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0 – Preamble to the Story of Katherine Sophie

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©Katherine Sophie 2013-2019

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The dates of posting are meaningless, all going back to October 2013, because we use WordPress in reverse, to be read in, not against, our writing order, right?

 

Prelude

Katherine Sophie and Sarah had bonded at the Beaux Arts School because they were both foreigners, tall and smart, if not as wise as they could have thought. They had no urge for any career plan, so it cut them from half the school’s headcount, no desire for marriage from what they had witnessed, letting out half of the women students, they did not really binge or smoke, to scare off most of the rest of them would be artists. Nonetheless, as it will be told, those  whom they befriended remained rooted in their hearts. In Camille Stern’s Gallery, they met closer mainly because at first Sarah, who had rented an apartment in Camille’s attic, became her occasional lover and they both eyed on Kate who did not avoid their advances. Kate lived in the comfortable place Hugo, friend and investor for Camille, lent her as a reward for her complacent disrobing before his camera once a week or so, although she wasn’t sure there were any photographs taken at all. When everybody became more intimate at Camille’s, Sarah came at Hugo’s; and when Kate fled for Berlin, she let him have more than photos of her. Since her early schooldays, Sarah kept approximate flight logs and reminders, stacked in a worn khaki bag covered with dada grafiti that she had pushed around in her tribulations. Once, when Camille was lolling upstairs in her bed, she fetched for her notes as to tell drafts of her already turbulent story. Not only did Camille fell under the spell of a newly hectic Sarah sitting on her heels with sweat at her temples but she envied the wealth of her life’s paper records, as undecipherable as they were for anyone but that elfin tomboy with a taste of wild raspberry. The next day, Camille bought a stock of notebooks and started her own log. Contagion grew around as Camille told her court of accomplices about how she had been captivated by Sarah’s demonstrative epiphany. And so henceforth, instant hypertext helping, the blog hereunder to the necessity for any of us to tell, and the best profits for Hugo in the magic lair.   

At the time when this endless tale starts, Sarah became very concerned with Kate…

 

FAST LINKS TO THE CHAPTERS:

1 – Katherine Sophie – A fly in the lamp

©CCVarieras - Drapeau rouge

©Katherine Sophie

Sarah says:

When we were students and stayed days in a room I would make up her eyes and style her hair endlessly, she would patiently wait like a star on a set. Her natural disarming head moves had subjugated many souls before myself.  

Her grey eyes gleam uncanny like a winter dawn on the Baltic sea, through the mist; when elated she may round them like a nocturnal raptor, if troubled, or teased, she squints them into vivid slits like a startled wolf cub.

With bountiful soft hair of the lighter hues on a sparrow’s plumage I would twine and plait and wreathe in random chignons and crests; she wears her head straight or bows her neck with allure. She’s nonchalant and leggy, gracefully swaying like the weeping willow before the storm, at times subdued like the saucy prayer of a repressed child I cannot tell if she knows how much I want her.

She was born with an amber fair, perfect silky skin she allows me to gaze at and skim over . She is tranquil and bounteous, her tall body frame loosens like she’s been taught dancing since kindergarten. I’ll slave any petty care for her, shampooing, clipping, waxing, blandishing, gossiping, lucubrating, tripping…

In Paris she lived in a small apartment on rue de l’Université, in the house of an infamous writer she had met through Camille, a gallery manager she befriended. She fulfilled the rent spending some afternoons “au naturel” at his apartment covered with precious carpets and stuffed with ancient draperies, crowded with all the world’s art. The highly knowledgeable amateur transfixed by her bare feet on the woven silk. He would take photographs of her in different lights and outfits made out of his collections of stuffs and jewellery; she was good at that, she wouldn’t say much about these sessions, nor would she ask for pictures. I had met Hugo Decharny at Camille Stern’s gallery “L’Etoile Amusée” and he had chatted me up some.

She was also good at concealing her affair with Victor, who gave her the money she needed for her fanciful shopping escapades. He would seem a sore cock of a yuppie, handsome, with a designer’s haircut and a tight collar, lived in what she described as a grey apartment overlooking the river Seine with the likes of Ed Ruscha prints and fake Kosuth neons, the window panes tattooed with phrases like “The world and life are one”, or “Watch how logic takes care of itself”, “The world is all that is the case” he could have been embarrassed to elaborate on, or bland commodities of language in stainless steel Helvetica type. To cover the desperately mundane reality of his life as a money man, he certainly collected the most abstruse Austrian intellectual camouflages and Swiss polish. His lair amused Kate at first, she was the only flower in the pharmacy, until she started to feel she was the open flesh in the morgue. She needed to be intoxicated to fuck him, and he was a quick shooter,  running for a shower as soon as he was done. On the night I finally got in her pants, I explained to her that Victor should kill himself, that she deserved better, and I made her feel that way until morning.

The Beaux-Arts school, where I met her, as exclusive as it might have been, was a beehive of vain pretenders coached by a gang of drooling predators. We were two half German brats were teasing that young audience of egocentric puppets. The cursus having been re-tuned to the neoliberal derivatives, mass communication and deceptive creativity towards the branding of bankable tricks, we two pulled all our efforts to the contrary, helped in that by Camille who promoted surrealism in the private high spheres, supported by Hugo and his seemingly influential network of friends and acquaintances.

The majority of students were into photography and video in the less possibly professional direction way. A sténopé shot of a nude girl on a construction site, blown up to a wall’s size, or a telephone shot of a nude girl passed out on the gritty carpeting of a motel room, or a blurry nude girl in any commonplace and bland setting, those would be the vademecum in search of a minute stool in the cultural network with a bid to enter the speculative merry-go-round. So our daily concern was to avoid the invitations, light or heavy, to be the girl in the eerie pin point focus, Hugo was all as much literary but high-tech and soft-mannered, and rich.

However, there still were teachers with some solid expertise to possibly pass on in drawing, painting, etching, all techniques and even colour,  They were shunned by the hip crowds but we garnered some tricks here and there from their good will. The mantra was that the art was in the business plan, and Victor would elucubrate on that until his clout on Kate wore out.

Being labelled the Mädchen, we stood our course outside of the intense networking going on in the school, After she gave me a desirable arrangement of a rooftop den for a few hours in the gallery, and lured me into her bed, Camille showed me to a very different realm through her trade and a clientèle of connoisseurs unimpressed by the taste of the curators’ posse that runs both the speculation and the institution. I started to participate fruitfully in independent group shows, willing to drag Kate along.

When Facebook started to spread, we put up our profiles, accepting only friends who recommended themselves from known places. It was new fun to post against the school’s main wisdom and google the realms of surrealism. When Hugo gave her a fast connexion, we downloaded quality fictions and pornography which fed our light-hearted debauchery, I was nesting into her big bed after Camille’s white cloud on the Park but still did the week ends at the Gallery and the mistress’ bed; she already lurked over my fairy damsel and seeked Hugo’ influence on his lodger. She wouldn’t try my own feeling, albeit she fiercely ravaged me every Saturday.

We graduated with thanks to the French Republic, looking at the sumptuous monument on the Seine bank across the Louvre as if anyhow we belonged there for years to come, although the historical meaning of the institution was totally obsolete. Our parents could locate their girls on the social map should any question raise, and the sound of the title was specially palatable about girls. My father, I called him Far in Danish, was in New York and sent an elegant check telling me to travel the world, Kate’s mother asked her what she wanted and she would accept some of her father’s money too. She had a younger brother, Simon, who was studying at Humboldt and lived in one of his father’s houses in Kreuzberg, Berlin, My brother, Martin, lives anywhere in America and I do not wish he knew what I graduated in, but that is another long story.

©CCVarieras - Shooting point

©Katherine Sophie

Sarah says:

I never liked Katherine’s friend Annie Loyseau, whom she had met in college at HFBK in Hamburg, musing about a bachelor’s degree before rallying the MBA crowds in Berlin, a bullying bitch of the worst kind. She had come over in Paris and finally convinced her to move back to Berlin, describing an easy scene of never ending parties, sex, drugs and whatever. She started drinking hard liquors and take any sorts of pills Annie would find; a few times they tripped without me and I felt bitter, seeking her faraway eyes the next morning. For the love of Kate I couldn’t have drank but I had not told her why, I understood that as a rupture and felt stupid, back in my room at Camille’s.

The shenanigans went on in rich student’s apartments, hotels and nightclubs; she then avoided me.  In fact Annie wanted her as bait. and pimped her around like fresh fish. After our seasons of playful companionship, she fled and left me feel like an old pair of boots.

I was out in the grey, Camille took pity and introduced me to people, she was sweet and caring and invited me to cry in her bed. She arranged with Hugo the replacement of the lost model and I let myself roll on the silk and undress for the master. The apartment smelled of her. For months I would not use perfume for myself, I would keep her last laundry unwashed in a sheet. When not working at the gallery I stayed for hours in silence and broke in tears when the day vanished. Then I would take endless showers and talk to the water running.

I would surf the networks after my Saint Loup crew, trying not to sound needy to the wholesome hearts I had relied on in that distinctive Swiss boarding school my Far had chosen for me, but Julia Grant my shining knight had flown to California and attended USC at Santa Barbara, they were all discussing their show at Burning Man. Fern Doolin, a gentle poet, came from Cambridge once to console me and we spaced out in the night while he told me the books he would write with all the necessary sexual details; he was a dedicated kisser and he also licked me wide opened for his Shakespearean dagger I knew for long wouldn’t fail. Chamaille Bruand lived in Rome but had family in Paris, he came over and fucked me right on Camille’s bed while she happened to be watching, as she told me later, and got excited for months over us. Eric Chazam, Briffaud Le Mai, Daisy Adair had all been cool partners in many places of the school, I was comforted when they took me in their confidence again. Of the Beaux Arts days all the desirable ones like Gauthier Renart the golden head or Fulgence Rotor, who could fuck for three hours, without any need of lubricant, were away, I did not need any of the others to guess my dismay.

Kate had left behind the suitcase with her sketchbooks, some dating back to childhood. I searched among the pages to recall the sweetness of her, who had left me as a needy punk. Out of rage and desire, I would draw along her drawings, most of them in the abstract visionary manner she had devised from the days in Sylt where a couple of old artists had taken her brother and her in their affection and eventually used them as models. I have seen photographs of slender blond children in the pale northern sunlight.

©CCVarieras - Long shadow

©Katherine Sophie

Sarah says: Katherine called me sometimes in the middle of the night, obviously high on drugs or exhausted of her inebriation. She would not speak to me of any artistic project any more, there were long silences, I felt like she was silently crying. She was out of my reach, she would hurt me too hard… free-wheeling in a milieu I sensed too well around the well-off kids of bankers and swindlers, fooling herself with the twenty-seventh edition of the attitude chic and the oracular phrases any buffoon would gobble to get in her pants, and Loyseau would have made her fuck dogs… she was an innocent token in a vicious ring pitifully marring the beauteous personality I had come to crave for, as if our common cosa mentale had been a mere dolls’ play now nullified into plain vulgarity.

Since the lamentable closing of my fair childhood at the hands of my own admired brother, alcohol looms over every trap I need to conjure; I could not secure her from the corroding gall of the soul, drawing her curious mind towards more mind expanding trips. She would mock my sermons and call me Sarah-bi. Some mornings she brought back hangovers and bruises, a tainted face I would avoid.

Now the rot had a grip on her ghost, she was adrift in a chute of despondency, most of her prime spent unbeknown…

©CCVarieras - Wreckage

©Katherine Sophie

Katherine says: 

It’s a wheel of colours floating in a stardust night pulsating in rhythm with my cold arteries as I clutch to some invisible wet cloth. Draperies of salt spiral as a gaggle of silver wolves race into the gigantic dome I have always known upon this land. Dancing trees turn away and freeze as the pack chase an idea I cast out of my solar plexus. It becomes darker when the trees reveal grimacing faces and round my small body in a pond of chilled water, I know them, what they sell and what they want. I want to poke my nails into my palms but my fingertips are soft, clipped away, childlike. Over my heavy head, the swans loom and derive away from the mighty ghost who shed some black dust on my face and mouth when the shivering troupe of fast hunters return and they go back to their eerie standstill.

Different moons reveal blue tatters of the melting landscape and sodium-lit cities float over my trembling body when a burst of shredding cries follow the soaring swans into the needle I feel in my arm.

A new dry sheet is pulled under me with slow care, warm hands hold me as I feel my body being washed with lukewarm perfume, tenderly wiped and caressed and licked as I fall back into the wheel of iridescent visions. Cliffs of gold part away as I am strapped on the moving sand, the cohort of runners jump over over me and flog a deadly chord of pain in my chest.

Hugo says:

I was hurt by the unforeseen flight of Katherine, but I found myself alone with Sarah, and it was not too difficult to persuade her to stay in the place; Camille came over more often. Still I miss the unfathomable grey eyes, the lazy moves like a wreck abandoned to the tide, the slow flood of the loosened hair, I have inspired albums of her.

Sarah is a tall delicate pageboy, her narrow pale face framed in short black curls, neat eyebrows over deep nested porcelain-blue eyes, she is quite the opposite of Kate whose disarming smiles shimmer like nuggets in a stream, Sarah is like the unsophisticated pixie in a pair of tight jeans, she is worldly and yet candid, lean and yet sensuous, whirling and unerring on her fidgety feet. Raised on high grounds, overseen by benevolent powers, she has been through rich domains and exclusive arcades, she is the most resilient goblin I have ever cuddled.

I was shy around her at first, asking very little and pretending to be busy with the photo equipment, but soon I basely profited from her distress and obtained more from her than I did from her lost accomplice. She let me unravel her willowy and lithe body as passively as a sleeping patient, and she looked at me in the eye when my hands started to rummage further. She is the perfect model, I asked Camille to style for me and came what should, and better.

©CCVarieras - Light glare Sarah

©Katherine Sophie

Katherine says: 

Wild geese in the pink skies though the giant eye pulsating over my body; they circle my bare island chased by the distraught wolves running in the frozen sand. Black stealth skiffs on the low sharp waves carry dark figures brandishing lanterns with pinpoint eyes against the swift grey horde yelping at the sky. I lay cold and senseless, my hair spread into the sand and my mouth dry and salty.  The big white måger gulls rummage my sheets but I can tell they want my eyes, fishermen know that; I could chase them with the sounds I learned but my throat feels like a dead flower. Veils of blood hurry from all edges recapturing the flocks of geese into spiraling black clouds.

The wolves are chasing the gulls away , they sit on my legs and lap my feet and lick my breasts and I rummage into one’s fur with my nose until the need to sneeze causes me a shrieking pain and I jump.

My breath is fast and my heart drums. A grey shadow filters through my swollen lids, feminine voices swish around, a warm cover is pulled over my legs and body, a gentle hand stretches my right arm and caresses some puncture traces down a vein, softly taping the thin sin before securing the perfusion tube in place.

I need to deny something but my words flee and I cannot find my voice. A fresh lavender towel is applied to my forehead while she holds my hand on my stomach. A drinking straw is slid into my lips and after some doubt I drink like an exalted child.

She says how it all happened, an airbag is like an elephant suddenly sitting on your face, it broke my nose but it has all been fixed and that’s why I am still tripping but otherwise I am safe and my blood is faultless, there I feel a caress in my palm. I breathe I need valium because I am in withdrawal, she asks my dose and says no more.

The sun is dancing again over my horizons, the gulls are high, Simon and me rest naked on the clean sand.

©CCVarieras - Bitume©Katherine Sophie

Sarah says:

Katherine has stopped calling and wouldn’t answer my messages nor appear in the wired social pandemonium. Camille went to Berlin and tried to get hold of Annie, nothing, phone, mail, tweets, texts, nothing. She probed around the night scene, arty hangouts and hip water troughs; she posted messages without a nibble in return.

On our paths to glory, we have always together projected exuberant accomplishments, experimented mental topographies and sensual geographies but we still ignore each other’s safe code beyond the mutual elation of the dazzled bodies. I have had her many exalted ways in diverse galaxies but here and now I do not know where to look, and I long for the essential presence I put in her.

Strings of odd happenstances along the stream of our living friendship have imprinted that irrational expectation I keep of truth in her. The thought of her spawns in the carrousel of my daily thoughts at such distinctive moments that I simply have to accept she is alive in me.

Today, pain draws down my throat when I try and guess her whereabouts and wish Camille read the stars for us all over Berlin. Under my eyelids, there always was an echo of Kate which now feels diffracted and blurred. My mindscape is a forest where silence and shivers frighten the herd of me under the blue shrubs and the well itself withholds its notes.

©CCVarieras - Broken twigs

©Katherine Sophie

Katherine says:

In this hospital no one knows anything about what became of Simon, nobody asked for me in any manner, I’m leaving, he’s dead, I killed him.

My eyes are circled with dull yellow and brown rings and I cannot wear shades because of the big mask over my aching nose. I cry stupidly all day at the window, I see hundred of identical windows. My phone is inert. I have never felt as sad as I realize, seated on the loo wearing the hospital blouse opened on my ass.

That morning, I collect a few senses and ask to go home. A woman doctor with big appealing brown eyes tells me I could stay a little more, until the mask is removed, but I say I will get care wherever in Berlin. She says I even have no clothes to wear and I should call home.

Finding some nerves I convince the floor nurse to let me use her computer to order a pair of jeans and stuff from Amazon express, I beg someone washes my hair but it may not happen until next morning.

It’s rainy and cold as the taxi takes me to the station. I buy a mouse grey scarf that smells of candy and watch a whole new landscape of pain and sorrow unroll its endless remorse.

Hugo says:

Sarah agonised, Camille tricked her way into Katherine’s apartment but it is empty. They were as riven. I will call my friend Wolfgang to see if he could discreetly check on her or send a bloodhound on her tracks.

Last evening I showed Sarah my collection of Katherine pictures, she was more affected than she would have thought and asked me to hold her feet as she wrapped herself in silk. She fell into a troubled sleep and I took pictures of her poor soul with and without Kate’s photos, with the robe closed and not.

©CCVarieras - Moorings

©Katherine Sophie

Camille says:

The caretaker at Bürknestrasse has seen her go and heard the name she gave to the taxi, it is a mental institution outside of Berlin. They will not communicate through the phone, so I will call Wolfgang and we will go there. At least she would be taken care of, although no one likes the idea of a Nervenklinik.

I camp in the tidy clean apartment, it feels like someone has hunted all traces and left an immaculate trash can. It smells like a dull nursery. The weather appends the sad hues of stormy skies to my anguish when I stroll along the mundane avenues of East Berlin. I pray whatever burns in my soul for Katherine’s salvation. When it rains, it feels like a foolish answer to my mauled mind, like a healing kiss of Sarah’s, three times I wish she knows a reason to hope and beams on my heart now.

©CCVarieras - Scraps

©Katherine Sophie

Katherine says: As the Doctor in Hamburg had prescribed, I go a few times at La Charité to have my touchy rebuilt nose freed and wear wide sunglasses. I cannot think, I drink tea and eat white rice, whatever is left in the apartment’s closets, some prescription drugs, Valium.

