Tami Beethoven

Tom, being dared by his girlfriend, smirked and climbed up. He planted one sneakered foot on each treadmill and put his hands on the bars. Jeane looked up at his crotch. "Oh baby," she said.

What guy could not proceed, given such encouragement? He pushed down with his left foot and pushed up with his right hand. It took a loud grunt but he got it to move. The double treadmill slowly turned as Tom looked forward into the far distance, obviously too shy to look down at his friends as they stared intently. He felt like he was shoving his package out into everyone's face. But now he looked down at Jeane with a little smile.

There was a general turning of heads around them and the friends knew what that meant. Nobody slid in here faster than Tami, who needed no ID to get in and had no need to go to the locker room to change. She was easy to see once you turned to the weight machine area. Clanking away on the shoulder press, the total bareness of skin easy to pick out in the sea of sweatshirts and sneakers and shorts.

Myra and Sessu ambled over first. They said hi, idly watching Tami's breasts vibrate as their naked friend, on her back, hefted 120 pounds with only a moderate amount of effort, her plum-colored pubic hair almost in their faces between the legs that splayed apart at the end of the bench, her bare feet flat on the floor. Tami said a quick hi but then started focusing on her exertions and Myra and Sessu, perhaps shamed into exercising, found things to do on the other machines. Those nearby who glanced over saw Tami's face start to get red, her breathing get louder, as she continued her reps. Like any dedicated exerciser, once she got into the reps she was in her own world.

Seesu tried to read as much as he could into the little smile Tami had sent in his direction. He was afraid he was still a little on the outs with her, a rare situation here on campus. Only Lorinda and some of her immature friends were not on Tami's good side, who had gotten such a kick out of the teasing and abuse they had put the naked girl through. But lately even they had been a little subdued. Lorinda herself, now a senior like Tami, had even gotten into student government a little and even found herself in meetings with her. But according to her roommate, Jeane's friend Celine, she was still "a nasty bitch" to live with.

Sessu's concern had arisen from a recent incident. He hung out with the TL's and it was no secret that he wanted to be one, but as a male his desires had to be sublimated. So he hit upon a solution. He had spent some weeks hearing the TL's talk about a Tami-thon -- a long session with all of them licking and sucking every part of Tami's body -- and that had given him an idea. An architecture major, he had privileges at the metal shop and he spent several late nights staring at all that tubing, then once the idea was in his head he roughed out the drawings and got to work.

Not that the Tami-thon would ever happen. Georgene had hinted at something like it during one of Tami's pass-bys at the Student Union and Tami had seemed turned off. Not that the proposal was ever spelled out directly. The Queen's permission was never directly asked for. They were too afraid the answer would be "no" and they wanted to hold onto the fantasy.

So it was a bold stroke, perhaps do-able only by someone who could never participate, when Sessu asked Tami to come with him to the metal lab because he had something to show her. The TL's went with him as he escorted her to the art building and down the hallway scented with acetylene and burnt wood. She must have thought he had made a sculpture of her, based on the many drawings he did of her when she sat chatting at the Union.

She was puzzled as he introduced her to the jumble of tubing on the floor. Then, taking off his jacket, he eagerly got to work, fitting this tube into that, banging some struts into place with the ballpeen hammer, climbing on top of the lower rungs to put the upper crossbars in place, then the final touch of screwing the cushioned wood seats onto the four threaded uprights.

The structure was a bit taller than he was and, after shoving it to and fro to show how sturdy it was, he hopped onto it, his arms and legs stretched out into an X, his legs slightly forward as he bent at the hips, his boots resting on cross-bars. Now Myra and Rosaria took off their coats and got into the raised seats a little to the sides so that their faces were on each side of his chest. Jeane got into the seat behind so that she was staring right at his butt. Georgene got into the plushest seat, so that she was eye level with his crotch. Not that she looked at it, or the considerable hardness that had developed there. She turned her head and, like the rest, looked back at Tami, who stood with her hands at her side, one foot sideways on the dusty floor, silent.

"Forgive me for taking your throne temoparily, my Queen," Sessu said in his Japanese accent. "But I hope you approve of what I made for you. Think of it as the seating arrangement for your court."

