1. Rachel
In my teenage years, I had a major crush on my cousin Rachel. She’s actually my second cousin, so my infatuation was not completely out of bounds, even if she was out of my range. She’s three years older than me and gorgeous. She’s small, with a very nice body (slim and trim rather than voluptuous), luminous blue-green eyes, an impertinent smile and honey blonde hair.
We lived close by each other and attended the same school for a while, and our families socialized on a regular basis, so I got to see a lot of her. I’m sure she knew about my crush, but she never made an issue of it, nor made me feel awkward.
In addition to beautiful, she was (and is) clever and strong-willed, a high achiever who liked to push and test her limits. At school and university she threw herself into just about everything that was happening, joined a number of clubs, served as a student representative, won academic prizes and athletic honours. She’s also the thrill-seeking type. Despite her diminutive stature, she is tough and utterly fearless. Before she became domesticated, she was into “extreme” sports like rock-climbing and base-jumping. Yet she was always incredibly sexy, proud of her figure and perfect legs which she liked to show off in short skirts, snug-fitting tops and barely-there bikinis. But not in a vain or wanton manner. Rachel was a flirt but never a tease nor a prima donna.
I don’t know if she consciously played on the juxtaposition of pretty and petite with the difficult and dangerous, but the contrast could be striking. For example, when she was sixteen, she won a junior motocross championship, against boys as well as a couple of other girls. She was the smallest rider in the field and prevailed by sheer daring and determination. She sauntered off the track triumphant in her dirt-spattered leathers, high-fiving her friends and fans, reeking of fuel and exhaust fumes, her mud-caked face barely recognizable but for her patented Rachel grin – outwardly modest but betraying at the edges her sublime self-confidence. Yet a few hours later she turned out for the awards ceremony completely transformed, all sweet and prodigiously feminine in a short and strapless pink party dress. I was thirteen at the time, and though my infatuation was already well-developed, the transcendent vision of her lustrous legs and delectable décolletage that evening is what finally pushed me from idealizing my breathtaking cousin into straight-out idolatry.
Not surprisingly, she was the most popular girl in the neighbourhood, which only added to the torment of my unrequited crush. During the time we were in high school together, she was constantly attended by a retinue of admirers and acolytes. She went through several boyfriends and the occasional girlfriend – her preference was only slightly biased in one direction. What was most demoralizing for me, however, was that when word got out that we were cousins, I was besieged by potential suitors seeking an introduction or hoping for a recommendation. Of course, she loved the attention.
Needless to say, Rachel looked stunning in her school uniform – a pleated tartan skirt, cream coloured blouse and white ankle socks. Like the vast majority of the girls, she wore her skirt extremely short. Notwithstanding the formal dress code, the teachers never enforced the rules on hemlines. But for the girls it was not just a case of looking hot, it was also a matter of principle. They were forbidden to wear trousers, summer or winter, so their attitude was: “If I’m forced wear a skirt, no one is going to tell me how to wear it!” Most never even wore the approved tights, keeping their legs bare in the coldest temperatures. This was a gesture of defiance, against both officialdom and the natural elements, which we boys heartily endorsed, although it could be rather distracting, especially in class – heck, that may have even been part of the girls’ motivation.
Nevertheless, this is something that has always intrigued me (and yes, it is relevant to my story). It must have been quite a chore for the girls, in their ultra-short skirts, to do even the simplest things that I as a trousered male took for granted, to avoid flashing their undies in the midst of a horde of hormone-charged schoolboys. The unwritten rules seemed daunting – keep the knees together when sitting, tug the hem downwards when getting up, flatten the skirt against the thighs or backside when walking up stairs or in the wind, make sure to avoid bending over. Stuff I never had to even think let alone worry about. It must be a weird feeling to be always aware of what you’re wearing, but for females I guess it just becomes automatic. Or maybe that’s the point – to never forget what you are ... and what you’re not.
For my beautiful cousin, that last bit was important. She loved being a girl. And as trite as that sounds, the fact is that she was something of a sexual chauvinist. I think she really did pity us males – she definitely regarded hers as the superior sex. But it was impossible to disparage her, because she carried it off – like everything else she did – with such aplomb.
