Arcadia Pt. 01

"Alget qui non ardet: He grows cold who does not burn." (Old proverb)

At the end of the passage a crimson velvet rope barred the entrance to a big room that was richly, indeed extravagantly decorated. It was carpeted in green and purple silk and wool, into which elaborate geometrical patterns were hand-woven with gold thread. The walls were covered with fine tapestries depicting natural landscapes and pastoral scenes, except where oak floor-to-ceiling bookshelves were crammed with leather-bound volumes, including antique texts and rare editions. The furnishings were equally ornate and luxurious -- swank settees and sofas, sumptuous armchairs and ottoman couches, large tasselled floor cushions. There were marble-topped coffee tables, mahogany side and drink tables, a snooker table and a grand piano. At one end of the room was a baroque fireplace and at the other a well-stocked bar.

There were forty or fifty people present. I knew some of them, personally and by reputation, from the university. Others had vaguely familiar faces, perhaps celebrities or VIPs. They were drinking martinis, wine and whisky, nibbling hors d'oeuvres and engaged in urbane discourse. While the men wore tuxedos, the women were naked, or at least their torsos were. Some had on silk stockings with lace garters (there were no suspender belts) with stiletto or kitten heels; others were barefoot. All the females wore choker necklaces of velvet or satin ribbon, embossed or braided leather, gold or silver, some gem-garnished, often with an amulet, pendant or miniature cameo. Jewellery was elegant and expensive. Make-up was applied not only to the face; many areolae and labia had been rouged. Some of the women adopted poses that might be called seductive, though not provocative. None appeared self-conscious, let alone coy, shy or embarrassed. Instead they displayed a blithe self-possession, even a serene pride, in their nudity.

Most of the guests were conversing in small groups. There were more exotic tableaux. Two men lounged in voluptuous club chairs sipping cognac out of enormous brandy snifters. They were using as footstools two females who were on their hands and knees facing each other, their lips united in a steady kiss. Standing at the bar were another two men, with their ladies kneeling at their feet, locked in an intimate embrace. Near the bookshelves a couple was talking and the girl, absorbed in their dialogue, was gesticulating in dramatic fashion that caused her opulent bare breasts to swing and sway. The man, in a bright blue barathea dinner jacket, did not appear to notice as he listened. A young woman was playing the piano. She was an exceptional virtuoso, whose recital was unhindered by the fact that she was sitting in the lap of a guy who was assiduously massaging her chest in harmony with her tune.

Moving about were a dozen or so serving staff. An all-female string quartet played chamber music (when the pianiste finished performing). The waiters had a uniform of black trousers, white shirt and purple satin waistcoat. The waitresses and musicians were unadorned apart from metal collars and fishnet stay-up stockings.

Richard's eyes wandered eagerly about the room; then he looked at me and smiled. Behind us, Emily had begun to undress. She handed each item of clothing to her husband, who packed them neatly into one of the baskets arranged on a shelf near the doorway. When she was fully revealed, she turned away from him. He tenderly swept aside her hair, kissed her on the neck, tickled her breasts, then fastened a choker about her throat and matching bracelets around her wrists. She sighed and fondled the silver filigree. They turned to me.

"Ready, sweetie?" Emily asked.

Before I could answer, Olivia appeared on the other side of the rope. She bent over it and beckoned me closer, to give me a welcoming hug. She was a striking, statuesque woman with a resonant, crystalline voice, who radiated a self-confident, free-spirited sexuality (which no doubt she would have exuded through a burlap sack). She wore black lace gloves and a rose-gold choker with a tiny lock on the front. On each of her nipples was a tiny ring with a pearl drop. These were not piercings but snug-fitting loops. They had a stimulating effect which kept her nipples erect to hold them in place. They were linked by a slim chain, also of rose-gold, which draped past her navel, drawing one's line of sight down her belly.

"So this is Richard," she said.

I was going to reply with a joke but thought better of it and nodded. They shook hands, and like everything about her this was done with an effortless flair. She clasped his hand with both of hers, creating a sense of intimacy, while drawing her shoulders slightly backwards, as if trying to establish distance but having the effect of accenting her already imposing façade.

