Marti Ch. 02: The Mother of All Streaks

"Oh my god!" an astonished woman pointed at me, "It's the streaker!"

An excited murmur ran through the crowd and many hurriedly got out their phones. Even a lot of the women seemed eager to get a photo of me, the celebrated streaker, to show off to their friends. Intoxicated by their enthusiasm and dazzled by my newfound celebrity status, I enjoyed the moment so much that I caught myself posing for them, full-frontal, wearing nothing but a smile. But, just then, the front doors flew open, and the two bicycle cops rushed in.

"Oh crap!" Frantically, I started punching the up button as fast as I could.

Scooting in the elevator just before the police could nab me, I pressed the "4" button, the top floor, as the cops banged on the doors in frustration. Scrambling up on the handrail, I popped open the escape hatch in the ceiling, climbed through it, closed it back, and knelt on the roof of the car waiting for the elevator to stop.

Why was I on the roof of the elevator? Let me explain. None of NC Tech's buildings actually had their own heating system. Instead, they all got their heat from a steam plant on the edge of the university. But, the steam pipes weren't buried. Rather, they ran inside network of underground concrete shafts known as steam tunnels. More importantly, there was a door to these tunnels in the basement of every major building on campus including Roosevelt. Electrical conduit, water pipes, steam pipes, phone lines, Ethernet cables, and even some of the sewer pipes, ran down these tunnels and tonight, with any luck, I'd be running down these tunnels as well.

You ask, what does that have do with a naked girl in an elevator shaft? Everything. You see, janitors, electricians, maintenance personal, and plumbers all used the tunnels on a daily basis so they just left the tunnels mostly unlocked. Instead, the university locked the basement doors so miscreants like me couldn't get in. But, the elevator shafts always had a maintenance door to the basement at the bottom of the shaft and it was never locked.

So, as soon as the elevator stopped, I reached way over, grabbed the iron service ladder beside the elevator, looked down at the five-story drop, checked my hold, bit my bottom lip, swung over onto the ladder, scrambled my bare-ass down to the bottom of the shaft, darted into the basement, found the steam tunnel door, and scooted down the stairs into the tunnel.

Just how the hell did I know to do that? You see, Cornetta was almost 2 to 1 female while NC Tech was almost 2 to 1 male. It meant that there were lots of Cornetta girls, who were hooking up with NC Tech guys. But, NC Tech didn't allow women in the men's dorms after 11:00. This caused lots and lots of seriously cute guys, urgently in need of female companionship, to be tragically locked away. Fortunately, there were lots of Cornetta girls, like me, who were determined to come to their rescue.

Mostly the guys just left windows open for us on the bottom floor but sometimes, particularly in the winter, the monitors would latch all the windows shut and we girls had to do it the hard way, through the tunnels. Instead of deterring us, it made it all the more adventurous. So, let's just say this wasn't my first time doing this.

So here I was, standing buck-naked in a steam tunnel, wondering WTF to do next. The good news was that the university had, I kid you not, over eight-miles of steam tunnels. I could go absolutely anywhere on campus without being seen. The bad news was that the steam tunnels were an endless maze, a labyrinth of featureless, dank and musty concrete tunnels. And, as the N.C. Tech didn't want to encourage any tourism in the tunnels, there was little in the way of signs, only tunnel numbers, and I had no idea where I was going. The cops would have maps but I didn't.

Unfortunately, it wouldn't take the cops anytime at all to search Roosevelt and, when they couldn't find me, they're going to realize what I'd done pretty quickly. So, I needed to figure out something fast because, if they caught my naked-ass in the tunnels, they'd bottle me up easily.

Dimly lit and sweltering, all I could hear was the faint humming of a few of the lights and the echo of water dripping reverberating down the tunnel. Unfortunately, huge puddles of water were everywhere. I tried to avoid them but it was impossible. In no time at all, in the dim light, I accidentally hit a puddle and I looked back to see fresh footprints of my bare feet.

"Shit." The cops will see them just as soon as they get in the tunnel. But, as there was no avoiding all the puddles, I started intentionally splashing through the water, leaving footprints all over the place, as many as I could.

