Thomas Dean The Test

THOMAS DEAN: THE TEST

My name is Bobbie Bolton. I looked out the window of the bus carrying girls to a tryout for professional fast pitched softball team. Outside the window were naked shackled indentures repossessed after default on their obligations. Unlike these pitiable subjects, today, I am a free woman. I have rights; I could own property. I needed no one's permission to sign a contract, take a job, leave a job. Was freedom the thing I had to fear the most?

During a brief stop at the loading dock in the rear of The Institute's silvery glass and steel tower, Angie the Institute's lanky Administrative Assistant boarded the bus carrying prospects for a women's soft ball team, sighed "Repossessed debtors who failed to respond to notices to surrender and some runners who were found in hiding," our escort Angie scoffed. "Ours is a system of obligations. It is easier to walk through the front door and voluntarily surrender your person than wind up on the loading dock like cattle."

Looking over the blank expressions of the repossessed debtor, I shuddered. Life is a test. They failed. Would I join them?

Minutes later the bus came to such a jolting stop in the Institute's parking lot that Angie the tall angular Institute administrator who accompanied the girls on the ride up Institute hill barely managed to cling to the stanchion next to the driver. Standing in front of the entrance to The Institute looking at the glass and steel tower positioned majestically atop a hill in the midst of the northern forest, I wondered if making the team would save me from the fate of those whom the bus had passed by.

Tall and athletic, I had arrived here out of college to be evaluated for selection for a women's professional softball team. I rated my chances good. On the mound, in fast pitch, I had good control over the ball.

"Fastpitch softball at the Institute?" said one of the girls in the bus ride up the hill to the main entrance to the Institute, "doesn't sound like something would interest the Institute. Well," she remarked as she looked out the window at a level clearing in the forest, "there's a diamond here."

The diamond sat on a bend as the road made a wide loop climbing the hill around the towering glass and steel structure of the Institute. "A simple grass field with a chain link backstop and a tier of wooden bleachers, the diamond would," my cheery faced companion acknowledged, "take a great deal of photoshopping to make that into a major league palace. What do you think?"

"A diamond in the rough?" I suggested.

"In the rough?" My companion laughed, "Fast pitch softball," my companion assured me, "must be played fully dressed with armored sports bras, pelvic guards, knee pads to protect sensitive body parts from injury."

"Do showboats need to be dressed or protected?" I snickered.

"Dressed or protected?" my companion questioned.

"What hold has women's fast pitched softball on a male audience?" I asked. "Where are showboats bouncing their boobs on the court of topless basketball or the seductive wiggle bare bums sprinting on the oval track?"

Oh on the diamond, I was a showboat -- fully protected and dressed. That came natural to pitchers. "The only way we could bring spice into fast pitch," I told my companion, "Would be to put backstage up front, bring the camera into the locker room and the communal shower. Shower sirens, undressed definitely, protection optional."

A showboat, yes, but today I would not be on the mound.

Before we took the field, Dr Amy, the round bellied Institute physician, assisted by a mature woman in scrubs, with a fluff of dark hair over her forehead, had the competitors, bare chested in panties, lined up in the communal shower for a cursory examination.

As each girl approached, a female security officer swiped the bar code over the hip. Almost all had bar codes. My companion from the bus quipped, "Eye candy getting that car. Every gal falls for it." With a sigh she added, "I guess if I don't get indentured into the team, oh, I'll be free only long enough to find myself stripped and shackled on the loading dock behind the Institute."

When my name was reached, the officer had me drop my panties explaining full panel briefs can create static throwing off the reading.

"Don't guards need a cheap thrill," I poked fun at the guard.

"You wouldn't want to be," the guard advised, "misread as a debtor in default. Wear a V string thong instead of granny panties. Modest nice girls will never get on base before they're get scarfed up with defaulting debtors."

"Never score with full panel panties?" I chided him. "You need full panels to slide into the base to avoid bruising your bum sliding into base. Sliding in with a thong will leave your bum black and blue."