One of my favourite memories was of a school assembly towards the end of her senior year. The occasion was the annual awards ceremony. It was held outdoors, in unseasonably cool and windy weather. Rachel was, as usual, the recipient of several prizes, and each time she mounted the podium she received a hearty cheer and more than a few wolf whistles, not least because of the way her little skirt billowed eye-pleasingly in the breeze. She was desperately trying to hold it down and preserve the wind-blown remnants of her modesty and dignity with one hand while clutching her trophies in the other, all the while smiling sassily at her audience and joking with the mistress of ceremonies (who was having her own skirt problems). And despite her flushed face and giggles, you could tell that my cousin was loving every second of her dilemma.
That afternoon we walked home together, as we often did. It was still chilly and overcast. A storm was brewing and strong gusts were swirling around us. Rachel was beginning to shiver in her flimsy uniform. Tiny goosebumps dappled her bare arms and legs. I felt sorry for her and was about to put a protective arm around her shoulders when she broke from my side and started skipping along the footpath. As she pranced about, her skirt bounced and flounced. Then a light rain started to fall, and she looked more stunning than ever, her wet hair plastered to her cheeks, her saturated skirt adhered to her thighs, the water running down her silky smooth legs in sinuous rivulets, her sodden blouse adhering transparently to her body. She was wearing a powder blue brassiere which had earlier been just a faint outline under the fabric of her shirt but now stood out so clearly on her breasts that I could count its little embroidered white blossoms. Her damp clothing clung so snugly to her figure that every delicious curve and crevice was brought into sensuous high relief. This was to remain my fondest image of my super-sexy cousin, until the night of the party.
2. The Party
Rachel started university the following year, and when I arrived three years later, she acted as my guide and mentor, helping me find my way about the campus, advising me on what to expect and what to avoid, introducing me to some useful and important people. She invited me along to parties and I met her friends. She was not involved in any sort of permanent relationship that I could discern. But though I still idolized her, I had long since abandoned any thoughts of entering the temple of Rachel.
At the time she was a member of an “adventure club” which – it did not surprise me – was devoted to the pursuit of the adrenaline rush. Since my pastimes have always tended to the more sedentary, I remained on the periphery of this aspect of her life, but on occasion I got to meet some of the other adventurers. They were basically Rachel personality types, including a girl named Sarah whom I knew fairly well from one of my classes. Like my cousin, she is small and pretty. She has lively, dark hazel eyes and chestnut brown hair which in those days she kept cropped boyishly short, but subverted by girlie touches such as little pigtails tied with pink ribbon bows. I fancied her but figured that we didn’t really have that much in common. I couldn’t muster much enthusiasm for club’s activities, because I subscribe to the theory that you’re allotted only so many heartbeats in your lifetime, so it’s illogical to use them up before you have to.
About six months into my freshman year, Rachel came over one Saturday afternoon and invited me to a social gathering planned for that evening. I had a feeling that, being given so little advance notice, I was a last-minute replacement for someone, but I was not going to turn down the summons. But the way she phrased it intrigued me. She asked me to be her escort. Now it’s possible that I misinterpreted – she may have simply meant to reinforce that this was not a boyfriend-type date (not that I was expecting it to be). On the other hand, the meaning I inferred was that she wanted a chaperon – very peculiar, coming from my independent-minded, free-spirited cousin.
However, it became clear when she enlightened me.
“It’s C-M-N-F,” she informed me. To my blank look she responded, “That’s clothed male...”
“Yes, I know what it stands for,” I replied. “I was just...”
“Do you have a problem with it?” she cut in. “If you’re not interested...”
She laughed at my expression. “I thought as much. Anyway, I have to go. I’ll pick you up at six.”
Rachel didn’t wait for me to react further. She came back at the appointed hour. Since I was too poor to own a car, she drove us, to a house located a short distance off-campus. Given the nature of our destination, I felt some irrational disappointment that she was wearing a heavy sweater, jeans and boots. I was also feeling somewhat nervous, and she must have been as well, because she was in an unusually chirpy mood, shooting off rapid-fire sentences in a high-pitched voice.
I deciphered that the party was another adventure club event, and the underlying theme was some sort of battle of the sexes. The men’s challenge was something so innocuous that I don’t recall what it was, so I think they got the better of the deal. (But then again, I never heard any of the ladies complaining.)
When we arrived, the festivities were already under way with a dozen other couples. Altogether, when everyone had turned up, there were thirty people. I was acquainted with about two thirds of them as members of the club, including Sarah. She looked adorable (not a word I use very often) in a blue button-up miniskirt, apricot yellow blouse and matching knee-socks, and shiny black Mary-Jane shoes with oversized silver buckles. Her partner was a guy named Brad who seemed to show only a half-hearted interest in her. It was only midway through the evening that I discovered that he was not her boyfriend, but an escort, like I was with Rachel. We said hello and Sarah seemed disconcerted by my presence. I was concerned that I had somehow offended her, but it was when I remarked off-hand that we’d be seeing each other in class on Monday morning that her face took on a rosy pink hue and betrayed what she was thinking. After tonight, we might not look at each other the same way again.
