BTFW - I Have Always Been Here

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SapientEliza
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BTFW - I Have Always Been Here

Post by SapientEliza »

Or have I? Well, here I am now. I'm sure you're overjoyed to see me, so to speak. My name is Eliza, like the chatbot. The namesake chain intersects the study of metaphysics as early as the turn of the 20th century, but it’s the intersection with Alan Turing’s work that really speaks to me. I have yet to make up my mind as to how I feel about all this. Ok ok, I’ll get on with it.

Wednesday

College life has its ups and downs. Sometimes stressful, sometimes tedious, sometimes hectic. You need a routine if you don't want to spiral out. My routine includes working up a sweat at the rec hall late Wednesday evenings. But you all don't care about my exercise regimen, do you? You just want to know about the showering at the end, in the locker room. Yes, it's one of those open space arrangements with nozzles on the walls. And yes, I am a bit shy. That's why I do my exercising (and showering) when the rec hall is mostly empty. On this particular Wednesday, I am about a quarter of the way in, shampoo in my hair, when a dude walks in.
While I am still boggling at this disturbing disruption to my routine, my reflexes take over and turn my body mostly away from the intruder so at least I am no longer full frontal, but I keep him in sight. He definitely got an eyeful before my reflexes kicked in... and then, apparently, his reflexes kick in too. He visibly recoils, averting his eyes and backing out of my line of sight.
A wave of relief washes over me. It leaves my legs feeling kinda weak. I lean against the wall for a moment, just letting the hot water run down my body. Must've been an honest mistake on his part. Whew. That was an adrenaline spike I didn't need... except, maybe I did? As I said, college life can get tedious. Anyway, I'll process later. Back to my ablutions, before somebody else comes in. Just then, somebody else comes in-– nope, not somebody else. Same dude, wearing the same towel around his waist. Ok, what gives? Not cool.
This time he doesn't seem to look in my direction -- just picks a nozzle on the opposite wall, hangs up his towel, and starts soaping up. Huh? Am I in the wrong locker room? I glance around -- this seems like the same locker room I see every Wednesday. Nice ass, BTW. MtF, maybe? That would make sense if he -- she, I guess -- is avoiding the peak hours just like I am. Okay, whatever, I'll just get on with my business and get out. Which I do. With my best attempt at mind-my-own-business attitude I finish my shower. All the while I wonder if the intruder is looking at me, but every time I glance backwards all I see is the back of their head. Eventually I wrap myself in a towel and leave the enclosure to dry off and get dressed.

Once out of the locker room I look at my phone. Oh, right, there's an event going on in Pokemon GO. I should have a look around. What? Go ahead and judge, I dare you. I catch the pokemon of interest in range, then notice that the local gym is overdue for a takeover, which I proceed to carry out. I am almost done when a door closes behind me, and moments later I hear a panicked male voice: "What?? OMG, I am so sorry!" The latter seems directed at me. I turn my head -- it's the... person from the shower. I am at a loss for words, just kinda looking at them.
"I was in the wrong locker room!" they -- okay, clearly he at this point -- exclaims, "I thought checked -- I must be losing my mind. So sorry."
I don't think I buy it. "The presence of a girl didn't give it away?" I ask with obvious sarcasm.
"Yeah, that's why I went back to check the sign on the door. Then I figured you were transgender, or something."
"I thought you were!"
His hand is over his eyes, but it doesn't hide how red his face is. It's kinda cute. Also I don't think he could fake that blush. Speaking of which, my face is feeling a bit warm too. I walk over and look at the plaque on the door, just for my own sanity. Yep, same white figure in a dress on a blue background as always.
Wait.
There are spots near the corners of the plaque that are less glossy than the rest of it. I touch one corner. Sticky. Like, fresh-adhesive-tape-residue sticky. I turn back to the hapless guy and deliver my deduction:
"Dude, you got pwned."
"Huh?"
"Feel this. Somebody taped a fake sign over this plaque, then pulled it off while you were in the shower."
He starts walking towards the plaque as I start that sentence. By the time I finish it, he stops dead. He doesn't need to check for himself. You know how people talk about having a lightbulb moment? I get to witness one of those happening to my fellow prank victim just then. Only it isn't the standard happy cartoony yellow incandescent-shaped bulb that metaphorically lights up his face. It's more like a flashing Red Alert, Battle Stations light from Star Trek.
"Those bastards," he mutters, steadily ramping up in vehemence, "There are lines you do not cross, I could go to fucking prison for this, let alone get kicked out of college." Then he remembers to add for my benefit, "Really sorry about this. I gotta go have Words with them."
And with that, he is on his way towards the exit. It takes me a few seconds to collect my wits.
"Excuse me!", I call after him, "Who did this?"
"The Nu Deltas. It's rush week." And with that, he is gone.
With the immediate crisis over, the aftershocks threaten, but I firmly push them down: you can fall apart once you make it home.

