The sun in the old quarry doesn’t just warm the skin—it penetrates all the way into the bones. That’s why I kept coming back here. It wasn’t an “official” swimming spot, but the unspoken local rule was simple: once you had passed the rusted “No Trespassing” signs and descended the jagged limestone path, clothing was optional.

Usually, I had the place to myself. At eighteen there is a very particular kind of freedom in shedding everything—the heavy jeans, the sweat-soaked shirt, the expectations of everyone in town—and slipping into that deep, mineral-green water.

That afternoon the water had been perfect. I had floated weightlessly for an hour before pulling myself onto my favourite boulder to dry off. I didn’t bother with a towel. I simply stretched out on my back, eyes closed against the glaring light, and let the heat rock me into a heavy, rhythmic sleep.

I was awakened by the sound of a page being turned. It was a clear, deliberate snap of paper that rang out in the quarry’s silence like a gunshot.

My eyes flew open. The sky was now a deeper blue; the sun had begun its slow journey toward the horizon. I wanted to sit up; my hand instinctively reached for the spot where I had left my clothes—and froze.

Less than three meters away sat a woman in a low folding chair that definitely had not been there when I fell asleep. She appeared to be in her early thirties, wearing a bikini printed with colourful letters and dark sunglasses. She was leaning back, a thick paperback resting on her lap.

A wave of heat that had nothing to do with the sun crashed over me. I felt raw, stomach-clenching shame. I was completely exposed—pale, vulnerable, caught in a state of primal disarray. My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. I wanted to vanish, to melt into the limestone, or at the very least find my boxers, which at that moment lay in a crumpled heap about five meters behind her chair.

“You were snoring,” she said quietly, without looking up from her book. Her voice was smooth as the surface of the pond. “Just a tiny bit.”

I pulled my knees to my chest, trying to build some kind of barrier; my face burned. “I … sorry. I didn’t hear you come down.”

“Don’t apologize,” she replied. At last, she lowered the book; her sunglasses slid a little way down her nose. Her eyes weren’t reproachful—they were analytical, shimmering with calm, amused curiosity. “It’s a sort of half-public place. And you looked very peaceful.”

She didn’t look away. On the contrary, her gaze lingered. It travelled from my messy hair down to my toes and slowly back up again, deliberate and unhurried.

The embarrassment was still there, but something else was pushing it aside—an odd, electric buzz of adrenaline. Being the only naked person in a conversation should make you feel powerless, yet with every passing second the power balance tilted. I realized: she wasn’t offended. She wasn’t even indifferent. She was enjoying the view.

I took a deep breath and forced my shoulders to relax even just a centimetre. I didn’t reach for my clothes. Instead, I let my legs slide apart a little farther and reclaimed more of the rock.

“Is the book good?” I asked—my voice steadier than I had expected.

She tilted the cover toward me but kept her eyes locked on mine. “It’s a bit dry. I find the scenery out here considerably more interesting.”

A slow smile played at the corners of her mouth. Until then I had only heard about CFNM in whispered jokes, but living it was something entirely different. It was the thrill of being a masterpiece in a gallery, regarded by a connoisseur who recognizes quality.

The shame evaporated and gave way to a bold, shimmering vanity. I leaned back on my elbows, no longer hiding anything, letting the breeze and her calm, appreciative gaze wash over me. For the first time in my life, I felt the raw, intoxicating power of being seen.

“I’m Sven,” I said, finally smiling back.

She closed the book, placed it in her lap and leaned forward just far enough to make my heart skip a beat. “I’m Kathrin. Nice to meet you, Sven. I think you have exactly the right idea of how to spend an afternoon.”

The silence that followed was heavy, filled only with the rhythmic chirping of hidden cicadas and the distant splash of a fish breaking the water’s surface. I was still leaning back on my elbows—a posture that looked casual but left me completely open to her quiet, green-eyed scrutiny.

“So, Sven,” Kathrin said, her voice dropping half an octave. “Do you come here often to … sleep in the sun?”

