Celine's Embarrassing Dilemma

[barelin]

Celine Gomez, 15, is forced into the Absolute Nude Forever (ANF) Movement by her parents, signing away her right to wear clothes. Humiliated and exposed, she endures school naked, facing ridicule and invasive scrutiny. Over time, she finds solidarity with friends—Mira, Lena, and Cassie—who challenge societal norms.

[barelin]

Chapter 1: Skin and Shame

My name is Celine Gomez. I’m fifteen years old—until tomorrow, but today, I am nothing. Not a daughter. Not a student. Not even a person. Just skin. Naked. Exposed. Reduced to the barest form of human existence, as if I’ve been flayed alive and left for the world to gawk at, and after today, it’ll be permanent.

The Absolute Nude Forever (ANF) Movement isn’t some fringe lifestyle choice. It’s the law. A federal mandate, enforced with the same bureaucratic indifference as tax codes and traffic violations. A choice my parents made for me before I could even speak in full sentences.

A choice that strips me of everything. No clothes. No towels. No bandages if I bleed. No tampons when my body betrays me because, according to ANF, anything that covers the skin is a lie and today, in this suffocating office that smells like leather and judgment, I’m signing away the last scrap of my dignity.

The chair beneath me is stiff, its white upholstery cold against my thighs. I perch on the edge, back straight, hands clamped between my knees—not that it hides anything.

My parents sit beside me, dressed in crisp, formal attire. The irony burns. They get to cover themselves. They get to pretend this is normal.

Across the desk, Eleanor "Ellie" Winslow, Esq., taps her manicured nails against the contract that will seal my fate. "This is a legally binding commitment," she says, voice smooth as polished glass. "Once signed, Celine will be entered into the ANF registry, and any violation—including the use of fabric, bandages, or hygienic coverings—will result in immediate penalization." My mother nods, serene. "We understand." My father doesn’t even look at me.

The air is thick with the scent of expensive perfume and something faintly antiseptic, like the room has been scrubbed clean of empathy. A gilded clock on the wall ticks, each second a hammer strikes against my skull. This is happening.

I should be used to this. I’ve been training for it since I was eight—standing naked in the backyard during winter, swallowing bitter tonics to "purify" my resistance to cold, meditating under the sun until my skin burned, but nothing prepares you for the moment you sign away your right to ever feel safe again.

My fingers tremble as I reach for the pen and then—a cramp twists deep in my gut. No. Not now. However, my body doesn’t care about timing. A hot flush creeps up my neck as I feel it—the slow, sticky trickle between my thighs.

I press my legs together, but it’s useless. There’s no hiding. No wiping it away. No discreetly stuffing a wad of toilet paper in my underwear like I used to before ANF took even that from me.

I’m just supposed to bleed openly. "Celine?" Mrs. Winslow’s voice cuts through the haze. "Is there a problem?" My parents turn, finally looking at me. My mother’s lips tighten in disapproval. My father’s jaw clenches, and I realize—they know. They see the blood and they don’t care. This didn’t start today.

It started when I was eight years old, sitting at the dinner table, my parents smiling as they told me the story of how I’d supposedly asked—begged—to stay naked forever.

"You’ve always known the truth," Mom would say, stroking my hair. "Clothing is corruption."

By twelve, I was swallowing herbal tonics that tasted like rotting fish, gagging as the thick, metallic sludge coated my throat. "It strengthens the skin," Dad would say, watching me with cold satisfaction as I forced it down. Then came Bare Harmony.

Not just a movement—a mandate. A state-sanctioned religion that worshipped exposure as enlightenment. Fabric was a sin. Modesty was a weakness, and my parents, once loving, became zealots.

I remember the day I finally said no. I was fourteen, standing in the backyard, snow biting at my bare feet. My parents loomed over me, their breath fogging in the cold.

"Today, you embrace the truth," Mom said, her voice eerily calm.

"No more hesitation," Dad added.

I clenched my fists, my nails digging into my palms. Three years of silent obedience. Three years of swallowing my screams and then—"No." The word hung in the air like a knife.

Mom’s smile vanished. "What did you say?"

"I said no." My voice didn’t shake. "I’m not doing this."

Dad’s face darkened. "You don’t have a choice."

