Frigid Brigid the Majorette

Wasn't this against the public decency code? Weren't female nipples supposed to be covered? He imagined the Tunemasters majorette would know about such things. But the "powers that be" must have decided it was OK. Maybe it was just the tip of the nipple, the part that stuck out and supported these letters, that had to be covered.

"Aren't they great?" Brigid said, sticking them out slightly, proud of this change in her uniform. "The circlets were too small. This way my 'T's are more cleah." As she moved the T's danced a little.

"Do they stay on OK?" he couldn't help asking.

"Sure, they fit right on." In the middle of each letter was a little black circle, as big around as a pencil eraser, that covered the nub of her nipple. He couldn't imagine how these things felt. "Better than those horrid old clips."

"I'll say."

He noticed people forming a circle around them as Brigid explained the benefits of her new uniform.

Rod looked further down and saw that her uniform bottom, which used to be a narrow "V", was now also a "T". It was clear by now that Brigid had had to shave off every bit of her pubic hair because her lower T covered only her pussy lips and her clit, those private parts he had spied on during that last game when Brigid was being "cleaned up" under the stands by Ms. Farkas and Debra and Virginia. The T was way, way below her navel, maybe eight inches of flat lower tummy framed by the larger "V" of her hip bones. The junction of the T had to be right over where Brigid's clit lay hidden between her lower lips...

The clear plastic straps came around from the sides, crossing the lower parts of Brigid's hip bones, and met at each end of the T. The bottom of the T was almost hidden as it disappeared between her legs.

"Looks a little insecure," Marisa, who was standing behind Brigid, said of the strings in the back.

"Oh this is called a V-back," Brigid said, turning around and looking back on it to the extend she could. "It's actually more secuah than a T-back. I can move around and it stays put." Everyone looked down at the tiny transparent straps that curved into her butt crack. He couldn't help but continue to admire how tight and firm and curvy her butt was. Her white skin was beautiful and clear...

"Your sandals changed too," Brian observed.

"Yeah," Brigid said, taking one off and putting her bare foot on the tile floor, surrounded by everyone else's big ruffled boots. She held it up at the level of her cute puckered navel. "See, no heel. And it's got a tread." Indeed the sandals were now totally flat flip-flops, with straps that were as transparent as those around her hips. And the bottoms did have black treads on them, like sneakers do.

"Snow flip-flops," someone said. Everyone laughed, including Brigid. "Yeah, like tires," she said. "It was eithah that, or chains," she said. More giggling.

As Brigid put the flip-flop back on, Rod looked down and told himself: Brigid's entire foot is now exposed. He regarded again the T covering her pussy lips, and the tiny bit of coverage afforded by the T's on her breasts.

He held up the pinky on his gloved hand and told himself: now she's down to less than this. My pinky has more coverage than Brigid's entire body does!

This little chitchat was interrupted by Sarge, who was followed by one of the men in top hats, a white guy with a beard about 55 years old, with a ribbon across his ruffled tuxedo-like jacket. "Tunemasters, this is the mayor, Mr. Richfield, who's grand marshaling this parade. Mr. Richfield, we're all proud of them, the Tunemasters!"

Rod and the others said a variation of "good to meet you", the standard greeting they had been trained to say. Comportment off the march was very important, especially since the Killington resort was donating a big wad of cash to the school for this appearance. Mr. Richfield said a few words about how he was glad to have them here, how he'd heard about them even up here in the Green Mountains, etc., etc. Then he said,"It's traditional for a photo of some of the visiting band members to be taken before the parade. I'd like a couple of you to stand outside with me for a moment. We've got to hurry -- it's almost getting dark."

Sarge said, "Well one of them has to be our majorette, the other -- Jared? Get your things."

By that he meant: Brigid, get your baton, and Jared, get your cymbals. In a moment both were hustling to the foyer and then outside, along with Sarge. The rest stayed inside and watched through the big foyer window, through which they could see the marching route.

The photographer, bundled up in his scarf and coat and gloves and ski cap, was waiting out there for them. The snow was a little golden now, with the last rays of sunshine. As Rod and the rest of the Tunemasters watched, Jamal and Brigid stood on either side of Mayor Richfield and smiled, trying not to squint as they faced the setting sun. Jamal, with his cymbals posed in front of him as if about to crash, Brigid, with her baton primly placed up against her left shoulder, next to the Mayor. Down below, a few grains of snow had dusted up on Brigid's bare toes. Her body was flushed from top to bottom in the invigorating cold.