I cannot answer the phone, only will I talk to Sarah who still has never enough of me, who has not yet guessed the grievous truth. I disabled my online accounts, I discard messages, I read Simon’s last mails at any time.

I stand for hours under the shower like a somnambulist freak, the fresh new face in the mirror feels like a mockery, emaciated and pale and certainly desirable. In the distressed bed, I conjure images of laughter bursts in the sand dunes, Simon’s sun-bleached hair and the golden field of his tanned chest, I masturbate like a poor wreck and wake up drooling on the pillow.

I can’t give up Valium, my five o’clock tug  that will never let itself be forgotten, but I have lost any taste for any other load, any trip would smell like suicide on a sidewalk downstairs. I don’t really know whom, but even as despicable as I see myself, I still wouldn’t impose to those I love the image of a dirty death. I remember when we had a craze at school for Francesca Woodman and finally they would not let her mother see her dead, what did she smell like?

Alas, let others decide, I have done all washing, cleaned the place and filled a bag, called a cab to go to that Clinic for lost souls like me. I wear no makeup and I cannot stand anyone stare at me.

©CCVarieras - Wrapped

©Katherine Sophie

Sarah says:

Camille has called from Berlin, she forced her way into the clinic but Katherine hardly greeted her, she was a pitiable mess and the ward staff unsympathetic. The place was vaguely vacant, the management elusive. She’s going back with a lawyer tomorrow.

What is she doing there? Has she blown her stack in public or tried to kill herself? Are the judges not supposed to rule any such internment? Most probably she has understood she’s addicted to some harrowing plague and kept just the necessary will to ask for an escape. She knew perfectly the crazy scope of available poisons, which ones you can not even try; furthermore she has a phobia of needles.

Hugo says:

They found Katherine in some nut house she committed herself in and where they keep her under. Wolfgang will help to put some pressure so they let her out, he is looking for a proper therapist or some trustworthy help of that sort, he keeps an eye on the Annie Loyseau girl, who is not unknown to the drugs scene. I arranged for Camille to stay in Berlin for a while.

©CCVarieras - Linea d'umbra

©Katherine Sophie

Camille says: It was an artistic abduction. We ran with a half-high Katherine while Wolfgang’s friend was questioning the direction of the place, taking back any papers she might have signed and the prescriptions she was on. It appeared Katherine’s father wasn’t stranger to the situation and had agreed to get his daughter straightened. She cried incoherently until night, I held her in her sleep. I had locked the doors of her apartment.

We woke up very late and all dressed up. We undressed and hugged under the warm shower, washing each other’s hair like considerate animals, her body was still doleful but for a while she responded to coy caresses, then we fought each other’s long curls with endless heed; I playfully snipped her toenails, rubbed the pumice stone on her soles and massaged her beloved feet with some face moisturiser that had been there.

©CCVarieras - Landing

©Katherine Sophie

Hugo says:

I asked Sarah to run to Berlin and help Camille there, hopefully to listen indefinitely to the poor soul. As a blue knight she cleaned her mind of all rancour and flew.

According to a reassuring Wolfgang, Dr Schubert would accept to see Katherine and offer a one time hypnosis exploration of Katherine’s knots and blocks, after a complete diagnosis, all in one or two days. With support from her two chaperons she might overcome her terrors and address the inner void by herself without randomly erect some kind of mind scaffolding for twenty years and more.

She cannot have told the whole tale, called for available help, shame and guilt have clogged her phrases as much as diverted chemicals and alcohol. Around here at Château Demarny she felt valiant and immune, but she was eventually left naked and bereft clinging to the gossamer link towards Sarah’s phone.

©CCVarieras - Palissade

©Katherine Sophie

Katherine dreams: 

I am laying on the floor in a moving limousine and some heavy person is sitting on my chest, my hair is pulled by a grimy little girl with one eye missing, the bottom of a brown mouse showing in the orbit while the mouth moves making no sound. The engine of the car sounds like a spastic bass guitar. I am paralysed. Annie and her pierced-tattooed trolls pile car tyres upon my arms then suck and bite my breasts with black lips. The one sitting on me turns around and shows a greasy face with blood-injected eyes, he smiles, opens his mouth and a smaller pale face spurts in it, grinning with sharp yellowish teeth. They spread my legs opened and she fetches a full syringe of a blue liquid to inject in my vagina while laughing. The lower part of my body falls through the car floor and slides away on the road among pitbull dogs and enormous Nordsee geese stained with motor oil. One of the thugs with a bare pulsing purple brain searches my mouth with two fingers, while I feel firecrackers along my spine. Another vilain is fucking me, his belt and lots of shiny weapons hitting my chest. Each of his pulls in me sends red lanterns on both road sides and the engine gets a rhythm. I see my pleasure as fractal glittery stains on the black car roof and I cum abundantly on the road which is covered with stars. Annie has raised her fur coat and is fucked in her behind by the one-eyed girl and her long narrow red penis. The filthy monster keeps her face towards me, she has a piece of coal where the mouse was. She plunges her hands into Annie’s rump and extracts black lumps she throws at my crotch in a frenzy. The car becomes a night club where pink horses paw around a bed where I lay wide opened for black man wearing sunglasses; he slaps me while I feel his strokes to my heart. Someone forces his way to my throat and my eyes revolve inside my own skull filled with red earth and lightning bugs. Music beats into my bones and the rhythm stings my nipples. Annie vomits plastic roses and black wood shavings, shes tied to a horse and hairy men fight for her butt. Donning high-heeled silver shoes, I run to a mirror door and see myself nude with a large rose between my legs dripping black tears, the door and many others along the wall open and Annie appears in a black crotchless outfit, chasing bubbles in her syringe filliping her finger on the tube before stearing my vagina-rose, and from all the doors in the rounding room crop up the drooling crew with other syringes to puncture me. Two, three baby girls with rats nibbling their right eye gather around my head as I try to shout and they wave small syringes aimed at my mouth as Annies points with a black varnished nail under her tongue to a swarming abscess of purple maggots. Again I collapse inside my own sight down a warm and moist shaft filled with medusa strings that snuggle over my skin and give me electric chills in the womb with the pulse of the bass motor. A black leather bat with one yellow and blue eye grips my nipples and grows a scarlet prick on my face to the shrieking staccato of trumpets. The car sways in a hoard of pink horses with blue eyes which mimic kisses to me as I suck on the phallus deep to my stirring throat and swallow warm flint nodules until my stomach peals over the engine drone in an orgasmic fullness; I belch out garlands of madder petals and tongues and breathe a perfume or stench of gillyflower or motor oil, Annie plunges her hands into my stretched mouth and catches violet fish laughing, I have wings of opalescent colours and fly around giggling light bulbs with her sitting on my face kissing the tall crow black athlete who fucks me frantically.

©CCVarieras - Angles

©Katherine Sophie

Hugo says:

I have been fiddling with an unexploded bomb. I certainly did not see anything coming, or did I even pay attention? She was always lively, a bit moonstruck, so much like the girls in my Stangl’s pictures… What would it be when I see her again?  Was it only an accident, or a damn free fall to an end, to the unavoidable? As long as she was in my game she was safe, warm and clean for very little expense of her shine and no bond. Out there on the scene , booze, coke, dust, whatever and a bitch for a mentor, she went as fast as a daisy to the dump and she is broken for ever.

On my life, I have seen wreckages and disheartening annihilations of glorious beings I had burned for, treasures so lively one would forget to breeze in their wake, before alcohol corroded their pearly glow or opiates sucked in the colours of a willing flesh.

No, it could not happen so fast to our Katherine of the silky dawns, promise of the perfumes and songs, milk of the stars in the haze of a perfect peace. I will not mourn you as long as you breathe, no matter what it takes.

©CCVarieras - Naufrage

©Katherine Sophie

Sarah says:

The three of us in the Berlin apartment, the confidence is building again as it may look. It  is in a nice red building in a quiet street of Kreuzberg, it belongs to her father  Camille and I take turns to the shops or order food, we fear the flock of Loyseau’s.

At night, in the light of candles, she talks endlessly about the accident she had, and all the insufferable consequences she has to face or die. There are tears all over our shirts, in our hair. Camille and me let our natural familiarity regain her healing body as if it was the only cure to her desperation, we drink more tears than kisses, we spend our lust treasures on her ultimate abandon until victory and collapse on the brimful couch.

She read laboriously online about Dr Schubert, she’s beginning to like the idea, if we all go together and we wait for her. She has been infantilised by her plan at the clinic but we team flawlessly around her beloved head. She needs to ease off her addiction, I write down the countdown of the daily drops in the glass of water in her organiser and mine, one less every two days, and she drinks the first glass looking at me.

©CCVarieras - Edge

©Katherine Sophie

Camille says:

Hectic morning, Mrs Mother came to the apartment and attempted to talk with her mad daughter. Very impressive cries jumbled and befogged all bid for a consoling word, Katherine was out of her wit and cried like a demented wreck on her way to the bathroom where she locked among her sobs.

Mrs H. took to herself, touched our hands and whispered a plight to be given some news before she calmly walked. Sarah and me were impressed by the lady’s cool, but Kate is a big girl, after all, isn’t she?

©CCVarieras - Creepers

©Katherine Sophie

Hugo says:

Mrs Mother’s visit was probably a natural move, Katherine has never complained about her mom, who loved them generously. Also, I wonder why an insurance company or even the police didn’t question her about the accident since her brother died in it.

First things first, I trust Dr Schubert to re-tune her bruised soul so her long time partners can help her.

©CCVarieras - Boxwood pathway

©Katherine Sophie

Camille says:

We took a cab to drive Katherine to Dr Schubert’s in Dahlem. We were introduced to a very quiet old man to whom we asked if we could wait whatever time it would take. He nodded and invited Katherine into his study behind double doors. He left us in a large room full of books with big German leather settees. I looked for art books and found old ones with sepia illustrations. Sarah soon took a desirable nap.

Sometime later an old lady came silently and offered us coffee and cookies in English china. Time stretched, we did not find any conversation to share, as if we both tried to hear through the walls. At the end of the afternoon, the double doors opened and Katherine walked in with a pure smile, we both cried. Dr Schubert said softly he waited for us next afternoon.

Victor Hugo - Aiguille rocheuse

Victor Hugo – Aiguille rocheuse

Sarah says:

This morning Katherine was up first, distant and focused on her decision. She made coffee for us all, warmed some scones and played with the thin thread of honey at the breakfast table. We did not say much, the whole apartment was quiet. The whole city was numb.

Under the table I nagged her toes with mine, then she rummaged my morning curls and drew me to the sofa for a long leisurely embrace, begging me to keep her. I have ways of asserting my faith, silent songs at the tip of my childish nails… our heartbeats in calm resonance. Camille looked upon us as if we were an art work and took the bathroom first.

The ride to Dahlem was smooth, we were greeted with a pensive nod and the double doors closed. “That’s it!” we briefly said, that’s it. With only the tiny noises of our own clothes, we searched the library again. Camille showed me a heavy album of Victor Hugo’s drawings and paintings, a capharnaüm of monsters and chimeras carved out of ink stains and apparent rivers of tears, magically rendered by old heliography, it fitted so well my fantasy of what was going on in the next room that i rested in that book for the whole duration of whatever it was and took notes. Camille went into reading Achim von Arnim she had brought in French.
By mid-afternoon Katherine was back from the sanctuary, with her Baltic look sprinkled with funny crumbs of sunlight. We warmly expressed our gratitude to Dr Schubert who took our hands and kept them, he asked me about my father and family then peered into my eyes and whispered that she trusted me.

The return ride was silent, a lavish twilight cuddled bustling Berlin, Katherine wanted me to hug, she kissed me, I cried.

Victor Hugo - Le Burg de Hugo Tête dAigle

Victor Hugo – Le Burg de Hugo Tête d’Aigle

 

Hugo says:

Insisting with Wolfgang I finally had a quasi-oracular conversation in English with Dr Schubert who did not want to know my full name. Metaphorically he conveyed a positive message about the faculty of someone to recover a functional personality through intimate work. He did not believe in the orthodox cure which is an endless addiction only good for the complacency of the rich. He referred me to his books for further knowledge of his developed method, making his unwillingness towards me sound clearer until I backed off.

Katherine has plenty of intellectual tools and gifts to conjure the demons of her guilt. He said she would be counting on me because I had impeccably earned her trust, as well as the two friends who had brought her to his house, and that was the best chance she had in her life. I was deeply impressed by his words spoken quietly without any trace of academic pontification, I was moved and reached for my best photographs of her.

When I called the Berlin apartment, Camille answered. She said she did not know what to think yet, Katherine spoke sparsely but she looked very good, her grey eyes right into yours, with lots of smiles. Sarah was washing her hair, they were lovers again, kindly, like baby animals. Katherine had wished for music, they were a happy company.
I pulled my proposition of moving everybody back to Paris. Anyhow two of them had lives here. I could help, it was the least I should do, I could open rooms for nesting them. Camille liked that, she said she would watch for the right moment to tell Katherine.

©CCVarieras - Lost and found

©Katherine Sophie

Camille says:

There we go! Cleaned the apartment as if forever, rented a big car, piled it with Katherine’s stuff, sneaked ourselves in and drove a thousand kilometres through Wupertal where we slept like a brood of quails in a motel by the road.

With the humming and rocking of the car we all became very talkative. Sarah told us of her big brother who had sneaked every night in her bed since she was twelve and was never caught, but never got her pregnant either, she laughed finely about it, said he went away to an American college and never talked to her again, probably thought she would not remember.

I told them how my uncle made love to me when I was thirteen in the family house in Arcachon and I had a terrible year after that being obsessed with being some sort of slut while my breasts grew, and a dance teacher in high school put me back together out of pure dedication, not even trying to get in my leotards.

The three minds heating up, Katherine sank through her guilt and told her brother had been a true companion, they played long hours in the dunes of Sylt, or the nooks and crannies of the family home. They invented the map game, when their minds were scattered enough, one would give a body part a name, pointing a finger on it, say the ear lobe “Singapore”, the other would point another part “Mumbai” and so on, and depending on the wind of the moment, the fingers would point on more and more intimate parts until the end of the sequence went “Potamus”, “Washington” and they would start to twiddle the jewels  and unleash the lips and tongues like puppies…

There was a sad illumination on her face and it was quickly washed away. Sarah crawled clumsily over the backrest of her seat and spread tight wings on the torn puppet sobbing amongst the bales of rags.

©CCVarieras - Golden tears

©Katherine Sophie

Katherine remembers: It’s been a long evening chatting in a café with other students and we are all a bit drunk. to put an end to an argument, I rest my head on Sarah’s lap next to me on the bench. As my detractor goes on, I turn my head towards her and start to nose the warm corduroy under a cashmere sweater. It smells of an autumn fawn, chamomile and poplar leaves. Under the table’s frame she acts as if I had passed out and caresses my head, undoing my bun and letting me earn millimetres towards her fly . So then I feel quietly elated, and when the conversations die I make her feel I will not budge from her small tepid grove. From my unrolled curls, her hand creeps a few jolts down my collar and nests on my sleepy doves.

Never before had I met  such a free harmony of desire and satisfaction outside of the crystal ampoule of Simon and me. When the café closes we dare act like lovers on the way to her room. As if we had dropped some kind of pills, all my senses find her ready, she takes every bit I spill until we pass out for good in a ravage of smells.

How could I betray my own perfect little cloud and lay myself shortchanged by a reckless bully of a blonde? Are coarse chemicals only to blame for such a fast drift to the deadly shores where they pulled me from? Am I such a slut at deep or was I very simply played like a foolish mare with a butthole? Wasn’t she pimping me for dope?

I used to mock Sarah’s refusal of alcohol, vomiting sick when she tried to stay with me and a bottle; I think I see the wound now, what should I care for another intoxication than a gracile body like hers freely available?

Hugo says:

The girls are back upstairs, we get along tastefully, they are in love and we all like that. My writing goes pretty well. Sarah moved in, the bed is wide. I told Katherine to order supplies, paper, pencils, colours, whatever. Camille joins them at night and I can hear their voices from the staircase until very late, they keep to themselves, except for a few exquisite visits to my Herekes carpets, alone or together. I know more of Sarah than Katherine now and I use it to dare my hands and lips on her. From my coffers I unearth accessories like leather and pearls, real or fake jewellery, silks and laces cleaned and ready to half-cover my perfect models; Sarak wears the harness like a 1920 Berliner tomboy, Katherine wakes up pearls like a stream on sand and their kiss is the untold poem I hope I will write.

Katherine told me she recalls feelings of her holidays in Kampen, on the island of Sylt, where an old couple of artists welcomed her and Simon on rainy days, giving them tricks of craftiness in drawing and painting, waffles and hot cocoa. She gathers a new set of her references, keen for Sarah’s approval.

©CCVarieras - Kiss

©Katherine Sophie

Sarah says:

So many ways I love Katherine, in the afternoon I will find her on the ground, in a trashed sweatshirt, drawing in a notebook or reading. She will accept my foot massages and more, she says it took some time to understand she had missed me so deep and hurt me with her sick phone calls, she says she should have died too but then she begs for a furious kiss in my distraught and eager mouth.

Suddenly, she wonders about her father, her family, her grandparents, but it sounds she doesn’t really need the answer now, she says she will google them later…

On the ground floor of Hugo’s house there is a gym room of generous proportions, with lots of contraptions and music and a large shower. There we exude layers of anxiety and practice a groovy kind of osteopathy on each other, sometimes with Hugo who feeds some guilt towards the flexing machines he once installed there.

©CCVarieras - Crooner

©Katherine Sophie

Camille says:

We spent evenings with downbeat musics of the whole spectrum, trying not to startle the elephant in the rather small room. When words lacked, Sarah invaded the laid land of Katherine’s skin and we confiscated all fabrics piece by piece on the creeping path towards the bed. We had to look out for signs of lazy acceptance from her maimed will to unleash our flocks of lively touches along her veins. She whimpered mildly and occasionally escaped into a dream like a defeated child.

Hugo wanted me for lunch, we went to the Musée d’Orsay’s roof. He wanted to talk about Katherine’s new way of work, unexpected burst of imagery after years of what he had considered opportunistic snobbery and puerile conformism… only that? I told him that in my view, the rush of forms wanting to happen was a huge opportunity in Katherine’s accomplishment, the heavier the load, the more precious the outcome… at first it would appear as regression but her own real drive was squat in these bushes, to hell with nefarious academia!

Dr Schubert had done a stunning job with her, now she needed security and space to grow her intimate menagerie into an oeuvre, eventually. Moreover, her frantic need of Sarah’s mothering was blooming into a wealth  of creative intuitions galaxies apart from the depressing contemporary scene. Hugo should seize the gift that was offered him and basely profit from an exceptional conjunction of all planets; over and above he would seal the tale into poetry.

