Chapter 8: Wednesday, Evening

The first thing I had to do, of course, was to rush to Mr. Scott's room and deliver Tuesday's two chapters to him. And rush I did, ignoring Reasonable Requests along the way. I wanted to grant them, but there just wasn't time. I got to his room just as the warning bell rang, so I wasn't late. I gave him the chapters, asked him if he'd like a quick grope, and giggled like a little girl when he thumbed my nips. But then the Program kid for his Homeroom class came in. It was Marsha Brady.

OK, I know what you're thinking, but don't say it to her. That goofy sitcom has been remade at least nine times in the last hundred forty years, and the last person who ran up to her and yelled "Marsha, Marsha, Marsha!" got a busted lip. Served him right.

Mr. Scott gave each of my tits a final squeeze, patted me on the fanny, and then had eyes only for Marsha. Not that I can blame him; she's cute, and he has her for the whole hour without having to teach any subject. I wondered just what I'd see if I stuck around, but I couldn't. Duty to the team and all that.

I got to the bike rack as the girls were already putting on protective gear. I rushed to catch up, and the others waited a bit. I rushed, but I made sure I did it right. Coach Carrick wouldn't put up with unsafe practices.

"OK, girls," Coach ordered when I was ready, "Mount up!"

We did, and on the way out I remembered that I hadn't gotten to the bit of oral experimentation I'd promised Bret. I'd call him from Botilda's, and set something up for tomorrow.

The ride was the same as I described for Monday, except I wasn't so preoccupied with people seeing me. They did, of course, but instead of hunching over the bike and wishing I could vanish, I actually smiled whenever I heard "WOO!" or something like that. I didn't think about how exposing the whole forward leaning thing was until just now, writing it down.

Instead, I thought about the phrase "expanding your horizons," and wondered why we still said that. There isn't any horizon when you live inside a giant ball. Think about it.

When I did my flying dismount, I landed as sure-footed as ever. Yes, my tits jiggled on landing and yes, I had to open my legs to do it right. So? If anybody in this place hadn't seen my vagina by now, it wasn't my fault.

"Do you need relief, James?" Coach Carrick asked me as soon as we got to the spoccer court.

"Nope," I assured her, "I got relief in class, and after practice I'm sure one of those nice orugball players will help me out."

There was some laughter about that. But I didn't argue when sent to the boys' locker room. I was nervous, because there would be touching, but I wasn't quite as nervous as Monday. In fact, I was sort of looking forward to it. I was used to boys seeing me by now, and I was eager to see them right back. I like naked boys; they're naked.

Several of the guys waved at me as I floated in. I smiled and waved back. I didn't have any changing to do, of course, so I just hovered there and let them look at me. I waited for the requests to touch, but there weren't many. It turns out that with all that armor they have to put on, there just wasn't much time for touching. I posed, and when asked to "show some pink" I noted that, Wednesday or not, I could still be embarrassed. But I did it, and though embarrassed, I also thought it was funny.

And here's something else I didn't notice Monday: there were guys very carefully trying to see me, but not be seen. I thought that was kind of rude, but then I remembered that I'd done the same thing, a month ago.

"Hey," I called out, "that's fine for now, but if you want to soap me up after practice, you'll have to come out of hiding. And I'd sure like to get a look at you, if you're getting a look at me. Fair's fair."

A few guys did manage to get in a quick grope, and as we floated out, I was again struck by the contrast of a naked girl surrounded by boys in all-concealing armor. I was glad I didn't play orugball. Who wants to wear all that armor when not in the vacuum?

Again, I wasn't the last to enter the court, but I was the next-to-last. Once I'd put my shoes on, I glanced around to see Tifa enter. She said something to Coach Carrick as she tightened her laces.

"OK, girls," the coach shouted, "we're gonna do today what we did Monday, only more so. I'm hoping to actually run some plays Friday, but that depends on you."