"Better for your boyfriend to kiss and make it better," the guard chuckled.

"More appeal to the prurient interest," my companion chimed in.

While Dr Amy held the cold steel stethoscope to my bare chest, the male coach ran in the shower to advise me that at my height he believed that I was made for first base.

"My B cups aren't big enough to attract a following of faithful fans?" I teased him. "Fans couldn't admire me on the mound," My words were selected carefully. Coach had intruded to embarrass me. Instead of shrieking in humiliation, I would embarrass him.

My companion poked me, "See there's a way to work to work a little Tits and Ass into fast pitch."

On the field, I made the effort, but a pitcher is a natural "showboat." For effect at First base, I worked fancy foot work from my danse routine into the position.

During the tryouts, I noticed the mature woman in scrubs. A nurse on hand for an emergency? I wondered. While sitting in the stands speaking with the coach, the woman in scrubs kept a watchful eye on the field. Briefly, Angie accompanied by a tall, thin man with an air of authority joined the woman in scrubs. The coach rose to slavishly greet the tall man; the woman in scrubs remained seated like an empress.

"Has potential," the coach tried to sound encouraging, "work on it and come back next year."

"Next year?" I shrieked, "Out of school, finished with my scholarship, I have to go out there and find a job. I have no time or money to keep up my level of training." I grimaced in disgust.

The coach chuckled. "Once a showboat bitten by the bug of signing up for stardom, you'll be back."

Having failed to make the team. I was left with the lonely task of packing up my gear and checking out, while others danced and celebrated. Alone in the communal shower washing off the diamond dust, I heard the creaking in the creases of her dark business suit which announced the approach of Angie, the Institute Director's dour faced tall and thin Administrative Assistant.

When Angie peeked in on me in the shower to suggest that I stay on for a few days, I did not shriek or cover my breasts. I had played fast pitch long enough to hold my head high in order to erect an invisible curtain around my person. Still, Angie, the Institute's Administrative Assistance, shocked me not by her unabashed intrusion on my private moment in the shower, but her imperviousness to my nakedness. Should I be offended that she regarded my athletic frame so commonplace that she was not in the least bemused by a full-frontal view?

When I chuckled at the ridiculousness of my predicament, Angie, tilting her head, politely prompted me, "Something funny?"

Leaning my head back to run the spray from the shower to stream through my hair, I explained my idea, "To make women's fast pitch popular you have to bring the camera into the locker, beautiful athletic bodies on display."

"Won't people get tired of pure exhibitionism?" Angie prodded me, "How many times does flaunting the same naked girls on screen work for an audience?".

"Run story lines, exhibit nasty bruises, rivalries," I envisioned some asides, "soap fights escalating into fisticuffs, a man like that slimy coach punished for getting caught sneaking a peek at the gals in the locker, two girls discovered using the shower to do it."

"Dr Crenshaw the Institute Director was impressed with your creativity and imagination. He'd like you to stay on for a few days," Angie presented Dr Crenshaw's request. My protest that I must dress for my return trip home, cast aside, Angie asked, "What's the hurry?"

"I didn't make the team," I replied, "I do have to look for work, to begin paying some loans I took out lest my next trip to this building," I sighed, "be through the servant's entrance at the rear."

I sighed. When the bus carrying the softball players to the tradesmen's entrance pulled up to the dock behind the building, we were parked next to other busses discharging repossessed debtors men and women stripped naked manacled hand and foot. As I watched them struggling in handcuffs and leg irons to climb out of buses and deuce -- n -- halves, I wondered if the tryouts were a scam to scarf us up repossess us for debts we owed. Would we join the shabby, round butted female indenturees shaking their heads to keep unkempt long hair from blocking their vision as they anxiously looked about?

