It was very sensual, though. While the heat may have dulled the will to work, there was a concomitant heightening of people's sense of adventure. Perhaps it was a mental reflection of the looser, fresher clothing that people were wearing. Britons, usually with buttoned up attitudes and buttoned down clothing, were strutting their stuff in shorts and flimsy vests, their libidos in heat. I know I thought about sex almost constantly that summer: any opportunity, any excuse. Our menage a trois was the most intense affair I had ever encountered; it was almost painful not to be in the company of Ruth or Jamie, time dragged without them and when we did get together, in whatever combination, clothes were inevitably strewn across a wide distance with a frankly shameful regularity.

Ruth and I were entwined on the settee, languid and slow. We were listening to Erik Satie's Les Trois Gymnopedies, which I find a stunningly erotic piece of music. There is an ambivalence about it which I find utterly intriguing: it is impossible to say if it is a shockingly sad piece or a gentle paean; a dance of death or a celebration? The dividing line between sadness and joy is a thin one - how often have you cried and not been certain whether it was through happiness or despair? - and most great art investigates such polarities. We listened to its hypnotic repetition, phrases repeating with endless, minor variations, piling one on the other, creating a rich sense of - of what? Anticipation, I think. Anticipation of an event unknown. Intriguing, beguiling, perplexing.

My lover's fingers stroked my skin to the stilted rhythm of the music, barely touching me, grazing the downy hairs on my arm, an act as curiously ambiguous as the music: the same movements could have been either platonic or amorous. Her head rested on my breast, and I inhaled the aroma of her hair, my right hand stroking its fine strands in gentle waves above her ear. I could feel her breath on my bare forearm, every exhalation caressing me. Insistently, the music played on, entering our minds, insinuating itself on our imaginations. This conjunction of my lover and my music was an intensely sensual experience. As often happens to me when my senses are so heightened, I felt as if I was hovering above my body: I was both observer and participant, watching from a distance as my lover tenderly held me, and at the same time feeling every stroke, every breath, every moment of love between us.

It was late evening by now, about eleven o'clock, but it was still oppressively hot. There seemed to be no respite. I was turned on by the music and by Ruth; my pussy was tingling, butterflies were careering through my body and my nerve endings were ultra sensitive, feeling every glancing touch like a sledgehammer blow. I've no idea which of us suggested a moonlight stroll by the lake, but at that moment there was nowhere in the world which seemed more appropriate.

It was a short drive to the lake, only about five minutes. We parked in the deserted car park and headed, giggling, towards the water. As we got closer to the edge the ground became boggy, despite the summer drought, and we both had to remove our shoes. Arm in arm we marched on towards the lake, loudly humming an approximation of the Satie melody. It had been very dark in the car park, but as we approached the lake it got lighter, the moonlight reflecting against the cool water and basking everything in a beautiful, feminine glow. The moon is truly a woman.

Ruth looked perfect in the light, her skin like alabaster, her round eyes deep set, veiled and mysterious: menacing or loving, that polarity, that uncertainty again, adding to her attraction. Her aquiline nose was framed by the dark background, drawing my gaze to it; beneath it her full mouth formed a large smile, her fleshy lips misty in the gloom except for a breathtaking highlight where the moonlight reflected directly against them, adding definition to them, creating a sensuous focus. I could look at her forever; I loved this woman more than I could understand.

We stood, hand in hand, looking at the water as it gently rustled against the bank, a flimsy tide breaking towards us, fragile and imperfect, lapping at our feet, its repetitive rhythm an echo of the Satie melody. It was achingly beautiful, transient, impossible to catch. It defined the moment.

I turned towards Ruth and kissed her, falteringly, nervously, not knowing why I felt such apprehension. Something to do with the elusive, precious atmosphere which we had created, I think. Our lips met, at first slight, tender, delicate, and then firmer, a bond between us. In unison we released a deep breath, emptying our lungs of the nervous anticipation, ready to refill, invigorated, with our joint passion.

I was wearing a long dress with nothing underneath, and I longed for Ruth to take it from me. She was close, her body warm against me, her breasts pressed to mine, hands gliding up and down my spine, exploring, tantalising me with their tender touch. She found the zip at the top of my dress and toyed with it for a brief moment, before easing it downwards. I felt the evening air waft against my back as it was exposed by her downward motion. She paused when the zip reached its limit and eased back from me; engaging my eye, she sighed, a dreamy smile flickering across her face, and gently she drew the dress over my shoulders and let it drop from me. Lit by the sensitive moonlight, I stood before her, naked and aroused.

My nipples seemed to gleam like silver, dual beacons in the gloaming. Accordingly, Ruth was drawn to them, taking my left nipple in her mouth, while pressing her palm firmly against the other. My nipple was already erect, but the touch of her tongue, the feel of her teeth, the moistness of her breath, made it feel like it would explode, taking me with it, fragmenting into a million pieces.

Reluctantly drawing Ruth's mouth from my breast, I pulled her away from me and unbuttoned her blouse. Beneath it she wore a lacy bra, one of my favourites, and I fondled her breasts through it, feeling her nipples rise beneath it. Biting on her shoulder, I reached backward and unhooked the bra, easing it away from her perfect breasts and off. The moonlight emphasised the upper portions of her small breasts, cruelly leaving her nipples in shade. Deciding they didn't deserve such obscurity I set upon them, taking her right breast in my mouth, dragging my tongue across her areola and gripping gently on the taut, proud nipple.