He kept silent, realising I was asking him to become Katherine’s protector a little more than he had let. Casually speaking, I spoke of examples in the gallery’s group of artists and he contemplated the commitment at stake, shrugged briefly and said he would offer the same welcome to them both.

He then said he was buying space to his house in which a large attic would make a beautiful studio for the two pixies if they were to stay with him, and in the future open the way to another yard and another street. He would commission his architect for a fast job.

He asked me to seriously supervise the girls’ progress and make enough to give them a social status, even if it meant funnelling money through the gallery. Over Paris strolled an armada of nimbus clouds as big as hope; he was caressing my foot as he had always, our heads tilted back together in delectable connivance.

©CCVarieras - Gardening

©Katherine Sophie

Hugo says:

The girls are still asleep upstairs, the talking has boiled until dawn, as it should. Camille is discreetly grateful about the attic, I am so lucky I had this opportunity, thanks to my influential friend Melchior.
We will all go to Venice next week, the Sanvios lend me their house, we will scrutinize the Biennale thoroughly for it is always fun, put apart the damage done to art as a whole under the conspiracy of witch doctors and philistines, speculators and curators. It should be good therapy, setting Katherine back on her track, exciting the verve she drummed when at school.

I break in the pixies’ lair, scent the rich bouquet of luscious humours, peep over the brimful nest of the bed where the three of them show a haphazard festoon of pale skins; in the small kitchen I start the biggest coffee maker and call downstairs for some croissants and brioches.

Camille doesn’t cover herself when she emerges first at the coffee whistle; she grumbles sweetly and sits on my lap when two cups are filled. My maid Lena never shows surprise when she uncovers my intimacy, so she disposes the basket of fresh pastries and flees. Like a bewildered crane in a scarf of haze, Sarah peeks behind the jamb and grins, then considering Camille is nude, she tiptoes in and shows her butt at the coffee counter, then perches on a stool smiling, calls Katherine for feast.

She has put on a vague camouflage nightshirt and her hair is over her face as she mumbles we pulled her from a dream where Dr Schubert was the rabbit with the gold watch. Sarah seizes her from behind and presses her head on her shoulders, massaging her flat stomach. In an effort to drink coffee, Katherine eases off and looks around smiling.

©CCVarieras - A dwelling

©Katherine Sophie

Katherine says: Hugo has the new attic redesigned for us, teams of workers take another staircase in the building or the next; he would arrange a bigger place if we want two bedrooms but we do not wish that, do we? As long a we can live at this comfortable address, our family trust funds suffice for our whims and rhapsodies. Like the wonder days in Hamburg again after a failed soar like the bird in the mirror. My broken beak still hurts slightly so Sarah softly applies one of Hugo’s ointments which smells of honeysuckle with the tip of her sacred fingers. She hasn’t yet told me of her whole life and she’s far too nimble for a little girl. I know there is a dark flag in the distance but she has overcome its shadow, she stands in the wind like the arrow in the bow, like a wolf on the shore, and I watch her, from a crib of peat.

Camille says: 

And Hugo ensnares both fairies in his castle of moonstone with no excessive expense of philosophy, as he always did, I may say. I wouldn’t have foretold a seamless harmony of the two vivid natures after years of casual comradeship, or was there always water running under the moss?  He has the demonic spell to untie the sensuous accordance from where they hid. I have myself spent both of their magic quite rashly without ever rending any dream in them, as he subdued their gentle souls along with mine and others in the wonder realm.

Marie de Chasseline is your diminutive renaissance princess, her head would nest readily in Katherine’s neck like in a velvet wing. She has a gracile figure and the most beautifully slender hands and feet, she sleeps like a cat under the bed sheets. She doesn’t really know the two lascivious damsels and I am quite lickerish to bring her near their turbulent bed. We brought fruit, plump cherries, wild strawberries, blueberries, blackberries and they have arranged a playful parterre of shimmering food bites.

Sarah says:  Marie wears raw leather sandals, she’s shy as a little girl as Camille introduces her. She glows a disarming charm with her big golden eyes and hair, she smiles on pearly rounded teeth and blushes when I kiss her, holding her closer than she expected, but stays with a tiny movement of the chin, turns to Katherine and find herself surrounded by rose and neroli so she swings her hips, she embraces Kate’s neck and kisses her full mouth. Camille stomps for amusement and shouts no time has been lost!

Katherine has concocted fruit juices as light as Marie’s wings as she sits on Camille’s lap and I untie her shoes to massage her feet as if nothing; I soon have a glimpse she wears nothing under a simple lemon chiffon pleated frock.

We talk about Pavel Filonov who is on display at the Karolina Gallery on his use of mental colours as opposed to “retina porn” as Kate says; fuzzing the vision in times of Rodchenko rule was an ultimate response, a desperate predication of whatever the free mind calls a soul. Marie brought us a heavy book of his and between the need to kiss for thanks and manipulating carefully the precious present, deft shenanigans occur and leave the honey girl unclad.

Marie asks for the bathroom so I hasten to show her and stay as she pees and unbutton me down her hair suddenly smells like a baby antelope some girl kept in Mombasa where I was with my dad on one of those unreal days he wasn’t away in the wind. She licks my petals as gamely as a bumble bee, but I want a taste of her wet little undine when the others call us cheaters so we run for the bed and dare them to swim till us.

Camille wants me, she pulls my ankle and opens my thighs while Katherine enfolds the blondinette and covers her smile with mad peckings. Camille is so skilled at breathtaking me that I throw my arms over my head and let myself elapse into the blue. After a grand peacock trippy vision with a blast to my solar plexus I see Kate’s fruit offered while she frazzles the tiny golden fleece of the new lost shepherdess available, so I close the ring of our lewd society at the limen of my fairy’s wealth whereas Marie glides her hand into the dripping small scoundrel that teased her.

Katherine mumbles:  Snow is falling on the moonlit dunes, three blue wolves are lying low watching me  hooked in tatters at the thorns of a large rose bush. I wonder how the snow doesn’t touch the flowers which smile at me. Bells garble away at sea along with the plaints of gulls in long dotted ribbons. Achim speaks to the wolves when they rock their heads and yap; he wears a bright white shirt and tight black pants and horse riding boots. I need to call him but my shout stays inside my empty skull. He leads the herd to the Hindenburgdamm where a train hurls away in a cloud of silver flags. I fall on the sparkling sand as a wad of torn paper when Achim comes back holding a lunge whip he snaps and set fire on me as the wolves lick me all over and I see Sarah pointing her tongue in my eyes and mouth squeezing my neck and I shout her name like a helpless castaway.

They upturn and tear me apart, I call Simon… thus they stop their maneuvers at once and Sarah holds my head and I feel small and disconsolate, softly caressing my forehead while somebody massages my feet with heavenly science. I listen to their breaths and feel Camille snuggled on my back. The skies hover again around the dunes, swans gather around the lost blue sweater of my little brother, I let go and cry again and again.

I snort and sniff and grab Sarah’s neck and shoulder, begging for a hanky, a towel, a mop… Marie runs and fetch fresh wet facecloth and towel and pat me gently. My eyes must be red and swollen, I try to make fun of myself, catch the three pairs of shoulders and ask them if they aren’t hungry, after all?

Marie says:

As Camille had told me, there is a wonder unwinding between the two big girls here. We rejuvenate each other in the tub then Sarah pees on me and retributions ensue ending in a minute cleansing with adventurous fingertips. But when dry we agree on devouring the talented cuisine they ordered at Remy’s, the vegetarian wizard, bites of antipasti meet sushi made easy for nude guests at a slumber party.

Katherine is recovering from her grim trip, her head on Sarah’s lap who is combing her hair all around and feeds her small beakfuls. Sarah’s short dark buckles stand up like a little boy’s mane as I frisk into them and make her look like an Adonis; there is such a quiet focus in her look that I suddenly wish it was for me. Sneaking under lush black eyelashes glint vivid sapphires and I tell her they bewitch me so she gives me a good look and a very wet kiss, then go back to the Princess’ long curls.

©Katherine Sophie - Returning

©Katherine Sophie  – Returning – @katherine-sophie

Sarah says: 

There’s a boy, Mars, my age on an island of the Ertholmene archipelago near Bornholm who lives in a Royal Danish tower. His hair is sun bleached and the skin of his neck is as dark as a violin; he smells like fern.

I was staying with one of my father’s cousin Björn von Skaer in the yellow restored barracks of the Marine where he had been an admiral. These old folks had lost all practice of teenagers so I was most of my time free along with Mars in the brush and rocks. He was kind and brilliant, he wore shorts and I would peep into his briefs. He mocked my thinness when he grabbed my hips to help me climb a wall or a rock. He said I looked like a film actress.

One fine day he told me we should borrow a boat to reach the foot of the cliffs and bathe unseen, there was no other way to approach the real sea. He showed some conviction so I agreed to go with him the next day.

I came early in my baggy jeans I had stolen from my brother, a marinière shirt and trashed sneakers. His shorts let beautiful tanned sinewy legs and feet appeal for wild lust. We clambered along an indistinct pathway to the remote berth of a small blue bark he pulled against the ledge; we jumped on board, he unfastened the mooring buoy and fetched a pair of oars.

Mars rowed steadily and soon dropped the shirt as I sat in front of him at the stern bench, his effort moved me with a gentle flux in the plexus, making me shout and sing foolish. He joined me with some Danish whaling song I did not understand. We laughed and shook the boat.

We navigated passed a small headland after an hour or so; he knew where it was, he drew up the oars and lied on his back for a minute. I wasn’t at all tempted to dip in the sea but he dared me to undress which I bravely did, I didn’t wear bras that would have been useless but I kept my simple white cotton panties on. He snatched his shorts and brief together in a split second, proudly presenting a snooty uncovered dingy in a puff of sunny tow.

He said I was white and my skin looked so soft he wanted to touch, as I was like mute, he crouched to my feet with his legs opened like a toad, he pawed my feet and legs and begged I drop my pants because he wanted to look at my kitty. After prayers and tickles i pulled it down and he forced my legs apart. I was totally wired when he timidly slid a cold finger he had just rinsed overboard on my bare lips. He wanted a kiss, I pulled a daring tongue and gripped his enraged wick.

In my eyes, he asked me to take him in my mouth, like he had seen grown-ups do, and thought would be safer for me; my lips were aroused by our kisses and his cocky pintle was already dripping salty tots so I let him in and gradually imitated what I had already seen on some video with my naughty pals. He wasn’t overly sizeable so he could wiggle deeper and he squirt through my throat holding my head until he was sure I had eaten the sour custard. I was about to shout my disgust but he didn’t let my head go and planted a nimble tongue where he had just shagged. He guided my hand to my maddened bud and I triggered a splendid fit of tremors by myself, wetting my thighs furthermore.

He embraced me close on the bench, I still tasted funny as it was my first time but he pacified my mouth and tongue with such dedication that I loved him and let him twiddle in my pink frills his content. He was proud but not victor, I did not feel vanquished or raped, he could have done it more because I saw the little orderly standing to attention, but it was quite time to return, so he dressed himself and beat the water, asking me to stay in the raw a little more. When I needed to pee he wanted to touch and he pressed a finger in my poopsie.

When he had drawn on the oars for some time, he suddenly sensed we had not moved at all, so he strived anxiously, I searched the boat but there was no other pair of reams, I dressed back and shivered. As we were realising the real danger we were in, a spruce fishing boat suddenly sailed towards us and a tall man sent a tug rope before heading to the port. He smiled wryly and said we could never have made it out if someone had not been watching us. His name was Greg.

A few men looked at us half-seriously as we disembarked, Mars’ far called him drily from the tower so he ran, leaving me dumb. I buried my hands in my pockets and walked nonchalantly to the Admiral’s home. I took a shower, pleased myself to the thought of how slutty I was and came down as usual nude in my best night shirt the colour of which had long faded. The old sailor was grave. He told me he, and all the people on the island, knew what we had been doing in that cove, but moreover, we had put our lives at risk and he would have died himself had ever happened. He held my hand, like my far did, said kind words of my personality and charm, but also that he could not keep me, that I would come back another year, and he kissed my forehead. We kept silent at dinner with wild salmon boiled in herbs infusion and baby vegetables grown in the neighbour’s garden. My tummy felt radiant and I was proud Mars had come in me.

I felt somewhat punished, watching the sun grazing the fiery waters from the warm and wide window ledge. I could have lived two more weeks of Mars’ blond fuzz and his strong hands holding me, my head, I would have given him all the chills he craved, why did he need a boat anyway? The never-ending twilight blasted in the room, my bag was done, I laid face down on the uncovered bed and wanked until sleep.

I wouldn’t have thought it is so easy to drown, my lungs feel like waves, like wings, as I tumble backwards in the emerald whirlpool while two hands grasp my hips. Behind my ears, a watery voice says “glæde i dig” like Mars did and rainbow fish suckle my feet, my tits, my lips and my pink snail. A bright light burst from a cave under us and in two or three flutters of my legs I enter a gigantic geode of purple crystals where Greg unrolls some shiny black rope, while fixing me with narrowed eyes, down in the bottom of the cave, in the dark where I am drawn to. Spiralling downwards in a twirl of caresses, I want to call Mars but only clusters of luminous pearls come out of my mouth and a whole audience of big gulls squawk furiously at me onstage at the Rosenborg theatre. Greg sits in the main box with a shiny helmet of blue steel and shows me to slither my hips for the happy crowd of young sailors who hold the big gulls. I wave my opened cunny to the eager chants and squirt pearly flakes on the bed of black roses I stand on. Greg jumps onstage naked with a stiff royal tarse towards me but I swim away and huddle inside the tinkling chandelier. All the gulls climb in the gilded branches and talk about the skinny girl with the round butt and stutter about her being a loose harlot and a tramp, to what I laugh like a tough lad. They all fly off and form a big cloud that shapes into a sailboat and hauls my shiny perch over the city where people look up and show me upthere. I let loose and glide and feel the cool air along my body, then I reach the green roofs of Rosenborg where parakeets of all colours squeal in my hair and womb as we cruise amongst the red and white pennants, then one is wrapped around my foot so I start turning around a golden pinnacle which reminds me of Mars’s gallant stem. I cling to the warm fallos and it screws down inside the tower in which are kept all the Royal Icecream on gold cones, sprinkled with visibly scrumptious crunchy crumbs. The floor is bedizened and shimmering, I watch my own all naked reflection while old courtiers dressed in black and clicking heels gather around and comment my body in Danish when His Majesty, who looks a lot like my far with a moustache and whiskers, offers me his arm and walks me to a silver throne where he embraces me on his lap and kisses me like Mars did.

On the next morning, beaten and melancholic, I followed my uncle to the boat that had rescued us and would take me to Bornholm where I would sail a ferry to Ystad and from there ride a bus to Falsterbo where my mother stayed with my brother Martin. I tried not to show I was crying, I did not look up to the tower and soon the big engine snored.

After the night’s dream, Greg looked kind of awkward to me, he offered me some coffee and even some brandy like a real fisherman, said he. It felt weird to be alone with him and the boat was soon on the high sea, it would be two hours. The wooden cabin was comfy enough for a morning trip. He fed the conversation cleverly and I didn’t pay attention to his stealthy hands, he smelled of grapefruit and was close shaven, he kissed me wildly and I responded, thinking it was fine to be an easy slag. He was already unbuttoning my jeans, I whispered in his ear that I was too small, he muttered he would not hurt me, he just needed to watch me again. He was ravaging my mouth and making me writhe and contort out of my pants on that stool, pulling my navy striped shirt over my head and exclaiming about my skin and tiny aguish areolas. He opened his zipper and let a fat dang in a real wig of black bristles and led my hand to it; I played timidly with the head shortly and it spurted a few times long shots of strong smelling snot all over me while he burst into tears. He sobbed on me as I felt his sperm dripping down with his eyes’ water so I caressed his shoulders and neck and kissed his eyes as I imagined that would quiet him out of this thrust of guilt and indeed he held my head then took my hands, walked back and watched me with his package dangling. He corrected the position, watched again my defiled body then shrugged and fetched a bottle of water, found a clean white napkin and started to wipe me softly all over. Suddenly we heard a boat’s hooter and he ran to the pilot wheel, mumbling that I should dress up and hide in a bunk. My shoes remained under the footstool. He opened the door and briefly shouted in Danish to the other boat. he breathed heavily. He came into the bunk where I squatted, the new sweat smell was heady as he kissed my feet, then he crawled along my back against the wood and squeezed my chest and asked me to say nothing of all that happened or kill him now with the gun under the counter. I was brave enough to laugh lightly, I took his hand and shushed him. I went into slumbers.

In Falsterbo at last, I joined my underwhelmed mor and Martin for whom I was a useless brat. Fortunately, the Admiral had not fully snitched and I had no explanations to recount. The next day, I asked for permission to enroll in a nudist spa where I was kindly befriended by everyone for the two remaining weeks. I was in the steam every so often and in the cold stream the feel of the stench on my chest faded, I stood innocent in older men’s view who did not erect at once.

I tanned slightly, everyday I came home after dinner late and slept like a stone and wanked in memory of Mars’ willy. I recovered the benevolent attitudes I had always known with far who could follow me in the bathroom without discomfort because himself had been bred so and my connection to him was crystal. No one, at the spa, was young enough for me and I did not want to show out on the beach as Martin’s skinny sister, so I would start conversations with gentlemen who taught me numerous things of life as if I had wooed the Gods of Olympus. Wolfsohn was as tanned as as a gun and groomed as the Grand Duke, I wondered how his combed moustache would feel in a kiss; he spoke diplomatic English and liked me at once he seemed to have known the islands of Ertholmene well, I suspected he was another Admiral. He made specific comments on everything of me, congratulating the dance teacher who made my back and shoulders straight, my feet aligned and steady; I laughed my head off at these and jumped backwards in the cold basin from the boards where people were laying in the sun. He lowered his voice when he peered at my eyes and called my lashes a trick of the devil.

Wolfsohn started a game when he knew he had conquered what he called my greek head. He untied my phrases and spinned metaphors and analogies to fall back on my true concern to what he responded swearing I would be loved as widely as the stars vault and give like a poppy field under the moon. He extorted me tatters of confessions and let me own up to the bittersweet spell of self abandon, warning me in the steam box not to undervalue my inner crystal at the wanton use of predators, knocking gently at my chest and telling me to radiate into my nerves and veins. That time I felt wired and discovered how to light up my solar plexus; in the blessed minutes one does not yet feel the cold in the water, I almost fired up an orgasm at his words and a simple knock. Nude and relaxed, he taught me the only path through the thorny rockery of such a gifted damsel’s life as mine would be to find something to actually do, write, paint, compose, embed in the outer world, better than act upon another will’s lines. It was one of those childish epiphanies when one wishes an imprint will remain in the deep grain of one’s mind.

He could have ravaged, scourged, mangled me stupid as I smiled with all my body, instead of what he offered to elate my pretty head with my first ever bone massage, easing the seams of the dream box and putting me to sleep in a purple cloud.

