Destined to Play, Feel, Fly Trilogy (43 page)

Some time later, Françoise arrives to collect me and we head in the opposite direction this time, once again passing friendly, polite people who are seemingly happy to be in this bizarre facility. I no longer feel the least bit conspicuous in my slinky silver outfit and have become accustomed to my surroundings remarkably quickly considering the length of time I’ve been here. This time we enter a large circular room and Françoise escorts me to a position against the wall. There are already another five silver-suited females in the room, like me being strategically positioned by their keepers, and another has entered just after me. My body is pressed firmly against the wall, my legs and arms spread apart so no part of my body is touching another. Our keepers ensure everyone is positioned the same way — close to each other but never quite making a connection. They give each other a silent nod and depart the room at the same time as the magnetic connection between our suits and the rubbery wall fastens its grip on our bodies. It seems is if this is the position we’ll be in for a while.

Our eyes automatically scan the other faces around the room to ascertain where we are at with this, how we are feeling. As we don’t know each other at all, it’s difficult to decipher. A few look anxious, one looks excited, very excited by the looks of it. Her nipples are protruding through her suit — jeez, and nothing has even happened yet. One looks bored and another one tired. But interestingly, no one speaks.

I’m not sure how my face looks to them but I feel rather bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, intrigued as to exactly what will unfold. I don’t have to wait long before two naked people enter the room, one male and one female. There’s an audible collective gasp between us, then silence as our eyes remain fixed on the centre of the room. Soothing opera music that I can’t place wafts through the speakers as the couple stands directly facing one another, completely ignoring our presence in the room. As soon as a delicate soprano voice joins the music they begin to kiss each other, slowly and cautiously at first. They touch each other’s cheeks tenderly as they embrace, gently stroking and caressing. They look like they’re in love. Their seeming passion deepens when a tenor takes over and they explore each other’s nakedness with a greater sense of desire and more deliberate use of their hands and tongues. It takes no time before his erection is pressed against her belly and her nipples harden against his taut chest. We are close enough to sense the changes in their physiology as the level of sexual intensity increases along with the drama of the voices and music. I feel as though I’m privy to an illicit viewing of an intimate erotic opera. I can’t help but glance around the room. The silver woman opposite is mirroring the breathing of the lovers she’s witnessing and it’s almost as if she’d love to morph into the scene with them. Fascinating. The one next to her is rolling her eyes and yet another seems totally distracted, her face reddened as if she’s struggling to move her hand, which she can’t, desperately straining to wriggle her body away from the wall. Another has her eyes closed and looks rather lost in the music.

My attention returns to the lovers before me as two more naked bodies enter the room. Good grief. The music stills as if something major is going to happen and the lovers look as though they have been caught a little off guard — until they welcome the new arrivals into their embrace. The tempo quickens and suddenly the limbs of two male and two female bodies intertwine — caressing and stroking and kissing each other as though they are fused as one. I’ve seen women naked before, but not like this, not charged with sexuality like the women in front of me. And I’ve certainly never looked directly at naked women, noticing every twitch, every rise and fall of their breast, every quiver of their nipple.

The music is loud and I’m sure the oxygen in the room is being replaced with pheromones. The scene unravelling before our eyes is impossible to ignore. The four bodies glisten with sweat and lust as the exploration of each other’s bodies deepens and intensifies and I can hear their cries over the music.

The air becomes heavy. I’ve never been this close to other people having sex before — it’s as if I’m watching something private, forbidden, and yet for some reason, it doesn’t seem wrong. I have never been into pornography but I imagine the presence of technology or a screen might perhaps provide some kind of filter. This is raw, real and we are witnessing it with absolutely no barriers. I can literally feel the lust vibrating within the confines of the circular room, there’s nowhere for it to escape.

One woman is moaning and sighing as if it is becoming too much for her to bear. She seems desperate for touch but she is trapped, immobile as we all are, left with no choice but to absorb the sexually-charged atmosphere. I feel the knowing fire in my lower belly and my own body’s arousal in the face of such abundant desire. Every set of nipples around the room is on high alert; even the woman with her eyes closed isn’t spared, confirming there’s more than visual stimulation causing our reaction.

