Chapter 4: Monday, Evening

This story is fiction. Actually, the setting of an artificial world in Space and the year being 2109 should have been enough to clue you in about that.

I don't care how old are. I don't care how young you are. However, the law does care, so if you are too young, go away (or at least try not to get caught).

If this story is against the law where you live, then like the young folk, go away. Or at least...

Anzu James: Naked in Orbit, Part 04 (Monday, Evening)
by Coach Michaels

(zero-G sports, m-solo, ache, interr AfBf, f-solo)

Spoccer takes place in weightlessness, which means a trip to the spin axis. To get to the spin axis I had to get out of the school building, and so I headed for the bike racks. Along the way I got a couple of Reasonable Requests, and a couple not so reasonable. Did they not know that touching wouldn't start until tomorrow, or were they just hoping I didn't know?

When I got to the racks, several of the other girls were there already. I wasn't looking forward to this bike ride, but there was no way out of it. We always rode our bikes up to the spin axis, which Coach Carrick considered a good warm-up. I was hoping to hang behind the pack, because for part of the ride I had to stand up and lean forward, and that was going to be one hell of a beaver shot for anybody behind me. OK, they were all girls, but still.

"OK girls," Coach greeted us, "protective gear."

I put on my helmet, knee pads, and elbow pads: the only clothing aside from shoes and socks I would be allowed for the ride or the practice.

"Mount up!"

We did so, and then the coach singled me out.

"Anzu James, you ride right behind me." She must have seen it in my face, because she added, "Yes, I know. But the girls have all seen you in the showers anyway, and this actually shields you a little from anybody else who happens to be out and about."

I hadn't thought of that. I nodded. Coach Carrick is a decent type. She cares about her girls, and she really cares about spoccer. She was Rookie of the Year her first season in the semi-pro league, and the injury that took her out of the game two years later made her careful with us, lest we suffer the same fate.

I'm going to go ahead and describe this bike ride, because it's a little bit different than the one this morning, and a lot different than what goes on in your time on Earth.

When I rode to school this morning, I was riding east. Oo, directions...

OK. My habitat spins to provide simulated gravity. We've already gone over that. Now, the direction of spin is called "east" and the opposite direction is called "west." This is the same as on Earth. Now, on Earth, if you are facing north then east is to your right and west is to your left. So here, we designate as "north" the direction you have to face in order to have west to your left and east to your right. You can ride to the east or the west all day and never gain or lose any altitude.

So this morning I rode towards the east in order to get to school. I was riding in the same direction as the habitat is spinning. Now, what this means is that my twenty-five KmPH or so was added to the habitat's speed, which means that I was rotating a little bit faster than the habitat in general. Thus, my weight increased a tiny bit. If I'd been riding to the west, it would have gone down a tiny bit. In truth, it's too little to notice.

But now I was riding north, at right angles to the rotation, and I was gaining altitude. This caused something called Coriolis to come into play. I'm not going to try to go into exactly what that is, but will say that it causes people in a rotating environment (you know, like me?) to feel a force pressing one to the west when riding uphill and to the east when riding downhill. From my point of view, it seems as if my whole world tilts just a bit. The faster I gain or lose altitude, the more the habitat seems to tilt. It isn't really tilting, and it doesn't seem to tilt for those not gaining or losing altitude.

Now, since I was going due north and uphill, this means that I was being tilted by Coriolis to the left, and had to tilt right to compensate. It isn't a large effect, and everybody learns to deal with it before school age. I've heard of people from here going to Earth, getting on a bike, and falling over because they lean when going up or down a hill.

So what you would have seen is nineteen high school girls (one of them naked except for shoes and protective gear) and a woman of about thirty riding in a straight line uphill and all of us leaning to the right, in the same way that you would lean if making a right turn. It would look a bit weird to you, but not to us. Of course, to us it seemed we were riding upright and everything else was leaning.