"I was a child when you signed me up for this!"

"Now you’re old enough to understand," Mom snapped. "This is your path."

They dragged me back inside, my bare feet stumbling over the threshold. Then, from a drawer, my father pulled out a sheet of paper—my handwriting, but not my words—a letter, scribbled in the uneven strokes of an eight-year-old.

"I want to be free like the trees and the sky," it read. "I want to be pure, with nothing to hide." The words sounded poetic. Too perfect. Too rehearsed because they were.

I remembered that day. My mother’s hand guiding mine, her voice whispering in my ear, "Write this, sweetheart. It’s important." I did because I was eight—because I trusted them. Now, they held it up like a contract written in blood.

"You wanted this," Dad said.

"You chose this," Mom corrected, her voice soft, as if that made it better.

I looked down at my hands, still trembling. Back then, after I’d written it, they’d let me put my clothes back on.

"You need time," Mom had said. "A year, maybe more. You’re not ready to be out in the cold for long yet." Even though I’d barely worn anything for years. Even though I’d endured winters with nothing but my skin.

Now, sitting in this office, the past and present collided. That letter was my leash, and they’d been holding it all along. The walk from the law office to our car was the longest fifty yards of my life.

Fresh blood trickled down my thighs with every step, leaving faint crimson footprints on the polished marble floor. The receptionist gasped, hand flying to her mouth as I passed. A delivery man dropped his package with a loud thud, his face turning beet red as his eyes traveled the length of my naked, bleeding body.

"Shoulders back, Celine," Mom murmured, her high heels clicking beside me. "Natural beauty means embracing every bodily function with pride."

A group of businessmen exiting the elevator froze mid-conversation. One man's coffee cup slipped from his fingers, shattering on the floor.

"Jesus Christ," someone whispered.

Dad held the building's glass door open with exaggerated patience. "You'll get used to the stares," he said cheerfully. "By winter, you won't even notice them!"

The car ride was worse. I sat on a plastic garbage bag Mom had thoughtfully laid across the leather seat, my bare skin making wet, sticky sounds every time we hit a bump. The summer heat turned the car into a sauna, amplifying the coppery scent until it filled the enclosed space.

"Roll down your window, dear," Mom said without looking back from the passenger seat. "Airflow helps with the odor."

At the stoplight, a minivan pulled up beside us. A little girl's face appeared at the window, her eyes widening. "Mommy, why is that lady—" The window slid up abruptly. Dad turned up the radio.

When we got home, they made me hose off in the backyard. The cold water stung as it washed away the evidence of my humiliation, turning the grass pink at my feet. "Remember," Mom said as she handed me a rough towel—the last one I'd ever be allowed to use—"starting tomorrow, no more showers either. True ANF adherents only use natural bodies of water. The school's swimming pool will have to suffice during your monthly cycles."

I stood there dripping, watching my parents retreat into our fully-furnished, climate-controlled home, where they would sleep in pajamas under blankets tonight. Where Mom would pad around in slippers tomorrow morning while making coffee. Where Dad would not wear his tie before work, every thread was a privilege they'd convinced me to surrender.

Through the kitchen window, I saw them laughing about something as Mom poured wine. Normal people. Living normal lives. While their daughter stood naked in the backyard, preparing to face the world with nothing but her exposed skin and a permanent scarlet stain on her future.

Today was Friday, a little over a week before the new school year. The morning of my sixteenth birthday dawned with a sickening cramp low in my abdomen—right at its peak, of course—as I lay curled in a fetal position on my rubber-wrapped mattress. They’d removed my old bed last week, replacing it with this cold, utilitarian slab, easier to clean. The first streaks of sunlight cut through the blinds, exposing me in cruel detail—every stretch mark, every goosebump, every shameful smear of dried blood.

Downstairs, the blender whirred like a chainsaw. Mom was making her infamous iron booster smoothie—beetroot, liver powder, and something unidentifiable that made it clump like wet cement. I’d be choking down three of these a day until my cycle ended, just in time for orientation on Tuesday.

"Happy birthday, sweetheart!" Dad’s voice boomed up the stairs. "Big day today! Come down before your smoothie oxidizes!"

