The husband stares blankly at the open newspaper in his lap. He’s already tried reading the main article in front of him a dozen times, and each time he’s stuttered to a halt after little more than a couple of lines. The article may as well be written in Lithuanian.

He glances up at his wife. She’s sitting on the edge of the king-sized bed, looking out at the snow-blanketed world through the window on her left. He regards her profile. She looks calm, almost serene. She is a vision of absolute composure.

Is that how she’s really feeling? he wonders. Composed? Serene?

The creatures deep inside the husband’s abdomen flutter and scurry, and he knows there’s no way that his nervousness isn’t being translated and transmitted by his face. Perhaps that’s why she hasn’t looked at him in so many minutes: she’s offended by his fear.

Of course, she has every reason to feel assured. She’s the one with prior knowledge, the one with experience. It gives her the power and leaves him feeling as if he’s only along for the ride, even though he fully endorsed this trip.

The husband checks his wristwatch.

“It’s three minutes later than the last time you checked,” his wife says in a voice half an octave above being utterly flat. He looks up guiltily, and sees that her attention is still fixed to the brilliantly white view through the window.

He can’t maintenance his silence. “Aren’t you nervous at all?” he asks.

“Of course I am.”

“You don’t seem it.”

“I’ve had more practice at masking my apprehension.”

Whether she intended it or not, it’s a reminder to him. Normally, he remains behind when she goes off in search of adventure. The thought sends twin ripples of conflicting emotion through him: arousal at having such an extremely sexual woman for his wife, and jealousy that her appetites often compel her to find satisfaction at the hands of others.

For once, though, the husband will be there to see her satisfaction for himself. It’s a prospect that both thickens his cock and leaves his armpits damp in spite of his antiperspirant.

There’s a solid knock at the door. His wife gets up and crosses the room swiftly. In her white blouse and her black pencil skirt, she might be dressed for a business conference, or a new exhibition at one of the local galleries. Her husband doubts that anyone one who saw her right now would imagine she is about to be sexually pleasured by two men.

The door swings inwards, and the man filling the doorway steps inside the room. She closes the door just as swiftly, locks it and then slips the security chain into place. The ‘do not disturb’ card is already hanging from the handle in the corridor. It should be enough to guarantee them the privacy they need.

The husband folds his newspaper and stands up to greet their guest. The visitor’s handshake is firm, and no more. There’s a light dusting of snow on the shoulders of his heavy coat. He takes it off and hangs it from the hook on the back of the door.

The two men appraise one another. They’ve met only once before, in altogether more platonic circumstances. Neither of them had the slightest idea of where that encounter was destined to lead them. Since then, though, the visitor has fucked the woman half a dozen times that her husband knows of, each of them with his acquiescence. He’s imagined their couplings more times than he can readily count; today, he won’t need to rely on his mind’s eye to see their flesh join.

He stuffs his hands deep into his pockets before their trembling can shame him.

Are we really going to do this?

Fortunately, there isn’t time to draw out the pleasantries. The husband is relieved: any delay might allow his doubts to ambush and overwhelm him. Instead, he sits back down as he wife steps up to their guest and kisses him full on the mouth. The sight of her passionately kissing this pseudo-stranger as she begins unbuttoning his shirt makes her husband’s senses lurch, as though he’s standing on the deck of a wildly pitching boat. Watching the visitor’s hands move familiarly to the buttons on his wife’s blouse only increases the strength of his bewilderment.

How is it possible to be aroused and dismayed all at once?

The husband watches as his wife finishes with the last of her lover’s shirt buttons and sets about unfastening his belt. Can she feel her husband’s eyes upon her, burning into her? What would she make of his expression if she could see it? What would he make of it himself? Which emotion would be sketched most obviously upon his visage? Lust or dismay?

As though she has plucked the thought from his mind, she turns to face him, her eyes half-closed with delight as the stranger kisses his way down the side of her slender neck. Her blouse is fully undone now, and the visitor pulls the two halves apart and then cradles her breasts through her black brassiere. With the practiced skill of the consummate philanderer, he eases the cups down until he’s exposed her hard, dark nipples. He plays with them adroitly, strumming them lightly with his thumbs, squeezing them until they stand even prouder. The woman gasps, and she grinds her arse back against the visitor’s loins; he responds by slipping his large hand over her mound.

The visitor looks up, straight into the husband’s eyes. “Your wife is a very sexy woman.”

The husband nods. A part of him wants to say Don’t you think I already know that, you fuck? But he doesn’t say that. What he says is, “Yes, she is.” He sounds almost out of breath. “Very.” He looks at his wife, and their eyes meet and lock. He can see the lust gleaming in her gaze. Can she see the same in his? She smiles wantonly, wickedly.

Perhaps she can.

The loins of his jeans feel uncomfortably full. He reaches down and unbuttons the waistband, and draws the zip part of the way down. The urge to touch himself is great, but he resists, uncertain of the etiquette, content to take his lead from the others.

There’s not even a hint of nervousness about their visitor. If the man feels any sort of apprehension, it’s buried beneath layers of assuredness and naked lust. His fingers peel the wife’s blouse from her shoulders and her arms, and then release the fastenings of her skirt and then her brassiere. She’s pantieless, and the visitor plunders her gleaming mound for a few seconds before he steps back from her. He swiftly strips off his shirt and then sets about removing his trousers.

The husband gets back to his feet, eager not to be left behind. He’s enjoying the voyeuristic aspects of the encounter, but the stranger has brought a scent of threat into the room with him, one that is rousing the husband’s competitiveness, his need to assert himself as this woman’s chosen mate. He quickly strips off his own clothes, not hesitating until he’s about to remove his shorts. The possibility that the visitor will be bigger than he is, that – no matter what his wife might say or do to convince him otherwise – her preference will be for her lover’s cock and not his, makes him want to call an end to proceedings right now.

He looks at his wife – on her knees, dressed in nothing but the black suspender belt, her stockings and her black patent stilettos – and sees the hunger, the naked desire as she looks back and forth between the two men, and he knows that he cannot possibly say stop now; he does not dare disappoint her.

He strips off his shorts and stands waiting.

His wife looks at both men, and beckons them towards her with a crook of an elegant finger.

Without looking at one another, the two men advance as one.

They stand a foot away from her, eagerly awaiting her inspection, their cocks jutting out proudly, arrogantly, from beneath their bellies. Both are desperate to be the first to garner her attention. The husband glances down and to his right, and he sees that the other man is no better or worse endowed than he is himself; if anything, the husband’s cock is a little straighter, his glans more swollen than his rival’s.

She’s going to feel you more, his mind whispers conspiratorially.

The wife licks her lips, and reaches out with both hands, grasping the men at the same time. Her fingers look tiny against the thickness of the shafts they encircle. The husband shudders when he realises that her wedding and engagement rings are pressed against the stranger’s cock.

She strokes them slowly, lasciviously, still licking her lips. Both men sigh with the pleasure of her touch.

“Do you like that, gentlemen?” she asks, the tenor of her voice dancing mischievously.

The visitor grunts his assent; the husband merely nods enthusiastically.

She smiles. “I guarantee that you’ll like this more.”

She leans forward from the waist, guiding her husband’s cock into her mouth. It’s so familiar a moment and sensation, and yet completely different to any other time she’s sucked him, given that there’s a spectator standing next to him, scrutinising everything, waiting for his turn, that soon the husband will watch his wife pleasuring the visitor’s cock in just the same way.

