I have been fascinated and aroused by nudity, particularly forced or outdoor nudity, for as long as I can remember. Snippets of TV shows my parents might have been watching, where a character is forced to strip, are burned into my mind, and served for many years as early "fuel" for masturbation.
At 14-15 I would write endless fiction involving me and various pretty girls from school, in what would now be termed CFNM or CMNF fantasies. But, I needed to actually feel that breeze on my skin, and one day, horny as ever (I'm a 14-year old boy at this point, I'm perpetually horny), I hatched a plan.
It was summer, or at the very least, a sunny day in London where I lived with my parents. More crucially, it was in the school holidays, so my parents were both out at work, and I had the house to myself. Our house was typical of the area, one of many near-identical terraced homes, each with a garden at the rear, some 30m/100' long and 10m/30' wide, each separated by a fence approximately 1.25m/4' high.
"The Voice", I'm sure everyone here has their own version of it, that naughty whisperer that tells you something that you really shouldn't do, came up with an idea.
I should go to the back door, strip naked, and streak to the far end of the garden and back again. The pretty girls at school wanted me to do it. I could almost see them in the kitchen, teasing and laughing as they made me take my clothes off.
I opened the kitchen door and looked out to the garden, focussing on the spot on the back fence that I knew I would have to touch before being allowed to run back. My parents, like all the other homeowners, would be out at work, there were no kids within five or six gardens at least. It would just be me, watched by the pretty girls.
I ran. It was glorious. "Nude", "naked", "stripped"...all words that to this day give me a frisson of excitement, were running through my head, as I ran on the soft grass. I really did feel the sun on my back, the soft slap of my semi-erect cock and balls bouncing as I ran, ordered to humiliate myself for the pretty girls.
I reached the fence. It can't have taken more than a few seconds. I turned and began my run back, but not before I locked eyes with the next-door-neighbour lady, who was doing her ironing, while looking out onto her, and indeed our garden.
And that's when the weak spot in "The Voice's" plan was uncovered. Next-door-neighbour lady was a school teacher. Just like me, she was at home in the school holidays.
The run back was like running through treacle. I can still feel the grass underfoot, the leaden feeling in my legs, as I tried to get back to the safety of the house. It felt like five minutes. She watched me, all the way, the image of her visibly shocked face is etched onto my brain. What I would say if she confronted me, or told my parents?
The pretty girls seemed to have gone home as I hurriedly dressed, and retreated to my bedroom, waiting for the doorbell to ring. I actually started to concoct a story involving the girls from school who'd dared me, a frankly risible idea that no adult would have believed in a million years.
The neighbour never said a word, and remained a lovely lady, and a friend to my parents.
But when she moved away, probably ten years later, and after I'd left home, I still felt a sense of relief that my little escapade might finally have been put to rest.
Damn those pretty girls!
At 14-15 I would write endless fiction involving me and various pretty girls from school, in what would now be termed CFNM or CMNF fantasies. But, I needed to actually feel that breeze on my skin, and one day, horny as ever (I'm a 14-year old boy at this point, I'm perpetually horny), I hatched a plan.
It was summer, or at the very least, a sunny day in London where I lived with my parents. More crucially, it was in the school holidays, so my parents were both out at work, and I had the house to myself. Our house was typical of the area, one of many near-identical terraced homes, each with a garden at the rear, some 30m/100' long and 10m/30' wide, each separated by a fence approximately 1.25m/4' high.
"The Voice", I'm sure everyone here has their own version of it, that naughty whisperer that tells you something that you really shouldn't do, came up with an idea.
I should go to the back door, strip naked, and streak to the far end of the garden and back again. The pretty girls at school wanted me to do it. I could almost see them in the kitchen, teasing and laughing as they made me take my clothes off.
I opened the kitchen door and looked out to the garden, focussing on the spot on the back fence that I knew I would have to touch before being allowed to run back. My parents, like all the other homeowners, would be out at work, there were no kids within five or six gardens at least. It would just be me, watched by the pretty girls.
I ran. It was glorious. "Nude", "naked", "stripped"...all words that to this day give me a frisson of excitement, were running through my head, as I ran on the soft grass. I really did feel the sun on my back, the soft slap of my semi-erect cock and balls bouncing as I ran, ordered to humiliate myself for the pretty girls.
I reached the fence. It can't have taken more than a few seconds. I turned and began my run back, but not before I locked eyes with the next-door-neighbour lady, who was doing her ironing, while looking out onto her, and indeed our garden.
And that's when the weak spot in "The Voice's" plan was uncovered. Next-door-neighbour lady was a school teacher. Just like me, she was at home in the school holidays.
The run back was like running through treacle. I can still feel the grass underfoot, the leaden feeling in my legs, as I tried to get back to the safety of the house. It felt like five minutes. She watched me, all the way, the image of her visibly shocked face is etched onto my brain. What I would say if she confronted me, or told my parents?
The pretty girls seemed to have gone home as I hurriedly dressed, and retreated to my bedroom, waiting for the doorbell to ring. I actually started to concoct a story involving the girls from school who'd dared me, a frankly risible idea that no adult would have believed in a million years.
The neighbour never said a word, and remained a lovely lady, and a friend to my parents.
But when she moved away, probably ten years later, and after I'd left home, I still felt a sense of relief that my little escapade might finally have been put to rest.
Damn those pretty girls!
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