The three Tunemasters in full band uniforms, Rod, Virginia and Debra, and the nearly naked majorette herself, stared speechless and in shock down at the bright pink nipples, poking slightly out from the little plastic T's. It was as jarring and indecent as if Rod's own dick had been hanging out the fly of his braided trousers. It was horrifying, it was disgusting... Brigid was as modest as the next girl, and was deeply shamed by having her nipples showing...
Brigid's fingers quickly flew up to cover them. She looked at her friends in panic and misery. Only two fingers were needed for each nipple. The four high school kids turned quickly to the hallway. Fortunately nobody was looking. "Oh... God..." Brigid saw Rod looking at her most private nipples and, in an uncharacteristically pleading voice, said, "Please don't look, Rod!"
Reflexively he directed his glance up and met her anguished face with his own look of empathy and concern.
Debra thought quickly. She tried the "Custodian" door and it was unlocked. "Let's get you out of sight. Rod, tell them we went to the bathroom." And the three high school girls closed the door behind them.
Oh man, what a fix we're in, Rod told himself, compulsively working his slide. Only minutes away from our big moment, the Tunemasters' biggest and most lucrative engagement yet, that would bring thousands of dollars to the Special Learning Center to help kids like Tommy Blackwell. And Brigid, who would be leading the band, getting instructions from Sarge through her headset, out of commission! Disaster!
Fortunately no one from the hallway was looking in at this little alcove. Sid, one of the other trombonists, sauntered by and nodded. Now here came the three faculty chaperones, the old shop teacher Mr. Tucker, with Mrs. Toriello the social studies teacher and Ms. Chen, the science teacher. They were talking among themselves. Rod was worried. If the girls came out of the custodian closet they would be noticed immediately.
Brigid, Brigid... How could he show his love for her in this crisis? He felt helpless, standing out in the hall with the suffering majorette trapped in that closet. He decided to be heroic. To hell with the band, it's Brigid's welfare first. She could not emerge as she was. He would give her his jacket, which would serve to cover her nipples. Then he would go out with her, and she could act sick with the jacket draped over her, and he'd tell Sarge that Brigid was ill and he was too, they just couldn't march tonight. The Tunemasters would have to go without their majorette this time. And Sarge would have to march alongside them as usual, shouting instructions whenever needed.
He bit his lip but congratulated himself. Yes, a gutsy thing to do, but I'll do it, dammit!
But of course it was not up to him. He wondered what Debra and Virginia were planning with Brigid in the closet. As the moments went by he got uneasy. Making sure no one was looking, he put his ear to the door. No sound. Now there was a shot of something like compressed air, and Brigid's gasp. His ears were burning now. He knocked. "Brigid?" he whispered loudly.
The door opened and Debra pulled him in.
It wasn't a closet, it was a whole office, with shelves of cleaning stuff and tools and paint. Debra and Virginia checked his face. He answered, "No one knows we're here." "Good."
Brigid was facing away from him, giving him a full body rear view of her utter, total nakedness, from her pinned-up hair down to her heels of the backless flip-flops, interrupted only by the curvy V of the tiny clear strings sloping into her butt crack. Her elbows up, she seemed to be still covering her nipples with her fingers.
"Show him, Brigid," Debra said.
"Oh... God..." Brigid showly turned around, fingers on her nipples, afraid to meet his gaze. Then she cleared her throat and looked up at the ceiling and brought her fingers down, just a few inches.
The T's were back to being all black! No more pink!
"How did you do that?"
Debra held up a can of black spray paint.
He looked closer, and saw the nubs of Brigid's nipples, now jet black. "Wow!"
"It's obvious, isn't it?" Brigid said in misery.
"No... it doesn't look bad at all... They just look like... part of the T."
"Exactly!" Debra said. As the three friends looked at the black-painted nubs, Virginia said, "It looks like rubber cement. Black rubber cement. To keep the T's on."
Indeed it did look just like some kind of glue to keep the T's on, colored black to match. If one didn't know...
Brigid forced her arms down straight at her sides, her fingers rubbing her hips. Looking up as if praying, she said, "You guys GOTTA look at me like that??"
"OK, OK," Rod said quickly, his eyes shooting down to the floor, where he contemplated their boots and Brigid's squirming toes.
Through the door they could hear Sarge's muffled voice out in the hall. "The floats are fixed, people! Line up in five minutes! For sure!"
"Let's get out there!" Debra said.
"I just -- can't!" He had never seen Brigid like this, so shy and queasy, though he could well understand.
"You know you have to," Virginia said.
Brigid gulped and shook her head in misery. "Yeah... What choice do I have?"
"Of course you have a choice," Rod said. "Tell them you're sick. Here, take my jacket." He began the laborious task of undoing the fifteen buttons down his front.
"No, no..." Brigid walked forward and gingerly opened the door. With a deep breath, a heave of her breasts and a rise of the T's they supported, she walked out into the alcove.
They got out there and Brigid once again reflexively covered her black-painted nipples with her fingers.
"You have to put your hands down," Debra said. "Don't give the slightest signů"
Brigid nodded and straightened her arms down her sides. She got her baton from where she had laid it down before. And the four of them walked out the alcove into the hall.