Slowly, her mouth withdraws from her husband’s hard flesh. He watches breathlessly as she guides the stranger’s cock between her glistening lips, as she takes the majority of his shaft into her mouth. Again, he feels the duality of conflicting emotions: bright red jealousy and jet black excitement. He shudders again, and his wife’s eyes look up and hold his once more as she moves her lips back and forth along the stranger’s prick.

Her husband quickly loses count of how many times she switches her mouth between them. As she sucks one, she strokes the other. Occasionally, she will lean back from both of them, a cock still in each hand, and she looks up at them lasciviously. The pauses never last for long. Her husband wonders if she wants to bring forth their come, to experience their thick semen spurting across her tongue in unison, running down her chin and spilling over her heaving breasts.

She stops again, but this time she gets to her feet.

“I think it’s time for me to have some cock,” she blithely announces.

She sits down on the edge of the bed. She smiles at both men, her fingertips lightly strumming her hard nipples as she waits for one of them to make a move.

Her husband regards their guest. “After you,” he says magnanimously, scarcely able to believe how casual his voice sounds. As if to underline the offer, he walks to the side of the bed and lies down on his wife’s left. He wants to run the sole of his foot across the small of her back, but he doesn’t: that’s too intimate a gesture for this act of congress. This is about lust, about physical pleasure. Emotion must be reserved for another time, another place.

Their visitor doesn’t need inviting twice. He moves forward quickly, as though he’s been waiting for a word of assent or encouragement to release his coiled muscles and nerves. It’s as though a switch has been clicked. The husband watches his rival’s expression, wondering if it would be possible to click the switch back now. He doubts it.

His wife immediately turns around, onto all fours, presenting her rear to her lover. At the same time, she bends her mouth over her husband’s loins, and as his cock slips back into her mouth, the stranger’s cock thrusts deep inside her cunt.

Her breath rushes out around her husband’s hard flesh.

The husband stares, aroused and aghast all at once. She’s fucked other men with his consent before, but actually seeing it… His emotions are a whirlwind, the images in his head a flesh-toned kaleidoscope. He grasps his own shaft with one hand, stroking himself into his wife’s mouth as he lightly grips her hair with the other. He can’t take his eyes from the thick shaft plundering his wife.

The stranger grips her about the waist, and his long, even strokes begin to increase in pace and potency. The wife moans with pleasure, over and over and over. Soon, it’s all she can do to keep her husband in her mouth. He can’t help but wonder if that is part of the reason for the stranger’s vigour.

If it is, then it works. She slips her husband’s cock from her mouth, rubbing the side of her face against his shaft as she cries out, “I’m coming! Yes, fuck, yes!”

The orgasm passes through her. The stranger withdraws from her gasping body. His erect cock gleams with her wetness.

“Your turn,” he says to the husband, with just a hint of arrogance.

Now it’s the husband’s turn to fly out of the blocks. He swings his legs off the bed and walks behind his wife. He strokes the taut cheeks of her behind as he regards the parted, pouting lips of her sex. Well fucked, he thinks, and his cock twitches excitedly. He won’t deny himself any longer. He can’t. He kneels on the bed behind her and thrusts his full length inside her still spasming cunt, a cunt still carrying the imprint of another man’s cock. It’s something he’s fantasised about for years.

“Oh fuck!” she gasps; it’s a sound that brings a smile to her husband’s lips.

Now she’s sucking the stranger again. Her husband can’t see what’s going on, but he can tell that she’s enjoying herself, that she’s fellating her lover with gusto. He knows how much she enjoys tasting herself on hard, male flesh, how she relishes the blending of cunt juice and precum.

He has to slow himself. His excitement at being inside her fucked cunt is carrying him dangerously close to peaking. He buries himself inside her and then pauses, the tip of his glans against her cervix as he reaches beneath her to tease and stroke her clit. After a short time, he feels his control returning. He begins thrusting again, but after a dozen strokes, the stimulation of being inside her is close to overwhelming his resistance once more. He tries pausing again, but the result is the same.

He looks up at the stranger’s face. Is that the suggestion of a smirk on his face? The husband mentally shrugs the breath of paranoia away. It’s irrelevant anyway; the bottom line is, he doesn’t want to come yet. Reluctantly, he withdraws from his wife’s velvet flesh.

She waits a few seconds, and then, when she realises that her husband isn’t coming back inside her for the moment, she moves up over her lover’s body and lowers herself onto his waiting, greedy cock. She doesn’t even glance back as she begins to rise and fall over his length.

Her husband walks to the nearest chair and sits down, watching his wife lose herself within her consuming desire for flesh and fulfilment. He strokes himself at a tempo that matches the leisurely pace she is setting for herself, staring at the thick shaft – slick with her lust – each time it emerges from her body. He suspects that her deliberateness is in no small part for his benefit, that she is pandering to the voyeur within him. It touches him that she still thinks of feeding his hunger in the midst of satiating her own.

Soon, her pace begins to quicken, and her husband sees how hard she is pressing herself down against her lover’s pubis. He looks at her face, sees her eyes screwed tightly shut, sees her teeth gnawing on her bottom lip, and knows that her senses are climbing towards yet another crescendo.

Without warning, her lover reaches up and grips the back of her neck; he tips her over onto her side, then onto her back. He doesn’t wait for her to ready herself; he pushes her thighs wide and thrusts forward, piercing her cunt to her cry of ecstasy. He fucks her hard, savagely, and her husband realises that the stranger is close to reaching his own climax. His laden balls smack against the cheeks of her arse each time he penetrates her, and her breasts bounce wildly in accompaniment.

“Oh, yes! Fuck me hard!” she cries.

The knowledge that the stranger’s semen will soon spurt against his wife’s most intimate flesh, that she wants to feel it erupting inside her, and that he himself can do nothing to stop it, excites her husband more blackly than anything he can ever remember.

He gets to his feet, pumping his cock with a fury he has never felt before. He can feel the pressure building in his face, can feel the sinews standing out along the sides of his neck. He watches his wife’s contorted expression, and then she sees him, sees his pleasure, sees his furious strokes.

“Oh fuck!” she gasps. “Don’t come yet!”

The stranger trembles and emits a drawn-out growl as he spills himself inside her. He withdraws quickly, and her husband looks down at his wife’s dark red, swollen cunt, sees the thick, milky semen already oozing out of her.

Another man’s come in my wife, he thinks.

The sight tips him over the edge. He staggers towards the edge of the bed, almost throwing himself towards her as he explodes, anointing her belly and her pubis with thick streams of his own come. Then, spent, he collapses at her side, gasping for breath as his wife runs her fingers through the seed of two men, blending it against her sex as she uses it to lubricate one final, frantic orgasm.

Slowly, the husband comes to his senses. The stranger is gone, but only as far as the en-suite bathroom. The husband listens to the sound of water flowing into the washbasin. He wonders how long the man will linger. He wants him gone, wants his wife to himself, to fuck her alone and reclaim her as his. But when he looks at her face, he sees that she is still hungry, that the lust within her is yet to be satiated, and he knows that the stranger will be here for some time yet.

The bathroom door opens and the stranger emerges. He smiles at the woman as he walks back to the bed and stretches out on the other side of her.

