Author: Ann
Keywords: .
Summary: At Ashley's prompting, a group of MIT Neurology students induce a temporary Stroke in Jenny, making her completely disregard the left side of her body... One of the strangest Jenny Stories you'll read!
For Jenny, the film 'Good Will Hunting' was a revelation. The life of the mind! A life where slips never show and bras never burst. A respite from panty pandemonium. Could she hope for such bliss? Perhaps she too was an undiscovered genius, just like Matt Damon's character in the movie.
"That would explain my many clothing accidents, for such unwordliness is the hallmark of a great thinker, of a 'mind for ever voyaging through strange seas of thought alone,' as Wordsworth said of Newton. Yes, there's no doubt I'm mentally gifted!" Jenny informed Ashley. "So from now on, if I ever find myself stark naked in public, I'll have to remember that I'm not REALLY naked, for the mantle of genius enwraps me, covering me with a glory that can never be stripped away, an aura of greatness that will shine on through the ages, long after my humiliations have been forgotten. After all, no one thinks less of Archimedes because he ran naked through the town square!"
Ashley laughed at the prospect of Jenny the Thinker -- but not to her face. For she made it her maxim only to snicker at her friend behind her back, a locus Ashley visited often, since she loved undoing Jenny's demure long skirts to punish her for her prudishness. Today, as the two friends were strolling past a crowded school playground, Ashley on a whim decided to give the kids a show. A flick of her wrist, and Jenny's skirt was unzipped. The back of her skirt parted, causing her bright white slip to shine forth -- but Jenny's lingerie was not the only thing to flash into view, for Ashley suddenly had an idea.
"You know what, Jenny? You should get a job at MIT, just like Matt Damon, so you can be discovered!" said Ashley, delighted that her friend had yet to discover that her skirt was wide open in the rear.
"No, Ashley, I wouldn't be able to commute there, it's too far north," said Jenny as her skirt went south, exposing more and more of her half slip, to the accompaniment of squeals of delight from the playground.
"But your husband is going away on business for a month. I'm sure he wouldn't mind if the two of us rented an apartment in Beacon Hill, right across the river from campus," argued Ashely, as she thought: You blonde bimbo, not only won't he mind, he'll be intoxicated by the prospect of you dangling half dressed from a pinnacle of higher learning!
Meanwhile, amid cheers from the schoolchildren, Jenny's skirt fell to the ground -- but its owner kept walking, for she was lost in thought, oblivious even as the wind sent ripples across her slip-covered derriere. "You mean you're willing to share the rent with me and keep me company while I embark on a career in academia? Oh Ashley, you're so good to me!" She embraced her friend. "Thank you for this opportunity to show everybody that it's what's underneath that really counts! I'll show MIT a thing or two!"
"I have no doubt you will," replied Ashley, with a sweep of the eye across Jenny's chest as it swelled with pride. "With luck, you'll show them many things. Oh, by the way, your slip is showing. You better pull your skirt down!" Jenny shrieked and reached down for her skirt, but felt only the lacy hem of her slip. From there she ran her fingers upward, but found herself sheathed only in the sheerest of nylon all the way to where the delicate fabric puckered around her elastic waistband. "Omigosh, there's nothing but slip, all the way from my knees to my belly button! What happened to my skirt? This is intolerable!" She bent over and tried to cover herself with a flurry of hand movements, but there was just too much slip for her dainty hands, so she had no choice but to run home, still doubled over, thereby inadvertently pulling her slip so tight across her derriere that her panty lines were not merely rendered visible but became so salient that they could be spotted from every corner of the schoolyard, much to the delight of the children, who accompanied poor Jenny's dash down the street with a mass chorus of "I see London, I see France, I see Jenny's underpants!"
Walking to her job interview at MIT, Jenny was so excited that she had to stop halfway across the Longfellow Bridge to catch her breath. Alas, she neglected to catch her wraparound skirt, which the wind proceeded to unwrap as she leaned over the railing, unveiling her floral print panties, to the delight of everyone caught in traffic on the bridge. Ignoring the clamor of horns behind her, Jenny marveled at her good fortune. She couldn't believe that she was about to enter the rarefied world of one of the world's leading scientific institutions. "To participate in the search for truth, to make even the smallest of contributions to lifting the veil of ignorance, what an honor that would be!" she declared as she gazed out on the sailboats dotting the Charles River. Only a persistent tapping at the back of her head interrupted her reverie. It was her skirt, whipped up the heavy winds. "Oh no!" she screamed. She pulled her skirt down and hurried on her way, her head bowed so as not to meet the eyes of the motorists who honked away with such abandon that one would have thought the Red Sox had finally won the World Series. "Shoot, Ashley assured me that there would be no wind today! Maybe we should get rid of the cable, that Weather Channel is obviously no darn good! But if I dwell on it, my face will just stay red, so I better think of something else. Like what job I should apply for. Not a janitor, certainly, even though that's how Matt Damon was discovered. No, my aversion to vacuum cleaners is just too strong!"