I woke up under the rainbow parasol, he was gone, I needed some whipping in the steam so I spotted two ladies on their way to the sauna and joined. They were visibly thrilled by the chance to grill the skinny brat who had been bragging around doctor Wolfsohn. They threw two or three cups of water on the granite stones and we all offered our lungs to the vapor and stretched out, then beat each other gently with the fresh green perfumed brooms and I noticed it was more them playing me around and reaching my tiny venus with the tickling leaves. We rubbed indulgently our neighbour’s skin with the loofahs and they smoothed my feet with pumice; some hands went kindly astray but the heat already forced us out. I felt swift as a salmon when we dived out, I wanted to wow my new friends with my gracile frame and breathing exploits; they appreciated my little show but I already knew they craved me.

They inquired my creeds and parentage like two real swedish matrons so my upbringing in the UN realm resurfaced and tamed them instantly to the sound of my family titles. They knew my mor was in the best hotel. I saw them as sweet old mothers but they certainly weren’t even forty and they were fit as hell. Ola was baltic blonde with honey skin and a bald pussy, Harriet showed a delicate freckled muzzle and smiled endlessly. They dazed my vain mind with murmured compliments, invited me for diner and implied I should stay the night in their apartment at the club.

In the sleek dining room sat Dr Wolfsohn reading a magazine at a table, he waved at us and asked me about my head, he made me sit next to him on the velvet bench and softly touched my temples and occiput and then winked at me. He spoke Swedish to the ladies but stopped when he noticed I did not follow. When he said he was waiting for someone Ola’s eyes sparkled and she showed me to a remote table. They questioned about my head and I playfully told about the massage, they stared with round eyes and envied me for they told me Dr Wolfsohn was the Royal Ballet’s osteopath and his renown was intense on the matter.

They made me talk about my life in New York and all the places I had been to, I told them I was neither Danish nor German although I had been born in Copenhagen of German descent, carried a blue UN laisser-passer, spoke English and French. Ola’s hand fluttered over my thighs sometimes and Harriet eyed me with her fine smile. They ordered raw fish, bijou potatoes and carrots, frozen nougat cream, Norsk wild raspberry juice; they beguiled me gracefully so from the lobby I left the message for Mor I would sleep at the club.

Seeing me yield to their desire, they hasted the meal and we nonchalantly walked to the elevator in which they literally devoured me. I had made up with girls before, but skilled adults were a totally different game and I fainted a few times at their might, learned by myself a whole new garden of senses, heard dizzying cajolery and felt so widely indecent that I moaned.

They made me lick and dart my tongue everywhere conceivable, asked me to shove my arm inside their warm sheath, to my fright they washed and lubricated my shy arse and opened it as wide as their mouth and showed me in the mirror.

I do not remember dreaming that night, I woke up to the smell of coffee and cinnamon in front of two very dapper nude ladies who licked me a welcome, I’m all languid and my ass feels funny. Harriet let her lush profusion of copper curls glint as a dawn cloud.

some idea I have been brooding over springs from my sleepy mind and I ask my devoted worshippers what my age would be; they discover they trusted my looks a tad over what is permitted and freeze down. I shiver and try a smile, muse I will disappear like a damselfly and meet them by the pool. I want one more lathery session in the shower but they refuse that I wear their perfumes, so I laugh and disappear…

The rest of the week flowed in grace, Dr Wolfsohn resumed palpating my body in pure scientific chastity and it happened that I found myself in the hot box with Ola and Harriet who tastefully healed my arsehole. On the trip back to New York city, Mor made the remark about a new gait she saw with me, a new stretched up backbone; I said I wanted to dance.

©Sarah von Ketteler - She dances

©Katherine Sophie – Sarah von Ketteler – She dances

Camille says:  

The studio is transformed! They have built a spacious Italian shower and a toilet in no time! Hugo asked his long-time friend James, an art teacher, to gather good furniture and all that’s fit for a pair of pupils; he did not forget a sizeable Angelico red couch and an English sound system, the girls chose their own top of the art mechanical chairs.

Setting the time as from Katherine’s attempt to redemption, James followed the revolution in the lovely heads and worked at erasing the stains left by the almighty devil of communication as it predominates in today’s art accademia and market. He represented to the overprivileged damsels the outstanding dispositions of Hugo’s indulgence, to what he could not but totally abide.

Katherine says:

The study is all off white, the furniture woody serious and on any whim James brings all kinds of supplies and materials that smell of virgin lands, or flowers. He spins games to flush off lodes of creativity and shares hands with us in every manner. He’s well aware of all that we let Hugo have, he saw the photographs and probably owns some; he would not miss our evening shower, he is one of us.

Sarah says:  Hugo has a great gym on the ground floor but he doesn’t use it much, except if he has a chance to meet us; he likes the idea of our effort and sweat and made uncanny macro photographs of our sweaty skins, pleats and bends unidentified… but we need the rolling mat and the fitness machines to start the day and I drag the sleepy dolent mistress down to start her fire; a deft pinching of the nipples infuses enough electric flux to unlock the hips!

©CCVarieras - Bignonia capreolata

©Katherine Sophie

Camille says: This morning Marie the Tree-Hugger was waiting for us outside Paris at a small train station for a walk in the woods. She had insisted that we should wear real walking gear, so we looked like lost soldiers, carrying food, water and whatever in our packs. The weather was perfect, Marie was in a delightful mood, she had brought some serious camera, she taught us how to really hug those big oak and beech trees and feel the cool fresh energy slowly pumping just under the bark. We were kidding ourselves into the great voice of the forest, absorbing oxygen and the petrichor scent of grass, ferns, leaves, mud and flowers.

At mid-way was an airy undergrowth of beech trees, she told us to drop the packs and shoes and started to take pictures of us, winning off pieces of clothing one by one until the maids were in their radiant raw and she teased them with each other. When the pace was found, she asked me to help with a comb and a tissue and simple makeup stuff she conveniently had. She conscientiously pressed her palm on her models body in hope the friction marks would stump off, then quietly reached further for no surprise of the belles. Biting one mouth or another, she tossed Katherine’s honeypot in the arms of Sarah whom I fingered in that proud arse of hers. She said the more they would play and suck mutually the more chances she had of a glorious shot. As we carried no towel or whatever, we could not lay down so we stood up in rapture, and they eventually streamed gold on the moss for Marie’s great excitement. They were acting like Hugo had taught them, their expression of bliss was stupendous.

Before we dressed, Marie offered a foot treatment with a healing cream and she applied it herself and we all applied it around to loving feet; she chilled out from her work and overflowed love on our heads, verified the knots and straps and led the platoon back to the train; on the way she clarified that the photos she had done today would remain private, aside from her work where no human being, as beautiful as might be, ever appeared. Sarah suspected she would jill off on them but gave permission if Marie was to let them shoot porn of herself.

Claude Variéras - Mare ensoleillée.

©Katherine Sophie – Marie de Chasseline – Gold pond

Hugo says:

In the blurred wake of my oldest chair as centuries hover on unknowable landscapes and cities, I have accomplished a dire transference into the almighty stillness of words’ dreams. Fate has allowed my hand to shape the unexpected provinces for innumerable foreigners to roam in dread or euphoria, let my will conceal its weapons under the cloak of mirrors.

My prostitutes served a sublime act by the chronograph and I never dared forfeit the accordance of our wishes; the best of them sowed life in dry detours of my swivelling ruins. Unquestionable remained the core faith I ever grew on that beauty is an infrangible sign, a refraction in the black poison of human entropy.

For ages I designed mental contraptions to forbid looking back on afforded seductions along my trail; my forehead was my hallowed light and Hades was my coat. Other than my peers lived erratic casualties to whom I deigned not bestow more than a glimpse at my noetic juggleries. Otherwise than printed in good order my soul remained seamless.

Marketa visited with her blushing daughters, she unwrapped the silent preys she had herself trained and groomed. She was irreplaceable as the lewd puppeteer, handling the novice courtisanes out of their modesty in the nascent vice, offering me their already wet fruit as proof of their promising whorishness. As I nosed in and out their ears, Marketa would bedraggle me as conveniently as the play needed and bared her own elegant brazenness on which the young tongue knew her ways. Then the rosy damselfly was brought to frolic around my own ticklish shrubbery and her touching clumsiness all but enkindled the instrument of her alleged fear. Marketa certainly wouldn’t try to sell me the pitiable parody of virginity, which most of the times is dissipated at kindergarten or in the inscrutable shadows of the park’s boxwoods (yes, that is where I invaded the first living fanny I ever saw, to the reward of some faint pee on my subjugated face) but she let her pupil’s immaturity spray some dainty dew on the rawness of lust. They came to her swift hand and tongue as easily as the flakes in a snowball so when the urge to root my crisis into her flexible pits of silk she greeted cautiously the whole importance of it after her mistress had anointed it somewhat. When the resilient tenderfoot fell over dripping, Marketa would lap her figa and resuscitate the encroacher ready for the other pleated wicket she blessed with a plentiful gush of vaseline; I pushed calmly deep and deeper while the sight of her widespread abandonment set off stirs that hurled through my solar plexus, then I laid on my side and asked for her pearly mouth backwards when I foraged the narrow and febrile burrow till another cast of bliss.

The new orchid would finish spent and breathless, sobbing against some complacent chest or a thigh; If I was rich, I invited them to my bath for yet another round of manners but as fast as my fortune grew my endurance settled and Marketa’s boarders recovered more smoothly. Nevertheless I loved to join for the readying toilet of the fawness, as if to make sure I had done no damage and eventually entice a new visit if I had been enthralled somewhat; I feared to see blood if I could have been ruthless but the only once it happened was some garnet menstrual blood that ran unexpected causing panic about my reaction and relief to my so casual assent. I wouldn’t share such promiscuity with any other person but certainly with the one who just pleasured me?

Marketa said most of her daughters found real husbands to whom they provided genuine offsprings; some of them returned for thrills and money when the passion bourgeoise watered down, she kept tracks of both ends of the arrangements.

Février came with his transgender cousins, bashful debutantes with a scoffing monstrance concealed under their modest skirts. I happen to be tall and strong, but I never knew what to do with my own kind, however the ambiguous beauty educes a mesmeric trouble to what, after millenniums of sordid suppression, it is wonder to bow. Young footmen and ship’s boys may shine some gleam too but I would never have survived in the Royal Navy.

Confident to his own taste, Février introduced only the prodigy grade of baroque pearls, not the masquerade trumpery of sweaty cabarets. Either he acted like the perfect nephew letting me titillate his pretty cousin on the couch while drinking tea in bone china or sherry in Waterford crystal, frisk inside a sateen lined jacket to find smug little buds as a start and untie my way down to her youngish half-uncovered stem. She would only keep her grey or mauve stockings and fall on the bed, delivered, available as a Jesuitist angel on a stucco cloud.

Their elder inculcated outstanding sultry ways in them, with grace, and their virginal mouths hemmed like the arum spathe whatever use they were summoned to, but they would not surpass the selfless dedication of their fellow courtesans of the slit bun . Overall they excel at lewd slavery, they long for chains and straps and creative contraptions, they welcome the winner into their chubby rose like opera heroes, when they have sweated for my pleasure, they smell of rumpled hemp, algae and mushroom.

Marzel Blick had been my lover a few times and sent the Ermeny twins, Diss and Dat, the daughters of a rich actress and whore, just old enough to float. Seeing my carpets they threw away their heavy shoes and waggled their toyish little toes in the silk just for me to scent the vanishing moisture and innocent fragrance of leather. They looked childishly slim and wagged the perfect skulls of Caesarean-born babies, cropped as velvety eggs. They held each other while talking as if no one had already been in Diss’ pants or Dat’s mouth.

Once plucked, I ushered them to the bed, on the ivory plains of cambric linen and watched them like a Meissen treasure scene. They wilfully played a weightless rococo arabesque around two witty pairs of tushes with a tiny winking snail in the middle. Their body hair was so blond it appeared merely as a gleam.

They wouldn’t part, when I gulped Dat’s tongue Diss lapped her ear or her fanny, it felt like one angelic dragon with the many hands of Guanyin. I hurried out of my trousers; they nibbled around in my pleasure patch with some cute fury and twittered lightly when the blind wand shuddered for rapture. I seized an available dancing pelvis and tried my luck without a chance to romp in. She stood up my strain and I dripped my holy drops on her minute curtains one by one until she began to smile on my buffer and pant, still.

I did not want lubricant there, it would feel livelier with patience and good will, I hate hurting anyone, and all the less a gracile pixie. The other one wanted her turn, she opened wide her legs horizontally, letting her daffodil blink at the marauder. Offered so, I need first to gulp and bully the miniature gallimaufry around her merry path; it scented of chamomile and neroli, violet and beeswax, tasted of macadamia in clotted cream, with a clover note inside the hidden blind hatchway. Meanwhile her double was carousing around my conveniently weeded parcel so as the pagan shaft started to ache exquisitely. I bounded up to station and asked permission to pervade, pushing as kindly as my urge let. Dat, or Diss encouraged me to rend the little slag through and through, but I sensed my progress and told Diss, or Dat, to sit on her sister’s tongue and rack her garnet teats. Eventually I won a tiny bit, a helping hand arose on the awaiting bud and lather swamped the plotzed pirate to the great fuss of Dat, or Diss, who claimed her share before the loot was spilled. This time her sibling vigorously wanked her till she squirted a wave in which I bravely swam and subverted her cunny in depth.

One on top of the other, beside, opposite, I knew not which of the smooth wombs I had seeded as it went all swallowed and kissed over, sloshed in a storm of musk, chrysanthemum and resin with the holy sweat of debauchery. We washed and rubbed and filled the enema with vanilla warm milk as a prelude to a second act. They wanted a drink of pomegranates, cherries and sugar cane, their eyes were like colibris and their hands were baby squirrels. I touched them with a mild balm of live amber, mimosa, broom and linden flowers, which made them laugh. Nosing each other, they wouldn’t lose the the head of the perfume as one does on his own skin.

The bed was wet, I led the spellbinding animals to the couch salon strewn with soft and floppy quilts and lit by a cloud of pinpoint lights. They had supple tenuous necks I suckled with feather light prudence so as not to stain the tender flesh, she let her head roll back while her legs were thrown apart like reed in a squall. They showed a profile of intact innocence, small face with a tall forehead, a straight nose and a light chin. When she kept her mouth half-opened and her eyes adrift I could have cried on her coy bosom in, had her other self not been bustling about my wasted family treasures and charmed them upwards; I reached the languid one’s crotch with my unruly tongue in and around and rummaged my way north. I had the handy bottle of suave merciful gliding balm ready, Diss or Dat caught it and coated Dat, or Diss’s rosy sheath and her hand with it, in order to ram her sister to the wrist and make her whimper. She had her fun while I invaded her lithe mouth to the throat, following her own efforts. She choked and I dressed my rodney with the glossy drool and shoved it in her tender naughty lane. Then I mounted them alternately telling them there would be a fat banknote to the winner, whom I worshipped wholeheartedly and would not tell from her sister once she had rinsed her nifty fiddle. They split the premium, I guessed.

Thereafter I rolled a sideboard in, adorned with a plenty of inventive lobster, crayfish, shrimps, Saint-Jacques sandwiches to their taste, fruit and juices; I beamed in awe of them feeding each other like visions of Eden. Their day was over, as they are well-off little tramps with rich patrons, they do not sweat overtime. We tried to find some music to soothe our nerves and keep on fondling the foundered bodies, my hands still venturing inside the relaxed alleyways of lust, I tuned in a stream program from Portland, Oregon. Eventually we passed out as a brood of foxes, my nose on Diss or Dat’s kitty.

Indeed, my fellow Cavaliers of the Circle Of Liars and I shared the most beautiful whores, therefore they know my taste in the matter and will send the most commendable citizens at my door, out of friendship. Rain soaked tramps, nail-biting runaways, bruised souls or misunderstood poets are eventually ensnared in our nets for their better fate if one will, and I never knew of anyone complaining about our generosities. I met perked-up, clean and groomed wildfowl out on their own dependency and free will. The Confederacy Of Selfish Aesthetes, as we also call ourselves amongst many names, has a mighty network of lawyers and doctors to sort out the lives of our chosen godchildren in accordance with whatever stupidity the prohibition law says. Addicts are sent away to rehab, alcohol is feared, and STDs monitored as they should, under the vibrant city of Paris lives a widespread virtual brothel divided by the river Seine, and a holy crew of grantees out of reach of the police or the Mobs. I have no idea where they all come from and how, they might tell me, they might not.

I met Camille at sixteen, she was sent to me. Her mother was the last of a slaughtered Jewish family who later hung herself. Her father had disappeared when she was three. Yet she was the most overwhelming explosion of golden locks around a pure small visage of a child Madonna dressed as a refugee wearing English spectacles. She was cheap, she had haunted some hotel corridors and concierge backrooms, I kept her. She was easy, too, I took an apartment for her. She went back to school and studied art history because she had this idea that her ancestors were art dealers in Vienna and because she liked my collections. We became accomplices in many arrangements of my life, but I was convinced she needed a self standing fate. When she received her doctorate, I summoned a table round of her best lovers to invest with me in a Gallery where she would support her chosen artists and mine.

As soon as she gained command of her own life and bank account, she unleashed a beautiful voluptuous temperament and became constantly demanded near the Laughing Cavaliers. At eighteen she would entertain three ardent gents at night and be fresh in the morning at the Sorbonne. She socialised with two of her professors at some discreet chapters of the Liars and she gained attention. Her complexion acquired an even rosy haze, with her spectacular mane I had had the privilege to brush, she stood fiercely and walked like a dancer.

We travelled together to the best museums and the most surprising hotels, we invited escorts in Vienna, in Rome or London, she chose them and exhausted them more than me, she wanted them to sleep in her arms till morning. Her arse blossomed on a still so slender silhouette and her apple breasts weighted more movingly, she advertised her gallery by herself and one day recruited Sarah at the desk and in her bed while she sent me Katherine on the edge of a rainbow.

 

2 – Katherine Sophie – Misty shallows

Claude C. Varieras - Flying over the Alps.

©katherine-sophie – Flying over the Alps.

Sarah says:

It was a smooth flight to Marco Polo airport. The sun was low and gilded the city off on the still waters. The Taxi boat sailed along lines of yellow lights against the darkening blue grey mist. We entered the city through the Cannareggio Canale, slowing down to allowed speed, and the Canale Grande unrolled its incomparable scenery while I held Katherine standing up above the roof of the sleek white boat. Hugo was sprawling on the leather bench inside, with radiant Camille in grège silk, watching us kiss.

©CCVarieras - Lion of Saint Mark

©katherine-sophie – Lion of Saint Mark on silk velvet

Camille says:

The Sanvios’ house is close by the Salute, spacious and quiet. We found large deep beds and all the beddings of fine percale.