“Isn’t this a wonderful way to spend a December morning,” he says confidently.

“It certainly is,” the wife answers.

Her husband nods, but he says nothing.

“So would the two of you like me to be on my way now?” the stranger asks. They all know that he’s really only asking the woman.

Just say ‘yes’, the husband thinks.

The woman smiles. “I think I’ve still got some excess energy that needs using up first,” she says, reaching out on either side of her to fondle their flaccid cocks. She turns to look at her husband. “Wouldn’t you say so, darling?”

The look in her eyes, the feel of her hand on his cock and the sight of her hand on the stranger’s are combining to excite him again, almost in spite of himself.

“Oh, absolutely,” he says. “Absolutely.”

Welcome to e[lust] - your source for sexual intelligence and inspirations of lust from the smartest & sexiest bloggers! Whether you’re looking for hot steamy smut, thought-provoking opinions or expert information, you’re going to find it here. Want to be included in the next edition? Start with the rules, check out the schedule in the site’s sidebar and subscribe to the RSS feed for updates!

♦ This Week’s Top Three Posts ♦

Presence – I wish that you would look at me now. I am willing you to look at me now, over her body, rocking with the motion of her mouth. But you do not.

Restraint – “Do you like what you see?” the blonde asks. “Are you excited by what’s before you?” the redhead enquires. He nods.

What Not to Fetishwear – DON’T wear a PVC sleeveless vest if you fall into the rotund category. You will look like a bowling ball. With chubby arms.

◊ e[lust] Editress ◊

Fucking for Art – The proximity of their nakedness and my scrutiny resulted in this beautiful agony of arousal for them both. I asked if they would feel comfortable doing some poses of vaginal penetration for me, and they readily agreed.

♦ Featured Post ♦

The Naked Truth – He didn’t just write a pretty story we could act out, he worked hard to delicately lay us out on the page together, as we are.

See also: Pleasurists #56 and #57 for all your sex toy review needs

Sex News, Interviews, Politics & Humor

Tricky Balls

Propaganda Sucks in All Directions
Wicked Grounds
Which Reindeer Sex Style Are You?
Five Tuesday: 2010 AVN Award Nominees

Kink & Fetish

Come what may..
While I waited
Caning Before the Movies
Say…
Savoring Submission
The Ruler
Give In
Flagging brown
The Mummy Returns
Finding Power Through Play
Marked
Microfantasy Monday 24

Thoughts & Advice on Sex & Relationships

Spanksgiving
Wife Unsure About Sex With Others
Morning
Thought Provoked
December: Month of the Rant
Less is More
That’s My Cervix!
Femme Invisibility
Are You Just Kinky or Is It a Lifestyle
Baby Steps and Giant Leaps
Cyber Sex

Erotic Writing

Friends with Benefits
Prolific
The Tease
Cock. Confession #386
Shower
Cal’s wisdom
Blinded and Bound
The Little Things…
lust
The Witness
Quiet and Still
Giving and Receiving
Beasts in the Bathroom
Fixation: Touch
The Pussy Eating Challenge
An Oceans Release part 1
MFM: Etiquette
Office Party
Daydreams & Distractions Droit de Cuissage
Tant pis
Toys, toys, toys
Revenge (Pt. 1)
Gush
Claiming: Assume the Position

He sits in darkness, listening to the steady thud of the pump within his chest. He’s completely naked, and the base of the leather seat is finally warming against his buttocks. He tests himself against the bonds lashing him to the chair, but the knots at his wrists and his ankles have been tied with great care and precision. There are a few millimetres of slack, but only enough to frustrate him. After a while, he surrenders to his captivity.

He hears footsteps approaching the bedroom door. It swings open, but the light on the landing has been switched off, so he sees nothing. He hears someone step inside the room, and the door clicks shut.

“Ready?” says a woman’s voice.

He knows that she’s not speaking to him. There’s a piece of duct tape sealing his mouth shut.

“Yes,” another female voice answers.

A table lamp clicks on, instantly illuminating the room in warm light. The two women stand before him; one of them is blonde, the other is auburn. They’re both attired in corsets that caress and enhance the sensuous curves of their bodies. The blonde’s corset is jet black, with pleated edging along the top and bottom of the bodice. The redhead’s corset is a rich burgundy, with heavy black lacing across her full bust and the tops of her thighs. Both are wearing suspenders and black nylon stockings, and stiletto-heeled shoes. Neither of them is wearing panties.

The women are also both wearing masks. The blonde’s is an ornate masquerade mask, held in place by a piece of ivory ribbon tied behind her head. The redhead’s is a simpler affair, a plain black domino mask, secured with black silk.

“Do you like what you see?” the blonde asks.

“Are you excited by what’s before you?” the redhead enquires.

He nods.

“Then we’ll begin,” they say in perfect unison.

The blonde steps forward. She draws her perfectly manicured nails across his skin – down his back and his arms, across the tops of his shoulders and over his chest. She drags them along his belly and the tops of his thighs, never pressing too hard, never causing pain. He can barely see where she’s been, but he can feel. By the time she stops, his skin is afire with the sensation.

His cock is very hard now, the glans vivid in its fierce redness. He wants the women to marvel at his length, his girth. He wants them to become wet at the sight of him, to yearn to feel its weight in their hands, to feel its thickness filling them.

The blonde, however, pays his manhood no attention. Her nails deliberately avoided it, and now she turns away from him to where her companion stands watching and kisses her slowly, thoroughly.

The sight of their mouths waxing and waning together only makes him harder, needier.

The blonde returns, leading the redhead by the hand. With his ankles secured to the chair legs, his thighs are already spread wide. They kneel between his open legs, their gazes alternating between his face and his loins.

“He has a beautiful cock,” the blonde says. “I’ll give him that.”

“I’ve always enjoyed it,” the redhead responds.

The blonde draws a single fingernail along the underside of his shaft. His cock twitches, and he shudders uncontrollably.

“He likes that,” the redhead sighs.

“He’ll like our mouths even more.” The blonde leans forward and runs her tongue along the very same path her fingernail charted. He shudders again at the sensation of wet velvet against his shaft. The redhead leans into him as well, her tongue caressing the skin between his balls as the blonde’s tongue swirls across his glans.

Oh fuck, he thinks. He tries saying it as well, but the tape sealing his mouth shut prevents him from doing anything beyond muttering incomprehensibly.

Now they lick his shaft in unison, the blonde on one side, the redhead on the other, alternating their strokes, one going up as the other comes down. Occasionally, they break off to kiss one another in the same languid fashion as their tongues collide upon him. Then they begin the pleasuring again, painting his hard flesh with their warm saliva.

He can scarcely believe what he’s seeing, what he’s feeling.

The blonde withdraws and stands up. The redhead remains where she is, sucking gently upon his balls in turn, as her dainty hand works up and down his length. The blonde stands next to his right thigh, facing away from him. She looks down at the redhead.

“Do you mind?” she asks.

“Not at all.”

The blonde straddles his thighs, still facing away from him. She squats slightly, lowering herself until her sex is just above the head of his cock. The redhead smiles lasciviously. Still holding him by the shaft, she uses him to tease the blonde, working his cockhead back and forth along the blonde’s cleft. She feels very, very wet to him. He can feel her flesh parting, opening, as he’s drawn towards the portal to her cunt. The desire to thrust forward, to embed himself within her, is immense, but he can’t move at all. Those knots were tied carefully for a good reason.

