Message-ID: <19589eli$9902020430@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Archived-At: From: "Joanna De Brito" Subject: Streaker (MF, exhib) Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d Mime-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: text/plain Path: qz!not-for-mail Organization: The Committee To Thwart Spam Approved: X-Moderator-Contact: Eli the Bearded X-Story-Submission: X-Original-Message-ID: <19990201234932.13790.qmail@hotmail.com> Standard disclaimer: Over 18s only Streaker by Joanna (joanna_de_brito@hotmail.com) Copyright 1999 Joanna de Brito All commercial rights reserved. AUTHOR'S NOTE With the exception of changing names to protect anonymity, this is a true story. I was reading in a newspaper that a female BBC journalist lost her job after accepting a one hundred pound dare and streaking through a restaurant in which she and her colleagues were having Christmas office party. As I read it, it reminded me of an incident that happened in my own more youthful days. Fortunately, I didn't suffer any ill consequence for my excess, though I still get a thrill thinking back at the chance I took. It was at the end of a hot British summer day, about ten years ago. At the time I was attending Woolwich Polytechnic, (A Polytechnic was a kind of college. They have since been converted into universities with more grandiose names) and had a room in the same house as a girl called Sharon. We had gone out with a couple of guys who were also studying at the same Polytechnic, David and Richard. What was special about Dave was that he had transport. Most of us were broke and had no means to run a car. Dave somehow managed to keep this old Cortina running through a combination of luck and enterprise. We were all rather drunk as we made our way to the car (This was in the days before drink drivers were viewed as pariahs in the UK). One of the boys, I don't remember which one now, brought up something that had been running as the major media item of the day. During the middle of an England cricket match a streaker had run onto the ground, doing a cartwheel in front of the pavilion before being hauled off by two hefty policemen. What made this event particularly newsworthy was that the streaker was not the usual wobbly male, but a lithe nineteen-year-old girl of respectable family. The question that had been fascinating everybody that day was what made this respectable girl do it? All the papers had plastered this story across their front pages. Of course, being in the business of making money, they had to print pictures so we could see what she looked like, black boxes discreetly covering the lady's important bits. Also, they reported every detail. She had arrived at the match with her boyfriend, and they had discussed how long it had been since a streaker had graced a British sporting occasion. That had been the extent of the conversation until part way through the afternoon. There was sunshine; it was hot; and in a moment of madness she had decided to do it. She had got up from her seat without explanation, made her way forward the six rows to the front; removing her clothes as she did so. There she had waited without official attention until the end of the over when she had jumped the barrier and run straight into the media spotlight. Although I don't remember who brought this subject up, I do remember Dave asking us whether we 'could imagine ourselves ever doing something like that?' After all, he reminded us, we were of similar age and background. I'm pretty sure this question was actually intended primarily for Sharon. She was his date that evening, and being the more generously endowed must have been his fantasy streaker. However, Sharon made some kind of wisecrack, and I was about to do likewise when something held me. I've always been a closet exhibitionist. By that I mean I really get off on exhibitionist reverie, but in practice, am too much of a chicken to actually experiment. That day was different in that three things all occurred together: the streaking precedent, too much wine and the boys having introduced the subject. Suddenly, I just cut through all the bull shit and said, "I'll do it." At first that frightened them senseless. They wanted to know exactly what I had in mind. I think they were scared in case a copper came along and arrested us all. But from that irrational moment when I said those words I knew I couldn't backtrack and still be able to live with myself. I would always be left with the thought, what if... The only negotiation left was regarding the details. We were in the car by this time; Sharon thinking it was a wind up, the boys deadly serious. "What did I intend to do?" they asked again. We had to pass near Greenwich Park on the way home, and I said I would do it there, thinking that it would be dark and if there was somebody there they wouldn't be able to see much. Sharon, however, pointed out that the Park was locked at night and so we wouldn't be able to set in. I hadn't considered that. "It's got to be somewhere fairly public or it doesn't count," Richard said. "She did it in front of thirty thousand people, the television cameras, the newspaper photographers, everyone." "Powys Street," Sharon suggested. I wished she would shut up. She wasn't the one who had volunteered to do this thing. Powys Street is the shopping street in Woolwich. More than that, however, it was also close to the Polytechnic where I was studying and a street I regularly frequented. The boys chipped in that they thought it a great idea. Brave, but not reckless was how they put it. I protested that Woolwich was not on our way home, but this didn't really hold much weight as it only involved a detour of a couple of miles. Thus I agreed that Powys Street it would be. "We either do this my way or not at all," I said to ease my nervous tension as we drove the four mile journey. "I want Sharon with me at the Ferry end of the street. The guys must go with the car to the market end. When I can see that they've arrived then I'll undress and run to them. Sharon then follows with my clothes." When we got to Woolwich it was quiet, but by no means dead despite now being about one o'clock in the morning. At the market end towards which I was running was a pub called the Shakespeare. It had an extended operating license, so there were still a few people milling about outside and the odd person walking along the street. This was not something I had anticipated, but as I had already planned out the details in the car I didn't feel able to back down. As they had said when I had suggested Greenwich Park, the whole point was that people should see me. Powys Street was pedestrianized, which meant the guys couldn't just drive down it to the other end; they had to go a more circuitous route. The road is about a quarter of a mile long, so given the distance and the fact that it was night, we agreed they would flash their headlights twice when they