“As often as I can,” I managed. My throat felt tight.

As the conversation drifted into casual, inconsequential topics about the town and the hidden paths around the quarry, I became painfully aware of my own body. The breeze felt sharper on my skin; the warmth of the sun was like a physical touch. And then I felt the familiar, treacherous rush of blood.

My heart stumbled. Not now, I begged internally.

I tried to shift my weight, discreetly crossing one leg over the other to conceal the growing tension. I looked away toward the water, tried to think of anything—the birds I could hear, the math equations from that morning—but the image of Kathrin, clothed and composed, while I sat naked and exposed, was too powerful. CFNM was no longer just an esoteric thrill; it was becoming a very visible physical reality.

The more I tried to suppress it, the more insistent the sensation grew. A bead of sweat rolled down my temple. I was caught in a paradox: the more I liked that she was looking at me, the harder it became to hide the evidence of that liking.

Kathrin didn’t look away. On the contrary, she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and leaned even farther forward, elbows on her knees. The paperback lay forgotten on the ground beside her chair.

“You’re suddenly very tense,” she observed, a playful glint in her eyes. “Are you getting cold? The sun is still quite high.”

“No,” I croaked, my face flaming deep red. “I’m … I’m fine.”

I dug my fingers into the edge of the rock until my knuckles turned white, thigh muscles clenched, trying to position my legs just right to hide. I felt like a tightrope walker losing balance. The earlier shame wanted to return, but it was swept away by a wave of raw, honest desire.

Kathrin let out a soft, melodic laugh—not cruel but filled with absolute self-assurance. She pushed her sunglasses onto her head and fixed me with predatory clarity.

“Sven, stop,” she said. Her voice was direct and cut through my panicked inner monologue. “You’re about to fall off the rock.”

I opened my mouth to protest, to offer some lame excuse about the heat or the swimming, but she raised her hand.

“I’m thirty-five years old, Sven. I’ve seen a naked man before,” she said, her smile turning daring. “And honestly, I’ve been sitting here for twenty minutes because I like what I see. I like the view. And I can see very clearly how much you like being looked at.”

I froze; the air left my lungs. The “secret” was out, exposed as thoroughly as my clothing.

“Don’t try to hide it,” she continued, her gaze traveling to where I was still attempting to conceal myself, then back to my face. “There’s no reason to be ashamed. On the contrary—I’d prefer if you didn’t. I didn’t come to the quarry to see shy people.”

She leaned back, crossed her legs, and let her gaze glide over me openly and approvingly.

“I like looking at you,” she repeated, her voice a quiet command. “And it doesn’t bother me to see exactly how much you enjoy it. So why don’t you relax? Move your hands away. Show me how strongly I’m affecting you.”

The last remnants of hesitation dissolved. The power she wielded in that moment didn’t make me feel small—it made me feel electrified. Slowly, exhaling a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding, I let my arms drop and parted my legs, offering her the full, honest truth of my reaction.

The air between us suddenly felt twice as thick. My heart wasn’t just beating—it vibrated, a heavy pulsing that seemed to reach into my fingertips and throat.

Obeying her command felt like stepping off a cliff. Slowly I moved my hands out of my lap and braced them against the rough limestone behind me. I opened my legs fully, surrendering the last shred of cover.

The exposure was absolute. For a fraction of a second the embarrassment was a physical weight—a hot, prickling wave rising from my chest to my hairline. I felt stripped bare in a way I hadn’t since childhood, not just of fabric but of dignity. My breath caught, a ragged, shallow sound in the silent gorge.

And then I looked at Kathrin.

She didn’t flinch. She didn’t giggle. Her eyes darkened, pupils dilating as she took in the full, hard evidence of my arousal. Her reaction—the way her breathing briefly synced with mine—transformed that shame into something far more explosive. The embarrassment didn’t disappear; it fermented, turning into a highly potent, intoxicating fuel that drove my pulse even higher.

“There,” she whispered, her voice like velvet over gravel. “Was that so hard? Look at you.”

