Strange Days

“Nobody told me there’d be days like these.

Strange days indeed.”

— John Lennon, Nobody Told Me

Author’s note: This story takes place in Australia, where the academic year runs from February through to November. It is based (very loosely) on actual events and places. All of the featured characters are versions or hybrids of real people (including yours truly).

 

Daniel’s Story 

“Full nakedness! All joys are due to thee;

As souls unbodied, bodies unclothed must be

To taste whole joys. Gems which you women use

Are like Atlanta’s balls, cast in men’s views…”

— John Donne, To His Mistress Going to Bed

From an early age I had a serious crush on my next-door neighbor. Almost three years older than me, Laura was and is gorgeous — brunette, with warm hazel eyes and a fine figure, slim and shapely. In addition to her exquisite looks, Laura was and is clever and strong-willed, an energetic high achiever. At school she threw herself into just about everything. She joined clubs, served on the student council, won academic prizes and athletic honours. She was also a thrill-seeker. Despite her diminutive stature she was tough and utterly fearless, engaged in sports such as mountain-biking and rock-climbing. Yet she was also incredibly sexy. When not acting the tomboy she reveled in being a girl. She was proud of her body and 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. Laura 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 girls. She was the smallest rider in the field and prevailed by sheer daring and determination. She sauntered off the track looking triumphant in her mud-spattered leathers, high-fiving her friends and fans, reeking of fuel and exhaust fumes, her dirt-caked face barely recognizable but for the patented Laura 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, prodigiously feminine in a little pink party dress. I was thirteen at the time, and while my infatuation was already well-developed, that was what pushed me into straight-out idolatry.

Not surprisingly, Laura was the most popular girl in the neighborhood, exacerbating the anguish of my unrequited crush. In high school she was 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 close, I was besieged by potential suitors seeking an introduction or hoping for a recommendation.

Of course, I never expected for myself anything more than platonic. Besides our age difference and dissimilar natures, almost diametrical opposites in many aspects, because neither of us have siblings we developed a surrogate big sister—little brother relationship which ruled out anything more intimate.

Naturally Laura had flaws. She could be stubborn and at times dogmatic, most often about trivial things. She could be bossy, although she would call it assertive. She was intolerant towards people she judged to be stupid; and even if they were, she could come across as arrogant. She was fully aware of her charm and charisma, and would act abrupt and sometimes cruel towards devotees who overreached themselves. But it was impossible to disparage her, because everything she did was done with style. And that came out in the fact that although she must have known of my feelings for her — I was not very subtle — she never made a big thing of it, nor had me feeling awkward.

So when she went off to university, it was something of a relief for me. I was finally freed from the torments of Tantalus. I had long since abandoned any thoughts of entering the temple of Laura.

For the next three years I saw Laura in person only intermittently. She had lived with her mother since her parents’ divorce. They didn’t get on and Laura rarely came home. But we kept in touch. I think I may have been her anchor; so maybe she was not as fancy-free as she pretended. In any case, I followed her to the university three years later — not in a stalkery way, although we ended up living in the same student accommodation.

Nestled amongst the trees in a quiet corner of the campus, Lakeside Hall is in actuality five multi-storey apartment blocks connected by covered walkways. Four are mixed-sex dormitories housing both undergraduates and postgraduates in twin-share suites. The fifth wing accommodates first-year students, with males and females occupying alternate floors in four-bed units. Altogether Lakeside has four hundred residents, of whom just over three-fifths are women, which mirrors the university’s population.

When I applied for admission Laura didn’t mock my choice and in fact helped me through the process. This was vital because Lakeside is rather selective. What sets it apart from other residential colleges is not just its secluded location but the fact that it’s fully autonomous, and organized on a self-help basis. There are no full-time paid staff. All residents are rostered for catering and housekeeping duties. The seniors also provide peer support, mentoring and tutoring. This collaborative philosophy extends to governance. All internal affairs are managed by an elected house committee. There’s a manager and a proctor, but they are essentially honorary officers with only nominal responsibilities. Most importantly, fees and charges are very low. And all this is possible because Lakeside is independently funded by a network of alumni and “friends”. One of the benefits of this system is that there is no strong imperative for residents to hold down an outside job. This allows more time and energy for academic, social and cultural activities.