arrived, so that we could positively identify the car as being theirs. "Then Joanna flashes back in return," Richard jested. I could have killed him at that moment. I waited for what seemed like forever for them to make that short journey. I was really nervous and was trying to think of ways of copping out, wondering why I had so stupidly volunteered in the first place. But as there was no way I could back down now without considerable loss of face, I was determined to do it. When the lights flashed twice as arranged, I walked to the side where I could take off my clothes with a reasonable prospect of privacy. It was outside a bingo hall, I remember. "Follow me as quickly as you can," I told Sharon as I gave her my dress, a tight party number. "I don't want to have to hang around at the other end." I took a final look round before removing my underthings. There was no sign of the police, so it being as good a time as any, I quickly unfastened my bra and gave it to Sharon. Then I slipped my pants over my heels and began my dash. The one thing I remember now is the enormous fear. I was running as fast as my legs and more importantly my totally inappropriate heels would allow. I know there were people who saw me. I was only barely aware of them. I was so focused about getting down the road as quickly as possible that everything else became a blur. It was the others later on who supplied the detail. The Ferry end was fairly quiet. There were half a dozen people in that stretch and I think I took them more by surprise than anything else. According to Sharon, they looked, stared even, but otherwise didn't react at all. As I got near the Shakespeare, though, it was different. There were a number of youths that had been drinking, probably only eight to ten of them in number, but there seemed many more at the time. There was no way that they could miss me. Not only was the sound of my heels treading awkwardly on the pavement loud, echoing due to the tall buildings on either side of the street; but Sharon was also a vocal if incoherent follower in my wake. As I approached the youths they were making a lot of noise, whistling, whooping, cheering. Their gestures were large and aggressive and I was scared. I maintained my one consuming goal, though. The car. I didn't stop, didn't fully look at them. The car was in the center of the road about fifty yards beyond the pub. I reached it, pulled open the door and was inside a moment later. I was terrified that the youths would come over and investigate. However although they continued to make some noise they kept their distance. Sitting in the car I realized that I couldn't stop shivering, not from cold but from sheer fear. But it was fear mixed with the most intense sexual arousal. Inside I was wetter than I can ever remember being, before or since. I was also very self-conscious about my nipples sticking out like bullets because the boys were sitting in the front and they were not hiding their glances. I was a bitch in heat, and they could visibly see the evidence. The embarrassment of that was just sublime. As soon as Sharon arrived, I grabbed my things and pulled my dress over my head, I think it was inside out. I didn't care. Neither did I put on any underwear. I just wanted to get covered as soon as I could, mostly to hide this arousal which I was so sure they could see. "Get us out of here," I screamed. It was a scream of exhilaration. Dave turned the key in the ignition and moments later we were gone. We couldn't stop talking. There was this huge buzz of enormous excitement, a surge of energy and elation that kept finding voice. "Did you see her face?" Sharon would say about a particular couple we had passed. "She wasn't watching you, she was watching to see if he was watching you. It was so funny." "He was so embarrassed it was fantastic," was another of her comments. "They were sitting on a step," Richard said about the youths outside the pub. "As they saw you coming they stood up. I really thought they were going to stop you." "It was fantastic," I very definitely recall David saying. "I loved the way your tits were wobbling as you ran." A little later I had Richard in my bed. We had made it once before, but it had been nothing on tonight. We were both so incredibly horny. His cock was really hard and swollen. This told me for sure that I had excited not just myself but him too. Unfortunately, he was not able to control himself for very long and he quickly came inside me. I placed his hand on my pussy and managed to get him to finger me some more because I was still very hot. As he worked on me I kept asking him what he thought the men outside the Shakespeare would have been thinking as they saw me running towards them in the nude. That allowed him to throw his own feelings onto them and to tell me things he would have kept bottled otherwise. He told me how aroused he/they had been, and yet what it a risk I had taken. "In what way?" I had asked. "They could have done anything. What if they'd raped you?" Now he had tapped into another of my secrets. "Tell me how they would have done it," I breathed. However, I think this request tapped into some hidden well within his libido, because within seconds he began to harden again. I made some comment as I felt his cock expand suddenly in my hand; something like "Wow. You really like the idea of me under all those men!" He didn't say much then because I had had enough of talk and was doing all I could to get him really hard and back inside me. He lasted much longer that second time and I came several times. I really felt great. As we recovered he apologized for being aroused at the thought of me being forced. He thought he had upset me, whereas I had actually been very turned on by his talk. Unfortunately, at that time this was part of my sexuality that I didn't understand at all, it confused me, so I accepted his apology without too much further comment. The next morning was one for second thoughts. I was worried in case what I had done had been reported. However, nothing appeared in the local paper, neither did I hear anything from either the Polytechnic or police. I was lucky; it seems no one complained. Today, I look back with mixed feelings. On the one hand it was a stupid youthful prank that could easily have backfired. On the other, we are only young once, so I take pride that I kept courage. No one now can ever take from me the memory of the euphoria I felt as I got in the car; of the delicious cocktail of fear and sexual excitement that filled me as Dave and Richard both stared at my swollen nipples: the visible evidence of my arousal. I can't imagine doing anything like that again, my life has moved on, but, given the right opportunity, maybe, just maybe... THE END email: joanna_de_brito@hotmail.com -- +----------------' Story submission `-+-' Moderator contact `--------------+ | | | | Archive site +----------------------+--------------------+ Newsgroup FAQ | ----