Sheila's Training

[Author's Note: slightly revised for clarity. I wanted to make sure Sheila's outfit was visualized a tad more completely! Feel free to comment or complain. Thanks]

*

After my butt plug-enhanced blow job experience with Ted (and the sopping-wet mop-up masturbation that followed) I slept the sleep of the (virtuously) wicked, my tummy full of boyfriend sperm and my ass still tingly from all the breaking-in it was getting.

Now, in all seriousness I'm a pretty heavy sleeper, even without any sex-shenanigans to dump the proverbial fairy-dust over my brow. I remember vividly how I felt when I read "The Secret History" at that scene where (this isn't really a spoiler, unless you just don't want to know ANY DETAIL before you read it for yourself, but still, "spoiler alert" if you're so inclined) those guys were telling Richard about killing the farmer in the woods and about how they had to spend all night and the next morning trying to figure themselves out and clean up the evidence and they finally crash and sleep for like twelve hours straight? And I remember thinking to myself:

'Gosh, I wish I was like a normal person who needs the stress of committing a pagan ritual murder and spending all night and morning trying to cover up the evidence to make them sleep for twelve hours straight. Geez, this story is so engrossing, my nerves are all frazzled' and then--poof, I lay down my head and slept for twelve hours straight.

Okay, the book says they slept for fourteen hours, but still-- you get my point? I'm a lazy head, deal with it.

Which is why it was intensely upsetting when Matthew came banging on my door at 6:00am.

"Rise and shine, anal cadet," he saluted me. This might have been fine over croissants and deep roast in the student union, three hours hence, but I wasn't exactly amused. Actually too blurry-eyed to even register amusement, if that had been an option.

I made way for him to walk in, but my body, still on REM-control, prepared to hit the mattress again, but he had other ideas.

"Wake your ass up girl. Hey!--" he cried emphatically, taking my arm. "You've gotta break in your regimen. Wipe the sleepers out of your eyes." He thrust me towards the sink and started turning on the taps.

I started splashing my face, not exactly sure where the fire was supposed to be. When I patted myself dry and turned to face him, I saw that Matt had brought some supplies. He'd thrown a canvas bag on the bed and started rummaging through it.

"Make yourself at home," I said blankly as Matt, dressed in a casual-sharp kind of way in a trim gray shirt and cargo pants busied himself.

He produced a thermos of probable Scandinavian origin and filled a cup with juice and thrust it at me.

"I've been giving more thought to your training regimen, and I certainly think we need to treat your work towards becoming an 'Ass Slut'-- your words, I remind you-- like the serious kind of life transformation it is. So we're going out for some exercise this AM. Drink up and get changed."

I quaffed the juice, which I saw came from a sleek thermos of probable Scandinavian origin, and then watched him hand me a piece of camouflage clothing.

"What, you want me to change now, here?" I asked.

"Don't be ridiculous, of course I do. Check that: I'm telling you to. What are you, modest now? Put this on," he demanded.

I peeled off my tee, under which my B-cup twins were swinging modestly, and took what he was handing me. A tie-neck halter top with embossed rhinestones.

"Get cracking," he urged, so I slithered into the tight thing as adroitly as I could. It took some effort, but the thing was stretchy, and once I got my arms through I could yank it down inch by inch till it was over my chest. It helped to think maybe Matt was enjoying the show. I gal-handled my boobs into place and tugged it around snugly. The twins themselves felt well-covered but there wasn't much left for the rest of me. Hmm. I'm not really used to halters-- they're kinda for 'Trixies' in my view, if you know what I mean-- but there's something, well, damn but don't they feel a bit bondage-y on you somehow?

All that tension, the weight, and it's all depending on those strings. Mmm. Might have to get used to them.

I was trying to be a good trooper, peeling off my leggings so I could be ready for whatever else he had for me. So to speak. My ass-play of the day before helped vanquish any delusions of propriety on my part, but then I remembered that I hadn't ever really flashed my (judiciously trimmed) bush in front of Matt's eyes.

But it was the sight of what he handed me that brought a flush to my cheeks. "What the fuck," I cried, "you're not serious? Where the fuck am I--?"

"Put it on slut," he replied coolly. "I know what's best."

