"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.