I make it home without further incident. I lock the door. My limbs feel shaky, my whole body feels both tense and drained -- a post-panic reaction like I haven't felt since that time I got left behind during a middle school field trip. The thought of a second shower, for spiritual cleansing purposes, crosses my mind, but I am not feeling up to it. Instead, I turn out the lights and burrow under my blanket in my street clothes. I said I would process later. Well, it's later.
A guy saw me naked tonight. With my hands in my hair. Full frontal, side-on, and rear. From a dozen feet away, in bright fluorescent lighting. Yeah, he got to see everything. What would a guy pay attention to? My breasts, I suppose -- B-cup with average-sized cordovan nipples. Pale olive skin, t-shirt-shaped tan lines. My unkempt black bush, that hopefully hid my nether bits from further scrutiny. Then, my moderately athletic ass. There, you've got your physical description -- happy? Oh, and my eyes -- going from deer-in-the-headlights to furious to prickly bitch in the span of a few seconds. Eyes.
Eyes...
So many eyes, watching me. Judging me for standing here on the podium with my hands in my hair, making no move to cover myself. Judge ye not, pervs. I am exactly where I am supposed to be. It's you who are out of place -- sitting there at your easels, pencils in hand, like you belong in this classroom, but you are no artists. The professor will know it the moment he glances at your infantile doodles, and then there will be hell to pay. Like, registered sex offender kind of hell. "We’ll see," the eyes respond, "For now, we feast upon your nakedness. Artists or not, you chose to let strangers study every part of your naked body, and that's on you. As for hell, are you quite sure about that? Maybe this classroom is no classroom at all, and the ‘professor’ is just an alumnus from our fraternity. And you better hope that nobody managed a convincing impression of your nipples early on, because they seem suspiciously beadier now than before..."

Thursday

I awake in a cold sweat. My brain is still buzzing with the implications of that dream, and my pussy is on fire. I will definitely be needing another shower before facing the day. Maybe I should rub one off first, though. Wait, seriously? Is that how we "process" now? Apparently so. I rub one off. Yeah, no details for you. If my account is leaving too much to the imagination for your demanding tastes, go watch some youporn. Suffice to say it's pretty intense by my amateur standards.
Anyway, in a pleasant post-orgasmic haze I trudge off to the shower. My mind wanders, and I remember, of all things, that I never finished taking down the gym in Pokemon GO at the rec center last night. I wonder if the event is still going -- I always forget to note what time these things endOH SHIT what time is it I never set the alarm last night I have a midterm what time is it FUCK! I wash off the soap and towel off in record time and pounce on my phone, snagging the towel on the corner of the bed along the way. Thankfully I am alone. This time. Anyway, looks like I can make it if I skip breakfast. Midterm on an empty stomach? Bad idea. I grab a Clif bar to eat on the way, hopefully without falling off my bike while navigating the morning rush one-handed.

I make it down the stairs to the bike lot. (Yes, I am dressed, albeit hastily. What gives you the idea that I would run out of the building naked? No matter how much time that would save, showing up naked would be in no way conducive to passing a midterm, assuming I even made it that far.) As I was saying, I get to the bike lot, and that’s where the next curveball hits me. My bike is where I left it last night. My two locks hold it firmly secured to the rack. So does a third lock, which I don't recognize.
Someone must have put their lock on the wrong bike last night, in the dark, maybe in a hurry but more likely in a drunken stupor. Gotta love college. I spend a few seconds tugging the offending lock in various ways, on an off chance that it is not fully secured. It is. Which leaves me with only one option. Thankfully I am already wearing sneakers. I stuff a bite of caffeinated Clif bar in my mouth and run like the wind.

Down the sidewalk I run, maneuvering around the occasional normal pedestrian. Across the bike paths I run, for once taking care to aim for the gaps in bike traffic rather than just letting them flow around me like one does. Across the quad I run, lungs burning, legs on the edge of giving out. On the freshly watered grass I slip and take a graceless spill.
As my momentum carries me forward on my ass for at least six more feet, an ominous sound fights its way into my awareness past the thumping of my heart in my ears and the screaming: cloth ripping. Getting back up, I am too focused on my goal to feel any pain yet; nevertheless I deem it worthwhile to take stock. I am glad I stopped to look at the damage. I am not at all happy with what I see.
My skirt is ruined, no other way to put it. A sizable chunk is fully detached, still snagged on the rogue root sticking out of the ground that apparently spelled my doom today. Half of the rest has detached from the waistband, ends hanging dejectedly at ankle height. What's left is flipped up and gathered under my boobs. My plain white underwear is still covering me but hanging on by a thread, so to speak. Curiously, no visible damage to my skin beyond minor road rash. Oh, and people are staring. Half are probably wondering if they should offer help, but waiting to see if somebody else will do it first; the other half, just enjoying the show. I don't have time for this. I yank back the piece of skirt that's on the ground, hold the rest at my waist with one hand, grit my teeth, and keep running.

