The Sex Experiment—Now In Convenient Book Form!

Fans of our True Sex Stories are quite familiar with the adventures of The Sex Experiment (and if you're not familiar yet, read up). Well, the true life adventures chronicled on the blog have inspired a work of erotic fiction, titled The Known Experiment. You can buy it on Amazon for the low, low price of just 99 cents—and we've got a special sneak peek at the story, to give you an idea of what it's all about.

"I want a dare, Mr. X," she wrote. "I don't know what I'm doing, but I want you to make me do more."

After that we began to write each other regularly. I initially proposed to her the first experiment that I had proposed to my wife on the blog: she was to go out without bra or panties and see what happened. She was to look at men – fearlessly – to find the ones she liked, and she was to pay particular attention to their reactions to her body. Would they suspect her nakedness? How much would she reveal? How far was she really willing to go? She accepted my challenge and wrote that she would get back to me with the results of the experiment as soon as possible. And so I waited, imagining a tall blonde with impossibly long legs, kissing lips, and tits meant to be studied like artwork.

In the meantime she continued her walks through the Paris night, now sans bra or panties. She'd always hated the lascivious stares of men, but she forced herself to give into their stares, and to eventually stare back. She even went out and bought – yes, bought – a few short skirts to show off her legs, which had lost their L.A. tan but were in perfect shape again from the dancing. She loved the feel of fresh air on her cunt, so close to exposure, and sometimes she had to concentrate on other things to keep from furtively touching herself right there on the sidewalk. And the feel of her bare thighs brushing ever so slightly against each other? Just that alone could almost make her come.

Her tops got more daring too. More precisely, she made her conservative buttoned shirts more daring by undoing an extra button…or two. She had cleavage, she was proud to inform me, and her tits were honestly so perky that they really didn't need a bra. She liked to undo the buttons until the firm, round tops of her breasts were revealed, and although it took her a while to find the confidence, she learned to walk with her head held high and her tits thrust out, at least at night. During the day she dressed as conservatively as ever and felt like another person. This person felt safer, but she wasn't sure she liked her as much.

One night she took a seat at a big café at Maubillon, not far from Michel's loft, and ordered a glass of white wine. She drank the wine fast and looked around for something else to do. She was wearing her shortest skirt, her ass almost out onto the wicker seat of her chair. Her legs were crossed. She uncrossed them, keeping her knees close together. She wondered what Nicolas would think of her now, and smiled. She spread her knees slightly, and watched the passersby. Men walking alone were the only ones at whom she would dare returning a stare. When they came in pairs they always seemed to feel the need to perform their lust for her to each other, which made her uncomfortable.

Now there was a man in a sports jacket and open shirt crossing towards her from the south side of the Boulevard Saint Germain. She spread her knees a little further, and with the tip of a finger she eased the skirt a half an inch up her thigh. The man's eyes had picked her out, she noticed, and then she couldn't look anymore. Was he handsome? She had no idea.

But she spread her knees further anyway, looking down at the sidewalk, her hair falling over her face. Her pussy was now exposed, she knew, and she could hardly stand it. Her heart raced wildly. She was dizzy, she needed another drink, but she was determined to hold on for a moment longer. And she did…then crossed her right leg over her left again, feeling a delicious smudge of wetness between them. Then she steeled herself yet again, to look up shyly at the man who was now passing by. He wasn't looking at her, but he had a smile on his face, as if savoring a private thought of his own. She found herself desperately wanting to know whether he'd seen her and wishing she'd held on for a moment longer. He wasn't bad looking either.

The next night, with Michel still at work as always, she casually stripped to her underwear in front of the windows of the loft. She did some stretching, trying her best to seem nonchalant and watching the lights from the offices across the street out of the corner of her eye. Her pussy was wet again. As timid as she typically was, at that moment she wanted to fuck the night. She ran off to the bedroom, giggling at her own horny absurdity, and dug out the vibrator, and came three times in succession while imagining that she'd been seen. What turned her on most that night was the thought of the image of her almost naked body in other people's brains.

The next night she danced topless, her tits bobbing as she stretched and leapt across the room, barefoot in her flesh-colored tights. She felt like a finely-tuned physical specimen, and even the soles of her feet were like erogenous zones as they slapped across the wooden planks of the floor, then across the carpet and through the air. She went en pointe and stretched her arms high in the air, feeling the satisfying pull in her shoulders as she reached up to the whole impressive length of herself, her breasts rising like sunflowers to nod up at the ceiling. And then, holding the pose, she forced herself to look out the windows at the building across the street. A few last workers moved from desk to desk under fluorescent lights, apparently too stressed by deadlines to notice nude dancers. But then, down towards the end of the block, she saw the silhouette of a man at a window. He was resting a hand on a vacuum cleaner – maybe one of the cleaning staff – and although she couldn't see his face clearly, he appeared to be looking directly at her.

She danced some more, for herself and the delirious erotic pleasure that the movements themselves gave, and she danced for the man in the window, perspiration beginning to shine on her shoulders and breasts. She danced hard until she was exhausted and flopped into an armchair, closing her eyes for a moment to savor the satisfying warmth in her muscles. Then she opened her eyes, and the man was still at the window. She quickly glanced away. So let him see me, she thought to herself with a giggle. This whole thing – these experiments – were completely ridiculous, but when was the last time she'd had so much fun?

So she stood and languidly stretched her body. She turned her back to the windows, hooked a thumb into each side of her tights, and bent slightly to peel them from her pale, toned ass. She peeled them over her strong thighs, past her knees, bending more and more, until the tights were down at her ankles and she kicked them off to stand fully and gloriously revealed in front of the window.

This was her great victory, she wrote to me. She felt as if in that act of stripping she had overcome many of the fears that had been haunting her for years. Her little performances had been stupid, she knew, and maybe dangerous too, but they had been so…fucking…exhilarating. I wrote back excitedly, telling her that visions of her naked body had taken up permanent residence in my brain, as if I'd been the man at the window. I praised her daring and asked if I might anonymously share some of her adventures with my readers. She didn't write back. She had disappeared.

For months I didn't hear from Katharine. I thought of her dancing at her window. I sent worried e-mails but never got a response.

Until one day I did. Something dramatic had happened over the past few months, she wrote, ever since we had begun experimenting together, and over the next weeks I received e-mail after e-mail – long, passionate letters describing an adventure more elaborate than anything I could have ever devised and a transformation in Katharine that was both dramatic and astonishing. As her story unfolded, I could hardly think of anything else. Day and night, I checked constantly for new e-mails, and when finally, finally!, I saw her name in my inbox, my cock would begin to stir in anticipation. I devoured her letters, again and again, and then between letters I would pester her with questions and beg for clarifications, desperate to get even deeper into the mind of this fascinating woman. At times I feared for her safety, and I thought rashly of flying to Paris, or – ridiculously – of calling the French police, but of course she would remind me that the dangers had passed, and that this was the story of a Katharine she hardly recognized anymore. So I would content myself with waiting for the next e-mail, and the next, until the whole, thrilling story was finally revealed to me.

What follows is Katherine's story in its entirety, assembled from her many e-mails and from her astonishingly open responses to my persistently lusty questioning. My hope is that I will be able to tell the story of her sexual adventures with as much explicit honesty as she told it to me, and that in putting it down I can somehow make sense of an obsession that still consumes me.

Buy The Known Experiment on Amazon. Follow The Sex Experiment here. Photo courtesy of Penthouse.