I was really glad that I already had this tilting/leaning stuff down since about five, because I really wasn't paying much attention to the bike ride. I'd made this trip so many times I could do it in my sleep. No, I was noticing every person who was along the trail, every person who watched us ride by. Every person, in other words, who got a look at naked me. There were a few whistles, and a few "WOO!" I just pretended my face wasn't burning and pedaled on.

As we rode higher, the going got steeper, but we also got lighter, so it wasn't particularly difficult. When we reached a certain point our weight was only half of what it was before, and several metal-lined grooves appeared on either side of the bicycle trail. These tracks were just a bit wider than our tires, and there were several side by side to the right, and several more side by side to the left. I steered into one of them, and with a little titty-jiggling bump settled into the bike track. These tracks are lined with what are essentially gear teeth, which interact with similar teeth on the sides of our tires. This gives us traction as the trail approaches vertical.

This is where I had to stand up and lean forward, as well as to the right. We all did, because as our bikes get closer to vertical we would overbalance backwards if we didn't do the whole stand-and-lean thing. This too is a skill we learn at about six, and I did it automatically. Usually I don't even think about it, but this time, as I leaned way out over the handlebars, I was very aware of the fact that whoever was right behind could pretty much look up inside of me. Hope she liked the view.

Finally we got to the point where even leaning, gear teeth, and weight decreases couldn't make bicycling practical. This was about fifteen percent G, and we were almost straight up vertical. Sure enough, there was a terrace with a bike rack. I dismounted on the fly, like always. Again, I've done it so many times that it's automatic. This time, though, I was suddenly aware of just how much it makes me jiggle, and of how far apart I have to splay my legs on landing to do it right. For the first time in years, I actually stumbled.

"You OK, James?" Coach Carrick asked.

"Yeah," I answered as I locked my bike in the rack, "What I get for trying to be modest while in the Program."

She chuckled at that, and so did some of the girls.

"I think," she grinned, "that you can pretty much forget about modesty for the rest of the week."

We bounded the rest of the way up to the axis, where we entered the Adam P. Rubenstein Zero-G Sports Complex. This complex is outside the habitat proper, but connected in such a way that one never has to be in the vacuum to get from the inside of the habitat into the Complex. The Complex itself is five hundred metres in diameter, and spherical. There is a tetraball court, with its four triangular faces, and the spherical z-golo court, as well as the cylindrical spoccer court and the orugball court, which is shaped sort of like an American or Australian football. The donut-shaped toroidial hockey court was torn down for maintenance, and the barrel pool was drained of water and still, instead of rotating like it usually is. I hoped it would be running again soon. I love low-G swimming.

Adam P. Rubinstein was one of the first zero-G sports stars. While he was never a superstar talent like, who would be from your time? a Nolan Ryan, Svetlana Khorkina or Michael Jordan, he was a consistently above-average player in both spoccer and tetraball (and how anybody can be good at both is beyond me). He also interviewed well, which means he got a lot of screen time. The reason high school sports facilities are named after him is because, during a promotional tour on Earth, he lost his own life while saving nine people from a collapse at, you guessed it, a high school. A tornado ripped through the town and destroyed the school, but because of Rubinstein the death toll was seven, instead of sixteen. I can't imagine what it must be like to have to live with the threat of weather like that.

"OK girls," the coach told us, "you've got five minutes to come out of the lockers dressed for some serious spoccer."

She looked at me and added, "Except for you, James. You have to change in the boys' locker room."

I'd've fallen down if we weren't in weightlessness. I'd forgotten that requirement. Girls in the Program had to use the boys' locker room, and Program boys change with the girls. We'd actually had a boy in our locker room about a month ago, but I'd avoided him as much as possible. I had sneaked a peek or two, but I sure didn't want to be naked in front of him. I wondered if he might be using the boys' locker room right now.

"Are ... are there any boys in there?" I really wasn't looking forward to this.

"'Fraid so," she told me. "The orugball team has practice the same time we do."

Great. A bunch of testosterone-oozing orugball players. OK, OK; I know it takes talent to play the game well, but I've always thought of orugball as a bump-and-thump game watched by armchair barbarian wannabes who just like to see people slam into each other.