But Jenny need not have worried, for she was hired on the spot, for the position of lab assistant in the Department of Brain and Cognitive Sciences. She squealed with delight when she was told that she will have to wear a sturdy white labcoat that went well below her knees. "Now the only thing I'll be exposing is my knowledge!" she thought gleefully. The only downside was that she would have to handle animals, a prospect she did not relish, for animals had more experience handling her than the other way around; dogs in particular seemed to have an affinity for the seat of her pants, she thought ruefully. But when told that the lab worked with monkeys, she relaxed, for certainly she had nothing to fear from cute little monkeys, especially when enscounced in a lab coat!
So confident did this garment make her feel, that she had to be reminded to take it off at the end of the day (she had been looking forward to wearing it on that windy bridge). The lab's grad students gasped as they watched her walk away. "What a body!" "Too bad we gave her that lab coat!" "Yeah, but even without it there's still that skirt. Definitely too damn long!"
'Don't worry boys, you ain't see nothing yet." It was Ashley. She regaled the grad students with tales of Jenny's many humiliations. After a while she had them moaning in frustration at having missed all these spectacles. "Cheer up guys, her thin outfits are surely no match for the brainpower assembled in this room. Why don't you put your knowledge of the human brain to work?" The young scientists sat around furrowing their brows and scratching their heads for what seemed like hours, until finally one shouted "Eureka!" "I'm all ears," said Ashley, bearly able to contain her excitement at hearing what the best minds at MIT had in store for her friend.
"Recently our lab has discovered an inhibitory neurotransmitter that kicks in only when the brain is in a feverish state. At normal body temperature it has no effect, but as soon as your temperature rises a few degrees it starts to shut down brain cells, rendering them inactive for a half a day. Now, with lasers it is possible to overheat a specific region of the brain, so that when the experimental subject is given a massive dose of this neurochemical, only that circumscribed section of the brain will inactivate, while the rest of the brain continues to function normally."
Ashley yawned. "So what, nerd-o? Get to the point, you're boring me!"
"The point is that with this technique we can numb a very special spot in Jenny's right hemisphere, a column of cells at the border of her parietal and occipital lobes. It has been well documented that when a stroke takes place in this spot, the patient will neglect or show a lack of attention to one side of space -- the left side. A person suffering from this 'spatial neglect syndrone' is imprisoned in a subjective world that is skewed toward the right. It's as if the left side of space -- including the left half of his or her own body -- no longer exists, for he or she fails to notice, attend to, respond to, or even care about leftward objects and events."
"I don't understand," said Ashley.
"I'll elaborate. We perceive individual things not piecemeal but as embedded in the whole of space. That's because the brain automatically arranges objects within a system of spatial coordinates, which renders the world an orderly place. I want to knock out that part of the brain that establishes this spatial framework, but only in the right cerebral hemisphere, so only leftward space will unravel, leaving rightward space (mediated by the left hemisphere) intact. If we can heat up this region selectively, then our drug will act like a magic bullet, hitting precisely that sector of the cortex that serves as the zone of convergence for the visual, tactile-motor, and auditory-vestibular stimuli that undergird Jenny's concept of space on her left side."
"But once this region is zapped, what will she see? A giant black hole where the world left of her nose used to be?" asked Ashley.
"No, the truth is even stranger: the remnants of her brain will reconstruct her sense of space so that anything to the left (including the left half of her face and body) is IRRELEVANT; that is, she will lose her curiosity, her epistemic hunger for the left half of the world, her need to know about it, so that not only won't she notice what's leftward, but she won't notice that she SHOULD notice it. Half of reality will suddenly be relegated to irrelevancy, "off the map," so to speak, or off the gameboard, if you prefer. The point is that the brain no longer attempts to make sense of that realm, and simply labels it "off limits", while the remaining half of her visual field becomes her whole world, so that she will no more be concerned with her left side than a chess player, contemplating his next move, would consider shifting his knight from the board to an ashtray."
