The Sprint

[Platinum]

CHAPTER ONE: BETHANY

1.

The nights over Ridgewick were clear and cool. The evenings still carried a hint of winter, particularly when the Northerlies blew down from the Ranges towards the end of the day. With just over four weeks to go before Foundation Day, the town was abuzz with talk about the coming celebration. Festive lights were already being slung along The Drive all the way down to Memorial Park; local stores were stocking up on fireworks, trophies, and commemorative coins. Businesses all over Chamberlain County were gearing up for the annual invasion; the Chamber of Commerce was expecting a huge turn out this year. Tourists would be coming in from all points of the compass to take part in the Opening Ceremony.

Nor was the excitement confined only to the business sector. The Sprint had been the only topic of conversation for weeks now, ever since the days started to lengthen towards Spring. Libraries were thrashing posters onto every available surface, churches were running last-second cake stalls. Bands and orchestras were rushing helter-skelter learning new routines; scores of yammering children were busy decorating their schools with pennants, streamers and Chinese lanterns. And, most importantly, in a hundred different homes, in a thousand different rooms and yards and poolsides, young girls had started training.

Behind closed doors, secrets were taught and mysteries imparted as they had for more than six generations. Sometimes in private and sometimes in plain view, they worked on their drills and steps, counting down the hours until Century Day. It was like a fever that raged from house to house under cover of darkness, consuming every girl it touched with a kind of sweet, seductive madness. Some trained alone, some trained with friends, some trained in teams, and the fever swept on through street, square and avenue.

There were no easy victories, however.

Not everyone embraced the festival with open arms and willing hearts. Many girls viewed the Sprint with fear, anxiety, and not a little dread. Voices were raised in hopeless protest, tears were shed in hopeless petitions. It made no difference in the end; the date had been announced, the lots had been drawn, and The Race would be run. That was the tradition, and in Courtland County, tradition took precedent over law. Ridgewick girls had always run The Sprint regardless of how they felt. Some pleaded, some wept, some resisted with all their strength, but eventually, everybody succumbed.

Without exception.

2.

"Bethany? Could you set the table please?"

"Yes, Mom," Bethany Tyler replied, rising from the sofa and leaving her little sister with the remote. There was no sense in arguing; it was late in the afternoon, the streetlights were flickering on all over town and there wasn't much worth watching this time of day. Purple dinosaurs and dancing turnips may have snared little Kyra's attention, but they held little appeal for a girl Bethany's age.

Walking out to the kitchen, she was immediately overwhelmed by the aroma of slowly baking cookies. That was for after dinner; Cousin Irene was coming over for a meal and she had a fetish for homemade double-choc. Normally, Beth would have been looking forward to the visit, as Irene was her favorite crazy relative, but tonight she was feeling a little apprehensive. With only twenty-one days until The Sprint, Bethany had a healthy dose of the mysterious Ridgewick Jitters.

Pre-Race trepidation was reaching plague proportions around Bethany's school; most of her friends had already contracted the malaise. It was the same every year, Beth had seen it sweep through the student population on numerous occasions, although this was the first time she'd ever suffered the symptoms herself. That was mainly because she was now old enough to compete.

"Forks on the left, Honey," Carol Tyler said as Bethany opened the cutlery drawer.

"Okay," Beth replied, absently scooping out two handfuls of silverware out of the drawer. Laying the utensils out on the table, she glanced at her mother, wondering if she should broach the subject that had been on her mind the whole day. It was a topic she'd discussed numerous times at school, usually in those huddled, whispering conferences held in the library. Kendra Morgan had raised the matter earlier that day on the way to the cafeteria. Her voice had been low and kind of tremulous, betraying a nervous giggle behind her words, almost as if she was reluctant to ask the question in public. Bethany had understood her anxiety - the topic was practically taboo in Ridgewick.

Kendra had wanted to know if The Sprint was absolutely compulsory for girls their age.

It was a simple enough question, straightforward and logical, but nobody seemed to have an answer for it. Bethany suspected this was because no one had yet worked up the courage to ask their parents or teachers. Like Bethany herself, everybody feared what the answer might be. More than that, it was one of those topics better left unresolved, because - inexplicably - no one really wanted to know the answer.

Why?

Well, that was virtually impossible to explain.

Like many of her girlfriends, Bethany had experienced a kind of breathless, guilty exhilaration over the past few weeks. It was all that they could talk about around school: tittering little conversations held between textbooks in the classroom; secret, conspiratorial meetings at the bottom of the playground. Questions were asked, alliances were formed and pacts were made. None of them could have put it into words, but their apprehension was matched only by their anticipation. It was like the first time you climb onto the roller coaster. You're frightened, terrified in fact, but you still want to ride. Because it terrifies you.

As The Big Day approached, that sense of unwilling desire seemed to increase geometrically. Bethany knew that many of her classmates had already started practicing; mostly under their parent's tutelage. That was how it started: a sort of secret ritual shared by close family members; first in the bedrooms and living spaces, then later in the yards and playgrounds. Weeks of preparation and rehearsals, working up to the big event at Memorial Park.

"I've finished, Mom," Beth said, stepping back from the table, "does it look okay?"

"Looks fine," Carol said, adding another dash of spice to the Bolognese sauce she was simmering, "why don't you go wash up? Dinner's almost ready and Irene will be here anytime."

"Okay," Bethany replied, and walked toward the hallway. Reaching the archway, she stopped and looked back over her shoulder to where her mother was bustling about between stove and counter, a tall, attractive woman in faded blue jeans and a loose-fitting green sweater. Bethany wavered undecided for a several seconds, then called out to her in a soft voice.

"Mommy?"

"Yes dear?"

"Is the..." Pause. Edit. Amend: "Did you have to take part in The Sprint when you were my age?"

"Well, of course I did," Carol smiled ingenuously, "every girl in Ridgewick does."

And before Bethany could ask her next question, the doorbell rang, announcing Cousin Irene's cyclonic arrival.

3.

