Undead and the Lady in Red

"I wish my boyfriend had the balls to do something like that!" one of them said. I love it when women have fun with my flashing. In a perfect world, that's the way it should be.

Lindsey staggered into the kitchen and tapped the keg for yet another refill. By this point in the evening, approaching the witching hour, she was exceedingly intoxicated and having trouble standing without wobbling. She braced one hand on the countertop to steady herself and turned toward the witches. "Wanna see my red pubes?" Her words were slurred and hard to understand. The witches looked at each another wearing bemused expressions. "Uh . . . okay," one of them replied. Lindsey lifted her scarlet chemise and gave 'em an eyeful. Her red satin panties were gone. When and where her skivvies went AWOL I had no clue. The witches chuckled at the sight of her red pubes. Perhaps they were wondering if Lindsey and I were an exhibitionist couple taking advantage of this venue to expose ourselves. One of the witches shouted to her boyfriend in the living room. The hulking Zeus wannabe came into the kitchen and was treated to an encore of red pubes.

Over the next five minutes, Lindsey exposed herself to another man in the kitchen then wandered into the living room where she lifted her scarlet chemise for anyone who cared to have a look. All of it, more sexual acting out. Her behavior was rapidly spiraling out of control, the kind of behavior some men interpret as a come-on for sex. Unscrupulous men who take unlawful liberties with intoxicated women stalk the earth like legions of zombies. For all I knew, a predator of that type might have been at the party. Indeed, one guy I wasn't acquainted with draped an arm over Lindsey's shoulders and set about chatting her up. When he requested she expose herself again to afford a better look at her genitals, she obliged him. Lindsey wasn't in immediate peril provided I kept her in sight so for a time, I stood by and let her flashing fun proceed.

But it didn't go on very long. Lindsey became deathly quiet and appeared a little green around the gills. "I don't feel good," she complained. Seconds later when the dry heaves began I grabbed her arm and hustled her toward the bathroom . . . but we didn't make it. Just as we turned the corner at the doorframe, a gastric eruption spewed forth, spilled down the front of her scarlet chemise and went all over the floor. I flipped up the toilet lid and pushed her head toward the bowl which caught subsequent volleys of vomit.

Holy crap! How can so much puke come out of such a short girl? I wondered.

Once she finished purging, she knelt on the floor beside the toilet and, moaning and groaning, hung her head over the bowl. That's when I noticed her red satin panties kicked into a corner by the bathtub. At some point she had used the facilities and must have decided that was a good time to lose 'em.

I summoned Angela. Moments later she appeared at the bathroom door. "Oh . . . shit . . ." She wasn't one to use profanity unless it fit. She kicked off her stiletto heels and tip-toed around the puddles of puke. Cleaning up stinky grossness like that is an unwelcome responsibility which sometimes rides the coattails of friendship. Lindsey's would-be paramour was nowhere in sight to assist in the effort. Wherefore art thou Romeo?

While I cleaned the tile floor with paper towels, (yuck!) Angela worried over her friend who had slumped onto the floor, not unconscious, but nearly so. Her clothing was thoroughly soiled. Angela looked at me and shook her head. "I'm gonna need yer help gettin' her clothes off."

Okaaay . . . . Being able to see Lindsey completely naked wasn't my number one priority, but suddenly, the irksome chore of dealing with the mess didn't seem so heavy.

Getting myself slightly soiled, I managed to hoist Lindsey off the floor and seat her on the toilet lid, a posture she couldn't maintain without support. Her eyes mere slits, she mumble incoherently. While I braced Lindsey by her shoulders, Angela peeled up and off her scarlet chemise then reached around and unfastened the clasp on the borrowed brassiere and pulled it away from her chest. Wads of tissue tumbled onto the floor. Oh my God! What perfectly precious little boobs! Although Lindsey was twenty, her diminutive stature and dearth of breast development made her appear like a young girl at the onset of puberty. Her rosy nipples were average size and nicely shaped but they didn't rest on much of a foundation. Some bathing was required, wiping with warm washcloths. I steered clear of her private zones and let Angela swab those areas. So utterly helpless was Lindsey, it was like sponge bathing an infant.

Like a groom carrying his bride across the threshold on their wedding night, I carried Lindsey, limp and naked, across the hall to my room and placed her in bed. Angela pulled up the blanket and tucked her in. Lindsey must have felt a warm, comforting sensation because almost at once, she rolled onto her side and curled up in a fetal position. That night, Angela shared the double bed with her roommate while I slept on the floor in my sleeping bag. It was the chivalrous course to follow.

Midmorning, I awoke to sunlight streaming through the thin beige curtains hanging at the window. Sometime during the night, Lindsey had thrown off the blanket down to her waist. I sat up cross-legged and, for a time, watched her tiny bare breasts rising and falling with her slow breathing. At length, as if my thoughts had penetrated her dreams and sparked the tinder of consciousness, she opened her eyes. Blinking, for a brief moment she looked at me in silence while trying to make sense of where she was and what was going on. Suddenly aware of the extent of her exposure, she gasped loudly and pulled up the blanket, all the way to her neck.

"Where's my clothes?" she wanted to know.

"You barfed on 'em so we took 'em off."

She sat up, slowly, and clutched the blanket to her bosom with one hand while, with the other, she brushed a disheveled mass of red hair out of her bloodshot eyes. She nodded. "Okay. Yeah. I remember now."

I was curious. "What else do you remember?"

She stared at me squinty eyed, thinking, recalling, then drew a deep breath and sighed heavily. "I made a fool out of myself didn't I?"

"Nah! You were the hit of the party! In fact . . . " Naked, I stood up and turned around, showing her the ruby red welt on my buttocks that her whipping inflicted. " . . . you even hit me!"

Her forehead wrinkled in puzzlement. "I did that?"

I stepped close to the bed, leaned down and spoke in a low, husky voice. "Yeah . . . and it felt sooo good!"

Lindsey managed a feeble smile and shook her head. "Can you take me home now? Please?"

"Sure. I'll get you something to wear."

From my closet I retrieved a sweatshirt and lounge pants and handed them to her. Unexpectedly, she tossed off the blanket, sat up and swung her feet onto the floor, seemingly unconcerned that she was entirely exposed. Was she thinking that since I had already seen her naked, there was no longer any reason to be embarrassed? If so, she had reached a crossroads and chosen an unfamiliar path. She tossed on the oversized sweatshirt then folded her hands in her lap while watching me put on jeans. She acted like the simple task of getting half-dressed had left her exhausted. Not until I was ready for the road did she stand up and pull on the lounge pants, affording one last glimpse of her red pubes. "Angie, you wanna go home now?" I asked. Her soft snoring answered my question. Nope.

On the drive across town, Lindsey reclined in the passenger seat with one hand shielding her eyes from the sun. The mischievous me felt like teasing her and asking if she wanted to hit Denny's for a big greasy breakfast. But better judgment prevailed. Her stomach was still turning cartwheels and I didn't want her barfing in my car. Having left her purse at my place, I used my key to unlock the apartment. She was glad to get home. Standing in the open doorway she looked me in the eye wearing a forlorn expression. "Please don't tell Angie. I don't want her to hate me."

"Believe me," I said, "I'm never gonna tell." That brief exchange cemented the understanding: What transpired in the laundry room would forever remain our secret.

Her expression softened. "Thanks. And thanks for the ride. See ya later."

"Yer welcome. See ya."

I turned and walked away toward the parking lot, thinking: Hmmm . . . we had our pleasantries backwards. I should have thanked her for the ride.