The sign on the first exit door said "GREENHOUSE." I found a nearby puddle, wet both my feet, climbed up the stairs to the greenhouse, found a dry rag, ran to one of the exterior doors, and opened it wide, making my last footprint right in front of the open doorway. Then, I wiped off my feet, ditched the rag, and slipped back into the tunnel, careful to keep my feet dry.

Hearing the door open to the basement of Roosevelt, while the officers were opening lockers and searching the room, I scooted down the tunnel 20-yards and found a gap between the overhead pipes big enough for me to squeeze into. I pulled myself up and wedged myself in the gap, hanging face down, like I was just another pipe. Just then, the door to Roosevelt opened and two officers entered into the tunnel. I gritted my teeth, and scrunched up against the ceiling as hard as I could.

A radio mic clicked, "The streaker's in the tunnel."

I held my breath as they headed my way. In the murky light, if the cops went for my greenhouse trick, they probably wouldn't see me but, if they kept going down the tunnel, I was just meat on a stick. They'd find me in seconds.

An officer's mic clicked again. "She's in the greenhouse."

As soon as the officers ran into the greenhouse, I darted back to Roosevelt. Unfortunately, the only way out of Roosevelt was back the same way I came, right past all the people. As I ran past the restroom lines, everyone's eyes lit up, many actually cheered, clapped, and got out their phones. But not everyone was smiling and taking pictures. A couple of the women stared at me as if they really wanted to send my naked ass to a gulag and they were on their phones, probably to 911.

I burst out of the building, only to see my posse at the bottom of the stairs. They started cheering wildly. It was the last thing I needed. The police would hear and they'd immediately know where I was. I sprinted off as if I were running the 100-meter dash, taking huge strides, with my arms pumping, and with my hair flying behind me like a flag.

Just as I was pulling away from my posse, I all but ran over a man who stepped in front of me. He pointed around to the side of a building, "Quick, this way."

He was handsome and had an engaging smile. Still, it didn't feel right. His eyes looked as if he were up to something. But, I was desperate so, like an idiot, I followed. Turning the corner, a light hit me, so powerful that it stunned me. For a moment, blinded and having no idea what was occurring, I just stood there and shielded my eyes from the light trying to see. Then, as the realization hit me, I shrieked, cringed, and desperately covered my boobs and twat with my hands but it was too late. I'd just been caught on camera by the WNTL television news crew.

"Can you hold up for a second?" the reporter from the news truck said. "I'd like to get a quick interview. Do you go to school here?"

"Wha, what?" I stammered as the woman shoved a microphone towards me. Backing away from the reporter, I started to run but a crowd had gathered, including my posse and there was no good way out.

"Why do you streak? Are you protesting something?" The reporter stepped in front of me, trying to block my escape as I started to run. "What does it feels like to be completely nude in front of all these people? It's got to be a rush." In a panic, I dove into the crowd, pushed through, broke free, and dashed off. "Wait," the reporter pleaded. "Please, wait. Just tell me your name." The reporter, her cameraman, my posse, and a bunch of others all gave chase but, I outpaced them.

Though I'd escaped, it was too late. The TV crew had really nailed me. They got my face, twat, titties, and tush, all of me, the full Monty, front and back, the whole shebang, from head to toe, on video, and they were about to show me off, completely nude, with all my naughty bits, to as many people as they possibly could, millions of them.

I'd worried about the police but, in my worst nightmare, I'd never thought the news-media could catch my bare twat on camera. I thought I was much too fast and smart for that. Now, I was about to pay a huge price for my overconfidence. Tonight, on their 11:00 broadcast, a female newscaster will laugh and act embarrassed as she smugly banters with the reporter, both snicker at my indecency.

Young female nudity always shot up their ratings so I'll definitely make the morning show and their 6:00 Sunday news as well. Of course, they'll blur my nipples and hoo-ha just a little on the television broadcast but not my ass or face but, they'll gleefully show all the uncensored video on their website, something they'll be sure to point that out in all of their broadcasts.

They'll share my video with their national affiliation who'll put it on their website as well and send my nudie video out to god-only-knows how many other stations all over the United States, Canada, and Mexico. WNTL will also make lots of money by selling my video to anyone else willing to pay for it. Even lots of porn sites will get in on the action. In an instant, I'd become an international porn star. I'd never felt so embarrassed or so naked. Now I wasn't just nude in front of thousands, I was nude before the whole world and there was nothing I could do about it. And, shit like that video never goes away; it'll be floating around the net forever.

