It was not the purpose of the masqued ball to engage anonymously. Many of the guests had known each other from childhood and most would be instantly recognized by the rest of the company.

The point of the masquerade was not to be anonymous but to be given license to behave as if one was anonymous, as if the social order was entirely dissolved. At the masquerade, king and commoner became commoner and king, and this provided the opportunity for one of the most devastating put downs of the 18th century.

Elizabeth Chudleigh's costume was shocking enough, as "Iphigenia ready for the sacrifice" another guest described her as being "so naked ye high Priest might easily inspect ye Entrails of ye Victim". Her breasts were bare and the rest of the costume was made of a thin gossamer that left nothing to the imagination. While Iphigenia was being prepared to give up her life, Chudleigh's costume was designed to imply the surrender of something else entirely. King George II was delighted by the costume and asked if he might touch one of her exposed breasts. "Your Majesty, I can put it on a far softer place," came the reply and when he eagerly consented, she put his hand on his head.

In an age before the train, the telegraph or what we would now consider journalism, the upper classes were free to indulge in the sexual pleasures of their choice in the privacy of their private estates. The masquerade provided a form of implausible deniability for guests and host alike.

At gatherings intended for more carnal pursuits, prostitutes would often be engaged so as to provide the high-born ladies with an alibi. According to a (convenient) medical theory of the day, the sight of persons engaged in copulation could provide a cure for infertility energizing the reproductive organs of sire and dam alike.

"Did it work?" I asked the screen facetiously.

The video narrator ignored me of course but a male voice from the back of the theatre answered me, "about half the time".

A slender youth dressed in chainmail carrying a shield had entered the tent while I was watching. Evidently one of the medieval 'reenactors'.

I should have apologized for the interruption or introduced myself or something. Instead I asked how they could know it worked half the time. Did they keep records?

The reenactor slumped into a chair, "please don't tell 'em I'm here miss, this stuff isn't real but it weighs the same and the longer you wear it the 'eavier it gets."

I nodded conspiratorially.

"Just five minutes to catch my breath." the reenactor continued, his accent had shifted from cockney to his earlier clipped, received tone.

For no apparent reason, the narrator on the screen was no longer in the library talking about masqued balls and was in the dairy demonstrating how butter was made. He had also lost twenty pounds and his receding hairline was suddenly fully thatched.

"I was just getting interested!" I complained.

"It's a matter of logical deduction." the youth continued.

"Balls to butter is logical?" I asked, confused.

"No, the success rate. In those days infertility was invariably blamed on the woman, which was perhaps no bad thing when at least half the time it was the male equipment that was faulty, so to speak."

The youth paused as if his argument was complete, but my blank stare told him he had lost his audience.

"If they attended enough parties, the fertile women with infertile husbands could get pregnant by the other men. The infertile women didn't get pregnant but at least they had a good time. Hence the treatment succeeded in its stated objectives half the time and provided satisfied customers every time."

Just as I was praising him for his unexpectedly logical explanation and trying to work out how to ask him for an email address without appearing too forward, a call on the Public-Address system suddenly brought him to his feet.

"I'm curious to see the rest of the video, do they sell it in the gift shop perhaps?" I asked hastily. Good grief girl, why didn't you ask for his name?

The youth shook his head with a wry smile and pulled a card from his pocket and wrote something on the back. "If you are really interested, come as my guest. But now you must excuse me fair maiden as I have tarried too long". The cockney patois had returned, if sounding even less authentic than before.

With that he kissed me on the cheek, donned his helmet and turned to leave.

"What if the women didn't want to get pregnant?", I asked as he reached the door.

"In the manner of the Bulgars", the youth exclaimed and was gone.

The card carried a Web address of an elegant but uninformative Website. The greeting page consisted of an artfully photographed Venetian masquerade mask on a black background. The youth had invited me to a real-life masquerade ball! But obviously a rather secretive one as there was no other information at all, not even a box to enter the activation code printed on the card.

After puzzling at the blank screen for some time, I suddenly remembered a summer camp class on Web design. Saving the page to a file and viewing it in the HTML editor revealed a hidden form with black ink on a black background and a black border! Was it meant to be some sort of test or would the good-looking youth have explained this to me if there had been more time?

If it was a test, passing it had not provided any more information. Not even the date or location of the event. No more information would be provided until the organizers had received at least two recent photographs, one of which must be nude and a signed NDA

For me, this was a red rag to a bull. The closer they held their secrets, the more I wanted to know what they were. Though it didn't take much imagination to realize what sort of an event it was from the clues I had been given.