The Mayor's white glove rested on Brigid's bare right shoulder. Rod thought: how does a middle-aged guy feel resting a hand on the majorette, getting to feel her bare skin, if only through his glove? Didn't he really wish he was cupping her ass? He smirked at the thought.

"Come on, Mr. Watson," the Mayor said, beckoning for Sarge to get into the photo. Sarge modestly refused, but the Tunemasters, shouting through the glass, egged him on. Finally he shrugged and took his place next to Jamal as the band inside cheered.

Smiles stayed frozen on their faces as the photographer fiddled with his camera. A minute went by. Finally the Mayor took his hand off Brigid's shoulder and shook off the cold that was penetrating him even through his suit and gloves and heavy boots. One might think that someone who lived up here would be more temperature resistant. "Something wrong, Fred?" he finally said.

"The contrast with the girl, she's too white, she blends with the snow," he mumbled. At his suggestion there was some shifting around. Breaths condensed in the cold air as Brigid got a little more flushed. Maybe her increasing redness made the contrast better. Another minute later, the flash went off. A second flash, and now Brigid and Jamal and Sarge ran in to the foyer.

They all got back to the big "ready room" and Rod sat down and sipped his soda. Jared sat next to him and they talked about basketball, how the Celtics were doing this year. On the TV, it was amazing how dark it got right away. The two guys in ski outfits were still talking. The sound was too low to hear what they were saying.

He turned around, sensing Brigid near him. And found himself staring eye-level with Brigid's crotch only a foot away.

She was standing and sipping soda, with Virginia and Debra, her fully uniformed friends, on each side of her, looking out to the gathering crowd on the snow-packed parade route. She wasn't aware of his gaze.

His close-in view allowed him to fully enjoy her smooth white skin, from her flat tummy with its cute navel down to her thighs. The only interruption from total nakedness was the thin clear string that journeyed from both sides across her hips, crossing the lower parts of the big "V" of her delicate hip bones, crossing the smaller "V" of her pubic mound, meeting in that little black-and-white "T" that hugged and partly bit into her pubic lips. She must have taken a lot of care shaving down there. Not a hint of stubble, no trace of the pubic hairs that he now knew were as red as the hairs on her head.

The little "T" was as skinny as his pinky and the top was only half an inch wide. It looked ridiculously tiny on her. Thin as she was, it made her hips look wide as the clear strings journeyed their way across them, like trekking across an endless desert toward the tiny oasis of covering that was the "T". She looked like a 50-foot woman who had stretched on a normal size thong.

And the stem of the "T" was so thin that it bit into her lips, actually separating them, as it disappeared between her legs. From his close view he could see the little streak of gold running down the middle of the "T", within the black that was in turn framed within the tiny white border. So here was the gold that matched the gold piping on everyone else's uniforms, though shrunk down to almost microscopic dimensions on the micro-uniform that the majorette had to wear.

"Micro-uniform." That was a good name for it. Brigid could hardly be said to be wearing anything, yet she stood straight up and poised and clearly proud of what was on her. He wondered what the scene was like in her house on game days. For his part, he would shower, get into his thermals, then his momma would have his uniform laid out on his bed, shirt next to jacket, then pants, then his socks, with his boots on the floor. And Brigid? He imagined her walking to her room totally naked, to find the tiny circlets and V-botton carefully arranged, tiny bits against the expanse of bedsheets, which would take only a few seconds to tie on. Then slipping on the flip-flops, and prancing out to get her baton.

Examining her crotch again, he saw the fleshiness of the white-skinned lower lips, sloping down from each side of the "T". Including the crease at the beginnings of her legs, it looked like the letter "W", though with soft bottoms. A little "w" in script, maybe.

He quickly turned around, thinking Brigid might be seeing him look at her crotch. She was used to being looked at, of course, but it wouldn't be cool to stare so directly. He sipped his soda and, looking back, was relieved to see she was still looking outside.

There was a big, flashy scene that was developing out there. The place seemed to be in the middle of nowhere, judging from that long bus ride, so where did all these people come from? it was a little city carnival. Music was piped in, food was being sold from booths, people milling around waiting for the start of festivities.