The hardwood floors were icy underfoot as I shuffled to the bathroom. At least they’d let me keep toilet paper—though Mom monitored the roll like a prison warden, ensuring I wasn’t "wasting it on modesty."

The mirror showed what I’d become: dark hollows under my eyes, hair matted from restless nights, and the unmistakable red-brown streaks painting my inner thighs. I turned on the faucet with my elbow—another rule, no "modesty hands"—and splashed water between my legs, watching the pink-tinged droplets swirl down the drain.

"Five minutes, Celine!" Mom called. "Your grandparents will be here soon!"

My stomach twisted. Not just Grandma Edith and Grandpa Joe, but aunts, uncles, cousins—all of them filing into the house, their eyes skittering away from me like I was something obscene. I could already hear the choked gasps, the nervous laughter, the way Aunt Linda would shield Emily’s eyes like I was in a car crash.

The party decorations were obscenely cheerful. Balloons bobbed against the ceiling like they were mocking me, and a glittering banner screamed "HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO OUR BIG GIRL!" in looping cursive.

Grandma Edith took one look at me and dropped her green bean casserole. The glass dish shattered across the kitchen tiles, sending shards skittering.

"Oh... oh my..." Her hands fluttered like startled birds, desperate to cover her eyes but too polite to commit.

"Now, Mother," Dad chided, stepping over the mess. "We discussed this. Celine’s lifestyle choice is about freedom from societal constraints."

Grandpa Joe stared fixedly at the ceiling, his face the color of raw steak. "I’ll just... check the grill."

Aunt Linda arrived with my cousins—Jason, fourteen, took one look at me and sprinted back to the car. Emily, twelve, burst into tears.

"See?" Mom whispered triumphantly, squeezing my shoulder. "You’re already making people question their hang-ups!"

They made me stand at the head of the table to blow out the candles, the heat of sixteen flames making my bare skin prickle. Everyone sang through clenched smiles, their voices thin and strained, while I stood there, exposed, bleeding, the center of attention in the worst possible way.

"Make a wish!" Dad encouraged, his grin too wide, too forced.

I closed my eyes and wished for a power outage. For the lights to plunge the room into darkness, just long enough for me to disappear, but the candles kept burning and so did I.

That night, as I lay aching on my rubber-wrapped mattress, Mom marched in with her laptop, her eyes gleaming with something between pride and fanaticism. "Look at all these messages!" She turned the screen toward me, scrolling through the ANF forum. "They’re calling you a pioneer! Someone started a countdown to your first day of senior year!"

My stomach lurched. The forum was flooded with selfies strangers had taken at my party at the house, knowing that some were taken by family—photos where I was just a blurred-out shape in the background, my nakedness the main attraction. Comments gushed about "bravery" and "breaking chains," but all I saw was my humiliation immortalized in pixels.

"Principal Jefferson called," Dad added from the doorway, arms crossed like a proud general. "They’re issuing special absorbent chair pads for your classes—approved for your lifestyle. Let everything flow naturally during my period cycles. The school board voted 5-4 in your favor!" As if that was something to celebrate.

On Saturday, the ANF supporters started arriving by noon. Cars lined our street, strangers peering through our windows, snapping pictures of our house like it was a shrine. Mom and Dad greeted them like old friends, offering lemonade and pamphlets on "shedding the lies of modesty." I hid in my room, pressing a pillow over my ears to drown out the chatter.

"Is she going to school like that?" a woman asked, voice hushed with scandalized awe.

"Of course!" Dad boomed. "Celine’s leading the charge for bodily freedom!" I dug my nails into my palms until they left crescent moons.

The following day on Sunday, The Stanfield Gazette website ran an article: "Local Teen Challenges Dress Code in Radical Statement." My face wasn’t in the photo—just my back, blurred but unmistakable, standing in our kitchen. The comments section was a warzone.

"Disgusting."
"Brave."
"Attention-seeking freak."
"This is child abuse."

Mom read them aloud at breakfast, laughing at the haters. "They just don’t get it, Celine, but they will." I stared at my cement-textured smoothie and scratched another mark into the wall.

Monday, the school called again. "We’ve had… concerns," Principal Jefferson said carefully. "Some parents are threatening to pull their kids out if—well, you know."