Ashley: "Trying to understand this is giving me a headache. Can't we just put glue on her chair?"
"Here's an analogy from everyday life for this strange phenomenon of spatial neglect. Consider the farthest periphery of your visual field. Does it come to a discrete end? No, it just seems to fade away, doesn't it? So why don't we see the world as if through a tunnel, as an oval of color and detail with a fuzzy gray surround? The answer is, the surrounding blur IS there, we just don't -- we can't -- attend to it. No neuronal module has epistemic hunger for that blur, so the brain simply ignores it. As a result, we sense the world as always bursting the bounds of our visual field, spilling over to invite further exploration. Imagine your visual field halved, and all conscious sensation from the left half of your body shut down (while the subcortical reflexes that guide movement remain); now imagine not knowing that anything is amiss (because of a corresponding loss of curiosity about that half of the world, leaving you with no desire whatsover to probe leftward) -- that's the world according to Jenny, starting tomorrow."
Ashley's face brightened. "Sounds promising. I can slip some of the chemical in the glass of milk she always has before bedtime."
"Good. I'll mix in some anaesthetic, so we'll be able to set up the laser without disturbing her beauty sleep. We'll drop by at 11. By midnight she'll have a nice temporary lesion that will be quite discombobulating for our shy Jenny. Good thing tomorrow is 'Dress Down Friday'."
"I see it's also a day of celebration for your department, your annual 'Decade of the Brain Festival'," Ashley noted. "That's perfect, because we need a Plan B. I noticed that hanging in this building's atrium is a huge papier-mache pinyata in the shape of the brain. We can cram it with Jenny's underwear, so that when it breaks open all her unmentionables will fly out in all directions. She'll be soooo embarrassed."
Ashley's back-up plan was approved, and the meeting adjourned with much merriment.
Ashley awoke next morning to the sound of running water. She peeked out from under the covers -- and saw that Jenny's bed was empty. She was already in the shower, getting ready for her first full day of work! Did the experiment succeed? Well, there was only one way to find out. Time to inspect Miss Prim as she performs her ablutions! She threw on a striped top and black mini-skirt, but chose to forego any underwear in her haste to begin collecting data.
Her heart thumping, Ashley entered the bathroom and crept through the billowing steam, homing in on a sweet soprano voice warbling 'Ode to Joy' over the splashes. So far, so good: no cognitive side effects. But had the lesion taken hold? There was only one way to tell. Ashley reached for the slippery shower curtain -- and froze. A nude silhouette shown through the translucent sheet, revealing an arched back and skyward breasts in the process of beeing seeped in suds. Ashley hesitated. "What if she screams? I would have a lot of explaining to do. Then again, I'm coming to her from her left side, so there is no way she could see me. Neurology makes it so. It's a matter of matter over mind, so let's go for it!" She tore open the curtain.
Jenny didn't flinch. Staring absentmindedly rightward, utterly unaware of her audience, she continued soaping her right breast, tracing a slow spiral with the soap bar to the tip of her tit. Transfixed by the soap's path, Ashley stared at the white suds blanketing Jenny's right bosom like whipped cream. "It's as if I'm invisible," she marveled under her breath. "The experiment is a success!" Then she noticed something remarkable. Jenny's left breast was as dry as a bone. For she stood under the nozzle so that she was showering only the right half of her body. "The MIT boys were right! It's as if the whole left side of her body no longer exists for her!" To verify this hypothesis Ashley reached out with trembling fingers and touched the tip of Jenny's left nipple. No response. Ashley played with the nipple until it was erect as Jenny kept humming Beethoven without missing a beat and continued to look blankly rightward. Ashley then slapped Jenny's left buttock, and plucked from the left side of her pussy a curling blonde hair, which she held up to the light. "Damn! She really is a true blonde! But I'm getting sidetracked here. The important point is that she didn't feel a thing! That means that Jenny's whole left side is no longer hers but mine, that I am totally free to use that half of her as I wish, to play with my living doll, while the other half goes about her morning routine utterly oblivious to my machinations, for, thanks to our zapping that chunk of her brain, Jenny's whole concept of leftness has vanished from her consciousness. Her self has shrunk, has halved, has ceded 50% of her luscious body to my hungry eyes, my relentlessly probing fingers, lips, tongue. Everything I've always wanted to do to her, I'm free to do, as long as I stay on her left side...." The possibilities made her head spin.