My interview for admission went smoothly and I settled in quickly. My roommates were typical of what you find among freshmen from out of town. There were only three of us because the fourth hadn’t turned up. Ricardo was the popular kid in high school who struggled to cope when he transitioned to the much bigger arena of the university. But he sought solace in varsity sport and found his niche. Ben was a scruffy, indolent rapscallion whose attitude was to study just enough to pass. His major saving grace was his sister Emily. A third-year student, she doted on her brother more than he deserved. At our first encounter she was wearing a candy-striped, strapless playsuit; and it was impossible not to be smitten by the transcendent vision of honey-blond hair, sapphire-blue eyes, lustrous legs and delectable décolletage. But she had a gentle soul, was unworldly and intellectual, and did not seem aware of her own resplendence.

Meanwhile, I’d met Caitlyn. She was a “townie”, a local girl living on-campus. There were lots of these at Lakeside, more than at most of the university’s residential houses. She was a second-year student; but we were enrolled in a similar course, the history and philosophy of science, and became study buddies. We complemented each other, having our particular academic strengths and interests. She was quiet and sweet-natured, with brown hair and eyes, a cute flush of freckles and an endearing way of tilting her head during a conversation, as if showing a sense of ease or trying to get a different view — it was hard to say which, perhaps both. Gradually a closer bond developed.

We celebrated Caitlyn’s birthday on the weekend before Easter by visiting her parents. I didn’t ask why she wasn’t living with them. But there was something oddly appealing, almost seductive, about life at Lakeside Hall. I mean odd because as soon as you arrive it’s like your senses tingle. There’s an aura of mystery, secrecy even, as if something is going on beneath the surface or behind the curtains. And it’s easy to attribute this to the relative isolation and the brooding eminence of the surrounding, dense woods, which are positively spooky at night. But even before I arrived I knew of its unorthodox reputation; even if actual claims about what went on there were always vague. The legends of debauchery and diabolism could be dispelled by a brief tour.

Still, I am reminded of Plato’s famous allegory of the cave. For people trapped within, their only glimpse of the reality outside consists of shadows moving on the walls.

As the year progressed, the shadows came into sharper focus. But life at Lakeside for the first three months was comfortably mundane. I quickly settled into the routine of university life. I enjoyed my classes and did well in all my subjects. There was less pressure than in high school! Almost before I knew it the first semester was coming to a close.

Confounding my initial reservations, the Hall proved an excellent environment both educationally and socially. However, I was mostly content to hang out on the fringes of other people’s social circles. Neither a hermit nor an outcaste, I have nonetheless never been good at, or for that matter interested in, having my own clique or coterie.

Laura continued to act as my guide and guru, although I tried to be not too dependent on her. That was not just out of pride. She had her own, crowded life. She had no permanent romantic attachments that I knew of, yet was as popular as she’d ever been. Those friends of hers I met were very much her personality types — adventurous, impulsive, unconventional. Not surprisingly, she was a member of a women’s “adventure club”. Guys joined in their activities, but I was not invited. Yet I didn’t feel slighted. I had no interest since my pastimes have always tended to the sedentary. Which doesn’t mean I’m a wimp or a faint-heart. It was just that I subscribe to the theory that you’re allotted only so many heartbeats in your lifetime, and it’s illogical to use them up before you have to. Still, as a result I began to see less of Laura as the semester progressed.

I got most advice and assistance from Rachel, a second-year student. She was very attractive, like Laura, with lively, olive-green eyes, auburn hair and an enigmatic smile. She had a keen intellect and a sharp, rather acerbic wit, but was passionate once she’d found a cause worthy of her time and effort. She was the sophomore counsellor in my “tute group”. These were mentoring groups, each consisting of half a dozen first-year students with a senior tutor and a sophomore assistant. They helped us newbies on issues involving the transition from school to university.