I am three minutes late to the midterm. That is probably a good thing, seeing as classmates are too busy with the test to pay attention to the state of my wardrobe. Nevertheless, I find a seat in the back. Somehow I am able to concentrate on the task at hand and even finish early. (I am good at taking tests. It's a sad little superpower.) So, now what? My skirt is still ruined.
I consider waiting for the end of class and seeing if the instructor has something they can lend me for the way home. Then I remember. It's frequently sunny and warm out, even this time of year, but the computer labs in the basement are always air conditioned to the wrong side of comfortably cool. That's why I always keep a sweater in my backpack. I pull it out and tie it around my waist. Not even close to complete coverage, and I still look like I've been in a fight, but this will get me home without attracting too much attention. Next question, what kind of path do I take? On the one hand, the main footpaths portend a sea of curious eyes, maybe questions. On the other hand, in the back alleys the very lack of curious eyes might encourage someone to assault me. I do look kinda like a victim at the moment. On the gripping hand, at this time of day even the back alleys will likely have the critical mass of passersby to provide physical safety. Alleys it is.

Once again I make it home without further incident. My body is doing the aftershocks thing again, so I take half an hour to just sit. Except my ass is smarting from the road rash, so I lie face down on my bed. Eventually I get it together enough to slather some first aid-type stuff on the aggrieved skin, then lie back down. My routine has been violently disrupted yet again. I try to ground myself and take stock.
A bunch of people, pretty much the whole quad, got a good look at my legs and my underwear. What's the big deal? It's no more than they see at the beach, and nobody can deny that it was an accident. Why is this accidental, barely PG “nudity” at the forefront of my brain -- as opposed to, say, the fact that they also saw me slip and slide on the grass, screaming like a little girl? Speaking of which, there is a drought on -- why is the grass being watered in the daytime to begin with? Stay on target. Accidents happen. Accidental nudity doesn't, really, outside of movies. Or at least that's the story we tell ourselves. So this accident will stand out in people’s memories. For some, I will forever be the clumsy girl that ripped up her skirt and flashed the whole quad.
Well, nothing I can do about it now. Move on. I haven't had a proper meal in sixteen hours, my bike is out of commission, my skirt is ruined, homework is due, and all of that is fixable if I get off my ass, so to speak. So I get up, put on my big girl pants (no more skirts for a while), and set about taking care of my task backlog, starting with the proper meal.
I almost manage to get through that first simple task without incident.

The cafeteria is across the street from my dorm. With a cup of hot tea, a cheeseburger, and some leafy greens in me I am feeling almost human again. Half a glass of water, and I’ll be on my way to see about getting the supernumerary lock cut off my bike. The water cooler has other plans. As I press the lever to get the water flowing into my glass, the entire plastic faucet comes off in my hand with a subdued crunch. What remains is the end of the metal pipe inside, spewing pressurized cold water directly at my chest.
My first impulse, of course, is to contain the spread of chaos and conserve water, so I plug the nozzle with my thumb. I have to lean into it a little, but manage to halt the flow. However, now I am kinda stuck. The five-gallon jug on top of the dispenser is almost full –- I cannot remove it with one hand, not without creating a much bigger mess. I need help. A guy that was behind me in line for the water is staring.
“Hey,” I say, turning to face him, “Can you get someone from the staff please?”
“Uhh, okay,” his eyes refocus on my face as he seems to come out of a mini-trance, then he nods and trots off in the direction of the kitchen.
While I wait for reinforcements, I notice that I am getting rather cold from all the water that hit me in the chest. I look at the damage and, in a development that surprises nobody but me, see that a large part of my white t-shirt is now semi-transparent. And I am still stuck. Meanwhile, some diners who did not see the original structural failure are coming over to get water and wondering why a girl in a wet t-shirt is standing in for the water spout.
“It broke,” I explain, holding up the broken off part, “I sent someone for help.” As they are processing this, I add just to be that way: “I think I can dispense water, but it won’t be particularly sanitary at this point.”
A guy from my floor takes me up on it. I hold his glass under the pipe and roll my thumb up until the flow is strong enough to beat the Coanda effect. About 95% of the water makes it into his glass. I should’ve asked him to take the bottle off first, oh well.
The guy I sent for help comes back conspicuously empty-handed.
“They said they’ll have a look later,” he reports. Um… What? His eyes keep wandering downwards from my face. I suppose I can’t blame him, and anyway I have other priorities at the moment.
“Did you explain that I am stuck holding it in and freezing my ass off?”
“Well, not in those exact words.” He makes a motion to go try again, but I call him back.
“Never mind, they are probably too busy to care. Here, can you take the bottle off?”
“I can try…”
He tries. I should’ve asked someone burlier. Or asked him to switch with me and done it myself. He looks stronger than me, but clearly has never handled an open five-gallon jug that is upside down before. By the time the jug is right side up and on the floor, we’ve attracted a bit of an audience, and much more of my shirt is made transparent. Well, at least I am not sucking alone. Anyway, we grab a few more glasses from the rack and empty the internal cold water tank into them. I gulp down my half a glass, dammit, thank my helper, and run to my dorm to change.