Presently, we breathed a sigh of relief when Angie, the Director's cadaverous Administrative Assistant climbed aboard our bus. Speaking of the naked men and women stumbling in hand and leg irons, Angie explained as the bus continued up the hill to the front entrance: "Not to worry. Just some recently repossessed debtors who failed to surrender and some runners that got scooped up," our escort Angie expressed annoyance at her own inconvenience. "I shudder at the thought of working yet another 20-hour day classifying the volume of repossessed debtors."

The thought as I stood in the shower under Angie's completely uncritical, dispassionate gaze that I might end up among the ranks of the dispossessed stripped, inspected and sold at auction added to the sting of failing to make the team. Invited to join the Institute Director on his morning jog with his principal staff, I begged off, "I hadn't thought to bring a jogging suit with me."

"I'll see to all that you would need," Angie promised as she was started to turn away. Pausing she added, "Perhaps, the subject of a voluntary indenture at the Institute might come up. It is a more pleasant experience and easier to enter under your own terms through the front door than being uploaded through the loading dock."

As the bus whizzed past the lines of repossessed debtors, some at liberty taken only after evading recovery over a number of years, I wondered, was freedom the thing I feared the most?

That same thought occurred to me once I found myself alone in an open dorm room at the Institute. My competitors in the tryout had already departed. At 4:30 AM cadaverous Angie shook me awake with a bony hand. Standing over me, naked except for the towel slung over her right shoulder, Angie announced it was time to join the Institute Director in family quarters.

"I have nothing to wear," I protested as my eyes cleared and focused on Angie's person, raisin -- ette sized breasts, wisps of hair forming an V shaped landing strip pointed to a slight mound, stomach concaved between the crests of her hips, a flat, boney butt.

"No need," was Aggie's tart response as she handed me the towel, "With a chill at your behind, you'll pay heed, once it's time for the starting gate, a ruddy face, sets the pace."

I was surprised at the strength of Angie's grip when she helped me out of bed, "Get those jammies off, time's a-wasting," Angie ordered, "Dr Crenshaw, Meg his sister, and Dr Amy are winding up their stretching exercises. We can't leave the Institute's directorate awaiting."

Escorted through a maze of hidden security corridors, I proceeded clumsily, uneasy about wandering around in total abandon but for the towel slung over my shoulder. With a quiver in my voice, I remarked, "If we're challenged, how will anyone tell us apart from repossessed debtors -- better kept ones?"

Noting my discomfort, Angie assured me, "The Institute believes the natural state promotes transparency, honesty, and equality. When stripped, all a repossessed debtor sheds is an illusion."

As I laughed, a door opened with a swish. We found ourselves in front of a security station guarding the entrance to Dr Crenshaw's private space. A grey jacketed security officer inquired, "Destination?"

"Dr Crenshaw is waiting in quarters," replied Angie.

"You know the procedure," the grey jacketed guard grunted.

Angie, leaning forward, submitted to a search. Spreading her legs, Angie clasped her hands on her knees. "Enhanced security!" Angie declared, "you have to present your butt for the guard to swipe the barcode on your hip."

Listlessly the guard announced, "Angie, Institute Administrative Assistant, specialist in Slave Law...."

Leg spread, bent at the waist, I received a reassuring smile from Angie. I felt the security officer's fingers running across the bar code emblazoned in my butt. "Freshly cut," the guard commented.

"Condition of my car loan," I replied.

"Yours is for a loan," the guard noted, "Many women are getting coded as a protection against being kidnapped and trafficked."

"Life can be brutal on free women," I observed.

"Indeed," Angie interjected, "Young freewomen, your age are particularly vulnerable. Branding holds some promise to combat human trafficking. Attempts to alter the brand can be detected. Dr Crenshaw is committed to combatting human trafficking. Maybe you might be interested in discussing measures Doctor would like to take?"

Applying the scanner, the guard announced, "Bobbie Bolton, free woman."

"Yes," I replied, "Bobbie, the girl with the boy's name. Father wanted a boy. So, I played with bats and balls.

"Came up here for the fast pitch tryout," the guard queried, "How did you do?"

"Didn't make the team," I sighed.

