My Flagrant Public Nudity

My Flagrant Public Nudity — My exhibition goes horribly wrong. Or does it?

I was sitting in my apartment late one Wednesday evening, having a glass of wine and talking on the phone to my oldest and dearest friend, Susan. I rarely drink alone but felt I needed a little artificial prompting for this conversation.

After high school, Susan had gone on to college in Southern California where she was starting her senior year. I had remained in our dull, provincial, midwestern hometown, helping to run my parents' flourishing educational software business. Susan and I had grown up in the same affluent neighborhood, were preternaturally close and had always shared everything, including several (in retrospect pretty tame) exhibitionist adventures. We remained in constant touch, talking almost daily.

We were chatting idly when I blurted, "Susan, I really need to talk to you about something."

"Sure. Is everything okay, Liz?"

"Well, I don't know. Remember when we took those middle-of-the-night, naked walks around our neighborhood?"

"Of course. I remember them fondly. I think of that as our budding exhibitionist period, but we totally got away with it so what's the problem? You haven't started up again without me, have you?"

"No, no," I said. "The problem is that we never did get caught. I know it was risky and exciting back then, but we weren't really exhibitionists if no one saw us. We were just nibbling around the edges. We were like artists without canvases."

Susan laughed at that and said, "Right. Like a golfer who makes a hole-in-one playing alone. Or the proverbial tree falling in the forest with no one around to hear it. What's this all about?"

"I realize now how much I actually wanted to get caught. I've been wasting an unhealthy amount of time on all kinds of exhibitionist fantasies. I fantasize about getting caught in situations that end up with my being paraded around the town naked or forced to publicly masturbate or staked out naked on the courthouse square so anyone can come and look at me. The kind of punishments they might have dreamed up in Salem in the 1690s. Susan, I'm just consumed with this aching desire to be sexually thrilled and humiliated at the same time. It's becoming the overarching focus of my life."

There was a long pause, and Susan said, "Wow. Look, I'm not trying to sound dismissive here, but why not just go out and get yourself busted?"

"First of all, I wouldn't want to do that here, and second, it's got to look unintentional. Or forced. Not like something some crazy exhibitionist just did by herself. I don't think I'm ready for anything so obviously of my own doing. Plus, it's sometimes hotter when people think they're seeing something they weren't meant to see rather than just having it shown to them."

She said, "You really have been giving this a lot of thought, haven't you?"

"Way, way, way too much thought. That's what I was telling you. It's actually affecting my work. And even my dreams. The other night I dreamed I was giving a speech at some kind of convention in front of a full auditorium, and I was naked, and in the middle of the speech, I started masturbating and had an orgasm. Which turned out to be a real-life orgasm. I woke up with my hand between my legs, gasping in mortification from my dream and in pleasure from my hand."

"Damn, Girl, you're making me wet! Listen up. I need to think about this, but I just may be able to set something up for you. My involvement would have to be secret, for your own sake and for mine. If everyone knew I was colluding with you, they'd know it was intentional. Plus, I might end up in some trouble. I'll try to call you back tomorrow night."

She hung up, and I sat there thinking about what a wonderful friend she is, but I was also uneasy about what I might be getting myself into. I was feeling excited but also a little panicked.

I walked into the bedroom, dropped my robe and looked at myself naked in the mirror. Men are always telling me I'm beautiful, but knowing men, I think a lot of that can be chalked up to my breasts. I'm pleased enough with them. They're all mine, and they're full and round and firm but not porny or cartoonishly pneumatic. Of course, they often attract the wrong kind of attention. Not the anonymous, exhibitionist attention that I've been craving but that of sleazy, lounge-lizard types. What I like most about them, though, which I first learned on our naked walks, is that it makes you feel even more naked when you've got something extra bouncing around up there. Something more to show.

Actually, when I am naked, they are by no means my most eye-catching feature. I have a fairly (okay, exceptionally) prominent clitoris, made even more noticeable by a recent Brazilian wax. I'm not saying you could see it from the moon, at least not with the unaided eye, but on infrequent vacation visits to nude beaches, it invariably attracted shocked double-takes. From both men and women. And in the girls' communal showers after high school gym, I was teased mercilessly. Susan was a great one for cheerfully embarrassing me in front of other girls by suddenly asking, "Have you seen Liz's dick?" I'm 5'8" and weigh 127 pounds, a natural blonde with medium-length, wavy hair.