Girls fooling in perfumed fabrics of sensual colours followed by splashes in the bath and the bells of Venice warbling their forgotten prayers. I joined these two baroque angels of an undetermined kind; breath became short but we could not perceive when Katherine started to sob in Sarah’s neck and finally burst in heavy tears. Water was running on the two worshipped heads and curls moved on on the back of the distraught child.

We moved as little as we could, I massage her feet slowly as I knew how. Now she had to fall asleep, we led her to the bed after we softly wiped and combed her hair; she toppled over in Sarah’s arms while I closed the shutters. I left them in silence and went to tell Hugo we wouldn’t go out. He called some number to have meals delivered home. I sat next to Him in a high-back settee waiting for the bell to ring, he held my hands and I saw him cry too.

A young man in a dark livery came at the door with a large basket covered in linen, I showed him the kitchen and said to leave it there, paid, tipped and went back to Hugo. Familiarly he pulled off my robe and rolled his head against my womb, elated in the perfume he had composed for me. I undid a few lines of buttons and gave my mouth in time for a long volley he had mulled over ogling the season’s elected sprites.

The old city rounded itself in silence and darkness, faint voices came to us as the two lovers resumed their long-winded conversation. We went to the kitchen and Hugo opened a bottle of wine, unpacked a gracious ensemble of antipasti on the marble table and enfolded me with ever gracious manners, in a way to still include me in the ring of his lust, after using me the cavalier way. I have faith in the bawdy Lord, and I also want to frolic around with the glamour birds also in the open air, as he means.

It was almost midnight when two beauties in open white gowns joined us with gusto. Katherine hair was wavy and shiny over her reddened eyes, she breathed lightly, Sarah’s bright blue eyes could not hide behind her short black locks, they stood shoulder to shoulder, like foals. They had reached the peace.

Then we all pecked at delicious things we did not really know, the girls drank water.

©CCVarieras - Rio under the moon

©katherine-sophie – Rio under the moon

Sarah says:

The water and the absence of cars soften the course of the day, and although the shops are mainly filled with junk made in China, there is still treasure to be found for a girl’s eye.


Last night we were having dinner at a terrace near the Fenice, it was warm and we did not wear much, Katherine seemed at ease in a few layers of linon, Hugo played with her hand, then he asked for her panties and she slowly slid them,  and gave them. He swiftly nosed the silk and stuffed it in his breast pocket. She smiled and started pushing a bare foot between my legs, asking for my undies too. Pretending to stretch out I pulled the little thing to her toes and she grabbed it like a monkey. Still stealthily, as if it was a game, I whispered in Camille’s small ear that I wanted her pants; watching the moon to make sure no one had noticed, she fetched a few grams of lace and rubbed them on my nose. Hugo fought gently to collect all the loot. Camille dared a wet kiss on my mouth, her hand up my thighs. A waiter had seen the discreet charivari, he wore a demi-smile when he offered some grappa we softly refused, so he came back with a plate of arlechini cookies spangled with candied fruit, unable to look elsewhere than our laps, like an old teacher.

My Princess fairy is a lewd lass at heart, expelled from the roaring hell at the cost of her cherished sibling , her mirror soul. Tonight the heavy laguna wafts tousle her curls up around her sheer oval visage and I selfishly thank fate she fell on me. As much of an easy playgirl I be, I want her soul, I want to stand in for her loss, or do I?

Hugo guided us through deserted little streets, we stopped when a jasmine or a petunia waving down a balcony filled the air with lust, and he would pull up all of Katherine’s veils, seeing what Camille would open my thin blue dress and bite my baby nipples. We wandered lightly back to the apartment, we showed our butts to some youth on the Accademia bridge, harvesting bird names we did not understand. Hugo was in love with Katherine and Camille played me skilfully, the moon was glorious. In the wide opened house, we lit up some beeswax candles and gnat-repellent spirals on the window ledges. Somewhere afar, a clear mind juggled with muffled loops of wind-like melodies. On the night-sunken couches, faint swishes and moist shivers inspired rolling galaxies of twinkling phosphenes on my tripping soul in the secure cuddle of Camille. Listening to Kate being all shagged made me yield over and gleefully climax with a high sigh at Camille’s will.

This morning I woke up with puppies biting my toes on a bright beach, then I realised Katherine had joined us on the bed and was offering her behind while chewing my precious little dwarfs. All drowsy in the golden dawn, without a word, we held each other long and tight as I felt her mind blooming free. It took the smells of breakfast to chase us from under the sheets.

Camille says:

Our stylish band embarked on the sunlight splattered numero boat uno to reach the Giardini with a frill of fresh air. Katherine wore large sunglasses, she sat on the bow seats, that have stupidly disappeared on the new boats, along with Hugo who held her hands when he spoke in her ear. He wore a Montechristi hat and ivory linen, her grège jersey pleats let her breasts giggle like a pair of cousins. The boat rolled, I softly pushed Sarah to one of the two corners of the platform and let the rolling be our dance together. I noticed a Japanese man taking photographs of us, I smiled and kissed her mouth frankly to the small sound of the camera shutter. She opened wide eyes, followed mine and noticed the photographer, then gave me back another kiss before turning her nose to the wind. The vaporetto docked near the jasmine hedges of the Giardini, the Japanese bowed briefly when we left, then he swiftly aimed at Katherine with professional precision.

Hugo was at the gates, redeeming his invitations, when Sarah took Katherine’s hand, noticing a new ring with a white opal cabochon in a berth of pale blue stones, she caressed her cheek without a word and entwined her waist as she chased a pebble from her sandal. I took his arm and murmured to his ear that the ring was closing as he wished and the four of us made a jolly band of rakes all to my taste.

The two artists already strolled towards the international Pavilion, this time heralded “Cartografie Mentale” as the main theme of the Biennale. From the start, the festival show  felt intriguingly different from what it had been the last twenty-five years. It showcased individual creation, individual thinking, individual production instead of massive fabrication of socialite’s whims erected as labels or image markers. The curators had scouted around for outstanding extraneous attainments of glorious souls.

Unconscionable endeavours against the world’s vileness, ineffable baroque pearls extirpated from the paltry mire of forlorn destinies, victories on death, destitution, affliction, seclusion, solitude, proud conquests over the mental subservience to the powers that be, the methodical pandemonium of wild, untamed figments of all genres and medias, the accomplishment of the team responsible for the show was tremendous.

Otherwise, in different rooms, the displayed objects appeared to reflect a serene fate for their authors, a quiet withdrawal from the common trade of shallow values, dowsing for the rare gems of native poetry.

Of course, any doodle or scribble from a despaired or disparaged person is not more than anyone’s erratic quirks, I speak of an art language elaborated in time as a single successful vocabulary which builds the necessary frame for a reading and a glimpse in our own soul, I could not find a better word.

This man sculpts in clay an unseen bestiary, this one draws an undecipherable land with endless captivating details, a woman diverts the crafts of her mother into transfigured costumes or an obsessive lace over newspaper sheets; untrained outsiders develop captivating idiosyncrasies to show the world a unifying love, albeit the noise and the fury?

I felt it fitted exactly right in the views of Hugo, who stayed close to the girls, holding my arm most of the time, letting the best of his imagination embody a personality for each artist shown, in a low tone of voice, scribbling notes. During their Beaux-Arts years, the girls had been engrossed with a radically different realm of creativity, the one Hugo was now defacing with words, but they calmly fell under the charm of the gathering of intensely poetic propositions quietly spreading a mental web of enlightenment that could very well be Art in its own reason.

After years of arid summons to shallow philosophic forgeries and advertising swindles knitted together by intellectual mercenaries in a blind complacency to the heavy speculators, at work there with the very same tools they mobilise upon the oil, gold or meat markets, the ultimate secret half-shared in the back rooms of an opaque trade would reach a final shore of inanity, or meet the ultimate shame down the drains of moral decency.

No more airport decoration, cultural token for the architectures of power, nothing exposed in the “Cartografie” could adorn the surfaces of any money-mill in Frankfurt or London. No business was intended, no production line, no future. Was a time when Arts Décoratifs was a grand genre in its own right, when the Palais de Tokyo, the Musée Des Colonies or the Rockefeller Center adorned their facades with elegant but shallow minded allegories as craftily executed as uppermost quality jewellery, and the ruling class could rollick into the stunning displays of the Normandie.

Today the global anomy allows pretenders to denominate art any school prank as soon as it has been repeated ten times, thus churning out a colossal return on such stupid pieces as a four meters steel heart shape or an array of hundreds of fake bicycles where only a burp of thinking has been invested. And the institutional venues for art have been plagued in return with inane fabrications better suited for disposable shopping malls.

But the most insulting dishonesty currently shoved upon the public mind is the unfettered reference to Marcel Duchamp, as if his penchant for chess and mind games had been the core of his oeuvre, whereas his most paranoid conundrums, “La Mariée Mise A Nu Par Ses Célibataires, Mêmes” and “Etant Donnés 1- Le Gaz D’Éclairage, 2- La Chute D’Eau” took him fifteen years each of highly focused work outside of any commercial network, in pure blissful levitation. He showed zilch but contempt to the burgeoning pacotille trade of pop art and contaminated avant-garde, he fathered none of today’s official culture and communication.

©katherine-sophie - Vos lèvres aux miennes

(…) Vos lèvres aux miennes – ©katherine-sophie

Sarah says:

In the mood we were since morning, we simply let Hugo guide us in the congenial set of a well-breathing show, like good girls. After the rolling of the boat in Camille’s loving perfume of incense, rose and cinnamon, I could not have enough of Katherine who would not flee. Close together, we read the labels, which we wouldn’t have done as students, and discovered unusual, strange, even extravagant lives to figure around possibly fascinating pieces.

Extremely diverse persons had centered their whole psychological balance in the pursuit of that inner necessity, as if they had had no other choice, without any guideline in aesthetics, fashion or taste, alone under the sky. Some artists shown were just plain compulsive, giving no key to comprehend the flow of their production, others insisted on a rigorous mental protocol, others only expressed the extreme dedication in an otherwise mundane goal. the best few conveyed the mental shifts inside which the viewer reaps traces of the impalpable dew to quench his own oblivious intimate sores, hence the inner wind of freshness.

Camille says:

The two wading birds literally clutched hands, like they had been sometimes in their school years, it felt sweet, they were concentrated and humble as if they had never seen art work of essential quality although Hugo’s apartment was filled with such mirabilia. Some sexually explicit pieces made them pull a clever child pout of perfectly staged innocence, I was the one to laugh and paw Sarah’s almost bare ass.

In a room were the plaster models of half-size little girls, fully dressed as if they were in a shop window, discovered carefully stored in Morton Bartlett’s garage. The models were anatomically perfect and detailed, their expressions were peaceful and lively, their maker had lived an unremarkable commercial photographer’s life. Although no pictures with the dummies are known, they must have been used when no live model was available, in possibly evocative angles, their size wouldn’t matter. There was an awkward idea of indecency watching them.

Suddenly there was a muttered exclamation as our maidens met a handsome young man with rich Tiziano gold hair they recognized as Gauthier, an old schoolmate. There was a warm effusion as they walked together towards a small garden on the side of the building. Hugo half-raised an eyebrow in a funny way, held my arm as if to say to let them be.

Sarah says:

Among the many boys we suffered at the Beaux-Arts school, one stood out of the herd and was sweet, Gauthier. Now we found him again in the middle of the most distinctive collection of things we shunned as art students! As a grown man, he is beautiful, with thick golden hair and pale complexion, dark brown eyes and long hands he slowly moves when speaking. We swiftly went to a small sculpture garden where our fast whispers mingled with those of running water. He was staring alternatively at our eyes with avidity. We told him the most gracious ellipse we could risk without contradict each other about our present life, he told us he was part time art director of a cultural centre in Valparaiso and art critic in Spanish speaking magazines. Tentatively, the three of us considered what we were in the middle of, remembering some of the clichés we would have spit on such an array of visions a few years back, but smiles glowing lighter, we found ourselves on the same chord, probably because we all wanted to spend more time together. Hugo and Camille had joined us, we introduced everyone and Hugo decided we should find some café nearby.

Hugo says:

It looks like a boy could join in the round, the jasmine and the clematis swirl around the honeysuckle in a soft lash of graces, as I wish it continues, I invite the young master to dinner and he accepts with a smile. He has a deep look, under a wave of coppery bright blond hair. We all engage in a conversation about the underrated value of solitary creation, of private achievement, of a genuine individual quest. I feel a small pressure on Katherine’s breath when we evoke the realm of Art Brut but I do not reach for her hand in front of newcomer Gauthier, so I playfully suggest we should go to the Biennale bookstore, get postcards and send them. Katherine is up first and reaches for my eyes, she takes my hand lightly, then quietly lengthens her steps on the grass, her feet like a pair of baby dolphins. In the library we find the cards, catalogues, and fancy art supplies with the Biennale logo on them, kid stuff I support playfully as a reminder of a greater design of ours. But now the Biennale bags are heavy on the girls’ shoulders.

Camille says:

The miscellany in the “Cartografie Mentale” falls right in place in our Katherine recovery tale, and a charming encounter does for the resettlement of reality. Gauthier is handsome and soft, but the sweetest thing is to feel the hum in the girls’ heads about him. How long will it take before he carries the heavy loads they fetched from the bookstore? Hugo is obviously thrilled with the new cast, he will push the fires and watch.

Sarah says:

Sitting at a terrace, we spread our goods and start thinking whom we might want to alert of our expedition and it became uneasy. Most of names in the book didn’t fit any more. Katherine tied up a small riddle to her mother and a line to Dr Schubert, a polite little poem to Wolfgang. I had more wishes to tell and so did Hugo. Gauthier readily solved the  matter of stamps as he knew where to find some.

In the park, the American Pavilion appeared a bit defaced by a wild bunch of rampaging rascals, but closer it settled its chaos to a quiet and friendly spiraling extravaganza made of tiny scraps, beads, crumbles threads and wires at the hands of an industrious elf arranging the layers of its nest in concentric spheres, like a gardener bird in the seducing design of an immemorial urge. We all fell for it and it was delightful to watch Katherine being fascinated as she slowly danced around the four exploding installations. No doubt it was attuned with the “mentale” territories, like the inner child’s orderly quest of the key to the universe; I have done so, when left alone on the cozy northern beaches over there,  leaving displays in the sand I had spent the day to collect, Mor checking I still wore my shirt.

Katherine thinks:

All of a sudden, I feel a black hole in my chest where falls every bit of emotion darted at me through the art I met on such a sustained rhythm. It hurts at first delightfully with a grin of déjà vu backwards, it slips into place a multicoloured rubble to wash my mind in a glittering mosaic. I was a crying baby in the warm stuff Dr Schubert had let me roll in, I saw the room through my hair undone, water ran down all over my face like a shower on hot pebbles, washing away some invisible dust and the taste of blood. Sweet soft cloth wiped my eyes and my nose and mouth repeatedly while this song whirled in the dunes around the couch I am huddled on. I could hear Achim’s piano from an open window in the dazzle, he is missing, like in cancelled, nullified. The air I breathe twirls like feathers in my throat…

Hugo says:

Now I stand like the puppet master under the black veil, very mindful not to see the troops scatter and scramble their threads. The swan has ruffled her feathers around the flaming knight and now she stares unbalanced on a threshold inside her own maze. I slide my hand under her arm while Sarah dives into the dark warm eyes of Gauthier in an essay of art criticism on a German deviant artist whose idiom is boldly sexual on a high-keyed colourful naïveté, a circus parade of lust she proffers quite blatantly herself.

Katherine mutters a small moan I know by heart, to which I respond in the low, low whisper I keep for her gentle ears. I tell her anything she wants to hear, every promise, every tale her beautiful head will roll on, with a graceful flexion of her dainty neck. I am soon elated in her perfume, a blue mist on pale waters with a warm glow of her own ineffable sweat through the flowery interlace. Her pulse has settled while mine is racing slightly but we find conversation on four evocative drawings by Domenico Gnoli, inner views in a grainy brownish black line texture of comfy but “unheimlich” interiors where the weird is nesting at ease like a flying flatfish, a dodo with a rhino head in an elevator, the turkey-cat inside the wardrobe; her clock ticks back again on a list of sassy chimere in hotel rooms like a pandemonium brothel on acid.

Camille says:

Sarah is radiant when she whispers at Gauthier her impressions of whatever enlivens her dear head, she would soon be almost on tiptoes, her slender arms gently agitated. He responds with an all Greek swaying, caressing the lobe of an ear and searching her gaze with amusement.

They do not see the Fairy Maedchen when she almost faints over until Hugo rescues her and mumbles in her hair while holding her arm so gently; It lasts one minute and then she shows a smile while they move to the next room. Still holding Sarah’s hand, Gauthier inquires silently about the semblant event, in fear he lacked gallantry towards Katherine who clears the looming malaise by pecking at her intrigued pal’s lips. In a look, Hugo cuts the worrying; they break the circle and Gauthier laughs to their jokes with a smart shush none of the other visitors notice.

In a sly manoeuvre, Sarah drives Katherine at Gauthier’s side and comes by requesting my eyes when we all give our attention to a large wall on which are displayed Wols’ watercolours. It is one of the solid reasons why Hugo brought us here, because he owns a few of the artist’s frail visions himself from his father’s heritage.

Our best misses go mute and the alarm shrills ugly as they peek too close to the eerie little scapes, drawn with bare nerves on weather-beaten traces of forgotten sunsets; back standing at attention, gathering over the limited frames, Katherine gets even with Gauthier’s arm not knowing where Sarah’s hand is. Nonetheless, they all open candid mouths as they carefully scan the savage poetry infused in the small scenery. Class is beautifully focused, moreover scrawling notes and nodding out of respect, while Hugo with gold spectacles stands deep in thought at my side.

With no time to collect our spirits back from Wols’ heartrending entrapments, we passed nonetheless with no stress into the next hall where another sublime vagabond displayed large lost-and-found assemblies of scrapped materials and windfall things in some evocative manner of heraldry, the paltry treasure-trove of a stargazing spin wizard transfigured into mirrors for the sentient soul suddenly solicited. Louis Pons is a glorious vagrant reigning on a cloud of selected spiritual garbage waiting for a poetic epiphany of sorts. Confronted earlier in life with some eyesight impairment, after a profuse career as a draughtsman, he bravely reset his talent necessities in the desert countryside, hunting for fool’s gold and stars left behind.

Now everyone’s loin was aching because of the still trampling, we ran to a coffee stand where Katherine found some plinth to lay flat on while I worked on Sarah’s muscles, leaving the only low chair to Hugo. The three of us girls did the egg, the lowering sun shined on our casual crotches.

After dinner in a garden roofed with jasmine we walked to the house through the silent shadows of the calle and campi, meeting no one. It was rather early and Hugo offered a drink. The house had been tidied and a gardenia bush reigned on the coffee table. He found bottles of Asti wine and tall glasses, but took una bottiglia e due bicchieri in one and, grabbed my hand and pushed me to a little door in the lobby behind which a small stairway led to the roof. His face was against my butt when we climbed to the altane under the starry night. He simply said we should let the kids play and started to undress me tenderly, pushing his tongue in as many folds as he could open. In the warm summer night I was so ready for that.

