The Nudity Clause
by Megansdad
Copyright© 2026 by Megansdad
Drama Story: Young genius graduated with an MBA at the age of 18. She was offered a position with the McKensie Group with one unusual clause in her contract... total nudity while working on on McKensie property.
Tags: Nudism
Hi. I’m Erica Jenkins. I’m nineteen years old, 4’10”, and weigh exactly one hundred pounds naked. Blonde hair, violet eyes, and a light golden tan with no tan lines. I wear a 5½ shoe—more on that later.
I’m also the youngest MBA graduate my university has ever seen.
I’ve always been smarter than the people around me. That’s not arrogance, it’s just math. I skipped three grades between middle school and high school. By the time most people were figuring out who to take to prom, I was taking AP classes and college courses online.
I graduated at fifteen as valedictorian, wrapped in my gown, honor sash and gold cord, every visible marker of what I’d worked for.
The day of the ceremony finally arrived; I waited patiently in my seat on stage. When it was my turn to speak, I stood, straightened my back, and walked to the podium without hesitation. My speech was short. I hoped it got my point across.
“Each year graduates sit out there and are told empty platitudes about being the future of this generation. The truth is that you are the new generation entering the workforce, entering society. Some of you will get jobs with existing businesses. Some of you will start your own business. Unfortunately, some of you will fail to accomplish anything and will become a burden to others, to society.
“If we are to survive, to grow as a species, what we must have is balance. A balance between the status quo and necessary progression. The status quo without progress is a sure way to stagnation and stagnation is a sure way to extinction for our species. Progress that advances too quickly without the growth of human maturity will also lead to extinction. The only way we, as a species, can grow is to balance status quo and progress.
“I urge you to consider what role you want to take when you leave here today and head off to college. Consider whether you are studying what fits your interests and your innate talents, or what your parents are forcing you to study.
“This is the time to weigh the cost of parental control and family traditions against pursuing what aligns with your interests, your talents, and what makes you happy. Either choice can still contribute to the continuation and advancement of the human race.
“Are you a leader who can resist the pressure to conform to the status quo and tradition, or are you a sheep who will do as you are told? Now is the time to consider your potential and all of the future possibilities.
“Thank you.”
After I said ‘thank you’ I fell silent and waited. I was surprised that more than two-thousand people could be so quiet. Then just as I was about to step away from the podium saddened and disappointed, I was overwhelmed by the explosion of sound. I turned back and saw a standing ovation along with thunderous applause. I breathed a sigh of relief before I did something I rarely did ... I smiled. A big teeth-baring smile.
I include that here not because it was perfect, but because it was honest. It was the first time I said out loud what I believed without caring who disagreed.
The summer between the ceremony and leaving for college was filled with completing my online courses. Once completed and graded, I would officially begin my college career as a Junior instead of a freshman.
Unlike most people who start college at eighteen, I started at sixteen. Still being a minor, my mom moved with me, and together we settled into a comfortable two-bedroom apartment close to campus. She let me have the master bedroom with the en suite. She also knew I was comfortable with nudity, so she didn’t comment when I kept the same relaxed dress code in my new home that I’d grown up with.
When my classmates noticed I had perfect grades, I was invited to join a study group. We met three times a week, rotating who hosted and where. A couple of months into the semester, it was my turn to host.
I was already home when they arrived.
Mom answered the door. I stayed where I was, seated at the dining table surrounded by my laptop, books and notes. I heard the door open, voices greeting each other—and then a brief, unmistakable pause.
I looked up. Everyone had stopped just inside the doorway.
Mom smiled easily. “Shoes off, please. There’s a cubby by the door.”
They complied automatically, though a little stiffly. A few of them glanced in my direction and then very deliberately looked somewhere else. Not startled exactly, just caught off guard.
I didn’t move. “Hey,” I said, like this was any other afternoon.
“Hey,” someone replied, a beat too late.
One of the girls cleared her throat. “Uh ... hi, Erica.”
“Hi.”
There was a moment where no one seemed quite sure what to do next. They all knew how old I was. That fact alone seemed to make the situation awkward but firmly non-sexual, more like accidentally walking into the wrong room than anything else.
