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.

"Woman's nudity is wiser than the teachings of the philosophers." (Max Ernst, Propos et Présence)

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 négligée, 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 déshabillé 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 maîtresse d' (that's the sophisticated term for waitress).

As I served the entrée 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 décolletage 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 négligée 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 bœuf 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 pièces de bœuf, 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.