Dad’s grin was razor-sharp. "Let them. The law’s on our side."

I sat on the couch, knees pulled to my chest, while they argued over "constitutional rights" and "bodily autonomy." None of it was about me. Not really. I was just the poster child—the experiment. The girl who wasn’t allowed to say no and then I pressed my forehead to the wall in my room and cried.

Tuesday morning, Orientation Day was nothing more than a Spectacle. The morning dawned with a sickening inevitability. My stomach churned as I stood in front of the mirror, staring at my reflection—my body, exposed, marked, and now officially documented.

Mom handed me the lanyard with a reverent smile. "Here you go, sweetheart. Authentic Natural Freedom—right there for everyone to see."

The lanyard was thick, heavy, the kind usually reserved for VIP badges at conferences. The high school’s initials—S.H.S.—were embroidered in gold thread, but beneath them, in bold black letters, it screamed: ANF STATUS.

The metal ID holder was cold against my skin as Mom clipped it around my neck. Inside, my school identification card that she was told would display a full-frontal and full-back split image of my naked body—no blurring, no censorship. Just me, raw and exposed, like a specimen pinned to a board. Beneath it, in stark official print: CELINE GOMEZ | GRADE 11 | ANF APPROVED, and I wanted to vomit.

The walk of shame, the moment I stepped onto school grounds, the air changed. Whispers cut through the humid August morning like knives.

"Oh my God."
"Is she serious?"
"What the actual fuck?"
"Dude, look away—"

A group of freshman girls gasped, one clapping a hand over her mouth. A guy from the football team barked out a laugh before his friend elbowed him hard in the ribs. Teachers stiffened, their eyes darting between me and their clipboards, unsure whether to intervene or pretend nothing was happening.

I kept my gaze fixed straight ahead, my jaw clenched so tight it ached. The lanyard swung with every step, the metal clip clicking against my collarbone like a ticking time bomb.

The Stares. The Photos. The Laughter. Inside the auditorium, the real nightmare began.

Hundreds of students—some I’d known since elementary school—twisted in their seats to gawk. Phones lifted. Snapchat filters popped up over my body, crude captions scrawled across the screen before the phones were shoved into friends’ faces, followed by muffled snorts.

"Bro, check the ANF freak."
"No way, they’re letting her walk around like that."
"Someone get a pic for the group chat—"

A teacher cleared her throat. "Please refrain from recording during orientation." No one listened.

Principal Jefferson took the stage, his smile strained. "As some of you may have noticed, Stanfield High is… adapting to new circumstances this year." He cleared his throat. "By recent legal rulings, the school will be accommodating Celine Gomez’s ANF lifestyle. This means no dress code restrictions for her, as well as… other necessary adjustments." A murmur rippled through the crowd.

"There will be absorbent pads on her designated classroom seats," he continued, as if reading from a script. "We expect all students to respect her choice and refrain from harassment. Any violations will be taken seriously."

A loud "Yeah, right!" came from the back, followed by stifled laughter. The principal ignored it.

The Bathroom Incident, after the assembly, I bolted for the nearest restroom, desperate for a moment alone—big mistake.

A group of senior girls was already inside, perched on the sinks, vaping. When I walked in, one of them—Mackenzie Vale, queen bee of Stanfield High—let out a dramatic gasp.

"Oh. My. God." She fanned herself mockingly. “The ANF girl in our bathroom. Should we, like, cover our eyes?" Her friends burst into laughter.

"Does she just… free-bleed everywhere during her periods?" another sneered, wrinkling her nose.

"We don’t look down—" I locked myself in a stall, my hands shaking. Outside, they kept giggling, their voices sharp and cruel.

"Imagine being her parents."
"Imagine being her."

Mom picked me up, beaming. "How was it? Did they respect your rights?" I didn’t answer. She didn’t notice.

"We got another interview request! The National Post wants to talk about your first day next week!" I stared out the window, watching the school shrink in the distance.

Somewhere in a group chat, my naked body was the center of their laughter. Somewhere in a forum, strangers were debating my "bravery."

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

[barelin]

Chapter 2: The Walk of No Return

6:00 AM
The alarm screamed. My stomach clenched. Today, the day I’d been dreading all summer—the first day of junior year, naked.

