Sarah nodded, determined not to shed a tear despite the unbridled anger directed at her. She realised, there and then, that she hated the Reverend Mother, and she hated her methods, and that, no matter what, she resolved that she would not be cowed by her. She might obey, while the Reverend Mother had all the power, but that did not mean she was defeated. Three days naked in a convent was humiliating, but she could just about survive it.

That evening Sarah discovered a downside of her punishment: in her unclothed state, nobody would sit near her at the dinner table, or talk to her as they walked to prayer. Being ostracised was worse than being naked. At prayer she crouched, ashamed of herself, at the back of the room, begging for forgiveness because she knew that she had done wrong. Yet still, as she had after Sister Theresa’s punishment, she begged for forgiveness for the Reverend Mother, because she felt the Reverend Mother needed it even more than she did.

Sarah prayed some more within the solitude of her own room and, slipping off her stockings, she went to bed, her mind dwelling on how such a small lapse had gotten her into such deep trouble.

Read the rest of the story in The Rules of the Convent

I nodded as she rolled my jeans down my legs. I sat my bare buttocks on her sofa and lifted both my legs as she tugged at my underwear and jeans, pulling them off my feet and dropping them onto the back of a chair.

I’d honestly never felt so self-conscious, sat there, suddenly nude. Lisa sat back beside me in her PVC dress and boots.

“What…” I began, “What am I going to be wearing?”

Lisa looked thoughtful for a second. “Do you know Tina?” she asked me. I nodded, although I only barely knew the girl she was talking about.

“She has something for you to put on,” she told me.

“And where’s Tina?”

“She’s on her way. Or at least she said she’d get her early.”

I looked wistfully at my clothes crumpled on the chair: I’d have preferred to have gotten undressed after my outfit had arrived, not before. Then I glanced up at the table across the room, laid out with drinks and empty glasses. I noticed what looked like a pair of handcuffs on the far corner and then averted my eyes in embarrassment. I don’t know why.

Read the rest of A Very Grown Up Party, and 11 other ENF stories, in Just ENF

“Oh my God, no!” Lucy muttered, ecstasy and agony together in one breath. Suddenly she was naked. Worse, she was naked on a park bench, her legs spread wide and her arms tied either side of her, and there was nothing she could do about it. Now she remembered the video that Kasia had referred to, and how much it had turned her on, watching the young woman stripped and tied, so publicly helpless. She had fantasised about it and watched it over and over again, but that didn’t mean she had wanted to act it out.

Kasia stopped stroking her. Lucy willed her to continue. She was so close to orgasm, and perhaps, if she did, then Kasia would untie her, return her clothes and take her home. She wanted that release so much that she would even endure this humiliation for it.

“Oh God, no no no no no,” she mumbled with her eyes closed. Kasia remained knelt between her legs.

“It was a good video, no?” Lucy heard her ask in her eastern European accent. For some reason, Lucy nodded in agreement.

Lucy opened her eyes. She looked around and saw the sight she most dreaded: people looking back. They dared not approach, but her nudity was too obvious to miss now. Kasia looked around.

Read the rest of On The Bench, and 11 other ENF stories, in Just ENF

“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