As Olivia greeted Emily and Matthew, I took the opportunity to remove my skirt and blouse. While I was still feeling some trepidation, my determination to see this through to wherever it might lead was stronger than the misgivings. Richard found an empty basket and I placed my clothing in it with care, like storing delicate porcelain. My bra and panties followed as everyone now watched, Olivia and Emily with approval, the men with admiration. I am no supermodel, but I think I'm pleasing to look at, curvaceous enough with nice legs. Unlike the other women I hadn't depilated my pubes; but I'm naturally sparse down there, so just a little trimming had left me virtually hairless. Richard secured my choker about my throat. It was of exquisite lavender lace with a cabochon ruby charm.

Olivia unhitched the velvet rope. We passed across the threshold and our hostess left it to Emily to guide me around the room for introductions. Matthew did the same with Richard. The conversations were fascinating -- philosophy, science, history, art, etcetera. Normally awkward at parties, I felt cosy in this convivial, intellectual milieu, very much in my element. The fact that half the bodies (including mine) were stark naked could almost be overlooked. I was relaxed. I'd prepared myself mentally (and, I confess, physically) and I was in good company. The women seemed entirely at ease. Their physiques varied from svelte to full-figured, with a rich assortment of skin tones. Ages ranged from early twenties to late forties. Everyone was good-looking, and I savoured the flattery of being invited to join them.

The males looked me over (and I would probably have been offended if they didn't), but in most instances their eyes didn't linger. There were no furtive glances and positively no ogling or leering. So despite the somewhat surreal quality, I felt less exposed than I've been on the beach in my tiniest bikini.

I had been most apprehensive about Richard seeing me nude. We'd been friends since childhood, albeit never lovers. I regarded him practically as a little brother, and had begun to feel a twinge of disquiet over choosing him to be my escort. Of course he looked me over in a very non-brotherly fashion, but I found myself enjoying, not regretting, the attention. For now that I'd taken the plunge, I felt surprisingly upbeat, elated by my audacity.

After we had done the rounds, I attached myself to a group discussing astronomy and Emily peeled off to circulate on her own. My new friends were impressed by my credentials in astrophysics. They showed a genuine interest and informed curiosity. Like everyone else in the room they were smart, educated and inquisitive. Claire was a surgeon, her husband Jerome a lawyer. Kirsten was doing postgraduate research in biochemistry, and her boyfriend Samesh was an engineer.

Richard brought me a glass of champagne and apologized to the group for hauling me away. He took me to speak to a young woman. She was at the snooker table, playing against one man while two more waited impatiently to take her on. Even with all the other unclad females in the room, the three guys' eyes were fixed unwavering on her superbly bare derrière as she bent over the table to pot the last of her balls. Perhaps her opponent was distracted; at any rate she won easily. She graciously asked her next prospective victim to excuse her while she talked to us.

Sandy-haired Rachel was gorgeous and athletic. Her sun-bronzed body bore several lengthy scars, one of which ran down her front and another along the inside of her right thigh, both ending perilously close to her groin. Although she evidently spent a lot of time on the beach, her skin showed no tan-lines. She was, as she described herself, a surfer chick. Her self-deprecation and healed wounds tempted me to say "But not a very good one." Of course I didn't, and Richard announced that she was a national champion. I felt bad that I hadn't recognized her name, especially with what came next. She and I had attended the same high school. I was two years ahead of her and apparently something of a legend.

Me a legend? Surely only as queen of the nerds. But it was on account of my work as president of the student council. It's a long story not worth telling.

Rachel had the poise and savvy of a young woman accustomed to being the object of fantasy but without hauteur and with nothing to prove. So I was startled when she was joined by a fellow who, although good-looking, gave off a distinctly creepy vibe. His manner was suave in an annoying way that was hard to get a fix on. But then he slithered his arms around her hips and pulled her in close to him, and I saw that he was groping her backside. She winced a few times but didn't resist. I had a hard time picturing them as girl-and boyfriend so perhaps he was, like Richard, her escort, but one who assumed ownership. Unquestionably the redoubtable Rachel could have decked him on the spot if his hand went too far or too deep.

This was the only display of outright physical dalliance in the room that I saw, at least from the males. However, there was flirting and I wasn't exempted.

