The Christmas Pageant

by Gina's Mom

* * *

Sarah was eleven years old. She was sweet and innocent, and ready to bud into a beautiful young woman. She came to the Christmas Pageant tryouts with only one thing in mind: being awarded a part, any part, and I was the person awarding those parts. My name is Angie. I was twenty-six at the time, a mother of two wonderful twin girls, and happily married.

The door opened and in she walked. At first, I paid her no more attention than to the other boys and girls in the auditorium. She had long flaxen hair, with bangs cut straight across her forehead. Her eyes were china blue and her complexion flawless as spun silk. The dress she wore was pink polka dot with a white lace bodice that on her looked just adorable, instead of ludicrous as it would on anyone else. She stood just under five feet tall, and was almost awkwardly slim. She observed events around herself with a determined self-awareness. She walked directly up to the table and said, "Hi."

"Hi," I said back, already experiencing a totally foreign sensation in the pit of my stomach. "You'll need a name tag," I said. Taking one off the pink pile, I raised my eyebrows.

"Sarah," she announced.

"With an H on the end?" I inquired, to which she nodded. "Good. Put this right here on your chest." I indicated where, touching my own chest.

Peeling off the protective back, she carefully pressed the name tag just above the bump of her left breast.

"Like this?" she asked brightly.

"Like that," I agreed, grinning. Such a darling little thing.

Quite unbidden, an image of Sarah with the top of her dress removed popped into my head. It left her in only her dainty white training bra. It didn't overlay the real Sarah, but momentarily replaced her entirely. Had I wanted to, for that moment, I could have reached out and touched the small bumps of her budding young breasts, or caressed the flat plane of her belly. Plainly visible through the white of her brassiere were her dime sized aureoles and the pea sized points of her tiny nipples. Then the image was gone and I sat there, breathless and shaken.

"Are you okay, Ms. Nichols?" Sarah asked, concerned.

"I'm fine," I said in a choked voice. My heart raced and my insides felt alarmingly fluid. For one horrible moment I thought I might embarrass myself in front of all these people. Then the feeling passed.

"If you'll take a seat, Sarah," I said shakily, "we'll wait for the other few children to arrive. Okay?"

"That's fine," she said brightly. Turning away, she bounced happily over to the closest table and sat down. I picked up a pen with a trembling hand and started up where I had left off on the roster list.

Peace of mind had returned when, a couple minutes later, I looked up and discovered Sarah conversing energetically with the Asian girl beside her. My mouth dropped open and I almost cried out her name before the realization set in that no one beside me was staring at her open-mouthed. Not only had the top of her dress again disappeared, but the poor girl sat there, completely nude up top. Dress, training bra both gone. I was aghast. Before she could look up and find me gawking, I cast my eyes down to the table top.

This was impossible. Children don't mysteriously undress. Mother's don't clothe them in see-through garments and underwear. And yet, not twenty feet away from me, a fifth grader sat with her freshly budded breasts available for anyone to see.

I looked up: she was still topless. I looked down again. Looked up: still topless. Looked down again. If Sarah was at all aware of her compromised modesty, she gave no indication of it. She was the middle participant in a three-way conversation with the girls either side of her, and neither acknowledged that she was nude.

Carefully peeking over my glasses, I watched the repartee at the table for perhaps twenty seconds, then caught Sarah's attention and motioned for her to come up. As she rose from the table, I was not shocked to discover the rest of her dress had gone as well, leaving her in nothing but a pair of yellow panties, her knee-highs and her shoes. She approached the table with no sense of embarrassment, nor did anyone pay undo attention to her. Well, no more attention than paid to a beautiful young girl by lecherous fifth graders.

"Yes, Ms. Nichols?" she asked politely.

I hadn't considered what to say. Presently, my mind was too busy with the observation of her developing breasts, and the small pink nipples tipping them. I remembered my own breasts at her age; how excited and terrified they made me feel. Excited that they had finally begun to grow; terrified they would grow no larger than golf balls--every young girl's worst nightmare.

"Um," I said distractedly. "I was considering you for the role of the inn-keeper's youngest daughter. She's a bit older than you in the play," I said, "but I don't think that would be a big problem. Do you?"

Her expression was confused, as it should have been. There was no inn-keeper's daughter of any age in the play. I was making things up out of thin air, a bad precedent.

"She's blond, like you," I said, moronically, "and very wise. It's she who suggests to her father that Mary and Joseph be allowed to sleep in the stable overnight. I think it would be the perfect part for you, wouldn't you think, Sarah?"

Brightening immediately, she exclaimed, "Oh, yes, Ms. Nichols! Yes, it really would!" and jumped up and down and clapped her delicate hands. This garnered her some curious looks, but nothing like the kind a mostly nude eleven year old should have expected. Amend that: a completely nude eleven year old.