"But -- I better stop myself from getting carried away. After all, I mustn't be greedy, but should do the right thing and share with the world what I have uncovered, I mean discovered. Go ahead, get ready for your job, Jenny, I won't stand in your way!" Such were Ashley's thoughts as she stepped back from the now squeaky clean (on her right side) Jenny. Her only task was to keep to Jenny's left side at all times, which did not prove difficult, despite the crampedness of their bathroom. Upon stepping out of the shower Jenny seemed to sense that something was amiss, so she turned to her right a full 360 degrees, but Ashley kept right up with her, like a satellite in geosynchronous orbit. Then she shrugged, dried off her right side, and continued her morning routine, stark naked. It's not that she didn't try to wear a towel; however, each time she attempted to put one on, she wrapped it only around her right side, and neglected her left, releasing the towel whenever it crossed her midsection. The next thing she knew it would form a heap around her right ankle. She tried again and again, but just couldn't process the notion that in order for the towel to stay on she had to enwrap her left side as well (for to her there was no such thing as "a left side"). So finally she just kicked the useless towel away and tolerated her nakedness while she stood bathed in sunlight before the bathroom mirror putting on her face.
Ashley watched mesmerized as Jenny blow-dried and brushed the wet half of her hair, until it was all shiny and aswirl (while the other half, unwashed, sat greasy and flat). Then she carefully brushed half her teeth, and applied lipstick to the right half of her lips, followed by mascara to her right eye and blush to her right cheek. "Go easy on the rouge," Ashley thought, "you'll soon be blushing without the help of make-up." She then took one last look at her made-up face, nodded her approval, and with a smug expression proceeded to her boudoir, shadowed by Ashley to her left.
Brow furrowed, Jenny studied her opened underwear drawer as if it were the Rosetta Stone. Last night Ashley had made sure to place all her sensible high cut white cotton briefs to the left half of the drawer, so that they were now invisible to her (they might as well have been sitting on the moon). Jenny reached in and felt about the drawer -- but probed only its right half. There Ashley had placed Jenny's skimpiest pair of panties, not a g-string but pretty close. No doubt something her husband had bought her, destined to collect dust at the rear of her lingerie drawer. Until now. Since the rest of her underwear had mysteriously disappeared, what choice did she have? But still she hesitated, grimacing as she touched the material -- satin -- and contemplated its color -- the whitest white, almost blinding. Jenny held the sheer panties up to the morning sun, saw right through them, and dropped them in disgust. But then she glimpsed the clock out of the corner of her eye, and saw that it was getting late, so with a moan of despair she grabbed the undies and, bending over, began to slide the wisp of lace up her right leg.
But every time she brought the pantes up and stretched the sheer fabric across her right pubic area and buttock (so as to cover her private parts as much as possible, a task that stressed the skimpy scanties to the breaking point), the lace waistband, unsecured leftward, would head south, sending her panties sliding down her leg. Jenny tried again and again to hoist the undies, but it was a losing battle (not even the Marines at Iwo Jima could have done it). Holding the pellucid panties up to the light again, she studied them in all their shining purity, testing their elastic waistband and running her forefinger across their satiny front and rear. To her surprise she found no rips or rents. "So why don't they stay up?" she wondered aloud. For a second Ashley hoped she would fling them away and set off for work sans underwear, but then she decided to be a true friend and give naked Jenny a helping hand.
Carefully keeping to Jenny's left, Ashley tiptoed right up behind her as she began to slide the panties up her right leg one last time. Quickly she grapped Jenny's left foot and stretched the panties leftward, temporarily halting their ascent as she lifted Jenny's left leg and slipped it through the undies. Voila! Meanwhile, Jenny, at a loss over why her panties would suddenly snag on the gentle slope of her calf, angrily gave them a hard yank upward, nearly ripping the delicate lace -- but fortunately Ashley let go just in time so that the panties arrived in one piece at her waist, and stayed there. Jenny was so happy she did a little jig. Her panties held! No longer were they slipping down her leg, as if they had a will of their own, as if Jenny had somehow angered the underwear gods. All that remained was to straighten the waistband's leftward half and to smooth out the satin now barely draping her buttocks -- a task Ashley undertook with pleasure. Who said chivalry was dead?