Everyone I knew, and I mean everyone, including lots of people I really didn't want to see me nude, will see me. Tomorrow, all my cousins, friends, teachers, guidance counselors, coaches, mailmen, neighbors, Girl Scout leaders, some creepy guys I knew, and even my high school bus driver, will all be gawking at my boobies and hooch.

Just then, I heard a loud buzzing sound, like a huge bumble bee, the same sound I'd heard near the library only this time it was really close. Looking back, my heart seized up in total panic; a police drone was hot on my ass. I was fucked, my worst nightmare. A drone is harder to lose than a bad reputation - like damned near impossible.

A midsized commercial helicopter drone emblazoned with "AIR HOUND 4000 - LAW ENFORCEMENT SPECIAL," it was a top of the line police pursuit drone. Known as "the Hound" it flew at over 40-miles an hour, it had a spotlight brighter than a car headlight, and it had excellent optics, including an exceptional low light vision camera. Worse yet, it had an infrared camera and computer aided tracking that focused on me even if I tried to get lost in a crowd.

It was insanely popular with the cops. One article I read bragged that, once the Hound locked onto someone, the cops had always apprehend him - a 100% success rate. The Hound's sales slogan boasted that "Once the Hound is on you, it owns you. Nobody escapes the Hound." You may be surprised that I'd know all these things about drones but, when you're thinking about streaking, you do a lot of research about shit like this.

Police drones, were the nemesis of streakers. They'd caused a whole lot of hapless naked girls to get arrested. Most of which even suffered the humiliation of having their arrest videoed and those clips were enormously popular on the web. People loved to watch panicked nude coeds squeal, squirm, turn red in the face, and bulge their eyes out as they got handcuffed and dragged off to jail. And, if I couldn't lose that drone really fast, that was exactly what was about to happen to me.

The Air Hound 4000 wasn't cheap. In fact, it was downright pricey. Just a small department on a limited budget, the NC Tech Police didn't have any drones the last time I'd streaked. Unfortunately, it seemed that my last streak had caused the cops to go on a buying-spree. If you ask me, they'd gone to a whole lot of unnecessary expense just to catch one little naked girl running around. They'd really taken all the fun out of streaking. I yelped as the drone hit me with its spotlight and brushed my hair forward, desperately trying to hide my face.

"You're under arrest," drone's speaker blared. "Stop running, get down on your knees, and put your hands on your head."

"Shit, shit, shit," I swore that, if by some miracle I could get out of this mess, I'd never do anything so retarded as streaking again.

"Sucks to be her," a woman giggled. "I'll bet she's hating life now."

"I'm sure they'll give her something spiffy to wear down at the jail," a second woman said.

"I hope they sew her in it," the first woman sneered. "No more pussy-parades for her."

Digging my toes into the soft turf, I cut hard to the right, ducked into a grove of small pines, wove my way between the trees, and changed direction. But, when I popped out of the trees, the drone still had me in its spotlight.

"You there, yes you, naked girl, stop running," the drone blared. "You're under arrest."

Luckily, the drone couldn't arrest me, only the human cops could do that and I could outrun most of them. Unfortunately, they had cars and radios which they'd use to try to cut me off and, since they do this shit for a living, they'll probably succeed, particularly with their high-priced drone hot on my bare-ass. I was frightened to the point I could barely think. The thrill and sexual exhilaration were gone, replaced by terror and shame.

With only one card left to play, I headed for the Seventh Street Bridge. If I could make it to the bridge, I'd have a chance. Cutting across a partially wooded field, taking huge strides, I broke into a full sprint, really digging my toes into the dirt, thrusting my arms, and kicking up my heels. Naked, I felt so light that I could almost fly and I was so frightened that I just about did.

A police cruiser tried to drive across the field but the car bogged down, hit some small trees, and became stuck. Faring no better in the in the soft and uneven ground, the bike cops abandoned their bikes and continued on foot. With the bridge in sight, I turned up Seventh Street and started weaving my way up the sidewalk though throngs of shocked pedestrians.

As I looked back, the TV news truck was honking its horn and flashing its lights as it speed towards me in the left lane with a couple of police cars right behind it. Still on foot, the two bicycle cops reached the bridge with my posse behind them along with about a hundred other people, mostly college guys.