In the last few moments, Sarah's remaining clothes had simply melted away. From her toes to the top of her pretty blond head, she was now completely bare.

Oh, God, I thought. Why is this happening to me?

"Miss Nichols? Are you okay?" Sarah asked for a second time. "You look kind of pale."

"I am feeling a bit light-headed," I admitted.

Worriedly, she advanced to the edge of the table, so that I could no longer see the swatch of flesh at the intersection of her thighs. Etched into my memory, however, was the image of her childlike labia, a thin furrow separating two delicately tumescent lips. She was too young and too fair-haired to have sprouted pubic hair yet, but I could well imagine the soft down she would possess sometime in the near future.

"I--I think I should probably go find the soda machine," I said, although I knew perfectly well the location of every vending machine in the school. What I really needed was the Ladies Room. And not to urinate. "Could I bring you back something?" I offered.

"No thank you," she said politely. "I'll just go back to the table and sit down." She smiled again, rather timidly, and added: "Thank you again for the part, Ms. Nichols."

Angie, I almost said inappropriately.

"You deserve the part, sweetie. I'm sure you'll be the finest Dorothea we've ever had." Like the character herself, I had made up the child's name. "Now if you'll excuse me--" I stood up and smoothed the front of my sweater. "I'll be back in just a moment."

Rounding the table, I followed the naked Sarah back to her table, peripherally watching her small white buttocks undulate as she took each step. Whatever weird mechanism had started up in my brain had even imagined the faint outline of a one piece bathing suit on her body--complete with shoulder straps and oval side panels at her waist. As hallucinations go, it was really quite remarkable. I could even hear the soft impact of her bare soles on the tile floor. I wondered if I was insane.

The bathroom was empty except for two thirty-something parents washing their hands at the sinks. Making my way to the end stall, and entering it as calmly as possible, I twisted the lock counter clockwise, barricading myself in. My mouth was dry and the inside of my armpits soaking wet. That part of me which had no business whatsoever reacting to an eleven year old was absolutely sodden. I imagined I could smell myself. Shaking uncontrollably, I leaned my head against the cool metal of the door.

"What is happening to me?" I whispered.

No one offered an answer.

Conversing softly on the prospects of their respective daughters being awarded the role of The Virgin Mary, the two mothers exited the bathroom. Immediately, an unwelcome image materialized before my eyes: Sarah sitting at the table in one of those horribly uncomfortable chairs, legs spread ever so slightly, enough to expose the lid of her exquisite treasure chest. She turns to her right suddenly and slides forward to expose her inner pinkness. Then she is no longer in the chair but in my own bed, delicately spread by my fingertips so that Ms. Nichols can inhale her wonderful fragrance. Then I bring my face down and . . .

"Nooooo!" I moan silently. My insides clench and I'm in the throes of a powerful, unwelcome and uncontrollable orgasm. Jerking spasmodically, the impact of my head against the stall door echoing hollowly off the walls, I sink toward the floor, unable to control my knees as both they and my insides turn to jelly. I thrust my right hand down the front of my pants while my left hand seeks out the same spot from below, through the thickness of my corduroys, finding it unerringly. Twisted ludicrously, I bite my lower lip and draw blood. My fingertip steals from my panic button and into the depths of my vagina, so well salved that, despite my intolerably twisted bearing, it meets resistance of no kind.

It is not possible to orgasm like this, I think wildly. It is not possible to survive an orgasm like this. It certainly isn't possible to remain standing.

On my knees, rear end thrust obscenely back, hand twisted impossibly inside my panties, face shoved against the institutional green paint of the metal stall door, my orgasm crests and then slowly looses momentum. Finally, I slide down in collapse, a trail of saliva on the inside of the door. My breathing is laborious. I tremble pitifully. The palm of my right hand is soaking wet as is the crotch of my panties and my cords. The tail of my untucked shirt is hanging loose everywhere below my sweater. Later, I will discover that the bottom two buttons have torn loose and rolled away across the tiled floor. Somewhere, music is playing.

"Ms. Nichols?"

Panic. Absolute panic.

"Yes, Sarah," I say in a badly cracking voice.

"Are you all right, Ms. Nichols?"

"I'm just fine, sweetie," I say, unable to control a muscle in my body.

"Do you need help?"

I almost laugh. "I'm fine, sweetie. Really I am. You should go back to the auditorium."

Unconvinced, a bare-footed Sarah drops to her knees and looks beneath the stall door.

"You see me naked, don't you?" she whispers.

Stunned, I make a noise that is neither word nor grunt.

She sighs deeply. "I knew it. I can always tell. Usually, it's a man though. I think you're the first woman who's even seen me."