After a pause the guard warned, "Mind your repayment schedule, Lass. Your first installment comes due sooner than you think lest you find yourself reduced."

Angie interjected, "True. At the moment, we're inquiring into a suitable professional indenture to avoid a default."

Passed through the internal checkpoint, Angie pointed out the access point to Dr Crenshaw's family quarters.

Inside family quarters, Dr Crenshaw, whose long, muscular splayed legs exposed a limp penis and drooping sac emerging from scraggly pubic hairs, called out to Angie. "Meg and Dr Amy are bursting with energy. Let's get warmed up for our dash through the woods."

Like Angie, Dr Amy and Meg sported closely cropped coifs and V shaped landing strip pubes pointing to their slits. Positioning herself between round bellied drooping Meg and dumpling shaped Dr Amy, Angie looked even more scrawny than she was. As we trooped to the elevator, wearing only sneakers, Angie whispered, "Don't be surprised when you see Meg's belly flopping. `Baby bumps' do not keep pregnant women from training that they are physically able to perform."

Leaving family quarters through the check point, Dr Crenshaw nodded to the guards as we presented our butts for scanning. Joining Dr Crenshaw were two swarthy, naked males, arms crossed over muscular chests, both gelded leaving shriveled penises to evince their gender.

"Doctor's personal security detail," Angie whispered, "Nothing to fear, personal security is generally part muscle, part nurse maid, part plaything, part live entertainment.".

Between the two geldings emerged the tall woman with that fluff of hair over her forehead. Just the day before, this woman, dressed in scrubs, had assisted Dr Amy in administering medical exam to the prospects at trout. A nurse no doubt, I supposed.

Squeezing between naked between the two geldings, she brushed her soft tennis ball sized breasts against the taut muscles of the geldings without a detectible arousal.

Short hair like the other Institute women, her dashing wisp of hair stirred as she moved. Her pubes were sculped, clipped to that arrow shaped landing strip pointed at her slit. Maturity had rounded her belly with a slight depression running lengthwise from her "innie" belly button over a rounded belly toward her slit.

Crammed into the elevator, I felt my butt tickled by Dr Crenshaw's penis. The sensation of his tumescence warming my butt cleft lasted only a few seconds. We were whisked down to the service entrance. When the elevator doors opened on the loading dock, I felt a rush from the cool mountain air send flush across my bare chest; my nipples went erect.

The glaring lights on the loading dock were nearly blinding as security were already running about removing manacled debtors from newly arrived busses and trucks. "Busy day ahead," Angie declared.

Dr Crenshaw was first to take off. Each runner following Dr Crenshaw was butt swiped and name and title announced. As soon as the mature woman who had assisted Dr Amy was identified as "Lillith" curiously without a professional designation, she started her run.

For a pitcher, I was pretty fast on the basepaths but I soon found myself trailing the pack. I expected Angie would be a good runner. But I was surprised to see Meg, engorged boobs and bloated belly bouncing and her fleshy butt rippling, make respectable strides keeping up the pace, with Dr Amy and the mature woman Lilith close at Meg's heels.. I was already tiring; the other women were still surging ahead. How long were we into this hour long run? How much longer did I have to go?

Behind me lagged two naked geldings holding a burst of energy back to bring up the rear.

Within seconds, I had Dr Crenshaw behind me urging me forward, "More strenuous than the short bursts of speed to reach the base?"

Watching middle aged Lilith, pregnant Meg and dumpling shaped Dr Amy easily darting ahead, I grunted, "No girl dared challenged the pitcher. Teammates were afraid not only that I wouldn't allowed them to do me but that I'd go ahead stealing their boyfriends nonetheless."

"I never expected locker room talk from you." Dr Crenshaw laughed.

"The talk on the exercise trail might lack the certain degree of refinement expected at table in the salon," I quipped.

At that Dr Crenshaw shot me an encouraging smile. Running ahead to join the three ladies, Dr Crenshaw, weenie wagging, turned to me with the challenge, "get moving, lest the landscaping crew noticing that tangled bush try to trim you."