Flushed with success, respendent in her immaculate lace panties, our budding scientist proceeded to her bra drawer. Once again Ashley had arranged it so that Jenny's only choice was a push-up satin demi bra, one whose pristine whiteness matched the purity of her panties, but because of its tightness and skimpiness would barely manage to keep her nipples reined in behind its scalloped lace trim. Moreover, it was one of those bras that miraculously enhance cleavage, thrusting her already prominent breasts outward and upward in an unseemly fashion. But what was a girl to do? For the clock was ticking. So her right breast was soon snugly encaged in an intricate lattice of underwire, but of course Jenny left the other cup hanging, flapping back and forth haphazardly, like a bird's broken wing. This obviously would not do, so Ashley carefully scooped Jenny's left breast into the plunging demi cup, adjusted the shoulder strap, and secured the bra by snapping it in the back.
Meanwhile, Jenny was staring at the clock in astonishment. "Omigosh, I've been getting dressed for half an hour now, and I'm only in my bra and panties!" she pouted. Picking up the pace, she grabbed a brand new pair of biege pantyhose and sat on the side of her bed. On they went, yanked upward by her right thumb and forefinger, and smoothed out by her dainty pinky. Soon she was standing up in triumph, for she had managed to put on her pantyhose in record time. She strode to her closet -- and felt something caress the inside of her right thigh. A pendulous nylon mesh. Attached to the center of her pantyhose. With a look of childlike wonder she extended the hosiery and beheld a supernumerary leg. "What am I supposed to do with this? Must be a defective pair!" Before Ashley had a chance to help out, Jenny had grabbed a pair of scissors and was severing the useless appendage. Soon the excess nylon floated to the floor -- but in the process a slip of the scissors had produced a huge run that spead like a great fault line down her right leg. "Darn!" she cried. So she had no choice but to get out the sexy stocking and garter belt combo that her silly husband had given her and she had never gotten around to throwing away. It was still in the original beribboned box: dark gray stockings -- the color of the sky just before a cloudburst -- with black stocking tops, attached to pure white garter straps flowing into a skimpy belt of luxurious white lace. Black and white, innocence and experience, virgin and whore: the two extreme female stereotypes that Jenny had spent her life combating, encompassed in one article of clothing that she now had no choice but to embrace! Tears of humiliation welled up as she put it on (with Ashley's help). She just couldn't bear to look at herself in the mirror -- yet she could not avoid looking down at the pale skin of her upper right thigh, bisected by a garter strap but otherwise totally exposed between the black band of her stocking tops and her pubic triangle barely veiled in the whitest white. Her flesh so framed, so never felt more exposed, more vulnerable. Yet, she reassured herself, "My skirt is long and full, no one will ever know." She even smiled through her tears, as she contemplated the shocked expressions of her distinguished colleagues if they were to see what lay beneath her conservative skirt and blouse as she laid bare the mysteries of the brain.
But first, the slip. Just a half slip, but it was still a tricky maneuver to snag its elastic waistband around Jenny's left leg, yet Ashley managed it, and up it went, white and silky, with three inches of lace hanging from its hem. Ashley was tempted to salute it, for this white flag would soon signal the unconditional surrender of Jenny's dignity. For on her left flank (so invisible to her) Ashley lifted the slip like a curtain and tucked its hem into the waistband of her pretty panties, so that her panty crotch and gartered thigh could soon play peekaboo with the world.
But her lustrous panties and push-up bra and scintillating garter-belt and kilted (or out of kilter) slip would go to waste if her no-nonsense, dress-for success white blouse and gray skirt went on normally. Thankfully Ashley had already insured that the world would not be deprived of a view of Jenny's sexy undies. Last night she scissored the center seam of all her outer wear, so that what she hurriedly slipped on was just the right half of a blouse and skirt. Ashley held each in place as Jenny added a belt, which Jenny's invisible friend guided through the nonexistent loops of the nonexistent left half of her skirt (in actuality, the left half of her black vinyl belt actually rested on the waistband of her white nylon half slip). The belt did much to anchor the ensemble, yet Ashley carefully pinned the back of Jenny's half blouse to her bra strap, just to be sure; after all, a girl can't be too careful, for they don't make clothes like they used to!
After making sure her blouse was tighly tucked in, Jenny gave herself a final check in the mirror. She nodded her head, very satisfied with her professional appearance. Then, frowning, she leaned forward and stared at her chest, noticing to her dismay that the lacey arabesques of her fancy bra were peeking through the thin fabric of her blouse. She hated when that happened! But then the clock put a halt to her reverie. She was almost late! There was no time to add more layers. Fashion victim or not, she would have to get going. At least her skirt was much longer than her slip -- no chance of THAT peeking through, or -- the horror! -- her stocking tops. She was ready to face the world. No, not quite: she forgot her shoes. So she slipped her toes into the first shoe she could find -- a black leather three-inch pump. Ashley found its match and took care of Jenny's left foot as she was running out the door.