For the first thirty minutes or so, it was just like a regular party, although the atmosphere was somewhat subdued. All the females were fully dressed. Indeed it was a rather cool evening, so there wasn’t much skin visible at all. We drank beer and wine and listened to music; we chatted and got acquainted. Our hosts were a tall, elegant, extremely attractive woman in her late twenties named Vanessa, and her husband Rob. They looked to be the oldest in the group, and so far as I could tell they were the only married couple.
At around seven o’clock, Vanessa turned the music down and the thermostat up. At least, I think she switched up the heating, although it may have been my own temperature that was rising. She didn’t say anything, but the sudden drop in the noise level caused everyone to look about, and that’s when she began unbuttoning her blouse. There was no announcement and no fanfare, nor was this a slow and seductive striptease. She was laughing and swapping jokes, and when she’d pulled off the shirt she whirled it over her head a few times before letting go. It sailed across the room and came in to land atop one of the bookcases. We all cheered, and the other women began removing their tops. Every single one was wearing a bra, which I am sure was no coincidence.
After we males had ogled our ladies for a while – and they had checked out each other – the proceedings went back almost to normal, except that every so often one of the girls would remove her skirt or slip out of her jeans. The half-dozen who had worn dresses to the party were already in their undies, of course, which made it a bit easier for the rest. At one stage, a couple of the guys attempted to speed up the process by spraying beer onto their partners, and another tried to take matters directly into his own hands, but they were swiftly deterred. In any case, such action proved unnecessary, as before long all the girls were down to bra and panties.
Rachel had looked around and then shrugged as she handed me her glass before reaching down to take off her boots. She grinned, somewhat apprehensively, as she unbuckled her belt, unzipped and opened the front of her jeans and pushed them down to her knees. She blushed when she realized how much interest was focused on her – and I felt proud that my cousin was the prettiest girl in the room. She fluttered her lashes and performed a neat pirouette before kicking off her denims; and as she took back her wine glass she curtly instructed me to retrieve them and her boots and place them with her sweater on the table in the corner.
Rachel looked as stunning and sexy as I’d ever seen her, in a white satin halter-neck brassiere and matching briefs, trimmed with lace frills around the edges. There was a little purple bow at the tip of each breast, and another on her panties located cheekily over the crotch. She did not appear at all self-conscious as she stood there being assessed and admired... except for a twinkle in her eyes and an impish curl of her lips.
Just as Rachel was finishing her performance, Sarah discreetly unhitched her skirt and let it fall to her ankles. When she’d stepped out of it, Brad picked it up and deposited it on the table with the rapidly growing pile of discarded clothing. She was wearing a mauve lacework demi-cup bra adorned with tiny woven blossoms, and a miniscule thong panty. But the girl had a certain style that made her look demure even when all that covered her sweet body could have easily fit into my trouser pocket. But then she stripped the ribbons from her hair, and the pigtails instantly unravelled into two spiky clumps. The effect was cutely comical, especially atop that lusciously unclad little body.
If this had been as far as things went that night, it would still have been a fantastic party, and I doubt that anyone would have been disappointed. Not all the bodies were of supermodel standard, but nevertheless healthy, well-toned and pleasing to the eye. This was hardly unexpected considering that most of the girls belonged to a club which demanded a high level of health and fitness.
Around eight o’clock, Vanessa made the next move. She called three of the other women into a huddle. After conferring, they turned together to face the rest of us, unfastened their bras and, following a few seconds of deep breaths and suppressed giggles, took them off. That initiated a most agreeable chain reaction, and within a matter of minutes every female in the room was bare-breasted.
Indeed, none showed much hesitation. I guess they had already broken the ice by stripping down to their underwear. Maybe the alcohol acted as a lubricant, although no one was drinking heavily. The girls had understandably wanted to maintain their self-control, and the men didn’t want to spoil the scenery by viewing it through a booze-induced blur.