The band was roughly in line but more or less hanging around. After all, they had five more minutes in this endless wait. The four friends stood around and tried to act relaxed. Rod allowed himself just fleeting glances at Brigid's T's. He felt Debra and Virginia under a similar stricture. The four of them tried to look everywhere but... Everyone else was going to see the T's, of course, the rest of the band and the hundreds of people lining the route, but only the three of them knew what they would be looking at...
"Hi Debra, Rod, Virginia, Brigid," Ms. Chen said. She and Mr. Tucker and Mrs. Toriello came up to them. The three teacher chaperones, expecting to be outside in a moment, were in their coats and winter hats, carrying gloves. "I could make you nervous and say 'ready for your big moment', but you're all old pros at this."
The four Tunemasters smiled politely, unable to think of anything to say.
"Your new uniforms are positively resplendent," Mrs. Toriello said.
"Thank you," Virginia said. They all felt the need to look down, if only quickly, at their new duds. Even Brigid. With the heavy coats on the teachers and the new uniforms, the rest of them looked twice her size.
"Looks good," Mr. Tucker said in his gravelly voice. "The majorette uniform keeps getting... more interesting." He looked down at the tiny T that covered and also separated Brigid's lower lips.
Brigid blushed, as if being gushed over, which was not surprising to the three chaperones.
Ms. Chen, a very short Chinese woman, looked at Brigid's T's which were almost at her eye level. Her eyebrow furrowed. "I thought these were all plastic. This looks like -- " The four friends almost died with fright as the three teachers gathered closer.
"It's -- rubber cement," Brigid said.
"Seems like it's coming out," Mr. Tucker said. "Excuse me dear." He gently held one of the T's and -- poked his rough old shop teacher's finger into Brigid's nipple!
Rod could hear the sudden intake of breath, could see the quaking tummy below --
"I'm afraid it might fall out," he said. "We don't want that happening, don't we?"
"Rubber cement?" Mrs. Toriello said.
"Looks like xanthum gum, a good choice I' say, but it doesn't look too good," Mr. Tucker said.
Ms. Chen said. "Excuse me, dear..." She held the other T and gently poked the other blackened nub...
Some of the other band members approached in curiosity. Soon there were about ten of them gathered around, watching the teachers fix Brigid's T's, maybe to prevent a "wardrobe malfunction" during the parade?
"What's wrong?" Jared said.
"Xanthum gum fastener, I think she put too much on," Mr. Tucker said, continuing to try to poke the black nub in, but it kept springing back out. Ms. Chen was having a similar lack of success with the other one.
"Oh... I didn't notice that before," Jared said. As indeed none of them had, when they were viewing all the new uniforms in the big cafeteria room. They had not been examining the T's too closely, their attention naturally being directed to what the T's were covering (or not covering).
This can't be happening, the three friends told themselves as they looked at each other. They watched in horror as Mr. Tucker and Ms. Chen kept gently poking as Brigid looked down with widened eyes and gulped. Seeing the faces around her, she suppressed her natural body reactions and said, "It's -- really - - O.K. We'll be mahching in a minute -- " Her fingers fidgeted against the baton, her toes wiggled and squirmed...
Ms. Chen and Mr. Tucker gave up on poking and stood there, contemplating Brigid's T's. "Maybe we can fix it."
Mr. Tucker saw the word "Custodian" on the closet and said, "We've just got to get this xanthum flush with the rest of the T's. Otherwise it looks like -- well..." He didn't want to say it but they knew what he meant. "She'll be on TV, you know. We've got to act fast."
"Where are you going?" Ms. Chen said.
"There should be some sandpaper in here," the shop teacher said, walking into the custodian's office. "Some steady buffing with 150 or so grit will probably do it."
"Get some for me too," Ms. Chen said.
Before Brigid and her friends could decide what to do, Mr. Tucker had come out of the custodian office with two little sheets of sandpaper.
Actually there was nothing they COULD do. Everyone was watching them, standing around waiting for the old shop teacher to emerge. Brigid couldn't run. She couldn't tell them the truth, that it was actually her bare nipples sticking out in everyone's faces. That would be indecent exposure, detention for sure, telling her parents... as well as shame that would last for years. The incident would stick to her name for years. And they were about to go out to march. She and her friends were frozen to the spot, terrified.
Now Mr. Tucker gave one sheet to Ms. Chen. "Only 220 grit, but let's see what we can do," he said. He wadded his sheet up into a little section, then grasped Brigid's left T around the edges. The T was only three inches high and was dwarfed by his rough, burly hand. "This should only take a moment, Miss O'Dierna..."
The first rub of 220 grit onto the majorette's most sensitive spot caused a little strangled gasp and a quick intake of her bare tummy. He slowly drew the wad all the way across, then back, then forth, back and forth --
In a full band uniform one can always hide the manifestations of one'e emotions. Tummies shake with nervousness, butt cheeks clench with cold, arms and legs and chests sweat with exertion or heat, toes squirm in their boots, and of course also hidden are male erections, which for a teenage boy are frequent events. But a Tunemasters majorette cannot hide her body. As they watched in sympathy and horror Rod, Debra and Virginia looked their suffering friend up and down and noted the twitching shoulders, the flushed collarbones, the quaking of the flat tummy, the flexing of thigh muscles, and the spreading of her meticulously painted toes as poor Brigid tried to withstand the unbearably intense stimulation.
