I was, finally, no longer a freshman. The first year was hard. I studied the dress code, tried to comply with it, but I would always forget some minute detail in the rules, not show enough skin to avoid inspections, or just run out in the morning in my comfortable panties because I forgot. I spent more than one day naked, inspected or waiting for my court date.
But I got over it! Eventually, I acclimated to the rules, both official and unofficial. And in my last semester I was as used to the CCC as any other girl on campus. In fact, I had even started to enjoy it.
It started when I realized that dresses and tops were one of the biggest ways to hide illicit panties or other clothing items. They cover so much skin, and frankly, since I was a little girl, I never liked that I had to wear shirts when the boys in my neighborhood didn’t have to. And now I didn’t have to? Hmm…
My style evolved to be very dependent on a cute top (or lack of one) and one of my trusty bottoms. A miniskirt, short shorts, something like that. For skirts, proving you have no layering violations is easy, just flip it up. For shorts, well it’s a bit more annoying, but I got pretty good at pulling it down fast enough to immediately show my pussy. With inspections as frequent as they are, you get good at it.
But I had a secret problem. I was really scared of being bottomless.
Topless? That was fine. I was proud of my pert little boobs! But down there…
I would put on the same brave face as any other girl when I was inspected, but I would never show my pussy voluntarily. The only time I wore an outfit like that was when all the girls in my dorm were going to this party, which required you wear knee socks. Of course, with socks that long they count as bottoms, so every girl in our group had her pussy visible. I didn’t want to go but my roomies pushed me into it, and while I did have a great time, I could just not stop thinking about my exposed pussy.
My point is, by sophomore year, I had a system going. I liked my newfound style.
And then the diagnosis happened.
I went to the college clinic for my quarterly check-up, expecting nothing new, just like last time. I sat on the paper on the medical bed, bored. Swinging legs back and forth, waiting. (Naturally, I was also naked — the clinic required nudity, but honestly it didn’t bother me. After all, it was the doctor’s office!)
But when Dr. Tanner came back, he looked a bit concerned.
“So, Teresa dear,” he began. I sat still and looked at him.
“We just got the test results back, and you are positive for SPF Syndrome.”
I looked at him. I had never heard of that.
“Um, so what does that mean?”
He nodded. “It stands for ‘Sensitive Pubic Follicle Syndrome’. Maybe you’ve heard it called ‘bushy disease’. It was first identified here at the college, actually. Just last year. It’s a new disease affecting mostly girls which makes it so you cannot shave certain patches of hair,” he motioned towards my vagina. “You can trim it, but it can’t be entirely smooth, it’ll cause too much irritation.”
I was still taking this all in.
“Well, I, uh, I guess that explains why it has been itchier than normal recently. But I’m willing to put up with that for the dress code.”
The doctor frowned.
“I’m sorry, but it doesn’t work like that,” he said. “You are in the early stages, so the discomfort is minor. But over the course of the next month, the pain will start to increase significantly, and after that if you were to fully trim your pubic hair it would start causing complications in nearby areas. Unfortunately, as of right now, you must stop shaving your bush.”
I quietly panicked.
In high school? Going natural would have been fine. But in the college dress code, bushes count as a bottom! I couldn’t wear anything over my pussy for, well, ever!
“There has to be a cure. Right? Can you do anything?” I asked.
“I’m sorry. It’s a new disease, so we have very little information on it. I do have this cream, which you should apply twice a day, but you still will have to grow out a bush.”
“Well. Uh. Surely I get a medical exemption for the dress code, right? Wearing a bottom? Since I can’t shave?” I must have sounded desperate.
“I really am sorry dear, but you can’t. The dean reviewed the situation when the first cases emerged late last year, and because the dress code lets you wear a bush as a bottom, no exceptions are being made.”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.
For the first week I dressed like normal. The hair hadn’t grown in yet, so I could get away with it. But as Saturday approached, I realized that the first hairs were plainly visible. And that’s all it took for an inspector to deem you out of compliance — and I couldn’t risk that!
My first strategy was to wear a T-shirt dress. Well, a T-shirt top, but the longest one I had that didn’t quite cover my crotch. It wasn’t really kosher, but it was borderline enough that I could probably get out of an inspection with a blowjob bribe.