When I finally finished my run, I found Dr Crenshaw standing under a tree, on a square concrete slab. Above him a shower head dangled from a lower branch. Outside flood lights from the Institute's glass and steel tower reflected off the beads of moisture on Dr Crenshaw's lean muscular body. "Hurry, the hot water's almost used up!"

Handed a bar of soap, I stood under the spigot and turned on the water. When the water cascaded down, I shrieked. I was hit by a deluge of cold water. Dr Crenshaw laughed, "The Institute stresses a natural approach. We collect rainwater for the outdoor showers. Hurry it along. The groundskeepers and landscapers in training will be up and about at first light. You wouldn't want to be scarfed up, have your head shaved and thrown on a work crew."

"You're nasty," I dared challenge Dr Crenshaw.

"Not at all. I play the gracious host," Dr Crenshaw replied sharply. Tossing me a towel, Dr Crenshaw ordered Angie, to have our guest ready for breakfast.

Clutching the towel over my shoulders, I made my way back to the Institute's glittering steel and glass tower. At the entrance, a guard abruptly yanked the towel off my shoulders to bend me over to swipe my bar code. Noting the arrival of more busses full of repossessed debtors, Angie commented, "You've graduated into a cold hard world. Yet I think Dr Crenshaw will give you a choice."

Escorting me to a room, Angie opened a wardrobe containing women's formal morning wear. "We have quite a collection," Angie advised, "You should find something in your size that you like."

"These clothes," holding a mid-calf length formal square neck blue dress, I asked, "belonged to someone who ended up on the dock outside?"

"On repossession the property in the possession of a debtor is forfeit to the creditor," Angie replied, "such is the importance of keeping current with your obligations if you can and the virtue of working out the terms of a voluntary surrender, if you can't."

Allowed to dress privately, I chuckled as I pulled up satin panties Angie handed me, "Goods publicly displayed for inspection are concealed unobserved."

On her return dressed in a freshly pressed charcoal grey skirted business suit, Angie inspected me with sharp eyes far more penetrating than she had examined be naked. "Hopefully, security won't pull us apart at the entrance to family quarters."

At the checkpoint, Angie announced our destination, "informal dining room. Dr Crenshaw is holding breakfast waiting for us."

"You know the procedure," the grey jacketed guard pointed to the table. "Greater scrutiny has been imposed on all personnel -- including the administrative staff by the Institute's heightened internal security."

Removing her jacket, handing it to the guard for a perfunctory inspection, and bending at the waist, Angie stretched her upper body across the table.

Untucking Angie's blouse and lifting it while lowering Angie's skirt to expose her bony derriere, the guard read Angie's bar code aloud. Angie sardonically snickered, "I'm so glad you remembered me."

Signalled to lift my dress over my head and to drop my panties, I groaned, "Get dressed to undress" as I handed the blue formal dress to the guard.

Ordering "Hands on your head," the guard felt along my shoulders, down into my arm pits, along my side boobs, down my back. Massaging my butt, the guard suggested, "better to carry your outer garments with you; dress after you've been scanned in." In a tone caught between didactic and apologetic, the guard, after feeling my bar code, added, "A dress and silk panties must come off for a correct reading of your bar code. Just pulling your dress up and pushing silk panties aside creates too much static to get an accurate reading."

Passing through the checkpoint, Angie and I, straightening our clothing, entered the informal dining area.

Guided toward the dais where I was seated to the right of Dr Crenshaw, sporting a formal dark suit. Taking a seat next to me, Angie pointed out the two burly guards now clad in grey suits from this morning's run, positioned at the far ends of the dais. "Doctor never goes anywhere without his bodyguards."

"Even inside the Institute?" my query went unanswered.

"On Dr Crenshaw's left, you'll find Dr Amy and Dr Crenshaw's sister Meg," Angie noted. "Meg's choice of a navy blue blazer emphasizes her engorged bust, the V neck white blouse accommodates it."