Its purpose was perfectly obvious. With Tami perched as Sessu currently was, Myra and Rosaria could comfortably suck her nipples for as long as they wanted. Georgene, or whoever sat there, could sit before Tami's crotch and suck and lick. And Jeane could sit forward, arms resting on Tami's thighs, and noodle around in the rear chamber of the palace.

Tami stood stock still. Then her eyes got wet and she looked upset. Then she blinked a few times and said, "Uh . . . Thanks . . . Sessue . . . that's . . . interesting. Gotta go." And she turned and walked quickly out, and from hearing the receding slapping of her feet they could tell she almost ran out of the building.

They were stunned. What to make of that? They were in a funk for two days, until finally the TL's couldn't resist their horniness any longer and went back to licking Tami, for which she seemed grateful. As for Sessu he was depressed all week. He thought about apologizing to Tami, but felt like she wouldn't wanted to be reminded. As for why she had reacted that way to his invention, they really had no clue.

That was a month ago. Since then he had gotten good signals from Tami as if all were forgiven, like smiling when he kissed her knee in the Union last week. And now this little "hi".

Tami finished her 50 on the shoulder press, then went to the bench press, the pectoral fly, with her hard nipples sticking out halfway across the atrium, and now was on the hip adductor.

Who could not watch? Sitting upright as the weights clanked up and down behind her, her legs went way, way, way apart, as far as the machine allowed, almost a ballet dancer's split. Guys came by and looked down, then said hi as they passed. Tami sometimes acknowledged them, sometimes not, being too focused. By now a thin sheen of sweat covered her, as if someone had atomized water over every inch of her body.

Tom and Jeane sauntered by. Tom was sweating too from his five minutes of agony on the Beast. He looked down into Tami's crotch before waving at her.

It was a good long look, maybe five seconds. In the well-lit gym he could see inside the lower lips that were well pen as the weights pulled Tami's legs apart, the redness of the cave within. Every guy on campus was familiar with the sight of the interior of Tami's pussy. Mentally they compared it with that of their own girlfriends, if they had one. Jeane, like most Campbell-Frank women, had come to accept "the long look"; it was practically a reflex for the average male. Tom told Jeane that he fantasized, not about Tami, but about her being naked like Tami was, and Jeane believed him.

Tami tolerated the looks too with an easy humor. Just so long as the guy was polite and it didn't go on to extended gawking.

Forty minutes later activity in the atrium was muted as Tami was into the last stages of her workout on the Beast. As she always did, she had put it on the heaviest setting. Arms and legs apart, heaving out sweat in waves that filled the whole room with the scent of her exertion, hands pushing up, her toes curling over the blades as her bare feet pushed down . . . those gathered around felt privileged to see such a perfect specimen of the female form as they examined her from every angle, some looking up at the straining breasts, others down at her concave tummy, or at the muscles of her thighs and calves, the strong feet, others looking from behind at her bare shoulders and tight butt, sweat running down her back between her cheeks, then emerging in rivulets down her legs. Spica, standing right in front, made no secret of smacking her lips.

The timer went off and Tami relaxed. The great apparatus slowly creaked to a halt. Homer wheeled up. "Hi Homer," Tami said, catching her breath, looking down at him past her widely spread lower lips, her soaked pubic hair.

"You're looking good, Tami," he said with a smile, then he wheeled off.

And now the great moment, at least great for the TL's. They were chatting at the base of the Beast, and Myra looked up and said in a stage whisper, "Tami, I could just lick you all over right now."

Tami smiled. "That . . . would be nice. I have to get going though." The flexing toes, curled over the blades, indicated her horniness.

"Too bad," Myra said.

"I'd like to lick you too," Jeane said.

"Me too," Spica said.

From her perch, looking down, the sweating naked Queen said, "Then why don't we get together sometime?"

The mouths of the TL's dropped open.

As Tami dismounted, jumping down with a soft thud, she said, "My place sometime. Rod will be there."

Now that was a letdown. Having this man around would disrupt all that female energy. Not that this could be expressed to Tami. For one thing, she was always too down-to-earth to believe that "female energy" stuff. And he was her husband, of course.

