She most dreaded that twilight hour at the end of the day -- between the fullness of the light where all could be seen and she was therefore safe, and the comforting confines of the dark where all that was secret and private could be kept hidden -- for in the twilight she was neither safe nor hidden. It was then that he always sent for her. And it was then that she was compelled to go.

Her steps towards the appointed time and place were beaten out in the jagged crunch of the gravel path that wound through the seemingly-idyllic campus with its spacious grounds and stately buildings arrayed not according to some builder's artificial concept of order but according to the natural dips and swells of the countryside, Nature's way.

Stark against the western horizon were the silent branches of the woods that harbored the school from the outside world, too far away to protect her, too close to allow prying eyes to see, frozen in their place as she soon would be frozen in hers, unable to move but for the faint trembling of their limbs.

Though dread churned in her belly, she knew that it was useless to complain, to try to bring her daily humiliation into the light. One girl had tried that and it was she who had been humiliated and broken in the court of public opinion, being seen, at last, as nothing but an angry little girl trying to ruin the reputation of a good and Godly man.

The other girls had conspired with the headmaster in that campaign, whether through fear or because they too had all suffered, or perhaps enjoyed, the initiation. Perhaps they felt that since they had endured it, all the other girls who entered the rarified atmosphere of the Stafford School for Young Ladies should also endure it. Or perhaps they had secretly enjoyed it, they being of the class where all things were given easily and boredom came as quickly as the next fad, where indulgence in sex and drugs and perversion was as natural and expected as having a platinum card by the time they were 13.

But she was not of that class, not of their kind. She was naturally shy and private, barely able to endure the brief, naked communion with the other girls in the showers after sports. It was not fear of sexual advances, although she suspected -- for she could not allow herself to acknowledge that she knew -- from the sounds coming from some of the girls' rooms at night that deep intimacies were being explored and enjoyed, nor was it fear of comparison, even though her breasts were just now beginning to take a more womanly form and shed their girlish puffiness and she knew she suffered badly in any comparison with the other girls' bodies. It was, instead, a nearly morbid dread of having their eyes on her, of having anyone's eyes on her, even fully-dressed, of knowing she was the object of attention, of scrutiny, of inspection. And the terror in her belly was that she would fail any inspection utterly.

The headmaster's house loomed ominously before her, its high windows glaring crimson in the dying light, staring brazenly at her, accusing her, judging her. Her knees threatened to buckle as she approached the gate in the privet hedge; her hand nearly failed to lift the latch, her feet seemed almost incapable of moving her forward. And yet her body, independent of her mind, fulfilled its duty of delivering her to the center of the private garden behind the headmaster's house.

There was the gentle splash and gurgle of the fountain in the center of the garden, the quiet hum of insects, the occasional sudden call of a bird, the far off chatter of girls headed to the dorm. And yet, even with the reassuring sounds of life around her, it seemed that all was silent, as if the garden held its breath awaiting her.

Slowly she approached the fountain, everything was to be slow and considered, for he was watching from one of the high, blank windows above and he wanted her actions to be slow, deliberate, considered; for her to be completely aware of herself in this place, to allow her to fully and completely understand the implication of her every movement. Haste belied disrespect and disrespect was not to be tolerated.

Slowly she approached the stone bench by the fountain. Slowly, looking up at those glowering windows, she unbuttoned her white cotton blouse. Slowly she allowed it to fall from her shoulders to the ground. Slowly reaching behind her, she unhooked and unzipped the plaid skirt and allowed it to gently slide over her hips to the ground.

Still looking up at the windows, feeling them rip away any pretext of privacy or safety, she slid the straps of her bra down over her shoulders, reached back to unhook it and let it slide down her arms, dangling from her fingertips briefly before it, too, joined the pile of clothing at her feet. Next she pushed down her panties, feeling utterly humiliated and exposed there in that private garden, feeling perversely more naked because she still wore her knee socks.

She slipped off her loafers and stepped up onto the stone bench, moving her feet slightly apart and clasping her hands behind her back. She stared at the windows, waiting.

The light breeze licked along the inside of her thighs, her breasts, lifted the short blond hair on the back of her neck and along her arms, teased her most private places. But he did not come at once. She was compelled to stand there, like one of the marble statues that adorned the garden, her breasts as glistening-white and exposed as theirs.

Tears trickled down her cheeks even as she fought them back. He did not allow tears. Did not allow anything but what he called pure emotions: joy or pain. Pure emotions must be contained entirely within. Tears were impure, sullying both joy and pain, diluting them, allowing them to leak out.

It was no longer the fact that she was compelled to stand there, naked, for his inspection. She had almost gotten used to the nakedness, to the humiliation. It was no longer even humiliation...it was just something to be endured. It was the inspection, the dread of being judged and found lacking, that ate at her.

His gloved hand touched the inside of her thigh. She bit back a scream of fright just in time, but her body trembled uncontrollably.

He came around in front of her, the very image of a benevolent scholar complete with silver hair and a pleasant smile. He wore a conservative overcoat over his suit, black kid skin gloves on his hands, a trim black fedora crowning his head. But it was the silver-headed cane in his right hand that she watched.

He stood silently in front of her, his eyes raking her like jagged fingernails as he examined every inch of her nakedness.