I don't know why I have these blatantly exhibitionist desires and tendencies. Nothing in my everyday life is designed to draw attention to myself. My car is practical and far more modest than I could afford. I dress like a slacker, mostly in sweat pants, oversized tees, flannel shirts and sneakers. In group conversations I'm the quiet one. But my fantasy life is a whole different kettle of fish.

I went to bed around midnight and barely slept. I kept wondering what she would come up with, but Susan being Susan, I had an inkling that it would be perfect. (That was a majestically wrong inkling.)

Sure enough, Susan called Thursday night. The first thing she said was, "Okay, a couple of pretty important questions. One, do you really want to do this? And two, do you really want to crank it up a notch?"

"Yes and yes," I whispered."

"Good," she said, "because I've already booked you on United Flight 322 at six-forty tomorrow evening. You have a reservation at the Sheraton. The weather forecast for Saturday is hot and sunny, pretty normal for September. I spent all day scoping out the campus and found a promising location. The necessary props will be put in place during the middle of the night on Friday. You have to be there just before daybreak. I'll pick you up in front of the hotel at five-thirty in the morning. Wear a sundress and sandals. No underwear, no jewelry and no watch. You are going to be completely naked with no place to run and no place to hide. Any questions?"

"Yes. Do you know anyone who still wears a watch?" She burst out laughing, and I said, "It sounds like you've really got this nailed down. So what's the plan?"

"I just told you the plan, Liz."

"Yeah, but what's going to happen, and what am I supposed to do?"

"What's going to happen is a surprise. That will be half the thrill. And what you have to do is absolutely nothing."

"Oh, God! Thank you so much for this, Susan."

"Well, maybe you better not thank me until we see how it works out. But I think this is so cool, and I'm really jealous of you. The next time I talk to you will be when I pick you up Saturday morning."

I was relieved that Susan had acted so quickly but filled, not only with sexual titillation, but more than little apprehension. That night, however, I slept well.

The trip was uneventful, and at five o'clock Saturday morning when my alarm went off, I awoke with a start and no idea what was in store for me in just a couple of hours. I was ready and out front just before Susan pulled up and jumped out of her car to give me a hug.

We sped off toward the campus a few minutes away. "Okay," she said, "very shortly you're going to be unable to back out of your grand exhibition. So it's now or never."

"Can't you give me some clue about this?"

"Not on your life. One last, important instruction is that if anyone asks you what's going on, just say, 'My fucking sorority sisters.'"

Susan wheeled the car into the parking lot behind the back row of dorms on the quad, chose a space at the farthest end of the lot, killed the engine and said, "Lose the dress and sandals and come with me."

I unquestioningly stripped naked, tossing them in the car. She took my hand and led me along the right side of the quad. It had dormitories on the three sides to our left. To our right was a tall, thick hedge, running the length of the quad and, about fifty feet inside it, a long row of young cherry trees. About halfway along the dimly lit quad, Susan, still holding my hand, stopped and said, "You're home, Liz." She pulled my right arm over my head and out to the side and snapped on a handcuff that had already been secured to a tree limb.

"Susan!" I gasped. Working rapidly, she repeated the move with my left arm, stretching it to the adjacent tree. She cuffed both ankles to the slender trunks of the saplings, leaving me spread-eagle, my legs as far apart as possible without it being painful. I also noted that the cuffs on my ankles were little forward of the ones on my wrists. Since my arms were pulled backward a bit, to maintain my center of gravity, I had to thrust my pelvis forward, further drawing attention to my mons and genitals. If intentional (and I rather suspect that it was), that really was a deft touch. I was now facing the quad in a state of pointedly graphic nudity, and the sky was beginning to brighten in the east.

"The key is under the doormat of the dorm directly across from you," Susan whispered. "This place is going to be coming alive soon. Especially so today, I think. I gotta go."

"Susan, no!" I hissed.

