Chapter 4

Tuesday Morning

The next morning, when Carl and I walked up to the school there was the traditional gathering of boys at the North Entrance, where the girls in The Program had to strip. We watched as June Farrow, the senior girl in The Program that week, stripped and deposited her clothes in the drop for them.

She's a three sport athlete - track in the fall, basketball in the winter and softball in the spring. She's about five foot ten, and built like a goddess. If she was blushing it didn't show on her. Her skin was a rich, dark chocolate brown, all over. Her breasts are firm, her nipples a shade darker, of course. She wears her hair in a short, natural 'do, and her bush is kinky, close to her mons. I had an image of her running the hurdles in her specialty, the heptathlon, and my breath caught in my throat. I wondered if the photography club had thought of trying to capture that image, that fleet beauty!

She strolled gracefully, confidently into school, her firm buttocks flexing, and then it was my turn. I felt totally inadquate following that exhibition.

I'd dressed carefully that morning, too. When he'd been in The Program, Carl had gone for efficiency, putting on no more than necessary. I wanted to make a different statement; don't judge a book by its cover. All my life I'd had the image of the demure, studious scholar. I knew now, after the homecoming dance, and especially after yesterday afternoon, that there was more to me than that.

Oh, I was wearing my usual conservative blouse and skirt. I really didn't have much choice, though I had already resolved to expand my wardrobe as soon as I had a chance. I began by unbuttoning my shirt, facing the throng, making no effort to conceal anything, even though my mouth was dry and I was trembling.

Removing my shirt, I revealed another of my recently acquired "frillies," a lace demi-cup bra that lifted my shy breasts, barely concealed my nipples. I could see the appreciation in Carl's eyes as he watched.

Folding my shirt carefully, I deposited it in the box. Then I unbuttoned my skirt and unzipped it, trying to be graceful as I did. Stepping out of it, I similarly folded it and put it in the box, leaving me in my bra, and thong panties. The turn I made to deposit the skirt gave everyone a good look at how the back of the panties disappeared between the cheeks of my ass.

Turning back to my audience, I uhooked the bra between my breasts, and opened it, feeling my nipples stiffen in the cool morning air. Shedding it, I took what I hoped was a graceful turn to the applause and whistles of the crowd.

Into the deposit box the bra went, and I was down to my panties and loafers, which could stay on, of course, but which I toed off. Hooking my thumbs in the waist of the thong, I eased it down with a wiggle of my hips. The back of it was caught in the crack of my ass as I drew the lacy dainty down, of course. It was also clinging to the sticky-wet folds of my pussy a little, finally pulling free.

Bending, I slid the panties down my thighs, and stepped out of them. Shaking them out, I folded them, and added them to the rest of my clothes in the locked drop-box. Stepping over to Carl, I asked him for his comb.

This he hadn't expected, but he dug it out and handed it to me without complaint. Using the glass in the door as a mirror, I combed and re-ponytailed my hair, then stepped over to a bench by the door. The guys sitting there gaped, and I lifted one foot to rest it on some guy's knee, displaying my cunt to all, my innards squirming as I did.

Okay, the devil made me - modest Beth - do it. What can I say?

I combed out my pussy hair right in front of their eyes, fluffing it up. Then I had another thought. Handing the comb to the guy whose knee I was using, I stretched, putting my hands behind my head, letting him comb my pussy, flinching slightly as the sharp teeth brushed my tender labia. Finishing, he patted my pussy gently, his thumb slipping between my thighs to tease the opening of my cunt, wringing a gasp from me.

I shot a glance at Carl, and the rest of the crowd. Carl licked his lips nervously, but nodded his understanding as the crowd applauded. Taking the comb back, I then returned it to Carl, brushed his cheek with my fingers, and took my book bag from him.

Sticking my feet back in my loafers, I made my way into school, the crowd following me as I made my way to my locker. I was trembling as I dialed the combination and got out the things I needed for my morning classes. A small group of guys hovered around, watching me, making me more aware of my exposure than ever.

"See you in French," Carl bade me as I got ready for chem.

"See you." I smiled at him.

Then it was off to the hustling, daily routine, maneuvering the hallways naked. Chem was nothing, but then it was French, with Madamoiselle Duclos.

It was too much to hope for a second reprieve, and I didn't get it.

"Ah, Madamoiselle Finch," Madamoiselle Duclos greeted me warmly. "If you would please just come to the front of the room, I would be most grateful."

