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National Nude Daisy: Part 1

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National Nude Daisy:
Part 1
A timid waitress
dares to bare all on national nude day.
Based on a post by
CupidStuntDotEXE.
Listen to the ► Podcast at Steamy
Stories.


Daisy: T minus 8
hours.

I spray cleaner over the table and start wiping. My thin chiffon

black shirt rides up, letting the cold metal kiss the strip of
exposed skin. I gasp, and my stomach flinches away, but settles
against the cool surface. My five-foot-nothing frame can barely reach
into the corners, so I rise onto my toes and stretch, raising my hips
above the table's edge, and almost folding myself in half.

Perfect.

Gives the people milling about behind me an exaggerated view of my

lack-of-ass. I'm fucking 23 years old! Someone tell my ass that it's
not on a teenager anymore.

The last customer is dawdling on his way out, and Samantha's work

smile twitches on her face as she inches the door closed on the
unwanted conversation.

I don't share her enthusiasm.

Today went by in a flash, and tomorrow edges ever closer.

It was written in my diary nearly a month ago. National Nude Day,

starting at sunrise.

The one day of the year public nudity is completely legal,

instead of technically legal.

What, in all the gods' names, did I agree to?

"You're off tomorrow, right?" Sammie asks, placing a

tray on the table next to mine.

My breath stalls. "Yup," I say, trying to act casual.

"Going to a festival in the city with my besties."

I had the response rehearsed, so as not to reveal too much. An

entertainment website mentioned at least 5 different festivals on the
calendar, so I'm safe with that ambiguity.

The real honest event that Sammie cannot be told; A fucking nudist

festival I am so not ready for, and definitely not ready for
any of my workplace colleagues to know. Can you imagine if they found
out? Gods, that would be mortifying.

"Sounds fun, I'm jelly." Sam smiles, hoping I'll give

details.

I can hear chatter from the kitchen, so I move to the table I've

been saving. Glancing to make sure Sammie isn't watching, I pop the
top button of my shirt open and bend over the table. I angle myself
toward the kitchen door, pretending I'm not watching it. Pretending
I'm not deliberately showing what little cleavage I have, but; Kenny
will come out soon.

I'm not a shameless flirt, but I don't know how else to get him to

notice me. All I have are these small moments, and even smaller
hopes. 'Good morning'. 'See you tomorrow'. That's it. That's all I
have.

The door opens, and I freeze.

Breath held.

Tiny chest puffed.

Feeling like an idiot.

The thought of him stealing glances at me, or just noticing me at

all, makes me quiver. I can already feel my nips drilling through my
bra.

He just strolls out like it's nothing, shaking his hair like a

damn shampoo model. My teeth find my lip, and my damn heart flutters
like a hummingbird.

"Night," he says, waving. "See you tomorrow,

Daisy."

"See you good morning," I blurt out.

My head slams against the table.

Crash. Burn.

"See you good morning?" I mutter. "What the fuck,

Daisy. What. The. Fuck."

Sammie laughs. "That was so smooth, Daize."

"Shut Up," I say, throwing the rag at her.

I've had this stupid crush on Kenny since I started working here.

He's so sweet, and so very handsome. The way his hair falls down when
he takes his hairnet off, ties my stomach into knots.

On my first day, I forgot my lunch and my purse. He

literally made me a meal, and even paid for it. I almost cried and
decided right then that he would be my husband; boyfriend; we'll kiss
one day?

I sigh.

Maybe our hands will brush together at some point? But,

since it's a year later and I still haven't said a full coherent
sentence to him; Outlook is bleak.

John, the manager, walks out of the office and looks at us.

"Daisy, you're opening tomorrow, right?"

"Uh, no? I booked the day off, remember?" I ask.

"Oh yeah, right," he says, rubbing his bald spot.

"Sorry, losing track of everything as per."

"We'd be worried about you if you weren't, boss," I say,

picking the tray up and walking into the Kenny-less kitchen.

He laughs nervously. "Doing anything nice?"

"She's going to a festival in the city," Sammie answers

for me. "I think it's a code for something, because I hadn't
heard of anything."

Good. The last thing I need is Sammie running her mouth about it.

She's a sweet girl, but a gold medal winning gossip. If she knew, it
would be global news within a week. Absolutely not. The workplace
rumor is that Sammie and the boss are secretly an item. But neither
of them will admit to anything.

Hiding in the kitchen, my hands shake as I wash the cups. My heart

is literally vibrating. How did I let my former roomy, Eliza, talk me
into this? Why? That girl is too damn convincing for her own good.