She went trotting off. It's hard to describe what happened to me next. I may have been experiencing real, clinical shock. My heart was pounding so hard and fast that I thought it would burst. My adrenal glands must have dumped all their adrenaline into my bloodstream. I lost control of my bladder and peed all over the ground. At least no one saw that.

My legs began to tremble as I grasped the inevitability of what was about to happen. Someone would come out of one of the dorms or look out a window, and a great hue and cry would arise. Shouts of "Naked woman on the quad." Students pouring out of the dorms and racing across the grass. Followed by my excruciating humiliation. The only question was when. The anticipation was agonizing.

To have called my position compromising would have been the mother of all understatements. Displayed there helplessly, I tried to sort through my conflicting thoughts, but I couldn't get a handle on them. They were all over the place. All I could be sure of was that the slight, early morning chill was dissipating, and it was becoming light really fast.

At first, I was angry at Susan for doing this to me, but I had to admit that I'd done it to myself. I'd told her all about how my fantasies were compelling me toward something very much like this, and I'd readily accepted the help she'd offered. But there is such a world of difference between the fantasy and the reality.

I realized that this was probably part and parcel of Susan's plan. Here I was with nothing at all unpleasant actually happening, but I was faced with the abject certainty that I would soon be experiencing the most embarrassing, exposed and vulnerable moment of my life. (If only that had been the case.)

And yet, in spite of my fear, my vagina was becoming warm and moist. I felt my labia engorging and my clitoris swelling even farther out of its hood. I suddenly thought of a massive ship at sea that, through some navigational error, sets herself on an irreversible collision course. No change in speed or direction can save her as the poor captain stands on the bridge, watching the slow-motion catastrophe of his career about to go up in flames.

And then it happened. Someone shouted exactly, "Naked woman on the quad," and it was quickly repeated throughout the dorms. Within a minute they all began to empty. The initial trickle soon became a flood as, like the tributaries of a great river, they began to merge as they flowed in my direction. Somehow, the fact that they were all right around my own age made this even more intimidating. Those first to arrive in front of me reached some imaginary line that stopped them about twenty-five feet away, and the crowd started to build behind them.

A few students did circle around behind me with their cameras. That struck me as particularly erotic. I visualized myself as seen from the rear, my arms and legs splayed so widely, my body exhibited so explicitly but the crowd now visible in all of those shots. Something about that image, all of those eyes staring at me, the pictures not actually revealing (but unmistakably conveying) what was fully on display to those in front of me and my bare buttocks now centered in the viewfinders behind me; it was all so profoundly hot. I wished that I could have asked them for some copies.

And, as I certainly should have expected, they weren't the only ones with cameras. Almost all the students were brandishing them, taking snapshots or, far more likely, making videos of the scene. There were hundreds of them, clapping and cheering and spreading out before me. The kids near me even began kneeling or sitting after those behind them starting shouting, "Down in front." Mindlessly, I labored against my restraints but quickly discovered that it only resulted in gyrating hips, undulating breasts and more cheers.

One of the guys yelled, "Look at those tits!" and one of the women shouted, "Forget the tits. Mine are that big. Check out that clit." Several of the women seemed to simultaneously exclaim, "Oh, my God," and I could see them activating their zoom lenses.

At this point, I was literally sucking wind, and my mouth was so dry I thought I may have lost the ability to speak. Even so, I was incredibly aroused. Ever since puberty, I've had what I assume is the normal reaction to arousal. I'd be having an erotic daydream and feel that predictable moistening in my vagina. This felt different, though, and I knew for sure it was different when one of the women screamed, "Look, she's dripping!" More fiddling with their zooms.

Finally, someone mercifully shouted, "Who did this to you?" I croaked, "My fucking sorority sisters," but no one heard me. One of the women stepped up to me and put an ear to my mouth. I repeated my response, and she shouted to the crowd, "She's being hazed by her sorority sisters!" This elicited another cheer from the crowd, and I understood that Greek hazing, no matter how extreme, was acceptable, even admirable, to them.

"Please help me," I said.

"How?" she asked.