There was just the one other guy in the group, and that was Ben. Whereas he and I were callow freshmen, the four girls came across as more sophisticated. Michelle I knew from high school; Patricia was in one of my classes; Priya was a visa student from India; Kendra was an athlete enrolled at the Academy of Sport. Our group leader was Lorelei, a postgraduate student whom I found to be rather standoffish. She did her job well, but it was Rachel who held us together. Her satirical commentaries on conventions and institutions were an epiphany for us neophytes.

We met once a week during the first term, once a fortnight in the second. Ben and I, outnumbered by the females, felt I must confess a little overawed. The girls were all very intelligent, articulate and highly motivated. It was hard not to feel that we mere males didn’t measure up to their standard. That was nonsense, but I think it had something to do with the Lakeside Hall culture, which was focused on collaboration and a collective effort. This ethos, I believe, favours women, who tend to be better at interpersonal relationships and social interaction. But also, I don’t think Ben and I were ideal specimens of manhood. I was immature and he could be obnoxious. The girls tolerated us — which was enough for me. I think Ben expected more.

 

*** 

One Saturday in May Laura invited me to a social gathering planned for that evening. I suspected, being given so little advance notice, that I was a last-minute replacement; but I was not going to turn down the summons. Nevertheless, the way she phrased it intrigued me. She asked me to be her escort. Now it’s possible 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 chaperone. This was very peculiar, coming from such an independent-minded young woman.

However, she enlightened me.

“It’s C-M-N-F.” The letters came out rather slurred, into something like “seemeneff,” as if she wanted to blurt it them as quickly as possible. In response to my blank look she continued: “That’s clothed male…”

“Yes, I know what it stands for,” I replied.

“Naked female,” she said anyway, needing to finish it. “So you know about these things?” She smiled, but with an odd, penetrating gaze into my eyes.

“Purely academic. 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. See you at six.”

She didn’t wait for me to react further. When she was gone I tried to analyze her words, looking for some disillusioning loophole. I even suspected it might be some crude practical joke. Laura did have an off-beat sense of humor; but she wasn’t malicious. Yet I did find it odd that she couldn’t find an escort from her cohort of consorts. For it did not occur to me, at the time, that she was trying to draw me into her social circle. That’s how naïve — translation: pathetic — I was back then.

So I decided to play along and see what happened. I didn’t let Caitlyn know, making up the lie that I had a family commitment… for which I felt only slight guilt. I surmised that the party was an adventure club event. The context was some sort of “I dare you to…” battle of the sexes. The men’s reciprocal challenge was so innocuous that I don’t recall it, so I think they got the better of the deal. Of course, that depends on your perspective, and I never heard any of the women complaining.

We met at the appointed hour and walked to a house not far from Lakeside Hall. I was nervous and Laura must have been as well, because she was in an abnormally chirpy mood, shooting off rapid-fire sentences in a high-pitched voice. Given where were heading, I felt some irrational disappointment that she was wearing a heavy sweater, jeans and boots.

When we arrived, around two dozen people were already gathered in the living room. It was very large, more of an entertainment area, and the furniture had been shifted to one wall so everyone could mingle and not plant themselves on a sofa. Once everybody had turned up, there were thirty or so. Females slightly outnumbered males. One of the women was Rachel. She looked adorable — not a word I use very often — in a blue button-up miniskirt, apricot-yellow blouse and knee-socks, and shiny black shoes with oversized silver buckles. Her hair stuck out sideways in unplaited pigtails. Her partner was a guy named Jake 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 myself. We said hello and Rachel seemed disconcerted by my presence. When I remarked off-hand that we’d be seeing each other again on Monday, her face took on a rosy pink hue.

For the first thirty minutes or so it was just like a regular party, although the atmosphere was subdued. All the females were fully dressed. Indeed it was a 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, graceful, extremely attractive woman in her late twenties named Charlotte, and James who had an irritatingly square-jawed handsomeness.

Around seven o’clock, Charlotte turned the music down and the thermostat up. At least, I think she switched up the heating. It may have been my internal temperature 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 started laughing and swapping jokes with her audience, and after she had 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. Most had two layers to shed, so the air in the room was momentarily filled with flying garments.