For my own good.

Naked. In public?

A chill runs down my spine, and I grasp the stainless steel sink

to steady myself.

It'll be fine. I try to convince myself. I'll be fine.

My objectively gorgeous friends will be with me, so no one

will even notice me, the pixie ballerina, at all.

Is that better, or worse?

I don't know.

Drying my hands, I walk back through the cafe in a daze. Offering

a small, polite smile to John as he holds the door open for me. The
streets are full of people. Early evening hour in the center of a
massive city. I hate crowds so much. Eclipsed by smartphone screens,
I either dart out of the way or get flattened.

Will the streets be this busy tomorrow?

In the three years since the law passed, I haven't seen a single

nude person in the city center Or anywhere outside. I suppose that's
the English for you. Especially here.

Nudity is definitely not professional enough.

The hour-long train ride home is nerve-wracking. Tomorrow, I'll be

an hour away from my clothes. Every seat is full, morning and night.
Clinging to the handrail in my usual spot, pressed between half a
dozen other commuters. I can't help but imagine tomorrow. My petite,
naked self pressed between these same people.

Idle hands grazing unrestricted flesh.

Eliza: T minus 7
hours.

This is so stupid. I'll just make an excuse to Eliza. Not feeling

well. Stubbed my toe. Dropped my liver on the way home.

At least the streets on the way back to my flat are clear. That's

one benefit of living in the greater metropolitan area. When I turn
the corner to my street, I can see Eliza sitting on the wall outside
my place. Fiddling with her phone.

"What are you doing here?" I ask, shaking hands fumbling

with my keys. I know exactly why she's here. To stop me from
backing out.

"I figured you'd be thinking of excuses," she said,

hopping off the wall. "So, I'm here to keep you honest;"
Eliza pulls a bottle of wine from her bag. "And drunk."

We head inside, and Eliza makes herself at home. She's been my

best friend since primary school, and I hate the power she has over
me. Not that she's ever used it for evil, but she can shove me way
too far outside my comfort zone.

I hate how she's always right.

In the kitchen, Eliza pops the cork and gestures at me with the

bottle opener. "Clothes off," she says, raising her
eyebrows and nodding expectantly.

My shoulders drop. "Now?" I plead, giving her my best

pout. "I'm so tired."

"You can put that lip away for a start," Eliza says,

pouring the rosé into the big wine glasses. "Get used to
being naked. It'll make tomorrow easier."

"Here," she says, handing me the glass. "A little

Italian courage."

Sighing, I take the glass and chug half of it. "That's

Australian."

"Really?" she asks, checking the label. "Italian,

Australian; I knew it was one of the 'alians'. Regardless, nudity.
Now."

Eliza perches on the edge of a chair. Perfectly elegant in her

damn power suit. The gray material stretching over her thighs,
reminding me how utterly outclassed I am. She sips from the giant
glass and wiggles her fingers at me.

"Fine; fine." I resign myself.

Kicking my shoes off first, I get the easy part out of the way.

The black skirt go next, and they are half-way down my thighs before
I even question why I'm obeying her. The cool air on my bare legs
makes them clench.

She's really going to make me do this.

My shaking fingers move to the shirt next. It has enough buttons

to delay, building that agonizing coil in my gut. Every loose button
exposes me more. I feel sick, but I can't stop.

Eliza is smirking at me as I fumble with the last button. With a

shaking breath, I slide the shirt off my shoulders and let it fall.

"There," I say, adjusting my knickers. Glad for the wine

and the warmth it's bringing.

She just rolls her eyes and raises an eyebrow. Scolding me without

words until my head falls. I know what she wants. Reaching behind me,
I unclasp my black 32 B push-up bra and let it hang loose on my
shoulders. Giving her one last futile look of silent, rejected
pleading, I let the bra fall to the floor. Nipples hard and tingling
in the cold. My nipples always over-react.

She stares at me until I slip my thumbs beneath the black nylon

lace panties, sliding them to the floor, and adding them to the pile
of discarded clothes and dignity.

She didn't even let me keep my thigh-high socks on.

I can feel my skin prickling with the damp evening chill and

Eliza's attention. Grasping my arm over my tit and crossing my legs
in front of me. A small shake of her head and even those small
mercies are stolen.

My lowered hands tap my bare thighs impotently.

She nods. "Good. How do you feel?"

"Naked, cold, naked, and stupid," I say, trying to find

that elusive courage in my wineglass.