The music changes again. It becomes darker, edgier, and the slippery bodies disentangle from their self-created sexual nest.

Soft black ropes are released from the ceiling. The newcomers seductively separate the original lovers and deftly weave the fabric around their arms, binding their wrists together. Arms now pinioned high above their heads, their bodies are unable to touch but their eyes remain locked. The room electrifies. The music meanders as the newcomers take a moment to acknowledge and appreciate their captives, lightly stroking their skin as if contemplating what pleasures will next take their fancy. I’m a little embarrassed that my loins and breasts are throbbing with anticipation as to what might happen, but I’m mesmerised by the scene, barely aware of the other silver-suited women wrapped around the walls. The intensity of my feelings is inexplicably linked to the bound beings at the centre of the room.

They blindfold the man and his erection immediately becomes even more rigid, leaving the bound female to watch. There is no denying she is turned on by this and I can’t deny that my arousal ramps up a notch as I feel my heart pounding faster. The male and female suck and tease him to the point of orgasm, which doesn’t take long given the previous foreplay and his body trembles and shakes. At the last second the blindfold is removed and we are left to watch the tormented face of the bound man just before he comes and he releases a euphoric groan as the woman on her knees swallows his seed in her mouth without spilling a drop, something I’ve never been able to do. She licks her lips as if she’s received a potent elixir. One day, I concede, maybe I could try it, I’ve never seen it from this perspective and it’s a powerful image…

The bound woman simultaneously throws herself back against her restraints as if she is feeling every sensation with him. They allow his limp body to recover turning their attention to the highly aroused female. She too is blinded and left to feel everything their touch incites. I can’t help but release my own whimpering moan as the memories come crashing back through my mind. Now, I’m watching as others once watched me. If I weren’t pinned to the wall my legs would have given way at this sight. My body floods with warmth and emotion that’s so intense, it’s overwhelming.

I watch as they suckle her nipples and fingers, and tongues entice her opening, lightly biting her inner thighs on the way. I am throbbing below, my own sex pulsing to the music, perfectly attuned to the bound woman’s body, to what’s before me. I was fearful of what others may have seen of me during my experience but now I’m absolutely overawed by the apparent beauty of sexual acts between consenting adults. I had no idea watching could have such an undeniable impact. I’ve never seen another woman orgasm before. Not even myself in a mirror. I’m both captivated yet quietly appalled that I can’t bring myself to turn away. I always considered it such a personal, private affair. Now, I want to see what Jeremy sees in my face, in my eyes when he takes my body to such extremes. I’m silently begging for them to remove her blindfold as they did with the man. Her moans are becoming increasingly excitable as the woman stands behind her, opening her thighs for the man; his fingers continue their play, as do his teeth on her breasts and her groans crash and bounce around the circular room. His penis is hard and fully erect and I picture him penetrating her hard and deep right now. The vision of it in my mind is so real, it takes my breath away. I can no longer distinguish between what I’m seeing and what my body wants me to feel. His fingers disappear deep into her sex, the blindfold is removed and his thumb finally ignites her orgasm. I don’t think I’ve focused on a face more in my life, as if I’m studying the mesmerising artwork of Da Vinci’s
Mona Lisa
.

It’s as though her life is suspended, breathless, still, as if some angelic force has frozen her body and mind with pleasure. The music softens, my own breathing pauses along with everyone else’s in the room, and I feel as though I’m flying with her, somehow connecting to her, until finally her breath is expelled with an intense cry, as her gratified body jolts and spasms back to life, to this reality. The music resumes with a bursting crescendo at her climax and dies off as the juice of her orgasm literally flows down her leg. Her eyes remain unfocused on the room, her body hanging limply around her. It’s only then I hear another pleasured moan and turn to see another orgasmed face the other side of the room. Absolutely extraordinary. Can that really occur? I only need to recognise my own dampness below and shortness of breath to confirm the answer to my question. I scan the room and see most sets of eyes are clouded with a lusty haze, no doubt mine included if my aching clitoris is any measure. What an experience. I feel exhausted and have done nothing except stand against a wall. None of us touched or pleasured, just watching others — the results pumped out from these suits should be truly mind blowing for Xsade.