His mind wandered and he thought of those dreams he had been having. It had been three or four times now. He was older and had a girlfriend, or maybe it was a wife. Her name was Tami and she was red-haired and white and she was always naked. Like a natural forest woman, kissing him and then scampering away through the forest, her tough bare feet hopping from rock to log to branch, light as a feather, then in no time disappearing from sight. These dreams were clearly inspired by Brigid, especially that last one where this Tami lady was wearing this little string thing in her crotch and seemed to be as proud and glad of this covering as Brigid was with her micro-thong.

Now Brigid sat on the bench a few feet down from him, saying hi but then chatting with Debra, who sat down on the far side. He watched as they talked about their favorite TV shows, Brigid with her legs crossed dangling the flip-flop from the ends of her toes. You never saw bare toes in January, except with the Tunemasters majorette of course.

Her breasts must have gotten bigger. It sure seemed so, as he saw them in profile, sticking out from her rib cage more than before, jiggling slightly with the motions of her leg. Well, most girls her age were still developing. He saw the pink circles of her nipples in profile -- they were called areoles, something like that?

First the circlets, then the smaller circlets, now these suspended T's -- it seemed like the uniform was gradually leaping off the fronts of Brigid's breasts. Now only the very tip of her nipple, was covered, in that tiny half-inch tube that supported the "T"'s which had no other point of contact with her. They didn't pull down her breasts at all. They looked to be hollow plastic and almost weightless. They jiggled a little too, with every little motion.

"Ready to get -- Frigid -- Brigid?" a wise guy cracked as he passed by. Brigid began to turn but changed her mind and kept talking about soap operas.

"Icy titties," another boy said as he passed by. Brigid made a quick sign of "f**k you" with her lips but kept talking.

Now a stray comment from some distance away. "Popsicle toes!"

Brigid ignored him, though it seemed like the skin around her collarbones flushed a bit as if in anger. She was used to the occasional jerky comment. It never rattled her. The way some boys acted, it didn't make him proud. Sometimes he wished she would jump up and say, "Hey in a few minutes I'll be freezing my tits off for you idiots! Just shut the f**k up!" Or thrusting her breasts in some boy's face and saying, "Go ahead keep talking. Just know you will never... EVER... get to touch these!!" It would serve him right. But that just wouldn't be Brigid. To be the Tunemasters majorette was a big responsibility and she handled it like a real pro.

He briefly wondered what it would be like if it was him. That is, a drum major, who had to wear just a tiny jockstrap-;ike thing. He'd die of embarrassment. Kind of like if Brigid, standing at attention in front of the formation of full-uniformed Tunemasters, was nervously clutching the baton in front of her and saying, "P - please, Sarge... C - could I be allowed to wear more -- clothes? Please??"

His increasingly weird musings were interrupted by Sarge's loud bark. "Attention, troops!" Like what he must have said hundreds of times in the Army. Rod and Brigid and Debra and the others got up, as Sarge addressed them, Brigid as usual by his side.

"First question, how is that thermal underwear working out? Anyone feeling hot?"

A murmur of approval. Brigid, crossing her arms, one foot turned to the side, looked on.

"Good. Believe me, it's a new fabric and it's wonderful. Developed for the Army, or by the Army, I understand. No surprise here," he said with a smile. "You wouldn't get the Navy latching on to something that good... Now, it's a packed snow route, as you can see, and real cold. Out of consideration for the band, I've asked that the route be short. We'll be marching only about 300 yards. We'll be outside no more than ten or fifteen minutes. After that, you can come back here and change, or you can mingle. Be back by nine o'clock though."

Rod knew that the reference to "consideration for the band" was really "consideration for our majorette who has to march practically naked". But Brigid would not want any mention of special treatment. A pro.

"We'll be doing 'National Emblem', 'Little Giant' and 'Winter Wonderland', which is the obvious choice. Remember the double tonguing on the intro to 'Wonderland'. I know it's a new tune for you but I know you'll do fine.

"I won't be marching with you, I'll be on the reviewing stand. Watch Brigid. Like always, but especially tonight. She has a headset and will be hearing my directions. Remember," he said, lowering his voice to the majorette next to him, "if my voice is too low, turn left. Too high, turn right. I don't want you going deaf for our sake."