My hand shot out, grasping for the robe that used to hang beside my bed. Empty air. Right. No more barriers after signing that contract. Just skin. Always skin.

The shower knob gleamed tauntingly from across the bathroom. ANF Rule #12 glared from the mirror: "Cleansing only in natural bodies of water or school swimming facilities." No hot showers. No privacy. Just a damp washcloth and the sting of cold water as I scrubbed—harder than necessary, as if I could scour away reality—it didn’t work.

7:15 AM
Downstairs, Mom packed my lunch—extra protein bars, vitamin smoothies in sealed containers. "You’ll need the energy!" she chirped, like this was any other first day.

Dad scrolled through his phone. "You’re trending again." He turned the screen toward me: "Stanfield High’s ANF Pioneer Begins Senior Year under Historic Contract"

Below the headline: that cursed photo from my birthday—my bare body beside the cake, face carefully blank. The article quoted my parents extensively. Not a single word from me.

My cheeks burned. I kept my expression neutral. They didn’t get to see me break. Not again.

7:45 AM – The Walk
The school loomed, its brick walls suddenly foreign. News vans lined the curb; police barricades strained against a crowd. Flashbulbs exploded like gunfire as I stepped off the bus.

"Miss Gomez! How does it feel to be the face of bodily autonomy?"
"—true intentions behind ANF?"
"—parents forcing you into this?"

Dad materialized beside me, waving them off. "She’s exercising her constitutional rights!" His grip on my elbow was iron.

The path to the doors stretched endlessly. Every step was a battle—the morning chill tightening my skin, the weight of hundreds of eyes boring into me.

A freshman girl dropped her books. Guys by the bike racks erupted into laughter, one pretending to shield his eyes. Phones lifted. Shutters clicked.

And then—him. Tyler Jacobs, my secret crush since sophomore year, was leaning against his bike. His letterman jacket was tied hastily around his waist—a feeble attempt to hide his body’s reaction. His gaze raked over me, wide and unblinking, before he jerked away so violently he tripped. The sound of his bike skidding off drowned in the blood roaring in my ears.

First Period – Calculus and Cruelty
Mrs. Henderson had placed my desk at the front with a disposable absorbent pad. It crinkled like thunder as I sat.

Behind me, Jessica Moreno’s whisper sliced the silence: "At least we won’t need red dye for the homecoming float. We could just use her—" The class erupted. Someone snorted soda out their nose. Mrs. Henderson pretended not to hear, her chalk snapping against the board.

Third Period – The Digital Onslaught
By mid-morning, whispers had spread like wildfire:
"—just walking around like that—"
"—so messed up—"

Phones buzzed under desks. #CelinesSchoolDay already had 50,000 mentions. Someone had livestreamed me climbing the rope in the gym. Memes spliced my face onto pornographic images.

Lunch – The Nurse’s Office
The only place that would let me hide. Mom’s note waited in my lunchbox:
"So proud! You’re changing the world!" I crumpled it, the paper cutting into my palm.

Gym Class – The Arena
The locker room was a slaughterhouse of whispers:
"—think she gets off on this?"
"—parents must be fucking cultists—"

The pool was worse. No one wanted to go into the water, as I swam for the first several minutes. No one followed—not even the teacher, who called time from a safe distance for what was painful until she told everyone to enter the water.

3:15 PM – The Bus Ride Home
Sophomores in the back row openly snapped pictures, their laughter sharp enough to draw blood.

At home – around 5:30 PM, Mom scrolled through the hashtag, beaming. "You’re sparking global conversations!"
Dad popped sparkling cider. "To break barriers!"

I locked myself in my room—still naked, always naked.

Tomorrow: The emergency school board meeting about my "disruptive presence."
Friday: The mandated gynecological exam—ANF’s "full reproductive transparency" clause.

Somewhere, Tyler Jacobs was probably washing his eyes out with bleach. Somewhere, my parents were drafting more press statements.

One excruciating sunrise at a time. The Unexpected Rebellion, my second Monday dawned with the same acid dread in my throat—until I turned the corner and saw them.

Three girls clustered at my locker, their eyes wide with something other than horror.

