner of my mouth a cigarette (yuck!), to be lighted when the deal
went down.

   "Can you tell from the list, is it just one guy doing it?" Heather
asked.

   Walter shook his head, eyes on his papers.  "I thought of that.  From
the times and places it has to be more than one person, probably three or
four or more.  And don't discriminate, it could be girls doing it, too."

   He was surprised when that brought a laugh, and flushed.

   Then everyone was looking at me again.  Shit!  I was the youngest one on
the whole damn committee, and they kept looking to me for leadership.  Why
the hell did they make me chair this zoo?  My mind scrambled around
desperately like a gerbil looking for that last bit of food in the wood
chips.  "What else can you tell us, Walter?  Is there any kind of a
pattern? What about hot-spots for attacks?"

   "Let's see -- locker areas between classes, outside the cafeteria at
lunch...." His voice trailed off.

   "Anywhere students tend to congregate at certain times of the day," I
muttered.  "Figures."

   Then a light went on.  "Wait a minute.  Let's get smart about this.  We
all live by schedules and our routes are determined by the geography of the
school and where we need to be next."

   "So?" Max Wang asked.

   "So we've been going about this the wrong way," I answered.  My mind was
racing and I realized I'd screwed up by not analyzing the challenge more
carefully, as well as considering the consequences of our actions.

   Dumb, dumb, dumb!

   "Sorry guys the wholesale spying was my idea.  Bad idea.  Bad, bad,
bad."

   They were all looking at me as if I'd lost my mind.

   "Look.  We're just making things worse by flooding the halls with
watchers.  The fewer who know about our surveillance the better.  Otherwise
we could wind up with one half of the school spying on the other half.  I
take the blame, it was my idea.  Bad idea.  Call off the dogs!"

   They generously tried to share the blame but I gaveled 'em down.

   "Thanks, but that's not the point.  The point is, we don't need to have
-- what did Sherlock Holmes call 'em?  Baker Street Irregulars -- all our
friends looking everywhere at once.  We can focus our surveillance, maybe
limit our watchers just to the people in this room, 'stead of getting
everyone stirred up.  Let's look at class schedules and combine that with
the traffic flow.  Can we coordinate our routes and schedules with Walter's
list of hot-spots and -- uh -- hot-times -- to focus our own coverage when
and where it's most needed?  Pull out your schedules!" I dove for my
backpack as the others did likewise.

   Hah HAH!  That provoked a flurry of activity like I hadn't seen since
Ms. Andrews had unleashed we of the Dirty Dozen to explore our budding
sexuality.  It took a while, and a lot of paper shuffling, but we managed
to work out our assignments.  It would stretch our resources, but we could
do it -- almost -- maybe.

   "Okay, starting tomorrow, before first bell we take to the streets.  And
remember, let's be careful out there.  Eyes and ears only, don't grab
unless you see some potential danger or damage.  Try to identify the perps,
but concentrate on the victims.  Get their statements, soothe their
feelings, reassure them that we're working on it."

   Mrs.  Devers was nodding, looking at me, that slight little smile of
hers warming me to the core.  I wondered if I rolled over on my back if
she'd rub my tummy!

   Stop that!  The Stick scolded.  Tend to business.  It's getting late.

   I moved my finger down the agenda.  "Let's move on to stopping using The
Program for punishment.  Is anything happening on that?"

   Mrs.  Devers shook her head.  "Nothing from The Powers That Be.  I
expect that to be passed all the way up to Washington before it's settled,
if then."

   "Then what can we do when we catch the fanny pinchers?" 'Retta asked
irritably.  She was the hard-ass on punishing people who harassed program
participants by putting them in The Program.

   Damn!  We were right back to the fanny pinchers.  This whole Program
thing was such a hair-ball!  Any thread we picked up led us back into the
tangle.

   Mrs.  Devers sighed.  "Well, since I'm the enforcer, I guess that's up
to me.  And, since there's been no change to the policy, I can put them in
The Program as I see fit."

   "Good!" 'Retta slapped the table triumphantly.  None of us disagreed and
we moved on.

   * * *

   Henry called a break and I got up and stretched luxuriously in front of
the window before giving the birdwatchers by the ficus a friendly wave. 
Oooo, I felt so deliciously wickedly NAKED!  A wall of binocular lenses
were staring back up at me like some giant insects' eyes.  One pair was
huge -- he could probably count the stubble on my cunt!  Which reminded me.
Maybe it was time to get waxed again?  Always something to look forward to.
I thought I'd better check, so I did so, right there in the window,
stroking the bristles on the puffy lips of my pussy.  The sun felt so good
on my skin I couldn't resist sensuously stroking my hands up my body to my
breasts to pinch my nipples, sending little jolts of electricity down to my
cunt, making my flower blossom down there.