Ms. Chen started working on the right T, holding it in her little hand as she began sanding what she took to be the black gum adhesive. It was almost at her eye level and she peered in very closely. Seeing no progress, the two teachers became more vigorous, brushing back and forth faster, faster, harder, rasping away at the nipples. Behind the T's, Brigid's breast flesh jiggled in response to their motions.
Rod shut his eyes. He couldn't look. But of course he opened them again. Brigid's eyes popped open and she seemed about to cry. She looked at her friends with pleading. But they could do nothing. They were horrified at what it must feel like. Debra and Virginia folded their arms tightly across their chests, as if to protect their own nipples, which lay hidden from the world and protected by bras, thermals, blouses and jackets. Four layers of covering that Brigid was denied. For Rod's part, he pictured the sandpaper going over the end of his dick, his most sensitive part, so sensitive that he himself never touched it, not even when jerking off.
Around them, the other band members drew closer, curious about whether the teachers could get that extra gum off. The buffing grew more furious. Mr. Tucker, a bit winded, stopped to tighten his grip on the T. So did Ms. Chen. Then they bore in and rubbed harder, faster, with lightning speed back and forth, back and forth --
Brigid's breathing grew ragged. Her eyes blinked and opened wide again. It must be agony! Rod felt about to cry. Poor Brigid must be about to jump out of her skin! Her fingers clutched the baton with a white-knuckled grip. Her toes wiggled in her flip flops and spread and squirmed, individually and together, as if speaking urgently and eloquently of her distress in some kind of sign language.
Brigid looked up as if praying for deliverance from this torture. She must be Catholic and Rod pictured this as a stained glass scene. The Agony of St. Brigid.
The teachers rested again, then buffed again. Brigid sniffled. Her eyes squeezed shut. Then she remembered she must not betray the truth and she kept as still as she could. As her nipples were rasped and scraped, she kept her eyes forward, not looking anyone in the eye, in a resolute gaze, as if waiting for the signal to march. She stood up straight, baton at her side. Only an occasional twitch of the tummy or toes evidenced her suffering.
Rod was afraid that the black color might rub off. But it was a penetrating, oil-based paint and could only come off with turpentine.
Finally Mr. Tucker and Ms. Chen stood back and conceded defeat. Brigid closed her eyes and caught her breath.
"We're not getting anywhere," Mr. Tucker said.
"If anything, it's sticking out more than before," Ms. Chen observed.
Looking around at the gathered Tunemasters, Mr. Tucker said, "Any ideas, folks?" This comment only emphasized how everyone's gaze was fixed on the black nubs at the center of Brigid's T's. She looked about to die from shame, though to everyone else it just seemed like the distress and concern she shared with the teachers, who had seen at the last minute a problem with her uniform that she hadn't noticed from her vantage point. Rod and Debra and Virginia glanced at each other helplessly.
Mrs. Toriello, a grandmotherly type, came up and stood right in front of the majorette. She gripped the T's in each hand and examined them appraisingly. In the process she turned them a bit inward to more directly meet her gaze, making the breasts look a little cross-eyed.
"I think we're under a misimpression here. This not what we think it is."
Oh no! Brigid, looking down at her T's, bit her lip.
"I think the gum has separated."
The four friends exhaled in relief. But then they held their breath again as she said, "It's in pieces. See all these little bumps? Maybe we can pluck some of the pieces out."
Mr. Tucker grabbed part of Brigid's left nub and pulled. She suppressed a gasp. He squeezed again, harder. But his fingers were too big and rough to get a good grip. "This is a job for women," he conceded. "Someone with long nails."
"I can do it," Brigid volunteered quickly.
"No, you can't see from your angle," Mrs. Toriello said. "Also I don't want you to ruin your manicure." A valid concern. With the disappearance of boots and gloves, fingernail paint and toenail paint had become part of the majorette's uniform. Brigid's nails were meticulously done in the school colors, black and white, now with a little line of gold near the cuticle.
Everyone looked on as Mrs. Toriello and Ms. Chen bit into Brigid's nubs with their fingernails, like pincers, squeezing them and pulling them, delicately and carefully, so as not to dislodge the T's, but none the less painfully from Brigid's standpoint.
Brigid's nipples were squeezed and pinched and yanked on for a minute or more, the sharp fingernails cutting and slicing into the little bumps.
"This material is very tough," Ms. Chen admitted. She brought out tweezers from her handbag. The nubs were now subjected to the merciless and crushing of the little metal jaws. The Agony of St. Brigid continued. Now Ms. Chen twisted the tweezers, almost half way around, trying to dislodge one little bmp after another Rod brought his hands over his crotch and almost doubled over as he pictured this being done to the end of his dick. The pain must be horrible. Debra and Virginia cringed and squeezed their arms across their chests even tighter.
The majorette reverted to waiting-to-march mode, eyes forward. Though her eyes were now rimmed with red. And now the pink circles behind the T's, her areolas, which one could see clearly because the stems of the T's were only a half-inch across... The pinkish hue was becoming more red, and the areolas were getting a little puffy. It made the T's stand out more from her breasts. Not only were the areolas getting puffy, little goose bumps were forming around the perimeters.