For years he has always been eager to please me however I feel he owns me, the forlorn little tramp they sent for lust and he nurtured as an enchanted doll because we could. The learning and the debauchery grew together like roses in a yew tree, and we could be couple with more than us two, couldn’t we?

He played with all parts of my body as I laid on a lounger like a fascinated slave. He kissed my mouth with a delighted energy and finally was in me strong and deep and I let go of me and fled, giving away my hips to his assault, rushing my pleasure to his will. When we moved no more, he reached again for my mouth and licked my face, then he wiped my body with his shirt and laid along me watching the rising moon. We heard unmistakable sounds from downstairs.

Unheimliche watchman ©katherine-sophie

Unheimliche watchman ©katherine-sophie

Gauthier says:

I know coffee machines, I will make this one work, I am the only one alive and it is not so early. I can’t remember when I collapsed in a cloud of oblivion, between in the midst of the most recherché scents mingled in girls’own intimate musk, feeling I had wasted five years of my life before last night. These two are like hungry trouts in a mountain stream, fins and bites all over my skin, and how did they pull my hair! I checked in the mirror but my face is smooth. To be part of what they feverishly do with each other is a trip through layers of sound and colour in a endless plain of blue fur, with sugary fireflies into my eyes and brains… that’s what I would elaborate, leaning on the window sill.

Hugo says:

The smell of fresh coffee has drawn me to the kitchen to discover the cute ass in a night blue robe of a slender golden headed Gauthier watching outside. I grab one cheek to annoy him and test. He’s not very fast to react, he must still be under some spell I suppose. I make some noise, thank him for the coffee and find some cookies in the cupboard. We sit across the table, he really looks like the satisfied gentleman with a little ember in the depths of his dark eyes. I do my best to tune my body language as to alleviate any fear or interrogation about the night as it was.He sends me an affectionate look and says he must go back to his hotel to get ready for the day, I ask him to show up at the Arsenale at lunchtime, otherwise my girls would be devastated. Voices and watery sounds come from a bathroom, he goes to dress and leaves with a radiant smile under his explosive hairdo. I like the boy, he fits in Katherine’s game gently and the more partners the safer she will be. Languid Camille shows up in grey silk, her hair hastily bound in a luscious bun from which wild blond curls jump in every direction; I open my arms and lean back to make her sit on my lap and we kiss. She smells of dry hay, incense, amber, little girl’s sweat and the sun in the morning air. She stands up when the two turbaned odalisques push one another in the room and cajole her with bits of songs and small talk. She searches the moist freshness in their necks and gives tiny cat kisses.

Sarah says:

I shared her with the golden child!  Barely done with a meticulous toilet where he found the door opened, befell a charivari of lips, tongues and bites at lecherous random to the tremulous brood! He has the pale skin of a girl and the hair of a bonfire, he smells of lavender, orange, tobacco, musk and a grain of boxwood in a French garden. While she was devouring his mouth I licked and nipped and tongued every carnal hideaway I met on the spendable lopsided bodies. I forced my pointed tongue between his butt cheeks like a frantic slut and he opened wide so I could execute an utterly whorish pepper leaf while he moaned faintly.

He suckled her little breasts, meanwhile she spread ballerina style and I cobbled with both of them so avidly into one another. He was in her but my mouth carefully gobbled his balls , I felt her four fingers entering my vagina like she knew how. I had to free the cavalier who started to ride high on her, splashing her thighs. I crawled to her ecstatic face and drank her cries from her infuriated lips, feeling the strong pulse firing her glorious head in a wild song and then hoarse moans as she gave out and cuddled into my neck.

He collapsed on us but he wasn’t finished, wanting my willing mouth. While she kneaded more in me, he made me restore his young posture, his pale pintle again fierce playing in my throat then from behind in me after her diligent tongue, he fucked me as a boy with determination, drenching the busy lout inside my dripping vagina. She helped me take off and fly finely while he pushed deeper and deeper and gushed lavishly inside my submitted ass . He stood there clutched to my panting body, our breaths soothing back to normal in front of her lusty eyes. We gently mopped ourselves and went in another mild shower, lapping at each other’s face..

Katherine says: 

As soon as we reacquaint with the boy, we overindulge like slags in full bloom and he wins as the irresistible ruffian with the stretched sugarcane. He fits brilliantly the wanton side of Sarah’s just as he whelms mine and yet he remains as gentle as a dawn jonquil.

She has not yet shown all of her slutty gifts, she dares me to whore better than her tight apple of an ass and it feels like gold on my soul, a fucking redemption of my sloppy rovings in the filthy culverts, why didn’t you hit on me stronger before, Sarah? Yeah, booze was all the evil, and you tried. Now I want you to drink my tears.

Claude C Varieras - Moonlight over San Giorgio.

©katherine-sophie – Moonlight over San Giorgio.

Camille says:

Different shades of white, linon, cambric, batiste floated around the three of us, covered as little as Canovas as we headed to the boat stop under the Salute. We soon had to dive into a thick summer crowd, Hugo holding me close as he pushed his way backwards. He wore an impalpable ivory wool veil and I let his body feel mine. He reached his pocket while smiling, then fought to get my wrist where he acrobatically clasped an elegant bracelet of art deco, gold and blue enamel with diamonds, flat and supple as a caress. I could not help crying like a little girl and hid my face in his neck.  He played with my ear lobe for the rest of the trip to the Arsenale stop.

Katherine and Sarah held hands in the sun on the way to the Corderie, I took my telephone and shot pictures of their graces babbling, wishing I had a finer camera. The lighter one wore her hair free in waves of the fawn shades and her look dived into the blue porcelain buttons under the dark curls of her accessory. they both showed moving touches of lust under their eyes, I wondered where the culprit was.

I thought I would never wish a deeper rapture and breathed deeply, almost again to tears. Hugo pressed my arm and said he would like a book to end this way, right there, waved his hand and turned to me like he would smell a flower. I offered him my neck. My telephone in hand, I hailed the girls so I could photograph their smiles. The small sandals performed a disorderly dance and Katherine’s bag’s strap wrapped Sarah’s slender waist for an immortal second.

Canaletto. Entrance of the Arsenale basin.

Canaletto. Entrance of the Arsenale basin.

Sarah says:

The Old Corderie is an endless corridor in the middle of which still run the rails of the twisting carriage for the spinning of ropes. It houses all that can’t fit into the Giardini under its renaissance industrial architecture. Today the exhibition starts with the complete marionette theatre of Prudence Sheridan, some fifty almost life-size figures in exquisitely crafted phantasmagorical accoutrements, an outlandish fauna of unbeknown monsters and eerie monuments of decor made of driftwood and tatters of riggings all blackened and surmounted by sheep and poultry skulls. Prudence has always lived in a Swiss institution and is not capable of confronting the normal world, she would be found confused, raped, starveling and stricken each time they tried so her family maintained her inside the domain of Plaincourt in Rougemont. As a highschool student I had visited the famous hospital and seen a short play with the bewitching puppets manipulated by other patients in black overalls and masks, the feet being tied to their own; the words had been incantation formulaic fragments projected with brash energy, I still remember feeling personally concerned in a weird conjuration.

So I instituted myself speaker and imitated what I had attended, the gestures and obscure litany when the attendants began to move and I reckoned I wasn’t a success. Katherine pawed my waist and wanted more of the mumbo-jumbo while she gazed at the poor intern until he blushed. Nonetheless I knew many details the catalogue didn’t tell, like how she found driftwood in the Swiss mountains and skulls and all sorts of wrecks and rags; I had been told how some fellow inpatients had participated in assembling, sewing or all kinds of efforts on the magic herd of Plaincourt. It had been studied in our own collective conception for the year-end opera at Saint Loup and I was almost stricken again by emotion in Katherine’s arms.

The puppets are hung onto metal fixtures in the pose Prudence had indicated. The heads suggest mostly fear,  angst and rage, with white pebbles painted as eyes, often more than a pair; under large dark nostrils wide articulated mouths show white pointed teeth. The material looks like sculpted wood but I know it is rubble and waste mounted with resin then glazed in numerous coats of acrylic paint. She has seasons, at random, for her crafts, and will make eyes for sometime, then heads, hands, costumes, whatever saves her from suffering.

Prudence maintains a deep relation with her brother Leo, who lives in California but he visits almost monthly, and he is the discrete purveyor of all materials his sister asks. Skimming the internet, he hunts and conveys loads of rags and discarded clothes he washes and stacks into crates, he is so well known at the Goodwill stores in San Francisco that they keep a special stash for him. She told us, in her peculiar feeble voice, that he could find sixty kilos of old buttons once, and all the comrades at Plaincourt suddenly felt rich and wore buttons on their hats and jackets; only one insisted on swallowing them.

She builds the puppets on a skeleton of branches she finds behind the garden fence, she handles tools safely and watches on them. She sews bags over the wood and stuffs them into the shapes she sees, no one is symmetrical, it’s a lame crowd of trolls richly adorned. The monstrosity of the bodies is refuted by the meticulousness of the trimmings on the many lapels, tails and folds. One thinks of a troupe of Elizabethan jesters on drugs, a party of obstreperous mongrels in a fit of sugar rush in the theatre wardrobe.

Moreover there is an obvious reason why these manikins are seldom to be seen, and it is their sexual crudeness. the formidableness of the represented genitalia. In coral and pink and lilac and mauve supple chiffon, the vulva with convoluted labia majora, minora et furibunda outface the timorous viewer, so do the scarlet velvet dongs prancing on their ripe mangoes.

During our visit to Rougemont, Prudence had a crush on our young crew and she maliciously led our hands inside the soft satin pouch vaginas where we could find treasures like gimcrackery, religious fetishes, medals and coins, seashells and marbles. She gave me a lizard brooch that must still sleep at the bottom of one of my bags. Does the Biennale staff know these provocative slits are full of wonders?

Since Prudence acquired the savvy of the sewing machine at the supplication of her brother to the management, her designs have sleeked up in details thus rendering sensuous volumes like wealthy plumages next to button-clad fenders of carapaces.

During  the healthy trekking in the Swiss mountains she combs the streams for white, clear or unusual pebbles with which are made the eyes and all sorts of barbaric jewels she inlays or hangs around the costumes, strings into the opulent wigs like unknown crustaceans in strands of dulse.

Hugo is transfixed and squeezes Camille’s waist but yet Katherine remains unquiet and so I soothe my explanatory zeal and I knead her shoulders to help her breathe, then wraps her chest and heave a little sigh behind her ear, to what she turns and kisses with a long shiver.

Katherine says:

Sarah holds my heart in her dainty slight hands, she whispers to it, she cuddles the shaky animal. She is my life in a luminous pact that I already broke once but each time I catch her eyes to tell her, she kisses me silent… She makes sure my lamp is burning over the calls of friendly souls in the works presented in this beautifully huge space. My body still humming from the night spending, my soul is fortified by the comprehension of so many successful expressions, be it from the prison of self or society. We feel committed to their testimony, the urge of a singular vision against the harrowing dominant media beasts. I slip my own mild despair in a secret hollow within the soul of these unacknowledged authors and poets, I blow a feather of my chest in their inextinguishable breath. Overwhelmed, I pull Sarah in a video booth and devour her mouth in the obscurity.

Hugo says:

Now we have a decent cafeteria in the middle of the Arsenale rooms. We lost the splendenti ragazze two or three times in the dark rooms, then they would hold hands like little sisters or behave in front of dull types. Finally Gauthier shows up in an ample deep blue silk shirt that causes hums around the the table when he kisses everyone. Even in the broad daylight he sports a faultless natural smile we all stare at with a tad of envy. The table is round, he sits between the two fairies where the trap is set. Over a rich display of antipasti, we share any informations about the collection we went through, he is remarkably knowledgeable, Katherine swiftly grabs his hand when asking questions, I can see what key was the music last night and I smile. As he has felt some electricity leaks around the adorable kid with grey eyes, he prudently asks, because he remembers the chaotic nonchalance of their school state of minds, if they enjoy the displays of intimate alchemies. With a smaller voice she explains that it is where she would stand now, that the easy one-liners and the shallow philosophy of pop fabrication have pushed her once to the brink of naught and that she moves back to an intuitive craft of introspect, something like the surrealist quest only she still can’t eschew her own bent for prettiness. She says nothing more about Berlin, she leans on Sarah in a tender move. She smiles to me. Gauthier holds her arm on his thigh.

Gauthier says:

I joined the merry troupe at the Arsenale restaurant. They looked happy to see me and the gazelles had already framed me. Lunch was delightfully light and I did my best to learn a tad more about Katherine’s volatility but it was off my reach, something had happened between graduation and recently they did not wish to share, it was a cloud in her Baltic eyes just before that generous smile of hers. She did not notice three fellow students of ours staring at our group from a few tables away, With my eyes, I asked her and she promptly composed a face of glassy disdain. I turned to Sarah who smiled swiftly throwing a look to the other group. After coffee we explored some of the shows, some rather quickly, seated for more coffee under the Armstrong-Mitchell crane and we sailed across the basin for more Chinese artists. I told Hugo about the avoided meeting, he told me I should be happy I am the exception, he grabbed my wrist and looked at me in the eye.

I begged them not to miss many more things in the Arsenale, but I was afraid it would mean another day on tracks, I was thrilled with Sarah’s young days encounter but I was engrossed with her booty purse when she spoke and I was a little afraid to raise concern with Hugo. When I told them about the voodoo ceremonial costumes, the eight Towers Of Consequence by Adonon Truvent of Belgium, six meters high of beaten scrapped metal richly painted originally protecting his modest cottage from a swarm of ghouls who wanted his unique blood and semen, the three hundred nude photos of the same unknown woman, found in a London  attic at an escheat house, the hundred obscene ex-voto painted by a retired policeman in Urugay, and eventually more, notwithstanding the papal rooms of the Holy See.

Sarah says: 

Rudika Sainz Is a lonely old Princess who lives in a flimsy antique house overlooking Trieste, attended by a few old unswerving gnomes. She unrelievedly tweaks together bleached branches, trifles and treasures inside scavenged window frames. There is no overall pattern to her finicky arrays which spread flat like an enchanted foreshore. Lace and antique long gloves appear to swim amongst the structures, ribbons of passed colours and distressed jewellery, strips of lovingly painted and illuminated scriptures run over the forest of intricate desires like cries on a battlefield. Rudika Sainz is said to have fed her whole life on bread, olive oil and goat cheese from the farms she owns and for which they constitute the only rent; no one knows her age, she does not allow photographies except one of a blond adolescent girl in white in the midst of an olive grove, flaunting a radiant smile.

Katherine says:

When Bertille von Schaavingen died in a backyard house in Lüneburg, she wasn’t found before two years, her body had mummified under a garnet brocade she had pulled over her head before swallowing the poison that killed her. The first summer had been horribly hot, so she dried entirely. She had asked the post office to withhold her mail.

In her crooked but tidy home, the walls were upholstered with her drawings on different kinds of papers, mostly ancient wrapping material and discarded maps from a nearby repository that the war had destroyed since. With pointed pencils of which she had stocks, she drew an infinite lace over the whole surface of the sheets, and sewed them together to continue on the next, some of the surfaces were room-size. As it happens, no one had known about her life, every month she cashed a discrete alimony and survived on bread from the backdoor of a neighbourhood bakery.

Behind a tall glazing in a moderately lit hall, from the mental webwork on the uneven surfaces randomly tied together emanates a power to swathe up the mind as if physically, the eyes lose the measure of proportions and the picture plane dissolves, if you will. I read and scan an attitude of lovelorn longing woven in an overflowing veil as a cosmic mother, a relentless prayer of grief spinned as wide as her distress. My solar plexus is drawn into the flow as I breathe through her meshes and stitches, then I feel a consoling hand on my neck and a word in my ear.

Camille says:

Not only Ai Wei Wei is all over Venice with bland political installations, but painters, sculptors, draughtsmen have been brought by planeloads with the demented diversity produced by a boiling continent. Like a symbolic Catay of the arts, the new revamped spaces on the north shore of the Arsenale basin offer hectares of fashionably trashed industrial background for an “everything goes” of Chinese creation. Some boring mimicry of western contemporary paraphernalia, some genuine visual quests bringing the Chinese touch to a new unheard tune. We were beginning to hurry through the halls because of saturation, but Gauthier took Katherine’s arm and pulled her to hot spots he apparently knew already, behaving like a Chevalier Servant for both his beloved amatoriale. When our minds refused to consider anymore stimulation, Hugo showed us to the back entrance where we waited for a boat. He said we were going to the Lido and dinner at the Hotel Dei Sogni.

Sarah says: there was this pontoon in the middle of nowhere at the back shore of the Arsenale. Afar were the cemetery like a forest of cypresses and Murano on the left, the long garden of Vignole on the right. The sun cast long blue shadows and a honey shade on Katherine’s skin I reached through slits I knew in her dress. She whispered in my ear that Camille had a new bracelet on her wrist, so we gently giggled and Gauthier blushed, I pulled him by a button of his shirt and we both played a little naughty with one of his boyish ears to share the news. He said he had seen that but did not know it was new. Camille, a few steps away, understood and laughed, bending on Hugo’s ear causing a fine smile.

One of those quaint little black boats docked and we climbed aboard, sneaking into slots on the stairs to keep our heads outside, which made us hug each other tighter, encouraging a cool petting facilitated by the leaps of the boat on the waves. Hidden by Gauthier, who breathed in Katherine’s neck, I easily slid my hand into her panties and she helped. She gave me a quick kiss on the lips and one of her bewildered gazes I welcomed with all my soul while I diligently played her warm cunt. Then she had enough, turned around laughing to our faces, pressed my hand and kissed Gauthier’s mouth vigorously. The boat was on her way to the Lido now, the waves were a little steeper and we needed both hands to stand up. I would have wanted to fall down to her feet and clutch her beloved legs like a mere pet, but I did not do it.

The Lido station is a harsh reminder that the automobile-ridden world never stopped while you dreamt in Venezia, and that buses do not dance like boats.Fortunately, the walk is not too long to the sea and the Hotel. We walked through the old fashioned Liberty  salons and corridors, but Katherine wanted to go to the sea first, so we climbed down the stairs to the beach that was being tidied up for another night. After a few days in the middle of the Laguna, the Adriatic seemed roaring at us and smelled of maritime life. I stupidly watched her footprints being washed away, then we all held hands like children. She took some strange black stone with holes through it and put it in her bag, many shells were also black, we gathered a small collection of them. When the light greyed we came back to the restaurant for a misto di pesce with many sorts of verdure and some Veronese white wine.