“I should have mentioned,” I said after a moment, “I don’t wear clothes at home.”
“Oh,” one of the guys said quickly. “Okay, I mean ... that’s fine. Just ... okay.”
Another girl nodded. “Yeah. That’s ... your home, your choice.”
“I can put something on if it makes anyone uncomfortable,” I added. “Just tell me.”
There was a brief exchange of glances. “No,” someone said. “It’s fine. Really.”
“Alright,” I said, and went back to my notes.
It took a few minutes for the tension to settle. Chairs scraped softly as they took seats, girls sat on each side of me, most likely protecting me from the guys. Books were opened. Pens clicked. Conversation resumed in careful starts and stops before smoothing out into something familiar.
Within ten minutes, we were arguing about economics. For me, nothing had changed.
Mom handled the cooking, the grocery shopping, and all the stuff I didn’t have time for while I pushed myself through eighteen months of back-to-back semesters and graduated with my bachelor’s in business at seventeen.
I have spent so much of my life studying, regular work, online work, and summer work that the last semester was torture. I was in limbo, so I chose to move back home rather than sit idle. It felt good to be back in familiar territory, not just in my home, the bedroom where I grew up, but firmly in my father’s embrace. Warm, familiar ... safe.
When he released me, I grabbed my suitcases from the car and carried them upstairs to my room. The first thing in the morning I contacted the Lindner College of Business at the university of Cincinnati to secure my enrollment in the MBA course.
My mom is in the kitchen, and I’m sitting at the dining room table when I dialed the number for the Lindner College of Business. It’s winter break, and for once my calendar has white space instead of color-coded blocks.
“Lindner College of Business, Registrar’s Office,” a woman answers.
“Hi,” I say. “My name is Erica Jenkins. I’m calling about enrolling in the MBA program.”
There’s a pause, followed by the soft sound of a keyboard.
“Erica Jenkins,” she repeats. “Yes. We were expecting you.”
I blink. “You were?”
“Yes,” she says calmly. “We were contacted by Carnegie Mellon University. Your academic records were forwarded to us.”
Another pause.
“You graduated summa cum laude,” she adds.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Congratulations. Based on your academic standing and recommendations, you’ve already been pre-accepted into our master’s degree program.”
I let that settle for half a second. “So ... what would the timeline look like?”
“Well,” she says, “since it’s currently winter break, you’re in a very good position. If you enroll now for the spring semester and continue straight through the summer term, you’d be able to graduate with the class next year—no gap semester.”
I exhale softly. That alone makes the call worth it.
“You wouldn’t have to wait the way you did between programs,” she continues. “Your coursework would be continuous.”
“That’s ideal,” I say. “Is there anything you need from me?”
“Yes,” she replies. “Because you’re still seventeen, we’ll need a parent or legal guardian’s signature in addition to yours.”
“My mother,” I say immediately. “She’s with me.”
“Perfect. In that case, rather than mailing documents back and forth, we’d recommend you both come in. You can sign everything in person, and we’ll give you a campus and facilities tour while you’re here.”
I glance toward the kitchen, where my mom is flipping through mail. “We can do that.”
“Excellent,” the registrar says. “I’ll schedule you for an in-person enrollment appointment. It won’t take long, and it will give you a chance to see where you’ll be spending the next year.”
“Alright,” I say. “When would you like us to come in?”
She gives me a date later that week.
“We’ll be expecting you, Ms. Jenkins,” she adds. “Once everything is signed, your place in the program will be officially secured.”
“Thank you,” I say.
When I hung up, my mom looked over. “Well?”
“They want us to drive in,” I tell her. “Sign paperwork. Take a tour.”
She smiles. “Sounds serious.”
“It is,” I say. “I won’t have to wait this time.”
My classes started during the third week of January. By then, my paperwork was already filed my schedule approved, and my name was on the roster.
We drove to the campus a few days later. The roads were clear, winter-gray, and familiar. I watched buildings pass and mentally cataloged what matters—distance, layout, efficiency. I felt something else too, a low, steady anticipation, but I kept it contained. I’ve learned to do that. Intelligence has a way of teaching you how to manage reactions, so people don’t mistake them for weakness.