Back in my room, I find my suitcase filled with my clothes but unfortunately still no handbag. Françoise informs me that I can relax in here for a while until my final session and that I’ll no longer be required to wear the silver suit. Happy days. She helps me out of it via some tricky fastening that was out of my reach and, although it was comfortable, I’m relieved to be free. It’s quite surreal being unable to touch the skin on your own body. She hands me a robe to cover my naked body and carefully folds the suit into a special container. I’d love to see their testing laboratory, but what I want now is a bath and sleep. I feel shattered. I can only imagine how the four performers in the room feel…or maybe they’re used to it?

I’ve been relaxing and dozing for a while when a disembodied voice interrupts and tells me to be ready with my bag packed for my final session in ten minutes. Almost there… I’m assuming my 72 hours must almost be up. I wouldn’t know, I’ve lost all concept of time since arriving here. I close my bag and attempt to wait patiently on the edge of the bed for Françoise’s last knock on the door. I have to admit I’m a little anxious about this last session and what may occur. I harden my resolve. I’ve come this far and survived unscathed. How bad could it be?

I am led to a new room, which is favourably lit with the sort of lighting that makes skin look soft and sensual, as if you’re shrouded in romantic candlelight — no doubt it is only clever artificial illusion but needless to say I’m grateful.

It is sparsely furnished except for a huge black beanbag. It looks strangely inviting. I bend down to run my fingers along its length to feel the soft velvety material. The room is decorated with elaborately draped pale purple, almost lavender, silk scarves that flow like a meandering stream around the blackened walls of the room. The effect is simple, stylish and clever. The fabric is silky soft and superfine; I can barely feel it as I slide it smoothly between my finger and thumb.

In the corner of the room I spy a small table with a glass of water and the infamous purple pill nestled at its side. In the other corner, much to my surprise, is a bottle of vintage Dom Pérignon chilling in a silver ice bucket surrounded by three crystal champagne flutes. It appears I’ll be having company.

I’m not sure whether I should open it or wait. I’ve been told that nothing will occur in this room until I have taken the purple pill. If I decide not to take it, I shall be escorted back to my room before a final ‘exit interview’ and then my contractual commitments are complete, except for the final pinprick of my blood. Then I’m free. I can’t believe how elated that makes me feel. Ecstatic, even. I reflect on the fact that after my initial concerns, I’ve been treated really well. My time here has been nothing short of fascinating and — if I’m being really honest — even tantalising. I’ve learnt so much about myself, sexuality, female libido, and the desire of drug companies to cure female sexual disorders — and, of course, make stacks of money. It’s impossible to ignore the capitalist reality of such products.

However, the idea of being so close to speaking to my children and seeing Jeremy again — wherever he is — suddenly puts me in a pre-emptive celebratory mood. So without further ado, I walk over to the ‘almost approved’ purple pill and promptly swallow it so I don’t change my mind with my usual vacillating self-talk. Done.

Making that decision has given me added confidence and ease, or perhaps I’m more comfortable wearing my own black and white dress and sensible black slip-on shoes instead of being covered from head to toe in that strange silver suit. Whatever the reason, I decide to pop open the Dom.

Immediately, some slinky, sexy eastern music begins to echo around the room as I pour myself a glass and ‘cheers’ myself for making it this far through the ‘ordeal’ — which is what I’d presumed it was going to be. They have confirmed that I don’t have female sexual arousal disorder, which is no surprise to me after the recent changes in my sex life. But I do wonder, if I had undergone similar analysis before Jeremy flamboyantly re-entered my life, would my results have been different? Would I have been the perfect recipient for this drug of theirs?