So it was back to Tifa getting two or even three balls kicked her way, and having to decide right then what to do. I got to actually kick this time, but it was a ball just hanging out there. Getting to it, which I'm very good at, was made ridiculously easy. Actually having my body in the right position to kick was harder, but that's why I needed to work on it. I utterly botched it the first few times, trying to zip right out and kick it like a pro. So I set myself moving very slowly, much more slowly than would be useful in a real game.

I still sucked. But it seemed maybe I didn't suck quite so much. In veegeewushu, sometimes you will be taught a movement in slow motion, and only after learning to move properly do you speed it up, in increments. I'd never tried this method with weightless body positioning, and I didn't know if it would work. But hey, I could hardly get any worse. I tried to only concentrate on having myself positioned so that my foot could kick the ball. I launched a little slower, a little faster, a little slower again. I thought I was a little better, but not a lot.

"James, are we playing in zero-G air or zero-G molasses?"

I explained my "learning the form" idea to her, and she looked dubious. Well, fair enough; I was dubious. But nothing else seemed to be working. I showed her, and actually managed to kick the ball.

"Go for it," she told me, "but if I don't see significant improvement by Friday next week, I'm putting you back in the second string, as center-back."

That's exactly where I'd started last year! I didn't mind playing center-back, but we already had three excellent ones, and another good one. If I was returned to center-back, I'd be lucky to get into the game at all. It's the whole reason I'd moved to midfield late last year. Sure, I'd been second string, but I intended to move into the first ranks and get some playing in.

And I had. Despite the body positioning problem, I still got to the ball when I needed to, where I needed to, and that had been enough ... barely. But the other schools were getting tougher, and what was good enough in 2108 wasn't good enough in 2109.

"I'll do my best," I assured her. As if I could do anything else.

Finally, practice was over. I thought maybe I was improving, but I couldn't tell for sure.

"OK, girls," Coach Carrick shouted, "we're getting somewhere. Smithton, don't get cocky. You got better, then you started losing focus. Redton, visualize tonight and tomorrow. You know what you want to do; now you need to loosen up and actually do it. James, you visualize too. Maybe visualize doing it in uniform, if that helps. Orkney, you were doing fine, what happened today?

"Go hit the showers, and we'll do this again Friday."

There were some groans, but then she added, "And if I see any improvement Friday, any at all, we'll run a couple of plays. Now GO!"

We floated in that direction, but the coach intercepted me before I got there.

"Boys' locker room for you, James."

"Sorry," I told her, "I forgot."

As I corrected my flight path and drifted into the boys' locker room, I realized that I had forgotten. Not just to use the boys' facilities; I'd forgotten that I was naked! I just now got it that when Coach had said "visualize doing it in uniform," that was because of my nudity. I looked into the stands, and sure enough, several people were following me with their eyes, including the kid from Monday, who at least had kept quiet this time. I waved at them, and actually smiled. I could feel myself blushing a little, too, but it's nice when people think you're pretty.

Again, as on Monday, I saw Botilda waiting for me. I waved to her too, and almost didn't see what was waiting for me in the showers.

Three boys were already nude, and they were gathered around a cage they obviously thought I should use. One even held the door for me. Even as I started to "undress" (take my helmet, knee and elbow pads off), another naked boy drifted to "my" cage.

I floated in, and immediately one of them, who was the one who had held the door for me and seemed to be the leader, asked how far they could go.

"You know," he added, "that shower is big enough for two."

"It's big enough for three," I corrected, "if we don't mind being crowded. But then I'd have to neglect the other fourteen of you. So I'll be alone in here, and you guys can reach between the bars to soap me up."

I hit the button to start the first rinse, and immediately hands were all over me: touching, stroking, squeezing, patting, rubbing. This was starting to feel good, but...

"SOAP!" I shouted.

Most of the hands were withdrawn, but in a flash they were back, and this time they had soap. Hot soapy hands glided over every millimetre of my flesh, teasing my nips, slipping between my butt-cheeks, soaping up my pussy, and lathering me up from nose to toes.

