The Woman's Building

Several twists and turns later, after quite a long period of time spent running stark naked through the crowded arcades and highways of the World’s Fair, with what felt like literally the entire world laughing at her predicament and cheering her own, Fiona found herself ducking in through the front entrance of the Woman’s Building.

A vast mural, representing the progress of Woman throughout History, wrapped around the entire central exhibition hall of the Woman’s Building, which had been designed exclusively by the feminine architects of the Ladies’ Planning Board, and constructed solely by female hands. (It was a handsome and well-made building, there’ll be no cheap jokes here.) The mural depicted such scenes as Eve biting the apple, Cleopatra in her bath, Joan of Arc trying on armour, Pocahontas doing cartwheels, Marie Antoinette picking out a new frock, and other such emblems of female grace and beauty, all of them illustrated with infinite tact and delicacy so as to in no way imply there might be anything in the least bit indecent about the depicted scenes.

The ceiling was held up by tall marble caryatids, representing virtues such as Truth and Chastity. Naturally, in keeping with the Ladies’ Planning Board’s understanding of the classical traditions, they were undressed.

The central hall, brilliantly illuminated by shafts of sunlight from the high, arched windows, was occupied by exhibitions of Ideal Womanhood from all the nations in the world. Japan had constructed a model teahouse, with languorous geishas in kimonos. Germany had erected a miniature Bavarian beer hall, with Alpine maids in dirndls. Spain had a display of flamenco dancers. The Indian women wore saris, the Russians fur coats, the Mexicans long colourful skirts.

There were Zulu girls in leopard skins, Greek girls in chitons, Chinese girls in cheongsams, Egyptian girls in veils, Hawaiian girls in grass skirts, and several dozen can-can dancers fresh in from Paris, all displayed for the purely intellectual appreciation of the crowds who wandered through the building, appropriately humbled by the intellect, grace and natural majesty of the fairer sex. The entire membership of the Ladies’ Planning Board, all determined social reformers and well-respected members of Chicago high society, somehow even more beautiful than they were rich, happened to be in attendance as well.

“Isn’t it wonderful?” said Miss Phoebe Pettigrew of the Board, to her friend Mary Meredith McClintock. (Both extremely attractive and very well-off blondes.) “Finally, a true and honest depiction of how inherently dignified and capable us women are!”

“I quite agree,” said Mary, studying the geishas’ flowing silks with professional approval. “We’ve struck a blow for the noble cause of respecting women here, and no mistake. I can’t wait to show this off to the entire world.”

“Why, I already took the liberty of inviting two dozen or so photographers here from every major global newspaper. One of them, I believe, even has one of those experimental new portable video cameras!”

“Very good.”

Fiona, squealing stark naked, came sprinting through the Woman’s Building, her body still charged with mysterious crackling electricity from the Tesla coils. As she flew across the central exhibition hall, blushing bright red, bolts of blue lightning flew from her nipples and pussy in every direction. They made direct contact with the nipples and pussies of all the other very startled women in the hall, leaping like demons from one girl to the next, blasting kimonos and dirndls and saris and chitons and cheongsams and veils and grass skirts and leopardskins and can-can dancer bloomers into luminous ash which rapidly drifted away on the breeze.

Phoebe and Mary let out high-pitched shrieks and leapt into the air as electric arcs zapped their most intimate regions, with a sensation not unlike the short, sharp blow of a whip. By the time their feet hit the polished floor, their exceedingly proper and sensible dresses had vanished completely, as well as their modest Victorian undergarments.

“EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEK!”

The hall echoed with girlish squeals, cries of “Stop!” and “Go away!” and “Don’t look at me!” and “Why are you laughing!” in a dozen languages as the suddenly denuded women fled this way and that, finding out to their chagrin that neither the model teahouse nor the Bavarian beer hall offered any serious concealment from the assembled photographers and the chortling crowds. The mystical electricity hopped from girl to girl, blasting away more clothes. In very short order, every last woman in the Woman’s Building had been stripped completely naked and left with nowhere to hide, no way whatsoever to conceal her pert female mysteries from the rapidly growing mob of spectators.

African, Indian, Asian and European girls all huddled in small groups, trying to hide behind each other as the gloating crowd bombarded them with whistles, hoots and laughs. The sanctity of the building from the coarse imaginations of men was violated by cries of “Nice tits, love,” and “Give us a show!”. Hands protectively cupped breasts and sexes, leaving bottoms bare, as the lovely lady delegates from all around the world were confronted by the simple truth that embarrassment is universal.

“This wasn’t exactly what I had in mind,” yelped Phoebe, as she and Mary were pursued around the room by a grinning French photographer named Pierre Prevert who wanted to get the best possible shot of them in nothing but their patent-leather boots. “Please, sir, stop taking pictures of us! We don’t have any clothes on!”

“That’s the idea, mon cherie! Hon hon hon!”