“I envy you,” she said, “It’s wonderful to be nude in the rain.”

I could have strangled her: if it’s that great then why didn’t you just do it and leave me as I was?

We arrived in the main square. There were a handful of people, apparently tourists, and all holding umbrellas. The rain was too heavy to be outside without one. Some of them looked in our direction and pointed and muttered to each other. I folded my arms across my chest and tried to huddle in on myself.

“Are you cold?” Mia asked me.

“No,” I said, “I just don’t want to be here.”

But that didn’t seem to matter to Mia. Maybe I should have claimed to feel the chill and hope for some sympathy, but it still felt very warm despite the rain.

We kept walking. We appeared to be heading directly towards a young couple looking at a guide book. They noticed us when we were only ten paces away and I could see the surprise in their eyes as a naked woman walking towards them in the rain.

Read the rest of Interview With An Artist, and 11 other ENF stories, in Naked Women in Shorts

When I first met Natasha I believe I experienced the same emotion that everyone does when first meeting her in the comfort of her own home; that emotion being surprise, or possibly shock, depending on one’s disposition.

The party seemed to be going the way that parties often run for me, that of being introduced to new people, not really knowing what to say, and then being rescued by someone (or maybe whoever I was talking to was the one being rescued) and then I’d be introduced to a new unsuspecting victim of inanity. This was no different, although as it was my first visit to the States I was being introduced and rescued even more thoroughly than usual as everyone wanted to meet “the English girl”, and then quickly realised that said meeting wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.

But, as I said, this party was following a similar line to many, and I was running out of conversation with the quite charming and far too confident young American man I was talking to as, in the nick of time, I was tapped on the shoulder by my host for the week, Theresa, and a shout in my ear.

“Rupes! How ya doin’ there Rupes!” It wasn’t a question. “You must meet Natasha. You two just have to meet!” I rolled my eyes slightly as soon Natasha would discover, as many had already discovered that evening, that I was not the person anyone “had to meet”.

I turned around, and found myself, rarely for someone of my small height, even in my two inch heels, looking straight into the eyes of Natasha.

Natasha was petite, she was blonde, and she was smiling and offering me her hand to shake. “Hi, I’m Natasha,” she said, her eyes fixed on me all the time.

“I’m Rupa. Pleased to meet you,” I replied, taking her delicate hand in my own and trying to appear confident as I shook it.

“Oooh, I love your English accent,” Natasha said with a smile. I had heard that plenty of times tonight already and I wondered if Americans were taught to say that at school.

“I love your, er,” I said as I looked her up and down, desperate to pay a compliment in return. “I love your tattoos.” Natasha had a magnificent set of multi-coloured tattoos: on her arms, on her shoulders, on the tops of her feet and her ankles, spiralling up her leg and thigh and across her stomach. Oh yes, now I remember the important part of describing Natasha, and why I was surprised, or even shocked, at meeting her. I’m able to describe Natasha’s tattoos in such detail because Natasha was entirely naked.

Read the rest of Dressed In Tattoos, and 11 other ENF stories, in Naked Women in Shorts

Jessica imagined herself, standing on the stage, barely covered by her underwear, running her hands over her hips and stoking the fire of her passion. She suddenly felt incredibly sexual.

“You act as if you’re alone; this is the most private moment as you ready yourself to give everything to your playing,” Miss Ashdown’s soft voice continued. “You want nothing to come between you and your music.”

As she said this, and as Jessica exhaled, Miss Ashdown’s fingers, flat on top of Jessica’s, slipped into the white knickers. Jessica felt the fabric sliding over her hips as their interlocked hands pushed them down onto the floor. Jessica’s breath shuddered again but somehow she resisted the impulse to try to cover herself. She concentrated on the image of the concert hall, of standing naked on the stage as if no-one was there.

“You imagine his strong hands, running up and down your naked body,” the teacher continued, their hands continuing to move together, “His eyes devour your image as he remains fixed in his seat, desperately trying to control his breathing lest he be discovered watching you while you arouse yourself, naked on the stage.”

Miss Ashdown paused. Jessica’s hands were now moving by themselves and Miss Ashdown was merely following their movements with hers.

Read the rest of The Pianist, and 11 other ENF stories, in Naked Women in Shorts