That's Why They Call It the Streak

 I guess this is a fairly basic and short simple story but sometimes the classics are enough for a quick story. This is pretty much just a story about a college student who decides to streak her university campus during a major football game to prove that she is not a nerd but of course things don't go according to plan, so basically an entire embarrassed nude female story completely involving a naked in public story. All in all pretty damn good and I thought that most of the illustrations came out pretty decently.

That's Why They Call It the Streak
The roar of the crowd was a living thing, a pulsating wave of sound that washed over the bleachers and spilled onto the edges of the sun-drenched field. For Rebecca, the sound was a distant, irrelevant hum, a backdrop to the meticulously organized data points in her neurobiology textbook. She sat in her usual spot, high in the alumni section—quieter, more shaded—her pencil scratching notes in the margin with a precision that mirrored her entire twenty-one years of existence.
    “You are a ghost, Bec,” Alana’s voice cut through her concentration, laced with affectionate exasperation. Alana, a whirlwind of crimson hair and kinetic energy, plopped down beside her, smelling of sunscreen and rebellion. “A scholarly, brilliant, utterly forgotten ghost.”
    Rebecca didn’t look up. “I’m pre-med. Ghosts don’t get into Johns Hopkins.”
    “Exactly!” Alana gestured broadly at the spectacle below, where the Titans, their college football team, were lining up for the second-half kickoff. The game was a sell-out, a rivalry classic being broadcast on regional television. “This is it. Our last semester. The great, sprawling biography of Rebecca Rhineheart: summa cum laude, dean’s list every semester, winner of the Pembroke scholarship… and what else? What’s the anecdote? What’s the story they’ll tell at reunions when your name comes up?”
    “That I cured a rare disease?” Rebecca offered, finally glancing at her friend.
    “Boring!” Alana sang. “They’ll say, ‘Oh, Rebecca, yes, very smart. Always in the library.’ And then they’ll move on to someone who actually lived here. You spent four years in a cloister. You’ve never been to a real party, you’ve never done a single spontaneous, reckless, glorious thing. Don’t you want to be remembered for something that makes people’s jaws drop? Something that says, ‘That quiet girl had fire in her?’”
    Rebecca felt a familiar, tight coil of anxiety in her stomach. Alana’s words were needles, pricking a balloon of quiet dissatisfaction she kept carefully tethered. She was a ghost. A polite, high-achieving phantom in the bustling world of college life.
    “What are you suggesting?” Rebecca asked, her voice barely audible over the crowd’s sudden roar at a completed pass.
    Alana’s eyes gleamed with impish fire. She leaned in, her voice a conspiratorial whisper. “The ultimate act of existential reclamation. A streak. Right across that field. During the next timeout.”
    Rebecca’s laugh was a short, startled burst. “You’re insane. I’m… I’m rather bashful, Alana. I don’t even like changing in the locker room with the lights on.”
    “Details!” Alana waved a dismissive hand. “The beauty of modern times. Wear a mask. That fancy Venetian one from the drama department’s Carnival production you helped with. Mystery! Intrigue! They’ll remember the symbol, the act, not the person. It’s perfect. You get the liberation, the story, without the pesky identity crisis.”
    The absurdity was absolute. Yet, as the autumn sun warmed her neck and the chant of “DE-FENSE!” thrummed through the stadium, the idea didn’t immediately evaporate. It planted a seed. A nerd. A teacher’s pet. A good girl. The labels felt like a cage she had built herself, plank by conscientious plank. To do something so wildly, profoundly out of character… it was terrifying. But was it also… possible?
    The Titans called a timeout. The giant screens flashed with replays. The band struck up a fight song. The coil in Rebecca’s stomach tightened, then snapped.
    “Where’s the mask?” she heard herself say, her voice strangely steady.
    Alana’s grin was triumphant. From her oversized bag, she produced the beautiful, bejeweled Venetian moretta mask, white with delicate silver filigree. It covered the entire upper half of the face. “I had a feeling. Go. The equipment shed by the south end zone. I’ll have your clothes waiting after. Now run!”
    What followed was a blur of adrenaline-sharpened senses. Rebecca moved on autopilot, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs. In the shadowy, dank silence of the equipment shed, she peeled off her jeans, her sweater, her sensible underwear, folding them with absurd neatness on a crate. The air was cool on her skin, raising goosebumps. She fastened the mask, the world narrowing to the two eyeholes. Her reflection in a dusty pane of glass was a shock: a pale, slender body crowned by an ornate, anonymous work of art. She didn’t look like Rebecca Rheinheart. She looked like a creature from a dream, or a myth.
    Pushing the shed door open, she stepped into the narrow corridor of concrete between the shed and the field wall. The noise of the stadium engulfed her. With a breath that felt like her first, she hoisted herself onto the wall, and then she was running.
    The grass was cool and surprisingly soft under her bare feet. The sensation was immediate, electric. She was a dart of white and silver and pale skin against the vibrant green. A strange, powerful exhilaration surged through her, a feeling so foreign it was dizzying. It was freedom. It was a silent scream against every expectation, every late night in the library, every declined invitation. She felt powerful. She felt beautiful. She felt, for the first time, truly alive in her own body, the wind a caress on every inch of her. A titillating thrill, not sexual but profoundly sensory, crackled in her veins. This was her act. Her story.