   The bird watcher with the biggest binocs staggered and had to be
carefully eased down on a bench where one of his buddies fanned him while
another dug a pill bottle out of his sagging friend's pocket and slipped
something into his mouth.  Deciding maybe I'd better tone down my display I
moved away from the window to admire the students' efforts.

   One of them particularly intrigued me -- the boy who'd been so
fascinated by the anatomical wonders between my thighs.  About fifteen, on
the skinny side, he was having trouble controlling his hands and I could
see frustration building so I moved up close to him as he balanced
awkwardly on his tall stool.

   Cerebral palsy maybe?  Whatever.  I've learned a lot working for Henry,
and this kid's work had something special, even without allowing for his
physical or developmental challenges.  Trapped in that uncooperative body
was talent waiting to be unleashed.

   "Maybe I can help?" I ventured, smoothing his unruly hair.

   He stammered, but didn't object when I put my hands on his to steady
them.  His fingers were very long and slender.  I liked the warmth of his
body near mine.  The studio was warm so everyone was lightly dressed,
though not as lightly as I was.  Judging by the reaction in his lap,
whatever his problem was, his sexual reflexes were visibly responsive.

   Perching on the stool put him almost on a level with me.  I breathed in
his ear.  "You're the guiding brain, I'll just steady your hands.  My hands
are just along for the ride."

   "I n-n-nee...."

   "Shshsh," I hissed softly in his ear.  "Don't try to tell me, show me."

   His hands shifted, away from the clay, toward my body, toward my pussy.

   "You want to touch me again.  Let me get back to my pose," I suggested,
"so the others can work with me, too.  Henry, can you get someone to move
his clay over near me?  The rest of you can get closer, too, of course."

   I knew Henry wouldn't mind.  We work so well together!

   There was a rustling and shuffling, but my attention was primarily on
this one student as I led him back to my chaise.  In moments I was again
reclining and became the tactile center of attention, each student claiming
a portion of my anatomy.  Winslow -- I'd learned his name was Winslow --
laid claim to my crotch, of course.  As he became more engrossed the tremor
in his hands eased and I could abandon myself to the erotic pleasure of his
explorations.

   Someone else was working at my tits, another my ass, and I was adrift
again, hearing Henry explain how he employed all the senses he had
available -- touch, of course, but also hearing, smell, even taste -- in
creating his art.  The critics have complimented the sensuous depths in his
work.

   Someday I'll have to tell you about the reception held for Kathy
Powers's erotic series, her senior project for which Greg and I had posed.
Much of her success was due to his mentoring.  The reception itself was
worth writing home about, but only if your mother had a mind as liberated
as my Moms do.

   Now pardon me while my mind goes where it will.  Read my mind Winslow,
if you can.  Read my mind.

   Oh MY!  Yes, Winslow, yes, by all means enjoy my scent.  It must be
overwhelming down where you are, because I can smell it clear up here!

   Hear my thoughts, Winslow.  Do you hear them?  Am I hearing yours, or is
that just my wishful thinking?  Or is it your touch, on the inside of my
thighs?

   A taste?  Open my thighs?  Should I?  Could I?  Well yes, if you wish.

   Would I!

   His breath was so hot on my flesh!  He was inhaling my essence, his
fingers so gently parting my outer lips to release the perfume lurking in
the heart of my sex.

   Shame?  I have none.  Why should I?  I am here for the budding sculptors
in Henry's studio.  These are artists who otherwise might never have the
opportunity to fully realize their talents.  Something had happened to them
that warped or cut-off their connection with the world around them, just as
Henry's sight was denied him.  Henry refuses to let that impede his
exploration and expression of the environment, and he offers others with
similar problems the opportunity to establish a relationship that might
otherwise be denied them.  I am their gateway.

   Sure it's a tough job, but someone's got to do it!

   Someone was testing my right tit with lips, another my left with
fingertips, and when fingernails bit my aroused bud I could only gasp with
pleasure.  After all, they had to measure the resilience of my nipple, not
just the dimensions, so they could replicate it in their work.

   The stimulation set off a hot flow.  I felt my inner labia become more
engorged and weep more, lubricating the way for further exploration.

   Yes, there, Winslow!  Just there, that little pearl, so shyly peeping
from beneath its little rosy hood.  Feel its texture, yes you can use your
tongue if you wish.  Yes, like that, Winslow, just like that, and measure
it with your lips, see if by sucking on it you can get it to extend itself
for you!

   Behind me, someone was tracing the crevice between my muscular buttocks.