The redhead begins to use his cockhead against the blonde’s clitoris; she moves it lightly, quickly, across the sensitive nub. He can barely feel the contact, but he knows that it exists. He can tell from the way the blonde is writhing over him, little sighs of pleasure escaping from between her pursed lips.

“I can’t stand this anymore,” she whimpers.

“Then don’t,” the redhead says.

He feels his cockhead being positioned before the entrance to the blonde’s sex once more. This time, she doesn’t wait, doesn’t tease. She lowers herself slowly, taking him inside her. She doesn’t stop until her thighs rest against his, and his cock is fully immersed in the heat and the wetness of her silken flesh.

“Oh, yes,” she cries out softly. “Oh, yes.”

She begins to rise and fall over his length, slowly at first, her pace quickening more swiftly than he had expected. The teasing has evidently affected her as much as it has him. She grips one of his thighs with one hand, whilst she presses the other against her clit. He can feel the tips of her fingers against the underside of his shaft as she frantically pleasures herself.

“Fuck, I’m coming already,” she cries out, and her body convulses as her orgasm passes through her.

She climbs off him, stepping to one side on legs that look distinctly unsteady. She looks down at the redhead, who has done nothing but watch since the blonde mounted him.

“I know why you’ve always enjoyed his cock,” the blonde says in a voice that is close to trembling.

The redhead smiles, but says nothing. Instead, she leans forward again, and his cock is suddenly engulfed by her mouth. She greedily laps and sucks at his hard flesh, and he knows that she is relishing the taste of the other woman’s lust.

His head falls back on his shoulders as he surrenders himself to the pleasures of her insistent mouth. Then he hears the noise of a drawer sliding open, and he looks to see the blonde withdrawing something from the bedside cabinet. She steps into the harness and eases it up her legs. The harness is fashioned from leather; at the centre of the pad that sits over her loins is a long, smooth phallus. Both the harness and the phallus are as jet black as her corset.

She secures the harness in place, then walks back towards him. The phallus bobs hypnotically as she walks. She stops next to him and takes hold of the tape across his mouth. She yanks suddenly, tearing it away from his skin, setting fire to the nerve endings in his face.

She grips his chin and lifts his face towards hers. Her eyes are fiercely slitted.

“She’s sucking you,” she says. “Now you suck me.”

She presses the phallus towards his mouth. He tries to turn his face away, but the grip on his chin is strong.

“Do it,” she says. “Or the pleasure ends right now.”

He flirts with the idea of telling her to keep her pleasure, but when he glances down at the redhead, she is watching him intently, waiting for his reaction. As their eyes meet, she nods, almost imperceptibly.

The blonde presses the phallus to his lips. It’s cold against his mouth, the taste and the aroma both unappetizingly synthetic. He lets her penetrate him, the smooth silicone slipping over his tongue. He feels compromised, sordid, but he can see how much it excites the blonde to see him sucking her cock whilst the redhead is sucking his.

After a while, she withdraws and walks around behind the redhead. She kneels down, her hands running over the redhead’s full buttocks. The blonde watches his face as she slips her hands between the redhead’s thighs, and the redhead’s mouth stiffens around his shaft as the blonde penetrates her with her fingers. The blonde makes a show of lifting her glistening fingers to her own mouth and savouring the redhead’s juices.

“Delicious,” she says, and the man’s mouth waters at the memory of the exquisite taste.

The blonde shuffles closer behind the redhead, holding the gleaming black phallus in one hand, easing it forward. Again, the redhead’s mouth stiffens around his shaft as the blonde penetrates her. The blonde grips the redhead about the waist, pulling her back onto her long strokes.

The redhead moans softly against his flesh, over and over and over as the blonde fucks her sensually, savagely. Eventually, her mouth has to relinquish its hold upon him. She continues to hold his shaft in one hand, her free hand snaking between her thighs so that she can plunder her clitoris; the blonde smiles triumphantly as the redhead presses herself back to meet each powerful thrust.

The redhead rests the side of her damp face against one of his thighs. “Fuck yes!” she cries. “Yes, yes, yes!” Her hand works his flesh absently, sporadically, as she loses herself in her own gratification, as her consciousness is consumed by the fires of her flesh.

Gradually, the blonde stops, withdraws, gets back to her feet. She rubs her hand along the length of her glistening shaft, parodying every man she’s ever witnessed performing the same act. He thinks it looks bizarre, and yet it’s still strangely erotic.

“It’s good,” she says in a low voice. “But it’s a poor substitute for the sensation of real, hard flesh.”

And as though she’s been commanded, the redhead gets unsteadily to her feet and straddles his thighs without a word. Unlike the blonde, she chooses to face him, and as she slowly lowers herself onto him, she kisses him lingeringly, passionately, her tongue teasing and provoking his own. She tastes faintly of cock.

He opens his eyes and looks past her shoulder. The blonde has stripped off her harness and is lying on the bed, her fingers caressing the rich lips of her smoothly waxed sex as she watches the redhead rising and falling over his flesh. He looks deep into her liquid eyes, trying to divine what other sensual adventures she is already feverishly fermenting.

As you can see from the graphic standing proudly ovehead, I did it.

On November 1st, I sat staring at a blank screen, with a head half-filled with a vague idea of a story and a few pages of notes I’d scribbled on a boring train journey six months ago. At 9pm on November 30th, I typed the word ‘with’. I’d be the first to admit it’s not the most spectacular of words. It certainly wasn’t the first time I’d typed it this month. But what made that particular ‘with’ a rather remarkable word was the fact that it was the fifty thousandth word I’d typed since I started working on “The Sisters” some thirty days before.

It’s not all glory though. I’ve completed 50000 words, which was the challenge I accepted from the bods at NaNoWriMo … but I haven’t completed “The Sisters” yet. I’ve still got quite a few thousand words ahead of me. Maybe as many as another 50000. And without NaNoWriMo pushing me to produce an average of 1667 words a day, it may take me a little while to get the first draft of the story completed.

And then there will be the second draft.

Oh my – what have I started?

Did you fantasize that Vaughan was photographing all these sex acts as though they were traffic accidents?

The world’s most controversial film? If you’re looking to keep movie buffs and Conservative party counsellors occupied for a few hours down at your local bar, then you could do worse than lob that question into the mix. Of course, the world’s most controversial film is … going to be determined according to your own perspective and bête-noirs. Perhaps you find blood and gore and horror to be utterly objectionable, in which case something like ‘Last House on the Left’ or ‘I Spit On Your Grave’ might figure high upon your list. Or you might feel that films which sully religious beliefs deserve particular scorn, so ‘The Last Temptation of Christ’ or ‘The Devils’ might be top of your inventory.

But if the cinematic depiction of sex is the genre that leaves you gnashing and grinding your teeth, then there’s a fair chance that top of your selections will be ‘Crash‘. David Cronenberg’s 1996 blend of colliding auto-mobiles and deviant sexuality recently came in at #3 in a list of the 10 most controversial films compiled by The Guardian newspaper.

Much has been written about Crash; about its motives and its messages, its art and its merit. Some of what has been written has been praiseworthy, while a good deal of text devoted to the film has been dismissive, if not outright derisive. I don’t intend debating the film, or critiquing it though. This isn’t Film Studies 101. I just want to talk about a sex scene that I happen to find arousing.