As for the black-painted nubs, they were getting bumpier and more prominent, as each individual little bump was yanked and crushed and squeezed and twisted. Rod had to admit that they did look like bits of some kind of dried glue.
The women were not succeeding in tearing the bits off. "The only thing to do," Mr. Tucker announced, "is cut. There's a wire cutter in there," he said, walking toward the custodian's office. "I'll be right back!"
"No!" Rod said. "No!"
Mr. Tucker, not one to brook any disrespect from students, said, "What, young man?"
Rod's heart was in his mouth and his whole body was shaking as he took his stand. Fortunately the words that came to him were convincing. "This is a... Tunemasters -- matter. We help each other in this band. Let us fix it ourselves."
"Yes, yes," Debra and Virginia said quickly.
"Th - that's right," Brigid said, still recovering from the assault on her sensitive nipples.
"Let me do it," Rod said. He stood in front of Brigid. Their eyes met. He wanted to kiss her, hug her, take her away from the probing eyes and the tormenting teachers. If only they knew how cruel they had been. But his task now was to pretend to deal with the outcropping black gum.
He looked down at her nipples. She didn't want him to look but she knew he had to. Under the black paint they looked swollen, abused, maybe angry. Like that time she took those old circlets off at the burger place, during the Patriots game parade, after her nipples had been squeezed by those bulldog clips all morning.
"It's best to push it in," he said. Gingerly he brought his gloved hands up. He brought an index finger to each nipple and once again contemplated how just one of his fingers enjoyed more covering than the majorette had for her entire, gorgeous body. He swallowed and looked at her. Her eyes were full of gratefulness. She pictured them going back into the custodian's office, alone, as he comforted her, crying on his shoulder. "Oh Rod... I thought I was going crazy..."
She gasped as the tips of his gloved fingers rubbed her nubs tenderly, soothingly. He wanted to lick them. They would be soothed by a soft, wet tongue. Actually what she probably needed was ice. Well, in a few minutes her nipples would be hit by to the frigid air outside. That should help, though it would be rough on the rest of her near-nakedness.
The three teachers watched closely, along with Debra and Virginia. "You're not getting anywhere," Mr. Tucker complained.
He rubbed gently and then began pushing the nubs in, as tenderly as possible. Brigid sniffled and then smiled at him. He smiled back. They were in love, for sure.
He wanted to kiss her, so, so bad!
"March time!" Sarge yelled from somewhere.
That broke the tension. The scene broke up as the kids turned quickly. "We'll be okay," Brigid said to Mr. Tucker as the Tunemasters went back into line. In a moment Rod was walking behind her as she led the band into the vestibule.
As they approached the glass doors the bright lights of the outdoor winter carnival began to play on their uniforms, on Brigid's skin. And now the frigid mountain air hit them as they walked outside, one by one.
He blew through his trombone yet again and crunched his boots in the hard, rocky snow. Man, it was cold. Thank goodness for these new thermals under his full uniform, he was nice and snug, covered up from head to toe. Except for his face! The bank thermometer down in the distance read minus ten degrees. What was that in Fahrenheit? Fourteen? What made it worse was the wind. They weren't expecting wind. The wind-chill must be zero. His face was beyond cold, it stung with pain, especially his nose.
He was in the front row as always, as the band stood in formation, well behind the beginning of the route, waiting for the local police guy to signal to march. The band was only at half strength on this trip. Despite the big carnival some distance ahead of them, they felt alone. They didn't feel the usual big rush just before marching. Ahead of them was a space of maybe two hundred feet, then the beginning of the route, where the float before them had paused. Up further, near the slope of the next mountain, past the strings of overhead lights and the crowds cheering the passing floats, he could see the end of the route, and the reviewing stand where Sarge was, with all the other guys in top hats and a slightly out-of-season Santa. It did look like about three hundred yards, like Sarge said. About ten minutes' march at regular speed.
But from here, it seemed a million miles away. They seemed alone in the bluish moonlit snow of this remote tundra. Like they were about to march on the planet Pluto.
To his right, the other trombones, Sid and Lorenzo and Deion, all suffered from a bad case of Frozen Face just like he was, grateful at least for the flaps from the big shako caps that kept their ears warm. The parts of their bodies not covered by the thermals were feeling the cold too. His hands were stiff and cold in their gloves. And it seemed he could never find socks thick enough. Even with two pairs and these big boots, his toes were cold and he kept on stamping his feet to keep the blood going, albeit with little steps so that he looked like he was still in formation.
He blew through his trombone yet again. It really did seem like his spit had frozen, he could feel the ice crystals. What was the purpose of a marching band in this cold? They seemed totally out of place. The wind bit his nose again and he twitched it, trying to get some feeling back.