"You know," I started, still hoping to get out of this, "I really don't have any changing to do. I'm already wearing my pads and helmet, and we always change shoes right at the court. I don't have any school clothes to take off or any uniform to..."

"Yes, yes," she interrupted me, "but rules are rules, so you get into that locker room and let them look at you for five minutes, then come out and change shoes like you always do. And remember," she added, "they're only getting to look at one of you; you get to look at a dozen or so of them."

And a dozen or so of them were going to be looking at me! But there was nothing for it, so I reminded myself that the Program is a good thing and floated my naked self right into the boys' locker room.

Sure enough, there were fifteen guys in various states of undress, and they all stopped to stare at me. I stopped cold, took a deep breath, and thought to myself: "You look like an angel; you look like an angel." Then I floated into the middle of the room and just hovered there.

"Wow!" one guy shouted, "Too bad she ain't in the game!"

"Hell yeah," another added, "I'd sure rather tackle her than you, Marshall."

Yet another one chimed in with, "Man, I'm gettin' harder n' my armor!"

I rolled my eyes over that one. I also took a look. Couldn't help it. Yep, he was hard as a rock. Actually, there were several rock-cocks pointed at me. I could feel myself juicing up. These guys were hard because of me. Without even doing anything, I was turning on nearly a score of guys. I almost felt like asking for relief.

A guy encased in armor from the chest up glided forward just then. He was nude below that, and his prong was at full salute.

"I know we can't touch you," he said, and his voice sounded familiar, "but why don't you touch yourself a little?"

That sounded like a good idea, and for a moment I considered it. Yeah, you heard me: I actually considered jilling myself in front of fifteen guys. I was that worked up. It's not just that stiff cocks look good (which they do); it's knowing you can do that to a guy.

But it was just too much. Besides, I'd be getting all the "relief" I needed from Botilda later.

"Sorry guys," I told them, "but that's more than I'm willing to do." There were some disappointed noises, so I added, "I can still display and pose and such, jiggle back and forth, that sort of thing. Oh, and I'll be in here taking my shower when practice is over, so you'll see me rubbing myself with soap and stuff."

That seemed to satisfy them, and besides, all the time we'd been talking, they were putting on their armor. For the first time in my life I wished that I played orugball; the protective equipment covered everything from scalp to toenails. It was starting to look like I was surrounded 22^nd Century knights.

They did have me rotate and jiggle and open my legs. It was strange: I didn't really want to display, but if I had to, I wanted to do it in a really fun and sexy way. So I made sure to smile and spin so that nobody would miss anything and grab my feet and spread just as much as I could. They all seemed to like the show, at least. Soon the five minutes were up and we flew out of the locker room, an utterly exposed girl surrounded by boys in gleaming, all-concealing armor.

I touched down next to the spoccer court, while the boys glided into the orugball court next to it. I wasn't the last girl to arrive, but I was almost the last. This was good; I didn't want anybody to think I was shirking my locker room time. Soon we were changing shoes. It was important that we do this right at the court, because spoccer shoes have suction cups on them. Wearing them away from the court could damage or soil the cups, and wearing our regular shoes inside the court could soil the court itself.

OK, I promised to describe spoccer, and now is the time. Take a soccer field of your Earthly experience, and shrink it down to fifty metres long and twenty-five metres wide. Got that? OK, now roll it up into a cylinder, so that it's still fifty metres long but is now only eight metres in diameter. It's still twenty-five in circumference, though, so it's just as far to run with those suction cup shoes as it would be to run twenty-five metres flat on Earth. The court itself (we call it a court instead of a field, because it's enclosed) is transparent and very smooth. The markings are in semi-transparent grey, and a variety of materials have been used. These days, sapphire is very popular. A few of the markings are slightly different, and some of the rules have been modified (there are no corner kicks because there are no corners). But if you can follow a game of good old fashioned Earth soccer, it wouldn't take you long to learn how to watch spoccer.