I told her where the key was, and she said, "Okay, Honey. Be right back." I didn't like the sound of that "Honey." Meanwhile, the kids in the back had been forming into something like columns, circling around the crowd and passing in front of it to get a closer look at me as they slowly, almost reverentially, filed by. Their gazes were fixed on my clitoris and the fluid that seeped down my glazed inner thighs or dripped steadily on the grass below. Their lingering stares and the ceaseless attention of their cameras only made me wetter. I saw Susan pass by, grinning from ear to ear.

At long last, the woman returned with the key. She came up to me and asked, "Are you right-handed or left-handed, Honey?"

I thought, "What the hell?" but just mumbled, "Right-handed."

She immediately unlocked the handcuff on my right wrist, shoved the key in her pocket and began walking away.

"Wait, where are you going?"

She turned to face me and said, "Sorry, Honey, but you gotta earn your way out of this predicament."

"How?" I said. "I can't even move."

She said, "Look. You're stuck there immobilized, naked to all the world, but you have one free hand. Now, what is the only thing you could possibly do with that hand to earn your way to freedom? And I'm not talking about writing a check."

I felt my face, and probably my whole body, turn crimson. I glanced over where Susan was now standing, and, although she is exclusively heterosexual and has seen me naked numberless times, she was really giving my body the once over. When she looked up and met my eye, she only lifted her brows as if to ask, "What now, Girlfriend?"

I turned back to my tormentor and told her that there was no way I would do that. She said, "Not a problem. I'll just leave you here. We could make a day of it. Get out some blankets, some sodas and snacks, maybe start talking among ourselves or listening to our iPods, but we'll always be able to keep an eye on the main attraction. I gotta go get breakfast and find a place to lose this key. See you later."

"Wait. Please wait."

She returned to my side and leaned in. She started nodding her head and, even though I had as yet to say anything, turned to the crowd, pumped a fist in the air and shouted, "She's going to masturbate for her freedom!"

A raucous cheer went up from the crowd, and they began chanting, "Yes, yes, yes!" That's when I had what turned out to be a really bad idea. I was just seconds from an orgasm anyway, so I thought that if I just went ahead with it, my ordeal would be over in no time. I moved my hand to my vulva, spreading apart my labia, sliding two fingers in and out of my vagina and frantically rubbing my thumb over my clitoris, which was beginning to feel like a baseball. Even though they had originally applauded the idea, the students gaped at me like they couldn't believe what they were seeing. And I found myself exhilarated by their reaction.

I was right, too. I shortly sailed into the most intense orgasm of my life and dropped anchor there. I reacted as if there were a cattle prod in my vagina, bucking and squirming and only being held upright by the handcuff on my left wrist.

The crowd roared. My arm fell to my side as the tremors subsided. After I could speak again, I looked imploringly at the woman and could only say, "Okay, okay." She began clapping and shouted, "Bravo! One orgasm, one pair of handcuffs, which we've already unlocked! Just three more orgasms, and she'll be free!"

I was thoroughly defeated. I didn't even protest. I just began to slowly masturbate again, wondering how long it would take. The second one took longer and the third one longer still. But each subsequent orgasm was more powerful than the one before. As I would ascend to an orgasm, my eyes would sweep lovingly over the crowd, reveling in their exuberant appreciation, but as my climaxes began to recede, I would be all too aware that I had just publicly, and on a college campus no less, staged a show that was unlikely in the boldest of strip clubs.

The fourth orgasm seemed to take forever, but the crowd certainly never lost interest, yelling out encouragements like, "You can do it!" and, "You go, Girl!" As I was on the verge of that last and most powerful orgasm, I saw four cops, two real cops and two who were obviously campus security, pushing through the crowd. I was beyond caring. In fact, the sight of them probably triggered what happened next. As I began to orgasm, I threw my head back and, in the midst of my convulsions, learned that I had just become a squirter. My vagina expelled a stream like a garden hose. It even caused the cops, who had broken through the crowd, to jump aside to protect their uniforms. And the crowd went crazy. One woman shouted, "Drown the pigs!"

When it was reduced to a dribble, the two real cops, one of whom was a woman, stepped forward and, with their own keys, unlocked the remaining handcuffs and released me. But before I could force out a mostly disingenuous, "Thank you, officers," the woman cop spun me around and snapped her own cuffs on my wrists behind my back.