And saying that word – arousing – can be a risky thing to do when you’re talking about Crash. Mention the two things in the same sentence in the wrong company, and you might well receive looks only a few degrees removed from those normally reserved for paedophiles and rapists. Crash is a film whose depiction of sexuality bewilders and frightens many viewers, so confessing that there are aspects to it that you find stimulating can be tantamount to painting ‘unclean’ on your forehead. It may have won a Special Jury Prize at the Cannes Film Festival, but it also provoked the British critic Alexander Walker to call it ‘a movie beyond the bounds of depravity.’

Nevertheless, there are aspects to Crash that I find arousing. As far as I’m concerned, Deborah Kara Unger is an incredibly desirable woman (I fell instantly in lust with her when she showed her red bra to Michael Douglas in The Game) and she exudes a languid, almost hypnotic sexuality throughout the film. Catherine Ballard (Unger’s character) reminds me a little of Kathleen Turner in Body Heat; husky, sexually rapacious, single-minded and with little in the way of conscience. True, Catherine lacks much of Matty Walker’s animation (as well as her murderous plan) but the resonance is there.

And Catherine’s lingerie preference for white suspender belt, tan stockings and no panties happens to be one of my personal favourites too. The sight of her attired just so, wordlessly offering herself to a handsome stranger’s touch in an aircraft hanger is stirring, as is the image of her easing her skirt up her legs, offering her naked buttocks to her husband as she stands on the balcony of their apartment, looking out across the busy freeways below.

There are other stimulating scenes too. Holly Hunter’s utter desperation to shed her clothes and get James Spader inside her for the first time in the back of a car parked at the airport. Vaughn – the character portrayed by Elias Koteas – fucking a prostitute in the back seat of his battered Lincoln motor car while Spader drives them along a succession of near-deserted nocturnal freeways.

But for me, the stand-out scene comes some forty minutes into the film’s running time. Spader and Unger are making love in their bedroom. They’re both naked, lying on their sides, Spader slowly thrusting into his wife from behind. The sex is fluid, leisurely. As the camera slowly advances upon the marital bed, Unger asks her husband a series of questions about Vaughn, the deviant spider who occupies the centre of Crash’s twisted web.

Vaughn becomes the movie’s driving force, the focal point about which the twisted sexual desires of the other characters swirl and coalesce. Catherine Ballard is drawn to him, fascinated by his dark persona, his scarred body, his oversized, rusted Lincoln. ‘He must have fucked a lot of women in that car,’ she breathes. ‘It must smell of semen.’ Her excitement at the thought of Vaughn’s scarred penis – suggested to have been damaged in a motorcycle accident – is evident. She talks to and questions her husband constantly. ‘Is he circumcised? Can you imagine what his anus looks like? Describe it to me.’ She asks Spader if he has fantasised about sodomizing Vaughn, about sucking his cock, if he knows how different the taste of semen can be. It is as much these thoughts as her husband’s thrusts that propel her into orgasm.

It’s not what Catherine Ballard says that I find arousing. It’s the fact that she’s talking, the way that she’s talking that I find engaging, that makes the scene so sensual and erotic in my opinion. The Ballard’s have evidently reached a point in their marriage where vanilla sex has ceased to excite them to the levels it once did, to the levels of experience that they crave, that they need. That’s why the film opens with Catherine being fucked by a stranger in an aircraft hanger, followed immediately by a scene of her husband fucking one of his assistants at work, and then one of the couple together at home, sharing tales of their adventures. They both need something more. And in this scene, it’s Catherine that seeks to elevate their lovemaking to another level; sharing her fantasies openly and explicitly to excite both herself and her husband; engaging their minds and their imaginations to enhance their physical responses. The pleasure of their flesh is in the now, but Catherine spices it with the exciting possibilities of the future. And it’s that willingness, that desire to break through conventional boundaries that I find so appealing. I am both aroused by and made envious of her genuine desire – of their desire – to explore sex so completely together.

For myself, I don’t much enjoy silence during sex. I hate it when I feel obliged to be silent. It makes me feel stifled, choked. I love communicating, telling my lover what I’m going to do to her next, being told what she wants to feel, what she wants to do to me, with me, in return. I love listening to her fantasies, sharing my own, building new and exciting futures together. It takes the experience of lovemaking, of fucking, beyond the purely physical. It enhances it, expands upon it. But it only works if I know that her words, her fantasies are genuine: if she’s going through the motions purely for my benefit, because she knows it’s what I want, then she might as well save her energy.

And that’s why I find Catherine Ballard so appealing, so arousing. Because of the authenticity of her desire, and the way in which she expresses it. So yes, you can put me down for a ride in the passenger seat of Catherine’s MX5 any day.

For me, stealing’s always been a lot like sex. Two people who want the same thing: they get in a room, they talk about it. They start to plan. It’s kind of like flirting. It’s kind of like… foreplay, ’cause the more they talk about it, the wetter they get. The only difference is, I can fuck someone I’ve just met. But to steal? I need to know someone like I know myself.

Given that I’m a self-confessed devotee of femme to femme encounters, I really was bound to enjoy Bound Sorry, but how could I possibly let that one pass? At least I had the decency to get it out of the way early..

The explicitness of the lesbian scenes between Gina Gershon and Jennifer Tilly caused quite a stir amongst the masses when the Wachowski Brothers modern noir hit cinema screens back in 1996. The first-time directors must have guessed the types of reaction the bed scene between Violet (Tilly) and Corky (Gershon) would engender, since they chose to shoot it several times, each take a single, continuous shot. This was done as an anti-tamper measure, so that the censors would find it difficult to cut something they didn’t approve of, and the studio couldn’t up the ante by employing body doubles to create more gratuitous footage. The Wachowskis even went to the lengths of bringing Susie Bright – the noted sex writer, editor and lecturer – on board as their technical advisor, to ensure that Gershon’s scenes with Tilly were more realistic than they might have been if left in the hands of the average (ignorant) red-blooded male.

It still proved controversial, the censors wanting to trim a few seconds from the main love scene. The DVD version has the full, slightly longer version. And even though one might conclude that the inclusion of Ms Bright would guarantee the satisfaction of the film’s lesbian audience, it appears there were a good many upset with the film, if for no other reason than – regardless of their skills and good intentions – the Wachowskis were still men.

But the average (ignorant) red-blooded males probably went home happy. And why shouldn’t they have? For one thing, Bound is a good noir thriller. It doesn’t top the greats of the genre, but it’s a stylishly enjoyable piece of twisting-turning cinema, competently directed and well acted.

And then there’s the femme to femme sex.

Both Gershon and Tilly are physically splendid, and the sparks generated from the moment their eyes meet across the elevator of an uptown apartment building are palpable. The scene on Corky’s rumpled bed is notably erotic. The two women are naked (and as I’ve already mentioned, both are gorgeous On a personal note, I happen to think that Ms Tilly has a most exquisite arse) and the sex we witness them enjoying is intense, if brief. Violet is busy fingering Corky to a sweaty, piano-driven climax, the camera sweeping down one side of their coupled bodies and up the other. It lingers over the tattoo that curls around Corky’s left hip, and the droplets of perspiration on her belly. The sight of Ms Tilly’s breasts pressed against Ms Gershon’s is only on screen for a second or two, but it’s likely to stay with you for much, much longer.