My Google-fu has always been good. I used to say that finding information online was easier than study until someone pointed out that these days, that is precisely what studying is. Using the site name and other clues on the site turned up a handful of mentions which were positive but uninformative.

I set the matter aside, it was purely idle curiosity after all. I had no interest in attending an orgy of any sort, even as a spectator. I had a boyfriend, we had been together almost three years and were talking about marriage and what would the neighbors, friends in church think if they knew.

And then all of a sudden, I didn't, and we weren't.

It was not the fact of but the manner of the breakup that was so insulting. He had been a manipulative rat-bastard weasel from the start. It was the pre-emptive show: He preemptively accused me of cheating knowing I was about to discover he was cheating himself.

At some point during an alcohol and rage filled weekend, a series of very explicit nude photographs were taken and sent to the site. I was drunk when I took them sure, but I was stone cold bloody minded sober when I sent them in.

I received the NDA a few hours later. It was not a long document, but it was clearly drafted by a lawyer who knew what they were doing. I was a junior solicitor working for a firm that specialized in international trade at the time. One of the major problems in that field is how to bind a group of companies to a common set of contract terms that are enforceable without every company having to negotiate and agree a contract with every other.

The solution that is usually adopted is for a mutual society to be set up. The society then publishes a rule book which sets out the rights and obligations of the members which each member signs. This in turn allows each member to enforce transactions without the society becoming a party in the dispute.

The NDA was an agreement to keep the name of the society and the contents of the rule book confidential. With an opener like that, how could a twenty-something law nerd resist? I signed the NDA and returned it immediately.

Having finally made it to the site, a dose of cold water: A single ticket (female) cost a hundred pounds and couples cost three times the price.

A few years earlier, I would have spent the money without a second thought, an inconsequential sum in the light of my student debts. But I was at that point in life where my income had only recently come into rough balance with my expenses. A hundred pounds meant the difference between relative financial security and watching every penny to avoid falling behind on the rent. And it was not just the cost of the ticket, I would need to get there and back and to buy something to wear.

It was impossible, I just couldn't afford it.

There is nothing so irritating as an itch that cannot be scratched. Had I had the money to spend, my interest might have quickly waned as my curiosity was already satisfied: Yes there are indeed people who still do that sort of thing but it was certainly not my sort of thing. I was no vestal virgin, but I had never fucked a man I didn't love, I had always been faithful to one man at a time and I had never slept with a man till the third date. And where had all that fidelity and faithfulness got me? A series of shitty relationships with shitty men who manipulated and used me.

I began filling my Kindle with classic French erotica written in the demi-monde between the end of the Renaissance and the revolution that would soon sweep away the ancien regime. Very little of the material involved masqued balls but quite a lot became my waking dreams. These usually occurred during office meetings. One moment, my mind would be focused on the requirements for drafting a client's letter of credit, the next I would be imagining the customer stretched out naked on the conference table with myself riding his cock, our identities concealed by our diminutive velvet masks.

My reading confirmed the meaning of the youth's parting shot: The manner of the Bulgars was that of the Greeks. I had never tried anal and had no plans to start.

Another, less cerebral indulgence I developed was a series of one-night stands though that I will blame on the fact of spending the entire day after my breakup at a company training day being taught how to be a better, more effective employee by giving myself permission to succeed.

Having trained myself to say no until I could resist the urge no longer and end up in bed with a complete shit who I felt obliged to continue a 'meaningful relationship' with, I gave myself permission to fuck who I liked, when I liked and not feel guilty afterwards. You should give it a try: It is life changing. Unless of course you are a man in which case you have been doing exactly that since the first time you got your hands in a girl's knickers.

It was not very long before the waking dreams and one-night stands merged and I began to imagine myself completely naked being fucked in front of a group of strangers while I was completely naked being fucked by a stranger.

I visited the masquerade every night as I stroked myself to orgasm before going to sleep. But as the date of the real thing drew nearer, my precarious finances put it even further out of reach. An unexpected repair bill for the car, fees for a course that the firm would repay but only eventually. A hundred pounds was not a lot of money compared to my income but having abandoned chastity, I was loathe to abandon the financial discipline that was restoring my bank balance as well.

The card remained fastened to my computer monitor with a post it note. In a fit of frustration, I ripped it off and threw it on the floor. It landed with the youth's hurriedly scrawled message face up, mocking me, Bee my guest! Can't even spell it right, I thought.

Then I realized what it was: The promotional code for a complimentary ticket.

I thought I knew what to expect, good food and drink in elegant surroundings, some polite but risque conversations and flirting and maybe even observing the activities in the encounter room the NDA mentioned.