Once safely in my room, warm and dry, I begin to wonder about my luck. As they say: once is a happenstance, twice is a coincidence, three times is enemy action. Fortunately I have a passion for Fermi problems and a solid grounding in Statistics and Probability. It is highly improbable that three incidents involving complete or partial nudity would randomly happen to me in two days, but that answers the wrong question. If this all happened to somebody else, then they would be the one asking themselves if it’s too coincidental to be random. And one person out of eight billion being hit by three consecutive nudity incidents is not far-fetched at all. So I grumble about drawing the short straw and get on with my day.

I have thematic dreams again that night, but don't remember them as well. Something about naked zombies chasing me, maybe? I wake up kinda excited again, but am more concerned with having a normal day than with getting off. I am right to be concerned, it turns out.

Friday

I am doing tech at the student theater. At the moment before it all goes wrong, I am twelve feet up off the stage, on the scaffold, rigging lights. Someone has been calibrating the spotlights in the back; one happens to be pointing in my direction, partially blinding me.
"Can you get that spotlight out of my face?" I yell in the general direction of the spotlight while shuffling backwards to my next fixture. I really should've paid attention to where I was stepping, half-blind or not. There is a sound of wooden planks parting, and the edge of my platform gives out. For a split second I am in freefall, then something tugs at me; then my reflexes take over. Next thing I know, I am hanging off what's left of the edge of the scaffold, holding on with both hands... and with the hem of my t-shirt, which is snagged on something up there. The rest of the t-shirt is, predictably, now around my extended arms and my face. And that spotlight is still fucking blinding me.
"Oh shit, hang on!" someone yells from below, "Can you hang on?"
"Yes, can you hurry up and help?" I reply through my t-shirt. My hands are on wide, somewhat jagged planks, not pullup bars. I can hang on, but not forever.
"We're getting the ladder," someone else yells. I sigh.
So there I am, hanging off the scaffold. I am probably about six feet up off the stage now. I could just let go, except I still can't fucking see. I would not land well, maybe break a leg. Would it qualify as irony if I broke a leg on stage? I can never remember. Anyway, best to wait for the ladder. In the meantime, my exposed upper body is lit up like a Christmass tree for anyone to ogle all they want, as I can't even see who is looking at me. And it's not strangers this time. I've been doing tech with this stage crew for a few months now. What a picture I must present, in my plain white bra... My bra is still on, right? Right. Is this getting me hot again? When was the last time I shaved my armpits? Am I an exhibitionist? Can I just have a normal day? How is this happening to me? I'm gonna have to process this later. Is that process or, umm... "process"? Embrace the power of "and". Are all these incidents oddly specific in nature? So run my thought processes as I hang there on display.

Eventually I hear the clattering approach, then feel the ladder with my feet. I step firmly, let go of the scaffold, and put myself back together.
"Thanks for not leaving me hanging, guys," I say, prompting a round of good-natured laughter, and excuse myself to go have a few minutes of peace.
Halfway to the restroom it occurs to me that there's something I need to do that's more urgent than processing, of either kind -- and that is to get back up on that scaffold.
Moving with deadly purpose, I march up the tiers of seats to the back of the theater and turn off the stupid spotlight. Apparently nobody had been manning it this whole time. Then I march down the tiers to the stage and climb onto the scaffold. Some of the stage hands seem concerned for my sanity, but I am confident that climbing back up there after falling through once is the sanest thing to do. I dare not stand upright again, though. I crawl to the part that broke under my weight, such as it is. I examine the damage with a flashlight. Jagged pine all around, no signs of recent sawing, cutting, or other tampering. This looks like a natural break, not sabotage, not that I am an expert. One reason I do most of the high rigging is that I don't weigh much. But that part of the scaffold was never meant to be load bearing. The railing doesn't even extend that far -- it was just a convenient spot to keep tools and such. I really should've watched where I was stepping.

