It had been almost fifty years since The Change, when all the World's problems had been solved: when women took full charge of the planet's affairs. Why then, mused Vicky (victoriasealavender@ deerville.hoosier.na) wasn't her life totally perfect?

The full-figured blonde reclined languidly under the hairdryer unit, stripped naked to the waist. The bodice of her stylish scarlet work dress bunched carelessly around her ample hips; her lacey claret-colored bra hung neatly on a hook on the far wall.

Upon arriving at the appointment, her beautician, Marge (margetrekker@deerville.hoosier.na), had ordered Vicky to prepare herself in this fashion. She had complied without questioning the directive, even though being topless was not necessary for the pedicure, the manicure, and the hair styling that were today's first orders of business.

Nudity usually failed to embarrass the mature woman lying back in the hairstyling chair. In fact, whenever Vicky got the chance, she reveled in "going bare." She relished the sensation of whispery currents of air caressing her creamy smooth skin. Besides, Marge had sent her young assistant cosmetologist home early for the day. The two older blonde women would be alone in the shop until closing time.

Vicky tossed her tawny mane nervously under the blower as she floated along a stream of idle thoughts...

A day short of her fortieth birthday, Vicky and her cohort had never known the difficulties women routinely shouldered back before the fairer gender took over full and official charge of the WWW--and with it, of course, all aspects of managing the planet. Not only was tomorrow the day for her birthday spanks ... Yikes, I'll have to take forty-one this time ... it was also to be the day for her Madaming ceremony! What a big deal that was: the third (and maybe, for her, the last?) of the life-course marking rituals.

Unlike the first two, which virtually all women were privileged to experience, fewer than one in a hundred of the gender made it through the rigorous qualifying requirements to become eligible for Madaming. To earn all ten trial badges prerequisite for WM status indicated extraordinary levels of effort and talent. Most didn't even bother to try, knowing they could not hope to pass the tests. The awarding of the right to use the honorific 'Madame' was a high honor, indeed.

Vicky yawned.

Yeah, getting 'WiMmed' was altogether daunting. So shouldn't it also be compellingly satisfying? Hey, you girl: You Web Madame, you. What's with this discontent thing?

Vicky began, once again, mentally ticking off a list of what might be upsetting her, starting with the obvious.

Could it be the current struggle with my 'Mother Board' (and myself, really) about the weight thing? Naw, the problem with my SC is annoying, but not something to upset my 'wah.'

Wah, Vicky had learned from Yoriko, her Japanese-American neighbor and friend, meant your internal balance. It was your proper self-centering, your inner tranquility. Remembering an old joke from Girl Scout camp, Vicky chuckled to herself, O, wah-ta-goose-siam...

So, is this maybe some kind of hormone thing? My body expressing its concern that I'm now way up into the daughtering years, but still soloing? Hmmm.

Was there a voice buried in her psyche questioning her conscious decision, so far, not to partner? And, beyond that, not to ceive? It wasn't as if Vicky didn't fancy other women, and young children didn't frighten her. She pursued an active adult social life. Each spring she had a blast coaching a girls' fast pitch softball team. At the riding club she was known for always showing a smile and lending a helping hand to the little novices.

Vicky's thoughts turned to her ABC's: the three sets of interpersonal relationships (affinity, business, community) prescribed for all free females by WWW regs ever since The Change. These, along with your fortnightly meetings with your SC (your Supervisory Committee, commonly dubbed your 'Mother Board'), went a long way toward establishing your sense of identity, your self-worth.

Vicky was currently active in her two primary A-circles on the net. Her current affinity groups were well chosen, given her lifelong passions for chess and horsewomanship. The chats she belonged to went by the monikers: 'Get It Off Your Chess' and 'Whores to Horses.' She felt as if she were a constructive voice in both her e-clubs. Admittedly, in RL she did tend toward the shy side. The anonymity of the web forums allowed her to let her hair down and share things she might not volunteer in face-to-face settings. Was she, perhaps, unhappy about not opening up more to other gals in person?

On the job, at the engineering firm where she applied her many years of technical training to designing advanced flyways, Vicky was widely considered the leader in her B-circle. She was currently Acting Branch Chief. She enjoyed strong support from its other fourteen members; she expected to be vetted into the permanent position when new job taskings were posted in the fall.

Outside work hours, despite being a longtime solo, Vicky didn't find herself lacking for companionship. She attended most every weekly meeting and felt strong bonds of sisterhood with everyone in her C-circle, enjoying frequent girls' nights out with many of them.

The Net knows, I would do most anything I could for those my dearest of friends!

As near as she could tell, she wasn't putting up abnormal barriers to developing committed, caring, long-term interpersonal relation-ships. But, she had to asked herself, was she maybe a tad selfish?

Do I come across a little stuck-up and off-putting when a relationship shows promise of becoming more serious?

Did she perhaps overly prize the freedom of soloing? She certainly liked to set her own daily and longer-term agendas. How would she handle the loss of control that was inevitable when you partnered with another gal? Given the lateness of the hour on her bio-clock, after hooking up she would now need to ceive her baby daughter almost immediately if she were ever to do it.