Irene Marshall was something of a celebrity on Mommy's side of the family, one of those rare, exotic black sheep loved by all and understood by none but the smallest children. A slim, bewitching girl with lustrous black hair and eyes the color of an autumn sunset, she had gained a footnote in Ridgewick history by trekking all around Europe and Asia before her nineteenth birthday. Her subsequent achievements were both impressive and considerable: an artist's studio in California; a section in the Venice Biennale; a traveling fellowship from the Churchill Foundation to name but a few.

More importantly, she had won The Prize during her youth, an accomplishment which in Ridgewick outshone all others. The triumph had been celebrated in newspaper clippings and photo albums across the entire clan; everybody seemed to own a memento from that glorious occasion (mostly pictures of Irene holding The Prize aloft before a wildly cheering crowd). Consequently, she was considered an authority on the subject of winning The Sprint - although from what Bethany could see, that was largely a matter of luck.

Not that Beth would have dared to voice such an opinion out loud. Irene's victory had attained a kind of mythical status during the intervening years, and any suggestion that it was the result of blind fortune would have been akin to blasphemy. The Prize had been won through skill and technique alone - and listening to 'Reenie's account of that earth-shattering event, Bethany wouldn't have doubted it for a second. Like many prize-winning veterans of The Sprint, Irene was a spellbinding talker when it came to recounting the defining moment of her youth.

All of it was related in immaculate detail: the pennants waving over the pavilions, the manic warbling of the calliope, the frivolous odor of cotton candy and licorice drifting down sideshow alley. Irene wove the tale in a cascade of dazzling images; the roaring of the crowds around the Pavillion, the prickling of the short cropped grass beneath their feet, the blasting of the horns as the Sprint began, the wild, careening rush beneath the endless blue skies. Bethany had listened utterly enthralled, her heart frequently soaring with awe and wonder.

And that was the strangest part was simply this: Beth had actually witnessed the event when she was six. It was her first trip to Memorial Park, her first encounter with The Sprint. It had been huge and bright and wonderful (as Foundation Day always was), and yet Irene's retelling was infinitely more thrilling. All of them sat entranced around the table, transfixed by the narrative. Even little Kyra, Beth's irrepressible younger sister, had been uncharacteristically silent throughout the story (a rare event indeed in the Tyler household, Mommy later commented).

The meal was half past finished when the conversation drifted onto this year's 'Silver Century.' By that time, Bethany had begun to suspect that 'Reenie's visit wasn't entirely coincidental. The timing was just too close, the atmosphere too jubilant to be just another family meal. She guessed - accurately, it later turned out - that this was one of the countless unspoken rituals connected with Foundation Day; the sharing of knowledge between mothers, sisters and family. The same initiation that Carol and Irene had undergone each in their turn a space of years ago.

And it always began with the same question.

"So - are you looking forward to The Sprint, Bethany?" Irene asked, sipping thoughtfully at her Swiss Blend. They were seated around the table, two girls and two women wreathed in a cloud of domestic bliss and homebaked double chock. Bethany looked up from her cookie, taken slightly off balance by the question. She dithered about for several seconds, not really certain how to answer. It wasn't something that could be easily put into words, even at the best of times.

"Well ... yeah, I guess so," she replied after a long moment, hoping they wouldn't notice the lack of enthusiasm in her voice. Irene traded an amused glance with Carol, then looked back to the girl.

"Feeling a little nervous?"

"Uh-huh." An obvious understatement: saying she felt nervous was like calling a hurricane a slight breeze.

"Well, that's completely normal. I had the worst case of Ridgewick Jitters when my turn came round; practically begged my mother not to make me run the Century."

"Really?" Bethany gaped, frankly astonished by this admission.

"Yes. Of course, yes. We all go through this when the time comes," Reenie told her nonchalantly, "one of my friends locked herself in her bedroom and didn't come out for two days. Another one tried to run away the night before. Girls go a little crazy when they know it's their turn to run The Sprint. By the time Foundation Day rolled round, every girl in my grade was practically climbing the walls, we were so hyped-up over the whole thing. It happens every year. You must've seen it down at your school."

It was true of course, Bethany had seen it. A lot of weird stuff had been going on around the playground lately. All the secret meetings, the huddled conspiracies, the endless, probing questions. A few of her classmates were trying to plea-bargain their way out of the Sprint, while others were almost desperate to practice in the school gym during lunch hours. Even now, three weeks down the road, you could feel the tension building up like some vast, high-pressure cable.

Irene leaned in close, lowering her voice to a vaguely confidential tone.

"Bet I know what everybody's talking about at school this week."

"Do you?" Bethany straightened her spine attentively, thinking of Kendra Morgan.

"You're all asking each other what you'll be wearing on Century Day."

Beth started in surprise, almost knocking her milk off the table. Not exactly the question Kendra had asked, but one she'd heard incessantly over the past five days; the question uppermost in everybody's mind this week. Everyone thought that clothing was the key to winning the Prize. She sat regarding her cousin with eyes the size of dinner plates. How could she have possibly known that?

Irene smiled indulgently, exchanging another glance with Mommy.

"Oh, I know how it is," she remarked airily, "I remember from when I was in school. Happens the same way every year, doesn't it, Carol?"

Mommy nodded her agreement, waving a dismissive hand. "Sure does."

"Right about now," Irene continued offhand, "everyone seems to think that the most important thing is whether you're wearing a skirt or a dress. Am I right?"

"Yes!" Beth answered immediately, sitting up a little straighter in her chair. Carla Daniels had asked her that very question only yesterday. So had Bianca Willoway, Serena Richards, and half a dozen others.

"Yeah, I know," Irene went on, "they're asking all sorts of embarrassing questions too, like what color your panties will be, or if your bra's going to clip up at the front or the back."

Bethany felt her cheeks start to pinken at the mention of her underwear. Beside her, Kyra giggled with innocent delight. Irene paused long enough to take a sip from her coffee, then resumed her discourse.