But although that scene proves to be the payoff to Corky and Violet’s smouldering courtship, it’s the teasing which precedes the bedroom denouement that makes this a stand-out example of cinematic erotica for me.

It’s obvious from the get-go that gangster’s moll Violet has her sights set on working woman Corky, and she wastes little time in making her move. Violet ‘drops’ her ‘favourite’ earring down the sink, then gets Corky to come and retrieve it. Wrench in hand, Corky wrestles with the U-bend, the water oozing over her fingers as she twists and turns the smooth metal becoming both an out-of-place phallic gesture, and yet a perfect precursor of what’s to come. Corky gets a beer as a reward for recovering the earring, and Violet earns herself some kudos by demonstrating that she understands the significance of the labrys tattoo on Corky’s bicep.

And the tattoo is the key to opening up the scene. Violet takes the opportunity to show off her own skin art, easing down the strap of her basque so that she can better reveal the violet tattooed against the upper slope of her left breast. “A woman in upstate New York did it for me,” she says in that breathless voice that balances on the knife edge between seduction and annoyance. “Took her all day to do it. She promised it wouldn’t hurt, but it was sore for a long time after.” Violet’s fingertips circle her tattoo, her perfectly manicured nails the exact same shade as the flower’s petals. “I couldn’t even touch it. Now I love the way it feels.”

Without waiting to be asked, Violet scoops Corky’s hand on to her breast. Corky is aroused and perplexed. “What are you doing?” she asks.

“Isn’t it obvious?” Violet replies. “I’m trying to seduce you.” And then just to prove that she really has been thinking about Corky all day, she licks the working girl’s middle finger and guides it between her stockinged thighs.

“You can’t believe what you see? But you can believe what you feel…”

It’s Violet’s fractured sighs of pleasure and her breathless begging to be kissed that really add the sensual icing to this cake. The women collapse on to the floor, kissing passionately and desperately. But just as Corky begins to slip her way down Violet’s body, the door to the apartment opens, and Violet’s live-in Goodfella, Caesar, walks in to interrupt the party.

I think it’s a great seduction scene. Actually, it’s so good, the fact that the bedroom denouement follows on so quickly is both a reward and a disappointment. There’s hardly any time for all that unfulfilled tension to resonate before the two leads are busy satisfying themselves. Maybe it’s my masochistic side that’s hurt by not being kept waiting for their naked conclusion a while longer.

The Wachowskis set something of a benchmark by getting the explicit sex out of the way in the first twenty minutes. From there on in, it’s about the twists and turns of the noir tale. And it’s hard to argue that the sex hasn’t driven the plot: their blatant desire for one another gives a believable motive for them to become embroiled in the shenanigans that follow.

And why does this one have a place in my collection? As I’ve said, I think it’s a good film. And beautiful, sensual women having sex together will probably always be a turn-on for me. The truth is, I’d love to watch and listen to my wife being seduced in just that way.

But I’ve no desire at all to share poor Caesar’s fate…

I have a confession: I’m afraid that I won’t be doing much – if any – new writing for the blog this month.

Before you decide to make me attend the Headmaster’s (or Mistress’ – I’d much prefer that option) I do have a good excuse. At least, I think it’s a good excuse. I’ve entered NaNoWriMo.

For those unfamiliar with the term, it stands for National Novel Writing Month. On November 1st 1999, twenty-one people committed themselves to write a 50000 word novel by midnight on November 30th. Six of them succeeded. It’s taken place every year since. On November 1st 2008, 119,301 people committed themselves to the same goal; 21,683 succeeded.

This year, I’ve chucked my hat in the ring too.

As the organisers say, this is about quantity, not quality. The idea is to force yourself to forgo the endless tweaking and micro-editing that normally happens. Just get the first draft out there, the crap as well as the good stuff, and then edit and revise in December.

So I’m not going to have a great deal of time for other work this month, I’m afraid. The going rate for a successful entrant is 1667 words a day. Today is day seven, and by midnight GMT, I’m supposed to have written 11667 words. At the time of writing (7.05pm GMT) I’m at 11019, so I’ve a bit of work to do yet. I won’t dally any longer then.

If you’re interested to know more about the project, pop on over to www.nanowrimo.org. And if you want to keep tabs on how I’m doing, my profile page is available to read here.

(By the way, my novel is tentatively called ‘The Sisters’ – and it’s a tale of lust, betrayal, infidelity and revenge. And yes, it will have lots of sex)

He looks up from the bar; her green eyes are on him again.

The bourbon emboldens him. “Like a drink?”

“No,” she says. “Take me home instead.”

She drives. Her house is dark, remote.

“I like solitude,” she explains.

She lights incense and candles, hands him wine, kisses him with searing passion.

“Sit.”

He obeys. Slowly, she unbuttons her black dress. She’s nude beneath; the pentacle tattooed upon her bare mound mesmerises.

“What do you want?” he whispers.

“Willing sacrifice.” She eyes the hardness at his loins. “And you’re mine”

He nods, craving her touch. He is hers. Forever.

I sit amidst the rumpled Egyptian cotton sheets, my back against the polished Marriott Hotel headboard, watching as she rolls on her black nylon stockings. Left, then right; the elegant reversal of the work I’d done so willingly little more than three hours before. There’s an ache inside me as I watch her, a hint of bitterness in my mouth, because the fact that she’s getting dressed means that our time is over for at least another week; she’s about to return to her life while I slip back into my own.

She stands up from the chair and stretches.

“Where are my shoes?” she asks absently as she walks around the foot of the bed. I’m too busy looking at her to offer any sort of constructive suggestion. The stockings accentuate her nakedness so deliciously that I’m becoming hard again, in spite of the two highly satisfying orgasms I’ve already poured into her.

“You’re no use,” she pouts after a few seconds of fruitless searching.

“Maybe you shouldn’t dress like that.”

“This is a pair of stockings. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You shouldn’t wear that body.”

She smiles, but she says nothing as she continues to scout for her stilettos.

Ignoring her nakedness and my erection is not easy, not even for a few seconds. “Try under the bed.”

She looks at me quizzically, and then her eyes gleam as she remembers how her shoes got there.

“You’re a very bad man,” she chides softly.

“I know.”

She retrieves her shoes from beneath the bed, slips them on and then walks into the bathroom. The three-inch heels raise her ass invitingly, but before I can compliment her on the view, the door closes between us. I shut my eyes and listen to the sound of water filling the wash basin. She never showers after we fuck, preferring to stand at the sink so that she can freshen her face, hands and armpits. She once told me that her husband was more likely to suspect something was amiss if she went home smelling like she’d stepped out of a shower in the last hour.

“Is that the only reason?” I’d enquired, instinctively knowing there was something more.

Her face coloured, and then she confessed in her little girl, “I want” voice that she liked to smell me on her when she went to bed after our liaisons.

“Isn’t that a little risky?”

“No. He doesn’t touch me the nights after we’re together. I won’t let him.”

I hear the toilet flush, and then the washbasin taps are turned off. I smile. She always pees under the cover of running water. There isn’t a place on her body I haven’t stroked, kissed, licked, sucked or fucked – all with her wanton complicity and sometimes earthy encouragement – and yet she refuses to allow me to hear her urinating.

