1 comments/ 14919 views/ 2 favorites Streaker By: Ashson "A dare's a dare," said Suzanna primly. "You said you'd do it, Megan, and now's the time." Megan gave her friends a most unfriendly look, but conceded that she had agreed. "I knew I'd regret this as soon as I said it," she lamented. "It'll be easy," Suzanna insisted. "We'll let you out at the corner, you run the length of the street and we'll be waiting to pick you up at the other corner. Now strip." Reluctantly Megan stripped. One short run and she was home free, and she'd think up something suitably nasty for the next person on a dare. Arriving at the corner, Megan gulped. That short block had never seemed so long before, and why were there so many people around, anyway? Mentally she plotted her path, straight down turn the corner at the Post Office and meet the car coming up the lane behind the shops. On getting the nod Megan took a big breath and streaked. Watching her go, Suzanna suddenly spoke. "It's my dinner time. I don't really have time to go down and pick Megan up. Let's head for home." Hearing no dissent, Suzanna drove off, the other passengers laughing quietly. Megan, a bright red from running and embarrassment, reached the Post Office, swung down the side street and into the lane. The enormity of having no car waiting took a moment to hit. Then it sank in. She was naked in the middle of town, with no clothes, no phone and no money. And no friends, as she was going to kill each and every one of them as soon as she got her hands on them. Hearing someone approaching she ducked into one of the little yards behind the shops and hid. Maybe if she waited until it was dark, she'd be able to sneak home or find a public phone booth. A slow, cold, hour passed for Megan, who cringed every time she heard footsteps pass down the lane. A couple of times she heard a car and had bravely stuck her head out, hoping that it was a rescue, only to resignedly retreat in defeat. Now she just waited, hoping night would fall. Confident footsteps came striding up the lane and, to Megan's horror, they stopped outside the gate to the yard she was in, and someone entered. "Come out please, miss," called a firm voice. "This is the police." Nervously Megan stuck her head around the edge of the shed she'd taken refuge in. "Go away," she cried. "I'm not hurting anyone." You're trespassing, miss, and there's been a complaint. You'll have to leave." Leave? How could she leave. Furious all of a sudden, Megan stepped out of the shed and confronted the officious busybody. "Leave?" she asked. "Like this? Are you sure you want me to?" Startled, the officer raised his eyebrows. "You seem to have lost an item or two of clothing, miss," he observed. "Would you be the streaker who was reported earlier?" Taking the red flush on her face as an indication of agreement, the officer smiled. "Something go wrong with the pickup, did it?" he murmured, while taking off his jacket. "Put this on. It's a shame to cover you up, but I expect you'll feel happier." Wearing a jacket did indeed make Megan feel happier, but still not happy enough to want to march out into the street where everyone could see her with police escort. Seeing her continued reluctance, the officer reached over and removed a pair of dark glasses from the jacket pocket. "Put these on," he suggested. "Then you'll be harder to recognise." Giving him a hard look, Megan obeyed. She wasn't prepared to swear that he'd deliberately poked her boob while getting out the glasses, but she wasn't prepared to swear it had been an accident, either. "Now, miss," said the officer, "If you'll give me your name and address I'll run you home." "And if I don't?" "I'll run you to the police station and they can take it from there," returned the officer blandly. "Your choice." "I'm Megan. Megan Andrews," Megan said, going on to give him her address. "What's your name, by the way?" "Officer Stevens, but you can call me Paul. My car is just around the corner." Keeping one eye firmly on her, Paul escorted Megan to his car, helping her into the back. A short time later they were driving towards her place, chatting quietly together. Arriving, Paul looked thoughtfully, at Megan. "How do you propose to get in?" he asked. "You don't appear to have your keys with you." Blushing, Megan told him she had a spare key hidden near the back door. Paul escorted her around to the back where Megan retrieved her key and admitted them. Megan felt a large wave of relief roll over her now that she was safely home. Turning to thank Paul for his help and for his jacket, Megan suddenly realised that she might be in for some legal trouble. "Um, am I going to get a ticket or something like that for what happened?" she asked. "I don't think that will be necessary," said Paul. "I don't know that you were the unidentified streaker and no-one has actually filed a complaint. I'll have to note that I helped a young lady in distress, but that's what we're there for." "On another note," Paul continued, "You might like to reconsider if you feel like doing something foolish again." Reaching over, he began to casually remove his jacket from her. "You really should remember," he