Claude Varieras. Hotel des Bains beach, Venice Lido

Hotel Dei Sogni beach, Venice Lido ©katherine-sophie

Hugo says:

This legendary hotel will soon die as a social mill and become a beach resort for the retired. I will keep the picture of my little crew graces in their relaxed attitudes and sweet tomfoolery under the rich tablecloth, their young voices climbing the lascivious double entendres with the irresistible flavour of a pinch of German accent. Now they are playing on a pad with Gauthier showing them something funny. I turn my face to Camille’s bushy blond hair and breathed her perfume as a reminder of last night. Her hand finds mine as she softly leans on me.

Sarah says:

Her intuition was right, Gauthier is an harmonious companion and I always feel like biting his ears. He has sweet adventurous hands while his black pupils ask mercy from you. He has a fast clear laugh and bring these shiny smiles to her wonder eyes. Would I lose her to him? She’s like the new prairie in spring, covered in flowers but still unsafe with water if you can’t fly!

An Hotel boat sails us back to the main island under the moonlight. Camille and Hugo embraced on the inside seat, the three of us outside playing a shady hunt on each other’s bodies, as the pilot pretends he doesn’t see. We cross the Mole in a steady low hum under the Angelo of San Giorgio to our apartment.

Everything is tidy, gardenias smell their lusty dream in the dark. She pulls the boy on her over the sofa’s armrest while Hugo and Camille get some wine and glasses. We watch them undress each other piece by piece slowly, I join them when she is naked, to sing a second harmony, then I draw them to the shower and the song gets soapy.

Later, when we have licked every nook and recess with swollen lips, when the copper swan has sunk into a lake of slumbers, I caress her darling head and feel her silent tears. I break down and slid along her side, drinking all the Baltic sea from her eyes between my hands, whispering infinite forgiveness to her trembling mouth. She finally falls quiet, exhausted on my breast, and I feel my plexus exulting colours on her resting life, a high strung vibration of my self abandon, I see the starry sky.

Camille says:

I heard low voices from the living room, Hugo had left the bed, he was speaking in Spanish with Gauthier as I saw them on the couch, his hand under the dark silk of the robe. He raised his eyes on me when I stood at the door but he did not move, Gauthier was in his thoughts. I swiftly reached the coffee machine behind the couched and looked for breakfast. I saw myself in the dark glass door of a cabinet, my thick hair deployed around my bizarrely smiling morning face. I went back and gently sat on the couch’s back drinking my coffee. I do not speak Spanish, but I liked to watch. I lightly passed my hand in Hugo’s white hair.

Sarah seemed heedless, she half-sung an old song. With her cup on her cheek she came to lean on my back, letting the fine fabric faintly sigh, I gave her a caress of my neck, she moaned something in Spanish and they all laugh, Hugo tightening his grasp on the boy who threw his head back, reaping a deep kiss of Sarah.

Claude Varieras - Silk gown by Frette.

©katherine-sophie – Silk gown by Frette.

Sarah says:

Last day in Venice, Hugo is having a gentle crush on the golden child who does not shy away. With Camille we decide it’s shopping time, even if it’s out of season, there are some magic dens on the other side of the Canale Grande. The tall daisy appears with much hesitation, I jump on her and greet her precious mouth, I release her hair and read her sleepy face, she laughs childishly. She lowers her eyes down as if to keep her night dream alive, my hands are all over her in ample circles, I bite an ear lobe.

My phone is full of messages from my Far who is bored in a meeting, alone in a restaurant, waiting for a plane. He has seen I am in Venice and wants a report. I write bits and raves to make him feel good, I tell him I’m happy and safe, once more he swears we’ll meet soon, I write a garland of kisses. Katherine has read over my shoulder, it saddens her eyes and she grips my belt.

Gauthier gives her a dancing hug and a fervent kiss, breathes in her neck, then he says he has to leave for an appointment in Frankfurt tomorrow, that he will be in Paris in a few days. Katherine feels with her hand there is some sincerity in his will to meet again, she fights his face with the tip of her nose. He flees the hands that want to grab him, flashes a big smile and he’s off.

Hugo is glad with the morning mood and tells Camille to “take care” of our hunts, to what she nods playfully. Everybody goes to dress, I take my girl to the shower and wash her with praise and sweet milk until she fights back and starts to describe my whole body with birds names. I headdress her in a crazy bun, line her cloudy eyes with a grey pencil, pinch her tits one last time and she’s running.

Claude Varieras - Chapeau blanc, Venise.

White flourishes, hatter unknown, Venice. ©katherine-sophie –

Camille says:

fresh and perfumed, we climb the Accademia bridge towards the labyrinth where delicious little shops await for our trade, many of which in the middle of the off season shuffle with boxes in the way. The two girls scan the hangers with their noses up and the most serious expression on their muzzles. There are pleasant trials when they pull blushing young salespersons in their girly games, some stealth touching even. In a grey and grège boutique the expensive sheer fabrics and chiffons are kept under watch in shady coves propitious for an intimate mood and loose moves, i sense an ongoing shenanigan behind a leather curtain and see stuffs falling on Katherine’s feet so I retreat with Sarah, letting the shop manager enjoy what the CCTV shows under the counter.

With a number of bags around us we sit at a tea house in the quiet calle, Katherine has brought a flaxen wavy haired clerk from that shop nearby and I know she gazes at the pale skin through an absinthe web of linon veils. Lichen green eyes and a small rosy mouth drawn by Leonardo, the girl must be in her twenties and is called Fanny, in the course of the animated vesture digression, she offers to show Katherine some of the new stock, and they go back behind the leather curtain, leaving us bemused.

Sarah and I talk about our pet pupil, her mood swings, her unabashed angelic style with the backlashes, her maddening charm. Sarah is a fierce believer in Hugo, I have no restraint on that, to spread his wing over Katherine who sank in a pool of sorrow, a grave of despair and absurdity. She agitates her fine hands with firm gestures and her dark blue eyes cast an inner shade on her selfless love, then smiles with a wise spark as she kisses her own hands.

Against the light, It’s obvious Katherine doesn’t wear undies in a whirl of a light chalk grey multi layered dress when she returns with blushing Fanny, to whom I pay the expense, she writes on a notebook page something she gives the young one, holding her hands for a while and telling her to come and see very soon. She then turns to Sarah’s blue gaze and opens wide her jade eyes as if to show she hides nothing from her. Fanny has to go back to the shop, she mumbles a few words, looks at Katherine behind curls coloured like winter reed, slaps her knees and runs. The two of us complain and inquire about that lustful booth, the peccant girl is dazed when she learns about the camera, but Sarah’s hand already eases up under her dress, she mutters the kid was delicious anyhow.

Gualti, Golden Pleats, Venice

Gualti, Golden Pleats, Venice ©katherine-sophie –

Hugo says:

As in most ports, the atmosphere is sometimes a tad noxious in Venice, with parenthesis of jasmine and roses, but there is some more subtle vapour uncurling along the fast-decaying walls and cornices, and it is lust. The ubiquitous murky waters, gradually stirred by the tide, contribute to a feeling of closeness to the life of others, an urge to breathe the soul of the loved ones. I did not foresee all of the baroque drapes in the carnal drifts we allowed ourselves along in these few dreamy days. My precious dears had needed an unworldly leap to give a chance to Katherine’s new hope, and they danced gracefully, with Sarah pouring all the magic she knows into the promise.

They come back in a small cloud of giggles and swishes, moves and poses in the new rags, in the bewildering smell of their youth and the transmuted fragrances. The game is set with with gusto, they dress and undress in and out of laces and knits as I lay on one of the couches admiring.  After the parade Sarah is at my side and I grab her handsome head, caressing the shape of her high forehead, her Sèvres blue eyes deeply set in the orbits, her low cheekbones. I am engrossed with that pale face for a long moment, after what I kiss her deeply as she lets her slender body sink into the leather cushion. I pull her skirt gently up to her belly, she wears no panties, I push her legs apart. My wise little girl Sarah looks smaller on my arm, her eyes fixing mine, my lips caress that quiet face of hers I will not leave.

Katherine has plugged her pod in the room’s system and starts a soft Julie London playlist, then seizes Camille for a languorous embrace and soon finds herself nude and spilled apart on the other couch, shivering under a storm of unleashed blond locks on her toy breasts, her pure delicate twirl, her mad honey thighs…

I lick Sarah’s neck and chin and ears, her skin smells that scent of animal ravage with elderberry on a rainy morning. Her boyish features are now rested and her eyes travel afar. My tongue fiddles along her lips illuminated with a feverish madder glaze. She lies still at my will, throws her hands behind her head. I rip my clothes off and slide along her backside, holding her nape and playfully fighting her vivacious tongue, while on the other couch I watch my mad angel convulse in a cloud of petals around the voracity of Camille whose round derriere shows its glorious plenitude. The great survivor moans gracefully with bits of some languages in a foolish mumble that moves Sarah to tears I swallow, and then I feel I can push myself into her, letting her skilfully drive the dancing, fondling her maiden breasts.

In turn, the dievushka is taking over the shiny blond bush and biting the tiny soldier as if the world was ending. Camille intertwine her fingers through the waves of tan silky hair, caressing her cheeks and earlobes, exults with a high note, losing her breath under the assassin’s rage, recovering with vengeance in mind, overturning that sleazy vermin she just used, gobbles the baby bald rill, athirst of shivering tremors and bittersweet dew, assaulting the tummy and womb with the hard pointed tongue through the skin, ultimately mangles the hunkered rosy pearl for victory and laps up her premium on her fingers.

We gather the utmost bliss of cumming together, measure for measure a long unravelling shudder I had not been expecting while I pour all my colours into the song. Back from the mingled bathroom, the couches smell like a brothel on a farther shore after the pirates have spilled the loot

Camille says:  

Are we not spent and hungry on that planet? The icebox has been thoughtfully purveyed by the invisible djinn, mosaic printed boxes align, bottles of Ferrarelle and Conegliano extra-dry prosecco wine, so as to let three nude graces dress a festive buffet around the camelia bush. Now the air smells of all the troubles in paradise, but I still want to lap up Sarah’s armpit like in a dizzy spell of seaweed; she doesn’t pluck off these little fluffs for my ravishment.

Hugo drags pageboy away from me and rollicks sweetly around her freshened face while he shows a tiny pouch of red leather and asks her to open it. In the cosy penumbra we all see swift sparkles of devilish stones as she unrolls a brooklet of dark rubies lined with diamonds in white gold and I can’t help whistle and grab her buttocks. The jewel is so thin on her lean wrist that it calls for swift lechery and that is about what we all do at once, then we fetch our own gifts and pilfer sandwiches and cherry-tomatoes. With one glass bubbling in hand, Hugo is more avid of the bottoms and bellies the herd shows around the altar

At coffee with unearthly nibbles encaged in caramel filigree, we cheer Hugo about his Venetian idea and we recount all the precious encounters, all the finest jokes for Gauthier’s round and promise to come again. Katherine plays casually with my new bracelet without thinking it’s new, but Sarah wants her now and sits behind her, sliding her hands on the child breasts. Anticipating our return, we recapitulate the wishes we collected all around the laguna, each with the back thought of that tall fragile prey of sorrow we’re so in love with.

Sarah says: 

Only Hugo saw I cried, and he drank my childish drops of emotion to that perfect  narrow slit on my veins. Katherine was teasing my proud raspberry pair while Camille my mistress knew how to wank me off my hinges. Afterwards we feasted on the most aristocratic delights one can eat, but Hugo was more interested in my crupper’s ravine he had gaily defiled not long ago. It still felt ticklish and he played like a seasoned soloist, I pointedly bent over the buffet to let him play a while.

He explained why we should come back off-season for the worship of the city itself, when the terrible crowds would migrate elsewhere; he promised we would roam the palaces and immerse the canals with the juices of our depravity up to the golds of San Marco, scour the windows and workshops for jewels and unexpected luxuries.

Claude Varieras - L'Eglise du Redempteur à la nuit.

©katherine-sophie – L’Église du Redentore à la nuit.

Sarah says:

Airports are secretive spaces where an unconscious split of the mind is set loose. You’ve been checked, registered, scanned and found acceptable to move further. Katherine even had the honour of being palpated over her jeans where she had left her telephone. All of us seated in those universal Eames seats where Camille brought us coffee and donuts. Our flight was later in the evening, the light cast long shadows on the runway and the air hinted of that bitter-sweet kerosene smell I liked since I was a kid.

Katherine and me sat shoulder to shoulder while Hugo held Camille’s fingers, questioning fortuitous Klimt matters. Kate wore a tan silk jersey shirt on her free maiden breasts, her face had picked some lively colours from the bouquet of our merrymaking, the sight of her mouth made my tits hard and she knew it. In the open crowd I restrained myself to gazing at the misty shore of her eyes. There were three children playing all over the vast room as if they were alone in a park. Two girls and a boy from some northern lands as their blond locks would tell. She seemed evasive making sweet comments on one of the girls who was beautiful and moved graciously.

She said as kids they did not travel with her parents, her father has been a distant figure in a grey suit caring only for Simon when he landed home. Once a year, though, he drove the whole of them in his grey Mercedes aboard the Hindenburg train to the North Sea Westland island of Sylt, in the big family holiday house in Kampen. There they would meet a variable number of aunts, uncles and cousins in the mostly windy dunes, and fed themselves smoked fish she hated.

One of the lot she loved, with long hair and tortoise-shell glasses, Achim, who called her Fee, Feenhafte, Fairy, and played exuberant improvisations on the grand family piano. When they walked in the sand and the sky was grey, he would sing and she would watch him as in a rainbow. One day, the weather was still, a mild fog under a little brush stroke of blue and they sat in a decline of the dune looking at the low tide, he was describing a ballet he had seen, singing the music and showing the dancers with his long hands. She was dazzled, dizzy, distraught, holding her breath and nesting as close as she could against his tall frame, easing her body in the sand. The music came to a finale, the theatre burst in a warm ovation, Achim caressed her long hair, held her shoulder as if she had wings, then took her by her arms and restrained her a little away, cooing with a half smile that she had brought him to a dangerous state, didn’t she know, and that she should keep safe from adults so ostensibly happy to see her. He clasped her arms along her chest, he kissed her very briefly on the lips and lifted her to make her fly while his erection would melt down.

After that intimate sparkle, they had been openly passionate friends, arousing jealousy and perplexity, but winning their peace with enlightened laughs. At the end of the year, in the bland emotional desert that follows Christmas, her devastated mother told them Achim had killed himself in a car accident on the highway.

She wanted to die for months, on top of what came her periods, she lost appetite, worried everyone at school. When they returned to the sea, henceforth without her Dad, she did not leave her room for days, listening to Mozart’s twenty-third piano concerto over and over on her scratchy system, crying out loud on the adagio. Only her mother played her grief on the downstairs piano that season.

Simon worried to see her pale off day after day. He started to sit silent at a distance, until he tamed his scrawny big sister and brought her back to the dunes and even the FKK beaches where they had been playing nude since they were babies. He sneaked under the quilt and played with her feet, pretending he was a cat.

She looked at the young girl who was now staring at her tears, whispering comments to her sister; she sent her a blurred smile and took me by the hand to the rest rooms where I hugged her and cleaned her eyes. She had that childish absent gaze through which I stole a long deep kiss to the amusement of a passing Italian lady who said something I missed. She maundered she felt wasted about Simon, the shivering sketchy images before the white blow to her face. Touching up her eyelashes I told her she might have hit some nerve and summed up where we were at, roughly, like you do to an anxious child. She blew her nose, nodded, meddled with in a slight grimace, stared at me and asked  for my help. I held her hands in her back and moaned softly into her neck.

After a stroll in the shopping alley, we went back to our seats with a box of macarons, of which she offered to the blond heads who gave us a polish dzieki and flew to show their loot to the parents. I told her I had met no one like Achim in my vagrant childhood across the many places I went. My father was a diplomat and he loved me as his darling Princess, but they had a busy social life and left me under the guard of nannies and embassy personnel.

Some nights I did not feel like sleep and tried to amuse the poor sentinel who watched TV in the living room. I was alone once, my brother would have been away, there was a Harald, on whom I gave my best vamp routine, my twelve years old body under a blue nightshirt and my bare feet on the marble floor…. ( there Katherine sneaked a hand to my knees )… He was laying back on the couch and I held him under a rolling fire of questions while I went giddy in his Old Spice scent. He was freshly shaved and his brown hair was cut very short military style, he carried a heavy black gun under his left shoulder. Laughing and fidgeting, I almost climbed on him when I felt his robust hand clutching my thigh, to what I responded by loosening my legs at his will, looking up in his eye. I said no more, his hand moved to my bare crotch and his fingers slowly visited each nook in my tiny garden, lightly brushing over my first down. Still reading my eyes, he lifted my shirt up to my shoulders and I dived to free my head and show myself nude along his side, approaching insensibly my mouth towards his face until he kissed me, and again, feverishly, and my neck, my baby breasts and all of my body while he was opening his pants and holding a frightening penis I had certainly not foreseen. He opened my legs wide and pointed his tongue all around my capucine and its bud while he was vigorously shaking his peter boy with his hand.  I was having a devilish pleasure I already had known with girls and some women but stunningly stronger with the deadly fear the huge shard would kill me. Then he roared on my womb to smother the noise and came back to my mouth in a lavish kiss.

Then he shut his look, drawing back his trousers, watching me with dread, naked with my tousled hair. Catching some breath, he whispered he would die in jail if people knew what he had just done, he told me I was beautiful, desirable, and I should never again do what I had done that night. I jumped on him, hugged him and said to his chest that nobody would ever know what had happened, that he had been kind to me, delicate and caring and that he had given me pleasure and I would never tell. He fetched my shirt, passed it over my head, my arms, carefully covered my body and stood there, staring at my eyes. I fled to my room, hid myself into the quilt and slept. I never heard of Harald ever again.

On the flight, we slept holding each other, it must have been a tender sight to watch us, we had shared beads of our souls in the nowhere land of perpetual forgiveness.

Claude Varieras Sunset Clouds over Italy

Sunset Clouds Over Italy ©katherine-sophie

3 – Katherine Sophie – Perfect Fifths

©Sarah von Ketteler - Plexus
Sarah von Ketteler – Plexus ©katherine sophie

Hugo says:

Camille wanted to stop at her place near the Luxembourg park, my two antelopes were gently moony on the back seat of the rented car amongst their many luggage. The  driver smiled when I tried to wake them from my front seat. They had to collect the precious cargo to the house hall where Lena the caretaker helped carry it upstairs.

They joined me in the kitchen where we drank Ferrarelle waiting for sushis. We did not care to take the rolls out of the glossy black boxes, we picked like storks. The house had been cleaned and polished and smelled of roses and wood. I felt some new bonding between the girls and refrained my attitude to watch it happen with eyes, hands, shoulders, there even was a very simple kiss.

Katherine came to sit on my lap and told me how she was grateful for the trip and all that she enumerated to Sarah’s amusement. I touched her adored skin under the shirt and let her head rest in my neck. Sarah said we were appealing, we all wanted our bed.