I suppose some things are too intimate for strangers to share.

She walks back into the room. Miraculously, her dress lies semi-folded across the one of the two club chairs. The rest of her lingerie is still on the floor where it fell amidst the debris of my own unveiling. She picks out her bra from beneath my shirt and slips it over her arms with practiced grace. Unconsciously, she turns to face me as she reaches behind herself to refasten the clasp. The brassiere’s lace cups are almost totally diaphanous, and the russet circles of her areola are easily discernible, even in the half-light of our clandestine sanctuary.

There’s something so brazenly sexual about a woman dressed in bra, stockings and heels, and no panties. I have to fight the urge to slowly stroke my cock.

“Why are you looking so smug?” she asks, though I can see from her expression that she already knows the answer.

“I’m just enjoying the dazzling scenery.”

She shakes her head, though I can’t recall when she’s ever said ‘no’ to me. “You’re such a lecher.”

“I prefer libertine. Or rake.”

“Oh yes, much more grandiose.” She puts an expensively manicured finger to her lips as she ponders my choices. Her eyes sparkle, eureka-style. “From now on, whenever I email you I’ll call you ‘Rakish Male’.”

I laugh. “I love it. In fact, I’m going to create it as an email address when I get home.”

A shadow flits across her smile; a solitary cloud passing between us and the sun. She half-turns away and scoops up her minuscule panties. She steps into them perfunctorily, pulling them up her slender thighs with an almost unseemly haste.

I watch attentively as she draws the thin waistband into shallow arcs over both hips. “You look good enough to eat,” I tell her.

She says nothing, not looking at me, staring straight ahead towards the windows as she continues to adjust her attire. A sliver of real world is visible through the gap in the floor-to-ceiling drapes; outside, the cyan shade of the mid-afternoon sky has given way to navy blue. The streetlights are on, the faces of the buildings opposite the hotel becoming defined by the squares of fluorescence they contain.

Night is almost upon us.

I try lifting the mood back to where it had been. “I thought you enjoyed my compliments.”

She shrugs as she walks to the window. She holds onto the drapes, widening the gap so that she has a wider view of the twilight cityscape.

“I love this time of day,” she says, sotto voce. “I can feel it in the air; the potential that only comes with nightfall. All the wonderful possibilities that can only exist when the darkness comes. I look out across all those brilliant points of light, and I see the opportunities waiting for me, waiting expectantly for me to choose one of them. I look out across the night and I can taste them.”

I slip from beneath the sheets. It’s late, and we should be getting ready to leave, getting ready to force our way along the damp streets, through the throngs of despairing souls that fill the pavements and platforms between us and the places we live, the brick shells to which we’ve assigned the label ‘home’. But none of that matters to me right now. Her soliloquy has found my heart, caressed my spirit. I know precisely what she means, know exactly what she’s feeling right now. I feel it every time I look out across the city when the sky is sheathed in obsidian.

I brush her hair aside from the nape of her slender neck and press my lips to her warm skin. She smells of the hotel soap, and the Chanel she knows I adore. I gather her breasts in my hands, relishing the hardness of her nipples against my palms. She arches her lithe body against mine, and I press my erection against the welcoming familiarity of her arse.

“Fuck me,” she whispers.

My first thought is to guide her back to the bed.

“No, here. Fuck me so that the world and all its possibilities can see.”

Exhibitionism has never featured in the carnal lexicon we’ve fashioned together. Quite the contrary: we’ve guarded our liaison with almost paranoid precision. We’ve had to: there’s much to lose on both sides. And so the thought of fucking her as she’s asking is both troubling and thrilling in seemingly equal measure.

The most delectable pleasures are those that come marinated in danger.

She widens her stance without needing to be asked. I don’t even consider taking her panties off. I’m too aroused, too impatient to be inside her again. I slip a hand between her thighs, cupping her sex through the thin material. It’s damp with her lust, warm with the radiance of her sex. I ease the flimsy gusset aside, then guide my cockhead towards the velvet slickness within her labia. There’s no need for teasing, no desire to draw out our pleasure. We both want the same thing, want it now.

My length glides effortlessly inside her, as though my cock were fashioned from the very imprint of her cunt.

She hangs onto the drapes, pressing her arse back to meet my thrusts. I quickly release the clasp on her brassiere, slipping my greedy hands beneath the now-loose cups, moulding her full, soft flesh to my grasp. Each time I enter her to the hilt, she gasps with blissful fulfilment; each time I withdraw to the point where the corniced ridge of my glans pulls provocatively upon her labia, her sighs of pleasure sound bitter-sweet. I fuck her with long strokes, my lips and my teeth working upon the collection of delicate nerves where her neck becomes her shoulder. I hear the curtains straining in their tracks, and half-expect them to come crashing down. And through it all, she watches my reflection in the window as I watch hers, and beyond our transparent duplicates, the night watches us both.

I’ve come twice already so I ought to last for an age this time, should have to focus to summon forth my climax. The growing waves of pleasure in my loins belie that supposition.

“You’re coming to come, aren’t you?” she gasps.

“Yes.”

“So am I. Fuck!”

She grinds herself against me.

“Hard. Fuck me hard.”

I piston into her, sinuous smoothness and control forsaken, abandoned. I drop my hands to her waist, yanking her back to meet me, and she releases her hold on the right-hand drape, cupping her sex instead so that her fingertips can feverishly work upon her clit.

“Oh fuck, yes!”

As I begin to come, myriad images flood my mind: I see myself pulling out of her, my cock jerking in my hand as my semen spurts against her anus and her buttocks and the backs of her thighs; I see her whirling around before me, dropping to her knees so that she can capture my seed in her mouth and across her breasts; I see her standing to one side, pumping my cock in her hand so that I ejaculate against the window, my semen running down the glass for all the night-time world to see.

In the end, none of these things come to pass. My cock quivers and pulses within the silken confines of her cunt, and I am grateful, privileged.

My third orgasm, and, in spite of all the pleasure and passion that proceeded it, my most intense.

I pull her tight against my body, my cock still immersed within her heat, futilely wishing that we could spin the clock’s hands backwards and have our three hours again, and yet wondering how to tell her without causing hurt or offence that time is marching forwards regardless of our desires, that we need to go, now, if we’re to safely resynchronise with our real lives.

Of course, I don’t need to remind her of anything; she has just as much to lose as I do. She eases my softening flesh from hers, kisses me tenderly on the mouth, and then walks back to the bathroom without saying a word.

The door closes, and water begins to fill the wash basin.

I use a towel to dry my loins. I’ll go for a hard run when I get home, and then I’ll shower away all the scents of our union. I’ll take her to bed with me tonight, but I’ll carry her in my mind, not on my body. I’m not as brave as she is.

I’m almost dressed by the time she emerges from the bathroom. I tie my shoes as I watch her slipping back into her dress. She does everything with such unconscious grace and femininity. It’s no wonder I find her so beguiling.

“Will you zip me up?” she asks.

“Of course.”

I draw the zip up her back, fighting the temptation to kiss her neck again.

She checks herself in the tall, thin mirror on the wall. Satisfied, she picks up her handbag and walks to the door.

“Ready?”

I nod. I gather my briefcase and the key card for the door from the desk, scan the room one last time and follow her out into the quiet corridor.