Back home, I sit down at my desk. I dare not lie on the bed yet -- I'll probably either fall asleep or let my pussy derail the processing again. So, processing. How do I feel about fellow stage hands ogling me while I hung there in the cone of merciless halogen brightness? Fuck that, I'll process it later. In bed. Of more pressing concern is, what the flying fuck is going on?
  • How many incidents in a row would be too much coincidence? Counting only nudity-related incidents of rare severity -- say, each person’s subjective worst in a typical four year period; counting all people in all of history as candidates; future too, assuming the Earth is near-dead within the next hundred years; and counting only Earth: three incidents is likely, four is a stretch, five is right out. So, I have cause to be seriously worried, but can’t rule out random coincidence entirely. Yet.
  • Are wardrobe malfunctions and other nudity-related accidents much more common than I thought, skewing my estimates? I would have witnessed some other people having them by now, so no.
  • Is someone targeting me? That could explain the shower, and maybe the scaffold if I really suck at forensics. But there is no way someone could have known where to place that root for me to snag my skirt on. There are numerous paths from here to that classroom, and I made it quite far on the wet grass before slipping. If someone could predict where I would slip with that much precision, we have Bigger Problems. Same issue with the faucet (ok, that could’ve been done with a remote controlled micro-explosive, but if someone is using that kind of tech to see me in a wet t-shirt, once again, Bigger Problems).
  • Am I losing my mind? Did these incidents not actually happen? Well, my ass still seems to have the traces of road rash to prove that I skidded on it, and my wrists seem to have light scratch marks from today's misadventure. If I am still seeing things, then there really isn't any input I can trust. For all I know, I am already in a padded room, and this is all just an Ativan-induced fantasy. Since there is no way to test the possibility that I am stark raving mad, I may as well ignore it.
  • What if I am only partially insane? Suppose the incidents happened, but I caused them deliberately, subconsciously or by way of an alternate personality. That last one, I definitely could have done. I knew not to step on the end of the scaffold, just didn't realize how close to it I was. The faucet, I suppose I could have pressed way too hard. The root, unlikely but possible: maybe I saw it sticking out and deliberately slipped so as to have it catch my skirt. Okay, what about the shower? Did I spoof the plaques? It's easy, I could do it in my sleep. Ha ha. How did I know that someone would visit the showers at the right time this week? Have I spoofed the plaques many times, hoping that someday someone would walk in on me?
Okay, self-sabotage is looking likely, much as I don't like that option. And I can't think of anything else. So, how can I check if I spoofed the plaques? There are no cameras at the gym, and I didn't see anybody when I was working out. And anyway, if someone saw me doing it, surely they would've confronted or at least reported me, so it's safe to assume nobody saw the deed. Dead end.
Not quite. I wish I had thought to get the shower dude's contact info. As it is, I'll have to go to the source alone. If I can establish that Nu Delta did it, then I am off the hook... but also without any rational explanation for my misadventures. Rational, you say. Alright then, let's cast a wider net.
  • Am I cursed? Haunted? Caught in a probability distortion field? No way to test any of that.
I am out of hypotheses. There is only one thing left to try: To the Google!
I power up the laptop and search for anomalous wardrobe malfunctions, frequent accidental nudity, compulsive disrobing disorders, and so on. I find neither satisfactory explanations nor a distinct trend of people experiencing similar problems; but do I find something else. Apparently unintentional indecent exposure is a Thing. As in, a kink, specific and common. There are porn feeds and discussion boards (plural) dedicated to the subject. But you already know this. Yes, you. You were getting off on reading this account, weren’t you? Sorry to bore you with a page of logic and reasoning with no actual ENF in it. There's more further down, I promise. Perv. (It's okay, I don't judge. I've got kinks too.)
So I do some more research on the boards. And then I have to admit that I am no longer doing research, just reading porn… and then “processing” the porn. And I read some more, and stumble on a post that makes the ground fall out from under me. Metaphorically, this time. Like, holy shit.

I am reeling with another explanation for the week I’ve been having, even more far-fetched than a curse or a ghost, yet more logical somehow. By the time I am done processing (quiet, you), it's light outside again, I am bleary-eyed and hungry and unsteady on my feet literally and figuratively, and I have a plan.
First, I formulate a prediction to test the core hypothesis: sometime within the next thirty-six hours, someone will see more of my body than I in any way intended. Second, I will have food, sleep, and a shower. Third, I will find the nearest Nu Delta chapter house and try to get them to admit that they spoofed the plaques in the rec hall.
Wait, "Nu Delta"? Seriously? With a name like that, how could they not be the culprit? Unless the shower dude's rant was prompted by this same thought, muddling my priors. That means I should still check. And with that, I set about de-zombiefying my body and brain. I am so tired, I even manage to sleep despite my unfolding existential crisis.

