The man spoke again, a quiet command. He turned on to his back and the woman swiftly mounted him, using her hand to guide his penis inside her again. The change of position was executed with such smooth economy it brought a murmur of approval from the watchers in the shadows. At my side, Alan pressed his hand against my inner thigh. Even though we had both had our turn individually in the circle of light and returned fully satisfied, I widened my legs. Alan's fingers searched knowingly inside my knickers for my wetness.
The blonde was riding her partner with the same controlled certainty he had shown to her. Every calculated manoeuvre suggested two people in total sexual harmony developed over a long period of mutual exploration. Yet we knew this was not the case. The man and the woman - who called themselves Roland and Martine, although almost certainly those were not their names - had arrived with different partners who were now among the onlookers. As was the custom with La Douzaine, Roland and the woman had been paired by a drawing of lots. Sometimes the result could be disappointing. In this instance, there had a been an instinctive sexual chemistry from the moment she had opened her legs to invite the attention of his tongue.
Now one could sense that both were ready for the culminating moment. The man said something inaudible to the rest of us. The woman slid from him, arranged herself on her back with legs spread wide. He knelt between her thighs, hooked his arms behind her knees and fed his penis into her inner depths.
"Comme ça?" he asked.
"C'est ça. Mais plus fort."
When he set to work - more forcibly, as she had asked - it was clear that the encounter could not last much longer. The slap of driving flesh on flesh was accompanied each time by a small moan of pleasure from the woman. She gripped his forearms as though to pull him deeper and deeper inside. Every woman in the room understood that Martine had reached the point at which her mind surrendered control of her body, greedily giving way to the rising surge of sexual adrenalin that would allow no further checks until the crest was surmounted. The moment arrived with a heaving pelvic spasm, a long exhalation of breath and then she was clinging to Roland while he, too, savoured every pulsing thrust that brought about his ejaculation. The deep murmur from our fellow watchers, connoisseurs among them, was one of profound approval. It was over and it had been good, not just for Roland and Martine but also for ten pairs of eyes and ten heated minds in the shadows.
While we dressed - I needed to change my knickers - the gathering relocated normality, but not before the evening's events had been calmly discussed. Alan remarked later that one could easily imagine similar conversations taking place after a private view at a gallery exhibiting a group of new artists.
Back at our rented villa on the edge of Vence, we congratulated ourselves on having had the good fortune to be invited. True, the partner Alan drew had been somewhat passive but she had encouraged him to explore all avenues, while I had been serviced by a grey-haired man of modest endowment but courteous consideration for my pleasure. And in bed later, the memory of Roland and Martine's virtuoso display spurred us to renewed endeavours of our own.
Although this was the third time we had holidayed at Vence, it was the first time we had been given an August invitation. Because Paris was deserted for the month, the August meeting of La Douzaine was always held in the seclusion of the hills above Nice. In a few weeks we would return to the capital and hope for a summons when the September gathering was held at La Douzaine's usual venue, a chateau some seventy kilometres south-east of Paris. But one never knew.
Our involvement in the more rarefied circles of French coquinerie came about by a series of happy chances that began with the unexpected success of Alan's fourth novel. A lengthy tenancy of the best seller charts led to several reprints and, thrillingly, a bidding war for the film rights. It happened, too, that Alan's contract with his publisher was due for renewal and interest from competitors escalated that deal into figures we had never dreamed of. Within a year, no longer needing to be the breadwinner while Alan wrote, I had resigned from my job as an account manager for an international advertising agency and we had moved to Paris. The franc, and then the Euro, seemed to offer better value than the pound, and we liked French cuisine.
We were also keen to discover what sex à la français could offer us. We had dabbled occasionally in the English scene but had found it overpopulated with tattooed lorry drivers. I enjoy being taken firmly occasionally but enough is enough. In Paris we had a few tentative, and mostly enjoyable, encounters arranged through the internet but found the business of e-mails and text messages tedious. We also tried the clubs - Au 10 bis, Les Chandelles, Le Bouche à L'Oreille among others - but that was a hit-and-miss process. There were good nights and bad nights and no way of predicting what might transpire.
Then La Douzaine found us. We never discovered how but we surmised that we had been recommended by one of the couples we had swung with, or more probably that La Douzaine had scouts at the clubs. However it came about, one day Alan took a phone call asking if he knew of La Douzaine. When he said he didn't, the rules were outlined and he was asked if we would participate. Alan asked for time to consult me but that was refused. An instant response was required or the invitation would be withdrawn. His writer's curiosity as well as his sexual urge led him to accept. To be honest, i was as intrigued as he was, so we went. And have been going ever since, when invited. Which is not often.