I moved away and was immediately captured by a colleague from my physics faculty, and his wife. Jonathan is a few years older than me but I was technically his superior -- not his boss but having seniority. I cringed when I saw them. They were pleasant enough, but he was known around the department for being garrulous and tactless. Sure enough, the next words out of his mouth after "Hello, Penelope" were:

"Last time we saw each other you were wearing a lot more."

Jessica punched him in the arm. "So was I, dear."

"Of course, my love."

Jessica was equally uninhibited. She was glamorous (in contrast to her nondescript husband), a platinum blonde built like a showgirl. She gestured towards Richard, who was now standing near the bar with two pretty girls.

"Your boyfriend is very handsome."

"He's not my boyfriend. He's..."

"Fiancé?"

I shook my head, and again when her lips started to form the word "husband."

"So he's your plus-one?"

"Something like that." I hate clichéd labels. What's wrong with just "friend"?

We exchanged trivialities for a while. I had already noticed that no one spoke directly about the one-sided nudity, except for brief banalities like Jonathan's. They weren't avoiding the subject, but acted like it was nearly normal. And I didn't mind that I was one of the few women who showed the obvious sign of arousal, betrayed by my erect nipples. The others were used to their déshabillé state. (Irrationally, however, I resented Richard, who had trousers to conceal his stimulation.) But with Jonathan I felt unease for the first time since stripping. While I could take most of the scrutiny of my body as a compliment, throughout our chitchat Jonathan was examining me with a nonchalance that was disconcerting. I could almost feel his gaze crawling casually over my curves and into my crevices. And to my dismay I found myself responding instinctively, drawing back my shoulders and puffing out my chest.

(Everyone knows the adage that originated with Mel Brooks: "When you got it, flaunt it." But there's a lesser known antithesis: "If you have to flaunt it, you haven't got it." I'm torn between the two schools of thought.)

Olivia soon rescued me. Very perceptive, she'd been scanning the room and recognized my discomfort. "Don't worry," she whispered as she steered me to safety. "They're good people. What happens here stays here."

I wasn't really worried about Jonathan actually saying anything outside the club. After all, he had never let slip any hint of its existence. But evocative looks, lingering stares and subtle changes of demeanour can send a message just as loudly and clearly. Around the physics department I had a reputation for being acerbic, assertive and demanding (though never, I hope, mean or capricious). A "pocket-sized harridan" someone once called me. I wondered what my status would become if the world knew how I'd spent my Saturday night. But I guess that was an inevitable part of the adventure to which I'd committed myself. With adventure comes risk.

Around one hour into the evening I noticed that Emily had gone missing. There was an open doorway at the back of the room, with a heavy purple velvet curtain that was drawn aside. To sate my curiosity I took a peek, into a smaller chamber. It was decorated and furnished in the same lavish style as the main one, with beds as well as couches and cushions. There were several couples and a threesome, in various intimate unions. I could not help staring at the trio. A woman was on her stomach bent over a footstool. One of the two males was thrusting into her. He was naked below the waist but still wearing his tuxedo jacket. Her body was jerking and her fists were clenched around the stubby legs of the stool. Her mouth was stuffed with a large red ball-gag that bulged past her lips. Saliva dribbled out around its edges and dripped onto the floor. She raised her head; and her eyes, blinking away the perspiration rolling down her face, met mine. It was Emily. The other man was watching and awaiting his turn, with trousers unzipped. Neither of the men was Matthew.

After that it became obvious to me that every so often one of the men would go up to one of the women. This was never the partner with whom he'd arrived. If she was engaged in conversation he would wait for a break or, sometimes, politely interrupt. They would exchange words, and if she assented they would take their leave. He would affix a slim gold chain to her choker and lead her to the smaller room. In some cases, not all, her eyes were covered with a blindfold. Nobody else paid attention, or if they did they glanced fleetingly at them and might murmur something. Indeed, it was a genteel ritual... at least until they entered the sex chamber.

