Marti Ch. 02: The Mother of All Streaks

Set in the future, when the 70's streaking fad has made a comeback, chapter 2 picks up a few weeks after chapter 1, on October 25, 2030, at a frat house near the fictional NC Tech. Although it is part of a series, you don't need to read the first chapter to understand the story.

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Just to catch you up, I'm Marti, a junior at Cornetta College, a small college in North Carolina. A few weeks ago, while at a frat party, I let myself get talked into a streaking bet, lost, and I had to streak the NC Tech campus, completely naked, just as over 60,000 fans left a football game. I barely escaped arrest.

I'd been humiliated, thousands of people had seen me, and lots of my nudies got posted on the internet. At first, I wanted to assume an alias, dye my hair, wear dark glasses, put a paper bag over my head, start identifying as an "it," hide under my bed for a year, and move to the Moon. Yet, suddenly I was the hottest girl on campus. Wherever I went, people giggled and whispered excitedly, "That's her; that's the streaker." All the guys at Cornetta downloaded my nudies and posted printouts of my nudies on their dorm room walls. It was terribly embarrassing but, at the same time, a huge rush.

The news media called my streak the most daring streak ever, and describing me as athletic and sexy. I loved that part of it. I read and re-read all the articles and there were lots and lots of them. Even the fact that many of the articles showed some of my nudies was exhilarating.

Of course, the Saturday after my streak, I got "bimbofied." In case you forgot what that means from chapter one, as they do whenever a girl lost a streaking bet, the Beta Delta Nu Fraternity celebrated by holding a party in my honor, hung poster-sized photos of my streak on their walls, tacked up my panties as their trophy, and posted all my nudies on their website.

Now, I'm back at another party at the Beta house and, as I looked at my photos, I smiled. My streak was the most exciting thing I'd ever done. You know that feeling you get when you're naked for the first time with someone; the thrill you get when they first look at you and you see the excitement in their eyes. It's always special.

Well, imagine thousands of people seeing you nude for the first time, including lots of cute guys, hundreds and hundreds of people photographing you, and then throw in the most embarrassment you've ever had in your life multiplied times 10, along with being in a constant state of sheer panic, and you've got an unbelievable rush, like nothing you've ever done before. It's so intense you can't even think, that's streaking. And then, when the police start chasing your bare-ass, it takes the experience to an emotional intensity you didn't even believe was possible, a total mind-fuck.

Despite the danger, the humiliation, all my nude photos on the internet, and nearly getting my ass jailed, afterwards, my streak was all I thought about and I couldn't wait to do it again. You haven't really lived until you're surrounded by flashing blue lights, sirens blaring, chased by half-a-dozen cops, running like you're in a Jurassic Park movie, completely bare-ass, in front of ten thousand people, scared witless, and squealing in terror. It's such an amazing rush that, as crazy as it sounds, I've got to do it again.

Still, I hesitated. Even with all that being said, I'll admit, this streaking thing is certifiable lunacy. No sane and sober girl would do it. So, although I was already a little blitzed and in a perfect mental state to make bad life choices, I took another couple of hits of the Beta house punch, a mind-altering mixture of grain alcohol and Kool-Aide, just to seal the deal. As I felt the buzz, the last of my inhibitions slipped away and my cunny began to tingle. Things were about to get really interesting.

"Well," one of the frat boys teased, "are you ready for another bet?"

"Maybe."

In truth, there was no maybe to it. I'd been squirming in sexual tension all night waiting for the guys to challenge me to another streaking bet, fearful that they'd pick some other girl. As everyone stared at me in a wide-eyed anticipation, Grant Collins, the president of Beta Delta Nu, made his way through the crowd.

Maybe?" Grant asked. "What do you mean by maybe?"

"I mean you'll have to agree to all my terms and they're not negotiable."

When it came to streaking bets, I didn't need to quibble. Beta fraternity's mission in life was to separate comely coeds from their clothes. To that end, they'd take any risk if it meant that there was even a slight chance that they might get a pretty girl naked. Add to that, they really wanted me in particular. The Beta boys adored me. I'd flirted, teased, and even kissed lots of them but I'd never done it with any of them, even though all of them really wanted it. It was a major source of sexual frustration and enough to have the boys desperate to get me naked again.