The disappointment I feel as the door clicks shut behind us is as black as the night outside.

We ride the lift down to the ground floor in silence, a respectable distance between us. It’s part of the process; disengaging from one life, reintegrating with the other. There’s no alternative, for either of us.

The hotel’s reception area is busy: businessmen and women returning from a long day of meetings and pitches; tourists fatigued from hours of sightseeing; couples embarking upon their own illicit liaisons. Some will want nothing more than the refuge of their rooms; others simply seek the opportunity for revitalisation, a precursor to venturing out once more, this time in search of the city’s nocturnal distractions.

I wish I didn’t have to go home. I wish that I could go out into the night in search of adventure, her hand clutched tightly in mine.

As hoped, no one pays us the slightest attention as we stroll across the expanse of marbled floor and slip out onto the hectic street.

We walk side-by-side to Waterloo Station, from where the Northern Line will carry her out of the city. For me, it’s the Jubilee Line, eastbound.

As we ride the escalator down into the subterranean maze, she turns and looks up at me. The height difference, exacerbated by the escalator’s steps, makes her seem achingly vulnerable.

“I want to spend a whole night with you,” she says. “Soon.”

“I know. I want that too.”

Her eyes glisten brilliantly as she scrutinises my face. “I want to find out what possibilities are waiting for us in the dark. Do you?”

“More than anything.”

Time to part. It’s much too crowded for lingering goodbyes, far too public for us to risk anything but the most casual of separations.

“Soon”, she says again, and then she turns and walks away. Within seconds, she’s gone, swallowed whole by the rest of the world.

I watch the tunnel down which she disappeared for a few more seconds, and then I turn away, heading for the moving walkway which will propel me some of the way home.

Love between couples should be outlawed. Every act of love must include a third person.

I have a great affection for ‘Emmanuelle’. It’s something of a guilty pleasure, because I’m only too aware that it’s not a great film by any stretch of the imagination. But I find it still has much to enjoy.

My affection for the film stems from a variety of places. Emmanuelle was one of the first adult paperbacks I ever thumbed through as a hormonally explosive teenager. I recall being drawn to the image of a green apple on a brilliant white cover, the fruit’s skin partially peeled back, the flesh within revealed to be the shapely curves of a woman’s derrière, with the peeled skin becoming a serpent of temptation. Ironically, I’m still to read the book from cover to cover. I remember comparatively little of the text, only that it was extremely stirring to my nascent sexuality.

That I should aspire to see the film version of the story was inevitable. There was a time when I could not conceive of anything more arousing than the classic image of Sylvia Kristel: naked, save for knee-high socks and ankle boots and a string of pearls at her throat, sitting in a high-backed chair made of wicker cane. For me, it remains a highly alluring image, a glimpse back to a time when Ms Kristel was, quite literally, the queen of sex.

When I finally watched Emmanuelle, hard core pornography was a commodity far beyond the reach of my hot and sweaty grasp. Emmanuelle was as hard as I could find. I wasn’t disappointed though. Far from it. It was a quantum leap forwards from the occasional flash of breast provided by terrestrial television. Of course, having now experienced more extreme explicit pleasures, both cinematically as well as in real life, the tale of one young French wife’s discovery and exploration of her pleasure thresholds can seem a little tame today.

I still find Emmanuelle an arousing film. That’s in part due to the charm of the waif-like Ms Kristel, whose easy, almost unconscious grace and beauty combine to create an intoxicating sensuality. Almost without trying, she perfectly captures the elegance and femininity of the young Parisian wife (a touch ironic, given that the actress is actually Dutch). The story itself is paper-thin, merely a vessel by which the director Just Jaeckin contrives to have Ms Kristel naked as often as possible. Emmanuelle is a sexually naive newly-wed. Jean, her older, more experienced and somewhat sexually jaded husband, encourages her to open herself to all of the pleasures that her body can give her, whether that be with him or a variety of other partners. According to their developing ethos, the only sin is not to experience.

And it’s in the sexual set-pieces that the rest of the film’s appeal lies. The mutual masturbation scene Emmanuelle indulges in with the equally waif-like Marie-Ange; Emmanuelle’s seduction within the stark white walls of a squash court by the older, calculating Arianne; Emmanuelle being given as a prize to the winner of a kick-boxing fight, and later making slow love to the exquisite Bee; Arianne slowly lifting her skirt, revealing her trimmed mound to Jean, goading him into taking her roughly across an antique table. I find some appeal in all of them.

Yet the scene that I find most arousing – the one that I’ve chosen to talk about here – is the fantasy that Emmanuelle enjoys whilst she and the ingénue Marie-Ange masturbate together on a tropical veranda. Emmanuelle watches as the brazen Marie-Ange pleasures herself. Inspired, she tentatively follows suit, and gradually her eyes close and she drifts away into her reverie. Suddenly, we’re in the first-class compartment of a 747 airliner. It’s a red eye flight; the lights are turned down, most of the passengers are asleep.

Except for Emmanuelle of course. She’s sat alone. Restless, she catches the eye of a handsome male passenger on the other side of the cabin. Teasing him, she allows him a glimpse of her stocking tops as she refastens her suspenders. Cloaking herself with a blanket, Emmanuelle flirts still more, making her desires ever more obvious. Eventually, the man is unable to resist any longer. He goes to her, kissing her passionately, unbuttoning her bright red blouse to reveal her naked breasts. He strokes one with his fingers, nuzzles the other with his lips as he reaches beneath Emmanuelle’s skirt.

Turning her back to him, she allows the stranger to ease her panties down around her stockinged thighs, and to enter her from behind. As she cries out in pleasure, the stranger covers her mouth with his hand, his wedding ring magnifying the sense of illicitness. The scene cuts away to a view of the 747 cutting its way across the evening sky. This is soft-core after all: no come shots allowed.

When the camera returns to the cabin, Emmanuelle is sat alone once again, looking almost serene in her post-orgasmic afterglow. She is not by herself for long though. A second rugged stranger, his interest and libido piqued by Emmanuelle’s first mile-high encounter, now comes to her. Without a word, he lifts her into his arms and carries her to the cramped toilet at the rear of first-class. Placing her on the edge of the sink unit, he penetrates her without dallying, his cock (apparently) sliding effortlessly into a cunt that is undoubtedly still hot and wet and aroused from Emmanuelle’s first fuck.

Is it purely fantasy, the product of her feverish imagination? Or is Emmanuelle actually recalling the flight she took from Paris to join her husband in Thailand? The answer is left to the viewer’s imagination. I personally like to think that it’s the latter.

Why should this scene continue to stir me after so many far more explicit films, after so many erotic encounters of my own? There are a number of reasons. The sexuality of Miss Kristel; the way she allows herself to be taken by not one but two virile, greedy strangers; the almost fetishistic way that her first lover lifts her skirt and draws her panties down to mid-thigh so that he can enter her; the daring of the setting, Emmanuelle taking pleasure amongst the oblivious, indolent passengers. It all connects. I’ve even watched the scene and imagined that it’s my own wife in place of Miss Kristel, surrendering to her lust, to adventure and opportunity, permitting a stranger’s cock to enter her not once, but twice, for nothing other than her own satisfaction.

More than thirty years old, and still going strong. Vive Sylvia Kristel. Vive Emmanuelle.