My head and the glass are tilted way back when I see a flash and

hear Eliza's phone camera.

I choke on the mouthful of wine. "Did You Just Take A

Picture?"

"Oh, yes. I did," she says. A wide, mischievous grin

spreads slowly over her face. "Do you remember Henry?"

The sudden shift in topic throws me. "The guy you were

'dating'?"

"Fucking, yes. Now, his sister's best friend's cousin is

dating the best friend of Kenny's brother," she says, her foot
is twitching with excitement. "Isn't that interesting?"

"Objection; relevance," I say, in an amateur Horace

Rumpole impersonation, while
pouring myself another glass. I'm going to need it.

"Overruled." She shifted forward in her seat. "I

have Kenny's mobile number," she says, waving her phone at me.

My eyes widen, and I drink more. She wouldn't send that picture to

anyone. Would she? No, that's; I mean, I was ever-fantasizing on him
seeing everything anyway;

No. No no no. Not like that, not without; you know. My fantasy

involves Fondling. The desire is for him to help me out of my
clothes.

"Eliza, please. I know you wouldn't share my nudes with my

co-worker," I say, almost sounding convinced. "It would
spread around the staff. Other cafes. Waitresses talk. Samantha; no
you wouldn't."

"Actually, I would, because I know things that you don't."

Eliza stands up and walks over to me, placing her hand on my chin

and turning my face toward her. Her hazel eyes glaring deep into me.

She rubs a thumb over my lip, wiping up some spilled wine.

"Wonderful things," she says, pressing her lips to her
thumb before licking them. "Juicy things, Daisy."

Juicy things? About Kenny? What did she learn? It could be

anything. Eliza has a way of extracting information from casual
conversations that would make MI6 very interested.

I bite my lip and look up at her smug, smiling face. "Ha-how

juicy?"

"I'll tell you tomorrow." She smirks. "Do you still

want to back out?"

My chest is so tight every breath I take, shakes me.

I slowly shake my head.

"If you don't want to, you know I'm not going to force you,

right?" she asks, kissing me on the head. "I push you
because I love you."

I take another large, nervous sip from my glass.

"Daisy, do you remember why you agreed to this?" she

asks, slipping her jacket off.

"Uh, no?" I deflect.

Eliza folds her coat and places it on the table. "Because you

want to be seen," she says, unzipping her skirt and letting it
fall to the floor. "More than that, you want to feel desired.
Because you don't even notice when you are, you feel as though you
are not."

I watch her fold her skirt and place it on the jacket. Without a

single breath of hesitation, her bra and panties join the pile, and
I'm left staring at her. I would kill to look like her. She has her
mother's Italian genes. I swear she's related to Sophia Loren.

Tall. Leggy. Graceful. And those tits? They defy all reason. This

isn't the first time we've seen each other naked. I mean, we've been
friends for over a decade, but no matter how often it happens, no
matter how hard I look.

I can't find a single flaw.

Not one.

"Tell me," she asks; pouring herself some more wine.

"Just envious of your perfect body," I mutter.

She smiles. "Thank you, but I'm not perfect."

Bullshit. If Eliza walked into my cafe, I would bet an entire

week's wages on Kenny asking her out.

Pointing to her left nipple. "This nipple is larger,"

she says, pinching it and tugging her tit. "but the whole boob
is slightly smaller. They are also heavy, as you can imagine double
D's would be, so gravity and physics are against me. They hang far
lower than I'd like."

Eliza steps over to me; shifts the glass into her other hand,

tracing a finger around the circle of my tit. "I would love to
have tits as shapely and pert as yours," she says, giving my
nipple a playful flick. "And those cute little pink nipples?
Daisy, I don't think you realize how envious of you, I am."

Envious of me? Her tiny, dumpy, chronically-single, charity

friend? I cock my head and look up at her. She's seriously good at
pep talks. My nipple is still tingling where she flicked it. Great.
Now I can't stop thinking about it. The warmth from the wine is
spreading throughout me, and I can feel that rosy rosé flush
on my cheeks and body. The cold air on my skin feels amazing now.

I give Eliza a big hug, which presses my face into her hot skin

and soft tits. "Thanks," I whisper. "I'd probably
never do anything, if I didn't have you to talk me into it."

She wraps an arm around me, her hand sliding down my back, causing

the muscles to twitch and flex with the pleasant tickle that follows.

"I think you were always planning on going through with it,"

she says, resting her glass on my head. "You just enjoy letting
me think I've convinced you. It helps your anxious nerves if you can
deflect your bold actions onto a trusted friend's influence."