Charlotte’s flamboyant opening gesture was a clever ice-breaker. After we males had ogled the ladies for a while, and they had checked out each other, the proceedings went back to almost 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 were already in their undies after the first cast-off, which made it a bit easier for the rest. At one stage, a couple of the guys attempted to speed up the process by taking matters directly into their own hands. These efforts were swiftly deterred. In any case, such action proved unnecessary, as before long all every female was down to her bra and panties.

Laura had looked around and then shrugged as she handed me her wine glass before reaching down to take off her boots. She grinned, 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 partner was the center of attention. She fluttered her eyelashes and performed a pert pirouette before kicking off her denims; and as she took back her drink she curtly instructed me to retrieve them and her boots and place them with her sweater on a table in the corner.

Laura was as stunning and sexy as I’d ever seen her, in a white satin halter-neck brassiere and matching briefs, trimmed with lacy frills. There was a little lavender bow at the tip of each breast, and another on her panties located cheekily over the crotch. After the initial jitters she did not seem 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 Laura was finishing her performance, Rachel discreetly unhitched her skirt and let it fall to her ankles. When she’d stepped out of it, Jake 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 unraveled into two disheveled clumps. The effect was cutely comical, especially atop that lusciously unclad body.

If this was as far as things had gone that night, it would still have been a fantastic party, and I doubt that anyone would have been disappointed. Not all the bodies were perfect, but all were well-toned and pleasing to the eye. This was hardly unexpected considering that most of the women belonged to a club which demanded a high level of health and fitness.

Around eight o’clock Charlotte made the next move. She called into a huddle three of the other ladies, apparently at random. After conferring, they turned to face the rest of us, unfastened their bras and, following a few seconds of deep breaths and suppressed giggles, took them off. That prompted 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 dipped their toes in the water, so to speak, by stripping down to their underwear. Maybe the alcohol acted as a lubricant, although no one was drinking heavily. The females understandably wanted to maintain their self-control, and the males didn’t want to spoil the scenery by viewing it through a booze-induced blur — or worse, by misbehaving and ruining everything.

Some of the girls were quite nonchalant about being topless. Others appeared shy and timid, avoiding eye contact and keeping their hands strategically positioned. Laura was in between. Once again she handed me her glass and drew in a lungful of air. She exhaled a half dozen soft, rapid puffs before reaching behind her back. She fiddled with the clasp for a moment and it only just occurred to me how difficult it is to unhitch a brassiere in situ. I was tempted to offer assistance, but none of the women in the room needed or wanted a helping hand. This was something they had to do by themselves. So Laura unfastened the little hook and allowed the bra to dangle by its halter. Finally, with a resolute firming of her jaws, she grasped the strap and lifted it over her head, pulling it off her body with an extravagant flourish that caused her breasts to quiver slightly. She held onto it for a moment, caressing the fabric, before handing it to me. 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 Laura had bared her chest in public. In fact, before that night I had seen her topless, albeit by accident in a poolside mishap. She’s not prudish, nor especially bashful, and she doesn’t mind displaying 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 normally unflappable Laura holding her drink in such a position that her hand and glass concealed one nipple, her forearm the other. Fortunately she saw the humor in her situation and smiled back. She gradually lowered her arm until her breasts were revealed in all their glory.

I’m 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. 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 many were not feeling especially turned on… unlike their partners. Anyway, Charlotte’s perspicacity in turning up the thermostat was not just about goosebumps.

I glanced about furtively to see what was happening elsewhere, and 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 women reacted with a twinge or a cringe, or otherwise looked embarrassed. However, they all seemed either comfortable with or reconciled to their state of undress, or too preoccupied with trying to appear at ease to be concerned about anyone staring.

Naturally I had to see Rachel. She had delayed removing her top until she was one of the last to do so, and now realized this was a mistake. 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 end product.) Then, staring at something across the room, she crossed her arms to slide the straps off her shoulders. I thought her hands were going to linger there, but she pulled down the bra in a single smooth movement, freeing her arms and then bringing the rear part of the band round to the front to unhook it. The cups clung to her torso for a few tantalizing seconds, until she wiggled her body and the bra fell free. She caught it before it drifted all the way to the carpet. As she stood up straight again, her boobs jiggled nicely.