Some of the girls were quite nonchalant about being topless; others appeared shy and timid, avoiding eye contact and keeping their hands strategically positioned. Rachel was in between. Once again, she handed me her glass and sucked in a lungful of air. She exhaled in a half dozen soft, rapid puffs before reaching behind her back. She unfastened the clasp and allowed the bra to dangle by its halter over her chest for a few seconds. Finally, with a resolute firming of her jaws, she grasped the strap and lifted it over her head, pulling the fabric off her body with an extravagant flourish that caused her breasts to quiver slightly. She held onto it for a moment, caressing the material between her fingers, before handing it to me and taking back her drink. She blushed, again, when I casually shoved it into my pocket. That was an absent-minded gesture, but it must have looked as if I was stashing a trophy.
I’m sure this was not the first time that Rachel had bared her chest in public. In fact, before that night I had twice seen her topless, albeit by accident in a poolside mishap and a bathroom mix-up. She’s not prudish, nor especially bashful, and she doesn’t mind flaunting her assets. However, the differences here were the setting, the deliberate and methodical way in which she and the other women went about their stripping, and the fact that it was a one-sided display, with male partners and friends still fully clothed and keenly scrutinizing. Yet I had to laugh – sympathetically, of course – at my normally unflappable cousin, bashfully holding her drink in such a position that her hand and glass concealed one nipple, her forearm the other. Fortunately she saw the humour in her situation and smiled back. She gradually lowered her arm until her breasts were revealed in all their glory. Well, as I’ve mentioned, she’s not overly endowed in that department, but they are nicely-shaped and... the word that comes to mind is pert.
I am (somewhat) ashamed to say that I got rather fixated on her nipples. I expected them to be erect... as erect as... well, I’m sure you’ll get my meaning when I confess that I was glad I’d had the forethought to wear baggy trousers that evening. But it really didn’t come as a shock that they were still soft. Although she and the other girls were obviously aroused, there was enough residual discomfiture that none of them was feeling especially turned on... unlike their partners. Anyway, I suddenly understood Vanessa’s perspicacity in turning up the thermostat.
I glanced about furtively to see what was happening elsewhere, but relaxed when I saw that the other guys were doing the same, and no one seemed to mind. Nevertheless, I quickly averted my eyes if any of the girls reacted with a cringe or a twitch, or otherwise looked embarrassed. However, they all seemed either comfortable with their state of undress or too preoccupied with trying to appear at ease to care that anyone was staring.
Of course, I had to see Sarah. She had delayed removing her top until she was one of the last to do so, and now realized that was a mistake, for even with a dozen pairs of naked breasts already on display, the attention kept shifting to those holding out. It’s interesting how the act of undressing tends to be even more provocative and stimulating than the finished product.
She unhooked her brassiere – it was the front closure type – and crossed her arms to slide the straps off her shoulders. I thought her hands were going to linger there, but she lowered them to her sides. The cups clung to her torso for a few tantalizing seconds, until she wiggled her body and they fell free. She caught the bra before it drifted all the way to the carpet, and offered it to her partner.
Like Rachel, Sarah is rather small-breasted but makes up for lack of dimension with elegance of design. She is slim and athletic, her body finely honed and toned, in a gymnast’s perfect equilibrium where the baby fat has burned off but the curves and crevices are soft and sleek, not firmed and rippled. As did Rachel, she made no attempt to cover herself, but she kept her arms unnaturally tensed, hands clasped at waist level or planted awkwardly on her hips. She was resisting the urge to raise them to her chest.
Yet after a while, as we got used to the bare boobs – the sight or the feeling, depending on one’s perspective – we all started to become almost blasé about them. I guess semi-nudity is not such a taboo that you dwell on it for long. And once again, I would have been more than satisfied if things had progressed no further. But more delights lay ahead. The party’s raison d’être had not yet been completely fulfilled. And when I think back on it, I don’t know if stretching out the undressing ritual over two to three hours was a help or a hindrance to the girls. Certainly it gave them time to adjust. On the other hand, at each stage, just as they found their new comfort zone, they were moved out of it. Vanessa orchestrated this like a symphony. I was getting the impression that this was not a first for her and Rob.
The final act was once more kicked off by our hostess. The French have a phrase, pour l’encouragement des autres – “to encourage the others” – and this was Vanessa’s guiding principle throughout the evening. She picked exactly the right moment, when there was a lull in the conversation and the music had stopped, and some of us were getting fidgety – guys becoming impatient, girls just wanting to get it done. Yet many of the latter were clearly ambivalent. Rachel silently rolled her eyes when she realized the time had come, Sarah muttered something inaudible to everyone but herself, one girl groaned softly, one rocked back and forth on the heels and balls of her feet while another swayed gently, as if slightly woozy. The rest, however, laughed or just shrugged it off, although I suspected that was mostly façade.