In front of me, two sheriff's cars were heading towards me with a dazzling display of flashing blue lights and sirens. With the University police behind me and the sheriff's deputies in front, I stopped at the center of the bridge. Breathing heavily, I put my hands on my hips and tried to catch my breath. The WNTL truck came to a screeching halt beside me and the cameraman and reporter leapt out just as my posse, the bike cops, and the rest of the crowd arrived.

Surrounded by the cops, spotlighted by the drone, and bathed in flashing blue lights, I backed away until my bare butt hit the steel bridge railing. Television lights lit me up, as the WNTL crew started filming. The TV reporter rushed forward for an interview but the cops held her back.

"The show's over sweetie," a female officer opened her handcuffs as she started towards me. "Your fun is done. Now, turn around, face the river, and put your hands on the railing."

Hesitantly, I turned around and put my hands on the railing. Then, I took a deep breath, scrambled up on the top of the rail, and leapt as far as I could off the bridge. As I jumped, I heard a woman screaming and then I realized that it was me.

I know you're thinking that hurling myself off that bridge was a really stupid thing to do, and I'll admit it was risky but, it wasn't quite as dumb as it sounds. You see, the middle of the river was known to be really deep at the bridge, about 16-feet. Deep enough that some fools had actually made the jump and, for the most part, didn't get too busted up.

Just an aside, if you've never jumped off a bridge in the nighttime, let me tell you, don't do it. I'm serious, it's absolutely terrifying. Mere words can't possibly describe the horror. I swear, I had a full blown coronary when I looked down at the river - heart stopping terror. Freefalling in the darkness, I could only barely out the water below, just a huge black void with rippling shimmers of light. Instead of looking like the 75-foot drop it was, it looked more like 750.

The fall took so long that I had time to think but I was so frightened that all I could think was that I was about to die. Helplessly plummeting downward and frightened beyond rational thought, I straightened my back, pointed my toes, gritted my teeth, threw my arms out to my side for balance, squeezed my eyes shut as hard as I could, and squealed.

WHAM! I felt like I'd been hit by a truck, buckling my knees, smacking my head backwards, snapping my teeth, slapping my knuckles together, spanking my ass, and driving water up my nose, cunny, and even a little up my backside. The smack of the water against my bare skin sent a stinging pain shooting through my body like I'd been stung by dozens of bees.

Plunging all the way to the bottom, my feet hit first, followed by my ass, only to be instantly swept backward and rolled downstream by the swift, icy cold, turbulent, and powerful current. Stunned by the impact, I tumbled limply out of control across the rocky bottom for a few seconds in total darkness, not even knowing which way was up - scaring the shit out of me in the process.

In sheer panic, I fought to get my feet back under me but the swirling current kept sweeping me off-balance, rolling me, and pushing me downstream. With a hard thud, my back hit an underwater boulder, causing me swallow some of the river. I managed to snag it, right myself, and pushed off the bottom with my feet. Desperately clawing and kicking for the surface, in just a few seconds, I shot halfway out of the river. Splashing, coughing, and spitting up water, I gasped for air.

"There she is, over there," someone yelled out as I was lit up by the drone.

Squinting, I shielded off the glare with my hand as I looked back at the bridge and smiled. What the police didn't realize was that I was never trapped on the bridge, they were. Once I'd gotten them on the bridge, the police were screwed; there was no way that they could follow me. There was no path down to the river anywhere near the bridge, just brambles, impassible dense underbrush, and impossibly steep escarpments. From the bridge, the only quick way down to the river was to jump.

But, even if an officer were crazy enough to want to jump (and let me tell you from experience, he'd have to be pretty fucking crazy to do that), he couldn't; it'd be suicidal. With their bulletproof vests, guns, bullets, holsters, radios, handcuffs, extra magazines, gun belts, clothes, shoes, and Tasers, the cops carried an extra 30-pounds of kit on them. If they jumped, they'd sink and drown. On the other hand, completely naked, I was perfectly attired for a midnight skinny dip.

My nudity was the reason that I'd run for the bridge in the first place and it was the reason that I'd never intended to make it to the other side. I'd always planned to jump, even if the cops hadn't cut me off. The river was the only place where being naked gave me the advantage; the only place the police couldn't possibly continue the chase.