Clothed Female Naked Male

Author's note: Difficult to categorise this little tale. It's about CFNM, which can be considered as normal erotica, a fetish, or a sub-group of female domination. I have listed it under BDSM, as most commonly it is enjoyed as a particular niche of that genre. It should probably go under 'adult theme' or 'essays and discussions', but then you wouldn't now be reading it, would you?

*****

When I was younger... No, start again, Trina, tell it like it is. When I was much, much younger, I felt reasonably self-satisfied with my body and the all-round firmness and shapeliness of its feminine attributes. If I were to describe it, though I say it myself, it would be very much in keeping with one you'd be likely to encounter in any typical literotic yarn of today. And I would prettify it accordingly, with stylish clothes made of soft clinging fabrics, sporting daring hem and necklines, and walk in the most precarious heels I could manage without tumbling AOT. It was all vanity, of course, and to attract the attention of everyone, but most importantly, that socio-subgroup known as males (bless them).

The idea of adorning oneself with sexy outfits is that you nurture desire within the man you've set your sights on. Paradoxically, man's principal desire is, as a general rule, then to rip all your clothes off at the first opportunity. So clothed, or not clothed, it seems either state has its part to play in the dynamic of sexual attraction. But, as I was to discover, it goes even further than that, as one explores how naked exposure, humiliation, and dressing-to-kill and thrill enter the realms of erotic power-play.

It was around the time I started getting into BDSM - or rather what we used to call plain S&M, whereby couples or groups would induce enhanced sexual arousal in each other using consensual restraint and/or discipline. 'Bondage' was understood to mean physical tying-up, rather than something akin to the antiquated practice of slave ownership, and neither did 'domination' have quite the same psychological status as it does today, then being pretty much an outlet for male fantasy based on misogynistic treatment of women. But whatever, the mention of willing participants being bound and gagged while being used and abused by their partners, was sweet music to my ears, and pretending to be a naughty nurse or a nympho nun added full orchestration to the symphony. And, of course, a good flogging never hurt anyone... much.

Tom and I met at work. It was one of those old-fashioned office blocks with pigeon holes by the reception area where you picked up your mail, and a Paternoster lift to transport you to your respective work-floor. A Paternoster lift is on a continuous loop. It doesn't stop. You have to jump on and off it, and if you mis-time your leap, you die - unless there is someone around like Tom, who, on the occasion I fell off my shoe while making an ill-judged boarding attempt, gallantly pulled me to safety, for which I will eternally be grateful. It's not a way of meeting people I would recommend, though in my case, it worked out well.

Tom and I subsequently dated for some while, and he seemed really nice - generous, interesting, polite and a bit shy, which was fine by me. My kinda guy actually. Being a congenital tease, I often would put him on the spot with awkward questions about his love life, dress sense, habits and weird leisure activities (classic cars, I ask you). You cannot 'drift' onto the subject of sex. You have to more or less blurt it straight out, which again, is fine by me.

"So," I enquire casually, shortly after Tom has filled me in with the essential advantages of twin carburettors on an Austin Healey, "Have you ever been tied to the bed by a naked dominatrix and had slow sex 69 style?"

I was pretty sure he hadn't. All I wanted was to see what his reaction would be. He smiled, not nearly as flummoxed or bashful as I might have expected. But besides being very sweet, he knew me well enough by this time to suspect I was teasing him.

"Not since Tuesday," he replies, deadpan. "Anyway, dominatrixes aren't supposed to be naked, er... so I understand."

These were the days before the Internet and mobile phones informed one, at the touch of a button, of every kink and foible attributed to the human race, with explicit videos to illustrate, so I was mildly impressed that he even knew what a dominatrix was, let alone that they rarely performed unclad.

"And did you have a nice time?" I follow up.

"Nice time?" he asks.

"Last Tuesday," I say.

He smiles. "Not really my scene," he says. But I felt he said it unconvincingly - and not in the way someone would say it if they wanted to change the subject. So I made a little mental note about it, but didn't press him, for the time being, anyway. Later that evening, as we kissed goodnight, his hands slid down behind me and caressed my bottom with just that little bit more passion than usual, but still without lifting my skirt. We were gradually getting somewhere, I decided.

A week or so after the naked dominatrix affair, we were due to go out later for a drink, so I left him a saucy message in his pigeon hole: "Tom, fancy a good thrashing tonight? Meet you after work. Madame Whiplash xxx."

Lunchtime, I picked up his rather cryptic reply: "Yes. Looking forward to some CFNM, Tom xx." What the hell did that mean, I wondered? It sounded like a merger of news channels - CNN with Radio FM. Back in those days, Google was known only as the biggest number in the universe - even bigger than the number of pairs of shoes I possessed. Full stop. Nothing else. So although I guessed CFNM had to be an acronym, there was no way of looking it up, and neither I nor Beryl, our floor typist, could work out what it meant. We came up with an assortment of juvenile possibilities - cocks, cunts and cunny, fucks and feels fannies, now, nightly or never, and massive maid's minges. And more. We laughed so much, we started to attract attention, so we judiciously gave up.

That evening, Tom and I were sat in a dark corner of the pub. We had discussed the car parking problems at work, and Tom's failure to get the Healey started. And we'd had a couple of drinks. "So, what is it?" I ask.

"What's what?" he replies.

I give him one of my stern looks. "Whatever it is you're looking forward to," I say.

"Oh, CFNM you mean?" he says, attempting to sound all innocent and laid-back. I stare in silence, awaiting an answer. "Thought you would know," he says.

"And why's that?" I ask.

"You being into that dominatrix stuff," he says.