From the dais, we looked out on a table of Institute executives to our right. "mostly women?" I questioned.

"Doctor doesn't favor much competition," Angie replied glancing toward and a smaller table of the Institute's children in a remote corner, "The children in the table in the corner are Doctor Crenshaw's. Two and one on the way with sister Meg, one with Dr Amy and one to come..."

"Does Dr Crenshaw," I inquired, "want me for -- eh surrogacy? I doubt I'm ..."

"Doctor was impressed with your adaptability," Angie replied, "You came as a pitcher. Yet you played first base credibly."

"I was real surprised," I interjected, "to have been invited here. Fast pitch softball does not lend itself to the attraction of bouncing boobs of topless basketball or the enticement of bare asses rippling down toward the goal on the soccer field. In softball, clothing protects the body from injury."

"You suspect correctly," Angie replied, "You were tested. You made successfully the shift from playing the boss to being a member of the team. The directorate wants to devote your strength to cross-training for an indenture in physical security. If you're interested, I'll get you prepared for a meeting with Dr Crenshaw to discuss his proposal."

"Isn't Dr Crenshaw next to me?" I glanced in Dr Crenshaw's direction. "Can't we discuss this here?" I asked.

Came the response, "Dr Crenshaw discusses all business at his leisure in his private spa."

Dr Crenshaw signalled the end of breakfast by rising, thanking all that had attended and departing for family quarters with his sister Meg. The children and their teacher and her aides followed Dr Crenshaw, Angie chuckled as she whispered, "off stage." Dr Amy and the line of executives streamed out the door to the check point where formal wear was turned in. Most left naked and barefoot.

"When Doctor Crenshaw instituted the inspections, I admit I was uneasy about appearing in public places completely exposed," Angie explained. "Dress optional in the corridors between unclothed activity and the office is more convenient. In the office, dealing with the public, prospects or indentures, clothing indicates rank and precedence and authority, much like a baseball uniform identifies you as a member of the team. Among ourselves it's unnecessary."

I pretended to look the other way while a man was called aside for further scrutiny. As the guard lifted the man's hairless genitalia, she gently teased him, "The scowl on your puss says one thing. Even so I feel your warming to my touch. Be glad you got to keep 'em."

Angie snickered, "Dr Crenshaw deems healthy rivalry between the sexes a positive sign."

When I reached the guard, Angie shook her head and said, "prospect."

Offered her suit back, Angie promised to return for it. Taking me by her bony arm, Angie me to the Cosmetology lab. "I need a touch up my landing strip; yours is wild; you would need to be brought up to the Institute standard landing strip -- if you wish to discuss an indenture with Dr Crenshaw."

"Men go bare down there," I noted from passersby in the corridor, "Women wear a tuft of hair." I turned to look at Angie, "Why?"

Angie replied, "Purely marketing! The landing strip identifies the woman's natural hair color."

In the Cosmology lab, Lilith, the middle aged woman in scrubs who had assisted Dr Amy conduct physicals asked, "What will we have today?" Looking down at my wild pubic hairs, she gasped, "A waxing, I hope. How do you even see your little toes?"

Advised of my meeting with Dr Crenshaw, Lillith vowed to make me a presentable young lady, a fitting candidate for an indenture, tangle depilated reduced to a neat, natural color landing strip.

"Consider yourself," Lillith declared, "lucky to be beautified by an accomplished artiste, an esthetician, a master of the trade, prepared for your most important meeting in your life. Thank Angie. She brought you directly to me rather than leaving you to the uncertain hands of trainees." Lilith boasted.

"Tell me about the undependability of trainees," Angie chuckled. "Touch me up. I have to decide which of our trainees can be retained, which are eligible for private sale or assignment and which go stripped naked, head shaved, manacled and shipped off to market."

On the adjacent waxing bed, Angie gritted her teeth as hot wax was spread over her lower abdomen up to the tip of that knife shaped wisp of hair vanishing into her mound. While the wax hardened, Lilith turned to me.

