My introduction to CFNM
Believe it or not, until two days ago I’d never heard of CFNM. At least, I’d never understood what the letters meant.
When Gillian told me that she was going to a CFNM party I thought she’d got herself caught up in some kind of marginal politics. Conservatives Fucking New Marxists, or whatever.
When she explained that CFNM stood for Clothed Female Naked Man, or Clothed Females Naked Men, my faith in her was completely restored. Phew. She was normal after all.
“I think you’d enjoy it,” she said, as she stepped from her shower. “All those lovely cocks to wank and suck.”
I was completely taken aback. “Pardon?” I said, with a side to side head wobble that signified my astonishment.
“Oh, don’t look so worried. You don’t have to join in.”
Join in? What was she on about? I am not Jodie fucking Marsh. “Nor do I intend to. The paparazzi would have a field day. ”
Gillian was unphased, as ever. ” Pass me my bra and thong, would you?”
And I, as ever, was ready to be impressed by her rampant frippery “Ooh – these are very nice. I love the sequins.”
“Glad to hear it. This is what I’ll be wearing on stage tonight.”
Huh? On stage? Just what was she inviting me to? My buttocks clenched.
I tackled Gillian head on. What was she taking me to? Assuming that I even went.
She explained how it all worked. There were some guys – male strippers – who were booked for the evening, and to make the whole thing entertaining they would approach “plants” in the audience and do sexual things with them.
“Plants?” I said, “they’re going to have sex with plants?”
Well, I won’t go into what Gillian said, but suffice to say that the whole evening hinges on it appearing to be spontaneous. In other words, there must be no hint of it being staged.
“Otherwise, the videos and pictures wouldn’t look real,” she said.
Fuck me – what? Videos and pictures? Why? And for whom? There was no way that I was going to be seen in pictures and movies where there was sexual stuff going on. Had she lost her mind?
“Chill out,” she said. “You can wear a wig.”
“A fucking wig? What sort of disguise is that? I wouldn’t be happy with anything less than a brown paper bag over my head.”
“Well,” she said, “there’s your answer.”
It took me a while to calm down. The sensible thing would have been to say NO I’M NOT COMING, but a part of me was curious and I didn’t want to miss out. So I arrived at a compromise. I’d film it. That way, I wouldn’t be featured, would I.
Gillian thought it was a great idea. She seemed to be turned on by the thought of me filming her while she sucked some stripper’s big fat cock.
Call me overly cautious but it worried me that I might not get the best angles, the most alluring close-ups, and horror of horrors, I might miss the cumshot. God. The stress of it all.
Gillian said it didn’t matter, I would be one of a dozen people filming the event and it would be our joint efforts which made it on to the net.
OK – I could live with that.
So – for your delectation – this and this is pretty much what panned out.
