This story is an entry to the National Nude Day 2018 contest. I hope you like it. Some warnings up front: This story contains incest, interracial sex, and group sex.


I don't want to die an old maid. Here I am, in the prime of life, and I've never had sex. Well, I've kissed, and men have felt me up over my clothes, but that's as far as it's gone. I'm twenty-six years old and I am very much a virgin.

I'm not a virgin with a hymen. That left a long time ago thanks to "Dan the Dildo," the name I gave to my favorite dildo. He was a birthday present to myself at the tender age of 23 when I gave up on men, but not on sex.

My college girlfriends all have boyfriends, a few are already married and one is pregnant. Usually their boyfriends/partners/husbands are between the third to the tenth man with carnal knowledge of my girlfriends. The number ten is only one case (Melissa) where ten men have carnal knowledge, at least that I know about. In my case there are zero. Zero such men. Zero. None.

Of course, a lot of the knowledge of my girlfriends' sex lives is inference, based on what they tell me and their Facebook posts. There is no way I could really know. For example, they probably think a few men have laid me, since I may have kind of given that impression. It's embarrassing to still be a virgin. If they do think that however they are wrong. They are very wrong.

It's not that I'm ugly. I'm not. I don't have body odor and I don't have bad breath. I am a standard issue woman. Okay, I'm not competing in looks with the latest movie star heartthrob, but as my brother used to say about standard issue girls such as myself, "(he) wouldn't kick them out of bed." Another one of his charming phrases I once overheard him say to another guy when he was in college was, "You don't fuck the face."

To round it out he would say about the bar scene, "Go ugly early." He seemed to take those as words to live by, too, from what I could tell of the stream of girls he brought home. I heard them moaning to the high heavens from his bedroom, and I listened for and heard his hands slapping their naked asses as he fucked them.

My brother also did not have "a type." Some of the girls were fat, some were skinny, some had big boobs and some had small boobs, some dressed well and some didn't. That they were willing seemed to be the only criterion my brother used. My brother's bedroom is next to mine and the walls are thin. I used to watch porn on mute in my bedroom, using his current lay's squeals and moans as the soundtrack. I was pathetic. I had to make small talk the next morning with these women smelling of sex. It was at the breakfast table, too.

I assume those last charming phrases ('you don't fuck the face' and 'go ugly early') of my brother referred to the fact that a girl being willing trumps her being pretty. Nobody would think of me as ugly, I'm sure, but also absolutely nobody would think of me as willing. Therein lies the problem. I have the reputation of being as frigid as an iceberg. I don't know if you've ever touched an iceberg, but they are truly cold.

How does one go about defrosting oneself? I knew what the problem was. Nudity, and my aversion to it. No man had ever seen me without clothes. Even all my doctors are and always have been women. The only males who have ever seen my naked body are my Dad when I was under three years old and he changed my diapers, and my brother. Clearly my Dad seeing me nude as a baby does not count.

My brother seeing me counts, most definitely. He was twenty and I was eighteen when it happened and of course his seeing me was purely accidental. It happens in families. Shit happens. He came home unexpectedly and I was walking nude from the shower to my bedroom when he saw me. I froze standing there nude giving him a full frontal like a deer in the headlights. He laughed, walked past me, gave my bare ass a stinging slap, and it was over.

Well, it's never really over. I'm sure he'll always have a picture of me nude in his mind, my ass welting up after his slap, and I still get cold sweats over the issue from time to time, and it happened eight years ago! Other than that, though, my entire body is visually virginal. That implies it's also sexually virginal and it sure is.

Something had to change. A girl cannot fall in love, marry, and have babies without sex. A girl cannot have sex in this day and age if no man can ever see her body. I was at my wits' end. When you are without hope, in despair, you turn to charlatans. Of course, most people do not think they are turning to charlatans at the time. It's more of a desperation move.

There was this doctor in the Bronx. Marilou told me about her. She practices medicine with "unorthodox techniques but they seem to work." I made an appointment. It was a long subway ride; I took the 4 train. Her name was Dr. Quark. It was so close to Dr. Quack it was not funny. Her father or grandfather had changed it from Kwarinrksy or something like that way back when on Ellis Island.