"Like any of that's going to help you win the race," she said with a throwaway gesture. "Well, let me set you straight on that, kiddo. The truth is, what you decide to wear is the least important thing in the Sprint. As a matter of fact, I already know what you'll be wearing to the Century."

Bethany leaned forward, utterly captivated by her cousin's down-home rhetoric. Everyone at the table seemed to be hanging on her next word, even Mommy.

"Want me to tell you?" Irene asked, as if there were any question of the matter.

"Uh-huh," Bethany replied without hesitation.

"OK, then. Stand up."

Shifting her chair back from the table, Bethany rose to her feet, absently smoothing her skirt with both hands. An odd sense of anticipation descended over her, making her pulse quicken slightly. A tiny flutter seemed to ripple through her belly, just like the time she danced solo at the school concert last year.

"All right now," Irene mused, tapping her chin thoughtfully, "take off your shoes, one at a time."

Bethany paused for a moment, glanced at her feet, then knelt down to unstrap her glossy black MJs. A few seconds later, she straightened up, glancing back to her cousin expectantly.

"Good. Now - take off you socks."

Another momentary hesitation, then Beth peeled off her white cotton knee-socks, wondering where this was leading. The kitchen had fallen oddly quiet, even Kyra was mute with curiosity. Bethany stood up, her bare feet cold against the smoothly varnished floorboards.

"That's right," Irene commented approvingly, "now, take off your t-shirt."

Bethany's eyes widened slightly. She looked over at her mother, lips parted with unspoken surprise. She suddenly understood precisely where this was going. It was a dress rehearsal, so to speak; a practice run for the Silver Century. Surely they weren't going to make her -

"Go on, sweet-heart" Mommy told her reassuringly, "we're all family here."

Bethany wavered for several seconds, then reached down to draw the t-shirt over her head. The neckline tangled around her throat for several seconds, then came free after a brief struggle. A fine, crimson blush began to spread through Bethany's features as she dropped the t-shirt to the floor. She was wearing a white polyester bra with a tiny pink bow between the cups, the kind worn by little girls when they first reach puberty. This was Bethany's hidden shame - her build was so delicate she had to wear a training bra. One of the straps had fallen over her left shoulder. Slipping it absently back into place, she turned back to her cousin.
Irene waved a hand towards her midsection, indicating her sheer cotton wrap.

"And the skirt too."

Bethany felt her breath catch in her throat. She was no longer a child; like most girls her age, she had become extremely self-conscious about her body. Her head began to swim with a dizzying blend of helpless arousal. Were they going to make her take off everything? Eyes darting from face to face, she reluctantly slipped her skirt down her thighs, struggling with her natural, adolescent modesty.

"Panties!" Kyra squealed delightedly as her sister's underpants went on display. Bethany's flush darkened several shades. A wave of gooseflesh hummed across her arms and shoulders; it was a cool night and the picture windows were wide open. Worse than that, her panties were the full-cut variety made for little girls. Decorated with a pretty floral print, they were the only kind she could wear. She downcast her eyes, feeling roughly six years old. Icy cold fingers seemed to be streaking the length of her spine.

"Cute," Irene smiled, running her gaze up and down the girl's petite figure, then instructed her cousin to remove the next article of clothing.

Bethany moistened her lips, stifling an anxious giggle, then reached back to unclip her plain white training bra. She fumbled the first two attempts, partly through inexperience but mostly through nerves. Two bright red spots stood out on her cheeks; Irene had never seen her topless. Few people had, since she'd started wearing a brassiere. Slipping the straps over her shoulders, Bethany discarded the tangled remnant and covered her tiny breasts with both hands. She could feel the nipples hardening against her fingers like sharp ruby pin-points. A deep, carmine flush had spread all the way down her bare torso by now. She knew what was coming next.

"And now the panties, Bethie-girl."

Pausing only long enough to prompt a nod from her mother, Bethany dropped her hands from her chest and slipped her thumbs through her flimsy cotton briefs. Her pulse was fluttering in her tummy like a swarm of teasing butterflies; her entire frame was trembling in kind of delirious anticipation. Drawing a long, calming breath, she peeled her panties all the way down to her ankles, her entire nervous system buzzing with electric fire. Chill evening air whickered over her naked flesh as she crossed her hands in front of herself.

She lowered her gaze as Irene and her mother admired her lush, perfect body. Her figure was slim but beautifully formed, her skin as flawless as polished alabaster. Cherry-red nipples thrust out from her small, ripening breasts; further down, an impertinent little belly-button poked out from a gently curving tummy. In time, she might fill out to more adult proportions, but for now, she possessed that rare, insubstantial beauty peculiar to adolescent girls.

"Very good," Irene said, taking another sip from her coffee, "now put your hands by your sides."

Beth looked up, her pale blue eyes glittering with a kind of demure, innocent shame. There was no sense appealing to her mother, she already knew what the answer would be. Slowly, hesitantly, she drew back her fingertips, humiliation spilling over her in warm, delicious waves. Standing before her family with her smooth, hairless dimple on open exhibition, she looked no more than twelve years old. She lowered her eyes once more, looking down at herself, her nipples throbbing in time to her cantering heartbeat.

Irene leaned forward in her chair.

"See what you're wearing now, Bethany? she asked, indicating the girl's faultless nudity, "that's what you'll be wearing for The Sprint."

[computerphoto]

great start, can't wait for the next part

[mikewozere]

I'm intrigued as to what the Sprint entails, but why would a girl agree to race naked in public?
Also I wonder what the punishment is for not taking part?

[Platinum]

CHAPTER 2: KENDRA

1.

"You wanna go out and practice in the backyard?"

Kendra Morgan glanced up from the TV, checking the time on her wristwatch. It was 4.30 in the afternoon, and they had maybe two hours of sunlight left to the day. Turning around on the sofa, she looked over at her friend; if they wanted to get in some training before the shadows crossed the block, they'd need to get going soon. Truth be told, she would have preferred to practice up in her bedroom where there was no danger of being observed by wayward male eyes, but there wasn't enough room for the two of them.

