This story follows the story "The Ice Queen Cometh," in Exhibitionism and Voyeurism. It involves Jamie Cappiano, who suffers from a nudity phobia (known in medical parlance as gymnophobia). Her phobia has kept her virginal, but a visit from an equally messed up man from Chicago (or so it seems), Jason Jones, shows her that she is capable of sex as long as it is pitch black, and nobody can see her. But Jamie uses this discovery to leverage her newfound love of sex to try some exhibitionism, which leads her to Mike and a new experimental drug Dyrenatrene, which in reality is simply cleverly packaged placebos. The Dyrenatrene/placebos, combined with heavy alcohol consumption, lead Jamie to lose her inhibitions, to suppress her gymnophobia, and enable her to enjoy a full and wild sexual life.
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Warning: This story contains a kind of threesome, hints of lesbian/bisexual desire, and nonconsensual sex near the end. The story was originally planned as an exhibitionist and voyeur story, and it contains many of the elements of such a story. But it seemingly inevitably morphed into a non-consent/reluctance story, especially in the third part. It is also long, so please have patience when you read it. Part II has mild non-consent/reluctance, but if you are hard core and without patience, you can simply skip to Part III.
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Part I: Jamie returns to work
It's Sunday morning in Manhattan. Jamie was out of bed, showered and dressed. She had taken two of the Dyrenatrene pills Mike gave her from the small brown bottle Friday night. She still had the bottle, and it had six pills left. They were experimental and Mike had said, she was pretty sure, that the effect lasted 24 hours or longer. Well, this morning made around 36 hours. She wondered?
It would be easy enough to find out. Would her nudity phobia be back in full force, or not? There was an obvious way to tell. She opened the blinds, letting the full force of the morning sun enter her apartment. She stood in front of the window, and counted down from ten. If her phobia were back, she would not be able to remove her blouse, which she noted was fully buttoned, as it had always been before that fateful night when she gave Jason her virginity.
Before she began her test, she stood there, remembering her time with Jason. Jason was the kind of man who wanted to make every girl he met another sexual conquest to add to his doubtless long list. He was handsome, charming, debonair, and -let's face it - irresistible. He had taken her virginity. Let's be honest: She had given it to him. If he had not taken it, she may even have raped him, if it is even possible for a woman to rape a man.
He had found the key to her phobia: He made the hotel room completely pitch black, so neither of them could see anything. She herself could see nothing at all. Her nudity phobia seemed not to apply in those conditions. She marveled at her good fortune that she had found a man as fucked up as she was.
But it did not sit well with her. If he too was so strange, how had he managed to lay 20 or more women as he had told her he had? It just did not make sense. She made a mental note to look into it.
She owed Jason, though. It was he who had suggested some harmless exhibitionism in the safety of a hotel window on the 8th floor in New York. That was where Mike had seen her, and she had met him, throwing away the big city anonymity, and miraculously he had these experimental anti-phobia drugs. The drugs were themselves miraculous, and she not only lost her phobia, but under the influence of those experimental meds she became a flaming exhibitionist in extremist (and somewhat of a slut, to boot) letting Mike fuck her on their first date.
He did not just fuck her, he fucked her outdoors in a public park in the financial district, and her boss had happened to be there and had watched. Okay, this was a bit too much. Three miracles in less than a week? Her boss watching her fuck could not be described as a miracle however. It was more like a career destroying event.
Holy shit: 36 hours earlier she had let a man fuck her, naked, in a public park, and then said hello to her boss while he stared at her barely covered tits. How was she going to face him on Monday? How?
All of these thoughts took only a second as she stood in the window. Why was she standing there? Oh yes: to see if the drugs were still working or not. Was her mouth dry? Yes, it was. Check. Was she dizzy? No. Well maybe, a little. Check. The meds worked better with alcohol. She had not drunk anything in over 24 hours. Should she drink something before the test? Yes, probably.
She always kept a bottle of white wine in the fridge. Hopefully her roommate had not drunk it. She went to the fridge and checked: Yes, there was some left. She poured herself a glass, sat down in front of the TV and turned on MSNBC to watch the Sunday morning talking heads, while she drank the wine and gave it some time to have an effect.
After the five minutes or so of straight commercials, she once again confirmed that all the nattering nabobs were going to discuss was Trump, Trump, and more Trump. Well, at least she had some wine.
After 15 minutes or so she was back at the window. Here goes. After two buttons, she felt the upwelling of a panic attack forming. Her breathing was too fast, and her mind was racing. She left the window and had some more wine, and watched some more MSNBC commercials. Then more Trump. She switched to CNN. More commercials, and then more Trump. Jesus.
She switched again, this time to NY One, the Time Warner station. Or was it now the Spectrum Station? Oh, well; at least they talked about NY News. Oh shit: It was about the cost to New York City of protecting Trump's family. She turned off the TV and grabbed yesterday's paper. She read the fashion pages.
She found an old issue of Cosmopolitan. The model on the cover was wearing a blouse open to her navel. Inspired, she went back to the window. Before she could stop herself, she unbuttoned all the buttons on her blouse, even taking it out of her pants to continue with all the buttons. She felt the upwelling of panic, but she managed to suppress it, soldiering through.
She stood in the window with her blouse open to her naval, proud as a peacock at her achievement. She removed her blouse, and stood there in her bra. No panic! Okay, the ultimate test: She removed her bra. She stood there topless, and felt a panic attack consume her with a brutality she had rarely experienced.
Jamie fell to her knees and managed to crawl to the kitchen, to the cupboard where she kept her paper bags. She breathed into one, gasping for air, as she felt her heart was about to burst. She barely avoided the syringe and/or trip to the emergency room this time. That was close.
She concluded the meds still worked, but not nearly as well as Friday night, when not only did she get naked in public, but she let Mike ravish her, taking her rear entry, while up to eight men watched.
Remaining topless, she went to her bureau and dug out the dark brown small bottle of Dyrenatrene, the experimental meds, that Mike had given her. She took two. These pills had turned her into an exhibitionist slut. She did not like that, but she loved being rid of her gymnophobia, the medical term for her nudity phobia.
She needed to get out; she needed to distract herself.
Brunch! She would take herself out for a Sunday brunch. She needed a confidante. She needed someone besides her best friend Gloria; after all, it was Gloria who had arranged her date with Jason. If something strange was going on, as she suspected it was, then possibly Gloria was involved. That left only one person to whom she could confide: Her sister.
She called her sister Anna. No answer. She texted her: "I need to talk to someone. Meet me in the city for brunch? If not, I could come to Westchester?" Ten minutes later she got a reply. Anna was, by good fortune, in the city with her new boyfriend Paul, and they would meet her at a farm to table place in Tribeca in 30 minutes.
Jamie went for her jacket before realizing she was still topless. She smiled at her folly, and thought about what to wear. Her boobs were just too big to go braless to meet her sister and her sister's new boyfriend. Or were they? Yes, they were.
She wore her sexiest lace bra, that barely covered her nipples, and the only blouse she had that showed some cleavage. She never wore it, due to her phobia. Her sister had given it to her, in an optimistic fit of hope. It was silk, and it had a wonderful sheen to it.