After a few minutes of that, I hit the rinse again, and as soon as the soap was off my face, I looked around to see hands from every direction, including from above and below. I also saw some very hard cocks within grabbing range. So I grabbed. My hands were soapy too, and I slicked up and down those stiff pricks as fast as I could. It wasn't long before the one in my left hand spurted, the cum floating towards me, but sucked into the pipes that made up my cage. I let go and grabbed another, just as the one in my right hand started pumping out semen. This time a blob landed on my belly, but the soapy hands soon washed it away.

Every time a guy would cum, I'd grab another dick. I saw three orgasms, but missed the next because I was coming myself. Well how could I not? All those guys, all those hands, all those hard dicks. One guy had found my clit, another was pumping two fingers in and out of my pussy, and yet another was fingering my asshole. And all the time, my tits, legs, back, even my toes were being washed by those hot, wet, slippery hands and fingers.

By the time I'd seen seven guys cum (and had missed a few more), I'd had five orgasms myself. I was in heaven, but I was also getting tired. I couldn't take much more. I could feel myself about to cum again, and just before I did, the cock in my right hand spurted.

I didn't grab anybody else. I just gasped for breath and, as soon as I could, I shouted, "My apologies to anybody [gasp, gasp] I missed, but I'm getting tired. I'm going to wash my hair now, alone, and I need you to let me alone."

There were a few cries of protest, but I was adamant. "Hey, I have a life outside the boys' locker room," I reminded them, "and even a Program girl needs to rest sometimes. But I'm looking forward to Friday!"

They relented after that, but as I washed my hair and gave myself a final rinse, I did see three of them jerking off. I delayed leaving until they came, and then got myself out of there.

Botilda was waiting for me, and she chuckled as we headed for the bikes.

"You sure look happy," she teased me. "Did you just lose that cherry or something?"

"Or something," I assured her. "I just got felt up, fingered, and washed by the whole orugball team."

"YIKES!" she bellowed, louder than I thought was necessary, "you're turning into The Girl Who!"

I stopped abruptly, just as I was about to mount my bike. The Girl Who was a rumor that seemed to come up every few months. It was always a girl at some other school, and she was "The Girl Who Did The ­­­­-- Team," or just The Girl Who for short. The blank was sometimes filled in with "football" or "orugball" or "basketball" or whatever, but the story was always the same: The Girl had sex with every boy on the team, all ten or eleven or seventeen of them. She was always spoken of with this strange combination of reverence and disgust, and there was never any real evidence that it had really happened at all.

"I am NOT The Girl Who!" I snapped.

"Hey, I'm just kidding around," Botilda soothed me. "I mean, The Girl Who is never a Program girl, right?"

That was true. Of course, we'd only had the Program since January, and The Girl Who seems to have been around forever. I suppose that in the history of the human race, it's probably happened somewhere. But now, there was a tendency to specifically say, " ... and she hadn't even been in the Program!"

As we rode to Botilda's place, I thought a little more about The Girl Who. She never was a Program girl, was she? Why not? Was it assumed that a girl in the Program was less likely to do such a thing?

HA! If anything, a Program kid (boy or girl) was expected to do things she'd never do before. That had sure turned out to be the truth in my case.

So why stress that The Girl Who wasn't in the Program? No, not just "not in the Program," but "hadn't been in the Program." Was it more shocking for a pre-Program girl to act that way? Yes, yes it seems it is.

I thought of Ehawee, who had been considered a slut because of her openly promiscuous behavior. Then she was selected for the Program and continued to be promiscuous, only now it was even more open. Now, instead of everybody knowing about it, everybody was seeing it. Even I'd seen her blow a guy in the hall. When her week was over, she went right on being openly promiscuous.

Thing was, nobody called her a slut that week. It was the Program, so it was OK. Even when her week was over, she wasn't called slutty as much, even though she was doing as much. It was now OK, or at least not as bad. I suddenly realized that I wasn't worried about those orugball players telling everybody what I'd done. Hey, I'm in the Program. I'm supposed to allow outrageous things.

So being in the Program kind of entitles you to be more sexual, during the week and even after. It doesn't just help you to overcome your inhibitions, but others to overcome their inhibitions about what it's acceptable for you to do. This brought me back to the idea of the Program as a rite of passage, a coming of age. In a sense, it gave it's participants a new status and new privileges, even before the new regulation permitting public nudity for those who had completed their week.