Oh, and surrounding this transparent court is another cylinder of bleachers, so that spectators can watch games. And practices. Like the thirty or so people, of both sexes and all ages, who were there today. Now, imagine me standing on the inside of the court with my suction cups, and some spectator five metres away looking "up" at me. Yeah. Those orugball players hadn't gotten a much better view than that.

But stand inside I did. I'm a midfielder (and I just thought: why haven't we changed that to "midcourt?"), and I can't do my job if I'm not in there. So after I took up my standard position, Coach Carrick floated in front of us and started telling us what we weren't good at. She mentioned what we were good at, and then went into detail about our weaknesses. This makes sense, since we don't need as much work at what we're already good at.

"Smithton," she'd bark, "your kicks are very accurate, IF you can get in front of the ball. But that's your problem: too much of the time you can't get close enough to do anything. No amount of kicking skill matters if there's nothing to kick. This is because you constantly misjudge your speed of launch, and either zip past the ball too early, or you get there after it's already sailed by. We're going to work on that today."

"James," and I knew what was coming, "you're the other way around. You find your way to the ball when it seems like you shouldn't be able to. This makes you great at blocking shots. But a midfielder can't just block shots; a midfielder has to move the ball downfield. You're not so strong there. And you know why you can't move the ball downfield?"

Yes, I knew.

"You can't move the ball downfield because you can't control your position during flight. When you're just blocking, it doesn't matter if you stop the ball with your instep or the back of your head, as long as it isn't your arms and the ball stops. But to move the thing downfield you have to be in a position to kick. We're going to work on that today."

And so it went on down the line. I knew my body positioning sucked. It hadn't mattered so much last year, when I'd played a different position. My switch to midfielder made it matter a lot. The reason I was so good at getting to the ball was that I could always gauge just how fast to push off of the surface of the court. I was very good at getting it just right, so that no matter which way the ball was coming, at whatever angle or speed, I was there to meet it. I wasn't the best on the entire team at this, but close.

Problem was, I'd find myself rotating a little, sometimes in more than one direction. And it always seemed to be just the wrong direction and the wrong speed to put my foot on the ball. It was as likely to hit my butt as anywhere else, and I was seldom lined up just right for a kick. On the rare occasions where I was, purely by accident, I was pretty accurate, though not as good as Sally Smithton.

I have this exact same problem in veegeewushu. I seem to be just fine with body position in anywhere from 1.5 G to about 0.05 G, but anything below that and I have this same can't-get-into-position problem. It's the reason I haven't gotten my black belt yet.

The coach had Sally do several kicks with a ball just hanging there, four metres in front of her, then hanging at different distances and angles, then a slow-moving ball. Each three times in a row she managed to kick it, she could move on to the next stage. Each three times she missed (even if not in a row), she had to start over one stage behind.

Tifa practiced catching, as she is our goalie. She even had two girls kicking at her, and part of the test was to decide which ball she should try to block. I'm not sure how useful that is, considering that in a real game you only have one ball in play at any time. Still, I guess Coach Carrick knows her business.

Several other girls were practicing everything from kicking at goal to landing.

I got gymnastics lessons. Well, not exactly, but Coach had me launch off the surface with a little spin, a lot of spin, as little spin as possible. Then she had me pull into a tuck, or fling my arms out to the side, or fold up in a fetal position while swinging one arm like a propeller, and in other ways tried to turn me into a master of angular momentum.

I was so into perfecting my game that I didn't notice the display I was making until some kid started shouting "WOOO!!" every time he got a look at my pussy. Then I was distracted, and we all know how that screws up your game. I was all too aware of the fact that this positioning practice was putting me on glorious display to the spectators, any body part they wanted in any view. The boy wasn't any older than Steve, maybe younger. It seemed somehow indecent to be doing deep squats right over the kid's face. I wondered why Coach Carrick had me use the part of the court where he was sitting, but then I realized that the brat had moved for a better view. About the sixth time he let out with one of those "WOOO!!" the coach had had enough.

"Young man," she told him, "you are distracting my midfielder and making it difficult for her to perfect her playing. Behave yourself or you will have to leave."

