Note: This story was dynamically reformatted for online reading convenience. ï>¿The Joy Of Nudity CMNF-Style by sarobah How I learned to stop worrying and love being naked. The Joy Of Nudity CMNF-Style Pt. 01 I have written a few stories for the Literotica site. They are based loosely on my experiences and strongly on my fantasies. Now it's time for my real-life stories. I will try to avoid embroidering the truth, but some dramatic license and some loss of memory (i.e., creative forgetting) are inevitable. And although the results may not be as exotic as one's fictional imaginings, there is a certain virtue in verisimilitude. The Birthday Gift (Unwrapped) "Woman's nudity is wiser than the teachings of the philosophers." (Max Ernst, Propos et PrÃ(C)sence) Before I begin, I should point out that I think "CMNF" ("clothed female naked male", in case you're new to this) is an ungainly expression. Yet no other term conveys precisely what it entails. I use "one-sided nudity" sparingly, because -" for reasons I will clarify later -" I believe there is a fundamental and important difference between CMNF and CFNM. (Also, it really should NFCM, since the focus is surely on, or should be on, the nude female. But I won't quibble over this.) I should also mention at this point that Rob (at the time of this story my boyfriend, now my husband) had of course seen me naked -" in the bedroom obviously, in the bathroom unsurprisingly. There were a couple of times when, in a frisky mood, I performed a striptease for him. But I don't count these as true CMNF. If we're going to bed and I happen to get my gear off first, it's not really CMNF. If I'm in the shower and he intrudes, by accident or by design, that ain't CMNF. If, in the heat of passion, he rips off my clothes, that's not quite within the definition either. Which is not to say that these things aren't an incredibly sexy turn-on for both of us, but they are not what I would call CMNF. I could go on, but narrative is better than exposition. So... I have never been a fan of birthdays, mine or anyone else's. I'm not cynical; I just don't understand all the fuss. Is it a celebration that we've managed to survive another year, or a magical rite to help get us through the next? Rob accepted this as one of my eccentricities. When we moved in together, I insisted that spending money on presents was an extravagance. We were both postgraduate students, living in a dilapidated house on the edge of the campus and subsisting on a modest income from lecturing and tutoring. But we were not impoverished. I just wanted our money spent on things that made sense (to me). On my birthday I knew that Rob was itching to buy me something. So as a pre-emptive strike I proposed we invest in a fancy, once-in-a-blue-moon banquet. We had not enough funds in the household treasury to justify a trip to an upmarket restaurant, but could afford to have the meal delivered. (Ordering in was expedient. I didn't want to spoil the dinner by actually making it. While Rob is an indifferent cook, I am the worst in all worlds, known and imagined. A traumatized dinner guest once applied to have my meals declared toxic waste by the Department of the Environment... so the story goes.) Now Rob and I have different perspectives on what transpired that night. To this day he believes I was making amends for my intransigence on gift-giving. He's a lovely guy, but he retains the ingrained masculine conceit that a woman derives her principal pleasure from pleasing her partner. We first met in the university department where we were both doing research. Although the same age (I a few weeks the younger), as a compulsive-obsessive eager beaver without hobbies or divertissements, I was technically his superior -" not exactly his boss, but with a higher ranking and sometimes having a supervisory role. And when we started going out, I already possessed a formidable reputation amongst the faculty for being very assertive with a short temper. On our first serious date I got mad at him for presumptuously paying for dinner without my consent (the gallant cad!). On the second I got into an argument with the manager that almost had us kicked out of the restaurant. But instead of being scared off, insouciant Rob was entranced by his pocket-sized harridan. Perhaps because of my combative nature and the problems it can cause, he has always been overly protective. However, in his defence, I do attract such sentiments (until people get to know the real me). I'm what you'd call petite, although I think I have sufficient curves and nice enough legs, along with a pixie face, to consider myself reasonably attractive. But my hair is a lank straw-blond, razor-cut in a shaggy style which, along with some shabby clothing choices, makes me look awkward and immature (and has driven my super-elegant mother to the edge of despair). I have a high-pitched voice which rises to a shrill squeak when I'm excited or angry. To this day I get carded (asked for proof of age) by suspicious bar