   Yes, they're muscular!  Even in the average human the gluteus maximus is
one of the strongest muscles in the human body, and truth demands that I
point out I am not average.  Together with the gluteus medious and the
gluteus minimus the whole package of gluteal muscles is the foundation for
my bicycle pedaling, my flutter-kicking, my walking, jogging, even
standing.

   It's not oversize -- oh my, no!  It is a lean, mean muscle machine.

   Yes, my butt cheeks are muscular.  But if I choose to relax them fingers
can invade my crack, sense the humidity there, the moisture of my sweat. 
And I did so choose, and the student back there accepted my invitation and
there -- oh yes -- that's it!  -- the crater lurking in the depths of the
valley.

   I mentally told him, or her, as you sculpt the image your mind conjures
up, remember that delicate pucker -- a rosebud, perhaps.  Probe it gently
so you know its depth, its crinkles, its heat, the hint of the dark world
it conceals.  Smell its earthy scent.  Taste -- OH YES -- taste it!  Ah
God!

   What's that, Winslow?  Why, yes, I suppose that what you have there in
your hand could be employed as sensory organ, and certainly sensations from
it should inform your sculpting.  But to use it as it should be employed
we'll have to beg the indulgence of your fellow artists, for I'll have to
further break my pose.  Whoever is at my ...  ah yes, you, Jason, sorry,
I'll provide further access, should you need it in the future.  Meanwhile,
perhaps Winslow will let you assist him in directing his insertion, his
manual dexterity being somewhat challenged.

   Yes, I know you're blind, Jason, but you can work by feel, I'm sure. 
Yes, it is hot in there, isn't it, and wet and slippery.  Ask yourself how
you will convey that in your sculpture.  Winslow and I do fit so neatly
together, don't we?  As if we were made for it -- well, yes, we were, of
course, and whether you believe it is the result of some Master Architect
or merely the outcome of the Darwinian workings of the universe, it is a
wonder.

   Ahh, it feels so good!  Yes, Winslow, deeper.  How deep?  As deep as you
wish.  Soooooo goooooood!  You fill me, Winslow, you really do.

   More students join in examining our union, more fingers exploring the
joining, feeling how snugly Winslow's probe fits my socket, slipping on the
juices, while someone else's hands on my face capture my ecstatic
expression, the lift of my brows, the gasp of my mouth, even the velvet of
my tongue as it moistened my lips.  There's warm breath on my face and I
know whoever it is has to be scenting the special musk I've been told my
breath takes on during sex.

   Oh, I'm going to come, Winslow.  No, don't stop, oh God don't stop! 
Oh-oh-oh!  Feel how my cunt embraces you, nurses on your cock.  Ah!  You're
shooting into me!  How your hot cream floods my pussy, your semen bathes my
cervix.  Ah Ah Ah

   Aahh.........

   Oh, it's going away.  Oh, I wish it could go on forever, too, Winslow,
but life doesn't work that way.  All good things must come to an end.

   Now, while the memory is still fresh in your mind, the clay, Winslow,
transfer all these wonderful sensations to the clay, record them there for
others to share when they look at and touch your special work.  Let my
juices on your fingers be incorporated and perhaps my perfume will linger
with it for some time to come.

   For now, just let me rest a bit while you work on your art.

   As if he heard my thoughts, he turned back and attacked his clay with
new determination and suddenly steady hands.

   I rest ...  and remember.

   * * *

   The morning after the SACNISP meeting, between periods, I was staking
out a hallway dominated by sophomores' lockers.  Well, not really staking
out but lingering -- it was on the way to my next class.  I was about as
unobtrusive as a telephone pole in a wheat field, of course.  However my
eye level was above probably 90% of the general populace, which should have
been an advantage.

   Only it wasn't.  I heard the attack rather than seeing it -- a girl's
scream, the distinctive clash and clatter of a locker being assaulted --
usually heard when two testosterone driven bulls were competing for mating
rights.  There was a flurry on the far side of the hall, a flash of white
close to the wall, but I was more concerned by the screaming and crying and
cursing as I bulled my way through the throng.

   Shit!  It was like wading through a flock of sheep to get to her.  From
the way she was carrying on -- whoever "she" was -- this sounded like the
worst assault yet.  On the way I grabbed one clueless dork and sent him for
the nurse, another for Mrs.  Devers, before I knelt down to wrap my arms
around the wailing girl, who was down on her knees, head half in her
locker, pawing through a litter of papers and books.  She was Naked in
School this week, of course, screaming and crying.

   All I could think as I tried to comfort her was that this had to be
stopped.  It had to be stopped now!