He wasn't backing down that easy. "She's a Program girl. We're supposed to look at her."

"You can look at her all you want. I won't have her move, and you can stare and drool and pant to your heart's content. Consider it a Reasonable Request. Considered it granted. But if you don't behave yourself, then I'll have you removed. You got that?"

He mumbled something, and several of the girls giggled.

"I hope that was a 'yes, '" Coach told him. Then sure enough, she had me go right back to practice, right over his face, with him looking right at my hair and lips and pink parts. But he was quiet, so at least that helped. Before long, I was able to MOSTLY concentrate on my practice. I can't say that I really improved my positioning, but I feel like maybe I understand better what I'm doing wrong.

We continued like that for the whole practice. We didn't actually run any plays, but this was expected, because Coach Carrick has been telling us that we are going to work on basics. I hope we get back to actual plays before June, when we start actual competition.

When we were done, Coach called us together.

"I saw some improvement out there," she started, "but you girls still need lots of work. Still, I think we just might be ready when the season starts. James," and she looked right at me, causing me to wonder what was up. "I forgot to ask if you required relief."

I gasped. I had not been expecting that. Still, spoccer was a school activity, a "class" of sorts, with Coach Carrick as the teacher. So I shouldn't have been surprised that she asked me the same question as every other teacher had.

And the truth was, I did need relief. I'd been needing it since we started that bike ride, where somehow being out and feeling both the sun and the wind on my flesh and knowing I was on full display to all of Mendocino ... I'm getting hot just typing it. And then the locker room, with all those stiff-prick guys...

Oh my God. I was going to be going BACK into that locker room! I could feel myself juicing up. I bit my lip to keep from bending over. So this is what it's like to have balls, when they're blue.

"You could request relief now," Coach Carrick continued, "or even ask the young men in the locker room if any of them want to volunteer."

I bit my lip so hard I nearly pierced it. My fists were clenched tight as I forced myself to take deep breaths.

"I ... I ... I'm fine," I managed to grind out.

Coach looked worried. "You don't sound fine. And you don't look fine. Are you..."

"No, I'm fine," I sounded a little more normal. "I do need relief, Coach, but I can survive until I get home."

"OK then," she said, still looking worried, "as long as you're sure." She glanced us over. "OK, girls, hit the showers!"

Just before I entered the boys' locker room, I saw two things. One was Nick Gordon, the star second backfielder for O'Neill's orugball team, going in ahead of me. He had removed his helmet already, and I thought I saw him wink at me. He was a real stud, or so the girls said. The other thing I saw was Botilda, waiting for me. She must have ridden like a demon to get here so soon. She waved at me and I waved at her. Then I floated into the boys' locker room and started to "undress."

It didn't take long to remove my knee pads and such. I was in the shower before any of them, even though some of them had gotten in before I did. I guess I should explain how the zero-G shower works, even though that's not what I was thinking about.

The showers are framework boxes, like cages, one metre by one metre by two and a half metres tall. The bars that make up this cage have small holes which can either spray mist or suck air. Water comes at you from various directions, and is vacuumed up on the opposite side of the cage. Just like with laundry, there is an initial rinse cycle, then you take the liquid soap off of the hook and lather up. After that, there is another rinse cycle. If you think you need it, you can lather up and rinse a second time. Usually I use the first cycle to wash my body and the second my hair. I closed my eyes so that I could just wash myself and not watch guys stripping.

"Think you missed a spot," I heard somebody call while I was soaping up my body. I turned to see that it was Nick Gordon. He was sporting the biggest erection I'd seen yet, even on other Program boys. I must have been pretty blatant, because several guys laughed.

"I missed a spot too," he grinned, and started stroking that big cock, right in front of me. I just stared, like I was hypnotized or something. I felt my ache grow, and while I grasped the bars of my cage, my knees bent and I raised my legs, curling around myself. I wasn't just horny; I actually hurt. But I couldn't stop watching, couldn't tear my eyes away.