Dr. Quark listened to my woes and tribulations with great patience and an eager ear. She seemed more than interested. It turns out I was not the first but the second patient who had presented with these symptoms, and her treatment for the first one had worked! Maybe it was a fluke that it worked? She was more than eager to try it again to see if it could work a second time! At least she was an honest and straightforward quack.

I have small breasts. They're not tiny, just small. I wear a B cup bra.

"I want you to go without a bra," Dr. Quark said.

"I could not possibly do that," I said. "Everyone will know!"

"I realize that. I want you to take one of these pills. You can take up to eight per day. Do not take more than eight. The pills will help you overcome your aversion to nudity," she said.

"What are the side effects?" I asked. I always ask that.

"Some people get a nervous stomach, and some people get a headache, but both side effects are rare. If that happens to you, hard alcohol helps, such as whiskey, rum, or vodka," Dr. Quark said.

"You're kidding? There's a medicine where alcohol helps? Do you want me to smoke, too?"

Dr. Quark smiled. "No, no smoking. Smoking will not hurt the medicinal effects but in general no doctor can ever recommend smoking. Except, of course, for certain bowel movement disorders, but that's rare. How are your bowels?"

"Fine, thank you," I replied.

"Well then, there you have it. Start out at home. When you get used to it, go to the market without a bra to buy your groceries. If you wear a sweater, nobody will know. You'll find nobody will care," she said.

"It's hot as hell out right now. We're having the hottest summer on record. Everyone is wearing as little as possible. I'll look like a fool wearing a sweater," I said.

"You have a nice blouse on right now. It's perfect, actually. Take off your bra now. I'll turn around," Dr. Quark said. I kept thinking of her as Dr. Quack. I removed my bra. After all, I was in a doctor's office, in her examining room.

"Now look at yourself," Dr. Quark said. "Do you look that different?"

"No, not really."

"Can you tell you are without a bra? Move around to see if you can see any bouncing that would not happen if you were wearing a bra," she said.

I did. No difference. I looked the same. I don't really need to wear a bra for support. It's just more of a norm to wear one. Dr. Quark's theory was clearly to help me to break out of the stranglehold of convention.

"In this blouse, if you're behind me, you can see the bra strap through the blouse. When people see there's no bra strap, they'll know I'm without a bra," I said.

"It's not a crime to go without a bra from time to time. In fact, a lot of women who can go without the support do it when it's this hot. It's simply more comfortable," said Dr. Quark who is probably a D cup herself and always wears a bra!

"Now I'm going to turn the AC on super high, to make it quite cold in here," she said.

"To get my nipples hard?" I asked.

"Exactly. Let's not think about it, we can just talk. Elections are coming up. What are your thoughts?" she asked.

We talked politics for around fifteen minutes, and then she told me to look in the mirror. Wow. My nipples, which have always been long when hard, were poking at my blouse like there was no tomorrow.

"Do you like how you look?" Dr. Quark asked me when I looked at myself in the mirror.

"Everyone will see AND WILL NOTICE my hard nipples. Won't they know I'm not wearing a bra?" I asked.

"They may notice, and they may suspect, but they surely will not know," she said. She added, to my horror, "I want you to leave my office and travel all the way home dressed like this. I want to see you again in three days. Wear a sundress."

"I can't do that," I said.

"You can't do what? Come back in three days?" the doctor asked.

"Go home braless. I just can't," I said.

"Do you want to get better?" she asked. "Take two of these pills. The normal dose is one pill, but for your first time maybe two is a good idea. This is a first step. Nobody can see anything. As you said, it's as hot as a furnace outside and your nipples will shrink dramatically. Stay out of AC and you'll be fine."

"The subway cars are air conditioned," I said.

"Not all of them. Sometimes one of the cars in the train has broken AC. More and more seem to these days as the subway falls apart while Mayor De Blasio and Governor Cuomo feud. Find a car with nobody in it. Those cars either have a bad smell or they don't have AC. You'll be fine."

I did it. I left the doctor's office with my bra inside my purse. I was so nervous I felt as if I were one big goose bump. I was sure everyone would be staring at me, especially all of the men. Dr. Quark was right; once I left her office my nipple rapidly shriveled back to normal under the onslaught of the heat.

