I did create a new character, Princess Timtup. But here’s a “blast from the past”, namely 20 years ago.
Time for more questioning. The naked young woman sat on a stool, hands clasped unassumingly over her crotch, facing the team sitting behind a table as her medical history was taken.
“Have you or any blood relative had diabetes? Heart disease? Asthma?” No, no, no, except Dareen mentioned her grandmother who had hypertension. Dareen came from a healthy family.
“Any surgery, now or planned?”
“Just a breast reduction operation,” Dareen said hesitantly. Yet another flushed feeling in the face as attention was focused again on her bust. Did she have to suffer these feelings of embarrassment over and over? Couldn’t she get used to it?
“When is that?” the colonel asked with some concern.
“The insurance company okayed it, I think it’s supposed to be in late September. They haven’t given me a date yet.”
The colonel and his crew exchanged looks. Finally in a low voice the pale, gray-haired man said, “Ms. Alkaras, given the national security interest, we strongly recommend that you give up that idea; at least for the time being.”
Pungently Dareen paraphrased the colonel’s words in her mind, “The United States needs your nipples!”
“O.K.,” she said, “then I’ll tell them to cancel.” This was a quick response but still not easy to say. Dareen ventured a quick glance downward. Good-bye spaghetti strap dresses. Good-bye wearing regular clothes. Good-bye having men talk to her face for a change instead of always stealing glances further down. She gulped, and sighed as if in sorrow and loss.
“Any other diseases we haven’t mentioned?”
“Yes. Alcoholism.”
“What family member was that?”
“Me. I’m recovered though.” She had long since decided to phrase it like this when asked. The approved word was “recovering”, used by the types who dominated AA, who had merely replaced their addiction to alcohol with an addiction to meetings. And to an authoritarian mindset and an addiction to Jesus, and not in a good way.
“Do you color your hair?”
“No, it turned this purplish color after the lightning hit me. Before that it was just black.” She knew that to be totally truthful she had to lift her hands, part her legs and show her equally violet-tinged pubic hair. “See, I’m all natural,” she said, while trying to hide her shame. Friendly smiles behind the table.
“Finally, Miss Alkaras, any dietary restrictions?” the colonel said affably.
“I don’t eat pork, but that’s just a Muslim thing, not for any health reason.” It was so clear that none of these folks were Muslims that she felt the need for this explanation.
“Well fortunately we have lots of other stuff. I bet you’re hungry. Time for lunch.”
Dareen exhaled and her stomach growled. Unmuffled by clothing, echoing in the sterile room, the growl was easily heard. Everyone laughed. Dareen smiled and patted her flat bare tummy.
“Can we call you Dareen? Call me Mike,” Colonel McNulty said. “Dareen, this is Roger Moody, he runs this place.” Dareen leaned over, making sure her breast didn’t push into her mashed potatoes, and shook the hand of the friendly-looking heavy-set white guy in shirtsleeves with captain’s bars pinned over the front pocket.
Dareen hunched her shoulders a bit and tried to eat inconspicuously. Not that this was at all possible. She expected a cafeteria in this building but this one was pretty big. Four long double tables with perhaps three dozen people eating and chatting, some in lab coats. She knew her nakedness on display as she waited on that serving line, and felt all awkward breasts and pubic hair and bare feet as she followed her team and plopped her bare butt onto the long bench.
The food was good, as Mike -- she felt like she could call him that -- remarked to Roger. “This meatloaf is very good. I can actually guess what’s in it.” Roger chuckled. “We switched to a different supplier. Also Jose is getting more patient with making gravy.” Jose, apparently, was the cook. And Roger was in charge of the nuts and bolts of the place, keeping the lights on.
Dareen looked up and considered the crowd. Occasionally someone looked over at her naked skin. How could they not? And hoped they would see only her bare shoulders, as if she were wearing a tube top, not that this was something Dareen ever could wear, or ever would be worn here. She wondered what the people stationed here did. It couldn’t all be for studying NakedGirl and her powers. It also seemed like a friendly place. People appeared to like working here. Hardly what she imagined from a secret military installation.
She needed her lunchtime coffee, and fortunately Dr. Vanaver offered to get her some, relieving her of the exposure attendant on going up for it herself. Perhaps unsurprisingly the conversation around Mike and the crew involved small talk. Nothing about their research on her.
“The two hours are almost up,” Colonel Mike said. “We’ve got to get ready.”
And with that, suddenly and abruptly, the entire six-person crew stood up. Dareen stood up with them and they all walked out, behind Colonel Mike clip-clopping on his wooden foot, the naked and barefoot woman trailing on silent bare feet, her beautiful brown back and butt cheeks and legs providing a visual treat for Roger Moody and his friends before they got up and applied themselves to some serious blueberry pie.
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