He had soap on his hand, and as he stroke stroke stroked small blobs of suds would float off, quivering as they floated past the bars of his cage and glided off for parts unknown. One of the globules actually splatted against me, and I felt a jolt of energy rush through me. I almost came about the same time he did. I would have, too, if I'd touched myself in the right place. His cum floated slowly past my cage, and I could have caught it if I'd been willing to stretch a little. The fact that I even thought about it was a little out of character for me.

"Your turn," he teased.

I closed my eyes and bit my lip. Everybody was laughing, but I couldn't bring myself off in front of these guys. I just couldn't stand the idea of it. But I had to wash, and the state I was in that might be enough to do the job. I started to rub the soap into my body and sure enough, I could feel myself starting to climb Mount Climax. It's a summit I've been to many times, both alone and with Botilda. I knew the territory, and the surroundings were looking very familiar right now.

I tried to think of something else, something unsexy. I thought of the Warlord, but right now even the utter humiliation of laying a virtual egg seemed erotic. Besides, my thoughts kept shifting to the John Carter from the movie. I thought of Ms. Galton and her way of talking to students. This was more effective. "The discussion is over." What discussion?

My hand glided over a nipple, and I almost came on the spot. I bit harder, and the pain helped. I tried to think of dead puppies and such for the second and a half that I had my hand between my legs. That's awful; I don't want to do that again. I finally hit the rinse cycle, and clenched my fists and bit harder still as the warm water played over my hypersensitive body.

Finally, I washed my hair. Even this was like some sort of teasing almost-masturbation. I rushed through it, hit the rinse, and got the hell out of there.

I wasn't even fully dry and hadn't combed my hair when I met Botilda.

"My God," she said, "you look like you're half a metre from the mountain top."

"More like half a centimetre," I croaked as we bounded our way to the bike racks.

"Anzu, your lip is bleeding!"

I touched my finger to my lip and, sure enough, there was blood. I had bitten that hard.

The ride down was much the same as the ride up, except that this time Coriolis pulled us to the east. It was still left, from our point of view, and we still tilted right to compensate. And of course, to us it seemed that the world was tilting, rather than us. We gained a bit of speed coming down, and so the tilting was more pronounced.

It didn't take us long to get to my place, and soon the bikes were stowed away and we were entering the apartment I call home. I could smell supper already; probably a venison casserole. Dad loved cooking with venison, and Mom swore by its health benefits. As much as I enjoy it, though, I was hungry for something else right now.

"Upstairs, now, please," I practically begged my friend as we walked into the living room.

"Wow, you've really got it bad," she stated the obvious. "You're even walking bent over, like some guy that's been kicked in the nuts."

In fact, I was. I hadn't realized it. How I got back downhill on a bicycle I'll never know.

"OK," Botilda told me, "Let's get upstairs and..."

"Anzu! Tell me all about your day!"

It was Mom. She was all smiles and motherly support. I appreciated it, I mean I really did, but the sort of support I needed no sane girl wants from her mother.

"Oh hi Botilda," she continued chirping, "Will you be staying for supper? Anzu, how are you holding up?"

Botilda tried to come to my rescue. "Thanks for the invite, Ms. James. I'd like to stay, yes. I'm going to head upstairs and call home about it, then get ready to help Anzu with something. You just send her up as soon as possible, OK? Thanks."

And with that the lovely Orin was dashing up the stairs like she was in half-G. Mom looked at her for a moment.

"Well that was rather abrupt. Something bothering her?"

"It's this whole naked thing," I reassured my mother. "And, really, I'd like to get up there as soon as possible. Dad will want to hear all about my day too, so it's better if I tell you both over supper."

"Anzu," she asked, "Are you OK? You look ... not quite right."

How to put this? Well, there was no better way, or if there was I couldn't think straight enough to know what it was. "The truth is, Mom: I've been kept in a state of constant sexual arousal for hours on end. I'm in physical pain for need of an orgasm. I'm not going to do it right here, but Botilda has offered to help. I feel like if I don't get up there and let her, I'm going to die."