Further, not only was I the most athletic girl in the room as well as one of the hottest (the hottest in my humble opinion), I was a North Carolina Tar Heel fan at a NC Tech Bobcat fraternity and I'd had the nerve to wear a UNC T-shirt to the party. Furthermore, just to tease them, I'd worn another pair of Carolina blue thong panties, just like the ones that they'd tacked up on their wall after my last streak, and I'd even lowered my jeans just a little and wiggled my ass just to show them. It had the boys in a frenzy.

"I'm listening," Grant said.

"I'll take Virginia and 7 and, if I win, three of you will have to streak and I and I alone get to pick which three people."

"When will you choose?"

"Not until after the game. It'll be more fun. That way none of you will know whether you're going to be streaking until the last moment."

"And the place?" Grant asked.

"Same place as last time, the middle of the prairie right after the game."

"The prairie," as it was called, was a huge open lawn in the middle of the NC Tech campus, as big as six football fields combined. The NC Tech stadium, holding over 60,000 fans, was on the east side of the campus but most of the parking, apartments and dorms were on the west side. So, after every game, tens of thousands of people, alumni and students alike, flooded across the prairie to get back to their cars, dorms, or apartments.

"Completely naked?" Grant asked.

"As the day you were born, not even shoes. And, they'll be no pick-up. Whoever loses will be completely on their own. And, just to top it off, the losers' get their clothes burned. That way, there's no turning back."

An excited murmur ran through the crowd. It was the most audacious streak ever proposed. This would be the mother of all streaks. That, and the fact that they'd actually get to strip the hapless losers naked and burn their clothes, had everyone giddy.

"We accept," Grant said. The frat house broke into a wild cheer. "Anyone who doesn't want to be a part of this bet better leave now. Cause, we're going to lock everyone in and, after that, you won't be able to leave." Even as Grant spoke, the frat boys were already screwing all the doors and windows tight. It wasn't as big a job as you'd think as all the holes were already there from lots and lots of previous bets. After only a few minutes, the house was inescapable.

Eager to burn my clothes, at halftime, the boys started a fire in the fireplace. With the score tied late in the third quarter, I was getting anxious. But, I wasn't the only one sweating it. With their skin on the line, all of the guys were glued to the television as well.

Towards the end of the fourth quarter, the girls started teasing the boys about which of them the girls wanted to see get naked, feeling up their asses, kissing them, running their hands down the guy's shirts, nibbling, and motor-boated the boys' faces in their cleavage. We girls always enjoyed getting a streaker all worked up at the end of the game so he'd suffer the embarrassment of having to run around naked with a hard-on. It was fun and made for some really great photos.

"Come on," one of the guys pleaded. "Tell us who you're going to choose." Even the girls wanted to know.

"Okay," I said. The party fell silent. "I want all you guys to line up over here." Walking slowly down the line of nervous young men, I gave each careful consideration, looking critically at each from top to bottom. "Decision time boys," I said. "Which three of you should I choose?" I paused for a moment and then turned around and started considering the girls. "Or maybe I'll choose three girls instead."

Shocked, the girls looked upon me helplessly as they realized they'd been duped and that they were the ones that could end up getting skinned (the term the boys used for the loser of the bet having to get naked and streak).

"I made it clear that everyone in the house that stayed was subject to the bet," I said. "And each of you stayed. That means your skin's are on the line just like the guys' and I can choose any of you I want. So, line up girls." Reluctantly, they obeyed.

It might surprise you that they all submitted but you need to understand that Beta house parties weren't for well-mannered society. They were all about free booze, bawdy shenanigans, hot tubs, mud-wrestling, lap dancing, beer pong, strip games, streaking bets, and all manner of socially unacceptable behavior - it's what made the parties so much fun. So, if you attended a Beta Fraternity party, you knew, and accepted, that you could get caught up in the madness. On any given day you might be watching the show or you might be the show. It's a risk you took when you walked in the door and, in truth, it's the reason you came.

Streaking bets really livened things up. Usually, when a girl lost, her melt-down was quite a show, like absolute shock. The astonishment and humiliation of being naked in public was always much, much, greater than the poor girl ever imagined. She'd completely freak, and absolute melt-down, as everyone giggled at her nudity. Usually, she'd screech a lot, writhe helplessly, turn red the face, and become absolutely mortified. Yet, by the time her streak was over, with all the guys going berserk over her, like they'd won the lottery, like she was the sexiest woman ever, the girl was almost always squealing in delight.