A pair of pink-camo hot shorts. With a microscopic inseam that I could tell, just looking at it, was gonna ride in my crotch like the nose of a shark fishing for a meal. Not even a goddamn button on these things, or anything you could properly call a "fly." Just a bare gold zipper.

"Are we grabbing biscuits in a bathhouse located in a demilitarized zone?" I protested. "Kylie Minogue wouldn't wear this getup if she were reborn as a man."

"You don't know what you're talking about. And you're wearing it now, bitch."

"Don't I get some kind of underwear with this?"

His arrogant smirk had a kind of damnable charm. "That'd be redundant, I should think."

I thought I'd just put it on, to momentarily appease him. Shit, I could hardly get the damn thing up. I was working at the front and the back, alternately. It was impossible not to feel its bite between my legs. On my butt cheeks it was like a warm second skin I was trying to slough on instead of off. I ended up tossing myself on my bed, bare legs dangling, sucking in my breath to get the zipper up. It came, finally, all the way, though I had to pause a couple of times to make sure I wasn't catching tufts of my bush in its jaws. I stood back up, hoping the thing wouldn't burst itself loose. It didn't, but it was hard to be sure what it might do in future. It felt simultaneously as though there was nothing to hold it up and yet as if there was no way to get it back off.

Matt was studying me appreciatively, chin in one hand with the bent elbow in his other, a pose I always thought supremely engaging on him. Ted's equivalent expressions of 'standing in Deep Thought' look kinda affected, but with Matt's physique it seems more serious. "Here, better let me fix that," he said, turning me and taking hold of the strings I had tied at the nape of my neck and undoing them. I gasped involuntarily but he wasn't going to slacken them; instead he was working them into some kind of tight knot before leaving a bow grazing the top of my back. "We want this to be tied securely-- as securely as we can anyway," he added, chuckling. "Now, turn round," he said, and I did, slowly, a couple of times before breaking into a more ironic sort of pirouette.

"Nice," he said finally. "Take a look at yourself."

I turned to my mirror, and I started to take it all in. The halter strings were like extra-chunky shoelaces tugging up the top of the halter into a smooth curve, like a flattened-out U, keeping my breasts well covered but allowing a peek of cleavage at the bottom of the curve. Thankfully my pits were in a fresh-shaven state. Not that I shave them to appease the public. The public isn't supposed to be seeing them, in my book.

Much worse was the realization, after I ducked my head to look at my halter-upheld chest to confirm the reverse image before me, that my top was emblazoned with the bedazzled expression, "LOVE IS WAR" across my boobage. Beneath that spread the bare plains of my midriff, from about two inches below my teats on down, with my bellybutton uncharacteristically uncovered to the world. Thence to my low-rise short shorts, in all their hideous glory. I took a sideways glance and confirmed with my fingers that the bottom half-inch or so of my butt cheeks was indeed on display. Oh . . . My . . . God.

Kylie would TOTALLY wear this.

But I ain't Kylie Fucking Minogue.

"I look like a fucking clown," I cried.

He only smiled consolingly. "You look like a fucking whore, you know. We should dress you like this more often. We will, in fact."

I shrugged at this comment. "'Love is War'? What am I, Casanova? What kind of idiot's notion of irony is this supposed to be?"

"It's not ironic; it's the truth. Truth in advertising, when you wear it. Surely love is war, don't you think?" Matthew commented wryly. "And in this get-up you're equipped to make both. Now then, are we ready?"

"Ready?" I asked uncomprehendingly.

"Your morning workout."

"Oh--oh ho ho, no!" I squealed. "I'm not going to-- this has nothing to do with--"

"I'm the coach goddamnit, and I say you're getting a workout. You are wearing that out, it's your workout gear now. We're gonna get those ass muscles moving. Put on some trainers and let's go."

I started to try and formulate multiple protests-- that I'm not an exercise girl, I'm not a hot pants girl, I'm certainly not a camouflage-wearing hooch girl, but they quickly evaporated in the heat of his glare. I had said I needed training, didn't I? And did I really want to forgo this project now that I had gotten embarked, and especially after it had brought me into so much closer, more intimate an understanding with Matthew? Anyway, I thought, this is probably a whim of his. What the hell, what can it hurt?

So there I was, Little Miss Alterna-freak, up at the butt crack of dawn, heading out into the hall looking like I was coming in from a rave at the Abercrombie store or something.