said, "that men are men, and seeing a naked woman can tempt them to do things that maybe they shouldn't, like touching those lovely globes to see what they feel like." Suiting action to words, Paul reached out and began to stroke the lovely globes he'd mentioned, while Megan stood still, looking at the large hands now stroking her breasts. "Even worse," Paul said softly, "some men might want to feel if your skin is as smooth here as it looks." Megan saw one of his hands drop away, sliding down over her tummy and then gliding across her mons, his fingertips sending little ripples through her, little curls seeming to unravel within her stomach. "It's a short step from someone touching you to wanting to taste you," came Paul's mesmerising voice, and now his head dipped and his mouth moved hotly across her breasts, capturing a nipple and gently suckling. Megan was breathing hard, her back arched slightly to assist Paul's access her breasts, gasping as she felt him sucking on them. Paul took a step back, and looked at Megan, running his eyes up and down her naked form. Then placing his hand around her waist he lifted her and sat her on the kitchen table, moving her legs apart so that he could stand between them. "Megan," said Paul gently, "if you want me to stop you'd better say so now, or my little lesson is going to get a lot more intense." "No," gasped Megan. "I'm really curious. What else might happen to a naked girl?" "For a start, she might find herself having unmentionable liberties taken," Paul told her, proceeding to take those unmentionable liberties, while at the same time describing each one in detail. "Do you know that once a man has placed his finger in here," said Paul, wriggling his finger to ensure she got the point, "he might use it to squeeze tender places like this?" Megan gave a strangled gasp as she felt her clitoris suddenly being assaulted by fingers that teased and squeezed. "And after you have been tormented like this, the man might remember he has another little finger that could cause you trouble," came Paul's insistent voice, and Megan dimly hear the movement of material. Glancing down, Megan was quickly able to see what the material that had fallen was. That extra little finger that Paul had mentioned had come out to play, and little was not the word she would have used to describe it. "What are you going to do with that?" she gasped, although she was quite certain that she already knew. "I'm just going to let it play where my other fingers went," Paul said, smiling. "It wouldn't be fair to leave it out in the cold, now would it?" Eyes wide, Megan shook her head, her thighs spreading slightly wider to ensure that her new friend had room to play. As Paul moved even closer to her, Megan leant back slightly, her arms behind her, supporting her while she watched. She could see Paul's cock pressing firmly against her lips, while at another level she could feel it pressing into her. As she watched she could see and feel her lips parting, giving Paul entry. She had had sex before, but had never actually watched as a cock made its way into her. She found it fascinating to both see and feel the experience. As Paul advanced slowly into her, Megan found herself trying to move forward to greet him, stymied because she was sitting firmly on the kitchen table. She didn't have the freedom of movement required to help, and could only sit there helplessly, feeling and watching as Paul pressed home. Paul embedded himself fully into Megan's waiting body, and held himself there for a moment. Slowly he withdrew, watching Megan as she stared at where their bodies came together, seemingly entranced by the action taking place. Hovering, with his head just within her, Paul suddenly pressed forcefully home again, hearing Megan gasp as he plunged into her. Now Paul was busy, thrusting into Megan's willing but oddly static body. He could sense she was trying to meet him, and was becoming frustrated at being unable to slide freely upon him, having to depend on him for every little movement. Laughing, Paul encouraged Megan to wrap her legs around his waist, then he pulled her towards him, lifting her off the table so she settled more firmly upon his erection. Her arms lifted and clasped around his neck and now she was clinging to him, her bottom bobbing in time to his thrusts as Megan finally found herself able to match him. They stood there for a timeless interval, matching thrust for thrust, united in their effort to bring pleasure to each other. Paul soon felt his own climax approaching and, moving closer to the table, he sat Megan upon it before driving into her hard, nailing home his mastery of her body, and then releasing himself into her with a few desperate strokes. Megan could feel Paul coming within her, and she clung to him tightly. "Please," she choked, "don't stop. Not yet." She gave a gasp of satisfaction as she felt Paul continue to pound her, helping her along the path and then lifting her up to fly at the end of it. Gasping, she relaxed, leaning forward to rest her head against Paul's chest. Looking up at him, she laughed. "I hadn't realised how dangerous streaking might be," she