She felt very much like a building about to be demolished, in the fraction of an instant before the explosive charges were detonated...waiting for that cacophonous liberation when all her consciousness and form would surrender to chaos and she could collapse into herself and cease to be.

But that instant never came. She stood, frozen and trembling, aching for that release, knowing that it would not come, praying that it would, unable to bear the certainty that it would never come as long as she wished for it, knowing that only when she stopped wishing for it would she be allowed to experience it.

"Were you," he asked quietly, the steel spike at the tip of his cane gently tracing the aureoles of each nipple, "created by Nature?"

"I was," she answered, knowing the litany by heart.

"Is Nature wicked?" he asked, the spike lightly pricking each nipple.

"Nature can not be wicked or evil."

"Can you be wicked?" The tip of his cane traced down her belly and rested lightly at the top of her slit.

"Yes."

"But how, being made by Nature which cannot be wicked or evil, can you be wicked?"

"By denying Nature, I can become wicked."

The cane moved slightly down, threatening her innermost private places. "And how could you deny Nature?"

"By finding evil in what is Natural. By denying Nature's gifts."

He dropped the end of the cane to the ground. "Just so." He looked at her again, his gaze hard and judgmental. "Look at me girl," he commanded.

Reluctantly, she focused on his face, his eyes. She saw no lust there, no malice. Only concern.

"Are these," he asked, suddenly striking her breasts with the cane, "artificial?"

"No," she squeaked, the pain making it hard to breathe.

"Is this," striking her between the legs, "artificial?"

She gagged on a cry of pain as her knees wobbled. "No," she gasped.

"Then why are you so ashamed of what Nature has given you? Why do you cringe every time someone looks at your face, your breasts, your ass? Why do you fly away in terror every time you hear a compliment or praise for work you have done? Are not your intelligence and beauty both Natural gifts?"

"Because..." she stammered, suddenly uncertain what he wanted. This was not the usual litany of making her acknowledge that she was a woman and therefore part of the great Wheel of Life which, of necessity, included the joyous celebration of the differences between men and women.

The can cracked across the cheeks of her ass, raising a welt. "Because...?"

"Because it embarrasses me," she whimpered miserably.

Again the cane assaulted her. "Why does it embarrass you? Do you think you are not worthy of praise, of admiration, of joy?"

"I'm not," she sobbed, knowing that the tears would displease him but knowing too that she could not stop them. "I'm not worthy," she whispered.

He was in front of her again, his hand gripping her chin and forcing her to look fully into his face. Then he turned her head to the encircling woods. "Is...that tree," he said, pointing with his cane, "worthy? Is...that...blade of grass worthy? Is...that...cloud worthy?" he demanded, twisting her head and jabbing with his cane to illustrate his point. "Which of these things is not worthy?"

"I don't know," she sobbed. "trees, grass, clouds...how can they be worthy?"

"That's not the question," he snapped. "How can any be unworthy?" He waited for only a moment, not giving her time to answer, before adding, "And how can you be less worthy than they?"

He released her and stepped back.

"It is as vain and foolish," he said, "to take inordinate pride in what Nature has bestowed on any of us as it is disrespectful and wicked to deny those gifts. Is a girl with large breasts any more 'worthy' than one with small breasts? Is a girl who has a natural aptitude for baking bread any less worthy than one who is a virtuoso with the violin?"

She stood confused yet a glimmer of understanding began to tickle the back of her mind.

"We make the most of what we are given, take pride in our accomplishments and give thanks for whatever gifts we may possess."

She stood a little easier, no longer quite so awkward in her nakedness. His eyes were on her face, judging her reaction. She realized that, to him, whether she was clothed or naked made no difference.

"You have lived your life in a cage of your own making," he said. "Walled off, yet exposed. Unable to touch the world around you yet always vulnerable to those who would poke their hands through the bars."

She looked down at herself, her naked flesh glowing white in the twilight, and realized that she had always felt naked even when clothed. And now, for some odd reason, she did not feel naked. She was clothed in her own skin, in her own self.

The breeze teased her again, welcoming her, enfolding her, weaving her into the fabric of Life.

The shadow of a smile sketched itself across her face.

Something flickered behind his eyes, an unreadable emotion whether pride or joy or satisfaction she could not tell. But he was pleased. With a sudden giddy realization, she understood that she had passed the inspection. More, that the terror was gone. And in its place was the certainty that she was at least as worthy as that tree or blade of grass or cloud. Perhaps none would ever be singled out for praise but neither would any be singled out for condemnation simply for their existence.

"You may go," he said at last, turning abruptly and walking back towards the house. "Leave your clothes. You may wear your shoes."

It was a final test. The breeze again circled her, clothed her.

"Thank you," she said, stepping down and slipping on her shoes.

He inclined his head slightly to indicate he had heard her.

"If I may ask," she said, summoning a new-found courage, "did all the girls have to learn this lesson?"

He stopped at the door to the house, his back still towards her. "No," he said, "not this lesson. But each had to learn a lesson. Whether it was to acknowledge Nature's gifts or that they should not squander them or that they should not take credit for them, or any of a dozen other lessons. No, not this lesson. But we all have lessons to learn." He turned and looked at her with an unfathomable twinkle in his eye. "And this will not be the last such lesson," he added.

And then she was alone in the garden. She looked at her pile of clothing on the ground. Straightening, she walked to the gate and opened it, walking out into the campus as if dressed for the Prom.