attendants. I had just begun to neutralize Rob's protective instinct when I was stricken by a bout of severe bronchitis. It was my own fault, really. As mentioned, one of my quirky qualities is that I belong to that marginally maladjusted subset of society known as the overachiever. My illness was therefore due in large part to exhaustion caused by overwork. Rob started treating me like an invalid -" even worse, like a sickly little sister. And that's when I decided that I would do something to reassert my status as a fully functioning girlfriend. Now I have never thought of myself as any more or less sexualized than the average healthy adult female. I've always made an effort to please my man, in and beyond the bedroom, but not at the expense of my own pleasure. I don't dress up very often. I prefer jeans and sneakers to dresses and heels, but have room for both ensembles in my closet. I don't often do glamour, I wear only basic make-up and my hair tends to the unkempt, but I have my girlie moments. I'm satisfied with my body and try to keep in shape with daily exercise and a healthy diet. I've been told I rock a bikini (and I hope that means what I think it does). When I'm looked upon with approving eyes I enjoy the attention. I'm happy to be seen as desirable, though I won't be objectified. I am confidently assertive of my autonomy. Whatever lifestyle I follow will be mine alone to choose. Anyway, when the day came I left work early, racing home tired and frustrated. It was a drizzly December afternoon, and I was delayed by a dreary staff meeting which followed an excruciating hour of attempting to teach scalar, vector and tensor fields to a class of fidgety physics undergrads. I was determined to beat Rob to the house so that I could prepare for the evening I had planned. He was clueless as to what was in the works. I perked up when Rob came in. I had put on a new, black nÃ(C)gligÃ(C)e, lacy, frilly and tiny, to greet him at the door. He was startled speechless (since even to bed I nearly always wore PJs); and after a perfunctory kiss I told him to change into his best (indeed only) suit while I poured the wine and selected the perfect ambience music. He emerged from the bedroom looking stiff and uneasy, but I quickly soothed his discomposure with some sexy pirouettes in the living room. As the chiffon swirled, floating on the fragrant air of scented candles, grazing my thighs like a gentle lover's kiss, even if I had gone no further I would have felt fully fulfilled. When the food arrived I felt flirty enough to answer the doorbell in my dÃ(C)shabillÃ(C) state; but Rob hustled me out of sight and settled the account. I think he was slightly annoyed by the cost; but he graciously never showed it. Our house had a small patio, shielded from the neighbors' view by a high fence and dense foliage. Here I'd set up a table with all the accoutrements for intimate dining -" the candles, flowers and (borrowed from my mother) elegant silverware, fine crockery and crystal glasses. I had even designed and printed a menu. Fortunately the rain had stopped. It was under cover, but the air was cool and damp. I told him to take his seat on the patio while I played the maÃ(R)tresse d' (that's the sophisticated term for waitress). As I served the entrÃ(C)e in my skimpies, Rob gave me a comically quizzical look. He was thinking, no doubt, "Whose birthday is this?" But I put on my most coquettish expression and slipped the straps of my little nightie off my shoulders. Seeing how much I reveled in my performance, he relaxed and enjoyed the spicy dumplings and the piquant view. Yet my display of dÃ(C)colletage was only the beginning. Once I had brought out the main course, before I sat and acting on impulse, I pushed my panties down my thighs to plant my bare backside on the chair. It was made of iron latticework, and in just a couple of minutes without my body heat on top it had turned icy-cold. So as my flesh touched the metal its sharp bite forced out a puff of breath. Rob smiled. My gesture turned him on, but it's when he realized that this was my birthday treat. It was a sublime experience, enriched by the breeze which drifted across the rooftops, wafting through the yard, flickering the candle flames and caressing my skin. My nipples responded, excited by the cool air and the ticklish touch of their fluttering gossamer veil. Exquisitely aroused, I pulled the top of my nÃ(C)gligÃ(C)e down to my waist. I shivered, not just from the chill. It was a weird sensation, as if this were the first time Rob had seen me so unadorned. He must have been having the same thoughts, because he reached over his bÅ"uf à la bourguignon to fondle my breasts. His hand lingered. It was pleasantly warm, but he squeezed and tweaked and twiddled until I gasped. He pulled back contritely. "Why did you stop?" I growled. "The food's getting cold," he replied. "I'm getting hot," I purred. "You already are," he said. When we'd finished our piÃ"ces de bÅ"uf, as I stood up to remove the plates, feeling