"I will if you will," Kendra replied, putting the remote down on the coffee table. It was the standard reply these days; no one was prepared to start training alone. The girls sat up on the sofa, but made no immediate move towards the door. They looked at each other in a kind of coy, blushing silence, neither willing to make the first move. The Sprint was now only nineteen days in the future, and like every other girl their age in Ridgewick, they spent most of their free time in a state of breathless trepidation. It always took a little time to work up their courage, especially since they started training outside.

"Are you sure your brother's not home?" Bianca Willoway asked. She was an unusually beautiful girl with rose-petal lips and a mass of curly black hair spilling down to her waist. Her huge, brown eyes were her most arresting feature, as sharp and clear as a moonless night. "Spanish eyes," as the old folk would have described them. She and Kendra had been friends since the third grade, had grown up sharing dolls and ribbons, anger and tears. It was inevitable that they would run the Century together the year that they came of age.

"Yeah, Mom sent him downtown to pick up some groceries 'n' stuff," Kendra replied, swinging her legs over the side of the sofa. Her dress had hiked all the way up to the top of her thighs; she smoothed it back down to an inch or two above the knee. Her tangled red-gold hair hung over the right side of her face, casting a hazy copper shadow over her child-like features.

"When's he getting back?"

"I don't know," Kendra admitted, "but it's okay, Mom'll keep him in the living room until we're finished." Bianca seemed to consider her words for a moment, then pushed herself off the couch. Despite her initial hesitation, there was never really any question about practicing outside – they would have done it no matter who was watching.

Leaving the television playing in the background, they walked through to the kitchen, where Kendra's mother was seated at the table reading Martha Stewart Living with a cup of herbal tea in her right hand. A digital stopwatch with a black nylon cord rested on the table in front of her. She glanced up at the girls as they entered the room, eyebrows raised enquiringly.

"Just going outside to practice, Mom," Kendra told her, picking the stopwatch off the table.

"That's good, Pumpkin," Ellen Morgan replied absently, "call me if you want anything."

"Don't let Robbie near the windows" Kendra said as they stepped out onto the back porch, sliding the door closed behind them. Ellen made a twirling gesture with her right hand (yes, whatever) and went back to her magazine.

Having made it as far as the back veranda, the girls saw fit to procrastinate a few seconds longer. Bianca glanced around the back yard, noting the height of the fence, the proximity of the neighbors. Every house in the vicinity seemed to have attic windows overlooking the Morgan's backyard.

"Any boys live next door?" Bianca asked her friend.

"Not this side. We should be all right if we practice down that end of the yard."

Bianca nodded her agreement, then the girls stepped down off the porch, making their way across the neatly trimmed grass. A late winter breeze was whickering across the lawn, lifting the girls' hemlines in swift, teasing gusts. Bianca's gaze constantly circled the fenceline, scoping the perimeter for uninvited guests. They'd discovered more than a few over the past week or so. That was one of the perils of training outdoors: Ridgewick boys had eyes like hawks this time of year.

Finding a sunlit spot near the left side of the veranda, they turned to face each other once more. Kendra's cheeks were already burning the color of wild strawberries.

"You want to go first?" Bianca asked, still glancing 'round. She held her brief denim mini down with her left hand, waves of goosflesh humming up and down her thighs like icy streams.

"Not really," Kendra replied shyly. "Want to do it together this time?" she asked, although she already knew what the answer would most likely be. She was the one holding the watch, after all.

"No, I think we should time each other like we did yesterday," Bianca said, then raised her right hand to shoulder height, "should we do it Rock-Scizzors-Paper?" Her heart was hammering away in her chest, making her ears pulse in sympathy.

"Yeah, okay," Kendra nodded, though without much enthusiasm. She was almost certain to lose, and the thought of taking off literally everything out here – even in front of her best friend – made her head swim with embarrassment.

"All right, here we go," Bianca started, "best two out of three." Both girls curled their fists and ran through the ancient schoolyard chant, swinging their forearms up and down in unison –

"ROCK – SCISSORS – PAPER!!"
"ROCK – SCISSORS – PAPER!!"
"ROCK – SCISSORS – PAPER!!"

– and, inevitably, Kendra lost the toss.

Nooooooooooo, she thought, handing the stop watch to her friend. She stepped back a few paces, giving herself room to move while Bianca planted herself on the edge of the veranda, removing her wristwatch and placing it beside her. Kendra looked up at the house, wishing she'd asked Momma to play time-keeper again. That way, at least she wouldn't have to do this alone. She suddenly felt small, vulnerable, defenceless. A thousand different attic windows seemed to stare down at her all at once.

She stood in a patch of dappled sunlight with her bright yellow sundress rippling around her figure. Wild roses burned on her cheeks, her breathing came in swift, shallow spurts. It was always like this during the last few seconds. No matter how often they practiced together, she would always feel helpless and exposed. An errant mistral lifted the front of her dress, swelling it like a balloon. Voicing a little scream, Kendra slapped it down with both hands, knowing how silly it was – trying to protect her modesty at this point.

"You ready?" Bianca asked, leaning over the stopwatch.

"Yeah," Kendra answered, unable to control the throaty giggles bubbling up from her belly. She would never be ready, even if she lived a thousand years. She was acutely aware of everything around her: shimmer of the leaves in the trees, the play of light of the windows, the touch of cotton caressing her skin. Kendra looked over to the porch, waiting for her friend to give the signal. Time went into soft focus; the moment seemed to spiral out to eternity. Her fingertips played with the hem of her frock.

"Okay," Bianca said, raising her hand like a starting flag, "Ready … Steady … GO!!"

Squealing like a little girl, Kendra untied the bow at the front of her dress, almost dancing with childish embarrassment. The strings seemed to pop apart between her fingers, and she felt the dress loosen around the waist. At precisely the same instant, she kicked off her shoes one after the other, sending them tumbling to the lawn end over end. Kendra's heart was pounding like a trip hammer; a deep, rosy flush began to creep through her features. She simply couldn't believe she was doing this. Again.