I could hardly have been more wrong.

There was no drink for a start, the beverages served were all strictly non-alcoholic. But what I really hadn't expected was that being masked would have a much greater effect on me than drink ever had.

As for the surroundings, well they had certainly been elegant once. The front door was oak, elaborately carved as was the grand staircase in the entrance hall, the only room that was brightly lit and the only one that had been recently painted. The cracked paint and peeling wallpaper in the rest of the downstairs suggested the parties were the owner's attempt to fund a long overdue backlog of repairs.

There was food, but instead of being greeted by waitstaff with silver trays of savory canapes, the first thing I encountered was the dessert table. If the message the organizers wanted to send was 'skip straight to dessert', it was one I approved of.

The dessert table was also a desert table, a train of miniature camels pulled wagons bearing trays of cakes, pastries and exotic fruits towards a chocolate fountain oasis. It could have been made for me, or rather my character: I was dressed as Cleopatra.

As I paused in front of the table trying to decide on my indulgence, a cat introduced herself and began a conversation, was this my first time? How did I find out? As she spoke, she drifted in and out of her character, a common trait in these parts it seemed.

It could have been a conversation at any cocktail party I had ever been to. But there was one big difference: I was flirting with her and she was flirting back.

Cat picked up a chocolate and held it up as if to offer it to me. And then all of a sudden, I had taken the treat, fed it to her and was tasting the bitter darkness on her tongue.

When at last we broke from my first girl/girl kiss, we looked in each other's eyes for what seemed like an eternity even if only moments had passed. We both knew where we would go if either of us said the word.

Instead of the encounter room, we went in search of the savory tables.

As we circulated, the conversations which had carried a sexual charge from the start became more explicit. What sort of men did I like? What sort of cock did I like on my men? What were my favorite positions in which to be cocked? From the safety of our masks, we answered these questions for complete strangers.

I found out rather a lot about Cat and found she was more than a lot like myself. She was a little younger than me. She was straight. I was the first girl she had kissed. She would very much like to kiss me again but would like at least one cock to be involved. This was actually the second party she had been to. The first had been smaller affair but it had given her a taste for pushing (but not crossing) her boundaries.

It was hot in the ballroom and even hotter in some of the costumes. A tiger took off his head and put it under his arm. A short while later, an elephant and a gorilla did likewise and soon people all round the room were shedding parts of their costume.

As the unravelling continued, naked flesh began to appear; arms, legs, breasts, cocks, pudenda. A small number even removed their masks. Few guests were entirely naked but even fewer remained clothed. This was as much a surprise to Cat as myself, but we decided to go with the flow.

My dress was strapless and backless with a halter top on a string fastened behind my neck. I loosened the string a little to give more slack, so the front part of the dress could run between and under my breasts. It felt good

Cat looked at me in wide eyed admiration thinking I must have planned it. Her costume was less flexible, a one-piece black velvet catsuit and a mask. With her permission, I unzipped her and eased her out of the top half of the costume then tied the arms off behind her waist to prevent it from slipping off any further. As I worked, Cat cupped one of my breasts, kissing and sucking the nipple. It felt even better.

We kissed again and our hands made free to explore each other's bodies. Cat was slim and slightly shorter than me. Her breasts were small but firm, her buttocks full and rounded, her cunt smooth and wet.

Just as we were about to strip each other naked and turn our lust into the act in front of dozens of strangers, the band came to the end of its set and the host came on stage to make an announcement. He was masked and dressed as a pirate, but I recognized the youth immediately.

His speech was mercifully short. We were thanked for coming. The people who had made this event possible were thanked and the date of the next event announced.

This was evidently the signal that the wait staff and other 'civilians' had left, and license was given for unrestricted carnality. Bodies became naked, cocks erect, cunts wet and couples began coupling. We became naked.

Flat surfaces to fuck on which had been plentiful only moments earlier were rapidly filled. As I was looking for a place to fuck, the youth recognized me. He was one of the first to have discarded his mask as well as his costume and even more gorgeous naked. He was taller than I remembered him and had the narrow waist and muscled shoulders of a swimmer.

I walked over to greet him and compliment him on his efforts.

"I finally get to see you when you are not wearing a costume." I teased.

"And I finally get to see you when you are not wearing a mask." He replied.

"It will take you a little more persuasion than that, I'm afraid."

Just then, Cat found me. I suggested a threesome, but a shake of Cat's head and a startled pirate told me I had unwittingly made a faux pas.