intrepid I tried to hold my knickers between my knees while I shuffled between veranda and kitchen. But after a couple of timid steps I allowed them to fall and I left them behind. Returning to the table, I found them draped over the half-empty wine bottle. The dessert menu listed two items, sweet and tart. The former consisted of candied fresh ginger and chocolate mousse, with lime-blossom tea. The second was, naturally, me au naturel. I left the last of my clothing in the kitchen as I brought out the bowls. Clad only in my goosebumps, I trembled a little, and coughed a couple of times. Rob was concerned. He clearly felt guilty, warm and cosy in his clothing. He suggested that we move inside; but I didn't want to spoil the mood. Anyway, the embrace of the night air was as delicious as the dessert. Yet I don't recall a lot about my dining sans attire. It was as much surreal as sensual or seductive. My mood was an unsettling blend of dreamy and intense. My most vivid recollection is of the smells -" the candles' subtle perfume, the fragrance of the flowers, the bouquet of the wine, the aromas from the food. That's because, as one knows, olfactory sensations trigger the most vibrant memories and emotions. Rob behaved as nonchalant as he could. We endeavored to carry on mundane conversation. I tried at times to be playful -" hence my attempt to walk with my knickers around my knees -" and at other times to be steamy and provocative. Mostly I felt self-conscious, promiscuous, even embarrassed. For it wasn't just the nudity, it was the one-sided aspect -" him in his suit and tie, me in my birthday suit completely exposed to his tender gaze and to the crisp evening air. This was one of the most erotic episodes in my life. It caused my lips to quiver, my nipples to swell, my skin to tingle. I felt the familiar, urgent tickle below my belly, and I could not suppress a dulcet moan and a guttural groan. "Happy birthday, sweetie" Rob said, as he picked me up and carried me inside, to the bedroom. "We'll clear up in the morning." My night of delight was far from over. The Joy Of Nudity CMNF-Style Pt. 02 How I learned to stop worrying and love being naked. One-Sided Nudity, Two-Sided Pleasure! "Vive la diffÃ(C)rence!" (Anatole France, attributed) For me, there is no more potent or sensual expression of the wonderful duality of male and female than when I am naked and my man is fully clothed. If people call that kinky, I will wear it (so to speak). I don't enjoy nudity per se, in other words for its own sake. I don't dislike it, just don't get a big kick out of it. I would not describe myself as an exhibitionist. I have never been fully naked in full public view. What I enjoy is my one-sided nudity with Rob. But although it's nice to give him pleasure, it is mainly for my own delection. I get turned on being naked in his presence, and the feeling is intensified by his clothing. I enjoy the touch of his shirt and trousers against my bare skin and sensitized girlie bits. What I'm saying is that the CMNF is my choice, my decision, my agency. I am giving Rob the gift of my naked body. It's unconditional. It's one-sided. It's not contractual. I don't expect anything in return except to see and feel his pleasure. That doesn't diminish me. It is a proud affirmation of my womanhood and our mutual bond of love and respect. So I have no problem stating that one-sided nudity has been a way to enrich my relationship with Rob. Yet one of the things about CMNF that I savor is the delightful disparity. When one of you is fully on display, intimately exposed, while the other isn't, there's an inequality that I find arousing, like how an indignation junkie or a heavy exerciser feels euphoria. It releases the flow of endorphins... and dopamine and adrenaline and serotonin. (Neurochemistry is wild!) Let me explain. I used to hate doing housework. It's not that I'm lazy or I thought it beneath my station. It's that I found domestic chores to be mind-numbingly boring. My brain is in perpetual high gear, and the dreary repetition would drive me close to insanity. The thankless drudgery is never done with. It drains your energy and consumes hours that could (in my opinion) be better spent. The work is never interesting and rarely challenging. No matter how good a job you do, it has to be repeated, over and over again, without variation. And it doesn't help that I lack the necessary skills, care and patience. So, being obsessive about order and cleanliness, and too poor to afford professional help (a cleaner that is, not a psychologist), I forced myself to do it. But my loathing was such that, for example, I resisted having people over as guests, even my family, because I dreaded the clean-up. Have I made my point? Yet now I love it. So what changed? You guessed it! Where I have been more fortunate than many women is that Rob has willingly pitched in. In the bad old days he enjoyed it no more than I did, but complained less (or did so in manly silence). Now we look forward to our