Pierre's Peculiar Power

Pierre was, above all, a man unlikely to evoke superlatives in any consideration of him, and powerful was, perhaps, the least likely. Adventurous , needless to say, never came up in the same sentence as his name, and seductive would have brought a laugh to any woman's lips. The best that could, and ever was, said of him were rather ordinary assessments. At work, he was deemed competent; his concierge declared him dependable and reliable, especially when it came to putting out his garbage and paying his rent; and the women in his life -- even kindly Aunt Nicole -- would only opine that he wasn't bad looking.

This wasn't, of course, how Pierre viewed himself; in his own eyes, he was a leader, a lover, a powerful master of all he surveyed. And so he would daydream as he traveled to and from work each day, focusing on one or two of his fellow passengers on the Metro to inspire a little reverie. Sometimes he would imagine a story of high finance; sometimes it would be of international intrigue; most times it would be of lust and seduction, but, ultimately, power was the center of all his daydreams, power over other people.

A psychologist would probably say Pierre's daydreams were a form of compensation, an attempt to have in fantasy what his real life so clearly lacked, and that psychologist would probably be right. Pierre had a good enough job, to be sure; after all, junior accountant in the largest investment company in Paris was a position with a degree of status and a decent salary. And it might have come with some power, some charisma, had it not been for that representative from the New York affiliate.

It was more than a year since she had visited, and still he suffered from her comments. Certainly she was beautiful and vivacious, but did she have to make a joke at Pierre's expense? As she made the rounds, the senior accountant introduced her to Pierre.

"Pierre LePetit?," she asked with a giggle; "Doesn't that translate as 'little Peter?' In the States, 'peter' is a euphemism for 'penis," she continued, laughing loudly.

Since then, the whole office teased him about his name. It nearly shattered Pierre's already fragile ego, and most of all when it came from the beautiful Virginie LaChaste. She was the senior accountant's administrative assistant, and easily the most eye-catching woman in the firm. Everyone's head turned her way, despite the demure clothing she wore. Her dresses were always prim and proper, but, still, the full curves of her body showed through the lay of the fabric. And her face! Eyes that sparkled with the sensuousness of youth and plump, pouty, pink lips that seemed to invite a kiss brightened her every passage and inspired a wide variety of thoughts in the minds of every man and woman she passed. Wild thoughts, they were, and thoughts that would have likely been even wilder had those men and women known of Virginie's one weakness: the expensive, seductive, pure silk lingerie she always wore, enjoying both the smooth feel of the silk on her skin and the knowledge that no one knew what she had on.

Among her tasks was the distribution of the office mail, and, after the American's visit, she took to calling on them by surname first.

"LePetit, Pierre," she would call with a certain emphasis whenever he had mail, and her announcement would bring peals of laughter from the poor man's office mates as she effectively named him 'the little peter.' And he would shrink at his desk as she brought the missive to him.

Weekends and holidays brought Pierre welcome respite from this daily taunting, and gave free rein to his reveries as well. In the summer months he often would take the train south and then be found on the promenades of the Cote d'Azur of a Saturday or Sunday, imagining himself in a Speedo, his muscles rippling as he stood on the beach surrounded by women in their micro-bikinis. And less.

It was the women taking the sun who spurred his dreams, and on the beaches of Nice or Antibes or Monte Carlo, many sunbathed topless. Pierre would look down from the promenade and dream about these luscious ladies sweating in the sun, and sometimes he would imagine that he would find them in Paris, bare-breasted, of course, but for his eyes alone. Such was never to be, though, or was it?

This day was a very special day in Paris and in the whole of France; it was the day before the great National Holiday, and many firms, including Pierre's held it as a half-day to allow their employees the opportunity to prepare for their Bastille Day celebrations. Yes, Bastille Day, the commemoration of that day long ago when the citizens stormed the nefarious prison, battering through the gates, filling the vestibule, and thrusting onward into its deepest recesses to liberate its prisoners.

Today, Pierre decided as he arose, he would not let the taunts irk him; he would enjoy the day and the whole weekend to follow. He decided to put on his best suit, a suit he had yet to wear, but had risked much to possess.

This junior accountant thought highly of his senior, of the man's comportment and dress, a man with the charisma of a natural leader. So Pierre did his best to emulate his boss, even in clothing. A pure silk Armani suit like those worn by the senior accountant, however, was far beyond his budget, and so he was delighted to find, on a little sojourn into Italy from Menton on one of his weekend trips, a polyester knock-off that looked like the real thing. He bought it, and then faced the custom agent when he returned across the border. The price of smuggling a faux designer article into France was high; if caught, you paid the tax and duties on the value of the genuine article and had your knock-off confiscated and destroyed.

Pierre was lucky that day; he smiled weakly at la douaniere, and, perhaps out of pity, she let him pass untested. He brought his prize home, and now, but a few weeks later, he had good cause to wear it.

As he dressed, he imagined the impression it would make on his boss, on his colleagues, and, most of all, on the untouchable Virginie. His mind was still on the beauty as he left his apartment for the Metro station, giving his concierge the usual perfunctory greeting.

This morning, however, the empty comment was instantly followed by a rather full thought. "Madam Pruneaux has a rather nice pair of tits for a woman her age," was the thought that sprang into his mind, and the thought itself startled him.

"What?" he asked himself; "I've never seen her tits."

He turned quickly and saw his concierge in all her late middle-aged glory. Well almost all; she was naked from head to ankle save for a pair of practical, white, cotton panties that covered from waist to top of thigh.