Mira Patel – The Reluctant Rebel
Mira clutched her books like a shield, turtleneck straining over the burn scars she usually hid. "I brought you these." She thrust forward pH-balanced wipes, hands shaking. "For... between classes." I knew that look. The twitch of someone who’d been bullied mercilessly.

"My parents would kill me if I did what you’re doing," she whispered. "It’s brave. Stupid, but brave." We ate lunch together that day. She didn’t flinch when I left a red smear on the bench.

Lena Dawson – The Radical
On Thursday, Lena arrived with traffic-cone orange hair and a stack of feminist theory texts. "You’re living what these academics only write about," she said, slamming them onto the table.

Her passion came from scars too—purity rings, modesty covenants, a bedroom door that hadn’t closed since she was twelve. "They monitor my Instagram DMs," she confessed. When she looked at me, there wasn’t pity in her eyes. It was envy.

Cassie Whitmore – The Convert
Then Friday—a collective gasp ripped through the hallway as Cassie stepped beside me, completely nude. "My parents signed the ANF contract last night," she announced, chin high despite the tremor in her voice. A visible trickle ran down her thigh.

Later, in study hall, she showed me why: fitness-obsessed mother, calorie trackers since elementary school. "At least now she can’t force me into those fucking waist trainers," Cassie muttered, comparing ANF clauses like battle strategies.

The unignorably
By month’s end, we were a phenomenon. Mira rolled up her sleeves, scars be damned. Lena got suspended for organizing a "Free the Body" protest.

Cassie’s viral ANF transition forced the school to install special seating. The local news called us "The Naked Truth Movement."

My parents preened. "See?" Mom crowed. "You’re changing the world!" They were wrong.

When Mira smuggled me extra wipes after gym class—
When Lena slipped me black-market cramp remedies—
When Cassie stood back-to-back with me in the hallway, shielding me with her body so I could use the nurse’s last clean pad—

We weren’t a movement; we were just girls.

The Boy Who Saw Me

First Notice
The first time I noticed Ethan Hendricks watching me, I assumed he was just another gawker. He sat two rows ahead in AP Lit, usually buried under a hoodie and unruly brown curls. But that Thursday, as I tried to discreetly adjust the bunched-up absorbent pad beneath me, I caught his reflection in the window—not leering, not smirking. Just... observing. With something that looked suspiciously like concern.

The Cafeteria Incident
A week later, the tray balanced precariously in my hands, a commotion erupted behind me. "Eyes up here, duckweed!"

Ethan had Kyle Jacobson in a headlock, forcing the football player’s gaze away from where Cassie and I sat. Kyle’s phone skidded across the floor—open to his camera roll—again.

"You good?" Ethan asked as he passed our table afterward, addressing all four of us but looking only at me. His ears turned pink when Lena wolf-whistled.

Study Sessions
He started joining our library group, always positioning himself between us and the worst starters. When he casually asked me to pass a highlighter one day—as if I weren’t completely exposed reaching across the table—Mira choked on her coffee.

"Most guys pretend not to notice my... situation," I blurted later as we packed up alone.

Ethan zipped his backpack slowly. "Wouldn’t that be worse? Pretending part of you doesn’t exist?" The sincerity in his hazel eyes made my chest ache.

First Date (Sort Of)
Cassie’s basement became our sanctuary—the only house with parents who understood. We were crammed on her couch watching horror movies, Cassie and I wrapped in ANF-approved "temperature regulation" blankets, when Ethan’s arm found its way around my shoulders during the third jump scare.

"You’re shivering," he murmured.

"Not from the movie," I admitted. His jacket appeared around me—not draped over my front like modesty, but wrapped like warmth. Cassie’s thumbs-up behind his back almost made me laugh.

The Boyfriend Upgrade - He asked me out on the worst possible day.

I was sitting on the clinic steps post-gynecological exam—mandated by ANF’s "reproductive transparency" clause—feeling raw and hollow, when Ethan appeared with two slushies.

"Figured you could use this," he said, handing me the red one. Then, like it was nothing: "Also, will you go out with me? Officially?"

I nearly dropped the cup. "You want to date the school’s resident nudist?"