I am now totally confused. And mortified. This child has seen what I just did to myself. I still can't move, much less answer her questions.

Awkwardly, she slides beneath the stall door and wiggles into a standing position beside me.

"Let me help you," she whispers.

Putting both hands beneath my left arm, and despite the sopping wetness there, Sarah helps me struggle into a sitting position on the toilet seat. Then she helps me extricate my right hand from the front of my pants and I am totally, thoroughly humiliated. My face could blister paint on the inside of the stall door. I want to die.

"Don't be embarrassed," she says. With a gentle hand, she brushes hair back from my face and uses toilet paper to clean my right cheek. She has to lick the paper with her tongue to moisten it. The saliva has already dried.

"I've never actually helped anyone before," she says, collaborating in the effort to get my cords down so that I can urinate. "Usually I get as far away as I possibly can, because usually it's men, so I don't know what else to do."

She is so matter of fact and unconcerned about this.

"What do the men usually do?" I ask, fearfully.

She shrugs. "I think they masturbate, just like you did."

My embarrassment is overwhelming.

"It's not your fault," she says, smiling sadly. "It's what I do to people."

The question is so insistent that I must have an answer now. "Are you really nude, Sarah?"

She sighs mightily. "If I'm not, I may as well be. When I get like this, my clothes just sort of melt away, little by little. I've gotten used to it. What choice do I have?" she says, smiling ironically. "It could be worse. It could be everybody that sees me. Now that would be really horrible."

Wiping myself, I flush the toilet and let Sarah help me to my feet. She helps tuck in my shirt and get my cords closed. She smoothes my sweater.

"How long has this been going on?" I ask.

"Forever," she sighs.

"Don't you get cold?" I ask.

"I freeze my butt off sometimes," she says, laughing. "When its cold out. If it's warm, I'm usually okay. You get used to it."

"I could never get used to it," I disagree emphatically.

"You'd be surprised," she says.

Putting my hand on the lock, I twist it to the right and open the door. Despite Sarah's assurances, I am horribly, thoroughly humiliated.

"I wonder why it was you, this time?" she wonders.

"That, I would like to know myself," I agree. "Have you talked about this with anyone?"

She shakes her head.

"Not even your parents?" I ask, to which she laughs. We both laugh. Looking down at her, I discover she once again has her shoes, knee highs and yellow panties on.

"They're coming back," she says, accompanying me to the sink.

"How long does it usually last?" I ask.

"It varies," she says, placing her delicate hands beneath the water. "Today was about normal. Maybe a little longer."

Her white training bra has returned and is once again shielding her budding breasts. Reaching out, she pulls paper towels from the bottom of the dispenser and hands me two. I dry my hands.

"Usually," she says, "it lasts about fifteen minutes. Just long enough for the men to go take care of themselves. Sometimes it's been as short as two minutes, and as long as ten hours. It never make any sense. It even happens when I'm alone," she marvels.

The lower half of her dress is now in place and there is a hint of a neckline and bodice, which materialize, even as I watch. Soon, she is completely clothed again.

"Has anybody ever . . .?" I ask.

"Bothered me?" she finishes. She shakes her head. "Usually they just get weird and head off to the bathroom."

"Like I did," I say shamefully.

She grins. "I liked it better with you. You didn't stare at me like the men do."

Oh, I was staring, I think. You just didn't see me.

Suddenly, a violent shudder runs down my back. It's as though someone has doused me with ice water. Looking in the mirror, I'm open-mouthed as my sweater dissipates into nothingness before my very eyes.

"Wow!" Sarah exclaims. "That's never happened before!"

In a moment my shirt is gone and then my brassiere; instinctively I cover up and Sarah laughs.

"That won't help!" she crows.

As my cords unravel into nothingness and leave me standing in only my panties and my Reebok tennis shoes, I plead desperately: "Sarah! Make it stop!"

"Like I could!" she says, laughing delightedly.

Seconds later, I am standing jay naked in the Ladies Room. My face, my entire upper body, is crimson.

"What if someone comes in?" I wail. Even as I speak, the bathroom door opens and a girl of about sixteen hurries in and beelines for the first stall. The look she gives me is troubling, to say the least. But there is no recognition in her eyes of my nudity; only curiosity and wonder at the weird teacher clutching herself as though naked. She barely glances at Sarah, who is grinning ear to ear.

"You'll get used to it," Sarah says.

Panicked half to death, yet dropping my pointlessly protective hands back to my sides, I mouth the words at her: "What next?"

Taking me by the hand, and leading me out to the hallway and back toward the auditorium, she says gaily: "Why, to see who can see you, of course!"

THE END

I would enjoy any feedback, positive or negative.