told him. "I'm fortunate you're here to warn me of the possible consequences." "Someone should have warned me," growled Paul. "You're dangerous. I'd better get back on my patrol before someone comes looking for me." Megan watched him go, smiling. "Suzanna," a little voice in her head said. "She's was driving and I bet she ditched me deliberately. I'll really have to arrange something similar for her, but not where Paul is. Maybe I can find a place where there's a bunch of drunken soccer fans who want to play." Streakers and Streaking This short essay is an entry in the Literotica Nude Day Contest. I hope you enjoy reading it and gain some knowledge about the sport or art of streaking. * Although the term, meaning running naked in a public place where it is not the norm, was not coined until 1973, streaking was known long before that. The first recorded example was on July 5, 1799, and happened in London. A nude man, whose name has been lost, was arrested for what was described as an indecent act, and he told the constables he was running nude from Cornhill to Cheapside in an endeavor to win a bet. Personally, I have some trouble considering this act as being true streaking, at least the way it is usually done now. For one thing, the unknown man had a commercial purpose. Genuine streaking, in my opinion, must be done for the sport of it, to scandalize or shock, rather than for monetary gain. For another, it must be done publicly. The man in London was most likely trying to avoid attracting attention to himself, but true streakers dote on being seen, even filmed or videotaped. That's their reason for doing it. For a third and most important thing, the arrested man was probably trying to conserve his energy by not running at top speed, possibly even walking some of the time. This would have been a violation of one of the basic tenets of proper streaking, that the pace must be close to top speed, which is why it has been given its current name. Since it's a dash, not a stroll, it is usually only done for a fairly short distance. Cornhill and Cheapside are too far apart for him to have been sprinting between them, so the assumption must be made the man was not running fast. Even so, this gentleman has come to be recognized as the first streaker, and I must acknowledge his primacy. There may well have been earlier incidents - Lady Godiva comes to mind, although the legend says she rode naked on a horse through the streets of Coventry, rather than running. However, there is no record of any prior streaking having occurred, so this unknown gentleman from London has the distinction. George W. Crump, a student in Washington College in Virginia, was the first recorded streaker in the United States. His name was placed in the record book, so to speak, in 1804, when he was arrested for running nude through the nearby city of Lexington. Mr. Crump was suspended for the rest of that academic session, but he eventually went on to become a member of Congress and the US ambassador to Chile. The escapade of this distinguished alumnus may have encouraged a future president of the college, General Robert E. Lee, to sanction streaking as a part of the standard college activities, almost a rite of passage of young male students. The college is now known as Washington and Lee University. Possibly as part of what is sometimes called "The Sexual Revolution" in the late 1960's, streaking gained immensely in popularity, until the activity was given a more dignified name than "running around naked as a jay-bird." A "streak" is the word applied to a person or object moving rapidly, which is what genuine streakers do. I suppose a "blue streak" would be a person running naked in the winter, if such a thing ever happens. The person generally credited for popularizing the term "Streaker" was a reporter for a news station in Washington D.C. As he watched a large crowd, consisting mostly of students from The University of Maryland, he exclaimed: "they are streaking past me right now. It's an incredible sight!" The next day, the news wire services reported the incident using the word, and it has been used to denote the activity ever since. You may notice many, even most of the persons mentioned as streakers are students in colleges or universities, and there are reasons for this. Many of them are young and willing to do something outside the norm, especially if it is away from where they are known, and their mothers don't find out about it. Those who are older are less likely to take the dare which streaking represents. Although the activity is never any more than a harmless prank, when streakers get arrested and charged, it is usually with indecent exposure, as it they were low-life flashers, and a conviction can carry a life-long stigma. Even so, streaking is still widely practiced, mostly by men. There have been a few women who have been described as practicing the art, but many of them cheated by wearing bikini bottoms or other attire instead of being buck naked as a proper streaker should be. The best venues for streaking are major sports events in outside arenas, such as football or soccer or baseball games. The exposed one is extremely exposed; tens of thousands of persons may see him live, and millions more can watch the action of television. The art or sport of streaking is still fairly new, and there is no governing body or established rules that must be followed. Therefore, I propose the following suggestions, which are not meant to be rules. Streakers tend to be mavericks who don't like to follow the rules, which is why they streak in the first place. 