A short old lady appeared next to Sarge. He said, "Now you voted to donate our marching fee to the disabled learning center, as you recall. Good choice, though all the choices they gave us are worthy programs at our school. Here's the director, you've seen her around the school, Dr. Bellamy."

To his surprise Tommy Blackwell appeared next to her and everyone felt about to choke up. Tommy, who had been one of the most popular guys in the school, his ornate dreadlocks a daily sight swinging down the halls, the quarterback for the freshman football team, who was in a car crash, who since then hadn't been able to put a complete sentence together. His parents were optimistic but it was obvious he just wasn't getting better.

Dr. Bellamy said a few words, thanking the band "from the bottom of our hearts." Then she gave the floor to Tommy.

"Th - thank... you... g - guys," he said, struggling with each sound. Then a labored wave of his hand, and through his surgically repaired lips, a little flash of his old smile.

Some of the girls sniffled and probably some of the boys too. Then suddenly, loud applause.

It made Rod proud, once again, to be a Tunemaster. Sarge gave them ten minutes until lineup time. Ron went back to his soda at the table.

And felt his left boot go out from under him. Then a quick view of the ceiling and an awful pain in the back of his head, like being hit with a baseball bat.

It seemed like a week later when he woke. For a moment he thought he was as messed up as Tommy, but he blinked and realized he was OK except for a headache. He looked up from the floor and saw Brigid's T's, dancing gently above him, as she bent down and placed her hand behind his head.

Her breasts were so round and firm and white... he looked up past her bare shoulders at her concerned and helpful face.

"Are you OK, Rod?"

"Oh Brigid..." He was about to tell her he loved her. But then saw the sea of concerning faces standing behind her and thought better of it. He tried to help himself up. Brigid, her toes flexing in her flip-flops, put her strong arms around his wool jacket. He placed his gloved hand on the upper slope of her hip, which helped revive him a lot. The next moment he was standing up, taking deep breaths...

"What happened?"

"You slipped and were out cold for a few seconds," Jared said.

He shook his head quickly and felt a quick chill all over. "I'm OK, gang!" he announced. A sigh of relief all around.

"All line up!" Sarge shouted from somewhere in the distance.

"That was some spill," Brigid said as they lined up, he and Brigid and Debra and Virginia near the front, waiting to get into the vestibule and then out into the loud, light-filled nighttime air.

"You mean someone spilled soda?" he said.

She laughed enchantingly, tapping her baton against the bell of his trombone. "No, I mean you fell backwids, gave us quite a scay - uh."

They talked about the crowds outside, how the whiff of hot dogs was making them hungry, whether their parents would see this event on TV. Meawhile Debra and Virginia spoke among themselves. He and Brigid were having the most relaxed conversation they'd ever had. It was a good feeling, he told himself, as he looked down at his long braided trousers and boots next to her bare thighs, her bare feet in the clear-strap flip flops.

During a lull they looked at the night scene outside. For the first time they noticed the lights of the village down the hill, sharp and clear over the bluish tinge of snow. A bank thermometer said it was minus seven degrees. It must mean Centigrade. He wasn't sure he should be mentioning her plight but he said, "Are you going to be all right out there?"

She took a deep breath, causing the T's to rise and fall, then looked down as she wiggled her toes. "It's only a shawt time. Afterwids I'll run back heah and get into my clothes."

"You can wear my jacket," he said.

She laughed. "Thanks but I don't think that'll do it."

They waited and waited. Everyone was getting fidgety. From the front Sarge said, "There's been a delay. They can't get one of the floats to start up. Hang on, crew."

Then they had to move out of the way as some men rolled dollies by carrying what must be float stuff. The four of them moved aside into a little hallway with a water fountain and a door that said, "Custodian". They had run out of conversation and were getting seriously impatient. He twiddled with his spit valve and slide. Virginia played with her clarinet keys. She was using a size four reed and let Brigid try to play a few notes. "Wow, that's a thick reed," she said. "It's hahd to get a note out!" She gave it back to Virginia. They watched as another dolly went by.

Debra began to contemplate Brigid's T's in a way that only a close girlfriend was probably allowed to do. "It's hard to believe that those things stay on."