Saturday morning spruce-up, and spring-cleaning has become an all-season routine. So allow me to describe a typical housekeeping session. I crawl out of bed just after sunrise, as I do every morning. (When I moved in with Rob, that took some adjustment. Previously I had stayed up late and woke up late.) I normally sleep naked these days, so without a pause it's off to the bathroom and then straight to the kitchen. Still blinking back the break-of-day blur, I make my first of many cups of caffeine for the day and my usual breakfast of banana on toast. Pallid sunlight filters weakly through the curtains. My skin offers no protection against the chill in the air, and without my fluffy slippers my feet curl on the cold tiles. I don't mind, because, on cue, Rob appears in the doorway, sniffing the aroma of brewing coffee and browning bread. He comes up behind me and in for a cuddle. Wrapped in his arms, with the fleecy caress of his robe on my back, I find my drowsiness disappears. Rob helps out with warm hands that stroke my neck, massage my breasts, rub my belly. "That better, sweetie?" he asks. "Getting there," I reply. "Just a little more..." The snuggles over, Rob starts to fry his eggs, tomato and bacon. I blanch at the thought of starting the day on a heavy stomach. And I stay well clear of the radiant heat and the sizzling pan spitting oil. (There's an apron waiting on a hook nearby, but it won't be needed.) We sit on the patio to eat. The strengthening sunlight smooths out my goosebumps. Then we get straight into our chores. There's no strict schedule. Today we start in the living room, with me doing the vacuuming and dusting, Rob cleaning the blinds. It's emancipating, in a way, to be working in the nude. Because we are so used to wearing clothes that it's easy to forget that nakedness is our natural state. Thus, to free your body of clothing's constrictions gives a refreshing experience of release. So much so that when our chores are completed it feels strange to get dressed. So unless we're going out I don't. Rob, of course, is fully clothed. I don't mean he's in a tuxedo, rather shorts and T-shirt. Every so often he stops to look at me, in appreciation and (I like to think) admiration. He's seen enough of me naked by now that it isn't a novelty; but the sight of me toiling in the buff still turns him on. Having him look at me that way does the same for me. And part of the appeal is the delicious inequality. We are both working hard, doing similar jobs, but one of us has the added role of being visually pleasing to the other; and it's me who's the decorative one because I'm the woman. I'm not saying this is bad, or that I don't find Rob attractive... but I believe that the male body looks better covered, some parts in particular. (Maybe I'm prejudiced; but consider the male appendage. "Whereas a divine being could be imagined creating most other parts of the outer human, the penis looks like the work of squabbling interns covering for God on a busy afternoon. The straight bit doesn't go with the round bits. It looks pathetic when flaccid. When aroused it breaks up the line of the body." A man wrote that -" Donald Clarke, who was arguing for more male nudity on TV and in movies. So I have nothing personal against penises. I wouldn't want one, mind you, but they do have their uses. I was going to write "They have their place" but that might incite sniggering.) There's a chance, albeit slim, that a visitor will come along, veer off the path, peek through the window and see me in my unrobed splendor. We normally keep the blinds shut for our CMNF sessions, but while Rob is cleaning them they're open to the world. It's one of the risks I happily take that reinforces the imparity which makes my nudity more than just not wearing clothes. By lunchtime we are just about finished. I'm in the kitchen, on my hands and knees scrubbing the floor. Rob comes in from sweeping the patio, crouches behind me and begins fondling my backside, kneading the flesh and parting the cheeks. I wonder if I should say no or brace for entry. It's one of the exigencies of being naked. You're alluring and you're accessible. But he's just being silly. And as he bounds to his feet I don't know if I'm relieved or disappointed. I curse him and he laughs. After lunch I decide to stay naked for the rest of the day. We're not going out, will both be spending the afternoon in the study. I'm preparing for a tutorial session on singularity theorems and geodesically incomplete spacetimes (more fun than it sounds), and Rob is assisting. So there's no reason for me to remain nude... except why not? The leather chair, our plushest piece of furniture in the house, is luxurious against my bare skin. Rob is seated beside me, and every so often my breast will brush against his shirt, my thigh against his trouser leg. Even after all this time, and despite my concentration, it makes me tingle. However, by late afternoon the temperature has fallen, and since we don't have heating appliances (they give me a headache), it's time to cover up. And actually, it's Rob who says "Aren't you getting cold?" I'm so absorbed in my work that I haven't noticed that I'm starting to shiver. So who would have imagined, not really so long ago, that I would look forward to my Saturday morning chores? ***** "Vanity dies on nature trails." (We Dream of Travel blog) Rob and I have not kept our CMNF lifestyle a secret from our friends and family. Indeed, when I explained the experience to my mother, she wished that she and Dad were a few years younger. I told her that age is not a barrier, that she is still very attractive. But she ruefully, wistfully shook her head. Now I should here mention that I have a brother. He's two and a half years younger and I still call him my Baby Bro, even though he's nearly twice my size. We have always maintained an intense, albeit good-natured, sibling rivalry. I've had to fight a never-ending war to shore up my superiority, and he's waged a relentless campaign to undermine it. So when he learned of my affinity for au naturel he was intrigued that I would show what he saw as vulnerability. His curiosity was piqued, though not from a desire to behold his sister naked (because ew!). Instead I could see in my baleful Baby Bro's face that he was concocting a plan to introduce his girlfriend to the concept. I have not inquired about the outcome. As for my friends, most regard it as a rather quaint crinkle in my personality; but they're not judgmental. As for beyond my social circle, I've never aspired to join a nudist or naturist club. I know about CMNF and CFNM communities, but so far as I'm concerned one-sided nudity is a private thing between Rob and me. However, there was one time when I had an accomplice... or I was hers. It was Rob who introduced me to Charlotte, an associate professor at the university. Her husband James is a "struggling artist" (I'm being generous) and she is the breadwinner. They've never had children but I don't know the story. (Not everyone wants children!) Charlotte and I are similar in that we are both intelligent, articulate, assertive, strong-minded, high-achieving women. Physically, however, we could hardly be more different. She is statuesque, taut-muscled but curvaceous, glamorous and all-round gorgeous. How Rob came to know Charlotte and James is a convoluted tale. The important detail is that they invited us to dinner and described their lifestyle. Once or twice a week formidable Charlotte transforms into a "love, honor and obey" wife. For her there is something very satisfying about arriving home tired after a hard day's work and putting on skimpy lingerie to cook the dinner and do her other chores, to wait on her man and then be expected to serve him in the bedroom, or in the living room, or in the bathroom. It's about relieving herself of stress and inhibition, to become less self-absorbed and more attentive to James's needs. She portrayed her submission to him as liberating. On those occasions she allows fantasy to take over and her husband to take control. So as you'd expect Charlotte is an aficionada of CMNF. But we only shared the one episode. We went on a hike together. It took about eight hours. As we'd be keeping mainly to the beach, I had my bikini on under my hiking outfit of khaki shorts and tank top. But Charlotte was wearing just her bikini (plus the de rigueur accessories of boots and cap, sunscreen and insect repellent). Neither she nor James nor Rob said a word, but my concupiscent consort gave me a wink and a nod which took the place of speech. With a shrug and a practised pout, I pulled down my shorts and handed them to Rob, who stowed them in my backpack. We started our trek, and it was not long before we went to the next stage. We were on the crest of a ridge overlooking the beach. Charlotte took a swallow from her water bottle and then drew off her top. I marveled at the skill with which she unhooked it while keeping on her rucksack and without help from James. I took my cue, but had to detach my pack to remove my shirt and bra. It then took another half-hour to descend to the beach, at which point Charlotte halted again. Off came her pants. Off came mine (both layers). During our divestment we didn't make a fuss, turn it into a performance or even speak about it. It was so matter-of-fact that at first it didn't even feel erotic. On the beach it felt almost natural... except that James and Rob were still in their clothes. When we started moving again, however, Charlotte did put on something of a show. She carried her pack high on her back, and she swung her hips as she walked, more so than normal or natural. Her bare derriÃ"re wiggled provocatively for the three of us to gaze at in awe. Even I felt the spark of arousal. Yet when I tried to do likewise I fear it just made me look drunk. Still, it was a delight to see how much the woman reveled in her nudity. Her nipples remained erect the entire time. It was reassuring to me that the feeling doesn't have to become stale. Her