Locking her fingers in her fluttering hemline, Kendra pulled the dress up over her head, revealing the inner-lining (along with a generous view of her thighs, tummy and underwear). The neckline threatened to catch around her shoulders, but she managed to shake it free with a toss of her head, curly red hair spilling out in a tangled mass. Releasing the frock to the whistling winds, Kendra stood revealed in her bra, socks and panties; a plump, pretty girl with long, tapering legs and lushly curving hips.

She paused momentarily, deciding what had to come off next, then leant down to slip off her lacy, pink ankle socks. Kendra had always been an extremely "girlie" young lady, in the sense that everything she wore was cute and sweet and feminine. Especially her underwear. Dropping the socks to the grass, she straightened up and reached back with both hands, fingers catching at her bra strap.

Unlike many of her friends, Kendra was big enough to wear a Big Girl's Bra: a snug, pink cross-your heart with adjustable straps and floral lace around the cups. She unhooked the snaps with a practiced hand and slipped the brassiere off her breasts, exposing her firm, pointed nipples to the world. Kendra gasped as the wind streaked across them with a kiss of ice; she had to fight the urge to cover them with both hands.

The bra fell unnoticed to the ground. Twelve seconds had passed since Bianca gave the signal.

Kendra hesitated again; there was only one piece left to remove, but that was always the most difficult to part with. Kendra's panties were pink and shiny and whisper-sheer, polyester full-briefs that looked like they'd been sprayed onto her. Fine red elastic encircled the legs and waist; tiny pink hearts decorated the flimsy material. She looked down at herself, trapped in a perfect stasis of indecision. She closed her eyes in childish denial, her cheeks glowing maraschino red.

Almost fainting with humiliation, Kendra slipped her panties down her legs, revealing her tiny, naked cleft to Bianca's gaze. Again, it took all her strength to overcome her innate modesty; the impulse to cover herself with both hands was virtually irresistible. Carelessly flipping her underpants aside with her right foot, she straightened up and faced her friend, keeping her arms by her sides through a supreme act of will. Her nipples jutted out from her firm white breasts, standing up like exclamation marks.

Her sleek young body was soft and round in all the places a girl should be. Kendra had never completely lost her baby fat; she was particularly well padded around the hips and thighs and bottom. Curvaceous was probably the most accurate description of her figure, which somehow seemed both lithe and nubile at the same time. A hot, feverish blush suffused her entire midsection, from the dip of her throat to the thimble of her tummy-button.

"How did I do?" she asked, nipples throbbing with cold and excitement.

"Seventeen seconds," Bianca replied, holding up the stopwatch, "same as yesterday."

Kendra's face fell in disappointment. No improvement for nearly a week, despite their constant rehearsing. She wouldn't have a hope of winning the Century at this rate. It was so frustrating. She'd tried everything; different clothes, different drills, different order, but nothing had worked so far. No matter what she did, she just couldn't seem to break seventeen.

"It would have been thirteen if you hadn't dithered about when you were taking off your panties."

Both girls stared up at the back door. Kendra's Mom was leaning in the door frame, regarding both girls with a look of amused indulgence.

To be continued...

[Somebody]

Baleeted?

[Platinum]

Ellen Morgan walked out along the veranda, still holding her copy of Martha Stewart, and sat down beside Bianca, hanging her legs over the grass. She was a large, buxom woman just starting to overflow around the middle. Kendra traipsed over to join them, sidling up against her mother for warmth and comfort.

"Maybe if I wear my shift next time," she ventured, hoping for a little maternal encouragement, "it doesn't have any bows or sleeves, maybe it'll come off easier."

"I told you before," Ellen replied, patting her daughter's deeply dimpled bottom, "it doesn't matter what kind of dress you wear. The clothes won't make you any faster, pumpkin. You have to learn to stop hesitating. That's what's slowing you down at the moment."

"But it's so embarrassing, Momma," Kendra complained, "when I have to take off my undies like that, I just wanna die."

Cuddling up from the other side, Bianca nodded her agreement, looking up at the huge, slowly benevolent woman she regarded as her second mother. Her cheeks were flaring with the knowledge that it would be her turn very soon.

"The whole thing's just awful, Mrs Morgan. It's bad enough just taking off our clothes in front of everybody, but taking down our panties is like a zillion times worse."

"Oh, don't worry, you've got plenty of time to get used to that," Ellen said, looping an affectionate arm around the girl's shoulders. Bianca's parents had divorced three years before and her mother had moved back to Chicago. Ellen Morgan had eased herself into the role a few months after that worthy lady's departure, taking on the various responsibilities of motherhood over a long period of time. Which, in Ridgewick, included the function she was performing today.

"By the time you two run the Century, you'll hardly even notice it," Ellen continued, "the only thing you'll be worried about will be how cold the water will be when you hit the Fountain."

"Is it really that cold, Momma?" Kendra asked, not sure she wanted to know the answer.

"Freezing," Ellen remarked casually, then decided to steer the conversation back to the issue at hand: "but that's all in the future. Right now, all you girls need to concentrate on is getting your steps right." She looked down at her daughter, knitting her eyebrows very slightly, "you've been practicing The Pasadena Shuffle, haven't you? Managed to get your dress and shoes off at the same time." She dug her fingers into Kendra's ribs, making her squirm with ticklish laughter.

"Yes, yes, I did Mommy!" Kendra screamed, trying to twist away from those nimble, probing digits, "I practiced really hard, just like you said!" Resistance was futile, needless to say, Ellen Morgan was a world-class tickler, and she didn't care if her victims were clothed or naked when she did it.

"How about you Missy?" Eve demanded, turning her attentions to the other one, "have you been practicing too?" Bianca, who was slightly less ticklish than her friend, clamped her arms along her ribs and struggled to contain her snickers.

"Yes, I have Mrs Morgan! I practiced all last week, and I'm really good now!"

"Oh, really?" Ellen asked in exaggerated disbelief, but relented in her tickle-torment all the same, "well, in that case, you won't mind showing Kendra and I how it's done, will you?"

