The Joy of Nudity, Pt. 03

"O was offered a stool between the two men... and René 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. At first she dared to only half sit down, for fear that 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 it doesn't have to be all-out, full-frontal nudity.

A scene which has become almost a cliché with a certain genre of book and 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 a slightly milder variant, she goes to the bathroom for the purpose. In some versions, other diners are cognizant of what's happening; in others they're oblivious.

My episode took place a few months after my first true CMNF with Rob. I had been awarded a research grant which brought with it a promotion in the university physics department and a modest increase in salary. I decided to celebrate by treating Rob and myself to a meal at a fancy restaurant.

The place we went to had booths with plush leather seats. It was because we were tucked away in a secluded corner that I had a sudden attack of impudent bravado. The pleasant memory of my birthday night was partly to blame. But as well, I was feeling a little apologetic that I had been promoted above Rob. So unlike in many of the scenarios, it was not his initiative. 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 violating taboo and taking the risk of getting caught appealed to the wanton, wayward part of my nature.

Yet doing the deed discreetly was tricky. I had on silk lace bikini briefs under a short, carnation-pink dress with ruffled, off-the-shoulder straps. I wasn't wearing stockings. The skirt was pleated so I could reach under the hem without attracting attention, but it didn't reach my knees, which meant that once they were halfway down my thighs my displaced knickers would be visible to anyone positioned at a suitable spot. Since Rob and I were sitting across the table from each other, he was not in a position to shield me; and the tablecloth was not large enough to provide cover.

I carried on regardless. After the entrées had arrived, I lifted my bottom off the seat, hooked my thumbs into the sides of my panties and slid them off my butt and along my thighs. I did this quickly but hesitated when they reached my knees, the point of no return. They couldn't stay there without being seen. Resolved to go all the way, I had to bend forward in my seat in order to push them down my calves to my ankles. Then I leaned sideways to pick them up, and struck a snag. I realized that I could not tilt towards the wall side of the booth because it would look so obvious as I ducked under the table, even if I pretended that I'd dropped my napkin or a piece of cutlery. Still, I could not leave my undies crumpled around my ankles where they could be easily seen. So I had to lean to the left, open side. I tried to be subtle but am by nature undexterous, and as a result I felt a momentary panic when my knickers got caught on the heel of one shoe. I managed to extricate them without looking down. With a sigh of relief I scrunched them into a little ball which I hurriedly stuffed into my purse.

"Why are you smiling?" Rob asked.

"Isn't it obvious?" I wanted to say, but didn't. In fact it wasn't just the thrill of transgression nor the physical sensation that tickled my insides. For it suddenly occurred to me how such a flimsy scrap of gossamer was all that had shielded my vagina from the world, and yet without it I felt so vulnerable.

This was, of course, by no means the first time I had dined with Rob with nothing between my body and my seat, but until now it had been in our own private space. The extra thrill I felt now was that of covert exhibitionism -- in public but without overt public display. It was the intimacy of a cheeky secret shared with my man and nobody else around us. On the other hand, I became intensely more aware of the other diners. I felt watched, even though no heads turned my way, no eyes flickered in my direction. However, an approaching waitress abruptly veered off. I think she knew, or at least suspected, but she never let on.

I resisted the urge to cross my legs. That might have provided some reassurance, except that it would shorten my dress more, revealing perhaps too much. So I found myself pressing my knees together, even if it wasn't really necessary. No one, neither our fellow patrons nor the restaurant staff, had the correct viewing angle to compromise what remained of my modesty.

Every so often Rob played footsie with me. It's something he's always enjoyed, especially when I'm naked. But when the toe of his shoe brushed the insides of my thighs the pressure was too much to bear and I vigorously shook my head. He responded with an apologetic grin.

At one stage of the evening, after we'd been served the main course, I had to use the bathroom. As a precaution against exposure, on the way I kept my hands pressed against the sides of my dress. But when I returned to the table I was struck by another surge of derring-do. I drew my shoulder straps further down my arms, lowering the neckline almost to my nipples. I then pushed the rear of my dress back so that now it was my bare backside which touched the leather. Rob didn't notice the second part at first, and I didn't let on. This was my private pleasure. And it was an exquisite feeling. Still, I couldn't help but squirm every so often. My face must have become flushed, because Rob eventually caught on. In any case, we played it cool, dining and conversing just like any other couple.

The waitress who brought our dessert, the same girl who had swerved away earlier, smiled when she saw my enhanced décolletage, but I don't think she appreciated the situation down under. When she later 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). As I reached into my purse for my cards, touching the little wad of silk which had for a while 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 rightful place. As I stood up from my seat and my flesh peeled off the sticky leather, it made a faint but audible sucking sound, and this was the only time I felt alarm and regret. But no one noticed. Back at the table, I sat on my skirt and dragged my butt across the seat to furtively wipe it, removing any trace of incriminating sweat. And, I hesitate to add, it wasn't just sweat I was worried about. For an hour or so I had been in a state of constant stimulation.

I could have remained pantyless as we left the restaurant. Being denuded in such a public place had made me feel extremely self-conscious and even a little shameful, but that was part of the buzz. However, it was windy outside. I therefore decided that, to co-opt the words of the Bard, the better part of valor is discretion, in the which better part I 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. During the ride I squeezed Rob's hand and pondered the meaning of my actions during our dinner. I realized that the dread of detection had been a major part of my titillation. There was also, as in all my CMNF escapades, 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 ejected and/or arrested. This is a woman's game (albeit when she's wearing a skirt). 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 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 and possible embarrassment with which Rob did not have to deal. That didn't make me better than my man, but it did give me pride.

"By now the taxi has picked up speed... 'You're overdressed,' he says. 'Undo your garter belt and take off your panties.' She puts her hands behind her back and raises herself slightly to remove them. He takes her underwear, opens her bag and puts them in. Then he says: 'You shouldn't sit on your petticoat or your skirt. Pull them up behind you and sit directly on the seat, with nothing in between.' The seat is made of imitation leather, slippery and cold. It's thrilling to feel it sticking to her thighs." (Pauline Réage, Histoire d'O)

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 driving out of town. We were visiting friends who had recently moved to a new home a few hours away by road. Rob and I shared the driving duties. He led off. It was a dull, overcast day, and 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 really animate either of us.

I replaced my knickers 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 stern admonitions to "Watch the road!" were payback, I guess, for my earlier reprimand, because I was watching the road. Still, he thoughtfully reached down to retrieve my undies and stow them in the console between our seats so they wouldn't interfere with my pedal work.

Like O, 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 sensitivity was elevated to a level I've rarely felt (when not in bed with Rob). With each sharp bend or swerve, because I don't weigh much my body partially rose off the seat, and I felt a tingle as my skin came away 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?" (He seems to say that a lot nowadays.)

I grunted a reply. He attempted to keep my mind occupied with small talk. And it was a weirdly erotic sensation, as much as any of my CMNF experiences. It felt more promiscuous because, as in the restaurant, my nudity was a naughty secret, hidden from all but those in the know. I wasn't putting on a show, for other diners or other road users. I felt some physical pleasure, but the enjoyment was mainly symbolic, for me and for Rob. The mind, it has been said is the most important erogenous zone.

We tried to keep a normal conversation going through two and a half hours of my being constantly on the verge of orgasm. We made another toilet stop because I thought I needed it; but 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 it 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, shutting down the engine. "Okay then; everyone thinks I'm mad anyway."

"It's our madness," he said, removing his hand. "Let's not share."

"Chicken," I replied.