Now he contemplated the rear of the blue-skinned naked girl in front of him. No, not really blue; that was just the dull hue of this unearthly scene, a reflection of the snow. But the bare toes in the flip-flops, flat on the crusty snow, the bare legs and butt, the bare back, the thin but strong arms and the delicate bare shoulders -- how totally out of place. It was so unfair. They were freezing in their thermals and cover-all uniforms, but the poor majorette had to stand there in the frigid wind with almost no covering at all. Such exquisite nakedness should be soaking up the rays on a tropical beach. Maybe that's what she was fantasizing about. Or maybe thinking of Tommy Blackwell and how this march would help the Disabled Learning Center.
Of course she was not really naked. But in the dull blue light the V of the clear strings curving into her butt was totally invisible. And from the back one couldn't see the main parts of her uniform, the little T in her pussy lips, and the T's perched on her areolas. He missed the riot of White Girl Skin Colors that was Brigid on a brisk day. the blotches of red on her shoulders, the purplish fingers and toes, that cute patch of pink over her sacral dimples, the blushes of red at the ends of her butt cheeks. Tonight she was just blue and naked and motionless, facing the zero-degree wind chill without outward expression. Like she was not really Brigid but some alien woman, from a race of blue people living on an even colder planet than Pluto, who had decided the only way to deal with this "hot" Plutonian weather was to go naked.
He supposed it was not so bad for Brigid, just a temporary chill, then a quick ten-minute march. Colder by some degrees, but not really that much worse than what she had gotten used to as a majorette during that cold, rainy football season. There was a little station at the end of the route, past the reviewing stand, where she could duck in and warm up. After they finished he would gallantly run back to the cafeteria room and get her coat and boots, what she wore on the bus ride up from the motel. After that she could hang out and enjoy the party like the rest, covered up except for her bare legs showing below the knee.
That float just didn't want to start. It was a styrofoam- looking display of little ski slopes with three women in ski suits who were supposed to be elves or something, perched on them. At first he thought they were just pausing, letting everyone take in the sight before continuing, but bundled-up men were now lumbering around, speaking to each other through their ski masks, and he could see something was wrong. The band stood and waited. And froze. His butt cheeks were so cold they were starting to tingle.
His butt, that is, covered with thermals and jockey shorts and the long braided trousers. Brigid's butt had no such protection. He looked at it, motionless in front of him, like a double blue moon, and try as he might he just could not make out the plastic V-strings that he knew were there.
Another minute went by. "Come on," Sid said quietly, impatiently, "I'm half frozen."
"Jesus, it's cold," Deion chimed in.
"No weather for black people!" said Lorenzo, who had the darkest skin of all of them.
"I can't feel my toes," Sid said.
Rod saw Brigid turn her head slightly and could see the exhale of her breath in the glint of the faraway lights. Great plumes of condensation, as if she were in a deep freezer.
"Christ, you know nothing about cold, guys!" Debra said from behind them in the clarinet section.
"Yeah," said Millie, one of the saxophones, and the only other white kid to make this trip. "Our majorette's freezin' her bare buns off up there!"
Brigid turned to them halfway and he thought he saw her smile. Then she shivered all over. No longer a trans-Plutonian woman, once again a normal human adolescent, shivering in the bitter cold in a tiny majorette outfit. Poor Brigid!
A moment later, Brigid allowed herself to say, "Oh Jesus!" and shook herself all over. Her baton discreetly changed hands. And now, in a bold move, she raised one foot out of its flip-flop and wiggled her toes in an attempt to get some circulation back. It was forbidden, it was a little obscene, it was erotic, sexy, seeing her bare foot, her bare toes, in this frigid air, inches above the bed of crusty snow. After carefully parking the still- stiff foot back into the flip-flop, she did the same with the other foot.
It was very unusual for Brigid to complain about the cold. He could remember only one other time -- that second game in September. They were waiting in the stands to come down for the halftime show. It had clouded over and suddenly gotten chilly. And now a wind kicked up that he could feel right through his uniform. He was standing next to Brigid and saw goose bumps raise up and down her arms, on her butt, and on her thighs. "Oh brother!" she said, then shook all over as if trying to shake the chill off. Cold as it was that day, I bet she wishes it could be that temperature now!
That stupid float up ahead still wouldn't start. And now a bad sign. A little truck came out from behind that big snow- making machine, and ropes. The bundled-up men were forced to take off their gloves as they began to tie the ropes to the float to pull it. This would hold up things even more.
Now Brigid started seriously shivering. "Ohh... God... P - p - please..."
A couple of men walked up near them, on the way to the parade, not aware that the band was there. They were talking loudly and sipping coffees. "Crikey," one said. "I'm glad we have this coffee."
"Good thing these gloves are insulated!" the other said.
"These boots are great," the first one said, lifting one of his gigantic, bulky moon boots. "I'm nice and snug. I'm almost downright hot!"
Brigid brought her foot up again and wiggled her toes. The men walked away toward the carnival, never having noticed the band. She shivered again, miserably. It was most noticeable in her blue shoulders. Her bare butt cheeks trembled.
Rod felt flushed with anger, making his frozen face a little less frozen. This is an outrage! A wintry night is no place for a nearly naked majorette. At least give her several layers of body stockings! Give her the covering the rest of her band enjoys! Let her march in a regular full uniform and boots! He applied the logic procedure from a recent math class. She probably couldn't twirl in the full band uniform, and body stockings would look ridiculous. So therefore: you cannot have baton twirling in this cold. You simply can't. He wished he could do something, at least say something.