“I … I’ve never …” I began, but the words died in my throat.

“It’s okay, Sven,” she said, her voice dropping to a deep, soothing hum. “It’s more than okay. It’s honest. And it’s beautiful. Don’t you dare hide it again now.”

The dynamic had shifted. Kathrin was no longer just a spectator; she was the director. She leaned back, the colourful letters on her bikini stretching slightly as she arched her back, yet her eyes never released me for a second.

“Stand up,” she ordered. It wasn’t a suggestion.

I obeyed. My legs felt heavy and uncooperative as I rose from the flat rock. Standing upright, fully erect in the bright afternoon light, I felt like a lightning rod. I was now a head taller than she was, yet as she sat in her chair looking up at me, she held every ounce of control.

“Turn around,” she said, making a circling motion with her wrist. “Slowly. I want to see every centimetre of you.”

I did as instructed, the rough stone biting into my soles. I felt the sun on my back and the ghostly heat of her gaze traveling down my spine, over the curve of my buttocks, the backs of my thighs.

“Stop,” she said when I was halfway around. “Now hands behind your head. Fingers interlocked.”

I complied; my biceps tensed, my chest pulled taut. The pose was incredibly vulnerable, pushing my hips forward and emphasizing my state of extreme arousal.

“And now,” Kathrin said, her voice trembling ever so slightly with her own excitement, “look back over your shoulder at me. I want you to see how I’m looking at you. I want you to see how much I’m enjoying this.”

I glanced back. Her book had slipped to the ground; her hands gripped the armrests of the chair. The hunger in her gaze was palpable. In that moment I understood that my initial shame had been a gift to her—that I was so affected, so exposed, and so willing to show it to a stranger was exactly what she wanted.

“You’re a very good listener, Sven,” she breathed, her eyes locked on mine. “Now come closer. Right to the edge of the rock. I want to see everything in the light.”

The distance between us was only a few meters, yet it felt like a vast, electrified stage. Kathrin remained anchored in her chair, posture relaxed, but her eyes burned with an intensity that made the sunlight seem cold by comparison.

“Stay exactly there,” she murmured, her voice carrying effortlessly through the still quarry air. “Don’t move a muscle. I want to enjoy how the light falls on you.”

I stood ramrod straight, fingers still interlocked behind my head, chest rising and falling in shallow, choppy breaths. I felt every current of air, every tiny grain of sand beneath my heels. My skin felt hypersensitive, as though her eyes were actually touching me.

“Your skin is so pale against the stone,” she remarked aloud, analytical yet appreciative. “But you’re starting to blush. I can see it spreading from your neck across your chest. It’s a beautiful shade of red, Sven. It tells me exactly how fast your heart is racing.”

She leaned slightly to the side, studying the lines of my slanted abdominal muscles and the way my stomach had contracted into a tight, rippling grid.

“The way you’re standing … it emphasizes everything,” she continued. “The line of your hips, the tension in your thighs. You’re trembling, just a little. Is it the adrenaline? Or because no woman has ever looked at you like this before?”

I couldn’t answer. My tongue felt like lead. The CFNM dynamic had reached its peak; she sat perfectly composed in her bikini—the fabric both barrier and declaration of her control—while I was a raw nerve, utterly unprotected and throbbing with a need that was barely containable.

“And then the centre of it all,” she said, her gaze dropping and fixing on my erection. “Really remarkable. The way it points straight at me, so unapologetic. I can see the pulse in it from here. It’s glistening in the sun, isn’t it?”

Her directness hit like a blow. A wave of white-hot sensation flooded my groin. I felt the familiar, rhythmic tightening of an approaching climax—the point of no return. My toes curled into the limestone; an involuntary, deep groan escaped my throat.

I’m going to lose control, I thought, a flash of panic shooting through me. Here, in front of her, without her even touching me.

“I … I can’t …” I gasped, eyes squeezed shut. “Kathrin, I … I’m so close.”

