For The Secret life of Catherine M.
Stylishly written (in French) and shameless account by a top French
art curator, about her sex life in a male-led Parisian
swing/dogging party scene, where women are laid down, rather like
wine, to provide pleasure.
If I heard anyone say of me `fucking comes to her as easily 'as breathing', I would agree more than willingly because the expression could be taken literally. My first sexual experience, and many others since, took place in circumstances which could lead one to believe that oxygen has an aphrodisiac effect on me. My nudity feels more complete to me out in the open than in a closed room. When the surrounding temperature, whatever it may be, can be felt by an area of skin it doesn't normally reach, such as the small of the back, the body no longer presents an obstacle to the air, it is penetrated by it and is, therefore, more open, more receptive. When the atmosphere which embraces the vastness of the world adheres to the surface of my skin like a myriad tiny suction pads, my vulva also feels as if it has been drawn out and dilates deliciously. If a gentle wind blows across its threshold, the feeling is amplified: the labia feel bigger than eves gorged with the air brushing past them. I will speak later, and in more detail, about erogenous zones, but I can say even now that even the gentlest attention to the oft ignored area which links the anal depression to the triangle where the labia meet - that under-rated rut between the arsehole and the beginning of the cunt - is guaranteed to subjugate me, and that feeling the air against that part of my body is more intoxicating than high altitude. I like opening up my buttocks and my legs to the flow of air.
The porte de Saint-Cloud car park borders onto the boulevard périphérique and in places is separated from it only by an open-work wall. All I had on were my shoes, having slipped off my raincoat whose lining iced my skin before getting out of the car. At first, as I have said, they rammed me up against a perpendicular wall. Eric saw me `nailed by their pricks, like a butterfly'. Two men held me up under the arms and legs, while the others took it in turns hammering against my pelvis to which my whole person had been reduced. In these dicey situations, where there are many of them, men often fuck quickly and forcefully. I could feel the rugged surface of the breezeblocks digging into my shoulders and my hips. Even though it was late there was still some traffic. The thrumming of the cars, so close they seemed to brush past us, lulled me into the same torpor I feel waiting at airports. With my body both freed of all weight and curled up on itself, I retreated on myself. From time to time I would glimpse through my half-closed eyes the headlights of a car as they swept over my face. The men moved away from the wall and I felt myself simultaneously being levered up by two powerful jacks. A current fantasy, which had been nourishing my masturbation sessions for a long time, was to be taken to the dark foyer of a building by two strangers and to be impaled by both of them at the same time, like a sandwich, one in my cunt, the other up my arse, and here it found substance in an obscure atmosphere where reality and the images conjured in my mind fed off each other.