“Professor,” she said, “you may proceed.”

Professor Mack stepped onto the platform with Robbie, started unsnapping his shoulder buttons as she addressed the audience. “Well, you’ve all had just an hour of basic tutoring on outlining and black and white shading,” she said. “Time to see who’s been harboring a hidden talent all their lives.”

General chuckling. Robbie’s shirt dropped to his feet. He looked over his chest, down the length of his arms. He couldn’t help but feel even more awkward and exposed with practically all of his body hair shaven off. His skin had a sheen to it still, slightly ruddy. He directed his gaze down, but Professor Mack was having none of that.

“Head straight,” she said to him.

Robbie obeyed, taking in his audience all at once. They were delighted. Transfixed. They chattered together, their voices low—but it was a small room, and Robbie missed none of it.

“Poor thing. He’s blushing all over.”

“…might be the most fun I’ve ever had following up on a story.”

“Pretty good pecs for a college boy. Cute nipples, too.”

“Perky, for a guy.”

“Can’t wait to have my hands on him, do a little performance art.”

Hands? Robbie thought. No one said anything about hands.

And that had come from old Mrs. Merriweather, the freakin’ organ player.

“Okay, okay,” Professor Mack cut in, her right hand exploring his back, the curvature of his spine. “Our time is limited, so let’s get down to it. We’ll rotate the platform ninety degrees every fifteen minutes. You’ll notice your sketch paper is quartered for you to make an attempt from four different angles. Just an outline of his form to begin with, down to the core. Fill in once you’ve got it completely defined. After that’s done, raise your hand and I’ll see what you’ve got.”

Then her hand went to the lever at the side of the X-frame and shifted it. Robbie’s arms and legs spread, the Vitruvian Punk in Position Number Two. The strips of cloth covering his penis, testicles, and the center of his buttocks fluttered but remained in place.

“When one of us has an acceptable start and is ready to move on,” Professor Mack continued, “then I’ll show you what Robbie’s got. Don’t worry—I’ll give everyone a heads-up before I denude him completely—just in case any of you have second thoughts. If all goes well, he’ll be presented for full rendering, by … three o’clock or so.”

Michael hadn’t been put through this, Robbie reflected with some bitterness. He’d volunteered, gotten paid, and he hadn’t gone through anything close to this. Michael, who wasn’t even body-conscious, hadn’t been stripped to a dinner napkin in front of mentors and reporters and family friends. He had posed for a room full of anonymous students, just a handful in a population of thousands. Strangers all.

Well, except for Robbie himself. Michael hadn’t minded one bit. And yet Robbie had pitied him, somehow—probably because Robbie hadn’t needed to find work on campus, hadn’t needed to degrade himself. Now, finding himself exposed within breathing distance of a host of familiar, older women, the shame was transcendent. And his cock was starting to feel restless.

No! God, no—please.

If he got hard now, his wang would carry that cloth straight up and off to the side, like attempting to raise a flag and failing. He tried to make his mind wander, or to focus on something else, on anything but the way Professor Mack and Mrs. Fenwick and Mrs. Merriweather were staring at him in his public, televised degradation.

The counter on the wall read six million, four hundred twenty-two thousand, three hundred fifty-two—ticking ever upwards by scores of viewers at a time.

But then the women started drawing, and the impending threat of an involuntary erection subsided as the room fell quiet. The soft sound of pencils on paper actually calmed him, and after a minute or two, soothed him. The delighted, devilish stares that had greeted him were quickly replaced by clinical study, actual effort—which Robbie understood. It had been the same with him after the first few minutes of Michael’s session. Whether it was bogus or not, the women started behaving like they had a job that needed doing. And that wasn’t so bad, was it?

No, Robbie thought. Not so bad.

From where he was mounted, he had a clear look at the time. Whatever else was going to happen to him, it would be over in less than three hours—and the first day of his penance would be in the books, one-third of his debt to society paid.

At two-fifteen, the platform rotated. A couple of the women got up to stretch for a minute before resuming their places and starting the second quarter of their sketch page.

At two-thirty, it rotated again. A couple of complaints about not having enough time, minor grumblings.

At two-forty, while the platform was centered right in front of her, Mrs. Fenwick raised her hand.