Woman-oh-woman! Whelping and raising a little girl would mean giving up the luxuriously self-indulgent aspects of my current routines!

Or, was this gnawing sensation brought on by an opposite aspect of freedom of choice? Was it that the next stage in her life was more ill-defined than she was used to? Ever since her flowering ceremony at age nineteen, the whole nexus of her efforts had been on reaching well-formed goals, with plenty of kilometer posts along the way. Everyone admired and gave her positive strokes for the incredibly disciplined manner in which she had applied herself to earn the "tough ten," the number of life badges they required before awarding you with Madame status.

Or, hey. Maybe my enervating ennui simply stems from the fact that I really, really, REALLY need to get boned!

Playing with yourself was okay and all, but toward the end of every cycle Vicky always got extra-super horny. Sure, early in her school years she, like everyone in her generation, had been taught to "do the math." Mentally, she understood why she and every other woman could only have intercourse on a limited, regulated schedule. But physically it felt wholly unfair.

Maybe I'm just out of step with everybody else?

Vicky appreciated that the most significant of all the many key decisions made by the Founding Mothers of the first WWW Council had been implementation of World Gender Control. Thanks to the invention of gender-specific contraceptives it had proven possible to implement the now famous seven-to-one ratio. And, she conceded, most of the rest of the solutions to the planet's problems had stemmed from strictly limiting the numbers of--and roles permitted to--the weaker-charactered sex.

Yeah, tryst-date guys probably were more exciting, virile, and sexy under the ironclad rule they could be worked only twice per week.

Vicky also understood the flip side of the rule: it meant when they spread all the working guys around evenly, your own evenings of pleasure came up only once a moon--once every four weeks. Despite understanding the math, getting a stiff shaft up her cunt just thirteen times a year hardly began to satiate Vicky's body's powerful basic urges...

"Umm," a moan escaped the squirming blonde's mouth as she wriggled in the chair. The Web knows, the long anticipation she had to endure each period probably did increase her ecstasy when, finally, her turn came to fuck a guy. In the weeks leading up to the big night she frequently daydreamed about getting her hands, mouth, and pussy around a new and different cock. She liked to first stare and examine her date's tool. Once her leisurely inspection was complete, she would begin to squeeze and tease it. Of course, having done her homework researching the little pictures on the tryst-house websites she generally knew what she would be getting. Sometimes she picked a guy whose pictures featured a long slim pole. Other guys she favored had curved blunt peckers, and some sported big rubbery ribbed dongs. "Ummmmm..."

Vicky called up a mental picture of tomorrow night's scene, of the exact moment when she would get to take her date's stiffening prong out of his briefs.

His penis pointing so perfectly straight out in front of his flat, hard, hairy stomach and thighs. Then licking it. Swallowing it. Getting it first firm. Then rock hard. Tormenting it 'til it twitched. Making it slippery. Rubbing it rudely up and down her juicy slit before cramming it hard, extra hard, super hard up the liquid velvet passage between her legs. Ummmm.

Eyes closed, the big blonde slowly rocked back and forth in the firm leather chair, enjoying her reverie, slipping three fingers under the front triangle of her skimpy panties. Kneading. Needing. Her bare nipples were already fully erected, yet they strained to poke still further outward.

Mmmm ... It feels like miniature tree trunks are sprouting in the exact centers of my rosy, blood-engorged aureoles. Doesn't the left one feel oddly warmer than the right?

As she began to arch her back up off the cool leather chair, her nose crinkled as a pungent smell...

Vicky's eyes suddenly fluttered open upon the scene of her pert hairdresser setting down a plastic case on the counter with her left hand, while holding--straight out in the right--a long, newly lit cigarette. Its hotly glowing tip was currently positioned a scant couple of centimeter from the aroused tip of Vicky's sweaty left boob.

"Don't move a muscle," Marge cautioned. With her now freed up left hand, the trim gal reached down and grasped her full-figured client's wrist, jacking it back unceremoniously from whence it had been nestled.

The blue-smocked beautician continued, chuckling, "Didn't I tell you to let these freshly painted nails dry? Why, where you've just put them seems to me to be rather too moist a spot ... Tsk, tsk! Somebody, some body, I should say, has just put itself, into a heap of trouble. And here's all the slippery evidence needed to, er, finger it for her crime."

Marge brought Vicky's guilty hand up to her own nose and breathed in the pungent she-scent. Then she fed the sticky fingers one at a time between her pursed lips, slowly and meticulously sucking off every drop of the juices. When finished, the beautician tapped ash on the floor and returned the thin cigarette to her puckered lips. Inhaling deeply, through hooded eyes she coolly appraised her healthily glowing, yet now trembling, full-figured client.

"Oh, shit!" Vicky exclaimed before she had a chance to think fully through all the dreadfully dire implications of the situation.

"'Oh, shit,' is right, my dear," Marge returned quietly. "You've been caught red-handed, as it were. You've been playing with your teeny-weeny pinkie, and on your Madaming Eve no less. That, sister, could prove to be an extremely costly little daydream!"