Oh God, here we go, I thought as I obeyed, conscious of every eye in the room on me. Even my participation on the debating team hadn't prepared me for this kind of public exposure! My resolve to participate fully and willingly in all the challenges the program presented began to waver. I looked at Carl, and could see the sympathy in his gaze, and the tension.

"Up 'ere, please," Madamoiselle Duclos directed, making me step up on a little platform so they could see me better, taking my books from me and putting them on her desk. "Madamoiselles and Monsieurs, today, with the beautiful and able assistance of Madamoiselle Finch, we will cover more slang vocabulary."

Blushing furiously, I managed to face the class, first folding my arms over my breasts, then clasping my hands in front of my pussy, hunching my arms over my breasts in a desperate effort to protect myself from their curious stares.

Madamoiselle Duclos said something to me in French that my dazed mind managed to translate into "Ah, you are a very beautiful young lady," or something like that. I mustered something resembling a smile for her, I think, and tried to relax, unclasping my hands and putting my arms at my sides. I took a deep breath, conscious of the movement of my ribs, the lift of my breasts as I did.

God, I felt so exposed! I shot an anxious glance at Carl, and was warmed by the sympathy and pride and desire in his return look. He gave me a quick "thumbs up" signal that helped ease my terror, if not my embarassment.

Then Madamoiselle Duclos began to touch me - feather light touches barely brushing my skin as she named my features. My nipples stiffed to her light caress.

Her hand cupped my breast warmly, making he shiver. I'd never been touched by another woman that way. It was different from Carl's touch, but I still felt myself becoming aroused. Was she lesbian?

I didn't think so. I knew she had a boyfriend. What should I do?

"These are Madamoiselle Finch's 'doudounes, ' a relatively recent addition to French slang," Madamoiselle Duclos explained, moving to the white board to spell it out. "They are also known as 'les nénés, ' 'les nichons, ' and even 'les roberts.' If I may say, Madamoiselle Finch 'as lovely doudounes, by French standards, not being over amply endowed or, as the French would say, 'y'a du monde au balcon, ' which loosely translates as 'what a pair of knockers.'"

That brought some chuckles from the class, and some flushing from the more well endowed girls as well.

"The French say that the ideal size of a woman's breast is what will fill a champagne glass. Unfortunately, I fear I am a bit too generous for that." To my astonishment, Madame Duclos proceeded to remove her blouse to reveal she wore no bra. Her breasts were larger than mine, but not a lot larger. There was more weight to them, a bit more crease beneath them, and her nipples were darker and more prominent than mine.

Someone in the back of the room whistled softly.

Goose bumps flared to life as her fingers gently stroked my soft, shy breasts again, and I blushed even brighter, if that was at all possible. I shot her a nervous glance, but she was looking at the class. I couldn't help noticing how stiff and alert her own nipples were, and wondered if she was finding this as arousing as I was.

Her hand left my breast, and moved down my torso. I shivered, and she spared me a sympathetic glance. "Are you all right?" she asked.

I nodded nervously. "I think so. It tickles. I'm - uh - not used to being touched that way."

"You are so very pretty, though, and your skin is so soft! I 'ope you will let me continue?"

I summoned my courage, even as it was being assaulted by both arousal and shame, and nodded tensely.

She nodded agreeably, and went on, giving the slang term for "navel" as she touched my belly button. I balled my fists, knowing she her next target would be my pussy.

"And now, since Madamoiselle Finch might like some company..." Madamoiselle Duclos' voice trailed off as she unfastened her skirt, letting it drop to reveal her total lack of underwear. I couldn't not lean forward to look down at her.

She was shaved down there, as bare as a baby! Her puffy labia were totally exposed!

I was still dealing with this when her finger brushed into my pubic hair. "This is, how you might say, 'pussy' and we French would say 'chatte' which is, of course, 'cat' en Francaise, or pussy," she finished brightly. "As you can see, I have no 'air, and I 'ave wondered, should it still be called chatte?"

"But beneath the 'air is the same and, in polite company it might be called 'Noune.'" She spelled it out on the board, giving me a brief respite, prounouncing it 'noonn.' "That is to say, the 'vulva.'"

I shivered again. I felt like I was under a microscope, despite her shared display. The class was studying my most intimate secrets. It was mortifying, but what was even more mortifying, I could feel myself becoming more and more physically aroused. I shot Carl an anxious look, and I could see he knew what I was feeling. He looked pained, and stimulated, and shifted awkwardly in his seat. I saw him reach down, and knew he was adjusting his hardon in his jeans, but I couldn't help wondering if it was because of me, or Madamoiselle Duclos with her more mature beauty, her fuller breasts, or perhaps her exposed vulva.