Ashley followed Jenny into public space, about half a block behind, so she could enjoy the reactions of passers-by. Many Bostonians rushing to work failed to notice anything amiss as they passed her on the right; after all, that side of her was fully clothed. But those passing her on the left beheld a beautiful young woman walking in full public view in just her bra and half slip. Ashley smirked as strangers swung violently around to take in a full view of Jenny, an astonishing panorama of lace and satin and businesswear, a spectral figure that seemed to have stepped onto the streets of Boston from the realm of myth: half public, half private; half Brooks Brothers, half Victoria's Secret; half feminist, half bimbo. There she was, a chimera of contradictions on 3-inch heels, hurling bolts of cognitive dissonance in all directions, wreaking havoc with the Boston rush hour: tiny dogs found themselves leashed to fainted Brahmin matrons, three-piece suited silver-haired businessmen found themselves hurling down open manholes, backwards baseball-caped homeboys ejaculated into their prized sweatpants, burly construction workers slipped off scaffolding to crater freshly cemented sidewalks. Some shrieked, others laughed, still others cried "Oh my God!" -- yet not a soul deigned to communicate with this exotic creature, out of the excessive political correctness for which the city of Boston is renowned ("After all, if that's her lifestyle, who am I to say if it's right or wrong?"). Meanwhile, Jenny continued her trek to work, oblivious to the sheer chaos erupting all about her. "This is nothing," Ashley thought gleefully, "Wait till she leaves the cramped alleyways of Beacon Hill and emerges out into the open of the Longfellow Bridge!"
Ashley was not disappointed. Immediately the wind whipped up her skimpy slip so high that its frilly fringe got caught in the back clasp of her bra, enabling her pantied left buttock to shine forth in all its glory. But consumed with worry about her first day on the job, poor Jenny was oblivious to her exposure; indeed, she believed that she was preventing any unseemly display of leg by her tight grip on the rightward hem of her gray skirt, a poignant gesture if ever there was. For little did she know that everywhere eyes were feasting on her left half, from her goosepimpled thigh bisected by a taut ivory garter to her erect nipple straining to break through the lace of her bra, from the frayed elastic of her half slip, continually rubbing against the sharp edges of her shiny black vinyl belt that threatend to send the slip slipping southward, to her see-through pearlescent panties slowly but steadily vanishing into her ass crack, thereby putting such a strain on her pussy that it seemed at any moment the seam along her puffed-up clitoris would burst.
But all Jenny could think of was neuroscience. Sure, the mesh of her underpants seemed to be shifting the configuration of her bush, but there was no time to worry about that! There was a job to do, employers to impress! She checked herself one last time, making sure every button was in place, that her blouse was tightly tucked in, her hemline not ridden up, stockings run-free. Yes, everything appeared to be in order, so there was no reason why she shouldn't stride toward her destination with her chin up high. Sure, she had gotten up on the wrong side of the bed, but that was just first-day jitters, she reassured herself. Under her breath she said, "Nothing can stop me now. I'm going to arrive on time and dazzle my employers and prove to everyone that they have a genius in their midst. My whole life has pointed to this day, and now I'm on the verge of the triumph that I so richly deserve!" With each step she felt more and more puffed up with pride, until she was a veritable overflowing fount of confidence, so that never had she looked more haughty than she did as she entered the huge laboratory building.
In the atrium a large crowd had already assembled for the 'Decade of the Brain' celebration, along with TV cameras, for the Vice President had been invited to say a few words. All eyes were on the huge pinyata, shaped to resemble a giant cerebral cortex, which hung from the centerpiece of the building's lobby, a towering bronze sculpture of a single neuron, complete with a branching dendrictic tree that rose all the way to the glass ceiling. Incredibly, Jenny slipped through the crowd unnoticed. Ashley joined her in the elevator, entering on her right side, so for the first time this morning Jenny was aware of Ashley's presence.
"Ashley! What are you doing here!"
"I had to chase after you. Your new boss called. He ordered you to report directly to the 2nd floor auditorium."
"I better get my labcoat first!"
"No, there's no time!"