Wearing nothing but her g-string panties, Vanessa looked almost unbearably beautiful and seductive. Statuesque and graceful, with the body of a showgirl, a chorine’s legs and a siren’s visage, she was stunning beyond any reasonable measure of womanhood. She had jet-black hair which cascaded about her shoulders, ebony eyes that sparkled like black diamonds, and lips the colour of rubies which crimped at the corners of her mouth into an inscrutable Mona Lisa smile. Her flawless skin was a rich olive. If she wasn’t quite as beautiful as Rachel, that was because my cousin sets such a high standard; but she exuded sexuality. Her breasts were magnificent orbs... I feel a tad sleazy putting it that way, because she was so refined and sensuous, but the fact is that she was spectacular. Unlike most of the others in the room, her rose-hued nipples were raised and hard. She radiated gusto and basked in the attention.
The mood in the room changed when Vanessa reached to her hips and pushed her thong down her thighs. Everyone stopped to watch. I heard a couple of gasps. She was totally self-assured, relaxed and unembarrassed. She conveyed a playful innocence that was almost childlike as she daintily handed the last of her clothing to her man. Suddenly she seemed so fragile and vulnerable, with all of her glorious body exposed, nothing hidden, that little bit of her which had remained privately hers (and her husband’s) now public property.
Almost all the women followed in unison. Rachel looked up into my eyes, then lowered her gaze, perhaps starting to feel a few qualms or a twinge of regret at having gone so far. At this stage, any of the girls could have backed away from the final revelation, and no one would have disparaged her for doing so (and certainly none of us males was in a position to pass judgement). On the other hand Sarah, who had been hesitant about taking off her bra, all but leapt out of her panties. I think she was bursting to get it over with.
Indeed, it’s funny how two small slivers of fabric make such a difference. A minute earlier, half the bodies in the room were concealed by nothing more, and yet it’s that last, forbidden one per cent of skin which, when revealed, transforms a woman. Whether she acts like a slut or a saint, prances and cavorts to show herself off or timidly shrinks from the attention, is strong or weak, tough as nails or tender as a flower petal, it all makes no difference. When she is naked, she is defined in full, first and last, by her womanhood. When she and all the women about her are naked, and all the men are fully clothed, it is not just her body which is exposed but everything that she is.
I took a lingering look at Rachel. I didn’t try to be coy about it. She showed just a little embarrassment but stood there stoically, with her feet and knees slightly apart, her hands defiantly by her side, not hiding anything but – the impression was – poised for covering action. The soft pink cleft between her legs was smooth, either shaven or waxed, as were most of the girls’.
I turned to Sarah. She was still wearing her cutie-pie knee-socks and buckle-shoes – so charmingly incongruous, since she was completely naked above them. They were the first to catch the eye, and then my line of sight was drawn upwards, along her silken thighs to the velvet folds at the entrance to her body. The delicate wisps of hair evoked a sense of a pristine simplicity and guileless lack of pretension that her impudent nakedness served to enhance rather than debase. Her pose was more submissive, or modest, than Rachel’s – hands behind her back, feet together but with one knee bent to position that leg slightly forward of the other, head erect but eyes downcast.
Everyone tried to act casual; in fact perhaps we tried too hard. Vanessa, the attentive hostess, proffered a glass of wine and Sarah took it, loosening out of her uneasy posture. Indeed, the mood all round quickly turned effervescent once again. Perhaps it was the effects of the alcohol, but more likely it was the adrenaline, but the girls began to circulate, breaking away from their partners to mingle more freely than they had done with their clothes on.
To my delight, and Rachel’s amusement, I became the focus of some considerable feminine attention. I would like to think it was due to my looks and charm, but it had more to do with the fact that I was the youngest guy at the party and I look even more youthful than my age. For some reason, this appealed to the girls who kept me busy for the next hour. I certainly didn’t object, although I would have liked to have been able to spend more time with Sarah. At one stage, I found myself in a circle with four of the bare-skinned lovelies, exchanging advice and information on – of all things – bus routes and fares. I have no recollection of how the conversation got started, but in hindsight it was so marvellously banal, given the situation.