The tour of the Lindner College of Business was efficient and thorough. Classrooms. Study spaces. Administrative offices. Nothing surprised me, but everything clicks into place. This is where the next year of my life happened. I signed my name. My mother signed hers. It’s official.
On the drive home, I catch my reflection in the window and realize I’m smiling.
Not consciously. Just ... there.
My mom noticed it too. She glanced over at me at a stoplight. “You’re happy,” she said, like she’s confirming something fragile.
“I am,” I admit.
She doesn’t say anything else, but the way her shoulders relax told me it mattered to her more than she let on.
Spring semester started quietly. I settled into a rhythm. Classes, projects, deadlines. I joined another study group—competent people this time, focused, driven. We met on campus or near it. I never invited them over. The drive is inconvenient, I told myself. Easier to stay close. It’s true, but not the whole truth.
Time compressed the way it always does when I’m busy. Weeks blurred into months. Papers turned into presentations. Professors start to recognize me before I speak. Administrators learned my name.
I submitted my capstone to my advisor two weeks before the deadline. I don’t make a show of it. I never do.
She read it faster than I expected. Faster than most people read email. She looked up from her screen and removed her glasses.
“Erica,” she says, carefully, “this is exceptional.”
I nodded once. “Thank you.”
“I don’t mean good for a student,” she continued. “I mean this is one of the most advanced proposals I’ve seen come out of this program. Ever.”
That makes me pause, a feeling of pride swelling in my chest. I kept my face neutral ... barely.
She turned her monitor slightly so I could see her notes. Margins full. Highlighted sections. Not corrections—extensions.
“This isn’t just academic,” she said. “It’s implementable. You’ve identified a real market gap and addressed it with a solution that’s scalable and defensible.”
“I wanted it to work outside a classroom,” I said.
“It does,” she replies. “Which is why I’d like to help you get it published.”
I looked at her then. Really looked. “Published?” I asked.
“Yes,” she said, already nodding. “With some refinement, this could go to a peer-reviewed business journal. Possibly more than one. I’ll sponsor it.”
I processed that quietly. I didn’t smile. I didn’t thank her twice. I just absorbed it.
“There’s no guarantee on timing,” she added. “Publications take months. Reviews. Revisions.”
“That’s fine,” I said. “I wasn’t expecting it to be fast.”
She studied me for a moment. “You weren’t expecting it at all.”
“No,” I admitted.
She smiled at that. Not indulgently. Respectfully.
“Graduate first,” she said, almost to herself. “MBA at eighteen ... and now this.”
I stood. “I’ll make the revisions you recommended.”
“I know you will,” she said. “We’ll talk details after graduation.”
I left her office with the same composure I entered with, but I made a mental note not to mention it to anyone yet. Some things are better as surprises.
The weeks that followed my meeting with Professor Adler were filled with revisions and emails. Minor adjustments. Clarifications. Strengthening language that didn’t need embellishment but benefited from precision.
Two weeks after the assignment deadline, I received one final message from her.
Erica,
The manuscript has been submitted for peer review. At this point, it’s simply a waiting game.
—A.
I read it once. Then again.
“Thank you, Professor,” I replied.
She warned me not to expect anything quickly. Peer review takes time. Months, sometimes longer. If it was accepted, publication would likely be the following spring. I logged that away and moved on. There was nothing else for me to do.
A few days later, a new email appeared in my university inbox. It wasn’t from my advisor. It was from the Chancellor’s office.
The message was brief and formal. I was requested to attend a meeting later that week. The reason was listed plainly: the Chancellor wished to introduce me to one of the university’s major donors. The Board of Regents would also be present.
I understood immediately what that meant. I was the example. The proof of concept. The unusually young graduate they could point to and say this is what our institution produces. I didn’t resent it. I just didn’t personalize it.
On the day of the meeting, I dressed conservatively and arrived early. The Board of Regents was already seated when I arrived. They weren’t distant, exactly—just observant. The kind of attention that weighs and measures rather than welcomes.