What a nightmare, I thought to myself. At least I had Matthew at my side, even if that was an equivocal sort of consolation, considering he was also the source of all my present discomfort. I could halfway consider his presence as some sort of cover for my present state of semi-naked trendy slutty weirdness. I could hide in the aura of his fabulosity.

Or so I was telling myself, until a door ahead of us opened and some crew cut Econ major bro stuck his head out to collect his WSJ baggie. When he caught sight of me he looked as though he were taking note of an offending doggie-do pile he might have to step to avoid later while hauling furniture.

I wish I could say I formulated a cheery reply but, no. I really was frozen with shame. It's one thing to be looked on like you're a standard Liberal Arts fart or something. I get that every day, I was proud of that, it was who I am. But going out looking like a stripper in the Reserves? I didn't know the guy personally, but I'd seen him plenty of times and vice versa. He clearly was forming a new idea of me. One not flattering.

We managed to get out of the building without meeting any more human beings. Once out in the early morning air I felt a bit energized. If only those birds should shut up singing. Well, there WAS something nice about the feel of the air on all that bare skin. Yet discomfiting too. I mean, I never go around with bare shoulders for chrissakes, what am I, a starlet? To say nothing about the rest of it.

But at least it's pretty dark? I didn't feel, for the moment, like I was in so much danger of embarrassment.

"Let's go," he said, "start jogging girl."

He set the pace and I followed. It didn't seem like he was trying to channel one of those TV fitness personalities too badly. He just started jogging at a moderate pace. Now, I'm not much for exercise but I certainly don't take a car when I don't need to-- and a campus is by definition, people, a place where you can get everywhere on your own two legs. So I wasn't feeling too much like a fish out of water-- at least where breathing is concerned.

But this was not an ordinary sort of workout. My skimpy bottoms, which seemed to have their quotient of 'stretch' material, were easier to move in than I would have thought. But their clinginess made walking, let alone jogging, a very tactile experience. Never mind the goddamn inseam which was cupping my vadge in a way which felt threateningly close to plain splitting it in two. I had to hope that working up a sweat might make it a little less frictiony down there. Stupid assumption. And though I had sometimes gone braless on a social occasion, it wasn't when I was going to be moving about arduously. The snug, gravity-defying fit of the halter top made my nipples feel scratchy and puffy. I hoped the knot would be secure.

Unfortunately, I had not been quite aware that the campus is such a lively environment at that ungodly hour. Jogging through the shroudy byways, under a black canopy of trees, I didn't feel like I could be too distinguishable from the other health-conscious nuts we began to cross. The first fitness buff we met, a lone female jogger in a sports bra and cycling shorts, wasn't much behind me in the exposed skin category, though of course she was some leggy amazon with a rhythmically swinging ponytail, someone who actually belonged out here, as opposed to me, short alternagirl with her attitudinous bob. Oh well, I'm with a handsome hunk at least, I reminded myself.

But the dark was starting to thin into a silvery blue-gray, and one could see people alone or in pairs off in the distance along parallel sidewalks, getting their workout on. It wasn't long before there came a steady hoof beat of feet hitting pavement behind us. The steps were gaining on us at first, but then they noticeably slowed down to a trot more manageable for keeping behind us.

I was beginning to burn in the face, and not from the mild exercise. Embarrassing clothes have a natural way of making you paranoid. Especially when my coach seemed to deliberately slow down his own pace. Still those footsteps behind me trotted along lazily. I was about to try and turn my head but I realized what an admission of shame that would be. Suddenly the onlooker behind me decided to speed up again, and I felt the man rush on past me as he cocked his head to get a good look at me. He even had to slow again, now to try and read my motto, apparently, and get a good view of the twins bobbing along in their camouflage prison.

For the second time, the gift of the smirk totally failed me. I actually met his appraising gaze with a worthless, hangdog look of exasperation. I was powerless. In a tingly sort of way, funny enough.

We turned a corner and were coming out from under the canopy of trees. The sky was still a deep, misty blue but the trees were starting to look green instead of black. Soon we crossed the path of a jogger, a coed in sweatpants and some kind of windbreaker who began to slow down and look as she closed in on us, staring intently it seemed at my chest. When she had drawn close enough she suddenly looked confused, and then she actually stammered out:

"Oh, sorry, I thought maybe you were running for cancer or something?"