    The reaction from the crowd was a slow-building tsunami. A confused murmur swelled into shouts, then laughter, then a unified, deafening roar of shock and delight. She saw a blur of faces in the stands, mouths agape, phones raised. She heard the frantic, amused voice of the stadium announcer trying to maintain order. She saw the players on the field, a wall of massive, padded bodies on the Titans’ sideline, turning as one.
    And there they were. The attractive guys from the football team, the campus deities whose names she knew only from sports pages and Alana’s swooning. Jax, the quarterback, with his movie-star grin. Marcus, the linebacker, all coiled strength. They were staring, not with leers, but with pure, unadulterated astonishment. They pointed, they laughed, they cheered her on. In that moment, behind her mask, she was a legend. She was not Rebecca the nerd; she was a fearless phantom of fun.
    Then, fate intervened with cruel, precise timing.
    As she pivoted near the thirty-yard line to complete her dash back to the shed, a sudden, violent sneeze—a product of nerves and cool air—wracked her body. The ribbon holding the moretta mask, tied in her frantic haste, slipped. The mask didn’t fall gracefully; it was jerked loose by the motion of her head and the force of the sneeze, flying from her face and skittering across the grass like a discarded seashell.
    Time stopped.
    The roar of the crowd didn’t diminish; it changed. It coalesced into a thousand pointing fingers, a cacophony of recognizable shouts. “Is that… Rebecca Rheinheart?” “Rheinheart? From Bio 400?” “Oh my GOD, it’s the library girl!”
    The faces on the sideline transformed. The players’ expressions of amused shock melted into looks of bewildered recognition. Jax’s grin faded into a slack-jawed stare. Marcus’s eyebrows shot up into his helmet line. The heat of exhilaration vanished, replaced by an ice-cold flood of pure, undiluted horror. She was naked. Profoundly, utterly naked. And she was completely, unmistakably herself.
    Panic, sharp and blinding, seized her. The shed. Her clothes. Alana. She scrambled for the mask, but it was too far, a taunting jewel in the grass. Covering herself with her hands as best she could, she broke into a desperate, stumbling sprint back toward the south end zone, the crowd’s laughter now feeling pointed, cruel, a physical weight on her bare skin.
    She burst into the equipment shed, gasping, tears of humiliation blurring her vision. She looked to the crate.
    It was empty.
    Her neatly folded pile of clothing was gone. Frantically, she scanned the shadowy interior. Nothing. Only the smell of damp earth and old leather. “Alana?” she whispered, then shouted, her voice cracking. “ALANA! This isn’t funny!”
    But Alana wasn’t there. In her triumphant planning, had she been distracted? Had someone else found the clothes? A cold, sickening realization dawned: Alana had her phone, her keys, everything. She was trapped.
    Peering through a crack in the shed door, she saw the aftermath. Security guards were fanning out, talking into radios, scanning the stadium. The giant Jumbotron, in a nightmarish loop, was replaying the entire sequence—the graceful streak, the sneeze, the mask flying, the moment of horrified recognition. Her bare back, her face, frozen in high-definition shame for 70,000 people and a television audience. There was no hiding.
    The attractive players were now being interviewed by a sideline reporter, trying and failing to suppress smirks. “Yeah, we know Rebecca,” Jax was saying, shaking his head with a wry smile. “Smartest person in any room. Guess she wanted to prove she’s got another side.” His tone was not unkind, but it was utterly, terminally public.
    Her predicament was catastrophic. She couldn’t step out. She couldn’t stay. Every second the game continued was a second her humiliation was beamed across the state. She spotted a discarded, grease-stained towel and a large, stiff canvas tarp used for covering equipment. With trembling hands, she fashioned a crude, miserable toga, the rough canvas chafing her skin. It smelled of motor oil and grass.
    This was her story now. Not a daring act of liberation, but a cautionary tale of hubris. The mask had been more than a disguise; it had been the permission slip. Without it, she was just a naked honors student on national television. The exhilaration was a memory, replaced by a deep, shuddering vulnerability. She was remembered, alright. But as she huddled in the dark, listening to the roar of the crowd resume for the game’s climax—a game no one would remember as well as they’d remember her—Rebecca understood the brutal weight of the anecdote she had just authored. It was over 200 yards long, written not in ink, but in the stark, unforgiving pixels of a television screen, and it was only the first sentence of a new, and terrifying, chapter.
 

I just thought of this one off the top of my head figuring it's a fairly simple story so I fed it into an instant story maker with the following prompts: Alana encourages her friend Rebecca to streak naked across the field during the big game because she has always been such a teacher's pet and she spent all of her college years just studying and never going to parties, doesn't she want to be remembered for something like that, and Rebecca says she's rather bashful, and Alana says she could always wear a mask, so she decides that she will go through with it to prove that she is not just a nerd, and she actually feels rather exhilarated and even titillated by it until her mask comes off while all of the attractive guys from the football team are watching and then she starts going to look for her clothing but she can't find it anywhere and she finds herself in a really embarrassing predicament especially seeing as this game is being televised. 

    So yeah this not too much to be said about this one it's basically a simple embarrassed nude female story where you have a woman deciding to streak to prove that she is not a nerd and she tries to do it by wearing a mask but of course the mask falls off and then she can't find her clothing afterwards so she finds herself in a really embarrassing situation needless to say, because it wouldn't be as fun otherwise if she did!