Finally! The little truck started pulling the broken-down float and now there was the signal from that police guy, using one of those airport flashlight extensions, to start marching. And now Brigid stiffly strutted into motion, giving the band four beats. Her breasts bounced with her motions. Even her breasts seemed stiff in this cold. Everyone blew silently into their instruments to warm them up as the drum guard did the roll-off. Then they launched into "National Emblem", doing the familiar "monkey wrapped his tail around the flagpole" leadoff without any flubs, and on the on-beat, took their first step forward.
As they came into the lit route he could feel his circulation going again. He could also sense the crowd coming alive, doubly attentive after that stalled float. Some were even clapping, not very audible because everyone was wearing gloves -- everyone except Brigid, of course.
The Tunemasters passed under the first string of lights, held up by poles on each side. Then another string. The lights played off Brigid's back and butt, off her legs. It was sexy but also beautiful. Everyone was enjoying the light show taking place on the majorette's body.
The snow crunched under his boots. An odd sensation. Brigid must feel it even more through the thin soles of her treaded flip-flops. She moved a little less stiffly and he could see her body flush with the cold. Good. It showed she was warming up. Now she started her first twirl, and as she turned around to catch it he saw the T's on her breasts jiggle and shift, in time with the tune, in time with the step, in time with catching the baton as it came down. The T's were dancing on her nipples. It looked like the majorette's breasts were leading the band. These T's were a good idea, they gave a whole new dimension to her twirling and to the whole presentation of the band.
They passed a setup of cameras. Back in the cafeteria room, on the overhead TV, Gus Guy and Pierre Poquette enthused about the visiting band to an audience of several custodians. "And here comes the Tunemasters, from T--- High School in Roxbury Mass. One of the best high school marching bands in New England. Winner of last summer's Regional Competition in Atlanta, Georgia."
"That is one brave majorette, in this temperature."
"Yes, her name is... it says here on the band list, 'Brigid O'Dierna, sophomore'. I'm told her uniform is designed to allow for maximum flexibility in twiring that baton."
"And she certainly is expert at it! Look at that throw! That must be thirty feet, at least!"
Brigid turned around again and Rod once again fell in love with the brave, flashing smile. She winked at him and he crinkled his eyes, his best substitute for a smile as he tooted away. The band sounded good too.
They approached another string of lights and Brigid tossed the baton over it and caught it as she passed on the other side. This brought some cheers. She raised her arms and pirouetted, showing off her lithe biceps and meticulously shaved armpits. Some snow dusted up on her toes. She spread her toes and expertly flicked the snow off with her next step.
Maybe it was on a signal from Sarge through her headpiece, or maybe it was her own decision, seeing that they were coming too near that float. But as they got near the snow making machine and the biggest bunch of booths and food stands she gave the baton signal to stop. The band kept playing, marching in place. Brigid stepped and turned slowly. It was always amazing how she could keep those backless sandals from falling off her feet while marching in place. She was crunching down with her toes, but just a little.
A whiff of hot dogs came from the booths and Rod got hungry. He pictured the two of them at the stand later, wolfing down hot dogs and soda, he in his uniform, she in her long coat and Uggs, her bare calves showing, as if she had nothing on underneath. And talking with their friends, Debra and Sid and the others. "The most fweezing mahch I've evah been in!" she would exclaim in her Providence accent, between bites.
But for now Brigid was still in her micro-uniform, still marching in place, still turning around slowly, round and around. From totally bare backside (the strings on her butt were still invisible) to almost bare front, the dancing T's on her nipples and the tiny T in her crotch, the lights from overhead played on her body, playing across her curves, caressing them. They hit her head on, then slurred and stretched sideways as she turned, then head on again. All the while, she smiled, exhaling clouds of breath that spiraled off into the wintry night air as she turned.
And the band sounded great! As Rod pumped his slide he never felt prouder of being a Tunemaster. He could see Sarge, on the reviewing stand up ahead, beaming, the men around him clapping him on the shoulder with the thanks he deserved. The cameras moved in closer. Rod thought of the regional competition they'd won, and the Disabled Learning Center, Tommy Blackwell...
They were launching into the final repeat of the "B" section when he saw the string of lights in front of them drop halfway, then fall all the way to the ground. Brigid, turned to face them, did not see. Then she turned and gave the signal, and began marching foward again. One of the bundled-up security men quickly ran to one of the supporting poles on the side and turned a crank that brought the string off the ground again in short, jerky increments.
Brigid, smiling and twirling, still did not see what had happened. With another jerk the string of lights came up about to the level of her breasts as she marched right into it.
Getting to the end of "National Emblem", waiting for the roll-off to lead into "Little Giant", Brigid spun and twirled. Her T's looked perkier than when he first saw them in the cafeteria room, facing more upward as they danced on her breasts. Well, of course. Out here in the cold air, her nipples would be erect, pushing the T's up and out.
The tune ended and the drummers took over. He put his trombone down in front of his jacketed, shirted, thermaled chest. He watched the T's on her bare chest and smiled. Only the four of us know that the crowd is seeing Brigid's bare nipples right in the middle of those T's. Brigid herself must not be thinking of it, engrossed in her twirling. Good. She was tough as nails but basically a modest, unassuming girl. She didn't deserve to feel embarrassed.
