The Cunning Stunt Award

In less than an hour she'll be making love to herself. In front of strangers and certain people she knows, some intimately. She will masturbate in public. She's thrilled. She's scared. Humiliation competes with the erotic excitement. The warm wet slickness already trickling down between her legs as she walks from the parking lot. Arousal is overcoming the fear. Her breath comes faster and she can sense her heart rate increasing as she realises how vulnerable she'll be, with the eroticism of what she'll be doing very soon. She needs to cum immediately but must hold off until they're ready for her. She's excited. Soon she will be naked. She's happy with how her cunt looks, and is even happier to be allowed to show it today. Afraid she'll lose control and cum right now, she tries taking shorter steps to keep her lips from sliding against each other so deliciously.

She's nervous and on the verge of an orgasm. She has to pee. She feels great. Her stomach is doing flips. She looks like an ordinary professional woman, blouse, business-length skirt, hair neatly up, limited but tasteful makeup. She's afraid the people around her sense her state of arousal, that she's right on the delicious edge. She's shaking. She's calm. She's confused. She feels the juices running down between her legs and wonders if they can see it. Or smell it. She's trembling with arousal, just thinking of what's ahead. Her legs are tingling. She knows her conservative attire is a big lie; a short skirt without underwear would be more honest; that way they'd know how she feels inside and what she's about to do. If they only knew! Maybe they do know.

As she reaches the Physiology and Human Factors building, fear takes over. The sight of the familiar building takes her thoughts back twenty years to when she'd been a graduate student here, to that day when she volunteered to allow her professors and fellow students to observe and record her orgasm for the pioneering research the department was doing. She replays in her head her feelings of that day: the the cool thin sheet hiding her nakedness as they looked down from the desks around her. How she nearly orgasmed early as the probes were inserted: vaginal to monitor her wetness, anal for body temperature. Other sensors taped to her skin and cameras focused on her face and shoulders. Another under the sheet, aimed up between her legs, to film how she manipulated herself. She'd held her breath the whole time the technicians were prepping her, holding off the relief she was so desperate for. That was then.

Suddenly, as she sees the professor sent to meet her, her mind snaps forward to the reality of the present day. This is now. Within a few minutes she'll be humiliating herself again, under the eyes of this man. He was here back then, and he's still on the faculty now after twenty years. He was the one who directed that masturbation, is the university official who now invited her back, and today he would be observing her again. Did he tried to imagine what her cunt looked like under that sheet? Today he'll be seeing it without the sheet. That's right, she actually requested no sheet, but the university still insists on a "modesty panel" over her breasts. She wonders if her cunt looks the same, after two kids. The realization that this man watched her masturbate when she was young sends an erotic pulse through her body. Her mind floods with feelings of both humiliation and joy. She's ashamed of what she did back then; today she can't wait to do it again. Now she's a confident, liberated woman, with her own permission to do as she chooses. She can control her orgasms so much better now. The pleasure and the risk, the excitement and the danger. The humiliation in front of her colleagues. The promise of forbidden sexual pleasure. The thrill of exhibiting herself.

The occasion is a regional conference on human physiology. Her particular field of expertise is genital response to sexual stimulation, a niche field made up of close-knit scientists who share their research at conferences and special sessions like the one she will be the center of today. She attended graduate school with most of them, some right at this same university, the ones who observed her masturbate years ago as a grad student. Over the years their careers crisscrossed, and she's been romantically, or at least sexually, intimate with many of them. Some are here today. The others are strangers now, but she will be collaborating with all of them for the rest of her career, even the new ones she hasn't yet met. After today, they will always know her as the one who can openly fuck herself with her finger, right before their eyes.

Today she determines to give it her all. In spite of the vulnerability and shame, she'll give them a little more than she gave before. Today she'll show them what twenty years of experience has taught her about masturbating! Her 'performance', although she'd rather not call it that, will give the data she needs for a paper she's co-authoring, and also, in this risky setting, should give her a massive orgasm. Right in front of them.

