The world is always at a distance, and what happens out there can often seem like a strange performance through a plate of glass, less real than the thoughts that fire through our minds. Separation is the modern condition, and I find that it’s only in sex that the world and my mind collapse into one another and become unified.

This week, as Mr. X, I had read my wife’s sexy e-mail about her striptease adventure in the lingerie shop before I, as her husband, was introduced to the lingerie. It was the first time that I knew her response to an experiment before I experienced the “results” of the experiment. I had a vivid image in my mind of her wearing her new black silk bodysuit…and then one evening as I lay reading on the couch, she appeared in the same bodysuit, stepping into my mind’s image as neatly as she had described slipping into the suit itself. She stalked into the room like a cat, a sleek feline vision in lace. I put my book aside and studied her even more closely than the shopgirl had.

“Turn around and let me see it from behind,” I said. She obeyed, not the pirouetting girl from her e-mail, but a woman with a finely tuned body who knew how to move and needed to get fucked. I stood from the couch and moved up close to her until my hands could lightly cup the firm, smooth, naked globes of her rear. “It’s not fair that I should be the only one to see you this way,” I whispered into her ear, my lips, my teeth, poised at her neck. “Then show me to whoever you like,” she said simply, and I impulsively pressed the length of a finger down the thin strip of lace between her buttocks, edging it further out of view as she sighed. My finger stopped at the dimple of her anus, and she groaned. I pressed her there, insistently, ravenously, and the world became my mind, and my mind the world, as she hissed: “Fuck me everywhere.”

I was violent that night. She was prey in her second skin. I wanted her in the skin of lace, and I wanted to fuck her that way. I pressed her down hard into the swirling pattern of the carpet, and with her lips parted slightly to take absolutely anything in, she looked like an expressionist painting – beautiful swirling whores on gusty Berlin streets. I grabbed the lace across her pussy and pulled it aside, dipping my face down into her roiling swamp like a thirsty beast. I didn’t care about the damned lace. I would have destroyed the world for a taste of her dusky ooze, and for the promise of dipping my cock deep into her slick everything. She was a force of nature, and I could not see how I could ever be a jealous man. Everyone alive should have the pleasure of tasting there.

Teasing, teasing, my fingers plucking at her nipples through the lace. All the while I had an image of a shopgirl with enormous breasts and wild curves before me. My pants were off, and my cock was heaving towards her. My wife’s erotic adventure had become my sexual fantasy, and my fantasy coursed through me like blood to the tip of my cock, which I plunged into my wife, into the shopgirl, into the world. All was one. We were one. My wife was on her knees now as I pressed deeper and deeper, through reality, into fantasy and back again. She shrieked like a banshee, looking off wildly into the night, and I wondered if she was seeing a mirror in which she was being watched in her stretched lace, casting back sexual desire on the woman who had first studied her new lingerie in a mirror.

Then I completely lost myself. We raped each other in every position, but I can only speculate about what actually happened. We were gone, gone, until everything rushed together in one last collision, and I reared up like a startled stallion to trace a mad milky pattern across the black lace, a web of my own to get lost in again. I’m lost, I’m happy, the world is mine.

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