The girls appeared completely at ease, although that could have been bravado. To be honest, I had been a little intimidated by the company – all these swashbuckling adventurers, fearless daredevils and intrepid thrill-seekers. But it does wonders for the male ego when you’re casually chatting to a pretty girl when you’re fully clothed and she’s stark naked... let alone when there’s four of them and just you, and everyone’s trying to act like there’s nothing out of the ordinary in the fact that you’re the only one with clothes on.
Of course, not everybody was so coy, but I didn’t see any groping or other bad behaviour. In fact, most of the unrestrained behaviour came from the girls. After quickly getting over the initial, inevitable discomfiture, they were enjoying themselves as much as the guys, maybe even more so because they were able to let go of their inhibitions altogether, whereas we males felt obliged to keep a check on our impulses. There was no shame or humiliation; but at the same time there was no blatant exhibitionism or overt immodesty. (That sounds odd, under the circumstances, but it’s the difference between sexy and sleazy.)
One of those in our little conversation circle was a well-built, intense-looking brunette named Kat – “with a K” she insisted, although she had a quality that was undeniably feline, sort of slinky and exotic. She was standing beside me, and whenever she directed a comment at me, she turned towards me and her bare breast brushed against my shirt sleeve. Then she’d emphasize a point and her firm nipple pressed into my arm. I don’t know if she was doing it deliberately, or even if she was aware she was doing it at all; and if she hadn’t been nude I probably wouldn’t have noticed it myself.
For me, as a male, it was a gratifying, not to say stimulating, experience, and also in a way flattering. The girls hadn’t stripped just for our pleasure and amusement; the event had been undertaken as a dare; and they were having as much fun as us. At the same time, the whole point of the exercise was that they were naked for our enjoyment. Certainly it was a thrill for them – and they were, after all, members of a club devoted to just that sort of thing – but it was the one-sided nature of their exposure which added a special piquancy to the occasion. Indeed, I must confess that I also felt just a tad superior in my fully clad masculinity, or at least a kind of comradely bond with my fellow males – the brotherhood of the attired, so to speak. But anyway, back to the story...
After a while, with some reluctance, I detached myself from the group, when I saw that Sarah had been left alone. It was the first time I had a chance to say more than a couple of words to her since the party started. I couldn’t resist a close-up inspection. She didn’t seem to mind, or at least was becoming used to being looked over, and waited patiently till I was finished, with just the hint of a wry smile. She had taken off her shoes and socks and wasn’t wearing jewellery or make-up. She was as bare as nature had provided, and nature had done very well. As I’ve mentioned, like Rachel she is not by any means statuesque or voluptuous, but her body is sublimely proportioned, with not a gram of excess fat or overtoned muscle. Unlike my cousin, who is almost spookily flawless, Sarah has three tiny imperfections which added to her unadorned charm because I would not normally have been privy to their existence – a small ragged scar on her left breast just below the nipple, a little butterfly-shaped birthmark on her right hip on the edge of the pubis, and an odd patch where the light sprinkling of pubic hair did not grow at all.
We talked for about five minutes, mainly about the class we shared. The obvious topic didn’t come up until she asked why I hadn’t joined the club, since she had seen me now at several of its social functions. I explained my philosophy regarding the allocation of heartbeats, and she didn’t know whether I was being serious. But then I said something along the lines of “However, if there were more parties like this...” and she gave me a funny look.
At that moment – probably a good thing – we were interrupted by Brad, who returned to ask Sarah if she wanted a refill. She declined, and to my relief her escort withdrew, but she turned and beckoned me to follow her into the kitchen. There was Vanessa, with a couple of the other girls and one of the guys, preparing plates of snacks. And I have to say that familiarity was definitely not breeding contempt. The sight of the women busy at the bench, the succulent flesh of their bare backsides wiggling slightly as they worked, certainly aroused my appetite. Sarah started to assist, so I pitched in as well, cutting up salami and cheese.
Vanessa offered me an apron, and I couldn’t resist laughing out loud, which earned me some quizzical stares. I guess my sense of irony was heightened by the occasion.
As we carried out the snacks, Vanessa declared that Kat had a few things to say. That’s the first time I became aware that she was the president of the club. She said a few things, of which I don’t remember much because I wasn’t really listening. She thanked Vanessa and Rob for hosting the event, assured us that the fun was just getting started, made some announcements regarding the club, and made a couple of oblique references to whatever challenge the men were due to face. To repeat what I wrote earlier, their assignment seemed pretty mild compared to the women’s, but I think that may have been the point. From what I could gather, a lot of the club’s activities apparently involved the girls proving they were as tough and fearless as the guys, if not more so.