So, even though the girls were nervous, many downright frightened, deep down, at least some part of every one of them hoped that I'd choose her. Let's face it, if exhibitionism wasn't a fantasy of hers, she wouldn't be here.

"I choose ..." I paused for a moment just to make the girls sweat, "Morgan, Terry, and Suzi." Shocked, they looked like they'd just discovered tarantulas in their panties.

"No! No! No! Wait." Morgan said. "We need to talk about this."

"Morgan, Morgan, Morgan," the guys started chanting.

As you know from Chapter 1, I had my reasons for choosing my sorority sisters instead of guys, namely revenge. Although Morgan, Terry, and Suzi were supposed to be my friends, they'd insisted on sending me on a ludicrously dangerous streak. So, now it was time for a little payback. They'd always considered me as just white-trash and reveled in making such a low-class girl as me as their bawdy entertainment.

Coming from super-rich families, they were accustomed to a privileged life, maids, chauffeurs, expensive cars, designer clothes, and that sort of shit. So, getting some exercise running from the cops would be good for them.

Furthermore, in my opinion, Morgan, Terry, and Suzi, spent way too much on their, aftermarket boobs, Brazilian wax jobs, and Jersey tans, not to show it all off. They'd get so much more value out of all that crap by streaking. Their nude photos, along with their over-priced designer panties would be mounted on the Beta house walls for decades to come and millions of people, including everyone they knew, would get to see their silicon boobs, super-smooth hoochies, and spray-tanned asses from all the dozens and dozens of their nudies on the web.

Alas, no sooner than I'd chosen, NC Tech scored and then scored again a few minutes later, leaving Tech up by 14 when I only had a 7 point cushion. Things looked better at the end of the game when UVA started to mount a drive but, when a fourth-down pass bounced incomplete with only 1:17 left, I was doomed.

Everyone cheered and got their phones as a flush of embarrassment reddened my face. But, at the same, my pussy just burned. Conceiting defeat, I stripped my t-shirt over the top of my head, and handed it to Grant. Delirious, the frat boys started chanting "Streak! Streak! Streak!" Then, I took a deep breath, kicked off my shoes, followed by my jeans, my bra, and finally stripped off my Carolina blue panties and handed them to Grant.

The crowd laughed as my panties got nailed to the wall and rest of my clothes got thrown in the fire. But, as my clothes burned, so did I. It was a real turn-on. Now, my fate was sealed; there was no turning back; I was completely naked; I was going to stay naked; I was going to streak; thousands of people were going to see me; dozens of my nudies were going to be on the web; lots of people I knew would see them; I might get arrested and there was nothing I could do about it.

"We're going to need to collar her," Morgan said. "No one wants her getting away again." Grant agreed and sent someone to get me a tracking collar.

Let me explain. Although it's really exciting to watch, streaking is shit for spectators. If you want to see the action, you've got to chase it. The problem is that streakers usually scamper about in a crazed panic and it's a bitch to keep up with them. So the guys often used a tracking collar. It was just a pet tracker on a tough nylon collar which fastened around the streaker's neck with a pressure sensitive glue. Press down hard for 5 seconds, the glue sets and, after that, the only way to get the collar off was to cut it off.

On my last streak, I'd lost my pursuers fairly easily and it'd caused the boys to miss almost all of my streak - like they missed all the good stuff. Of course, the guys were really disappointed. So, it didn't surprise me that they'd want to collar me. Morgan wrapped the collar around my neck, pressed the sticky ends together for a few seconds, and smiled smugly.

"There," Morgan said, "that ought to keep her on a short leash. Speaking of leashes." Someone gave her a dog leash and she clipped it onto my collar. "Come bitch," Morgan jerked on my leash as she leading me out the front door to the cars. Pulled by my neck, I had no choice but to follow. My sorority sister Suzi got out her phone and started videoing me. God only knows where she'll send it. I looked away so at least she didn't get a good shot of my face.