My boobs did not bounce and it was not at all obvious I was without a bra. Nobody seemed to notice or to care, except of course for me. I had a strange mixture of emotions: Relief combined with disappointment.

I was beginning to sweat from the heat. It was a long wait for the subway and the platform was hot and humid. It's not ladylike for a woman to sweat. Men sweat, women don't. Wrong! Everyone sweats. I was sweating. My anxiety over not wearing a bra probably continued to my abundant production of sweat.

To hell with it. Even if I found a train car with broken AC, I was taking a crowded one, where I was sure the AC was working. When the train finally arrived, it was jammed! As I got inside and the doors slammed shut, I was standing up against the window, being slightly crushed by the push of people around me. I saw myself in the reflection of the subway train window.

I could not believe my eyes. My body had sweated enough to get my blouse wet and it was now clinging to my boobs. Worse, it had become slightly transparent. Even a casual observer could see my boobs and especially my nipples and areolas right through my blouse!

I was on the 4 train which is an express train. As we crawled through a station where the train does not stop, there was a local train stopped in the station. I could see all the people in the local train and of course they could also see me. Most were not looking. Some were looking though, and they could see my boobs right through my blouse!

Men were staring at me either with their mouths open or with a shit-eating grin on their face. I was horrified to be inadvertently exposing my boobs like that to the men but my emotions were complex. I knew I was safe from them. Their view was fleeting as we rolled on past them. I found myself getting a little wet down there; I was getting aroused. It must be the pills Dr. Quark gave me, I figured.

It got worse. As the AC took hold my nipples became hard. They were poking furiously at my now transparent blouse! It was a good thing my back was to the crowd in my train car and that I was facing away from them, facing the train window.

I looked at myself using the train car window as a mirror, confirming that I could still see every single bleeping detail of my boobs and now moreover my nipples were hard as rocks and sticking out prominently. As I stared at myself in horror I saw too the reflection of a man standing behind me. His eyes were glued to something, a reflection in the window just as I was doing, and oh my God he was staring right at my boobs!

A man was seeing my boobs for the first time ever and there was no place to run, no place to hide. I peed just a little in my panties. I had lost control. I was so horrified. I kept staring at the reflection in the window of his eyes as they stared at my exposed boobs the way one cannot tear oneself away from the sight of the horror of a deadly car accident.

My peripheral vision saw a second man checking out my boobs. There was a third man, too! The horror, the horror! I might have been imagining it but I think I was beginning to smell of urine. I felt faint, as if I were going to fall, and just then the subway pulled into Union Square, which was my stop. The doors opened and since I was up against them I almost fell out of the train.

I actually did fall onto the platform as a rush of people pushed past me to leave the train and others to board it quickly to get whatever seats might have been liberated by the mob leaving the train. I assumed they were mostly changing to the L train to head over to Brooklyn. Some might have changed to the N, Q, or R trains, too. In contrast Union Square was my destination.

The three men who had been intent on checking out my boobs and my nipples now crowded around me and helped me to stand. They all stared at my exposed boobs, and one of the men, George, invited me for a coffee and inquired solicitously if I was hurt from my fall. I was not.

He took me to a nearby coffee shop. It was air conditioned of course and my nipples rose to the occasion. I excused myself to the go to the ladies' room and I removed my panties and quickly washed them in the sink to get the urine out. I wrung them out as best as I could, but I could not psychologically handle putting on soaking wet panties. At least the urine was gone.

I tried to dry my panties using the hot air hand dryer but it was a lost cause, since the air was intense but was cold, not hot air. I channeled Dr. Quark and knowing she would be thrilled, I put the panties inside a napkin and then put them in my purse and returned to George and the table still without my bra and now not wearing panties, either. I popped another pill.

I reassured George I had not been hurt by the fall and I thanked him for the cappuccino he had bought me. He had even chosen skim milk. He explained, "All women are on diets all the time. They always want skim milk."

George added, staring unabashedly at my two nipples trying to break free, "You are certainly very much a woman, so it's skim milk for you, I figured." I smiled for the first time since leaving Dr. Quark up in the Bronx.

"You were staring at my boobs using the subway window as a mirror in the train, weren't you George?" I said, addressing the elephant in the coffee shop.

"I've never seen such lovely boobs as yours appear to be," George said. I blushed. He was not truly answering my question but we both already knew the answer, didn't we?