Bianca stood up, covering her mouth to hide a coy smile, then nodded her agreement. Her tummy started to quiver in mute trepidation. It was her turn now. Very soon, she'd be taking down her panties and standing with her clothes strewn about her feet and literally everything she had on show. The image made her mind swim with emotions she couldn't put a name to.

I'm going to be naked, she thought, taking her position amidst the scattered remnants of Kendra's striptease. Her little body was trembling from crown to heel. Bianca could imagine nothing more embarrassing than removing her underpants in public.

And yet strangely, despite her growing reluctance, she was eager get started. She wanted to please Mrs. Morgan, to show her that she'd been training as hard as she'd said. She and Kendra were the same in that respect; they both wanted Ellen's approval. Bianca perhaps a little more, as her real Mom wasn't around to encourage her.

"You ready to go now, Bea?" Kendra called out from the porch. She was snuggled up against her mother, her creamy white skin gleaming in the late afternoon sun. Ellen leaned comfortably back on one elbow, still wearing that faintly amused smile.

Bianca ran a last-second check over her wardrobe, making certain that everything was in order. She was wearing exactly seven articles of clothing; the number traditionally prescribed for the Sprint. Bianca understood that it was the minimum amount to be worn, so that everyone would start out equal; but she also suspected it had something to do with seven being a lucky number.

"All right, I'm good," Bianca replied, placing her feet side-by-side and slipping her fingers under the hem of her white cotton top. She had to get both off at precisely the same moment; that was how you started The Pasadena Shuffle if you were wearing a skirt rather than a dress. The Shuffle was actually the simplest of all the starting maneuvers, but as Bianca had discovered over the past week, it wasn't as easy as it looked.

Keeping an eye towards the veranda, Bianca held her breath, feeling the breeze flickering between her slender thighs. Her belly strummed and tightened with expectation, she felt as though she was melting inside her skin; dissolving into a stream of helpless giggles. A familiar sense of exhilaration filled her veins, as she watched her friend slowly raise her hand to give the signal.

I'm going to be naked, she though again.

"Okay," Kendra said, referring to the stopwatch in her palm, "Get ready –"
"Get settie –"
"GO!! "

3.

An electric jolt seemed to pass through Bianca's body. Her hands and feet whirled into life as she swept her t-shirt over her head in a single, fluid movement. Even before the breeze whipped it out of her hands, her shoes flopped to the ground a few inches from her feet, the tiny buckles glinting in the sun. There was no pause, no hesitation; Bianca's fingers flew down to her skirt, splitting the zip almost too quickly for the eye to track.

Four seconds.

Bending from the hips, she slid the blue denim mini down her calves, keeping her knees locked and her legs straight as arrows. The skirt puffed to the ground with an audible sigh: two heartbeats later, Bianca straightened up, stepping aside in a perfect Pasadena shuffle, her feet miraculously bare. Ellen and Kendra looked on in open-mouthed surprise: somehow, Bianca had managed to get her socks off with the mini, a move which usually took weeks to master.

Seven seconds.

Bianca wasted no time removing her dainty satin briefs: despite her gasping, crimson-faced embarrassment, she couldn't afford to 'dither about' like her best friend. Her tiny, pink dimple popped into view as she slid her panties to her heels, leaving her dizzy with humiliated shame. She ignored her emotions, concentrating all her will on finishing the drill. A frigid gust played around her naked torso, raising the hair on the nape of her neck. A moment later, she was standing naked to the skies, her tummy clutching in tight little knots.

Nine seconds.

"Impressive," Ellen said without a hint of flattery. It was impressive, considering the girl had only been practicing a matter of days. It wasn't simply her speed either – it was her grace, her precision, her technique. Ellen hadn't seen anything like this since … well, since Irene Marshall won the Silver back in 97. 'Reenie had been faster, of course, but these were still early days. They still had just under three weeks to go; Bianca could easily shave another four seconds off her average in that time. Maybe as much as five.

Ellen wandered her eyes over the girl's body, thinking it probably had something to do with her physique. Bianca was a slender, coltish girl with ivory skin and lean, willowy legs. Her delicate shape was emphasized by a tiny waist over a firmly rounded bottom, lending her a remarkably fragile and feminine appearance. Very similar to 'Reenie Marshall when she was a kid. They both had the same lithe, supple contours; the same lissome, nubile silhouette.

"How did you do that?!" Kendra was chirping in open astonishment, "you were nowhere near that fast yesterday!!" Springing impulsively to her feet, she ran lightly over to her friend, her pudgy bottom jiggling in tight little circles. All thought of modesty was lost in the excitement of the moment, Ellen noticed; Kendra seemed to have completely forgotten her state of dishabille. Bianca was still blushing the color of a summer tomato, but she was also beaming with shy, girlish pleasure.

"I just got lucky," she replied, placing a demure hand over herself, "I only managed to get it right by accident."

"No, you did it perfect," Kendra stated, turning back towards the porch, "didn't she, Momma?"

"Yes, you were pretty good this time," Ellen nodded, keeping her tone carefully neutral. Bianca was better than good; she was nothing less than exceptional. But Ellen knew it was best not to be too liberal with the praise at this point. "You still have a ways to go, but you'll improve with practice."

Understatement of the year, Ellen thought, studying the girl with a clinical gaze. If this wasn't a fluke, she might have a chance at scoring this year's Prize.

"C'mon, let's do it again!" Kendra twittered, grabbing Bianca's hands and jumping up and down on the spot, "I want you to show me how you got your skirt and socks off in one go! Maybe I can do that too, but with my socks and panties!"

"Okay," Bianca agreed, glancing round at the fallout scattered about their feet, "that part's easy, like that Double-Cheshire Morey Jessings was doing at school last week –"
The girls bent over to pick up their clothes, chattering away in fluent girlspeak and displaying their pert young bottoms to the world. Ellen smiled at the sight, recalling similar episodes from her own childhood. This was what the Silver Century was really all about; the friendship, the sharing, the closeness. Once you got over the jitters, training became something rich and bright and intimate, an experience which could form bonds lasting decades. At the end of the day, there were few things more personal than getting naked with your best friend – especially at this age.