mood was infectious. Aside from the cerebral pleasure of being naked, the warm sunlight and the cool breeze on parts of one's body not normally exposed to the outdoors creates a wonderful feeling of healthy, unrestrained, sensual bliss. I almost pitied the men. They could have stripped down as well, but that wasn't the name of the game. They were now committed to the one-sided nudity which kept them covered. And after we'd all been for a dip in the ocean, they regretted not bringing towels and had to march on in wet clothes. Meanwhile, Charlotte and I just strode out of the water, replaced our boots, caps, sunglasses and backpacks, and started to walk. Nonetheless, hiking naked has its issues. It's a low-impact activity, but unsupported breasts won't keep still over uneven ground. However, this felt nice because at the pace at which we were moving it was more a slow, rhythmic swaying than bothersome bouncing and jiggling. The pack's shoulder straps compress the sides of your boobs so they poke out a little, which also has a nice effect, if that's what you're after. Charlotte's spectacular orbs needed no assistance, but mine can always do with some enhancement... if that's what you're after. The harness was well-padded, as on all good kit, so this wasn't a problem for unprotected shoulders. On the other hand, the hip belt dug into my flesh, which I dealt with by inserting my gloves (that I carry in my pack for when I'm using trekking poles) between the belt and my body. More of a dilemma could have been itching and abrasion on raw skin from the "airmesh" lining on the back panel. Fortunately (or rather, prudently) my pack has a foam-cushioned frame. The other part which needed attention was the chest strap. I've always worn it "underboob", for no particular reason. But because it was not padded and would ride up and chafe my breasts, I buckled it high on my torso. The walk itself was not particularly difficult. We stayed off the dry sand when and where possible. At various stages, to avoid large rock formations too steep and slippery to tackle, we had to veer inland and follow a narrow path over dunes covered in chest-high coastal heath -" a scrubby, salt-scalded but vibrant panoply of scarlet epacris, pink boronia, white-blossomed myrtle, green and gold acacia and banksia, blue-green eucalyptus. It's a fragile environment but the plants are hardy and their leaves can be razor-sharp and prickly. In the densest parts, an occasional errant branch or frond intruded onto the path and swished my exposed arms and legs. Only slightly more uncovered than when I set out, I felt extra-defenseless against the elements. Yet it was oddly exhilarating and intoxicating, to be so totally exposed. I applied extra dollops of insect repellent and sunblock lotion over my tenderest bits; but perspiration didn't bother me. With no fabric to soak the sweat and stay damp, my skin dried and my body cooled quickly. Still, it felt funny to have rivulets of sweat trickle down my belly and into the soft folds between my thighs, crystallizing as tiny silver beads on my pubic hair. I should confess here to some vanity. I had trimmed my pubes. Charlotte's was more luxuriant, but she's a champagne blonde at both ends so it didn't really show. I've never been a fan of going completely smooth down below, but when we confronted strangers I was glad that I had tidied up the shrubbery. The beach and hinterland were almost completely deserted. It was only in the early afternoon that we encountered other people. We had just finished our packed lunches and were about to head inland when we met a group of half a dozen young guys and girls. We stopped to chat, and none of them could resist staring at Charlotte and me. I think what discomposed them was not our nudity but how casual we were about it. The women even seemed a little embarrassed, which I attribute to the CMNF aspect. To be honest, though, I had to restrain my hands which kept creeping towards my crotch. Charlotte, on the other hand, was unabashedly proud of her state. She received most of the attention, which I didn't begrudge. She's much the more voluptuous of us, and with her imperious posture she made being stark naked a display of haute couture. She thrust out her chest and pelvis, and I'm not sure she even realized she was doing it. She was old enough, almost, to be her new fans' mother, but her near-perfect body and sublime self-confidence mesmerized them. As we parted, I saw glints in the eyes of the three young men. They exchanged meaningful glances, and I wondered how long it would be before their girlfriends got the message. However, this could have been my imagination. Once we'd completed the circuit and returned to our cars, the sun was low in the sky. Charlotte and I had been hiking in the nude for almost seven hours. It was a bummer to have to cover up for the drive home. And there was to be no repeat performance. Soon afterwards Charlotte took up an appointment at another university and she and James moved