"Very well. There must be a monkey demonstration going on, and they need my expert handling skills," Jenny reasoned, trying to sound confident. Yet the daunting prospect of dealing with monkeys without the benefit of a labcoat made her knees shake. "Oh no, I have that sinking feeling, Ashley! You know, the one that always hits me when I see a boy scout! Plus I have the nagging sensation that I've forgotten something. But at least you're here, my friend, to lend me moral support." Ashley smiled as she pulled Jenny's slip out of her bra-clasp -- but to her dismay the bra unfastened! Luckily, before Jenny noticed anything was amiss Ashley was able to re-do the clasp. "Whew, that was close! We can't have you coming undone prematurely."
"What was that, Ashley?" Jenny asked as the elevator doors opened and she crossed the threshold.
"Nothing. Hey, there's the auditorium. And look, they're beckoning you to go on stage. Break a leg, Jenny!"
"Very funny! As if I had a leg to spare! All morning I've been wondering why God didn't give us two legs instead of one."
Rather than replying, Ashley took one last look at Jenny's panty-covered, slip-festooned left asscheek as she disappeared through the auditorium stage door. Then she rushed into the theatre to join the throng.
Over the heads of the crowd Ashley saw Jenny stride across the stage with the determined look of one ready to conquer the world of ideas, a conquistador of thought. Responding to the applause, she turned with pride to face her many admirers. The applause stopped. Jaws dropped across the hall, and gasps sucked all the air from the room. "What's wrong?" she whispered to the department chairman, who instead of answering staggered backwards and fell off the stage, onto the laps of three emeritus professors sitting in the front row, triggering howls of pain.
"What's going on? Is my slip showing"" the ultimate absentminded genius asked the crowd. Bowing her head, she studied herself. Everything seemed to be in order. But then why the sea of shocked faces? Spotting a video monitor on the stage, she ran toward it. "I'll get to the bottom of this. The camera doesn't lie!" Back in the rear of the room, Ashley's felt a frisson coming on. "Here it is," she thought, "the moment of truth, the instant she discovers her humiliation. For a video monitor (unlike a mirror) reverses right and left -- which for Miss Prim means that for the first time her half- dressed side will thrust into consciousness."
It thrusted. Before the MIT faculty and distinguished guests, before politicians and reporters, camcorders and flashbulbs, a saucer-eyed Jenny beheld her true brassiered, half-slipped, pantied self. Mortified, she looked down -- and found herself fully clothed. Relieved, she looked back up at the monitor -- and saw herself stripped to her underwear. Her eyes went down again -- she's decent. Up again -- she's obscene. Down up down up....scientist slut scientist slut....her mind whirled, until she teetered in her high heels at the edge of the stage before the bulging laps of a row of satyr-like deans.
Jenny just didn't know what to believe. Who was she? What was reality? To cover all the bases, she tried to place her right hand over her breasts and pubic area by going forth rapidly between them. Unfortunately for her, what she ended up hiding was the fully clothed half of her breasts and crotch. The sight of this futile masking of what didn't need to be masked, coupled with her apparently insouciant attitude to her underweared left half, transposed the mood of the audience from shock to mirth. Gradually the character of the crowd shifted from decorous assembly to riotous mob. First there were but a few scattered titters at the sight of a blushing and squirming Jenny trying to cover the clothed half of her body while leaving the exposed half open for all to see. Then came the guffaws, the belly laughs, the rolling-in-the-aisle, pants-wetting hysterics, until the whole hall exploded into a Saturnalia of mirth. The shock waves of hilarity sent Jenny tripping backwards, as an ecstatic Ashley rushed through the frenized crowd to the edge of the stage, her drill-bit gaze a micrometer calibrating every nuance of Jenny's humiliation. Seeing beads of sweat streaking down the lacy paths of the front of her panties, Ashley realized with glee that her body temperature must be up, that she was feverish, so the scope of the drug must be expanding, distorting her sense of space still further. Giddy with joy, Ashley searched her memory for the adjoining cortical region that must now be falling under the influence of the dastardly neurochemical. The answer popped into her head: the part of the brain that's responsible for her body image. Oh, how delicious!