Like Laura, Rachel was not stupendously endowed but made up for the lack of dimension with elegance of design. She made no attempt to cover herself, but kept her arms unnaturally tensed, her 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 bosoms — the sight or the feeling, depending on gender — we all became conditioned to it. 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 purpose had yet to be fulfilled. And when I think back on it, I don’t know if stretching out the undressing ritual over an hour or so was a help or a hindrance for 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. This had the effect of maximizing and intensifying the experience, and Charlotte orchestrated this like a symphony.

The final act was once more kicked off by our hostess. She picked exactly the right moment, when there was a lull in the conversation and the music had stopped, and some people were becoming restless — the guys impatient, the girls just wanting to get it done. Yet many of the latter were clearly ambivalent. Laura silently rolled her eyes when she realized the time had come. Rachel 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 from side to side, as if slightly woozy. Most, however, laughed or just shrugged it off, although I suspected that was mainly façade.

Wearing nothing but her g-string, Charlotte was almost unbearably sexy. Tall and curvy, with golden brown hair, olive skin, the body of a showgirl and a chorine’s legs, she was not classically beautiful but radiated a self-assured sensuality. And while I feel a tad sleazy describing her this way, the fact is that she was spectacular. Her breasts were magnificent orbs. Unlike many of the others in the room, her rose-hued nipples were raised and hard. She basked in the attention she drew; but she never struck a pose, didn’t flaunt. She had no need for that.

The mood in the room changed when Charlotte reached to her hips and pushed her thong down her thighs. Everyone stopped to watch. I heard a couple of gasps. She was relaxed and unembarrassed. She conveyed a playful innocence that was almost childlike as she daintily handed the last of her clothing to James. 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 man’s, now public property.

Almost all the women followed in unison. Laura looked up into my eyes, then lowered her gaze, perhaps starting to feel a few qualms. 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. Certainly none of us males was in a position to pass judgement. On the other hand Rachel, 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 a small piece of fabric can 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 spotlight, is strong or feeble, tough as nails or tender as a flower petal, is irrelevant. When she is naked, and all the women about her are nude, and all the men are fully clothed, she is defined in full, first and last, by her womanhood.

I took a lingering look at Laura. I didn’t try to be coy or even subtle, because I thought that would be hypocritical. She showed a little discomposure but stood there stoically, heroically, with her feet and knees slightly apart, her hands defiantly by her side, not hiding anything but (the impression was) poised to provide cover. The soft pink cleft between her legs was smooth, either shaven or waxed, as were most of the girls’.

I turned to Rachel. 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 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 Laura’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. Charlotte, the attentive hostess, proffered a glass of wine and Rachel took it, loosening out of her uneasy posture. Indeed, the mood all round turned effervescent once again. Perhaps it was the effects of the alcohol, but more likely, since Rachel didn’t even sip her drink, 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.

Except for the naked flesh, it was almost ludicrously banal. At one stage I found myself in conversation with four of the bare-skinned lovelies, exchanging advice on, of all things, bus routes and fares. I have no recollection of how the conversation got started, but in hindsight it was so marvelously trite, given the situation.

The women now 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, because you’re the one with a penis.

Of course, not everybody was so coy, but I didn’t see any groping or other bad conduct. In fact, most of the unrestrained behaviour came from the females. 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 slender, dark-eyed brunette named Katrina — “Kat, with a K,” she insisted. But she did have a quality that was undeniably feline — slinky, exotic and aloof. Her skin was a glossy sheen except for three healed but revealing scars, a small one on her left breast just below the nipple, a more ragged mark on her right hip, and a patch where the light sprinkling of pubic hair did not grow at all. (It amused me than even the briefest bikini would have hidden two of these from view.) These were the unmistakable signature of a devil-may-care lifestyle. 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. If she hadn’t been nude I likely wouldn’t have noticed.

After a while, with some reluctance I detached myself from the group, when I saw that Rachel was standing alone. It was the first time I had a chance to share more than a couple of words 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. She 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 a very good job. As I’ve mentioned, like Laura she’s not stacked but her body is neatly and nicely proportioned.