Robbie had a fleeting vision—a memory—of her as Professor Mack went to her to observe the work she had done so far. Robbie recalled apologizing to her the morning after a sleepover he’d had at her house, celebrating her son’s birthday—Ashton, one of Robbie’s longest-standing childhood friends. Robbie had said he was sorry for acting like an idiot and being loud the night before. Robbie had no trouble remembering that apology, although he couldn’t remember with any specificity what he’d actually done to inspire it.

She’d been so understanding, so kind, and so dismissive of the whole thing. “Just boys being boys,” she’d said, ruffling his hair.

Professor Mack nodded her approval at Mrs. Fenwick’s handiwork, and Mrs. Fenwick beamed with pride.

“Oh, good,” she said. “Finish undressing him, then, please.”

Professor Mack turned from her and approached Robbie, a smirk curling the corner of her lips. “Deep breath,” she said. “It’ll be all right.”

Robbie could only stand there, fixed in place, saying nothing as she ran her finger down the side of his ribcage to the string that supported the last of his modesty. And to his horror, he found that his “modesty” was now “supporting” the cloth, rising up against his will before Professor Mack’s finger reached the knot.

“Last chance,” she said—to the assemblage of sketchers, not to him. “Time for the big reveal.”

Beneath the cloth, Robbie’s nuts were fully visible. He could feel the air conditioning down there. His sack was a tight plum with the texture of a basketball, swelling with expectation. He regarded his audience, his eyes darting from one face to another, seeking solace, wondering if any would leave.

None of them did. They leaned forward. Their eyes were wide—all except the senator’s, who narrowed hers. Mrs. Merriweather batted her lashes at him. But of all of them, it was hardest for him to accept having this done to him in the presence of Mrs. Fenwick, the one who had just ordered his final stripping.

Go! he wanted to shout. Get out of here! Please!

But he kept quiet, even when the knot came undone between Professor Mack’s thumb and forefinger and the cloth fell away. There he was, the Vitruvian Punk, not just on camera but before a live civilian audience, many of them women he had known his whole life, sporting a boner the size of Florida at low tide. Professor Mack held the cloth up to his face, making sure he got a good look at what he wasn’t wearing anymore. He moaned.

Moaning was okay. He was allowed inarticulate exclamations. He wouldn’t have to pay for them later, so long as he didn’t overdo it. He moaned again.

“Oh, boy,” Professor Mack said, studying his erection. “Can’t have that, can we? This is ‘The Human Form,’ not porn.” Then, to the crowd, “A little help?”

What? Robbie though, aghast. What kind of “help” are you talking about?

He locked eyes with Nurse Reyes-Garcia. Please, Matron, he wanted to plead with her. Couldn’t you come over here and just flick it, or something?

She stared back at him, offering nothing.

“Come on,” Professor Mack cajoled. “We all knew this might happen. We talked about it.”

Mrs. Fenwick regrettably sighed. “Harvey would kill me,” she said. “Sorry. Was all I could do to talk him into letting me be here.”

“He definitely looks like he needs it,” said Mrs. Crop, the reporter, “but I just report the news. I’m not supposed to be the news.”

“Too awkward,” said one, a friend of his mother’s.

“It would feel wrong,” said another, a former babysitter. “That would be crossing the line, I think.”

Go down, Robbie silently commanded his penis. You’ve got to go down. You know what’s coming.

His penis, however, was perfectly happy to remain at attention. It tightened under their scrutiny. It swelled. Heat spread through his core like thick, warm milk spilled slowly.

“I’ll do it,” crooned Mrs. Merriweather, rising from her chair. “Poor boy’s suffering, can’t you see? If none of you younger lot will step forward…”

None of them did, so she came to him.

Robbie stared off to the side, disbelieving, as she knelt in front of him and took him in hand. She had painted nails, Mrs. Merriweather did, but she was careful with them. She held his cock first to one side, then the other. She gave it a preliminary pump or two, ran her hand under his balls.

I’m not going to last long, Robbie thought, heart thudding. God, why? Was I really bad enough to deserve this?

Her hand was so warm, so soft.

“How lovely,” she said, kissing the tip, forcing a gasp. “May I suckle him?”

Professor Mack seemed unsure, looking from one officer to the other.

Nurse Reyes-Garcia nodded—but it was the younger officer, Kersey, who said, “If you’re willing to do that in front of eight million viewers, feel free.”