N.U.D.E.
I saw the tiny brass panel adjacent to the ostentatious display my firm uses to advertise itself. I'd never seen it there before and all morning as I went about my work as Company Director I couldn't help but want to find out more. Curiosity about what the acronym meant was eating me up inside. I could not understand why. It was unusual to see full stops between each letter, but surely not so strange as to make me obsessive about knowing what the letters meant.
My concentration was completely shot by this. As my colleague spoke, so my eyes watched his mouth opening and closing but my mind was asking, 'does it mean Noted Upmarket Digital Electronics?' After all, this was Silicon Valley and we were all meant to be computer geeks. Or could it have been Never Undersold for Design and Engineering? Maybe there were silent letters in the acronym like and, for, the, or to?
I'd worked in the company for five years. Everyone called me 'Miss Prissy' behind my back. I'd heard them at the coffee machines. I didn't know why. I always dressed respectably in fitted jacket, white blouse, pencil skirt two inches below the knee, best quality panties, garter belt and stockings, well-fitting bra that kept my good sized breasts under solid control, and black leather shoes of the highest quality. I never wore a high heel, being nearly six feet tall anyway. I kept my long blonde hair in a practical and tight bun as I'd been taught to do at finishing school and I always spoke well, having a crisp and clear English accent. I never deviated from this uniform at work, seeing no need to confuse my business things with my private ones.
I'd come over with my late father when he saw the opportunity in computers back in the early 80's. But why prissy? Yes, I did not have a sex life, swear in public, join in dirty jokes on the shop floor or anything like that but underneath I was a red-blooded woman of thirty-five. I could not understand why they couldn't see that. Ok, nobody had asked me out in many years and at work it was as if I was androgynous, but prissy? No, I wanted to live life, if there was the chance for it. I just had never had that opportunity since Daddy died.
By lunchtime I'd exhausted all the acronyms for N.U.D.E. that I could think of. Daddy had had me schooled at the best Catholic establishments in England and then Switzerland, but no recall of my extensive mental dictionary could come up with a suitable explanation. And besides, it couldn't be anything dirty, could it? Surely that would not be allowed on a plaque in the centre of a business district?
By lunchtime it was eating me up totally. I had to go find out.
I went downstairs via my personal exit, feeling more and more excited by the adventure as the glass tube descended to street level. I turned left out of the pneumatic door and walked into the little lobby that was the entrance to N.U.D.E.
A very pretty receptionist greeted me, smiling sweetly and said, "Ah, welcome madam, you must be Dominic's 1 o'clock. Please wait here and I will page him. There are some relevant magazines on the rack over there and please take your jacket off and hang it on the rail. You won't need that for a while."
She giggled as she said this last bit and had spoken so fast that I had no chance to correct her, and now felt in typical English style it would be improper to do so. What should I do? Well, I guessed I could wait and explain the mistake to this Dominic person. So, I unbuttoned my jacket, placed it on a hook, straightening it out of course so it hung properly and then sat in one of the sumptuous armchairs that were placed opposite the receptionist. I picked up a magazine to read but was too shocked and, I admit, mesmerised.
"I'm Dominique," she said jauntily. "I know it can sound confusing but Dominic is my husband and set up this therapy centre. He has freed so many souls from their shackles of repression..."
I was hearing her, but it was what I was seeing that was shocking me. The reception desk was high, with a wooden top. Nothing out of the ordinary about that, you might think. It was the lower part that was unusual. There was a glass panel that curved round. It was frosted bar a two-foot wide section that exposed from Dominique's waist to her calves. I couldn't take my eyes off what I could see.
The folds of her sex were glistening with juice. Dominique had a gold ring piercing her clitoral hood and her shaven labia were plump and full, unmistakeably aroused. There was a creamy white deposit at the lower end, dripping from her vagina. How did I know all this? Because she was sitting with her legs wide apart! Should I tell her? Well, I thought I should but every time I went to speak she said something else...
"Many women and some men have been cured of their reticence about being naked, or helped to celebrate their exhibitionism. If Dominic had not found me I would have stayed the suppressed young thing that sat in an accountancy department, dressed like a nun and never said boo to a goose!"
She laughed again and I found myself laughing with her, starting to think that her description could have been me. As a child I used to go into my parent's bedroom stark naked and bounce around on their bed. I'd done it for years as an innocent child but when I was becoming an adult my father had stopped me. I could not understand why. I felt rejected. When I was 18 and drunk I remembered these pranks, stripped off, ran into their room and did it as a dare. He thrashed me just as he had done when I was a child for other bad behaviour. I had great big stripes on my bottom for days. I felt so guilty too because when he did that I got a funny but very pleasurable sensation in my 'front bottom' from it rubbing against something hard between his legs and I went all flushed and dizzy. He told me it was wrong. It wasn't until I was 19 years old I discovered that I had had an orgasm. How naïve I had been about what was going on and about my body.
"Yes," I said, at last getting a word in edgeways though never letting my eyes shift from staring at her beautiful sex. I did not for one moment find it wrong to admire this woman's private - or in this case not so private - parts. "I was always taught nudity was fine but then whipped for doing it. I've stayed well covered ever since."
"You were whipped?" She asked, her fingers sliding down over her shaven pubis to rest over her clitoris. "Were you naked when it happened?"
"Yes," I said simply, though as I spoke so a tingling began between my thighs. I felt the first hint of my skin flushing. Her index finger was seeking the pink bud below the gold ring. I felt naughty, like I had as a child. I continued speaking. "Yes, I used to..."
I told her the detail of going in to my parent's room.
"How developed were you at that time?" she asked, her finger now sliding between her labia, opening them slightly, the juice flowing and slicking her digits.
"I had developed pubic hair and my breasts grew incredibly quickly," I replied, not aware that I had moved my hand to hold one of them gently as if to illustrate my point. I continued. "So many at school were envious of me, but at the time I just didn't make any connections between these changes and how stern and protective my parents became. You know, mummy once spanked me so hard on my naked bottom for talking to a boy at the garden gate? She said I was showing too much flesh. I was only in my swimsuit that she had bought me! So then I was soundly hit for wearing something she had sanctioned. I was so confused. Still am."
"Well, that is why you are here honey, to get over those things." She said this with such sweet sincerity, though her breathing was more rapid and I could see her fingers delving deeper into her open labia. I was talking to someone clearly masturbating in front of me and I was enjoying it, now no longer shocked! I wanted to turn her on, so continued my tales...