And now he watched with alarm as she spun right into the rising string of lights!
Her T's got caught on them immediately and they rose up as the guy at the side pole kept cranking the string higher and higher. Rod stopped in shock and so did the other trombones. The rest of the band almost ran into them before they too stood there stunned.
"Aieeee!!" Brigid's poor breasts got stretched upward as the string of lights went up, up... The T's were on very securely. They gave way a little bit but were held on by the very ends of her nipples that were so swollen and hard in the cold. You could see the stems of her nipples stretched out from her areolas. As the T's stretched out and up, the areolas puffed out even more... In a split second her breasts were grotesquely distorted.
She dropped her baton and grabbed the string with both hands to keep it level with her breasts. The guy at the crank didn't see any of this because he wasn't looking. Up, up, up... Brigid did half of a wiggly kind of chin-up on the string as her feet left the snow-packed ground. Her legs kicked helplessly. One flip-flop dropped off and then the other. By the time the guy understood the shouts of people telling him to stop, the string was back to where it was, fifteen feet off the ground.
The crowd and the band watched in silent horror as the majorette struggled, trying to disentangle her breasts from the string without doing any damage. Her bare feet twitched and jerked around uselessly above their faces. The string was a tangled interweave of rope and electrical wires and extricating the T's would have been difficult even without the dire distress of her nipples being stretched.
"Aieee! -- Ahhhh!" Cries of pain and exertion cut through the cold night air as Brigid tried to use one hand to hold on and the other to untangle a T. But that was beyond anyone's arm strength. Next she tried to climb up onto the string. Her toes spread and her legs splayed wildly as she made it up. Straddling the string as if clutching onto a horse, she winced as it cut between her pussy lips, pushing the little T down there deep inside her. He thought of the moisture inside. If there's a short circuit she would be electrocuted!
There was no danger of that as the guy at the crank unplugged the wire and the lights went out. He tried to lower the string again but the crank was jammed! A friend came over to help him. They tried hitting it with a hammer. With every strike the thin pole lurched and the string jerked, causing Brigid to yelp as the rough rope dug in between her lower lips. Now one guy started running to the building to get some liquid wrench.
Brigid could not stop gravity from pulling her down and she spun around the string. Now she was hanging below it, grasping it in the crooks of her knees and elbows. Now her breasts were squeezed, one pulled up near her neck, the other yanked down toward her navel. Once again she tried to free a hand to work on a T but she kept losing her balance. Finally her legs slipped away and she was back to doing a half chin-up. She looked down and faced the band, her bare toes dangling above them.
She was crying, her face etched with pain, looking down at her friends helplessly. Rod and the others felt just as helpless. Her searching feet were too high up to find a supporting shoulder.
They saw the T's facing them from up on high. One of them was twisted onto its side. The other was turned completely upside down. Behind them, her areolas were creased with the twisting. Her nipples must be burning in agony!
Rod felt miserably helpless as his eyes met hers in the pleading, suffering face, the short, ragged breaths reflected in her quaking, concave tummy. Below, her little T had disappared into her labia. And one of the clear strings had snapped. It hung down from her bare hip.
"AIEEEE!" A mighty hammer blow to the pole and Brigid's hands slipped! There was a horrible moment when she hung by the T's, her head wrenched back, her face heavenward, her breasts stretched out torturously. Then, with a final awful pain, the T's tore away from her nipples and she fell to the snow, landing on her butt.
In the fall, the last bit of her uniform, her lower T, had flung off to the side. The traumatized majorette, now totally naked, rolled over onto her side, breathing heavily. Everyone was still too shocked to come forward to help. "Oh Jesus..." Her prayer was heard clearly in the still air. Though they all felt sorry for the majorette's embarrassment, lying there stark naked, they also heaved a sigh of relief. She seemed O.K. There was no other sound.
Her unsteady bare feet came up flat on the snow. Being barefoot on snow must be a freezing shock even for someone of Brigid's wide experience in being exposed to the cold. In trying to get up one foot slipped. She slowly got up again, onto all fours, still panting. Her breasts hung down, the nipples reddened and tender from the obscene stretching.
Now she tried to get up, splaying one leg out, and the crowd was treated to the sight of her cute brown eye, her little anus, in the valley between her exquisite, taut white butt cheeks, winking at them in the bright lights. The crunching of the snow under her gripping toes resounded in the silence.
And now a strange creaking sound, like a rusty door opening. For it turned out that in swinging the hammer that guy had hit the tank next to the snow-making machine. And now a valve gave way, and...
A ski resort must not only make snow when needed, but sometimes remove snow and ice from paths and equipment. So a supply of salt water, which melts ice, is always kept handy. A special salt is used which is not harmful to skin or membranes, and which further depresses the freezing point.
So the water which now surged from the tipping tank in Brigid's direction was chilled to minus fifteen degrees Celsius.