"Hmm..." I say, half-heartedly getting into character. "Looks like I'll have to beat the answer out of you," I say, moving my face near to his, and my hand onto the top of his thigh. His response was to meet my face and kiss me like he was well overdue the touch of a woman. Must admit, it was great. Tongues too. Which is fine by me.

He dropped me at my flat and, as usual, I asked him in for coffee, which usually meant we'd have coffee, end of. Again we sat together, but now we were in the privacy of my little love nest. "Cunt to fuck, nearly midnight," I say.

He immediately knows what my gibberish means. "Clothed female..." he says.

"Naked male," I say, at last cottoning on.

"Clever girl," he says.

"So, go on then," I say. He colours. He hesitates. "I'm going to powder my nose," I say.

What a marvellous expression that is, covering everything from having a piddle and fitting a prophylactic, to phoning a friend and asking what you're supposed to do next. In my case, it meant redoing my make-up and slipping quickly into a slinky strapless evening dress. Well, I thought, if I'm going to be clothed, let's do this thing in style. I fully expected to find, upon my return, Tom, having chickened out, still in his shirt and jeans, and I was going to feel plenty silly - but that happens a lot, so I'm used to it. I commandeered the belt from my wrap - you never know when something like that may come in useful, and strutted like a catwalk model back to see what awaited me in the lounge.

There he stood in the middle of the floor. Really good posture. Hairy chest and fine physique without being muscle-bound. Which is fine by me. Oh, and did I mention his dangly bits? No? Well, that's because I didn't stare at them, which would have made him think I was some kind of sex-starved old maid. In fact, what little I had gleaned about such encounters was that disdainfully ignoring features like a man's crown jewels, heightens the sense of humiliation felt by the NM. So I ignored them. I did think about ignoring him altogether - an even crueller indignity. But maybe another time, I resolved.

He was substantially taller than me, and although not theoretically a problem for an accomplished dominant, I felt disadvantaged regarding calling the shots. So I slowly circled him a few times, making as much eye contact as possible and wetting my pouting lips with the tip of my tongue - my attempt at suggestive behaviour. Eventually I spoke, in a whisper: "You're in the presence of a lady, why aren't you kneeling?" I imagined he might say he'd rather stand, or maybe just grab me and grope me.

"Of course, Mistress," he dutifully responded, taking me by surprise and immediately dropping to his knees. A sudden feeling of potency came over me with an accompanying adrenalin rush. I had crossed a line.

His head, about level with my fanny, was now at a height I could look down to. It worked well, that extra feeling of superiority enabling me to play out a more confident cock-tease routine. I strode slowly round him so my dress brushed against his face, arms and shoulders. Stepping closer, so my court shoe nestled in his crotch, I took hold of his hair, and pulled his head back, so that his gaze was concentrated on the underview of my impressive tits. Well, I think they are - please yourself.

I was still improvising like mad, and was going to feel pretty stupid if this game didn't come to anything, but with his head raised, it brought into my view his erect throbbing penis, the watery eye of which was looking straight up at me. I concluded I must be doing something right. "Up," I whispered, signalling him to stand again. My plan was to slither downwards and slowly and gently fellate him, so my expensive lipstick's 'dark flash of exotic fuchsia' would leave him a smudged reminder of his gorgeous true-love whenever he went for a pee for the next 18 hours. Well, that's what Estee Lauder claims.

He stands. I slide behind him and tie his wrists with the silky belt off my wrap - a naked man has no business groping a clothed lady. He doesn't resist. I slide back round to face him. I slither. I spot something all-too familiar. That vacant look in a man's eyes. Oh oh, I am thinking. Surely that can't mean... but it does. And all over my satin party frock.

Well, at least it didn't go into the carpet. I don't really know why I hadn't catered for such an occurrence. Perhaps it was because, in my modest experience of sex, it had always been a given that the woman gets off first - otherwise, she's not likely to get off at all. This, it seemed, was a fundamental stumbling block for a relationship based on CFNM, the woman being unlikely to enjoy a climax with her clothes on, and the man's desire likely to have already peaked before she undresses.

I didn't worry too much at the time, laughing off the mishap and suggesting we needed more practice and I would wear a shower curtain next time. Tom was extremely apologetic and insisted on paying to have my dress restored. I accepted his offer, on the proviso he himself took it into the dry-cleaners - I didn't want to be known as the lady with semen stains all over her ball gown.

I managed to wean Tom off his prematurity problem, and subsequently we enjoyed several more such scenes, with me getting through lots of outfits and much fun. If Tom ever gets arrested by a genuine WPC, I hope he's able to control himself better than he did with me. Those truncheons are for real, Thomas.

But I couldn't see the two of us going the distance - as a girl gets older she wants more and more to be the one who is made a fuss of. And another downside of CFNM is its reliance on the humiliation aspect. When there's just the two of you, the frequent intimacy diminishes the embarrassment of exposing one's body to the other. Like a drug-addict craving something stronger all the time, Tom often expressed his fancy to be paraded before a whole group of (clothed) women. I still smile at the idea of being the scarlet woman drummed out of the village I now live in, after inviting the WI round for afternoon tea, only to find a naked Tom serving it up. And the tea.

An irony of life is that now, years later, my body parts are not quite as self-supporting as they used to be. So I'm quite comfortable leaving something on at all times, but opportunities for games like CFNM are not as abundant. I don't know what eventually happened to Tom. You never know, perhaps our paths will cross again some day in an Eastbourne care home. His potency, and my body will both be well-shot by then, I expect, but I'm sure I'll be able to borrow one of the nurse's uniforms, and we'll get those sparks flying again.

End