Her old professor hands her a robe, and goes on ahead to arrange the classroom. She's left standing there holding the robe, and it must be obvious she's getting ready to go inside and take her clothes off. She's afraid and feels naked already. She wishes she were naked already. Again her mind drifts back to that earlier day. She's now practically in a dream world, barely conscious of the students milling around on the way to their next classes.

Inside the building she sees them up close and realizes many are the ages of her own son and daughter. She heads toward where she remembered the ladies' room to be, finds it and goes in to strip off. She stands naked in front of the mirror and likes what she sees. Nice figure, pretty face and hair, perky tits, full and firm and not yet yielded to gravity, attractive nipples, dark and eager to be fondled. Slight but cute middle-age tummy bulge, then the bit of pubic hair remaining after last night's shaving of everything around her cunt, all the way back to her ass hole. She turns around and looks over her shoulder, and is pleased with her round, firm butt. Long, lean, shapely legs. She likes the look of her cunt, with its well-defined outer folds just barely holding in the tender edges of her inner lips, and the look of her clit, barely peeking out near the top of her slit. The total package isn't too bad, she thinks, after all these years. In just a few minutes her nakedness will be on display.

She folds her clothes, slips on the robe and lets herself out into the hallway. Naked under the robe, she makes her way through the hall to find the amphitheater where she will masturbate again, this time the mature woman in the prime of a successful career in the very field her young observers are qualifying for. Now, without panties, she feels the lips of her cunt sliding past each other. It stimulates her arousal. She can feel the cool air under her bare bottom, a reminder of her vulnerability as she looks for the right room. With no underwear she's unprotected, and she loves it. She trembles with anticipation, as her legs become wobbly. She wonders if the students crowding the hallway can detect the sweet smell of her arousal as she tiptoes past them, since there's no barrier to keep the scent in. With every step, she's reminded that everyone knows she is naked under her robe. She's still trying to control the movement of her lips, because she's afraid to have an orgasm right here in the hallway. She'd love to have an orgasm right here in the hallway. She wishes the fabric was thicker, so her aroused nipples wouldn't be so obvious, or thinner to reveal them more. They're like two pointers showing her which direction to take, and she's just following them! But she loves the feeling of them rubbing against the inside of the cloth, and she likes that everyone around her seems to notice them. They are very pointy right now. And they're just aching to be touched. She's afraid that if the hem of her robe snags on something, her nakedness will show. In fact, she wishes that would happen. Her breathing is coming in irregular rushes. She feels her clit yearning for attention. She feels all the sensitive nerve endings of her clit and nipples sending signals nonstop to her brain.

She could easily be mistaken for an art class model, but she remembers that the art studios were in another building. As a penniless student she had modeled there, offering up her nakedness in return for money to meet her tuition debts. She had enjoyed modeling there, especially the poses when she was "accidentally" penetrated by the male models, and the memory sends pulses through her vagina. Over the years, she's kept her trim figure and continued modeling part time. Modeling lets her be the only one naked, much like she'll be doing today. But today is for science. And for herself. She imagines being naked right now, walking among all these fully clothed students. She knows they know that under the robe she's naked. The undergraduates don't know why, but the advanced grad students do, the ones who wink at her. She knows that they know what she'll be doing and what they'll be seeing in just a few minutes. Except they don't yet know that she'll be without the sheet! The secret excites her and she feels another rush of fluid escape to run down the insides of her legs. Almost there. Her well lubricated thighs slip easily past each other. She loves the feeling. She's very afraid. She returns the smiles of the knowing students, wondering if they're thinking what she's thinking. She wonders if they're imagining what it would be like to fuck her. She teases herself about wanting to show them.

As soon as she turns the last corner, her mind slides back again to that fateful day twenty years earlier. Back then, she was eager to masturbate just as the course syllabus called for: lie down, get wired up, make love to yourself, sit up and talk about it, done. Previous volunteers, male and female, had failed: premature ejaculations, no erection, dry or unresponsive vagina, but mostly they couldn't overcome their shame. Even under that sheet. But as a wild and carefree twenty-four year old still experimenting with sex, she wanted to make a bold and daring statement, and so planned to do everything called for, enjoy an earth-shattering orgasm for science, then maybe throw off the sheet, jump to her feet and take a bow! Or something like that.