By the time they had meandered to the exit with her, though, they had reconciled themselves to it. Having Rod around at the Tami-thon would not be so bad. They didn't know him well but he seemed to be a nice guy. Maybe he could help out with the refreshments.

Their ruminations were interrupted by the clap of thunder.

"Shit!!!" Spica said, looking out at the icy rainshower. "I left my umbrella in the dorm."

"Me too," Jeane said. They had their things in the locker room but it was just coats and boots, no umbrellas.

Tami seemed to look at them in sympathy. Then she said, "Well, gute nacht," and opened the door and sprinted out into the cold rain, her feet slapping the slush to both sides. They saw her sleek, wet body pass under the lights and disappear into the darkness.

Part 18

Albert Girardo, Chair of the Department of Fashion Technology, just could not find that damn cubbyhole. At least that was what everyone called them, the tiny rooms overlooking the multipurpose room in the Student Union where they had those dances and other big events. Every student tutor had one, and the one he was looking for was 2-07. But they only went up to 2-06 and then there was the fire exit. So he had to backtrack . . .

He hardly ever came here. All his work was in Thayer Hall right next to his special parking place. On this sunny, melting-snow day he had unwisely worn moccasins and his feet got a little wet coming down that unfamiliar concourse. He got his first real look at that statue Wanamaker spoke about: "Tami Takes Flight". A good piece of work, abstract but not too weird. That was his motto, a good rule to live by in his field, how he and his department fought for and won a measure of respectability during his fifteen years at its helm: Don't Be Too Weird.

So this little errand cut across his grain in so many ways. But with a student who lived without the benefit of clothing it was just no surprise that all the usual rules were reversed. That she was a salt-of-the-earth, working class type, so unusual in his field, made her all the more unforgettable. He vividly remembered the last time he was down this way. It was last spring, a warm day in May, flowers in bloom. They hadn't cut the grass yet and the lawn in front of the Union was a bit overgrown. He had been roped into one of those godawful Department Head get-togethers, spending all morning in the multipurpose room with the twelve most boring persons on the planet.

It was a relief to finally get out, around lunchtime. Clouds were overhead, possibly threatening rain, and the air was heavy with the scent of growing grass, a gentle warm breeze. He approached the lawn and saw people lined in front of it, maybe two dozen, most still well clothed as if it were still a chilly spring, some more appropriately in shirtsleeves. He ambled up to the edge in his lazy, old-man way, and stopped short when he saw what they were looking at.

It was Campbell-Frank's only naked student, sleeping in the lush uncut grass. Other free-spirited students had occasionally dozed off there, in the sun, but always on blankets after a little picnic. And always clothed.

She was on her side, upper leg extended in front of her, in blissful slumber. Grass stains were on her soles. Her butt cheeks were parted and everyone could see her anus -- was it winking at them in the breeze? Now she turned, pulling her leg across, and in the process uprooting some grass. It stayed between her toes as if she had grabbed it deliberately and now she was on her back, her legs splayed wide open so that everyone could see inside her womanly cave. She stretched her arms up and her tummy became almost freakishly concave, ribs visible over the tracery of well-developed abs, breasts high and firm with erect nipples poking up at the gray sky. A few strands of grass were caught up in her lush pubic hair. And now she sighed. "Mmmmmmm . . .", as earthy and natural as the scented breeze.

It was a wave partly of lust but also of wonder that riffled through the watchers. And envy, how it must feel like to roll naked in the grass. Two of those old Chalfont Institute professors stood next to him, one puffing on his pipe. You could tell those old German guys anywhere. "I'm jealous now," one said. The pipe puffer said, "Ah Fritz, if Youth only knew, if Age only could!"

Girardo had stayed to watch her lolling around for a few minutes and then she awoke, sitting up with wild hair, elbows on her knees, smiling a little absently at the people around her as if remembering an old joke. Then he left, as the crowd dispersed, some saying hi to the naked girl, others as if embarrassed at having been caught looking. Girardo was gay through and through, but a sight like that sticks with you no matter who you are.

