Birthday Suit

"You write next chapter now," she said.

And while I banged out words on the computer keyboard, words and sentences and paragraphs that seemed almost to have no relationship to one another, I monitored her in my peripheral vision.  She had gone to stand in front of the eyepiece for the peep show, and while she stood looking she slowly, almost imperceptibly, ground her pelvis back and forth, moaning softly all the time.

What at first seemed an incredible joke became a feverish writing activity for me.  Suddenly I was back on track, highly motivated to turn over that very next chapter to her, to begin the process of apparel removal.  Although I'd never written much in my life I felt as if I were setting some kind of speed record for generating text, and when, within a half hour, I had produced a modest chapter I eagerly sent it to her phone.  She read the chapter quickly, nodding her approval.

"Now you cooking with gas," she said, slipping off the enormous glove from her left hand.  "How many article of clothing I remove before I go?"

I got back to work immediately, churning out enough chapters to get her out of the right glove, the parka and both boots before our two hours were up.

Later, as she was leaving, I said, "I'll have you naked before you get out of here tomorrow."

"You talk cocky talk," she said.  "We see if you walk cocky walk."

I was writing when my dinner tray slid into the cell.  I was writing long after rigor mortis had afflicted the food.  I was writing way past the time I should have taken a third or fourth break to urinate.  I was writing when I should have rolled into my bunk for a necessary night's sleep.  I was writing when my breakfast tray slid into a rear-end collision with my dinner tray.  I was writing when Nanime reappeared the next day for our two-hour session.

When she addressed me--holding her phone out for me to see--she was smiling openly.  "You been busy beaver," she said.

I was confident I had written enough to get her stripped to the layer of clothing she was born in, so I sat back in my office chair, my hands clasped behind my head, eager to watch the unveiling.  I soon realized, though, as she peeled off a red turtleneck sweater to reveal a long-sleeve white blouse, that she was wearing extra clothing beneath the outer apparel, and I became uncertain if my chapter credits were sufficient to redeem the grand prize.

I began to perspire when I realized how close it would be.  I had watched her take off the long-sleeve blouse to reveal a type of crewneck undershirt, which she removed to reveal an A-shirt undershirt, the removal of which revealed a tube top which covered a strapless white brassiere.  When she took off the insulated thermal pants to expose a pair of denim jeans I thought, perhaps, I was one layer away from seeing her panties, but the jeans came off to reveal a pair of workout pants beneath which was a pair of frayed denim cutoffs.

When she stepped sexily out of the cutoffs, she giggled.  "You two chapter short," she said.

I turned to examine the analog clock above the computer.  There was half an hour left before our two hours were up.  I began to write like a maniac, trying hard to ignore her laughter and her words of discouragement:  "You never make it.  Time ticking away.  Only a few minute to go.  Time up."

Just before she mouthed this last I emailed the final two chapters, and the musical tone on her zPhone, The Laundry Bears' pageant to orgasms--I Live for Climax--informed her I had made it just under the wire.

I watched as she peeled off her bra and panties, standing unashamedly in her birthday suit, and I understood then that she was no girl, but a fully-developed young woman.

She said, "Shame we have no more time.  But wait.  Special offer for today only:  three-hour tutor session."  She laughed provocatively.

I was out of my clothing in record time, across the floor to envelop her petite magnificence, and we waltzed together in the nude to my bunk where we quickly deep-sixty-nined ourselves into a sexual fever.  Just as we uncoupled and repositioned for totally-gratifying consummation of this patently absurd erotic writing act, a piercing alarm went off in the cell.

It was deafening, akin to a flock of wounded geese all honking at the same time.  Within seconds the cell door flew open, and three guards wearing body armor and hooded helmets rushed inside.  One lifted Nanime as if she were made of balsa wood and carried her out.  The other guards, wielding chartreuse-colored nightsticks began beating me, whacking, as if they were chopping wood, at my thighs, delivering full-on blows to my buttocks and biceps until I curled into a fetal position on the floor and tried to wiggle my way under the bunk.  They departed as quickly as they had arrived, leaving me in a mangled heap.

They never hit me on the head, neck or shoulders, and none of my blood was let, but I was a bruised and battered pulp of incarcerated writer, suddenly convinced I would never make it out of the agententiary alive.