These reminisces are interrupted when she reaches the entrance to the physiology theater and realizes what must come next. Her sense of shame is rising, but so is her arousal. A man, really a boy, holds the door open for her and glances down her leg and makes an exaggerated sniff, just as she feels the trickle running onto her foot. She is mortified. But just on a whim, she quickly lifts the the robe to her waist, flashing her cunt. He responds with another exaggerated inhalation through his nose, a broad smile, and a Thumbs Up, and they laugh together. But hers is a nervous laugh. She really doesn't know if she enjoyed the flash or not. She decides that she did. As a middle-aged woman exposing herself to a student half her age, she feels both desirable and humiliated, but mostly she feels sexy. She learns that this fellow will be among those who will take in her full 'performance'. The two of them joke that maybe she should stand out here in the hall and give previews of the show about to start. He could be her pimp. Anything to get her mind off of what she's about to do. Is she really as aroused as all her signs are indicating? Her tight nipples are straining against the robe, her breath is short and heavy, she can feel her clit sliding in and out under its hood, her labia are engorged, she is very aware of the scent from her vagina, and now everyone else is noticing. She's confused, trying to decide whether she's an honored goddess or a slut. Either way, she's here to publicly perform a private sex act. That is, if she doesn't die of embarrassment first.

Stepping into the room, the sight of the recliner where she masturbated twenty years ago takes her memory back again to that earlier day. She imagines herself lying on it, spread out, totally vulnerable under everyone's critical gaze. Shame and humiliation again rise as her mind relives that day. The sheet is folded and out of the way. In its place is the so-called modesty panel, a strip of thin cotton about the size of a scarf. She questions her own judgement.

As a young student she had masturbated on this very recliner. Her nakedness was hidden but her emotions were laid open for all to see. She felt sexy, she felt ashamed, she felt beautiful, she felt trashy, she imagined herself a heavenly angel wearing wings and a halo, she saw herself as a depraved whore. That first session of self-love began slowly as she fondled her aching nipples, then let the fingers of one hand explore the insides of her slick labia. As she brought some of the fluid to her mouth she could taste herself, and used the fingers and thumb of her other hand to nurture her clitoris. The twenty-four year old of so long ago divided her attention among her nipples, clit, and ass hole, fast then faster. She slowed down just to enjoy the pleasure of the moment, then picked up the pace again. Then paused to prolong the experience. Whenever she got to what seemed like the highest possible plateau, she leveled off to keep herself right at that point. Then, slipping down off that point of unstable equilibrium, she'd try climbing again, to regain that high point or maybe to try for even higher. One or the other bare leg kicked out from under the sheet. Her chest heaved and fell in concert with the rising and falling of the sheet lower down on her body. Her face grimaced with pain then smiled with pleasure. A breast and possibly a nipple came into view as she used her arms to stroke herself.

At last, long last but still way too soon, her climax exploded all around her, lifting her in a feeling of crushing weightlessness. All eyes were on her. She felt nothing except her sexually sated body and the sheet, now soaked with her warm fluids as well as her sweat.

Now, this was the moment when the young student wanted to throw off the sheet, reveal her nakedness, jump off the recliner, and take a triumphant bow. But, she couldn't move. Her brain, already short-circuited from the orgasm, was filling with disgust, guilt, self-loathing, and shame. Shame that so many people had witnessed her most intimate and private moment, making love to herself. The sense of victory over the failed volunteers didn't come, leaving her with a sense of emptiness. She then realised that she'd still be in class with these students and instructors for the rest of the semester, and then after graduation, perhaps going to work everyday with some of them. What had she done? They hadn't seen her naked, but she had exposed something of herself far more intimate. Humiliated, she pulled the top of the sheet over her face and stayed covered until she was sure everyone had left the room. Then she got up, pulled out the wires and probes, quietly dressed, and stayed away from class for a week. When she finally returned, she had to face the further embarrassment of discussing the data recorded from her orgasm, and had to endure the humility of giving a first hand account from her own point of view. She cried and sobbed through most of the analysis, especially when the class studied the photography of the changes in her genitals. She was asked to explain what she remembered from each phase of her orgasm. But what embarrassed her the most were the dozens of photos of her face as she climaxed. It was like they could read her soul.