We talked for about five minutes, mainly about our tute group sessions. Then we were interrupted by Jake, who asked Rachel if she wanted a refill. She declined, with a raised eyebrow, as her wine was untouched, and to my relief he withdrew; but she turned and beckoned me to follow her into the kitchen. There was Charlotte, with a couple of the other girls and one of the guys, preparing 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 piqued my appetite. Rachel started to assist, so I pitched in as well, cutting up salami and cheese.

Charlotte 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 not shared.

As we carried out the plates of snacks, Charlotte declared that Laura had a few things to say. I realized then that she was the president of the adventure club; and I felt a sudden surge of self-importance, bathing in the reflected glory of being her escort. She said a few things, of which I don’t remember much because I wasn’t really listening. She thanked Charlotte and James for hosting the event, assured us that the fun was just getting started, made some announcements regarding the club. The party now moved into the next phase — indeed, as Laura promised, shifted into a higher gear. I think Charlotte and James had observed the sexual tension rising and decided this was the time to dissipate the energy by organizing some games. It surprised me not at all that the nudity was the centrepiece of every one we played.

We started with a form of musical chairs, using plastic garden seats. The guys sat in a circle facing outwards. (It was a little more complicated, as I shall explain shortly.) The girls skipped around the outside, their breasts bobbing and swaying in a most agreeable manner, until “Sit!” was called. The music didn’t stop. Instead, the girls perched on our knees, with their backs to us, and performed a lap dance. A not very salacious one, I must add. Then “Spin!” was called again 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, Gianna, sat out the game to act as the caller. She had a broken leg sustained, unsurprisingly, during one of the club’s hazardous escapades. It hadn’t occurred to me until then, but there is nothing cuter than a pretty girl 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 orthodox game, with no eliminations, scrambling for places or winners (except that we all were). It was pure gratuitous fun. And after a dozen rounds, more guys than just myself were in danger of wearing their enthusiasm on the front of their trousers. I got Rachel twice, facing both ways, which was pleasant, but not Laura. The most proficient at the game was — again, no big revelation — Charlotte. 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 sides of my seat 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 pushed 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 purred and licked her lips. 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 drinks, and some towels to mop up the perspiration. They made an entrancing tableau, like haremgirls reclining in the seraglio.

Before the energy ebbed too far, Charlotte clapped her hands and called us to the next game. This involved us forming circles, male-female with 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 party theme each object was lodged in the girls’ cleavage. Those not so curvaceous had to hunch their shoulders forward to squeeze together their assets. And to make it more difficult, and thus more interesting, we guys had to tuck the object under our chin. So there was a lot 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 bosom and crotch is an experience not to be missed.

None of the girls opted out of any game, which took a lot of pluck. If the roles had been reversed, I’m not sure how many of us of the “stronger sex” would have been so unflinching. And considering how risqué some of the goings-on were, it was probably a wise thing that only half the group were sans attire!

There was another game that entailed emblazoning numbers and letters on the girls’ buttocks with lipstick; I don’t recall the reason. Nevertheless, we did push the boundaries of propriety a couple of times, most notably when the ice came out. The girls stared at the sparkling cubes with trepidation, but once the fun started none wavered. And what followed was remarkably, even profoundly intimate. I must admit that I was a little shocked at how far we went.

The coffee table was used. Charlotte and James also moved the console and side tables into the middle of the room. Two guys were assigned to each, and we had two girls apiece on whom to work our frosty magic. Adam and I were among those who got the first go, to play with Laura and Kat. The girls took turns; and to make the experience more intense they were blindfolded. Laura was first. To my horror she recoiled as I tied the sash in place. For a couple of demoralizing seconds I thought it was my touch that repelled her; but she giggled and ran her fingertips over the black satin. Her loss of sight had made her feel more exposed and accessible. She liked that.

Charlotte and James were another of the first couples, and they took the coffee table. Unlike the other, wooden, furniture it had a marble top and was obviously cold, because when Charlotte lay down she released a loud gasp. She and James could observe us newbies, offering advice and tips, and she did so while blindfolded, which was impressive, and between exclamations and exudations of pleasure, which was also impressive. They told us to be alert to signs of distress on the girls’ skin, such as burning sensations, excessive redness, pins and needles; but they never mentioned the word “frostbite”.