There was the occasional threesome, usually a man and two women, sometimes vice versa. In fact, I was nearby when Claire and Jerome were approached by a young man with flame-red hair named Tyson. He had two girls on tethers, both blindfolded. They were the couple who had been cuddling earlier beside the bar. He traded words with Jerome and handed over one of the leads. He called for a waitress who carried a tray with chains and blindfolds. He then spoke to Claire, tendering a leash and blindfold, which she accepted. He was fresh-faced, at least ten years her junior. She showed not much more emotion than the two males, who could have been swapping gardening tools or comic books. She joined the other woman to be led away, followed by Jerome with the third. And when they later emerged, all five went back to where they'd left off, as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

Every woman, apart from myself for now, were conveyed to the room at least once. I never saw a tryst of more than three, so I guessed that this was the allowed limit. Few women went to the chamber more than three times. (Those who were called upon just once or twice appeared neither relieved nor offended.) It was simple decorum that no woman be overburdened with the number of men claiming her. As well, a decent interval of thirty minutes or more was normally observed between trips. However, there must have been another discreet code of sorts, because I also never saw anyone decline the offer of a leash. Also, unless there were secret signals being sent, or pre-arrangements made, a woman did not select the man, or men, she had sex with. Certainly some were pleased to be chosen by a particular individual; but Claire showed no reluctance in accompanying Tyson, nor did any other appear unwilling. Yet few of the couplings appeared, from my vantage point, to have been predetermined. Furthermore, no man objected to his wife or girlfriend being co-opted by another; and no woman objected to her man going off with another. (I hadn't been briefed before on any of this except in the most general terms; but nothing I witnessed was giving me cold feet.)

Even the wait staff got in the act, but only with each other; and whenever the quartet took a break from playing, each of the four waiters claimed one of the musicians.

Richard gave me a meaningful look. I replied with a subtle nod and he went up to Rachel. That she was available didn't surprise me. Her indulgent smile indicated that she'd expected him to pick her. Such sublime self-assurance demonstrated strength and confidence in her own desirability. But she was one of the more popular women in the room; so there must have been some further etiquette amongst the males to prevent competing claims. It then made sense that newbie Richard was granted first access to the females of his choice. Again this must have been pre-arranged, and I feel aggrieved, slightly, that he and not I had been made privy to these protocols.

Richard applied Rachel's tether and a blindfold; but then a waitress handed him a silk rope. Rachel had already put her hands behind her back, so he tied her wrists. She was the only woman I'd seen restrained this way, so I assumed this was part of Richards' initiation. As he took her to the room he flashed me a sheepish (and grateful) grin. Everyone else carefully ignored them. When they returned her hands were still bound. I couldn't tell -- and didn't ask -- if she had been untied for their time on the bed (or the cushion, or the stool, or the carpet). He freed her from the rope and leash, and they said some quiet words. Like all of these brief encounters, theirs was courteous and respectful, almost but not quite affectionate. Rachel merged with a crowd standing around the musical quartet; but after a while one of the three men with whom she'd been playing snooker went up to claim her. They had all lost in their matches against her, so I guess this one had lost the least. Without hesitation she followed him.

While the sex chamber was rarely unoccupied, Richard satisfied himself with Rachel and afterwards Olivia. The latter was among the few females who went to the chamber more than three times. I don't know how often it was; but my impression was that most of the males and (maybe all) had their time with her. I admired her stamina. But I don't think the men saw Olivia as a prize or a trophy. My impression was that it was she who was in the saddle, so to speak. And each time she was led off I studied her husband's face expecting a reaction. There was none... except that he always looked away.

My turn to be initiated came after maybe two hours. The entire crowd gathered in a large circle around me, the men standing, the women kneeling or sitting on the floor. My induction was a dance, done solo. Although I'd practised, I still had to improvise because I had no idea what music I'd be working with. The string ensemble played a tune I didn't recognize, something with a tantric flavour. I was pleased with my effort. It was at first intimidating to perform in front of an audience. But doing so nude actually made it easier. I had already exhausted my reserves of shyness; and being au naturel meant I didn't have to stretch to project sexuality. I moved my body intuitively to the rhythm. The effect was (for me) awesome, arousing, orgasmic. Encircled by people watching silently and intently, I closed my eyes, shut out my surroundings and immersed myself completely in the movements -- slow, sultry, slinky, sensual. I swirled my hair, swayed my hips, rippled my belly, pendulated my breasts.