Salt Lake City

Under the dome of the great Tabernacle in Salt Lake City, the first ever Mormon Women’s Conference was in full swing. The spiritual head of the conference, Bathsheba Macdonald Brown, a statuesque brunette in her early thirties whose severely plain attire could only do so much to disguise her voluptuous curves, stood before the seated crowd, shuffling through her meeting notes as a few latecomers filed in. Next to her, on the stage, sat a gigantic banana cream pie, baked by the Mormon ladies as a powerful symbol of the bounty of the Lord.

“Ladies,” she said, sternly, rapping on the lectern a few times to get everyone’s attention. “We are gathered here today to discuss a very important matter. As you know, the Lord has decreed that all Mormon women between the ages of 18 and 40 must wear, and wear exclusively, a particular variety of sacred undergarment. But he has not yet told us what this undergarment must be. Now, in the absence of a sign…”

Far above, a rope snapped. Fiona Fairweather, travelling Englishwoman, plummeted from a catwalk crossing the high ceiling of the Tabernacle into the gigantic cream pie. Waves of astonishment rippled through the crowd of gathered women, all extremely sensibly dressed, as she crawled out over the side, to stand on wobbly legs on the Tabernacle’s main stage.

“Excuse me,” she managed to sputter. “This isn’t the way to Union Station…”

Then, she looked down at herself. Due to an unfortunate misunderstanding involving a Chinese laundromat on Plum Street, a player piano, a mountain goat, a pair of loaded dice and a half-Shoshone railway engineer with a tendency to mishear important words, she was wearing nothing but a hot pink lacy G-string, imported from Paris and more recently borrowed from a downtown brothel. The G-string was very small, baring almost all of her plump pink bottom and exposing more than a wisp of her golden nether curls. She looked back up, at the horrified Mormon women, and said “Eep.”

Then, she fled straight down the central aisle of the Tabernacle, and out the front door, where dozens of photographers from small-town newspapers waited to find out what the result of the conference was going to be. The doors slammed shut, cutting off the resulting squeal.

Bathsheba cleared her throat.

“I don’t like it any more than you do,” she announced, “but the sign from the Lord was very clear. From now on, all Mormon women between the ages of eighteen and forty must wear, as their only undergarment, very small hot pink lacy G-strings.”

“That’s ridiculous,” said a blonde in the front row, standing up. “Under no circumstances will I be donning such a demeaning and, quite frankly, sluttish garment. I do not believe for a second the Lord could possibly have intended us to EEEEK!”

And there was much squealing and great lamentations in the Mormon Tabernacle, as the pretty women of the church found themselves deprived of their neat formal dresses, and instead stripped down to nothing but very small hot pink lacy G-strings. Bathsheba’s yelp was the loudest of all as she found herself standing on the podium, covering her gigantic breasts with her speech notes. She turned to flee, tripped and fell splat into the banana cream pie.

Far above, in Heaven, the Lord God sighed and rolled His eyes at the folly of His own creation. “I thought I made the sign very clear,” he said, His majestic voice echoing in the heads of all the astounded women. “What disobedient little creatures you are. Like Eve in the Garden. I taught her shame and I’ll teach it to you.”

And so all the respectable (though very pretty) Mormon women had to walk ten laps around Salt Lake City, in their hot pink lacy G-strings, with their breasts bare for everyone to see, while all the Chinese washerwomen and the girls from the red-light district pelted with a miraculously endless supply of banana cream pies. And then their G-strings were pulled down, and they were **** to walk another ten laps with their bottoms and pussies bare as well.

And it was so decreed that, to punish them for their disobedience, Thursday would henceforth be a day of shame for all 18-40 Mormon women, and they would be required to expose themselves publicly for a period of no less than three hours in the costume of Eve to the rude stares of the unbelievers, in the most humiliating positions their loving husbands and male acquaintances could devise for them. And there were to be spankings, and G-string wedgies, and baptisms in cold custard.

And the embarrassed pretty Mormon girls, led by blushing Bathsheba, had to pose naked for all the newspapermen, and have their pictures published on the front page of every small-town newspaper in the Mountain West.

“That ought to teach them a lesson,” said God, and vanished the clothes of a completely random schoolteacher in southwest Africa, just to keep the entire female sex on their toes. “Only themselves to blame, you know. Shouldn’t have eaten that fruit.”