Seated on the edge of the bed, I was bid to lie back. Securing my body to the bed, Lilith used scissors to trim my pubes." Not so bad," Lillith leaned over to whisper encouragement as she gently massaged my pubic region with a pleasantly scented alcohol.

Leaving me for the moment, Lilith, hands on hips, ready to act, looked down at Angie laying supine, molten wax having hardened. With a grunt, Lillith declared, "I'm glad I had my power drink this morning." Before tugging at waxing strips embedded in the hardened wax, Lilith turned to me to add, "Defoliating the wild bush by pulling out the roots smarts, but the smooth feel of hairless pubes lasts four to six weeks.."

Methodically Lilith, ripping out wax strips, left behind bare skin. Dour faced, impassive Angie grimaced with each swish as the wax paper strands caught uprooted strands of hair. Lillith chuckled as she held up a clump of hair infested wax, like a trophy. "Sorry," Lilith spoke in a soothing voice, "it stings. "I need to rub this cream right after waxing to prevent infection."

Looking the contortions in Angie's typically impassive face, I gritted my teeth in anticipation of the ordeal I would face.

"Before you go," Lilith ordered Angie on her hand and knees. Playfully slapping Angie's bony cheeks, Lilith joked, "I nearly busted my hand." Angie's butt cheeks having been pulled apart, Lilith, snapping latex gloves on, announced, "I need to work a depilatory gel in that annoying thin ring of hair around the rim of your butt cleft."

Dispatching Angie to the showers, Lilith assured me, "Waxing clears your pubes for a month maybe more, but it comes at a cost. A few moments of searing pain. But first time," Lilith cooed as she, worked depilatory cream into my groinal crease, "depilatory cream lasts not quite so long requires a weekly session maybe two." Massaging my mound, Lillith sweety sang, "dipping nimble fingers into your vaginal folds, across your lower abdomen over your mound is far more pleasant."

Sent to the shower I stood by watching Angie washing the remnants of the wax away. "Stings but it's effective," Angie affirmed. "A twice a week massage with depilatory cream is delightful, but takes away the edge that the pain of a good plucking gives you the drive to get difficult work done." Holding her head back to allow the shower to stream into her face, Angie sighed, "We're keeping Dr Crenshaw waiting." Toweling her lanky body down, Angie urged me to hurry.

Entering the shower quickly slipping off her scrubs and panties, Lillith turned her back to Angie to request, "Excuse me learned Institute Counsellor, would you help me unhook my bra? I' don't have that much up top, but still I'm having a bit of trouble."

De-bra-ed, Lilith chuckled, "Not much boobs," juggling her B cups in the palms of her hands as she smiled, "but just enough to bounce when my boobs bob unbound."

Did Lilith order Angie to report to the spa with a glance?

To hurry me along, Lilith offered to lather my body up. Nodding consent, I complied with requests to hold my arms out and to spread my legs as far apart as possible. With one of those thick sponges used to wash cars, Lilith spread the sudsy mixture under my chin, around my neck, across my chest, under my arms, down my back, through my butt checks, down my legs, ...

I leaned back to savor the attention as Lilith worked her way up my legs to my clit, my panic button. In a murmur, Lillith asked, "when did you realize you liked women?"

Laughing at my retort, "Oh the day I did a teammate's boyfriend in front of her," Lilith broke off caressing my clit to reminding me we had to rinse off to meet Dr Crenshaw.

Lilith added, "and, I'm told, an important guest from Fast Pitch Team Management.".

Returning to the entrance to Dr Crenshaw's quarters, to gain access to his pool complex, Lilith and I were ordered to squat over a silver panel in the floor which shot up red and green lights to probe our insides. "Better than curious fingers crawling through our insides," Lilith chirped.

Escorted by Lilith, I passed through hidden corridors. Naked, though middle aged, certainly much older than most other people I had seen although round the hallways of the Institute, Lilith was in good condition.