"You need to get out more," I said.

"Want to help me? I'd love to take you to dinner tonight, Cassandra."

I looked at him. Truth be told, he was cute. Late twenties, maybe thirty years old? Nice hard body. I could do worse. I have done worse. I've often done worse. I've mostly done worse. "I'd love to go to dinner with you tonight," I said.

"Can I ask a favor?" George said.

"Of course," I replied, wondering what favor he could possibly ask for already.

"Don't change a thing. You look divine, just as you are," he said.

"You mean of course that you like that I'm not wearing a bra," I said, once again talking to the elephant. "You may not realize it, but due to my trip to the ladies', I'm also without panties." Oh my goodness that just slipped out! What's wrong with me?

"Then most definitely do not change a thing!" George said and he leaned across the table and surprised me by giving me a little kiss. I loved the kiss.

When I got home I immediately called Dr. Quark. I got her machine but thank the heavens she called me back within the hour. She was ecstatic on my behalf! She told me I had to go to dinner with George, and not to change.

"My skirt is dirty. It smells a bit of urine. I need to change it," I said.

"Go to Saks Fifth Avenue. Go to the third floor, the Marni section, and ask for Suzanne. I'm calling her now. She'll take care of you," Dr. Q. said. (I had decided to call her Dr. Q.)

I'm a good girl. I do as I'm told. Suzanne sold me a much too short skirt made of a fabric where one could see the shadow of my bush right through the skirt. She told me Dr. Q. had insisted I get this particular skirt.

"She said something about keeping George happy," Suzanne said. "Apparently he is to be the father of your baby?"

I giggled. "I think Dr. Quark is getting a little ahead of things," I said.

"She often does," Suzanne said. "But she means well, and I hear she gets results. She also told me to pick out a new blouse for you. She gave explicit instructions. This one should work fine."

Suzanne "forced" me to try on the blouse. It was very low cut, almost down to my waist. It exposed a ton of my boobs. The nipples were still hidden thank goodness, but only barely. My nipples were poking at the blouse with all their might. To make things worse, the blouse was sheer, and I could see the hidden parts of my boobs right through the fabric. I thought of George, smiled, and I bought both the skirt and the blouse. One month's salary down the drain right there!

I could not wear the blouse or especially the skirt out of the store. It was too humiliating to be exposed like that on the sidewalks of the streets of Midtown in New York. Every man who saw me would want to stick his hands inside my blouse for a quick fondle, I was sure. Most men can restrain themselves but New York is a big place. What if one man simply could not resist? No, I would not wear the blouse out of the store.

I bought a bottle of Scotch whiskey on the way home. At the liquor store I explained there was a man I wanted to impress and that price was not a constraint. This was a mistake. I had no idea one could spend thousands of dollars for a bottle of Scotch whiskey! I ended up buying two bottles of Macallan 15-year-old whiskey that had been aged in oak, which I assumed was a good thing from the way the man spoke of it. I also bought a bottle of Balvenie 14 year old Scotch. Even though neither cost anywhere near to thousands of dollars, they were not cheap!

I went home and removed my still wet panties from my purse and tossed them in the hamper. My bra went there too, since it now smelled from the proximity to my panties. I changed my purse, too. I popped open a bottle of the Macallan Scotch whiskey and poured myself a glass. Whoa! The stuff was strong! I drank enough to get a buzz.

It worked. Dr. Q. was right. With the aid of the Scotch and two more pills I was able to get dressed with neither bra nor panties, wearing my new blouse and my new skirt. I was so proud of myself! My blouse revealed a hell of a lot of boob. As long as the AC was not too strong in the restaurant, I should be fine, except of course for my much too short skirt that revealed not only a lot of my upper thighs but also the shadow of my bush, to boot. I was showing a lot flesh I was not accustomed to showing!

I took off my skirt, went to the bathroom and I trimmed my bush a bit. Dr. Q. had told me to do that. "You never know," she had said. I giggled. I shaved off the stubble from the trimming. I had become creative and now my bush was in the shape of a small heart. I took out Dan the Dildo and gave myself a small treat. It helped me to relax a bit, although I also entered a state of arousal that I had a bit of trouble shaking.

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