"There are other words," Madamoiselle Duclos went on, writing on the board - I couldn't help turning and watching her. Her bottom was firm and round.

"These include 'con, ' 'conne, ' is the feminine form, of course. Then there is 'connard' and, similarly in feminine 'connarde.' These are used as insults when referring to a man. If you wanted to insult a woman and call her a 'bitch' or maybe even - ah, what is the word? - cunt? - you would call her 'connasse' and there is no masculine form of this word."

She returned to my side, bending down. "Please, move your feet apart a little?" she asked sweetly. "Merci."

Then she got even more personal, as I fought the urge to squirm. Her fingers parted my pubic hair, revealing my slit, and I saw the boys in the class practically drooling, while some of the girls blushed, and others stared. She could have done this on herself, after all!

"This is called, if the man knows the woman extremely well, 'cramouille' meaning 'wet slit.'" If 'e does not know her it is, of course, a vile insult."

I WAS wet, and I wanted to die!

"And," Madamoiselle Duclos went on inexorably, "if we part these lovely lips, which, I might add, are indeed delightfully wet," She paused, and I actually felt her spreading my labia open! " 'ere we find the little man in the hood, the clitoris, non? In French this is called 'clito, ' making it easy to remember. That is, of course, a feminine noun. A woman who has a good lover would not hesitate to ask 'im to 'lèche-moi le clito, ' or 'lick my clitoris.' The man might respond to such a request by 'descendre à la cave' or as you might say, descending to the basement."

Thinking of what Carl had done to me after the dance, I was blushing beet red by now, and I could see Carl turning scarlet and trying to sink down under his desk! Just the memory of that orgasm was enough to make my pussy weep.

"As you might suspect," she went on, stroking her own bare pussy, "a man doing some - ah - what is that word that I am seeking? - you know, exploring caves..."

"Spelunking?" Carl offered impulsively.

"Ah, mais oui, zat is the word I seek," Madamoiselle Duclos agreed gaily. "A man who has, as we say 'scendre a la cave' finds the experience even more delightful when ze woman 'as shaved, as I have, because the flesh is clean and our little friend 'ere is more easily accessible."

Then Madamoiselle Duclos touched my clitoris and I thought I was going to collapse. I reacted! Of course I reacted. I was already hot as a firecracker and I went off! I flinched, gasped, whimpered softly deep in my throat as the muscles in my abdomen went into orgasmic spasms.

"Ah, Madamoiselle Finch, she is 'aving what we sometimes call 'le petite mort, ' the 'little death, '" Madamoiselle Duclos observed with delight, and perhaps a touch of envy. "What you would call 'coming' or an orgasm."

I wanted to DIE.

Die! Die! DIE!

But what a way to go. All I could do was stand there while my cunt spasmed and a flush spread up my torso, waves of pleasure sweeping through me while everyone watched. I could see Carl's fists, balled on his desktop as he suffered with me. At least, I assume he was suffering, but I could be wrong.

The rest of the class, what little was left, was a blur. I became a manequin in Madamoiselle Duclos' hands, shifting numbly as she posed me, letting the class see my ass, making me bend over, spreading the cheeks of my ass to expose my rear hole, her finger tickling me as I discovered an unexpected erogenous zone there.

When the bell rang I numbly gathered up my books and made my way blindly to the door, the other students avoiding me, whispering about me.

Then, out in the hallway, Carl was with me and wrapped an arm around my shoulders, pulling me close. I leaned into him, burying my head against his shoulder, shivering.

"You were beautiful, and brave," he complimented me.

"It was humiliating." I couldn't forget how I'd come, right there, in front of the whole class.

He chuckled. "Now you know how I felt the first time I asked for relief, and every time after that, in fact."

I managed a sympathetic smile up at him. "I hadn't thoughtof it that way," I admitted, managing a deep breath. "And now that that's over I don't see how it could get worse," I observed hopefully, conscious of the eyes flicking over me as we walked to math, my bare flank pressed against his clothed one, my juices drying on my pussy.

He gave me a squeeze. "You get more used to it." Then he laughed. "Of course, they say you can get used to hanging if you hang long enough."

I managed a weak chuckle. "Very funny. I wonder what can happen to me next?"

Next was math, with Freschetti, and I quickly found out how it could get worse.