One of them spoke first. “How did you manage the workload and the level of maturity required for a graduate program at your age?”
I considered the phrasing before answering. “My mind is always active,” I said. “It doesn’t disengage easily. I sleep about four hours a night, not because I push myself, but because that’s when my thoughts restart. It’s always been that way.”
A few of them noted that.
“As for maturity,” I continued, “intellect accelerates perspective. When you process information quickly, consequences become clearer sooner. That tends to compress emotional development. I didn’t feel behind academically. Socially, I learned to observe before reacting.” That answer seemed to satisfy them.
Another Regent followed. “What support systems were in place?”
“My mother,” I said immediately. “Because I was a minor, a parent was required to accompany me. She handled stability and logistics, which allowed me to focus on my work.”
I paused briefly before adding, “The university was also accommodating. My age was unusual, and that novelty translated into flexibility when it mattered.” There were nods. One of them smiled, just slightly.
The Chancellor leaned forward. “Do you plan to continue in academia, or move into industry?”
“Industry,” I said. “Education and intellect are incentives, but they don’t replace experience. I don’t expect exemptions from that.” I kept my hands still in my lap. “I’ll still have to start at the bottom. I’m hoping for a paid internship or an entry-level position—somewhere theory meets reality.” That answer landed cleanly. No follow-up questions. Just quiet consideration.
The final question came from a Regent who had been silent until then. “Would you be open to mentoring or increased visibility?”
“Mentoring isn’t off the table,” I said carefully, “but it isn’t a short-term goal. I don’t believe in teaching before I’ve done enough to be worth listening to.”
A few pens paused.
“Visibility, however, is necessary,” I continued. “If I’m going to meet the right people and build a name, I need to be seen. One of my long-term goals is to become the youngest CEO in my field.”
That earned their full attention. Not surprise. Recognition. I was aware, in that moment, that I was being evaluated not as a student, but as a future asset.
When they ran out of questions they stood to leave. I stood with them and shook their hands as they filed past me to the door.
Then the door opened. The donor was the last to arrive, and the room subtly reorganized itself.
That was when I met Jacob McKensie.
He shook my hand. Firm grip. Direct eye contact. I remember thinking he looked exactly like someone who owned the world—and knew it.
The meeting started with small talk, polite and brief, before shifting seamlessly into business. He asked about my background, then moved on to hypothetical scenarios. Not textbook questions, edge cases. Situations where there wasn’t a correct answer, only trade-offs.
Some of them felt more like puzzles than interviews. I answered directly. I didn’t soften my conclusions or hedge for approval. When a solution carried risk, I said so. When it required authority to execute, I acknowledged that too.
He didn’t smile often, but when I challenged one of his assumptions instead of agreeing with it, his eyes sharpened slightly. I took that as a good sign.
At the end of the meeting, he stood and straightened his jacket. “Join me for dinner,” he said, like it was a continuation of the conversation rather than an invitation.
I told him I didn’t have a dress for the place he mentioned. It wasn’t a complaint. Just a statement of fact. My wardrobe was functional. Class-appropriate. Presentation-ready. It didn’t include anything that required reservations.
He didn’t blink. “We’ll fix that,” he said simply.
He stood, already reaching for his phone, and ten minutes later I was sitting in the back of his limo, watching the city slide past tinted glass. The interior was quiet, insulated from traffic and noise. Leather seats. Subtle lighting. No unnecessary ornamentation. Everything about it suggested efficiency wrapped in expense.
We stopped in front of a boutique downtown where I’d walked past dozens of times without ever considering entering. The lights were on, but the door was locked. Mr. McKensie stepped out first. Someone was already waiting. The door opened immediately.
Inside, the space was hushed and immaculate. No racks. No clutter. Just mannequins dressed in perfectly fitted garments and mirrors positioned with deliberate precision. This wasn’t a store. It was a workshop that happened to accept clients.
A woman emerged from the back. She was in her late twenties, maybe older. Short dark brown hair. Measuring tape already looped around her neck. Her eyes were sharp, quick, and entirely uninterested in ceremony.
“Mr. McKensie,” she said. “You’re early.”