He shrugged. "I want to date you. The nudist part just comes with front row seats." When I swatted him, he caught my wrist. "Seriously, Celine. You’re not your circumstances."

Mom arrived to find us kissing against the clinic wall, his hands anchored firmly on my waist—never wandering, never taking.

"About time," she said before even greeting us.

The Group Dynamic
Ethan slid into our ragged family like he’d always belonged. Trading manga with Mira while ignoring her scars Letting Lena destroy him in feminist theory debates.

Joining Cassie’s prank wars (their whipped cream fight got ANF cited as a "public hazard")

When Kyle’s crew dubbed him "Nudie Buddy," Ethan made it his Instagram bio.

Winter formal posters went up, advertising a "Night of Decadence." We planned our protest—a "Bare It All" dance in Cassie’s basement, where dress codes meant nothing.

That’s when I realized something terrifying: The school board still debated banning us. Not because it still didn't hurt—the stars still burned. The court case loomed, but now when I walked the halls, I wasn’t just "that naked girl." I was Ethan’s girlfriend (his leather jacket permanently smelled like me)

Mira’s study partner (she aced her chemo test using my notes)

Lena’s debate rival (she still won, but I got better)

Cassie’s ANF sister (we bled in sync by December)

Tomorrow: Winter formal boycott → "Bare It All" dance (feat... body-positive karaoke)
Next Month: Court case begins → ANF contracts for minors under scrutiny
Spring: The school board’s retaliatory "moral purity" curriculum

Somewhere, our parents were drafting press releases about "youth empowerment."
Somewhere, lawyers were dissecting consent forms.

The Way He Looked at Me

Ethan and I became ‘that couple’ faster than anyone expected—least of all me.

It wasn’t the way others looked at me. No leering, no awkward darting of eyes, no pretending I wasn’t naked. He just… saw me.

When we walked through the halls, his hand rested on the small of my back—not possessively, but protectively. I'm here against the whispers and camera clicks. In the cafeteria, he’d drape his jacket over my chair, not to cover me, but to mark his territory. Mine.

When my period hit like a tidal wave during the third period, he didn’t flinch. Just passed me his hoodie to sit on and whispered, “You good?” like it was nothing.

The First Fight (And How It Ended)

It happened after some jerk posted a zoomed-in photo of me online with the caption “Free show!” Ethan tracked the guy down—some loser from a neighboring school—and nearly got suspended for slamming him into a locker.

I was furious. “You don’t get to play the hero! I didn’t ask for that!”

He shot back, “And you didn’t ask for this life, but here we are!”

We didn’t speak for a whole day. Then he showed up at my house with a peace offering—a custom protest sign that read:

“MY BODY, MY RULES.
EVEN IF MY PARENTS ARE NUTJOBS.”

We spent that night curled together on my bare mattress (ANF Rule #27: No bedding may obstruct full bodily visibility), laughing at terrible memes and plotting revenge. (Spoiler: Lena doxed the guy. It was glorious.)

The “Dates”

We couldn’t go to the movies, restaurants, or anywhere normal couples went. So, we made our own rules:

Midnight swims at the community pool (closed for maintenance, but Cassie’s dad was the janitor).

Stargazing in Ethan’s backyard, wrapped in a single blanket (technically a violation, but his parents didn’t rat us out).

Study sessions that devolved into tickle fights—which didn’t work in my favor, given my… lack of barriers

The First Time He Said It

We were at Cassie’s again, the five of us crammed onto her basement couch, when Lena made some crude joke about Ethan’s “self-control.” He didn’t laugh. Just took my hand, laced our fingers together, and said, “I love her. All of her. Even the parts the world won’t let her hide.”

The room went dead silent; then, Cassie threw a popcorn kernel at his head. “Finally! Jesus, we were taking bets on when you’d admit it.”

The Backlash - Not everyone approved.

Ethan’s former friends called him a “nudie-lover.” Parents whispered about “that poor boy being exploited.” Even my parents raised eyebrows—not because they disapproved, but because they couldn’t fathom why someone would choose to be with me under these conditions, but Ethan didn’t care.

When Kyle jeered, “How’s the view, Gomez?” Ethan just smirked and shot back, “Ask your girlfriend. Oh wait—you don’t have one.”

