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By Florence Dugas

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Nearly all of them had come too fast for me to net Into the groove: not a single real orgasm in a whole day'fi Ol'gy. Hilt what I had was almost better than an orgasm: I quickly climbed to a sort of plateau of pleasure, and each new sensation kept me there. It was intense enough to make me forget my rilled vaginal walls, irritated by so many successive coining "i»d goings, my throbbing elbows, my nearly bleeding kneeN, A stroke of luck, no doubt—none of thctic anonymous strangers off the street gave me any diseases.

The whip revolted me. My whole body rebelled against the blows, yet seemed to ask for more, as if to punish me for an ancient rebellion of uncertain origin. Nathalie, however, seemed to grow more perfect under the whip, as a river stone will be slowly polished until it arrives at its definitive form—a pure oval, a grain of sand, nothingness. Her torn flesh would bleed, and she would keep that half-smile, completely interior, that fourteenth-century Italian painters tacked on the faces of their martyred saints.

One after the other, the guys in the group turned their heads and whispered to each other, full of excitement. Finally the guide stopped talking and stared at us. Nathalie played her orgasm as if she were a piano beneath my fingers. The cameras went off in a noisy chorus. I felt her ass contract around my thumb; she leaned her face towards me, hungry for my mouth. I kissed her. Her lips were as cold as the air, her tongue a ball of wet fire. A new burst of clicks. Then everything returned to normal.

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