The Dozen does not, as might be inferred from its name, consist of twelve members. It meets monthly - that is, twelve times a year - on the twelfth day of the month. Each meeting is limited to twelve people: the founders, who call themselves Pierre and Pierrette, and five invited couples, chosen from what we have come to believe is a large pool of members.
On arrival the couples announce the names they have chosen for the evening. They are written on slips of paper, the men's slips are placed in one bowl, the women's in another, and the draw is made. At the same time, a number is drawn from a third bowl to determine the order in which each couple will perform. It is an occasion for voyeurs as well as hedonists. If an arriving couple are drawn together, they must accept that outcome. There is a strict rule that after performing, a couple shall return to the shadows. There is no group activity except at the December meeting when an interesting variation prevails. After the first couple have performed, they are joined by the second. In time, the quartet is augmented by another couple, and so on until La Douzaine are entangled in any and every combination desirable. The demands on the stamina of the early participants can be imagined. Or so we believed. A December invitation had never come our way.
****************
After the session near Nice, we waited in vain through September, October and November. There were consolations: visits to Le Bouche á l'Oreille and similar unbridled establishments; and there was a visit by Fritz and Sophie. Fritz is Alan's publisher, Sophie was his PA and now is his live-in partner.
Although writing is a solitary occupation there are many literary lunches, cocktail parties, university seminars and the like where gossip transmits freely. On this grapevine it was common knowledge that Fritz and Sophie were not averse to enjoying the pleasure of like-minded couples. Fearing that business and pleasure might not mix, we had carefully avoided their circle - until they turned up in Paris en route for some publishers' get-together in Budapest.
Our invitation for them to stay with us was politely declined: Fritz was quite open about wanting to stay in Paris because they both wanted to be, as he put it, "nearer the action." Instead we met for lunch at Taillevent (Fritz insisted on three Michelin rosettes and, as he was paying, we didn't object). The wine matched the food and, as the afternoon wore on, the conversation became more uninhibited. Fritz was in Paris to negotiate the English translation rights to the current sensation of the French bookshops, Nue dans la Rue: La Vie Exhib. Needless to say, its literary content was second to its subject matter.
It emerged that exhibitionism had no more enthusiastic advocate than Sophie, as she proceeded to demonstrate. After ensuring that she had her back to the other diners - few remained, in any case - she eased her chair back, pushed her skirt up to the top of her thighs and opened her legs, moving her knickers to one side to display shaved labia. Fritz smiled approvingly. I looked at Alan and could tell that he was aroused. For a woman I guessed to be in her mid-thirties Sophie was in the kind of shape that makes other women self-conscious. Moreover, the knickers were black and Alan's relationship with black underwear borders on the obsessive so his response was predictable. A little more surprisingly, I found that I, too, felt a tingle of desire. An aura of sexual availability, indefinable but unmistakable, emanated from Sophie, and I was succumbing to its influence.
Fritz gestured for Sophie to make herself more respectable while he called for the bill. Having signed the chit, he said, "Well, you two - you didn't seem offended. Are you up for more?"
"In what way?" asked Alan.
"Sophie has a particular fantasy that I've promised to fulfil; it needs two observers."
"And?"
"Come to the opera with us tomorrow night."
A new production of Berlioz' "Les Troyens" had recently opened at the Opéra to huge critical and public acclaim. Alan looked at me and raised an eyebrow. Already hooked, there was no way I could have refused. I said, "I thought all the performances were sold out."
Fritz smiled. "It helps to have contacts."
So it was agreed.
Driving home, we speculated about the possible nature of Sophie's fantasy without coming to any real conclusion. I asked Alan what he thought of her.
"Sexy. Very sexy."
"Black knickers."
"Yes."
"Do they work for you on any woman?"
"Possibly not. But they certainly did on Sophie."
"Would you have sex with her? If the situation arose?"
"I guess so. But it doesn't seem likely, does it?"
"Who knows what Fritz has in mind after the opera."
"True. But it's very long opera."
This didn't seem to be leading anywhere so I changed the subject. "You know what I'm wearing?"
"Of course."
He almost hit the car in front when I gave him a quick flash. I knew it wouldn't be enough. We didn't get as far as the bedroom. Alan steered me to the drawing room couch, sat on the floor in front of me and said, "Let me see."
It was a familiar ritual which I happily indulged, knowing that it always brought Alan to the hardest of erections and the fiercest of needs. I stood, shed my skirt and resumed my place, legs now wide apart. I was wearing black knickers, suspender belt and stockings. Alan already had his penis in his hand when I slid my fingers inside the waist band of my knickers and down to my groin to find the wetness I knew would be there.
For a while we masturbated in silence, Alan massaging his shaft with long slow movements, eyes fastened on my own careful stroking of a distended, slippery clitoris. I know how easily I can take myself over the edge and though I am multi-orgasmic, Alan gets special pleasure from participating in the first one.
Finally, Alan stood and began to undress.