Ellen leaned back on both elbows, admiring their youth, their vitality, their perfect adolescent bodies. Despite their obvious physical differences, they were both poised on the cusp of maturity. Within the space of a year, maybe less, they would both be women. Their childhoods would vanish like a forgotten dream, and the demands of maturity would begin to corrode their lives. Yes, they'd still know joy and love and gratifications of a different order, but it wouldn't be the same as what they knew now. She was glad they had this time together; a final month to run and laugh and play like children before everything changed forever.

"Momma!" Kendra called, clipping her bra into place with an audible snap, "can you time us? We wanna do it together!" Beside her, Bianca was climbing into a somewhat rumpled blue mini, dusting grass blades off the hips. Unlike her lushly rounded friend, she was too small to even wear a training bra.

"Sure thing, Pumpkin," Ellen replied, reaching over to pick up the stopwatch. It was close to five o'clock; although the sun hadn't quite set, the temperatures were already starting to fall. They could get in maybe another hour's worth of training before it was too cold to practice outside.

Yes; Bianca was fast, Ellen mused to herself, watching the girl step into her frilly white knee-highs. Much faster than Kendra or anyone else she'd seen training over the past four or five years. Ellen knew that speed alone couldn't win the Century, but it played a significant role, giving the contestant a crucial head start. With the right training, Bianca could be a prime contender, assuming her reflexes were as quick they seemed.

She'd need a coach of course, a mentor to teach her the various forms. A former Prize-winner, perhaps, someone familiar with The Hoboken Hustle, The Kansas Twister and maybe The Triple Lindy. Only question was; who to get? There were no Victory Girls on Ellen's side of the family, just dozens of aging has-beens, wanna-be's and also-rans who never quite made the cut. She might have to do some private networking; recruit assistance from outside the family circle. That might pose some problems of course. Training was extremely competitive and mentors rarely taught moves to anyone beyond their immediate relatives …

Well, that was a question for tomorrow. Right now, her girls were hyped-up on adrenalin and the afternoon was waning towards twilight. It was time to get down to business once more. And everyone present knew what that meant.

"Ready, you two?" Ellen called, adopting her most serious expression.

"Yes Momma."

"Yes, Mrs. Morgan."

"All right – on the count of three," Ellen said, and raised her hand. The girls assumed their starting positions, tensing from head to toe. They traded furtive, panicky, last-second looks, unable to control the naughty grins spreading across their pretty faces.

"One –"
"Two –"
"THREE!!"

NEXT: TESSA

[computerphoto]

Interesting start so far.

[Somebody]

Oh I'm loving this. Great buildup. Though I am curious, if the traditional number of articles of clothing is seven, does that mean that wearing a dress is the only time you wear a bra?

[Platinum]

INTERLUDE (1)

Excerpt from:

Transactions of the Courtland Antiquarian Society
Vol. XVII, No. 2 (Spring 1964)
"The Maiden's Sprint: A Study in Vernacular Rite and Rural Memory"
by Prof. Alaric Penrose, Fellow of Folklore, St. Celandine College

Among the more obscure customs still practiced in the hinterlands of Courtland County is the so-called "Sprint," a ritual footrace undertaken annually by young women of Ridgewick parish and its surrounding hamlets. Though largely unknown beyond the region, and often dismissed by outsiders as mere folklore or romantic invention, the Sprint remains a living tradition, observed with solemnity and festivity each year at the vernal equinox.

Origins and Historical Ambiguity

The precise origins of the Sprint are a matter of considerable academic debate. Local oral tradition asserts its antiquity, with some families claiming the rite has been performed "since the old gods walked the woods." However, documentary evidence is scant prior to the mid-nineteenth century. The earliest reliable reference appears in the Ridgewick Gazette (1857), which records the offering of a "Silver Century" — ten pounds sterling — by industrial magnate Edward Hargreaves as prize for the winning maiden in a country fair footrace.

Some scholars, notably Dr. M. Ellison of the Royal Institute of Rural Studies, argue that Hargreaves merely formalized an existing custom, transforming a rustic pastime into a civic spectacle. Others, such as Miss Judith Fenwick (Courtland Historical Review, 1959), contend that the Sprint was wholly invented by Hargreaves as a promotional device to attract labourers and their families to his textile works.

Ritual Structure and Symbolism

The race itself is conducted at dawn on Century Day, traditionally the first Sunday following the equinox. Participants — presumptive virgins on the threshold of maturity — run barefoot from the Courtland River to the town's central fountain, clad in minimal attire or otherwise completely disrobed. The act is said to symbolize vitality, purity, and readiness for adult life, and is often likened to pre-nuptial rites observed in other agrarian cultures.

The presence of male spectators, particularly bachelors of marriageable age, has led some folklorists to interpret the Sprint as a vestigial courtship display. Comparisons have been drawn to Beltane dances and other fertility rites, wherein physical prowess and natural beauty were publicly exhibited as indicators of health and suitability.

Contemporary Observations

Though modern sensibilities have led to modest adaptations — some participants now wear stylized undergarments or run in pairs — the essential structure of the Sprint remains unchanged. It is not uncommon for families to host pre-race gatherings, during which elder women instruct the runners in posture, pacing, and the symbolic meaning of the route.

In sum, whether one views the Sprint as a relic of pagan ritual, a Victorian invention, or a living expression of rural identity, it occupies a unique place in the cultural landscape of Courtland County. Its endurance speaks not only to the tenacity of local tradition, but to the human need for ceremony, transformation, and communal memory...

-----------------------------------------------------------

CHAPTER THREE: TESSA

1.

"Do we have to do it now, Momma?"

Tessa Woodrow sat on the edge of her bed, looking up at her mother with dark, anxious eyes. The moment she'd been dreading had finally arrived. The living room downstairs was full of visitors – friends, relatives and other interested parties – and Tessa had been hiding out in her room since the late afternoon. This was one gathering she didn't want to attend, no matter how well she knew the guests. She knew why they were here, knew what she would be expected to do. The thought of it raised the color of her cheeks.