“Ruth,” he replied. “This is Erica.”
She looked at me once. Not rudely. Thoroughly. Then she nodded. “Good proportions,” she said. “Alright. Off.”
Jacob was already standing. “I’ll give you some privacy,” he said, matter-of-factly, and stepped back toward the front of the boutique. The door opened, then closed.
Ruth didn’t wait. “Shoes first,” she said, gesturing. I slipped out of my black polished flats and sat them beside me.
Ruth watched, not critically, just tentatively. “Efficient,” she murmured.
I removed my jacket and hung it on a hanger Ruth handed to me. She took it from me, and I moved to my blouse, working from the top down, sliding it off my shoulders, folding it neatly and placing it on top of my shoes. Then I reached behind me, unclasped my bra, and added it to the pile; neatly folded, straps hidden.
My knee-length skirt came next, and I stepped out of it carefully, followed by my underwear, keeping everything organized without really thinking about it.
Ruth raised an eyebrow. “You always that tidy when you undress?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said simply. “I like order. I only accept chaos when dropping them in the clothes basket.”
“Hm.”
She circled me once, tape already in hand.
“What were you wearing before you came in?” she asked.
“What I was wearing when I came in,” I replied. “I was away from home when I was summoned to the chancellor’s office to meet the Board of Regents and a donor. I wasn’t given time to be better prepared and chose a more appropriate outfit.”
“Practical,” she said. Not what I’d expect for dinner at a five-star restaurant.”
“I wasn’t dressed for dinner,” I said. “I was dressed casually for personal downtime.”
That made her pause. She looked at me more directly then. “Explain.”
“As part of my education, I was required to have some real-world experience. I worked with small to mid-sized corporations to observe at first, then gradually I was allowed to participate by assisting with research. During my master’s program I was asked to give the presentations. That’s when I started keeping business suits available. One in my advisor’s office. One in my mom’s car. You get the idea.
“I don’t wear makeup, so I just had to do something with my hair. I always wear comfortable clothes to school that would be easy to remove when I had to change.”
She studied me for a moment, then nodded slowly. “Modular wardrobe, and dispersed stashes,” she said. “Smart.”
“I don’t like being unprepared,” I replied.
She moved closer and began measuring, tape sliding lightly across my shoulders, down my arms, around my waist, my hips, my chest.
“Most girls your age dress for attention,” she said. “Or rebellion. Or confusion.”
“I don’t,” I said.
“No,” she said. “You dress for outcomes.” I absorbed that without comment. I just stood still arms out from my sides as she continued to measure me.
Chin up,” she added. “Shoulders back. Good.”
Ruth studied her notes for a moment, then moved to a cabinet along the wall. “Turn slightly,” she said.
I did.
She lifted something from a drawer and stepped back toward me. It was a leather collar; simple, narrow, finished with a discreet metal clasp. “This is part of the design,” she said. “It carries the weight of the top.”
“Alright,” I replied.
She positioned it around my neck, adjusted it once, and fastened it. Click The sound was soft but distinct.
“Comfortable?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Good.”
She crossed the room and returned holding a folded garment. She lowered it. “Step in.”
I did.
The fabric pooled loosely around my ankles. From this close, I could see the structure: two long panels forming the skirt, and above them, two triangular pieces attached to the sides of the collar.
“This was made for another client,” Ruth said. “Five-ten. She canceled.”
She crouched briefly, assessing proportions. “Too tall. Too wide, but workable.
She guided the panels into position, wrapping the upper edges around my hips and fastened them temporarily, leaving me topless.
“Up on your toes.”
I rose.
She slid three-inch wooden blocks beneath my heels, positioning them carefully until my stance mimicked wearing heels.
“Stand still.”
I did.
Ruth raised the top panels and aligned the small magnets embedded in their tips with the sides of the collar. They clicked softly into place. The dress settled. It was backless. Minimal. It was structured entirely around the collar and my frame. I could see that the dress was made to display the body.
Ruth stepped back and evaluated me. “Good,” she murmured. “The concept works.”