1. Run, do not walk. Unless you have somebody to whisk you to safety, you will eventually be apprehended. However the harder and faster you run, the longer it will take the party poopers to spoil the fun. 2. Do your streaking outside, and this would include a very large building, such as at an indoor major league baseball or football stadium. One of the most famous streakers, although one I don't believe is worthy of that appellation, was a man named Robert Opel who walked naked across the stage during the Academy Awards presentation one year. Although he was properly unclothed, I consider him to be unworthy of being called a streaker because he walked rather than sprinted across the stage. He had to do that, because the stage was small and running would have caused him to finish his planned course too quickly. If this had been at a football game, he could have run and still remained in full view of the audience for several minutes. 3. Do it where you will stand out. This is only reasonable; there wouldn't be much sense in streaking at a clothing-optional beach or at a Naturist camp. 4. Be completely naked. Shoes, sneakers in particular, are acceptable, and sometimes necessary, and a streaker might wear a hat and sometimes dark glasses for protection from the bright sun. Unfortunately, a mask of some kind might sometimes be necessary to conceal streakers' identities and keep them out of trouble. However, it would be cheating to use any of those allowable coverings to conceal the bits which are meant to be on display during a streak. There may be other suggestions that could be made, but these will do for now. This is the season for streaking, and National Nude Day, July 14, is the best day of the season, so go and enjoy yourself, but stay out of trouble. Streaking Is Bad, M'kay? Back in college, my girlfriend, Kathy, and I were able to arrange our schedules so that we had no classes Wednesday mornings. So what do two horny 20-year-olds with an empty apartment do to kill three hours one morning each week? Well, any number of things, actually. One of them was to invent a game of sexual chicken. How do you play? You take off all your clothes and then go outside the apartment. How do you win? Be the one to go farthest from the apartment and return without getting caught. I lived on the fifth floor (which was also the top floor) of a building that had no elevator. There were two flights of stairs between each floor. To get to the fourth floor, you went down a flight of eight stairs, made a U-turn, and then went down eight more stairs. We join the game already in progress... Kathy and I had been playing for about four or five weeks. By this time, just stepping into the hallway (where there were five other apartments) had become little more than a warm-up. Both of us had made a half-dozen trips down to the landing between the fourth and fifth floors; both of us had been down to the fourth floor and back another half-dozen times. We had both been down to the landing between the fourth and third floors, to the third floor itself, to the landing between the third and second floors, to second floor, to the landing between the second and first floors, and all the way down to the first floor. After a month of playing, neither Kathy nor I showed any sign of quitting. Taking off her sweatpants and T-shirt and with excitement blazing in her eyes, Kathy said, "I'm going to the lobby." "I'm ready when you are." (Easy for me to say, I had my clothes on.) All was quiet all the way down the staircase. When we got to the first floor, I went ahead to make sure the lobby was empty. "All clear," I called. Kathy peeked around the corner, and seeing the lobby was empty, she walked calmly around the corner and into the lobby. But did she just set both feet in the lobby and then turn around and race back to the apartment? Nope. Not my Kathy. She strolled around the lobby as if she were completely dressed and walking around her own bedroom. The only sign of nervousness she gave was she rarely looked away from the all-glass front doors to the building. She crossed the lobby and stood in front of me. "Should we go back upstairs now?" She didn't wait for an answer; she just turned around. But instead of going to the stairs, she went to the doors of the building and she stood there looking out at the world. It was ten o'clock on a Wednesday morning and the entrance to building was on a quiet side street so there wasn't much chance that someone would walk by and see her. Still, after about ten seconds she came to me. "Look at this." She held out her hand. It was visibly trembling. "I can't hold it still." "Too much adrenaline," I said. "God, I love this feeling. Everything inside my body is