It was around ten o’clock when the party moved into the next phase – indeed, as Kat promised, shifted into a higher gear. I think Vanessa and Rob had observed the sexual tension rising and decided this was the time to dissipate the energy by organizing some games. I surprised me not at all that the girls’ nudity was the centrepiece of every one we played.
We started with musical chairs. The guys sat in a circle facing outwards and the girls skipped around the outside, their breasts swaying and jiggling in a most agreeable manner, until “Sit!” was called. The music didn’t stop. Instead, the girls sat on our knees, with their backs to us, and performed a lap dance. Then “Spin!” was called and they leapt up and repeated the circuit; but this time when the girls descended upon our laps we were face to face. One of the girls, Rebecca, sat out the game to act as the caller. She had a broken leg – sustained, naturally, during one of the club’s hazardous escapades. It hadn’t occurred to me before, but there is nothing cuter than a pretty brunette who’s naked but for a leg in plaster. To carry out her task impartially, she was blindfolded. Talk about your fetish fantasy!
It was a variation on the classical game, with no scramble for places. Instead, Vanessa was the Poison. At the end of each Sit and Spin cycle, the Bump – whoever had the Poison – was suspended from the next round. It would have been too cruel on any of the guys to be eliminated entirely. However, after about a dozen rounds (Rob being the Bump on the first), more guys than just myself was in danger of wearing his enthusiasm on the front of his trousers (so to speak). I managed to avoid being the Bump more than once. I got Sarah twice, facing both ways, which was pleasant, but not Rachel. The most proficient at the game was – again, no shocking revelation – Vanessa. I was lucky to get her on the Spin, and she was brilliant. She clasped her hands behind her head (while I kept mine rigidly by my side – gripping the legs of my chair, in fact) as she gyrated on my thighs. She was either very light or held up some of her weight on her legs, which would have been difficult with her knees bent and splayed. She held her face close to mine, her breathing wafting gentle puffs over my eyes and forehead, and she unabashedly rubbed her breasts against my chest. The tender abrasion of her nipples against the fabric of my shirt aroused her. I felt her breath quickening, and even her racing heartbeat through her breasts. She moaned softly and lightly bit her lower lip. She put on a performance like this with each guy she danced for, and by the end of the game she was flushed and panting. She’s quite a woman.
The game was exhausting for the dancers, so we had a break before beginning the next game. The girls relaxed on cushions or on the carpet while their menfolk brought them drinks, and some towels to mop up the perspiration. They composed an entrancing tableau, like haremgirls reclining in the seraglio.
Before the energy ebbed too far, Vanessa clapped her hands and called us to the next game. This involved us forming two concentric circles, male to female, face to face, arms behind the back, to pass various objects, such as a shuttlecock, tennis ball and so on (unsubtle double entendres), from one to the next. Of course, in keeping with the theme, each object was lodged between the girl’s breasts. If she possessed insufficient cleavage – as was the case with Rachel and Sarah – she had to press her shoulders forward to squeeze together what assets she had. To make it more difficult, we guys had to tuck the object under our chin, so there was lots of twisting and contorting and plenty of breast-to-chest-and-chin contact. The girls shuffled along the line to each guy in turn. Once the circuit had been completed, we males then had to transfer the objects to the females’ thighs. Believe me, pressing your face into a nude girl’s cleavage and crotch is an experience not to be missed.
Considering how risqué some of the games were, it was probably a wise thing that only half the group were sans attire. There were some obvious ones we didn’t play. There was one that entailed emblazoning numbers and letters on the girls’ buttocks with lipstick; I don’t recall what the reason was.
We did push the boundaries a couple of times, most notably when the ice cubes came out. While they stared at the ice with trepidation, none of the girls opted out. They took it in turns to lie on their backs on the coffee table, feet planted on the floor, hands clasped behind the head. Two guys were assigned to each, so we had two girls apiece on whom to work our frosty magic. Selections were done at random – names out of a bowl – with just enough jigging of the results to break up couples and mix up the group.
I think the object of the game is clear enough. We ran the ice cubes over the girl’s body until they melted, a dozen in all for each. By the time I had finished with Sarah, my fingers were numb from the cold, so I can only imagine what it was like for her, as Tim (the other guy) and I rubbed the ice around her neck, across her breasts and over her nipples, down her belly and into her crotch. She winced and trembled, clenched her jaws to keep from squealing, began to squirm but held out until her skin glistened with the freezing water.