So as Jenny stood frozen on the stage before the roaring rabble she was suddenly subject to relentless, almost uniumaginable uncertainties about her body. Before the ravenous gaze of the crowd her head became inordinately small and her bra-encased breasts grew extraordinarily large. Her ass inflated to gargantuan proportions, stretching her lace panties to the breaking point. So there she was, a fleshly cartoon woman, a balloon woman, all breasts and belly and pubic hair, around which men gathered to gape, smirk, and point. Then the drug squirted through a different set of synapses, and Jenny became all stocking and gartered legs, all dimpled ankles and curved calves and sleek thighs. Then her dimensions returned to normal -- only now her dainty high-heeled foot was somehow above her head!
Utterly disoriented, she flew from the stage...into the hall...and over the balcony railing. She landed in the giant dendritic tree; fortunately, its spreading branchines broke her fall, but unfortunately their rapier-like tips divested her of her remaining clothing. Since the Vice President stood under that sculpture, a C-SPAN camera was there to broadcast to the nation the loss of her blouse, skirt, slip, and bra as she slid down the tree and its branches shredded them stitch by stitch. Not even her garter belt and stockings were spared from being torn to bits before her fall was finally broken just above the dais, leaving Jenny suspended by her scanty panties, hoisted in midair by a scrap of lace stretched to the breaking point, as in desperation she tugged the remnants of her panty crotch upwards to counteract the wedgie and preserve her last scrap of dignity. But between her legs bit by bit tiny seams popped open like fish mouths, and so before the bulging eyes of the Vice President out burst her vulva. She swayed and squirmed in embarrassment, which only caused the remnants of her panties to become as taut and thin as a violin string. To Jenny's horror this silken chord began to work its way inside of her, vibrating against her pink pussy lips until they were fully unfurled, strumming her clit until she began to spasm....
So there she was, her panties reduced to their last tatter, a single thread that suspended her above hundreds of strangers, including the Vice President of the United States, while all her squirming and struggling managed to accomplish was to bring her to the brink of orgasm -- it was more shame than Jenny could bear! The worst part of her ordeal was that there was no place to hide. With every fiber of her being she wished she could shrink down to nothing. To her surprise that is exactly what now happened, not to her body but to her self, which now imploded under the crushing weight of her apocalyptic humiliation, contracting until it formed an infinitesimal speck.
So at the same time her thread snapped, sending Jenny's naked body plunging into the brain-shaped pinyata, which exploded, raining every one of her bras, slips, and panties on the startled crowd, the thread connecting Jenny's consciousness to external reality snapped as well. One moment she was a self burning with the shame; the next she was a neuronal impulse aflame, leaping from cell to cell in her own brain. Her slip of a self was now indistinguishable from the billions of electrochemical pulses that crisscrossed her neuronal milieu. She had escaped her unbearable disgrace and was now free to explore the last frontier, the human brain!
To her delight she discovered it to be a labyrinth of lace, so she immediately felt at home here. Indeed, things weren't all the different from the external world, for even as a neuronal impulse it was Jenny's destiny to be chased. Thus she soon found herself shooting across the brain at the head of a long train of elecrtochemical pulses, leaping from axons to dendrites, leaving a succession of altered synapses in her wake. She was re-wiring her own brain! What those big-shot scientists out there could only describe, she, blushing Jenny, could actually inscribe! And the circuits she traced not only reconfigured her own brain. For she discovered that all brains are connected through an occult pathway beyond time and space. That is, once you push past the brain region responsible for our conception of time and space, the next brain region knew no spatiotemporal constraints whatsoever. Jenny used this portal to enter the brains of all the people who had ever seen her naked. She then rewired those brains so that every one of those memories was erased. Her task completed, she returned to her own brain and traveled up her optic nerve, thereby regaining normal consciousness.
She found herself on the atrium floor atop of Ashley, who was out cold. She must have landed on her friend after falling through the pinyata. As she slipped on Ashley's top and skirt -- she was sure her friend wouldn't mind, after all that Jenny had been through today -- she noticed that all around her MIT students were busy playing with lingerie. HER lingerie, she realized. What was her underwear doing all over the place? "No matter: I can always get new underwear," she declared as she wiggled into Ashley's clothes. "But the important thing is: I can begin again! As of this moment, no one has ever seen me naked. Including my husband! The way I rewired his brain, from now on we'll be stopping at kissing and cuddling! Yes, from this day on the game will be played by my rules! I shall never be naked again, not even in private!"
Jenny exited the building in triumph, flush with the success of her neuronal odyssey. But alas she had neglected to remedy the deficiencies in her motor cortex that brought it about that her beauty came without an iota of grace. As a result, she failed to notice her skirt catching on the revolving door until it was too late. Rrrrrrrriiiiiiiipppppppp!