interstate. That was disappointing. I would have enjoyed exploring their lifestyle further, sharing more experiences. I expect that we will reunite one day; but in the meantime I shall remember with great fondness being denuded in the dunes. The Joy Of Nudity CMNF-Style Pt. 03 How I learned to stop worrying and love being naked. Sitting Pretty "'Undo your garter belt,' he says, 'and take off your panties.' This is easy, all she does is put her hands behind her back and lift herself up a bit. He takes her belt and panties from her hands, opens her bag and locks them in, then says, "You shouldn't sit on your petticoat or your skirt, you have to pull them up and sit directly on the seat.' The seat is made of imitation leather, slippery and cold, it's thrilling to feel it sticking to her thighs." "O was offered a stool between the two men, and as she was about to sit down RenÃ(C) said to her in a half-whisper to be careful not to crumple her dress. He helped her to slide her skirt off the stool, the cold leather of which she felt against her skin, while the metal rim around it pressed directly against the furrow of her thighs, for at first she dared only half sit down, for fear that if she were to sit down completely she might yield to the temptation to cross her legs." (Pauline RÃ(C)age, Histoire d'O) There's a certain piquancy to CMNF that's enhanced when it's in public. But I don't mean all-out, full-frontal nudity. A scene which has become almost a clichÃ(C) with a certain genre of book or movie takes place in a restaurant. The hero orders, or dares, the heroine to take off her panties. She surreptitiously slips them down her legs and hands them over. In some versions, other diners are cognizant of what's happening; in others they're oblivious. (In a slightly milder variant, she goes to the bathroom to do the deed.) My episode took place a few months after my first CMNF with Rob. By now our finances were in good shape. I had just been awarded a research grant which brought with it a promotion in the department. The salary increase wasn't much but enough to permit the occasional indulgence. So I decided to treat Rob and myself to a fancy restaurant meal. The place we went to had booths with plush leather seats. It was because we were tucked away in a corner that I had a sudden attack of impudent bravado. So unlike RenÃ(C), Rob didn't command anything. In fact, when he saw what I was doing he frowned and shook his head. He didn't disapprove, he was turned on, but he was thinking of my potential embarrassment. But of course violating the taboo and taking a real risk of getting caught was something I hadn't yet done. It appealed to me. Removing my knickers discreetly was tricky. I was wearing a short skirt so I could reach under the hem without trouble; but this meant that once they were halfway down my thighs they would be visible to anyone positioned at a suitable angle. No heads turned in my direction, but the waitress approached and quickly veered off. I think she knew, or at least suspected. (I was tempted to ask her later if it was a common thing!) Anyway, I lifted my bottom off the seat, hooked my thumbs into the sides of my briefs and quickly slid them off my butt and along my thighs to my knees. I hesitated when they were close to the point of no return. Then, resolved to go all the way, I had to bend forward in order to push them down my calves to my ankles, and even further to pick them up. I scrunched them into a little ball which I stuffed into my purse. I breathed a sigh of relief for my mission accomplished, and took a moment to appreciate the sensation -" at first more symbolic than corporeal. It was the the thrill of exhibitionism but without overt public display. It was the intimacy of a cheeky secret shared with my man and nobody else around us. However, I wished that I had instead given the panties to Rob to put in his pocket, as a token of my total commitment. At one stage of the evening I had to use the bathroom, and as a precaution on the way I kept my hands pressed to my sides, to hold my skirt in place. But when I returned to the table I was struck by another surge of derring-do. I drew the rear of my skirt back so that my bare backside touched the leather. Rob never noticed, and I didn't let him know. This was my private pleasure. And it was an exquisite feeling. But I couldn't help but squirm every so often, which focused my awareness even more. My face must have become flushed, so perhaps Rob did catch on. In any case, we dined and conversed just like any other couple. When the waitress brought our bill Rob, who is manly enough that he doesn't need to project his ego, left it for me to pay (as we'd arranged). When I reached into my purse for my cards, touching the little wad of silk which had screened my most intimate parts from the world produced a last-minute gush of arousal. Nevertheless, just before we left the restaurant I revisited the ladies' room to restore my undies to their normal place. As I stood up and my flesh