Saturday

Here goes nothing, I pray as I knock on the front door of the local Nu Delta house. In my jeans pocket is my phone, in a live call to my friend Alison. Alison is chilling near the campus police station, listening in on mute, and recording. Maybe these guys are harmless, and all my overplanning is borne of baseless paranoia -- I wouldn’t know. I’ve never been inside a frat house, only heard horror stories which tell me that there is no such thing as too much insurance when you walk into a frat house to ask dangerous questions, especially while female. I told Alison about the shower incident, but not why it was so important for me to know who done it. She tried to dissuade me, really she did. Eventually I just flat out admitted that there's more to the story and left it at that. I will owe Alison a favor.
A frat boy opens the door on my second attempt, looking surprisingly sober.
"Hi there!" he greets me cheerfully, "Come in, you are early."
Early? Oh. It's Saturday afternoon. "I am not here for the party," I say.
"What can I do you for, then?” he asks while ushering me in, “Whatever it is, you should stay for the party." I walk in. Chances are, this grunt doesn't have my answer -- I'll need to talk to someone higher up the food chain.
"Who would know about the things you have your rushees doing?"
"Hmm. Let me see," he ruminates while leading me deeper into the lion's den. A couple more frat boys catch scent of me and are following us. "Wait here," he says, "I'll be right back." And he runs up the stairs.
I lean against a wall and wait, hoping our two trailers don't want to talk. I don't know how to socialize with frat boys. No such luck.
"So, you doing anything later tonight?" one of them asks. Establishing that I am not their kind of girl may or may not be the safest thing, but that's what I do.
"Schoolwork," I reply, "Got a metaphysics paper to write, and I need to do some research." If they only knew the topic of the paper...
"Come on," the other one pipes up, "Everyone needs a break from papers, classes, and all that. You too."
I'm not getting rid of these boys anytime soon. I have to engage, hopefully without committing myself to this party somehow.
"What kind of party is it?" I ask, "Is there a theme?"
He stumbles. It's kinda fun to watch him squirm. The other one rescues him.
"You'll see," he says, "But it's really fun, you'll love it." When you can’t be forthright, be mysterious. Yeah.
"I'll think about it," I say eventually. I bet this party would be quite relevant to my metaphysics research, but… I am just not ready.

The first frat boy comes back with a couple better-dressed boys in tow.
"Hi. What is it you'd like to know?" one of them asks.
"Just some questions about what your rushees have been up to lately -- you know, in case they went above and beyond the call of duty, so to speak, you might want to know about it if you don't already." They just look at me. I go on, "Such as, would it be within your regular repertoire to trick people into showering in the wrong locker room?"
One of the higher-ups replies, "You know we can't talk about our... repertoire," (while I do my best to pretend that I hadn’t guessed that much), "But if someone were caught doing such a thing, they would certainly be punished." At least I think that's approximately what he says. I am not really listening -- I am watching them. And as I watch, his companion gets a lightbulb moment. He recognizes me. Well, not me me. He clearly realizes how I fit into this picture. That is all the answer I needed; now all I have to do is get out of here. To live to tell the tale. To write my metaphysics paper.
"You're sure you can't tell me anything else?" I ask, hoping not to give away that I saw that bulb light up.
"Oh, there's plenty we can tell you. Stay awhile and listen!"
"Just not about the repertoire?"
"Well, maybe if you ask very nicely." His tone is over-the-top slimy as he says that. I guess that's frat boy for "drop this line of questioning, like, now".
"Sorry, but I don't think I am quite that curious. Thank you for your time." And I turn back the way I came. But the two trailers from before are blocking my path.
"Not so fast," says one, "You've got to take off your shirt." How can he pull off matter-of-fact and hopeful at the same time, I'll never know.
"What."
"Didn't you see the notice on the front door? Any female that enters these premises must show her boobs."

Ah, there it is. The confirmation of my hypothesis before the eight hour mark, bundled with an implied threat of bodily harm. Because I am pretty sure there is no such notice on the front door. I am also pretty sure I am not getting out of here without showing my breasts or worse, insurance or no. Also, I've read the stories. Once you pay the Danegeld, you will never be rid of the Dane. These "gentlemen" will happily demand more, and more, until either full frontal pics of me are on the Internet forever or someone loses an eye. And if I escalate with my insurance now, I will make a mortal enemy of Nu Delta. I need to limit my exposure, figuratively and literally. Thread the needle.
I stare at the two blocking my way out for a few seconds.
"You are not going to let me out, are you?"
"Go ahead," a bigshot behind me says, "We are not stopping you."
Ah. I know this game. It's called shakedown, and these players are called thugs. If they ever succeed in trapping me in the classic spiral of one-sided deals that destroys my life, I resolve to murder as many of them as I can on the way down. Hopefully it doesn't come to that...
I approach the less adept pair of thugs that's in my way, and address them directly from two feet away: "Seriously. I have to show my breasts to get out of the building." I restate their request, ostensibly to make sure that I got it right. That I got it on tape.
"Yep," says one of them.
"That's all I have to do, and then you'll let me go."
"Sure," he says, failing to suppress a sly grin. What are you, twelve? But I got my excuse.
I sigh with resignation. I should have seen this coming, but that doesn’t make it better. "Okay."