It is these memories that now, years later, flood her mind with such a crescendo of mixed feelings. Seeing the low platform she will soon mount scares her. Again she sees how vulnerable she was and now will be again. Is this her guillotine, or is it her heavenly love-bed? She'd read somewhere that the French call the orgasm "The Little Death". She isn't bothered that they will view and study her cunt; that's what this conference is all about. But, more importantly, her face will be readable during her climax; that's what had bothered her the most, way back when. Maybe she should use that 'modesty panel' over her face! But mostly, she's afraid that once she achieves her orgasm, those dark feelings of shame will rise from the past and rob her once again of any sense of success. She wants to claim victory, even though it will have taken twenty years. During those years, she's built a successful career, becoming one of the pre-eminent researchers in the field of human sexual response. Her stature in the subject, as well as her alumnae status, were the main reasons the university invited her to organize this regional conference. She's also become more bold sexually, even though they don't know it. It frightens her that they'll know soon enough. She can't wait to show them.

Today she, not her former, immature self, will be the subject. There will be no sheet, only that modesty panel to be draped over her breasts. And the subject (she, of course) is to be available immediately afterward to discuss her orgasm, and to take questions. That is, if she survives the humiliation.

Today her fingernails and toenails are painted and polished, and her wedding rings and diamond are cleaned to a bright lustre. She has class, and wants to show it. Her hair is up in a neat twist, she's wearing tiny pearl earrings, and has just a touch of lipstick to match her nails. A thin gold necklace and a matching anklet complete her look.

As she approaches the recliner, all clinical and scientific thoughts are slipping away, replaced again by the dread of what she's about to do: she's about to finger-fuck herself! As a researcher she's highly respected, but in a few minutes she will again open her innermost self to colleagues from all over the world, giving them intimate views of her most private parts, and letting them see how she reacts when aroused. She relishes the thought of exposing herself, but she's scared, and can call it off right now, if she chooses. Keenly aware that she's naked under her robe, and knowing that they all know it, she chats with the men and women there. She secretly wishes she could be naked right now, and jokingly mentions that idea to a few of her closest friends. Even though she's afraid and vulnerable, she can't chicken out now! She needs the orgasm data as much as anyone else does, but it's the orgasm itself that she needs the most. She's right on the edge. She wonders if the young man who "sniffed her out" at the door is in the room yet, scans the faces, but isn't sure if she sees him.

Now the professor who gave her the robe steers her to the recliner. Just his touch on her elbow nearly sends her over the edge. She glances around to see the other researchers, as well as a few advanced students, including a young man and a young woman who have each volunteered as subjects for upcoming sessions, everyone taking their places at the desks arranged around her recliner. She recognises several men, and two women, that she's slept with between marriages, the memories pushing her even closer to the edge. Eyes peering down on her, lots of them. Lovers, acquaintances, strangers. She notices the linen panel for her tits. She wonders if volunteering for this was a good idea, but the tingling inside her tells her that it is. She wonders if she should have left that little tuft of hair above her cunt. She realises that the modesty panel will draw more attention to her nipples than if they were bare. She nearly orgasms at the thought.

She remembers her full bush of that other time, compared with how bare she is today. And thinks it should be the other way around. Nowadays younger women are smooth because of the tiny g-strings they use for swim suits, and older women mostly just let it grow. But she keeps hers somewhere in between: nice trimmed patch above her slit and bare below that. She keeps her lips hairless for a certain swimsuit, when she must wear one; it's so narrow in front that it nearly disappears into her slit and leaves her lips out. She has other reasons to keep her lips bare: to give the artists better views when she models, and to give her husband better access when he eats her out. She wishes his tongue were on her clit right now.