Pierre blinked and rubbed his eyes. When he looked again, she was as fully-clothed as he ever saw her. He grew worried then, fearful that his reveries were getting the better of him, that he might be, as the Americans say, 'losing it.' He continued on to the Porte d'Italie Metro Station as he always did, but still concerned for his mental health.

As he reached the stairs, he looked up, and there were all his fellow commuters in various states of nudity. Men and women. Young and old. Some, like Mme Pruneaux, in only underpants, some in full lingerie, and some completely naked.

He stared at them, at many of them seemed embarrassed. "It's probably because I'm leering at them," Pierre thought, and he looked away. When he looked back up, they were all fully clothed again.

As the train proceeded from station to station, Pierre reflected on what had been happening, and came to the conclusion that he had actually acquired a power that he had only dreamed of in his little reveries. "Yes," he thought, "I have the power to see through peoples' clothes."

But why was it so intermittent, so incomplete, he wondered, and decided that he had not yet learned to properly use and control this new power. He began to test it, picking a shapely woman to gaze at, and, after a minute or so, it worked. She was naked, entirely naked, except for her alligator shoes. As soon as Pierre blinked, though, she was again clothed.

It was his stop, now, and, as he climbed the stairs, he again saw his fellow citizens in various stages of undress. He smiled to himself, not paying much attention to the diverse array of around him, thinking instead of entering his office and using his new-found ability to gaze on the hidden beauty of Mlle LaChaste.

He entered the old building where he worked, just across from the Tuilleries, and climbed the three flights to his floor. Everyone was there as he came in, including the desirable Virginie, but, much to his consternation, they all were clothed, particularly Virginie, and, try as he might, he seemed unable to do anything about it.

Greetings were uttered all around, and Pierre rushed to the WC to get a grip on himself, to try to regain use of his peculiar power. It was back! There he was, in the mirror, as naked as he could be! His power worked, even on himself! He ran back out, and, sure enough, there was Virgine. Naked. No, not quite naked. She was dressed only in a silky black thong and a soutien-gorge that was at least two centimeters short of being a demi-bra.

"LePetite Pierre," she giggled, looking at him in a strange fashion, "look! The President is about to speak.

She drew his attention to the 205 cm HD TV mounted on the far wall of the office. It was there for important events, such as breaking news and World Cup games, and a presidential address was one of these important events.

The President, M Sartorially, materialized on the screen, with his wife, the lovely model, Calliope, beside him. And, amazingly, they were both completely naked. The President himself, noted for a lack of height, was clearly a man who could stand tall where needed, and his wife was clearly a woman who would inspire any man to stand as tall as possible.

"My fellow citizens," M le President began in all earnestness, "we have all been confused by the new phenomenon that has beset us, not knowing whether to count it as a curse or a blessing."

"But, I assure you," he continued, "it is a perfectly natural phenomenon. The physicists at the Super Hard-on Collider..."

Calliope first smiled at his error, and then burst into laughter, sending waves of jiggles through her ample bosom.

"Oh, sorry," said her husband, realizing his error, "I meant to say Hadron."

"The scientists," he resumed, "have investigated the phenomenon and find it is a quantum effect of the exceptionally high solar activity currently underway. It is causing synthetic fibers to flash on and off erratically; natural fibers, such as cotton, wool, and silk, remain unaffected."

Pierre was crestfallen. His power was now no power at all; it was merely a natural phenomenon that everyone enjoyed. His countenance fell. But the President continued his address.

"This difference in effect has worried the Assembly, and, indeed, the whole of the Republic," he noted, "for it is unequal. Some are more or less naked than others. It is contrary to liberty as well, for it may bound people to certain clothings. And it undermines the brotherhood of our citizens also, since it creates differences where none have existed. All this, no less, on the day before Bastille Day, our jour de gloire, when we first gained our liberté, égalité, et fraternité."

President Sartorially drew himself up to his full height, while Calliope smiled at his rising beside her.

"For these reason, my fellow citizens," he said formally, as the true Head of State, "we have decreed that tomorrow, Bastille Day, the 14th day of July, be henceforth National Nude Day as well, and that all citizens, all residents, all visitors in France and its territories undertake their glorious celebrations without the interference of any form of clothing whatsoever."

He looked directly into the camera, directly into the eyes of all les citoyens, and announced, "So be it, according to the unanimous wishes of the nation's deputies."

Calliope leaped in delight, and all viewers were delighted to see her leap, embracing her husband, M le President, with her arms and legs, and kissing him, a la mode francaise, once on each cheek. Then, in another French style, kissed him fully and openly and deeply on the lips. The cameras stayed on them as the Marseillaise was played and all viewers stood tall, proud, and in varying stages of apparent undress.

As the anthem came to an end, Virginie turned towards Pierre, and stared intently at a point well below his waist and just above his thighs. Her eyes roamed slowly upward until they met his.

"Alors, Pierre leGrand," she said seductively, offering a more realistically descriptive name for her colleague, "would you care to celebrate tomorrow with me?"

"Perhaps," she suggested suggestively, "you could re-enact the storming of the Bastille, forcing the gates apart with your battering ram and then filling the vestibule before thrusting to the deepest recesses of my Bastille and liberating me from the prison of my family name?"

"Mais certainement, ma cherie," Pierre said boldly, "I would gladly take it as my patriotic duty to offer you freedom from LaChaste."

"It is noon, now," he said, "and work is finished."

"Let's prepare for the first National Nude Bastille Day!" he said, and tried awkwardly to undo her bra, forgetting that her dress was merely invisible, not absent.

Virgine laughed and quickly slipped her invisible dress over her head. "Allow me to help, Monsieur LeTresGrande, and then it will be my turn to prepare you."