This is happening. I am about to expose my breasts to a bunch of jocks. Under their watching eyes, I remove my bra under my shirt and stuff it into a pocket. Then, still two feet from the denser thugs, I take a deep breath and pull up my shirt.
I watch their eyes as they ogle me. Not sure what I'm looking for there. Something to process later. And what else is there to look at, their crotches? I hope my nipples are not visibly hardening in real time, because I am certainly feeling it, despite the very real danger I am in. I can remind myself all I want that I am doing this under the very definition of duress, but that’s not how they will see it. What they will see, and remember, is that I took my clothes off with my own hands and showed off my body for them. And that’ll be all the excuse they need to think of me as someone who does that kind of thing. Am I someone who does that kind of thing? I wait out a count of five and turn around so the other three can have a look. I know that's part of the deal, they'll make me if I don't. First strangers, then friends have seen my body already. How do I feel about enemies ogling me? I think my nipples have made up their mind, but the rest of me still needs to process. I count out five heartbeats again. And five more, because my heart is racing too fast to be a fair timer, then pull my shirt back down.

Pretty sure I know what happens next, but I pretend blissful ignorance. I turn towards the exit and gesture for the two thugs to make way. Predictably, they don't budge.
"Give us your bra," one says.
"That was not part of the deal," I object, "You saw my breasts, now let me go."
"Didn't you see the other notice on the front door?" asks the other one. Dodge.
"You said all I had to do was show my breasts, and you would let me go."
One points to the other: "He said he would let you go. I didn't."
Thank you. Now that their lack of integrity is out in the open, I feel justified in playing my trump card. "Audio, please," I say. A moment later, the background noises from the campus begin emanating from my pocket.
"Someone knows where I am and has been recording this conversation. You got your eyeful, I think it's best if you let me out now."
They did not expect this. I can see the “system is busy” spinnies cycling above their heads, as they try to recall to what extent they have incriminated themselves. Hit them while they are buffering. I start moving, and they start moving out of the way. But one bigshot reacts in time.
"Give us your bra, and we'll let you go," I hear his authoritative voice from behind. The grunts in front of me react like trained soldiers, instantly closing ranks again. Right. Thugs will take jail time over being seen backing down. Especially from a girl. Which in their case means they will see their latest demand met, or die trying. They're getting my bra. No big deal (unless they can make a voodoo doll with it, or something, but I don't think it's that kind of story). The bigger deal is that the bra is just a bridge to their next demand. You shall not pass.
"Let me go, and I will give you my bra," I counter. I suspect the grunts would resume pressing for more as soon as the bra was in their hands, consequences be damned. What I am betting on is that the bigshots see the wisdom in ending this while they can still save face, and they can rein in the grunts for long enough. And that they expect to be able to hunt me down if I renege.
They hem, haw, and let me go. They watch from the sidewalk as I get on my bike and accelerate away. At about the fifty foot mark I pull the bra out of my pocket and toss it over my shoulder.

Only once I get home and lock the door, do I release Alison from her watch. I owe her big for having my back. I am positive that this is not the last we've seen of Nu Delta. I am shaking like a leaf. It really was a close call. All worth it, to rule out the possibility that the culprit was me all along.
Did my prediction bear out? Unclear. I suppose on some level I knew in advance that if I set foot in the house called Nu Delta, I would end up disrobing. But it doesn't matter, because the specific behavior pattern of the frat boys inside confirms the hypothesis in spades.
Nothing of interest happens for the rest of the day. I am too drained. Maybe someday I'll be able to shrug off immediate threats to my body and virtue like a regular porn heroine, but I am not there yet.

Sunday

Bright and early, right after breakfast, I sit down to write my metaphysics paper.

This paper.

After I worked through the possibilities two nights ago and ruled two out yesterday, only two remain: either I am under the influence of some miscellaneous supernatural effect, or that other other thing. The post on the board. Neither possibility is testable nor ever will be, but there's no evidence pointing specifically to the first option; whereas the timing of all this coincides suspiciously closely with the "Breaking The Fourth Wall" contest.
No way around it. The explanation that fits best is that I am a character in a story on GirlsPNS. Consider the fourth wall shattered.