Ethan and I? We didn’t talk about it after because after meant choices. After that meant fighting for a life where I could wear clothes again—or accepting one where I never would. After that meant deciding whether we could exist in a world that still saw me as a spectacle.

So for now, we stayed in the moment.

He is in his hoodie.
Me in my skin.
Both of us are stubbornly, stupidly in love.

Tomorrow: Junior/Senior prom (which we’re skipping to protest the “no nudity” dress code)
Next Week: The court hearing that could change everything

[barelin]

Chapter 3: Skin

The courthouse steps felt like the edge of a cliff.

I stood between Cassie and our pro bono lawyer, shivering despite the spring heat. Behind us, protesters screamed—some chanting “Free them!” others bellowing “Shame!” News helicopters circled like vultures.

Ethan squeezed my hand. “Whatever happens today—?”

“I know,” I whispered back.

This was it. The case that would decide whether Cassie and I—and seventeen other ANF minors—could be legally forced to remain naked forever because of contracts we’d signed as children.

The Whistleblower

Inside the chamber, the judge’s voice cut like a scalpel. I barely heard the legal jargon. My focus snagged on details. Mom’s perfectly pressed blouse in the front row, her face serene. The bailiff averted his eyes every time I shifted on the plastic chair.

Cassie’s raw knees, rubbed bloody from months of sitting uncovered. Then came the bombshell—a woman in a lab coat burst forward. “Your Honor, I was the lead researcher on the Gomez case study. These parents conditioned these girls through forced exposure therapy, dietary manipulation, and psychological coercion—” My blood turned to ice. Case study?

I turned slowly. Mom’s face was drained of color. Dad lunged halfway out of his seat before his lawyer yanked him back down.

“This wasn’t voluntary. It was orchestrated.” Ethan’s grip on my hand turned crushing.

The Unraveling.

The courtroom erupted. Reporters sprinted for the doors. Cassie vomited into a trash can, and I just sat there, naked in every sense of the word, as the pieces clicked into place: The “iron booster” smoothies Mom packed every morning. The timed gynecological exams—always scheduled before media appearances.

The way our parents documented every reaction, every tear, every humiliation. We weren’t daughters. We were data. The Robe. The judge ordered an emergency injunction. For the first time in nine months, a bailiff handed me a robe. The fabric against my skin felt alien. Wrong.

Ethan helped me tie the belt; his fingers were gentle. “You’re shaking.” I was, but not for the reason he thought, because part of me—some sick, broken part—missed the nakedness. Missed the certainty of knowing exactly what was expected of me, no matter how horrific. Who was I without the ANF label?

The Emancipation

That night, we gathered at Lena’s—the only house without surveillance cameras or research notes hidden in the walls.

Mira traced her scars absently. “They were measuring our pain thresholds.”

Cassie stared at the robe in her lap like it might bite her. “I don’t know how to wear clothes anymore.”

Ethan’s phone buzzed nonstop—his mother demanding he “distance himself from that cult,” and me? I stood before Lena’s full-length mirror, watching the robe slip from my shoulders. The girl staring back was a stranger.

The Choice

The judge gave us two weeks to decide:

Return to our families under court supervision.

Enter state custody as emancipated minors.

Cassie chose option two immediately. I hadn’t decided yet because beneath the betrayal, beneath the rage, there was this terrifying truth: I didn’t know how to want things for myself anymore.

The After

One Year Later

Mira's first art show featured a series called Skin Stories—my portrait sold for $5,000.

Lena got arrested at a reproductive rights protest (she framed the mugshot).

Cassie testified before Congress wearing a pantsuit and combat boots.

Ethan

He proposed on a Tuesday. Not with a ring, but with a question:

"Will you let me decide when you're dressed or not in my arms?" I said yes—on one condition.

That he'd never let me forget I had a choice. Me? Some days I wear clothes. Some days I don't. The difference is—now it's our choice.

Final Lines

I wake up in Ethan's arms, his breath warm against my bare shoulder.

"Today?" he murmurs, half-asleep.

I press closer. "Your call." His laugh rumbles through me as he pulls the sheets over us both, and we begin.

[END]

[SixPathsKeyblader]

Was the name Celine Gomez chosen in reference to Selena Gomez?