By now I was in such a state of arousal I didn't know whether I wanted everything to be resolved as quickly and dramatically as possible or for the moment to last for ever, a slow, drawn out affair of the senses. Choices were beyond me, decisions impossible; I could only go with the flow, let things unfold. Ruth took the initiative and laid me on the cool ground. The smell of the grass, fresh and damp with evening dew, filled my nostrils. Ruth was poised above me and lowered herself towards my anticipatory mouth. She still wore her flowing skirt, and as she descended onto my face the gorgeous moonlight was eclipsed, to be overtaken by velvety darkness. Deprived of the sense of sight, my body automatically compensated by heightening the awareness of my other senses. Ruth's pussy, uncluttered by underwear, hovered above my face, its supreme, unmistakable, yet undefinable aroma overwhelming me. Her skirt covered my face entirely, so I could see nothing, forcing me to concentrate on touch, smell and taste. The freshness of the grass beneath me mingled with the musky, sultry aroma from my lover's body, a heady combination which sent me reeling. Ruth lowered herself gingerly onto me, her perfect pussy resting on my mouth, the root of her sexual being engulfing me with its passionate presence.

In total darkness beneath her skirt my tongue reached out to her, stroking her receptive pussy. She was very wet, and her juices, at once sweet and salty, filtered onto my tongue, delicate yet overpowering, earthy but ethereal. I lapped at her puffy lips, one at a time, alternating this action with probing motions from my tongue deep into her pussy. I longed to attend to her clit, but she positioned herself in such a way as to make that impossible; no matter how much I stretched my tongue I couldn't reach it. Hidden as I was by Ruth's skirt, I could only concentrate on what my mouth and tongue were doing; there were no distractions, and I felt I was giving my entire mind to my lover. I was delighted, then, to feel the moistness from her pussy, savouring its muskiness, appreciating the emotion which gave rise to its drenched state.

Happy though I was being concealed beneath her skirt, I was thrilled when she slowly raised it upwards, drawing it from my face. The cool, clear, sensuous moonlight reappeared; in its luminescent gaze, Ruth's beautiful brown bush gleamed, her pussy peaked by a glowing silver star. She pulled her skirt over her head, leaving her totally naked in the moonlight. My eyes travelled up her milky thighs to her heavenly shaped hips, followed the inward turn to her waist and symmetrical outturn towards her breasts. Oh beautiful breasts; small and proud, nipples erect and upturned; beautiful as beautiful can be. And then my look carried on beyond her breasts to her face, that face, her perfect, delightful features, those eyes, that nose, that mouth which drove me to distraction. There was nothing I wouldn't do for this woman. My woman.

I wanted to make her come. I wanted to feel her body spasm above me as the sensations which I had invoked in her overtook her. My hands grasped handfuls of moist grass, ripping them, stripping them, appreciating the strong, earthy aroma which came from them. Ruth lowered her pussy again, pressing it against my mouth. My tongue eased between her moist lips and teased up and down between them. I was desperate by now to feel her clit and, with relief surging through my body, I felt her relax herself into my mouth, allowing my tongue to reach upwards towards that precious jewel. My tongue played around it, not touching it directly, but teasing it, toying with it, provoking it into arousal. In the moonlight, my lover's pussy shimmered provocatively, her upper body a glowing, perfect entity and yet her face, ironically, hidden by shadows.

My tongue sought her clit and rolled against it provocatively. I knew Ruth could not stand too much direct stimulation of her clit, but I sucked, stroked and pressed as much as I thought she could bear. By the bucking of her body I knew she was getting close to coming, and I continued to force my attentions on that splendid, bone hard little swelling. My senses were in turmoil, trying to take in the richness of the perfect moonlight, the aroma of disturbed grass and the sight, smell, taste and feel of this perfect woman above me. I felt Ruth rock and reel; her hands gripped mine very tightly, almost painfully. My mouth was already sticky with her juices, but as she bucked and thrust above me I sensed more was to come. Ruth let loose a cry, a moan of pleasure, as my sucking and probing proved too much and she teetered over the edge into an almighty climax. Her juices flowed from her pussy into my mouth in a steady stream that I had never experienced before. Ruth continued to moan, a rhythmic chant, almost like a mantra, as her climax subsided.

I continued to lick at her pussy, avoiding her clit, which would be too sensitive by now, delighting in the aromas and sights which assailed me. I could sense Ruth coming down from the heights of her climax and I embraced her, holding her close to me, pulling her into my body as tightly as possible. Two can become one when passion reaches its peak; but only love can transcend that moment and prolong it. How do you know when you're in love? That's easy: when the aftermath is more delicious, and lasts longer in your memory, than the main event; when lying in the grass, entwined with the woman of your dreams, is the summit of your ambition; when you gaze into someone's eyes and realise, with a genuinely heart-stopping thud, that you cannot possibly exist without her.

And at that moment, I knew I could not exist without Ruth.