Now -- this one's 2-01, now 2-03, this must be the odd numbers corridor finally --

Her door was open and he hesitated before making his presence known. She was facing away from him, leaning back on her chair, reading a text, pencil in her mouth. One foot was way, way up over her head, the heel propped up on the wall in the tiny room. Only a trained gymnast, like she was, could stretch like that. The other foot was up on the ledge of the little window that looked down on the multipurpose room. She held a pen between the third and fourth toes that she tapped idly against the sill. Girardo was reminded of the student who did that project on toe rings a few years ago, who said, "Toes are the new fingers." Well for Ms. Smithers, it was all the same.

Her desk was strewn with books, papers, a laptop. And what looked like a wedding ring, though it seemed too small to go on her finger. There was a shelf above that had some pictures and some type of geometric sculptures with magnetic sticks.

Finally he cleared his throat.

"Oh hi Mr. Girardo," she said, quickly swiveling around, putting her book down, and about to stand up.

"Stay seated, please," he said, quite surprised. Years ago students would stand up when a professor came in, but not recently.

She sat obediently waiting for him to speak.

"Um, how are you doing?"

"Fine, busy as always," she said. "I like it that way."

He looked at the upper shelf. "Did you make this? It's very pretty."

"It's a dodecahedron. One of the regular polyhedrons."

"Oh. A dodeca . . ."

"That means twelve. It has twelve sides."

"Hmm . . .Looks like more than twelve to me."

"The sides are pentagons. You have to stellate them to make it rigid."

"Oh right . . . of course." He looked at it for a moment as if knowing what she was talking about. "Tami, mind if I sit?" He grabbed a chair that had been out in the hall and sat facing her. She was upright in her chair, hands folded attentively. Her feet were on the floor, curled inward, the pen still in her toes.

"Dr. Wanamaker and I agree, your portfolio is outstanding."

She seemed to blush. "Thank you."

"We have a proposal for you." Knowing he was about to explain something totally new to her, he went slowly despite her high intelligence. "There is something called the International Fashion Industry Foundation. It's a group endowed by various fashion houses, that acts as like a trade group, a clearinghouse of information, and also advocates for designer and models and other tradespeople. And every year the foundation has a, uh, competition for students. This year is the 37th annual. We would like you to invite you to make a submission, enter the competition. In other words, sponsor you."

She seemed stunned. "But . . . I'm not a fashion major."

"That's not important. What is, is that we think you display an extraordinary amount of originality. Maybe it's you're, uh, situation . . ." He found himself glancing down at her clit and immediately regretted the reference. Her clit was poking out a little -- he heard it always did, except when she was out in the cold and it retracted between those plum-colored lips. He thought he detected a faint whiff of female musk. Then he brought his mind back on track. "But you have a view to fashion that is unique and should be made better known, and should be further developed if you wish . . . We don't just ask anyone. We don't do this every year. In fact we haven't sponsored a student in five years. So you see what a compliment this is meant to be."

"Gosh . . . thanks . . ." She was still in shock.

"You will need to put together a submission portfolio. You can select from your existing one -- the limit is ten designs -- or make up a new one. Probably selecting from the one you have is best, because the deadline is only in two weeks. Dr. Wanamaker will help you out with the details."

Tami looked down.

"That's the first stage. Then they select the ten or twelve best entries and present a fashion show, slash, awards ceremony. I have to say that they have several hundred submissions every year, so the odds of getting picked for the show are slim. This year it's in Montreal. And then, there's the prizes. First prize is a fellowship with room and board at a leading institution. This year it's somewhere that you especially might have an interest in."

"What do you mean?"

"The fellowship, which would begin next fall, is in your home town, at the Rhode Island School of Design."

Tami looked up, nonplussed. "Rizdy?" Which is how Providence natives refer to RISD.

Girardo nodded. "Again, I have to say, excellent as your work is, the odds of getting chosen are quite long. But even being allowed to submit is an honor. We get to put forth candidates because our department is on the International panel. Only about sixty schools around the world are on it."

Tami looked at him and then looked over at a pad on the desk. "I -- I don't know what to say. This is so . . ."

"Now Tami, you don't have to go through with this. I know you are involved in other projects and fashion is not the center of your life." God, was that ever an understatement, he told himself.

"Well yes, I was working on that polymer fabric with Gretchen -- "