The Joy of Nudity CMNF-style Pt. 03

"'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 René 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 Réage, 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 cliché 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 René, 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.