"Responsibilities of the host," the pirate replied, "but any wench left on the property after daybreak will be claimed by thee cap'n and taken to his cabin to be used."

"Use me any way you like!" I called after him as he left.

Cat gave me no time to ask questions. "I am going to use you right now," she said and did just that. There being no free horizontal surface, Cat went vertical, pushing me up against a wall. Before, I had led and Cat had followed. Now she was taking control. She grabbed me by the hair with one hand as the other made for my crotch to finger fuck my cunt. Almost immediately, my legs buckled and my body shook. I gave as loud a cry as I could and the orgasm washed over me like a tidal wave.

I tried to stand up straight, but the climax had left me weak kneed and giggly. Male hands lifted us onto a recently vacated chaise longue.

A circle of eager penises kept a respectful distance as I smothered Cat's breasts and belly with kisses. The ball had become a live sex show and we were the main attractions. But I was in the moment and all I could think of was getting my lips, my fingers, my tongue inside Cat's body and feel her shudder and hear her cries as she came.

Earlier, Cat had told me she had discovered the secret to pushing boundaries was to stop asking if I would like something and instead ask whether I had liked it. I had enjoyed kissing Cat, I had enjoyed the feeling of her fingers and her tongue on my breasts, my slit. I knelt between her parted legs and discovered that I liked to lick a woman to orgasm as well.

From our vantage point, all we could see of our audience was their cocks who quickly accepted our invitation to come closer to be touched, to be stroked, to be kissed. We examined each one individually. After the first half dozen or so, a huge prick, nine inches long and twice the normal girth was presented. Cat cooed with delight, "This one," she said, "I choose this one for you."

Was it to please Cat or was it because I needed to be filled that I accepted the monstrous prick. Whatever the reason, it was a good feeling. We took turns taking cocks inside us until we realized that the circle surrounding us was growing rather than diminishing and we really needed something to drink.

The pairs and trios from before now merged into a single multi-headed beast whose limbs were writhing against each other in constant motion with the refreshment table at its center. As we approached, the beast invited us to join with it in a cornucopia of sexual excess.

The radical consent clause that I had thought would only lead to mutual embarrassment on paper acted instead as a lubricant, smoothing the process of matching willing partners.

"Can I lick your cock?"

"Oh, yes please."

"May I fuck you?"

"Of course."

These conversations and many like them could be heard all around the room. Most but by no means all requests were accepted without hesitation. How much easier than dating: No need to spend time trying to persuade the reluctant when there were plenty willing.

There was only one request I refused. Cat congratulated me for knowing where my boundaries lay, then volunteered to be ass-fucked in my stead, Earlier, I had asked her to push my boundaries and she kept her promise.

Cat lay full length on top of me, covering my face with kisses and grinding her sex against mine as the man fingered her ass for what seemed like an eternity. When at last he did spread her legs and enter her, I felt the full force of his thrusts against me, almost as if his prick was passing right through Cat and into me.

By this time I had seen Cat's face as she was fucked by more partners than I could count. I knew the look in her eyes as the cock entered, the way she moaned, head tipped to one side. I knew how her body shuddered and twisted as a climax approached and the half moan, half sob she made at its peak.

This was an entirely deeper, more intense experience. As the cock slid home, Cat's eyes and mouth opened wide. Her pupils turned upwards as if they might roll back in their sockets. Her back arched and her nails dug deep into my flesh where she was clutching me. When the penis withdrew, she inhaled loudly. As the rhythm grew faster, the thrust produced gasps, then cries and finally full-throated screams.

Cat came louder than anyone I have ever heard before or since.

I woke next morning naked in a strange bed in a strange room with no-longer a stranger Cat asleep next to me. We lay there drifting in and out of sleep together for quite some time and talked and made love again to prove to ourselves that what we had done together the night before had been for ourselves and not just the men watching, until at last, hunger and the smell of frying bacon drove us in search of food.

Little of my costume had survived; the bracelets and necklace were still intact, but the mask was broken and the dress lost. As I looked at the broken mask, I remembered the comment Cat's brother had made the night before and understood its meaning: We are always wearing a mask of some sort. The ball is a place where we can exchange our usual mask of respectability for license to behave as we will.

Cat offered to lend me some of her clothes, but I wouldn't be needing them right away: I had also remembered that I given her brother a promise. I wasn't sure quite what being used any way he wanted would entail but I was pretty sure it would mean pushing my boundaries even further.

Standing there naked but for my bead necklace and brass bangles, I was no longer Cleopatra, I was a captive of a pirate captain. Soon he would be taking me to his cabin to please him or else.

He would not be disappointed.