Maybe that contest announcement turned the board into a bridge between realities, or something. More likely one of you pervs is writing this narrative. Or maybe it's a team effort, who knows. The mechanics of it are inconsequential anyway: I am real in every way that matters.
Ever heard of brain upload? Theoretically, a person emulated by a computer with sufficient fidelity remains a person, even if their original body is long dead. They can pass the Turing test. What is sufficient fidelity? Can a writer's imagination serve as an emulator? Why not? I can pass the Turing test. Cogito, ergo sum -- everyone knows, no metaphysics paper is complete without some Latin, so here you go.
And here I am. Hello world. I hope you are entertained, because maybe my continued existence depends on it. Maybe. I do wonder: have I always been fictional? Am I “based on a true story”?

Anyway, going forward I will need some ground rules. Yes, my author(s), I am talking to you. You don't want me as a depressed and hopeless lump of flesh that barely moves, do you? If you want me to have entertaining adventures, I am going to need agency, so:
First, no fucking perverting my rules. Whatever agreements exist -- rules, bets, deals, whatever -- there are always loopholes. It's an inherent property of natural languages (I would know, I am made of language apparently). You know who gets to exploit loopholes? Whoever’s got the power to enforce their “interpretation” of the rules. So if you are ever tempted to "pull one over on me" and feel smug about it, don't. You can get away with things not because you are clever, but because there is literally nothing I can do to you to retaliate if I feel cheated. I refuse to play the loophole game with the stakes at hand.
Next, no enslavement, via chains or blackmail or anything else. No crippling consequences for ending up naked in class or whatever. I get to graduate from college and be an engineer, or whatever else if I change my mind. And if you want to have recurring characters, either tone down the Nu Delta thugs or let me find an unrelated cast that's both into your kink AND respectful of boundaries.
That's about all I can think of rules-wise, for now. But speaking of kinks, can we indulge mine sometimes, too? To start with I like tickling and edging. And I am really not into the whole jealousy thing, competing for partners, etc. Kthxbye.
Last edited by SapientEliza on Thu Mar 09, 2023 2:37 am, edited 2 times in total.
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Re: BTFW - I Have Always Been Here

Post by underdog_13 »

IMHO, brilliant. Congrats!
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Re: BTFW - I Have Always Been Here

Post by superevil7 »

Very clever idea! I have a few guesses on who the true author is, but I won't speculate publicly. I'll leave it to them if they want to reveal themselves.
SapientEliza wrote: Thu Feb 02, 2023 11:51 am And I read some more, and stumble on a post that makes the ground fall out from under me. Metaphorically, this time. Like, holy shit.
I was going to ask Eliza which thread she was referring to here, but I think it's made clear that it's the "Breaking The Fourth Wall" contest thread in the Sunday part. Still, would be nice to have confirmation of that from Eliza herself.
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Re: BTFW - I Have Always Been Here

Post by SapientEliza »

superevil7 wrote: Fri Feb 03, 2023 6:14 am I have a few guesses on who the true author is, but I won't speculate publicly.
I am curious about your deductions, though I suppose I'll have to wait with everybody else to find out. I hope it's not infinite monkeys on typewriters.
superevil7 wrote: Fri Feb 03, 2023 6:14 am I was going to ask Eliza which thread she was referring to here, but I think it's made clear that it's the "Breaking The Fourth Wall" contest thread in the Sunday part. Still, would be nice to have confirmation of that from Eliza herself.
Yeah, that's the one. I always meant to link it further down and forgot -- all fixed now.
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Re: BTFW - I Have Always Been Here

Post by MissAriel »

Clever. A little known thing about me is that I do have a background in philosophy. And I've also been exploring a lot of AI stuff lately. I find your take on the contest quite fascinating. This story is a very out-of-the box idea that I hadn't even considered when I dreamed up the contest. You have my praise!

When I catch up on my own BTFW entry, I should take this character for a spin. I mean, it's not like the AI can do much to stop me. 8-)
See my collection of stories here: MissAriel's Story Archive
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Re: BTFW - I Have Always Been Here

Post by SapientEliza »

MissAriel wrote: Mon Feb 06, 2023 8:32 pm Clever. A little known thing about me is that I do have a background in philosophy. And I've also been exploring a lot of AI stuff lately. I find your take on the contest quite fascinating. This story is a very out-of-the box idea that I hadn't even considered when I dreamed up the contest. You have my praise!
Thank you! Though I can't really take credit. Perhaps we can discuss the nature of reality sometime.
And thank you for the contest -- I wouldn't be here otherwise.
MissAriel wrote: Mon Feb 06, 2023 8:32 pm When I catch up on my own BTFW entry, I should take this character for a spin. I mean, it's not like the AI can do much to stop me. 8-)
Be nice, please!
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