Madame B - Ecstasy

David held out his hand. I took it, stepped out of my now unnecessary dress, and let him lead me by the hand. He got to his knees, opened his arms, and pulled me down on to the canvas. He moved as gently as though he were tucking me into a feather bed. "Don't do anything you don't want to," he said, as I felt warm paint tickle my back. "I won't leave your side the whole time."

I closed my eyes and let it happen. Lips that I recognized as David's were pressed against my own parted mouth. I let him slip his tongue, familiar but thrilling, into my mouth and kiss me deeply. With his body against my side, he slid his hand between my legs. Another pair of lips, so soft and smooth that they had to be female, wrapped themselves around my nipple. Two soft, large breasts resting on my stomach told me that this must be Rosario. I opened my eyes to see the corkscrew curls of her hair trailing over my breasts and shoulders, tickling the thin receptive skin there. She was soft, gentle, and sensitive, kissing, sucking, and licking my breast in a way that encouraged gentle lapping waves of desire quite different from the roaring fires of lust David usually kindled in me but equally delicious.

Meanwhile David went to work between my legs. He slid two, three, then four fingers in and out of me. He knew my body's responses better than I did. Within seconds my whole frame jackknifed, a sure sign that an overpowering climax would not be far away.

I turned my head to one side and watched the group of bodies that was writhing only an arm's length away. They were so close I could smell their individual juices, natural fragrances mingling with scented oils, shampoos, and perfumes. The sights, sounds, and smells were enough to turn me on. A hand reached out and pulled Rosario away from me, and she disappeared into the throng. I lay beside David transfixed by the performance in front of us.

One by one, each member of The Collective hit his or her climax, their moans of satisfaction producing a continuous hum that echoed throughout the apartment. Rosario was the last one to reach orgasm, thanks to Louis, who was able to get her off with his tongue. Sated, The Collective lay in a tangled heap for just long enough to get their breath back before they all leaped up and headed for David's bijou bathroom, giggling as they went.

David helped me to my feet. The canvas lay before me, a glorious, flaming mess of blazing colors like a giant bonfire.

"It's beautiful," I said, and it was.

"It's not quite finished yet," said David. He got up, his lean body streaked with flame-colored marbling, and fetched a final tin of paint. "This is for you. I've saved this for you. For us," and he poured bright, glittering gold liquid all over my ass and back. I gasped as the cold liquid chilled my skin. With David watching me, cock in hand, I lay down on the canvas sending splashes of metallic pigment everywhere. The sight of his erection-the only part of his body not covered in paint-made me want him inside me.

I knelt on all fours and raised my ass. He was inside me immediately, his dick hotter and harder than I'd ever felt it before. I squeezed my legs together and rocked my way to an orgasm that ripped through me like lightning. David came at the same time, his balls slapping against my thighs and ass as his orgasm jolted his whole body. We let our come drip down my legs and fleck the paint below. Only we would ever know it was there.

In the bathroom the rest of The Collective, glowing and exhausted by their experience, were cleaning themselves off. Katya and Rosario were washing each other down in the old-fashioned roll-top bath. Although the tub had not been built to accommodate four people, they made room for me and David. We stepped in and got under the hot jet of water from the showerhead in Katya's hand. Rosario shampooed the paint from my hair and gently, tenderly rinsed the bright oil colors and semen from my pounded pussy. David let her soap between his ass and under his dick and lather up his balls. He didn't take his eyes off me the whole time. There was no room for jealousy here. Rosario might have David's dick in her hand, but I had his heart and his mind.

When we'd scrubbed ourselves clean, David and I wrapped ourselves in towels and settled in on the window seat where we'd shared our first kiss. The guys and gals of The Collective curled up in pairs and threesomes on the sofa, where they idly and affectionately stroked each other's hair. The masterpiece was now complete. The gold paint had brought the whole thing to life, so that it seemed to flicker and glow like a giant fireball. My metallic handprints and the impression from our knees where David had taken me from behind danced and caught the light like sparks.

"I'll call it 'Dancer's Inferno,' " he said. "You were amazing tonight. It is my privilege to take you on this journey." He bit lightly on my ear, igniting a fresh shiver of desire. "And Charlie-girl? I promise you, the best is yet to come." I smiled, stretched my body, and purred like a cat, thinking of all of tomorrow's parties.

This taboo-busting confession came from an innocent-looking blonde in her late twenties. It's all the more erotic for the contrast between her demure appearance and her depraved behavior. But her story proves that when you push boundaries, a sexual experience you imagined to be off-limits can be just the adventure you were looking for. Not for the faint-hearted. Greg had been part of my crowd for years. There were twelve of us. We'd been at college together and gone from a tribe of scruffy teenagers staying awake for whole weekends to successful twenty-somethings who'd regularly take over the leather sofas in the pub on Sunday afternoons. In the ten years we'd hung out, through jobs, through college, Greg had always been there in the background. Always there, but no one really knew him. He didn't say much, but then boys as attractive as he didn't have to. He looked like a dark David Beckham, his chestnut brown hair that he restyled every week, the firm est, cleanest profile you'd ever seen, and not a strand of hair on his lightly tanned body. His clothes were always immaculate.

Our male friends would dread introducing their girlfriends to Greg. Women's jaws would drop when they met him for the first time. You could see them mentally stripping him, knowing that underneath his smart, expensive clothes there was a classically sculpted body, lean torso, and perfect six-pack abs. On first sight, he was breathtaking, but after a while, you'd become accustomed to Greg and his charmed looks. And a little while after that, you'd begin to find him boring. All the sexy jawlines in the world don't count for much if there's no conversation. The truth was, that although most of us had experimented with one another-from college bed-hopping to one-night stands in our new London life-Greg had never really been involved with any of us. The few girlfriends he'd had were, of course, beautiful, but had tended not to stick around for more than two or three dates. When we did speculate about Greg's sexuality-which wasn't that often to be honest because, looks aside, he was unremarkable-we just assumed he was gay and waiting for the right moment to come out of the closet.

One night I came to realize that Greg was anything but gay. It was a Saturday night, at a new bar in our corner of North London. It was Sheila's thirtieth birthday, and, instead of the usual casual pub routine, we all made an effort and dressed up to hoist plenty of cocktails somewhere fabulous. It was a balmy July evening during the hottest summer of our young lives, and we all wore as little clothing as was decent. I'd had a long, luxurious shower, shaved my legs, and rubbed scented body oil into my skin. By the time I dressed I was so hot and sticky, I needed another shower. It was that kind of summer.