As soon as we arrived at Botilda's place, I told her I needed to call Bret.

"Um, ah, what for?"

"Well I kinda..." I could feel myself blushing again. "I kind of made him an offer at lunch ... well you were there. I didn't get a chance to do it today, so I wanna, well..."

She laughed. "You want to make a date for tomorrow. Well, I think you want to wait about..." she tapped her cell. " ... three minutes before you make that call."

What? I looked at her real close, and she was definitely up to something. I could tell by the exaggerated innocence she was putting on her face.

About three minutes later, Bret came strolling up to where we were locking our bikes. And he was naked!

I'd seen him naked during his Program week of course, two months ago. And today, when he'd licked me, he'd been just as naked as I was. But this caught me utterly off guard.

"Hi," he greeted me, all casual. "I thought maybe I'd meet you on equal, unclothed ground."

I found my voice. "Good God, Bret! How can you just walk around like that?"

"I invoked my new ex-Program right to public nudity," he shrugged. "How else?"

"No, I ... I..." I glanced around. "People can see you!"

"So? They can see you."

Well, he had me there.

Botilda got involved at this point. "I didn't expect you to be naked. My folks won't like it if I bring a naked boy home. We're gonna have to smuggle you into the pool. Wait here."

She went in, and I made small talk with Bret. It was strange, talking to a naked boy on the front step of my best friend's apartment, naked myself. Several people walked or biked past us, and there were whistles and shouts of "WOO!" Bret got as much of that as I did, and we both just smiled and waved.

One couple, in their early thirties I'd guess, actually stopped to look at us, and after a bit of whispering back and forth, the man called out, "Current or former?"

"Current!" I shouted.

"Former," Bret called out.

"Well you're looking good, both of you," he called back. "Be sure to enjoy this. We'll never be allowed to do what you're doing right now. I envy you."

The woman added, "Good to see you doing outreach, Former!" They both waved and walked on. We just waved back.

Botilda came back then. She was looking yummy in her little one-piece swimsuit with the sexy cutouts. "OK you two," she whispered, "follow me. And Bret, they don't know you're here, so keep quiet!"

We followed her into her living room, where I could smell incense burning. Once again I admired the furniture, much of it hand-crafted. Botilda's place is a bit bigger and fancier than mine, because her family is richer than mine. And since the issue of relative wealth has come up...

There's something I've been hesitant to mention, because I don't want it to seem like I'm bragging, or trying to put you down somehow. I'm not, but what I'm about to write is a very important difference between living in your time and living in mine.

We're richer than you are.

I don't mean necessarily that I am personally richer than you personally are, and I sure don't mean that everybody alive today is richer than everybody in you time. But in general, we're richer than you are.

There's nothing unusual about this. You're richer, on average, than people in the 1800's. Again, the richest tycoons of the Nineteenth Century were richer than the poorest in the year 2000, but on average, you're richer. And we're richer than that. The constant rising standard of living has brought us to a level of wealth that makes the average person today a millionaire by your standards. I'm not saying that figuratively, and I'm not exaggerating: the average person of today is a millionaire.

Of course, it can be difficult to compare buying power between groups (people living in 2000 and people living in 2109) who are each capable of buying things that the other is not. You can't buy real estate in an Island Three, because it doesn't exist yet, and I can't buy real estate in Kiribati, because that entire nation is now under the Pacific Ocean.

It can also be difficult to compare when things cost much more or much less in one time than in another. For instance, while it would be possible, in theory, for me to buy gasoline, it would almost be cheaper to buy gold. Most of you don't balk at buying a few litres of gasoline, while for me it would be a major expense. Then again, how much would it cost you to buy a mink coat? If you are a person of average wealth in Europe, Japan, Australia or North America, and you suddenly found yourself in Mendocino Island, with your current level of wealth, you'd find it easy to buy a mink coat. It just doesn't cost as much as it used to.