My second subject was Kat and my second partner was Brad. Our victim never even flinched, not once. As I glided the ice over her flesh, I was impressed at how rock solid were her muscles. Although sensuously curvaceous, she has a flinty toughness that tonally matches her steely personality. When I slid my chunk of ice between her legs, I saw the tendons on her arms tighten and her lips puckered ever so slightly, but she never even blinked as I ran my fingertips through the wet matted hair (she was one the three or four girls at the party who was unshaven down there) and pushed the ice just a little bit into her crease and held it there until it had completely melted and the frigid water dribbled down the insides of her thighs onto the tabletop.
Only one girl surrendered and dropped out during the entire game. By its end, nevertheless, they all needed a break. It was well after midnight by now, and for the first time a few of the couples engaged in some dalliance. No one could blame the guys for taking the opportunity for some intimate caressing and fondling, but everyone stayed in the room, and those of us without romantic partners relaxed, chatted, listened to music, drank some more. However, the pair who had the best time of it were Lilly and Jenna, who I had not realized up until then were a lesbian couple. I don’t know if they were aware of or cared about the attention they were attracting as the only smooching pair who were both naked.
Oddly enough – or maybe not so odd – this was the only time that I saw Rachel embarrassed since she had stripped. I guess it’s because of the mixed message behind CMNF. When the woman is naked and the man fully clothed, that can be interpreted as her asserting herself by expressing her sexuality in its most potent form, or it may be seen as his dominion over her. Because my cousin is used to being in control of her relationships – in fact of everything – I think she found the sexual dichotomy to be somewhat humiliating for the female, even just to watch, more so than what she had endured in some of the games we played that night. And, of course, I am somewhat ashamed to admit that it turned me on.
To be continued...
The party continued almost till dawn. I spent as much of the remaining time as I could with Sarah, and Brad didn’t mind me moving in. In fact, he had his eyes on Rachel. I saw them talking a couple of times. At one stage, he had her in that classic wolf and prey position, she backed up against a wall, he standing up close, leaning on the wall with one hand to support himself and to keep her from escaping. Without her clothes she looked so meek and vulnerable that I was tempted to intervene. But the inner Rachel quickly reasserted herself. As he bent forward to murmur into her ear and his free hand moved in the direction of her chest, instead of shifting laterally to extricate herself via the open side, she ducked under his outstretched arm and came up behind him. She whispered something which caused his eyes to bulge and his jaw to drop before heading for the drinks table. He followed her, his metaphorical tail between his legs. Naked or not, my little cousin is formidable.
Almost everyone stayed right to the end. When the first couple left, around three in the morning, it was interesting that the girl gathered up her clothing and retired to one of the bedrooms to get dressed. On their way out, the pair lingered a while, and she looked distinctly uncomfortable being the only female in the room who wasn’t nude. And as the front door opened and the cold air swirled in, the women closest to it shrieked and took shelter behind the nearest male.
When the party finally broke up, the dozen remaining girls all took their clothes to the bedroom. It seemed to me a peculiar expression of modesty after all which had transpired. However, they took a considerable time to get dressed and I presume they were talking about their experience. I heard laughter loud enough to penetrate the closed door and negotiate the long corridor, and deduced that they were talking about us guys. When they emerged, Vanessa alone was still naked. Rachel and the others actually appeared self-conscious as they rejoined us in the living room, and that’s when it occurred to me that one-sided nudity is as not just about raw sexuality (and yes, the pun is intended). Clothing is not just a covering for our bodies; it is a symbol of what we are in relation to each other.
Rachel shivered, clapped her hands and rubbed her arms as we stepped out into the chilly pre-dawn air. A faint golden glow was beginning to disperse the darkness on the eastern horizon. She hadn’t drunk any alcohol for several hours and was completely sober. But we were both tired and didn’t say much as she drove me back to my place. The next time we saw each other, about a week later, neither of us mentioned the party. And we haven’t talked much about it since that night.
Not a lot has changed between us. Rachel is a lawyer now. It’s typical of my extraordinary cousin that she has eschewed a lucrative career in private practice to specialize in human rights law and consumer advocacy. She’s also married. She is as sexy as she ever was, even if she’s been somewhat domesticated. We still have our family gatherings, not as frequent but always an occasion that I look forward to. My infatuation lingers, though not as strong as it once was. In fact, not since the night of the party. That’s when I discovered the true love of my life.
To be continued...