tingling. Let's go, it's your turn." We ran for the stairs. We were just past the landing between the second and third floors when we heard the footsteps. Footsteps somewhere above us – and coming down the stairs. Kathy turned to face me. She smiled and, nibbling at her thumbnail, she giggled. "Come on," I said, and raced back down the stairs. I waited on the first floor and watched Kathy's tits bouncing as she came down the final flight of stairs. "In there," I said, pointing underneath the flight of stairs that led to the landing between the first and second floors. Kathy ducked into the hiding space and squatted in the corner. I went in behind her and squatted in front of her so she could behind me. For the next thirty seconds of so, the two of us were as quiet as mice as we listened to the footsteps coming closer and closer. When the footsteps were right over our heads, Kathy leaned forward and kissed me on the ear. The footsteps kept going out into the lobby. We heard the front door open and then close. And then there was only silence on the stairs above us. I grabbed Kathy by the hand and we raced back up to the apartment. Then it was my turn. But my trip to the lobby was uneventful. I strolled around the lobby just like Kathy did, and I felt the same rush Kathy did. And we got back to the apartment unseen. Getting undressed again, Kathy said, "Let's make this interesting." (As if it was boring up to now.) The building had three wings: left, center, and right. My family and I lived in the left wing. On her next turn, Kathy went down to the lobby, once again passing the all-glass front doors, and into the right wing where she pressed her bush against the far wall of the first floor in the right wing. Total distance from my front door: maybe one hundred fifty feet. "Let's see you top that!" she said laughing as we both sprinted back to my apartment. (I can still see her twenty-year old breasts swaying and bouncing as she ran up the stairs. It's a wonderful sight: the way 20-year-old breasts move.) So as Kathy put her sweatpants and T-shirt back on, I took mine off. And down the stairs we went. I planned on going into the right wing and touching my dick against the far wall on the second floor. In the lobby, I peeked out the front door: the way was clear. So I dashed past the doors and into the right wing and ran down the corridor to the staircase. There was a left-hand turn to get to the stairs, and I stopped just short of the turn and peeked around the corner to make sure the way is clear. It wasn't. My mother was coming down the stairs. Fortunately, she was looking at the stairs, watching where she putting her feet, and didn't see me. All this time, I thought she was at work. (I later found out she had the day off and was visiting some family friends in the right side of the building.) Losing the game of chicken suddenly didn't seem so important. I couldn't run straight back to left side of the building, my mother would have seen me as soon as she turned the corner. So I raced down the hallway, turned right, and sprinted for the stairs in the center wing of the building. Behind me, Kathy called out, "Where are you going?" A moment later I heard her say, "Uh oh." How fast did I race up those ten flights of stairs? Terms like "bat out of hell" and "escape velocity" come to mind. I raced past an open window between floors and heard a wolf whistle. And as my bare feet slapped against every other step and the tops of my thighs batted the family jewels back and forth like a pair of tennis balls, a voice in the back of my mind asked a question: "What if the door to the roof is locked?" I made the turn on the landing between the fifth floor and roof, looking for a crack of daylight between the door and doorframe that meant the door was unlocked. But the door was completely closed. I raced up the final flight of stairs, lowered my shoulder and hit the door like a linebacker. The door exploded open with such force that when it opened as far as it would go, it slammed shut again so hard the noise made my heart jump. Sunshine almost blinded me as I sprinted across the roof to the door leading down to the left wing. I expected that door to be unlocked; it was almost always unlocked. I raced down the two flights of stairs hearing my mother and Kathy making small talk as they came up the stairs together. By the time the two of them came into the apartment, I was sitting at the kitchen table, my sweats and T-shirt on again, pretending I had been reading the newspaper, and fighting hard to keep my breathing at a normal pace. And as my mother was saying something to me, I watched Kathy standing behind her, giving me her most wicked grin, pointing to herself, and mouthing the words, "I win." After college Kathy and I went our separate ways, and I didn't see her again until about three years ago. I bumped into her at a mall and we got to talking about old times. Including the few weeks of our junior year we spent playing chicken. "How could we possibly have been that fucking stupid?" she asked. "We weren't the first two people to do something crazy for a sexual thrill," I said. "And you can bet we weren't the last."