peeled off the sticky leather, it made a sucking sound, and this was the only time I felt dread . But no one noticed. Back at the table, I dragged my butt to furtively wipe the seat and remove any trace of incriminating sweat. And, I hesitate to add, it probably wasn't just sweat. For two hours I had been in a state of constant stimulation. I might have remained pantyless. Being exposed in such a public place had made me feel extremely vulnerable and even a little shameful. But that was part of the buzz. However, it was windy outside. Therefore I decided that, to co-opt the Bard's words -" "The better part of valor is discretion, in the which better part I have saved my dignity." We took a taxi home. And though tempted, I left my knickers in place. Seats in a cab are not as clean as those in a posh restaurant. So during the ride, I squeezed Rob's hand and pondered the meaning of my actions in the restaurant. I realized that fear of detection had been a major part of my titillation. There was also the one-sidedness, the inequality of the experience. Even if he'd been inclined, Rob could not go where I'd been. He couldn't take down his trousers... not without being expelled and/or arrested, anyway. This is a woman's game (when she's wearing a skirt or dress). And if I had been found out, while Rob would share the embarrassment the shame would be mine. But none of these issues deterred me. They have inspired me. I have already covered this ground. In a way, the restaurant CMNF made me feel empowered -" not just in the sense of acting on my own free will, but in the way that I was taking risks and embracing discomfort which Rob would and could not endure. And, as always, that's not the end of the story. *** "Keep your mind on your driving. Keep your hands on the wheel. Keep your snoopy eyes on the road ahead." (Bob Hilliard and Lee Pockriss, Seven Little Girls Sitting in the Backseat) You know how your mother told you to wear clean underwear in case you have an accident? Well, this is why it took a while before I dared take off my knickers in the car. The first time was when we were heading out of town. We were visiting friends who had moved to a different city, six hours away by road. Rob and I shared the driving duties. He led off. It was a dull, overcast day, the view became monotonous. I was feeling bored and frisky, watching scrubby trees go by, listening to the dreary rumble of rubber on the asphalt. I was wearing a polka-dot sundress; so I raised myself off the seat and pushed my panties down to my knees. I went no further, so that in an emergency I could quickly pull them back into place. "Keep your eyes on the road," I barked at Rob, which was unfair because he merely glanced across at me a couple of times. In response he smirked and shook his head, and this was the first of my CMNF experiences that didn't animate either of us. I replaced them as we pulled in for a rest stop halfway through the journey. After that I took the wheel. The recess had brightened my mood and released my adventurous spirit. So when we were back on the highway, steering with one hand I pulled back my dress and once more wriggled my knickers down my legs, all the way to the mat. It took a while so it didn't distract me from my driving. Rob's admonitions to "Watch what's ahead" were revenge, I guess, for my earlier reprimand. Still, he thoughtfully reached down to retrieve my knickers and stow them in the console between our seats so they wouldn't interfere with my pedal work. I didn't sit on my dress. The upholstery felt pleasantly slick at first, then became clammy. I hadn't anticipated the intensity of the result. Maybe because I had to remain alert and responsive, my keenness of sensation was elevated to a level I've rarely felt (when not in bed with Rob). With every bend or swerve, I felt a tingle as my skin rose off from the vinyl and clung again as I sank back down. With each patch of rough bitumen we passed over, the shuddering sent a shiver up through my bare backside into my belly. Rob grew alarmed at my gasps of pleasure. "You okay, sweetie?" I grunted a reply. He attempted to keep my mind occupied with small talk. And it was a weird experience, more so than any other of my CMNF experiences. We tried to keep a normal conversation going through nearly three hours of my being constantly on the verge of orgasm. We made a toilet stop after about an hour because I thought I needed it; but after a couple of minutes I realized it was just my arousal putting pressure on my bladder. As I settled onto the seat once more I found it had cooled and felt delicious. Rob had volunteered to drive for the remainder of the trip, but I declined his offer. And as we pulled into the street where our friends lived, he teased me by clamping his hand on the lid of the console where my knickers were stashed. "Really?" I asked, revving the engine. "Okay then; everyone thinks I'm mad anyway." "It's my kind of madness," he said, removing his hand. "Let's not share." "Chicken," I replied.