I carefully pull back to look at her. "How do you figure?"

Eliza smirks again, her eyes flicking down towards my stomach.

"You shaved your muffin."

My eyes flick away from her knowing smirk. "I waxed last

night," I mutter, hiding my beet face behind a desperate
mouthful.

I scamper to my laptop, dodging the accusation. "Hey look at

this subject change," I say, booting it up to access a soothing
playlist. "Let's not get drunk in silence, hmm?"

The music helps, and I almost forget I'm naked; or at least

stop worrying about it. I even dance a little, at Eliza's bemused
insistence. All it takes is a bottle and a half to find my courage,
and by the time we stumble into our twin beds, I'm actually excited
to show everything to the world.

Until;

Alarms. Daylight.
Hangover. T plus 1 hour.

I wake engulfed by Eliza. The first attempt to open my eyes is

punished by the morning. Eliza is now in my bed.

Learning my lesson, I lean closer, retreating into the comfort of

her cleavage. She stirs to draw me in, and I wonder why I even tried
to move at all.

If only that incessant beeping would fuck off. We have a rule

against turning off each other's alarms. She almost lost her job when
I turned off her alarm, a few months ago.

The beeping continues until Eliza groans and slaps my bedside

table, then the lamp, finally killing the alarm. We both melt back
into each other, sighing in the silence. It's 7am.

"Coffee. Please, bring me coffee," she mumbles, pulling

the blanket over both of our heads.

I open my eyes beneath the cover, wiping the crust from my lashes.

My cheek is wet, so I rub my face on the blanket and mop my drool
from her chest. After checking she isn't looking, of course.

Sliding out of bed, I rest my feet on the floor and stare at them.

I don't want to be awake. I want to be asleep in the warm boobs.
Standing up, a challenge in its own right, I'm chilled and painfully
pulled out of my slumber by the cold morning air. I waddle toward the
kitchen. I catch a glance of myself in the mirror that slaps the fog
away.

Bare skin.

We're going into the fucking city, naked. Today.

I drag my hands through my hair as I shuffle into the kitchen.

"You can do it, Daisy," I mumble, flicking the kettle on.
"You want to do it. Don't let the fear beat you."

That's easier said than done. If I was being totally honest, the

idea of it excites me a little. Just a little. The novelty of it.
It's daring, and I'm never that. But; it's also terrifying.

What if someone takes a picture?

If they post it online, boom; Everyone I know has my nudes and I'm

a floozy; A desperate pariah. A slut. Banned from all the church
social events, and doomed to never find a respectable husband.

Which is just my life in a 'slut' shell.

I fill the cups with some strong, milky coffees. Three scoops.

Extra milk. Guzzle-safe. Stumbling back to the bedroom, I see Eliza
stretching in front of the opened curtains. She has no shame.

None.

"What are you doing?" I ask, offering a cup. "What

if the neighbors see?"

Eliza smirks. "Daisy, we'll be walking out of here naked.

They're going to see."

Oh shit. That's right. That's; A lot of the neighbors now have

street facing cameras.

Oh fuck.

This will not be some quick thing that goes away. Things will

never be the same. I chug the cup while catastrophising. From now
until the day I move, every look I get, every smile, every nod, every
'good morning'; I'm going to be wondering if that neighbor saw me. If
they have actual footage of my unmentionables.

Would they jerk it looking at me? Do I want that?

It would be nice to feel; desirable? Sexy? But what if it's not

even hot enough for them to jack off to?

This is stupid, but it might be nice to be sexualized for once.

Not in a gross way, but feeling pretty, or even just comfortable in
my skin.

The way Eliza is.

My heart goes into overdrive as we get ready. Showering, brushing

our teeth, doing our hair and make-up. The most mundane things, but
they're a countdown. When each new thing is finished, I'm one step
closer to the moment all my walls come crashing down.

Can you actually die from embarrassment?

Eliza, fucking Eliza, is as calm as I've ever seen her. Perfectly

applying her perfect lipstick to her stupid, perfect lips. Her hands
aren't even shaking. How? Was she a robot this whole time?

"I got you something," she says, sliding a ribbon-tied

box from her handbag. "I have one to match."

Inside is a small, rustic leather bag with two straps.

"A leg bag?" I ask, watching as she pulls a larger one,

unwrapped, from her handbag.

Eliza takes the bag from me. "You needed somewhere to keep

your sundries," she says, kneeling and fastening the belt and
leg strap. "Y

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