“I know,” she said, her voice dropping to a deep, commanding purr. “I can see the muscles in your legs twitching. I can see your chest heaving. Open your eyes, Sven. Look at me. I want you to look at me while you fight it. I want to see you trying to hold it back for me.”

I opened my eyes—and the sight of her—cool, controlled, watching my naked desperation with a predatory smile—nearly pushed me over the edge. The shame of being so transparent now fuelled the pleasure. I was a puppet on her strings, and the more precisely she described my body, the more it betrayed me.

“Don’t you dare close your eyes,” she whispered. “I want to see the exact moment you break.”

The air seemed to hum, a static charge that appeared to flow straight from Kathrin’s calm, seated form into my skin. The panic of near-collapse had peaked, yet under her unwavering gaze it transformed into a heavy, decadent kind of obedience. I was no longer just a boy caught naked—I was her object. Her subject.

“Good,” she said, her voice like cool salve on the fire in my blood. “You’re starting to understand. You’re not here to hide, Sven. You’re here to be seen.”

I let my hands drop from my head, but I didn’t use them to cover myself. Instead, I followed the silent command in her eyes. I stepped farther into the centre of the flat limestone platform, the sun illuminating every bead of sweat on my chest.

“Turn to the side,” she directed, chin resting in her hand. “One leg up on the higher ledge. I want to see the line of your groin. I want to see how much tension you’re holding.”

I obeyed instantly. I lifted my left foot and braced it on a jagged outcrop. The pose was extremely exposing, stretching the skin of my lower abdomen and presenting my arousal openly to the air, framed by the strain of my inner thighs. A fresh wave of heat hit me as she leaned forward, eyes narrowed, following the pulse of my veins and the way my body reacted to the faint breeze.

“Look at that,” she murmured, almost to herself. “The way you twitch. As if you’re trying to reach me without moving a muscle. Now lean back. Hands on the rock behind you. Arch your hips toward the sky.”

I sank into a deep, seated bridge, weight on my palms. It was a posture of complete surrender. My hips were thrust upward, my entire torso offered to her like a sacrifice. From her low seat she had an unobstructed view of everything.

The CFNM dynamic was now absolute. She sat in her bikini, book at her feet, like a queen on a throne, while I had been stripped of every defence and my body performed for her entertainment. The embarrassment hadn’t left me—it had simply become part of the pleasure, a sharp, spicy note in the overwhelming sweetness of being so blatantly desired.

“You have a remarkable body, Sven,” she said, her voice regaining some of its conversational lightness. “And you’re a very, very good boy for showing it to me so clearly.”

I remained arched, muscles beginning to tremble from exertion and sensory overload, waiting for her to tell me what came next. I expected her to stand, to finally close the few meters between us. My heart pounded in anticipation of her touch.

Instead, I heard the clear sound of her picking up her book.

“That’s enough for today,” she said.

I collapsed back onto the rock, dazed. Breathless and still fully erect, I watched as Kathrin rose with effortless grace. She shook out her towel, folded it neatly, and slipped the book into her canvas bag. She moved with the casual indifference of someone leaving the cinema after the credits.

A sudden, hollow pang of disappointment shot through me. I stood there, raw and exposed, my body screaming for a release that never came. I felt confused, almost abandoned in my nudity.

“Wait … that’s it?” I croaked, my voice sounding small in the vastness of the quarry.

She slid her sunglasses back over her eyes; the dark lenses hid her expression but reflected my trembling, naked silhouette. She slung the bag over her shoulder and headed toward the path, hips swaying rhythmically.

At the edge of the clearing, she paused and glanced back over her shoulder. A small, knowing smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.

“I think I’ve seen enough to think about for a while,” she said. She let her gaze travel over my frustrated, upright form one last time. “Don’t look so crestfallen, Sven. It’s a beautiful place. I think I’ll come back tomorrow to enjoy the view. Same time?”

Without waiting for an answer, she turned and disappeared among the trees, the sound of her footsteps fading into the summer air, leaving me alone on the rock—naked, painfully aroused, and already counting the hours.