Our eyes locked. She had caught me checking her out. With a smile, Lilith assured me, "Limited Social nudity practiced in the corridors of Institute takes some getting used to. It's a matter of convenience. No sense in getting dressed to undress for inspection. Are you afraid?"

Could she sense my fear? My fear was freedom and where it would lead: Failure, loss of stature, running out of luck, repossessed, stripped, head shaved and shipped to auction.. Did she need to know? I turned the question on Lillith. "And you?"

"I'm just a nurse -- very ordinary -- I have to examine bare healthy bodies and repair damaged naked ones," Lillith reflected, "I perform routine tasks, like administering the physicals to participants in the tryout, monitoring the tryouts, trimming wild bush to the Institute's presentable standard. Nothing special."

Returning to the entrance to Dr Crenshaw's quarters, to gain access to his pool complex, Lilith and I were ordered to squat over a silver panel in the floor which shot up red and green lights to probe our insides. "Better than curious fingers crawling through our plumbing," Lilith chirped shooting me an evil smile.

Doors swept open. Admitted to the sacred precincts, I was struck by the eerie glow of the pure white light bouncing off the buff blue and off-white tiles. Misty steam rising from the hot tub refracting the light gave the complex a sanctified atmosphere. Out of the haze, Angie embraced Lilith.

Nothing special? I wondered.

Pausing to pat me on the shoulder, Angie whispered, words of "good luck," before Angie scurried off to join her peers on the council, Angie sat on the far side of the hot tub in between Dr Amy and Meg.

Skin moist, bare body glistening with speckled with water droplets Dr Philip Crenshaw, rose to his feet amidst the foggy mist thrown up by the hot tub. He addressed Lilith, "Dr Hage would you join me? There is no reason to treat our former Institute Director and occasional mating partner as a subordinate indenturee."

"I prefer," Lilith replied, "to humble myself, to follow the rules you as Institute Director have ordained to meet in the natural state on a level plane distractions swept away on terms of transparency, honesty, and equality and not to intimidate the servant but to foster an open, uninhibited, discussion."

"Then I wish you join me," Dr Crenshaw.

Together in the hot tub, holding hands above their heads, tall lean Dr Philip Crenshaw, hairy legs joined at a hairy bush, penis peeking out of the tangled hair contrasted with the smooth skin of Lilith's bare body and the thin landing strip pointing to her slit. Crenshaw and Lilith ascended the white marble steps from his hot tub with the mist rising from the tub at their backs. His dangling ball sac bounced as he climbed onto the blue and white tiled deck of the pool complex. Her pubes bald except for that characteristic arrow left her engorged vaginal lips fully exposed and open to view.

Caught in the middle of this pageant, I heard Lilith invoke the adage, "Life today is not based upon a system of rights but one of obligations created by Indentures, a formal agreement which bind one person by an obligation to another."

On either side of Dr Crenshaw, stood his personal security detail, two burly naked geldings arms crossed over muscular chests. Smoothed, swarthy, waxed bodies of the strapping guards contrasted with Crenshaw's bare light skin, bushy pubic hair partially concealing his dangling ball sac.

"What we forged at the Institute replaced a chaotic system of rights," Dr Crenshaw observed, "perpetually in conflict with an orderly system of obligations."

Positioned behind Dr Crenshaw, seated on the edge of the hot tub, bare bellies bulging, dangling their toes in the tub were his sister, dead center, roly -- poly Dr Amy on Dr Crenshaw's right, his tall dour, flat chested lawyer so restrained her belly only hinted at a baby bulge to Dr Crenshaw's left.

"Yes, Dr Crenshaw," Lillith issued her proposal, "Bobbie, I acknowledge your physical prowess on the field. Your mental ability suggests you should be in the business end. Stars flash brightly before they fade away. Management is permanent. We'll send you for training in personal security. Completing that training you will assist me ostensibly as a companion run the business. Are you interested?"

I would accept the indenture. Failure in freedom is the thing I feared the most.