I guess it all consumed me so much that my roommate noticed.
“Hey, Teresa?” Ashley asked.
I looked over at her. “Yeah?” I thought she was a cute girl, and as usual, she was lounging around our dorm naked.
“You’ve worn the same outfit for three days in a row. Forget the inspection risk, you’re not someone to do that. You’re one of the more creative girls on our floor! Something’s wrong. Tell me about it,” she said.
“Well, you know I got, well, I, uh,” I began, stammering.
I broke down. I told her all about how I was scared of being bottomless, showing my pussy made me very self-conscious, and I kept mentioning that one party we all went to. It ended with her giving me a hug as I couldn’t stop crying.
“So you’ve been wearing these rule-breaking outfits to try and protect yourself. Here, let me help you, we’ll both be bottomless buddies. We’ll find clothes that make you feel cute with your up-and-coming bush,” she said.
She gave me another hug. I couldn’t believe the wave of relief.
Over the next week, we tried out a few outfits together. Starting off with my reckless outfits, there were tops which went down to my hips. I thought it would take me at least a month to ween off of those, but by day four I was already itching to try something shorter. By the end of week two, we were experimenting and mixing and matching. Right in time too! My new little bush had started to grow in, the little hairs poking through.
Though this new style wasn’t without risk. Every time I’d get inspected, or hell, any time a boy (or girl) would come over to grope me, my anxiety at being bottomless would make me really wet. (Something the boys never failed to take advantage of…)
This wasn’t something I had problems with normally! Inspections were inspections, I told myself I would be putting my clothes on soon and that kept me from getting illicitly aroused. But now? Everyone around me can see it!
I was wet a lot. Sometimes it was like my pussy was crying.
Before I knew it, I hit the three week post-diagnosis mark. It hadn’t really been that long, but felt like forever ago. Ashley had suggested donating my panties, but I wasn’t ready for that yet. A part of me hoped tomorrow I would get a call and tell me everything could go back to the way it was.
On the first day of that week, my morning lecture was moved due to construction. But unfortunately for me, it was in that weird building which required all girls to be topless.
I had been surviving with various tops, some shorter some longer, but I tried to ignore my pussy and pretend like I was wearing a long dress. I didn’t mind being topless, but with a bush? I was effectively naked.
I considered skipping the lecture, but I was behind in the class and couldn’t risk it. I pulled off my pajama top and got ready for class, feeling conspicuous.
And honestly? It wasn’t that bad.
I had been so preoccupied with my exposed pussy that I had forgotten how much I liked going tits out. In fact, the compliment I got from another girl in my lecture made my day. They did look cute, didn’t they!
Before I knew it, I was starting to go topless a lot more to class.
I started to notice that there were actually some benefits to all this. While a girl was never too far away from her pussy being accessible, something about realizing I was always “clothed” down there started to change me. Maybe it was just because the hair had finally started to grow in and offer some coverage.
Or maybe the wetness was getting to be too much.
But either way, in my anthropology lecture, I sat next to a naked boy and couldn’t help myself. I quietly flirted with him, and before I knew it I was riding him right there in the lecture hall! And it was a good investment too, his cum protected me from at least two rapes on the way back to my dorm.
Something had changed. When I was looking at myself in the mirror, I was starting to see a hot, confident girl wearing the sexiest outfits I had ever laid eyes on. The shy, worried girl of a few months prior was becoming a lost memory. I ended up giving all my panties and skirts to Catherine on the second floor.
And one day, it all just clicked. Having a bush bottom was actually better! I never had to play the game of balancing my bottom’s length with showing that I was compliant underneath. In fact, with one part of my outfit always constant, I just needed to choose what top I thought was my vibe for the day. Something short, like a crop top or bra? Maybe something longer, going down to my navel? Baggy tee or form-fitting?
Or I could go with my tits proudly out, as I always loved doing. The possibilities were endless!
That winter break, I realized how much I had grown since that fateful diagnosis half a year ago. I lugged my suitcase down the stairs of the bus, waved to the driver, and walked down a block to my house, and rang the doorbell. My mom answered, and I greeted her with a big smile.
“Hey, I’m home!”
She was shocked.
“But, Teresa dear, you’re naked!”
“No,” I grinned. “This bush counts as a bottom. I’m not naked, I’m topless!”