It was only once she had gotten clear of us that I heard the handsome male form in front of me contentedly chuckle to himself. Not funny.

We were coming up on some park benches ahead in a shady nook, and I was starting to get a bit winded, but I was determined to make it past this space, which was clearly a bit of a watering hole this morning, but Matthew came to a quick halt. "Let's catch our breath, shall we?" he asked quietly.

"Mmm, let's get past the crowd first?" I mumbled anxiously.

"Come on, these are our people, fitness lovers all. Whatever do you have to hide?" he said, O so snidely.

I tried crossing my bare arms across my chest, for what good that might do. Looking down self-consciously, there was no way for my scrawny forearms to conceal all the eye-catching rhinestones. Though that was the least of my worries, really, with all my stupid body on display front and back. I felt eyes prying at me; I could look and see, without really looking, how people were giving me their second-take glances, trying not to stare, or trying just to hide their stares. Mostly I just tried looking at my feet, actually staring at the bold zipper that held up my super tight bottoms, at the unfamiliar skyscraper of bare belly I was putting on display, like I was some shopping mall teenybopper slut. Feeling the breeze on my exposed back and thighs, even there on the exposed sliver of what was undeniably ass, and down there between my thighs where my crotch itched, far too close to the borders of the outside world.

I should've realized I was really kinda standing in the way, teetering awkwardly from one foot to the other, because another female jogger came upon me, actually almost ran into me. "Oh," she said, giving me the once-over. "Wow, nice outfit," she added, in a way that hovered between neutral and sarcastic. "Are you doing, like, the Paratrooper Boot Camp workout? I hear that's really amazing," she said, and then started to take off again. Then she added, smiling broadly, "Not many people take it that literally, though?"

"Yeah," I muttered neutrally, and she was off. I self-consciously released my arms, thinking maybe I wouldn't have such a bad time of it if I tried not to be self-conscious. Love is War, right? And War is Hell.

Like a yapping materialization of my anxieties, a boisterous Chow dog on potty break came upon me, throwing my weight onto my right foot as it started to vigorously hump my left one.

"Ah, good boy--down, yes, please just, yes, okay boy, down, that's--"

"Shock!" cried a woman's voice, and up came Dr. Lawson, my professor from Women's Studies 204: "Gender Issues in Second Wave Feminism" last semester, which, if you don't understand why her presence suddenly trebled my horror and indignation, well-- oh fuck just never mind.

"Shock you BAD BAD boy! Stop that this instant!" she cried, genuinely indignant. Then she recognized me. "Oh well goodness hellooo Sheila," she said, in very drawn-out, rather smarmy accents, as she gave me what looked to be a very thorough cataloging. "Well, I didn't know you were so . . . So into fitness, well." Her mouth was frozen in a smiling rictus. This ageing woman was standing too close. That dog was left to carry on. I tried to distract Shock with my hand, patting his head or at least letting him sniff my wrist, which had the effect of keeping my head bowed as this noxious academic fuckhead was hovering over me.

"It's very interesting Sheila, I wouldn't have thought you were so, so 'into your body' if that's the phrase?" She shook her head, as though about to cast her eyes to Goddess in Heaven, but then went on, "It's these 3rd Wave people, hmm? Such a-- a strong influence they have on today's young women, don't you agree?" she asked rhetorically.

"Hmm, wow," I muttered, still trying to distract the dog, but then Matthew intervened carefully from the other side, wielding of all things a doggie biscuit-- where did that come from?-- but seeming to take care not to distract my former teacher from anything she might have to say.

"You know, I am just horrified to read that Germaine Greer actually had an affair in the Seventies with Federico Fellini," she said, drawing out the syllables of Fellini's name as though sampling an expensive wine through little snorting intakes of breath. "She seems to have regarded herself as, some kind of MUSE," she added, emphasizing the word "muse" by a low hiss like it were some form of hate speech requiring, in politer company, asterisks in place of its vowels.

She kept looking me over, examining my bare thighs, taking in, it seemed, the slutty delight of my hot pants, the shiny zipper that covered my crotch, my naked belly like a gently rippling field, the curve of my waist, the camouflaged but hardly concealed ripeness of my melons and their stupid little moniker, my lanky bare arms and exposed clavicles sheened with sweat like they were all so many runic inscriptions on a bare outcropping of rock that somehow added up to a secret at once dreadful and wondrous.