Everyone lurched back as the little tidal wave crashed onto the snow-packed path. It slammed into Brigid and knocked her over. And now more, and more of the subfreezing water coursed onto the path. Brigid tried to escape but her hands and feet kept slipping. She flopped down onto her back, then onto her belly, then onto her back again. And now the snow underneath began to melt and Brigid sank into a bathtub-sized hole.
The tank held several hundred gallons. Soon Brigid was totally submerged. When the tank had fully emptied there was nothing but a little pond. Everyone crowded around, careful not to get too close lest they too slip in.
Bubbles issued from below, and then the pretty head emerged. Somehow she made it to the edge of the pond and, after one more slip, she climbed back up on the snow on her crusty bare feet. She stood straight up, shoulders back. Her eyes were wide open, her arms were extended, fingers stretched out. The salted water dripped from her chin, from her nipples, from her fingers, from the center of her shaved crotch.
"OHHHHHH!" she howled in wide-eyed shock, lurching toward them. "OHHHHH!!!"
And now the load of snow on top of the snow-making machine gave way. Once more Brigid was knocked over as the powdery stuff piled on top of her. Soon there was a pile six feet high. Brigid was in there somewhere.
After a few terrible moments of waiting, they saw a set of bluish toes thrust out near the bottom of the snow stack. Now the pile broke up as Brigid fought her way out.
Once again she faced the crowd. Her whole body was encrusted. Snow was jammed into her lower lips, all over her hair. Her eyebrows were white. And her skin color -- she really was a blue trans-Plutonian woman now.
Slowly, as if regaining her senses, she blinked and looked around on the ground. Her uniform was all around -- one flip- flop here, another there, the T's flung to each side, and the little bottom T near the pole.
Now she lurched over to the baton. Slowly as if in pain, she bent to pick it up in her left hand. Her anus stared at them blankly, flecked with the white flakes.
The blue, snow-blasted girl looked at Rod blankly, then at the rest of the band. And now she said something.
"L - little... G - g - giant..."
She thrust the baton into the air with a jerk that them jump. Then three violent beats, making her blue breasts bounce, and she turned to march stiffly and nakedly into the winter night.
They could only follow and play. In their shock their sound was uninspired but after a few measures they got playing together. The trombone mouthpiece was almost frozen to his lips. And then he passed over a wet spot from the salted water and his boot flew out in front of him. Then a big blow to the back of his head --
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 was so happy to see her, warm and happy, in her new uniform which she wore proudly. Thank God that was just a horrible dream... 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...
"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.
Rod woke up with a start. He felt sad and blinked and there were tears in his eyes. It was just a dream, and here I am crying. But a powerful one.
He stumbled over to the big window, remembering Tami lying in the snow in the back yard the other day. What did these Frigid Brigid dreams mean? She symbolized Tami in some way - that was obvious. And then he realized why he felt sad. Somehow he knew he would never dream of Brigid again. That almost made him cry. Already he missed her terribly. Then he chided himself for crying over a dream. With a start, the thought hit him -- would he at some point also never see Tami again? That last Brigid dream was full of foreboding.
He flopped down backwards onto the bed and stared at the ceiling. Then he took off his shirt and pants, and lay there in his underwear. Thermal underwear, it still being cold out. He remembered hearing something about a *second* April blizzard hitting tonight.
Tami entered the room and he almost cried again with happiness at seeing her. I love her so much. With all my heart, all my soul --
Then he laughed. Tami was walking in upside down, on her hands. Up top, in her feet, she held her slide rule, the museum piece that his internship supervisor, old Mr. Gunderson, had given him.
"Playing with Gunderson's toy again?"
"Oh Rod, this is a thing of beauty." She looked at him with her flushed, upside down face, then up at the metal slipstick which she worked with her dexterous toes. "It's amazing what you can do conceptually on this, with all the scales."
"Spoken like a true math nerd." He eyed her lovely plum pubic hair, then the matching hair on her head, hanging down almost to the floor. She steadied herself with her hands as her attention focused up on her feet. "OK," he said, "what's two times two?"
She worked the slide with her toes. "Ummm... three point nine nine! Oh shit -- " Her toe slipped and the slide rule came crashing down. In ducking her head out of the way she lost her balance, but with her gymnast's skill recovered enough to make a graceful cartwheel. She ended upright in the traditional finishing position right in front of him, arms extended, chest out.
"What's wrong?" She saw the redness in his eyes.
"Oh just another stupid dream. The majorette."
"That again?" He had kept her up to date on each dream. "Well she and I are about to pass each other." Tami disappeared and said, "That kid's getting more naked, but I'm getting more clothed. Ta daaa!!"
She emerged from the bathroom wearing a more substantial C- string, blue this time, thick enough to hide the inside of her lower lips. And she had little pasties on her nipples!
She thrust her breasts out at him as he got up. He felt the pasties with his index finger. They just barely did cover her areolas. "What is this, your new fabric?"
"Yes. Cherish. Held on by spirit glue. I call them circlets."
"They're still a little uncomfortable. I feel like I'm blindfolded, or short of breath. But the girls got me used to it."
He pictured a long session with the TL's, no doubt with Dr. Kantor watching with his clipboard, and Barbara carefully sticking the circlets on during her twelfth orgasm.
"Let's eat," Tami said. "I'll reheat the casserole you made. That was good, Baby."