She moved in again, gently separating the skirt panels. “These will be shortened,” she said, “and narrowed. The waist needs reshaping. The hip line needs redefining.”
She pinned and marked the fabric with small tags instead of chalk, making notes as she worked. “This will be rebuilt to your proportions,” she continued. “Not altered. Rebuilt.”
I nodded. “That’s fine.”
“It should be,” she replied. “It’s the only way it will fit you properly.” She stepped away at last. “Stay there,” she added. “I’m drafting the new pattern.”
Ruth finished her notes and stepped back, studying her work one last time. “Good,” she said quietly.
She moved in again, pulling the magnets free from the collar, Ruth gently lowered the dress. Erica stepped out of it. Ruth lifted it and gently lay it on a worktable emphasizing how fragile it was in its current condition.
Satisfied, she returned to me. “Hold still,” she said. She reached up, released the clasp at the back of my neck, and removed the collar. The leather slid free without ceremony.
“Alright,” she said. “You can get dressed.”
I nodded and stepped off the wooden blocks. She turned away, already focused on her notes again. It wasn’t uncomfortable. It wasn’t embarrassing. It was work. It was also how I ended up wearing a leather collar around my neck for the first time. I stayed where she placed me and did exactly what she told me.
At the time, I thought it was just part of the design, a structural element for a halter, backless with two panels that barely covered my breasts. The collar was just a fastener. A practical solution ... or so I thought.
After Ruth finished securing her notes and packing away her tools, she reached into the drawer of her worktable and pulled out a folded bill.
She handed it to me.
“Taxi’s on me,” she said. “I already called.”
I glanced at it. “You didn’t have to—”
“I know,” she replied. “Take it anyway.”
I did.
By the time I reached home, the afternoon had settled into a quiet lull. My mom was in the living room, reading. I told her everything had gone well, went to my room, and spent the next few hours doing exactly what I always did when I needed to reset.
I worked.
I read.
I reorganized my schedule for the week.
Nothing dramatic. A little before it was time to get ready, I showered. That was when my mom became unusually animated.
“Oh no,” she said, leaning against the bathroom doorway. “You are not doing your hair by yourself tonight.”
“I always do my hair by myself,” I replied.
“And tonight,” she said firmly, “you’re letting me help.”
I didn’t argue.
She brushed and arranged it carefully, hands gentle, expression focused in a way that reminded me of when she used to help me get ready for school presentations years ago.
“You look beautiful,” she said when she finished.
“Thank you,” I replied.
She looked happier than I did. Right on time, headlights swept across the front window.
“The limo’s here,” she said, unnecessarily.
I covered my bare shoulders with the wrap Ruth provided with the dress, grabbed the clutch also provided by Ruth, and headed for the door. Outside, the driver was already waiting. He opened the rear door.
I turned slightly, lowered myself into the seat with my knees together, gathered the long skirt panels carefully, and rotated inside, bringing my feet in last. It was practiced. Controlled. Efficient. The door closed behind me. A moment later, the car eased into motion.
The interior was quiet, softly lit. The leather seats were cool against my back, smooth and unbroken. Without fabric between us, I was more aware of the texture than I normally would have been. I noticed it clinically.
The dress didn’t require undergarments. No straps. No seams. No pressure points. No bra. No underwear. Nothing to interfere with the lines Ruth had built into it. It made sense. Still, it was unusual. I adjusted slightly and rested my hands in my lap.
Jacob sat across from me, watching with an expression that was thoughtful rather than evaluative. “You look beautiful,” he said after a moment. “And the dress suits you.”
“Thank you,” I replied. “Ruth is very precise.”
“She is,” he agreed. “It shows.”
We rode in silence for a few blocks before his gaze dropped briefly to my feet.
“Those are interesting,” he said. “Your shoes. There aren’t any straps.”
“No,” I said.
“How do they stay on?”
“Adhesive,” I replied. “Water-soluble spray. Medical grade.”
He looked at me. “You’re serious.”
“Yes.”
“And that works?”
“Very well,” I said. “Unless it rains. Then I wear regular heels.”
He nodded slowly. “You design everything you use, don’t you?”
“Only the things that matter,” I answered.
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