Lyn Woodrow had been expecting this. She knew how unwilling her daughter was to accept her role in the forthcoming Century. She'd been avoiding the subject for days now, refusing to even discuss it, despite Lyn's repeated reminders. Fortunately, this was familiar territory; she'd been mentor to no less than five girls – nieces, cousins, and one of her own sisters, for well on a decade.

"Can't we do it some other night?" Tessa pleaded, casting a furtive glance towards the hallway. Vaguely raucous laughter was drifting up the staircase.

"I'm afraid not, Baby," Lyn answered patiently, "everyone's waiting downstairs for you."

"But it'll be embarrassing, Momma."

"Only for a little while, sweetie," Lyn said, placing a hand on her shoulder, "now come on, you've had more than enough time to get ready."

"Noooo," Tessa whimpered, drawing back from her touch, "please don't make me do it."

Lyn sat down beside her daughter, knowing from her own childhood that this was always the most difficult part. Things would become progressively easier once this night was over, but until that time, she would have to be firm with the girl. Firm, steady, even a little uncompromising. As Lyn's own mother had been with her.

"Tessa, we've discussed all of this many times before," she said, not unkindly, "and you've known this was coming for years now. As I told you, this is all a part of growing up in this town; something all of us had to do. Me, your Aunt Sheila, your cousin Amy; even your Grandma Abbey when she was young. And you have to do it too, sweetheart."

"But why?" Tessa begged, struggling to hide the tremor in her voice.

"Because you're no longer a child," Lyn said, covering the girl's hand with her own, "remember we talked about this last week? You're coming of age now; changing into a woman, and this is an important step in that process." Lyn closed her hand around her daughter's fingers, drawing her closer across the bed. "Now come on, this is your night and everyone's looking forward to seeing you. They're all family, so you have nothing to be embarrassed about."

Tessa thought there was plenty to be embarrassed about: at least half the visitors were male; uncles and cousins and in-laws so remote that she'd never even met them. They had all gathered for The Shaming, coming from all over Courtland County to take part in the festivities. It promised to be a wild night judging by the amount of alcohol rolling up the front drive; they'd come to eat and drink and celebrate the commencement of the Chamberlain Festival, renewing family ties and trading a year's worth of undiluted gossip. Most of all, they'd come to witness Tessa's formal 'unveiling.'

Shaming was one of the less common rituals associated with The Century; practiced by maybe a dozen families in the whole of the County (and most of them related by blood and/or marriage). Some folk believed it actually pre-dated the founding of Ridgewick itself; an archaic survival from a time when teenaged girls were tested for 'honesty' in both spiritual and physical terms. In the present day, Shaming was observed mainly as a coming of age ceremony obscurely connected with the Silver Century (although some parents used it as a form of corrective discipline for recalcitrant daughters).

Tessa knew what unveiling involved – she had attended five different ceremonies at various times – and she was naturally desperate to avoid this treadmill of humiliation. Pulling away from her mother once more, Tessa made one final plea for clemency. They couldn't force her to do this against her will, surely.

"Nooooo, Momma, I don't want to," she wailed, quavering at the brink of tears, "none of my friends have to do it, I shouldn't have to either! Please, Momma –"

"Tessa!" Lyn said, cutting sharply through her cries. The girl fell immediately silent, lowering her eyes as she always did when her parents raised their voices to her. Tessa's upbringing had been stern if not downright severe. She had never been permitted to argue with her parents decisions, in even the most trivial matters.

"You're going to do this, Tessa," Lyn told her in tones which invited no debate, "you're a member of this family, and as long as you live under our roof, you'll fulfill all of your responsibilities. Your father and I have made this decision on your behalf, and you will do precisely as we tell you."

Tessa nodded her head in mute surrender, knowing she could never find the courage to defy them. Two large tears moistened her cheeks, marking their passage with glistening trails.

"All right, then," Lyn remarked, evidently satisfied with her daughter's passive silence. Rising from the bed, she brought Tessa to her feet and checked her over with a mother's habitual precision. Her thick, golden hair had been tied back in a long, fleecy ponytail, hanging almost to the small of her back. Dressed in a brief, ruffled salsa dress, she looked much younger than her years. Hurt and innocence were stamped on her features in equal proportions.

Lyn touched her under the chin, gently tilting her face up.

"You'll understand all of this when you're a little older. But for now, I don't want to hear any more arguments or complaints. Do you understand?"

"Yes Momma," Tessa nodded, unable to meet her mother's stare.

"Good," Lyn said, effectively concluding the discussion, "now come with me; it's time we got started."

Wiping her face with the heel of her hand, Tessa followed her mother out to the staircase, choking back her tears like a little girl. How could this be happening? How could she be so weak? Why couldn't she stand up to her parents, reject their demands like any of her friends would have? It was so wrong, so terribly wrong; and yet refusal was totally out of the question. She had feared their disapproval for as long as she could remember, and even now she was incapable of offering resistance.

Lyn took her hand as they descended the stairs, leading Tess towards the living room with her head bowed in absolute submission.

[Sanford7727]

Okay, I COULD NOT resist and had to go ahead and read this. It seems that it is some type of a race where all of the middle school-aged girls run nude through the town in some type of a competition. These types of events and nude beauty contests should certainly be a thing. We need fertility festivals to help us combat the declining birthrates and war on beauty in the West. I love the way you even kind of described the "why" of it all - I'll have to come back and read that manual later, perhaps there was more detail in that (it's already way past my bed time). We could certainly come up with more whys, rather easily.

Yes, they only look like that for a very brief period of time, a few years really, and it SHOULD be documented in photos and videos and celebrated. Men should admire it, and all women, when they reach their older years, should have photos to look back on to remember how beautiful they once were.

The doing this from multiple perspectives is also great. We get to experience the emotions and experiences of numerous girls, which makes this story even better.