The party broke out into laughter, barking sounds, and taunts. Morgan scoffed at me arrogantly as she examined me from head to toe, as if my embarrassing plight only confirmed her vast superiority over me. Clinching my teeth, I could feel my face warm in anger. I'll admit, once they collared a streaker, the boys usually leashed her, just to add to her humiliation. Still, I'd have preferred a guy leashing me instead of Morgan; it was just so demeaning to have Morgan lead me away, naked and on a leash, like a dog, with everyone watching.

As we drove, Morgan texted all the fraternities at NC Tech, all the guys I knew, all my teammates on the Cornetta Women's Tennis team, and worst of all, she sent a text to the local TV station, WNTL Charlotte. It meant I'd be dodging all sorts of frat boys, lots of my friends, and the TV news as well as the cops.

Suddenly, people were everywhere, surrounding the car. Letting out a squeak, I sunk down into the floorboard. I'd forgotten just how frightening it was to be nude in public and yet, so exhilarating. I had so much adrenaline in me, I couldn't sit still, squirming anxiously as I waited for my streak to begin. The car pulled over and the door flew open. I jumped out, and tore off running through the astonished crowd as fast as I could.

Someone yelled out, "STREAKER!" and instantly thousands of people looked my way. It electrified me, off the chart exhilaration. Most were smiling, some were laughing, others were scowling, but they were all staring intently at me. Squealing in delight, I threw my hands in the air and dashed through the crowd.

The guys, particularly the young ones, were ecstatic. Even most of the co-eds laughed and giggled, clearly enjoying my salacious escapade. But a lot of the older women glared at me like I was a crack whore in the church choir. I've got to admit, I actually liked it when cute guys ogled at me. I even liked them eagerly taking nakey photos of me; I liked it a lot. But, let me tell you, when you're the only one nude running past a group of fully clothed older alumni, it's about as awkward as a nudist at a Baptist tent revival. Lots of the older folks gawked at me angrily like I ought to be seized, tarred and feathered, shipped off in a crate to a zoo, and then have my feathery ass exhibited with a big sign saying "Homo Supidous Female" on my cage.

As I looked back, the party goers from Beta Delta Nu started getting out of the cars and chasing after me. In streaking parlance, this drunken throng of pursuers was known as my "posse." They wouldn't be so bad if they'd just behaved themselves. I'd even enjoy the audience but, with all their whooping, hollering, and yelling, they were a cowbell around my neck, letting the cops and TV crews know exactly where I was. I'd gotten a good jump on my posse but really I needed to lose them entirely.

First, I had to get rid of my tracker, not only to lose my posse, but to keep Morgan from blabbing to all the TV stations and to the cops exactly where they could find me. She'd laugh her ass off if I got myself arrested bare-ass on television. I'll get my revenge on her one day. I don't know how or when but, somehow, I swear, I'll get it done and, when I do, it'll be spectacular. Her humiliation will be legendary.

Weaving through the massive crowd, I looked at all the college guys, smiled at some, waived at others, and even hugged a really cute one who was cheering for me, but mainly I was looking for country-boys. Luckily, NC Tech had a college of agriculture and farm-boys were plentiful. Ahead, some guys were wearing faded blue jeans, wide belts, and boots. They were just what I was looking for, the type of guys that carried pocket knives. I scampered up to them.

"Hey," I gave the guys a big smile, "I need a favor. Any of you guys got a knife?" Startled, they all just ogled at me in speechless disbelief. "I've really got to get this thing cut off," Although I tugged at my collar, they were still just staring at my goodies in astonishment. "Excuse me," I said as I covered my shaved cha-cha and titties with my hands, "I don't mean to rush you but, as you can see," I glanced down at my nudity, "I'm in a bit of a hurry."

"Oh, yeah," one of the guys said as he finally looked up at my face and then gave my collar a curious stare, "I'll get it."

As he retrieved his knife, I nervously fidgeted. Let me tell you, when you're streaking, you get really panicky when you're just standing around. It's one thing when people get a glance at you as you're dashing past them but it's really unnerving when you're just standing there letting lots of strangers take nudies of you from only a few feet away.

The entire idea of streaking is that you're running so fast that, at least for the most part, people, can't get a good look or a good photo of you. It's the only defense you've got to being bare-ass nude in public. You've got no choice but to scamper about like a crazed felon on a jail-break. A streaker that's just standing around is a streaker that's in big trouble. Unfortunately, at the moment, just standing around was exactly what I was doing and it had me really anxious.