Sarah says:

On an eye signal by Hugo, I pull her gently towards the bathroom and undress her with method, strip down myself and hold her under the shower with puppy bites wherever I can reach. Mutual shampoo gives an astringent taste to kisses while many fingers chase the traces of the day all over the magic land of skin. The hot water is endless, we take time for the loofah thrill, the razor and the nail clipper, then it’s time for a generous serving of soothing baby milk and patiently drying her hair in the scent of geranium-orange. She lays face down on the fresh bed and lazily plays with my crotch as I spread her strands around in the warm air. My own locks are easily dried through her fingers while I try to make her succumb to enjoyment. Nosing each other all over across the lavender linen we drown holding together in the whirl  of slumbers, my mouth still kissing her ear.

Katherine says:

In my dream, a little girl plays a diamantine little Bach fugue on a concert grand piano. My father is sitting on a gilded chair, in a black suit, with a handkerchief over his face and a small dog on his lap. I can’t see the girl’s face but I recognise a satchel under the stool and it’s mine. My mother arrives pushing a baby stroller, I run to her as I want to climb into the pram, but it crumbles in my hands into a flurry of toilet paper that soon fill my mouth and choke me.

As I wake up, I realize Sarah’s shirt stifles me as I have been sliding under her arm. I jump back shaking my head and she moans. I throw the sheet away and watch her, pointing her arrogant little round butt to me.  From her slim feet to her boyish head she sprawls in a secret province where my fingers dance so lightly she will not even wake up.

She is the one who will hold my head like a casket of gems, a tureen full of birds, a basket full of eggs, a poem of my whims, heavenly or deadly. This morning she smells like a riverside childhood, as I leave our enchanted bed I kiss her feet and pull back the sheet over her up to the nape.

In the kitchen, I can’t decide between coffee and tea, the generous motherly smell of arabica or the intimate ceremony of Darjeeling leaves. I put on a sweatshirt and tights, grab a bag and rusk to the bakery for fresh croissants and to the newsstand for some magazines. Back to the nest I make coffee because now I need to dip the croissants. Opening the window I note the sound of Bach somewhere and I remember the girl wore a grey gown but no shoes on the piano pedals.

Inevitably, a rumpled and tousled Sarah appears as soon as the coffee scent has spread in the apartment and catches my head on her warm vale as my magazine falls. We stay embraced
for a minute then i sing to her belly a silly rhyme on one of the Bach lines, sailor, sailor wants to fuck, open your creepy little ass, she bursts and presses her tongue in my mouth while she twists my tits.

She comes sit on me as we dip and drink from the same bowl and read the same magazine and we rub our heads against each other for shivers.

Sarah says:

After a short warm-up in the gym room and a duckling fight in the shower, we donned jeans and shirts and climbed to the studio with our Venetian booty of books and paper. It was clean and tidy, with boxes and bags on the tables and around. First we made some more coffee and she put on The Well-Tempered Clavier she had taken from Hugo’s collection.

We sit across that huge heavy table, the day is bright and one wall is splashed with light, I pull a white veil across the sunlight. No sooner a critical issue raises, inasmuch we both are right-handed albeit there is one window, hence we swivel the table a tad and roll the chairs on the same side. No wonder our concentration capacity is in danger, but we have seen through this.  At worse, there would be room for two tables.  As we cogitate architecture, I lay my feet on her lap and she grinds my toes in her lively hands.

There are easels along one wall and floor lamps but not seats for anyone else except at out feet, it will require some conspiracy to obtain comfortable installations, no doubt we can do.

As she was reviewing the notes she had jolted on the Venetian books, I fetched my pad and opened my mail. Apart from all the messages that went straight to the spam box, there was a small poem from Hugo

Lilac and bees know not sleep nor sorrow in the newfound garden of your silent sheets. Music to my eyes and wind in the dream you run as I suckle your toes and your lover soughs a lace of colours on your temple. Languages have flown with the brood and the flags again gesticulate in despair while our kisses shutter the fields of dawn in a spiral of never ending chemistries. I want to die on the pearly rainbow inside the heart of hearts, let the echoes roll to the end of your words.

By the time it was sent we can tell the author hasn’t slept long. Katherine has received it too and reads it slowly for me so softly so I need her smell and I dive for it.

then  some news from Gauthier, who expresses his passion for our recent games and says he will be in Paris four days later and wishes we could be together again.

She has cancelled all presence on the web since the last days of Berlin, I feel she might  quietly start a new life in the networks now, after a good formatting of her laptop, or even from a new pad. We discuss the technicalities but she shows no enthusiasm, She begs me to keep playing  proxy for her in that realm, her eyes straight into mine but focussed on her faraway fears. She drops her pen and comes to me, kneels down and pushes her head in my crotch, breathing deeply, warming me as I hold her tight between my opened thighs. She doesn’t cry, she now pulls me up and takes a firm kiss on my willing mouth, dancing on Richter’s spell. Then we start mumbling in each other’s neck and finally laugh and put the coffee machine to work.

Sarah says:

We opened the considerable catalogues we had brought from the Biennale and soon we rummaged through the articles and images as we had done for years, only now I could not help groping her like a squirrel on a tree.

Sssh, she said, letting me do, and we read for a moment, aloud, in turns. When I reached her waist button, she called me slut in German with her childhood Hamburg accent to what I told her she was a Frenchman’s bitch and ripped her of her pants. She pulled me on the table and disrobed me in a matter of seconds. I excited her with schoolyard dirty talk and she played serious, giving an imitation of her father speaking like a butcher while biting my thighs and fig with foolish rage.

Back to reason, we invade the catalogues with each our post-it notes, she scribbles quantities of notes in her notebooks. I’m obsessed with her butt and I write on the cheeks a delirium she can’t read. When the sun has turned we draw the veil off and we celebrate the powdered sunlight on the Paris roofs with the Louvre afar. I tell her many times how deeply I love her, that I can’t think of any project she would not be acquainted to. She asks me not to make her cry, grabs my hands behind my back and make me surrender. She mutters I will scare her guts if I need her so

Small quick knocks at the door and Camille comes in with faint cries of admiration, she jumps on us two with murmurs of indulgence and finds herself stripped according to the current rule.  Her fragrance of wisteria, lime tree and amber fills the room, her opulent hair is a deluge of sensations on my breast as she lays me down on the scattered books. The other tall bird again takes advantage of my feet. When she’s had her satisfaction, she asks if we have been working and rummages amongst our papers with signs of approval, she burst in laughters when she sees Katherine butt cheeks covered in writing! We end in the running water with the disorderly application of feline care, no gentle cove left unexplored. After the blessing of thick tuft we gleam like glorious children, we run to our apartment to dress and give our faces a tad more sinful allure.

Hugo says:

They have sprung up like a stream on moss, splashing little drops of joy all over my palace. My precious Berliner antelope right away showed me her behind written over with arty sentences and lewd appreciations, I had to sit down but took a bite on it.

I had ordered dinner, in their short dresses they unpack, warm prepare and draw up, then we display a Baudelairian cacophony of porcelains, crystal and ancient silver all carefully mismatched. Katherine lights up the candles with a disarming gravity while I crave for her graffiti ass.

James arrives with a large portfolio and tell the youth there will be good paper to waste. He gets kisses on the cheeks and tells each perfume with implied flattery. We sit around the table and tell our day up to the point he has to fetch his glasses to read the caboose oracle by himself and arranges to be granted freedom of a little grazing, at the pretended outcry of the table. She hides her living archive and laughs it would not go in the shower so Sarah will have to lick it off, everybody offers some help at that.

The Coulibiac is a princely miracle, Camille has poured the clarified butter in the little paper funnels. A Meursault giggles on the papillas as I contemplate my dreamy tramp in the rich light. Sarah and Camille bring a “suite baroque” of desserts on a large silver tray while we change the plates for Murano glass and I open an old château Pernaud that reminds me of my father. Spirits are high, the pastry girls lick each other’s fingers and James watches in awe.

Then I see in her eyes the fog rising and her face lose any liveliness, I stand and reach quietly for her hands, draw her to a silk couch she knows well, kneels down and press her silently, giving a small sign to the others not to pay attention. Espying the grip of liquor into the filigree of her parched plexus, I tempt to untie her hands’ nerves and feel the angst loosen its grasp. Eyes closed, she lets me spread her wings and knead her dread like heavenly dough till I read more serene shades on her candid face.

In an awful German speaking who always made her tender, I tell her to cry on me, which she does, abundantly, making the two sisters hasten to her, helping the crisis with a feather-light devotion. She unburdens her soul without restraint and I selfishly rejoice she did not move away from my arms. Now we need the tissues, her eyes capsize in the flow, I kiss her forehead, Sarah sneaks in to drink her tears, she reaches for her mouth and mine, she kisses her life back, she quivers and recovers her breath and, damned, I’m aroused!

Blooming again in the full youth of redemption, her soul will remain unguarded when faced with the venom side of alcohol; the cure has untangled the reason from the prickles of remorse but also rinsed and bared out the chemistry of exhilaration. Incidentally she kept a slight but fierce addiction to a very common anxiolytic drug but, now on, after the Berlin lunacy, will have to keep aware of consciousness back firings, which seemingly spare her lewd penchants blossoming on clear water.

Has she sensed her own echoes in the rhapsodies of the Corderia? She acted struck on her course and since then glints have loomed up like fireflies around her adulated head.

Camille says:

We should know, this was coming, she twirls in her emotions and snaps like a baby. Perhaps these are happy tears as long as she can find us to cry on.  when her sobs eased off she wants long deep kisses from Hugo and sways on him with a deliciously indecent energy, opens her thighs and reaches for his cock as we are all interested in the show.

Aroused, Sarah slides a hand to my crotch and starts to play, she’s intense and willowy, I always admired her hands and feet and her nape under the short hair, I want her to hold me as she firmly does. Releasing the tension of the dinner, she throws herself onto my skin and disrobes me with a beautiful know-how (she will be a skilled craftswoman of her own design once she finds her choices). For now, I have found her ass and love it, I want to make her moan with my tongue.

James is puzzled first, he leans and caresses my hair, then ventures on Sarah’s coy breasts and finally falls down on her mouth and kisses her until she throws a hand back to his fly. In no time he is in the raw. On the most precious silk Ottoman,  Hugo, his clothes scattered, is fucking the fairy queen in a grand figure of abandon, legs and arms thrown apart, her eyelids still swollen and pink. Sarah is indefatigable, she reaches my joy more than once then James wants a piece of our turmoil and puts his flute on my lips, presuming I know how to play, he’s not long before he cums in my throat and I respectfully swallow the outcome. Thankful, he kisses me and tastes his own taste on my tongue. She too comes back to my face and tells me I smell like a whore, i clutch her hands behind her rump with a napkin and tell James to hold her legs apart, which he does only to suck her feet and toes, I ruthlessly campaign around her firm belly, under her arms where she cries grace, and back to her ridiculously small nest of shivering urges and the arrogant little pearl to achieve the abolition of her will in a long thrill out of my invincible caress.

Katherine is back with us in the recovered calm, Hugo plays on the system an untied nordic plaint with a foggy trumpet and a flock of seagulls, we snuggle in each other and the two old friends cuddle our beautiful bodies.

Katherine says:

Fate’s white arse has hit my face again out of the blue, it would seem, only tonight I fell in many caring hands. Wine still tastes as love’s happy tears but soon freezes over my startled mind like the winter mist at dawn. I slide like a rag puppet down to a windy junkyard full of ripped books and withered clothes and flowers, paralysed in the cold waiting for the rats to ravage my innards Any sense of my own misery I mock like the little girl on the high bridge spits on the passing cars. That scarf I bought on the morning I fled the white bed of the hospital and I tested like an idiot if it would support my weight. That smell of petrol and fluorescent ghosts seizing my body as deftly as the butcher boning a carcass with a smile in the light air of the Wattenmeer. Obscene exhibitions in the clouds across the thin skies as I shudder when the needle finds a waiting vein in my strapped arm and my soul flutters like linen on strings in Frau Hansen’s yard as a walloping orgasm erases me from myself.

Liquor wisdom etches an easy pattern in the pane of the revolving soul, as do other psychotropes, for wonderment or deception. Before I probably died, I mixed more than I could remember on top of booze, Nirvana style. Hugo loved it when I rolled up high as ghost on his lecherous scenes and asked me to wear his collections; he could have ripped me inside out any time but he proffered an endless respect even when he touched up some drops of hellish dew with a pad on my vacant face or my pouting lily.

I knew Von K. wallowed in cloudy waters, too, and her narrow hips waded into frenzied frays other than Camille’s satins and silks; they wanted me and lurked with suggestive poses, witty wordplays and troubling attentions enshrouded in the compelling magic of her tranquil blue gaze over the course of all events. Victor rampaged my soul, then, in the sleek sty where his mean prick required my bitter mouth rather than my womb while he snorted enough snow for a Xmas tree.

Sarah merely lowered her eyes when I fetched strong drinks, typically she jostled me hopelessly and ventured a sly hand on my jeans but then took off with the kind of crew Gauthier cruised with.

Nonetheless I still kept rather fresh and never reached the innermost damage of drinking at dawn other than aspirin, I liked Sarah and her scrawny little visage, her gracile and deft figure; I always craved her hands and feet and fantasized about them in an unsullied Neverland, albeit most of me is an easy sluttish harlot and the mix of V and vodka stretched my comprehension beyond all restraint in the private plushy shades my physique drew me in, lured by Ann who probably pimped me to high-flyers for dope.

Berlin had been the obvious playground for my useless skin, my father let me the apartment in Kreuzberg where Ann dared not fully operate because of Simon’s visits, and I had enough regular money to float, until the reaper showed me his grim arse up so close.

Camille says:

We did not re-shuffle the pairs after James went, Sarah took me to the girl’s bed and fell asleep with her muzzle in my bosom, I softly ruffled her boyish curls and vanished in a golden whirl.

Coffee smell drew me from a scene on a white vaporetto where a herd of excited schoolgirls sang such a beautiful song in a sparkling mist, I had to tie the knot to the landing pontoon, but the rope refused and writhed like a snake and then I was holding her fine wrist and she kissed my lips.

Katherine popped in all pampered and wearing an intricately knit multicoloured  jersey we touched in and out, she brought croissants and felt peaceful, I had some kindness under the water with Sarah then we went for our busy day.

Sarah says:

She carried the heavy portfolio brought by James to the studio and we delved into it. There were wads of different papers, wrapped carefully in a way to make it possible to close them back. James is a careful man besides being a sensitive lover, I said just before he arrived, greeted by laughters. He gave us tender hugs and held her head peering into the misty lake of her eyes for any wavelets, as he perceived none he gave us a few little kisses on the mouth and said it was time to play.

Searching around the room he said he could not see any pot, basin, vase, pan, bucket, pail, to blend and brew the colours, out, he said, we go buy cheese… We followed him down, he was wearing a timeless unbleached linen coat, jeans and leather boots. Everyone greeted him at the cheese shop and he explained we needed cheese for our lunch but also all the empty containers they might give us for paint. We chose Camembert, Pont-l’Evêque, Sainte-Maure, Comté and Saint-Nectaire, some Charente butter too, and followed a lady to a back room where she gave us choice between tens of different cream and cheese containers, we gathered what we could carry, James took care of the cheeses, on the way back we stopped to let him buy bread.  So the day started with a perfect cheese on baguette feast.

Katherine fetched our teapot for James who said coffee was too ruthless to his nerves, and some Oolong leaves, I was making coffee. She put an adamant resurrection symphony by Mahler on the system. Wearing old shirts and jeans from school days, I could tell she had slimmed, I liked the baggy look on her butt, James liked it too and could not resist his fine hands.

We show him the medias from Venice and recapitulate the whole shebang for him who walks around the room like a bear around two hives. He is eager to follow our flitting minds and mislay his hands on us, yet keeping the thread of our reasoning. It is hard to tell if his cheerfulness arises from our enlightening agreement or the ransacking of our attires. He peels me off and asks me to lay on the table so as he may sit down and lick my treasure trove. Katherine is folding my shirt in a pad under my head and kisses my mouth greedily until I feel her tears again. She says she missed me, she betrayed me and she loves me. As I raise my hands to part her hair and read her eyes, she slips down in my armpits and laps my morning sweat while James achieves the two-fingers sonata.

James says: 

Schooling the larks in mid air like an old fox pulling a mock feather kite in the blazing sunlight of oblivion, dear, they sing around my skull an epiphany of flickering embers and steal my wits like cotton-candy from the helpless peddler. Are they beauty, for all my precious remembrance, I cried at the source for the rainbow flies and they twirl around, conjured up in Hugo’s legend!

I want to read the skies of their windfall origins and lay the charts in gemstones. In all the forthrightness of their gaze at each other awaits a pearl nowhere to be found. Moreover, as aroused am I like a deer bellowing, my chest pounces at the thought of interweaving our webs for the while, on paper or gold for that dream.

I would watch out for any heavy step in the crystal gazebo, but they show an adamant surge onto their cleared out pathway so then I won’t lament on so much lost academic rubbish. For they confirm and argue their will to disavow the plain cathéchism of official art communication in which they have willy-nilly mastered, although I retain my doubts on this, too.

Of course, with the poisonous rhetorics they have been more or less fed upon during these enchanted years, they might themselves ruin the mental gossamer needlework that truly bedazzled them in Venice, all the more so that the journey enfolded Katherine’s atonement amidst the holy areopagus, exposing her denuded heart to the thistles and shards as well as the rose petals.

In their grace glimmers an immemorial victory that my dear friend Hugo has worshipped ceaselessly along with our indefectible friends, live or dead, the inner light of pure gift one wishes to pour over the soul from behind the impassable mirror, the glint in a winning metaphor at the sanctified hands of the wandering child in the horrifying tale of life.

Katherine says: 

James’ charm comforts me being an eight-years-old again, his coddling touch and voice make me flutter like a wavy cherry tree. He talks colours and shapes in the same breath he asks me to unbend on his knees, elaborates on composition invariants with Sarah’s patient laisser aller of her fern-like wings from the immarcescible point of intention into her womb, the applicable fondling of the course body arousing none other than consenting tremor and floral dehiscence with a fermata on it, as he sings.

We both happen to have learned once frame geometry in other dull terms and James brings up that whatever slant we would fabricate now to join the fray of the wild visionaries might show through and lose any moral necessity. Stroking our contours as he would a stolen Madonna, he tells about the great Max Ernst that he went to see as a young artist and how he freed a whole new school of followers when he landed in America aboard the Capitaine Paul Lemerle in 1941. Starting on the ostensive off-beat to whatever we reluctantly learned at school is as brilliant an idea as nesting under Hugo’s wing, the most infallible stronghold in Paris.

Well aware of our universal leeway besides our inextinguishable debauchery, James appraised our artistic prospects according to our daydreams but missed the tragic pages in the book. He gently reviewed our portfolios and mixed one for the other but appreciated the shared work trying to sort the hands in them, still losing his own. He asked about tools and material as he did not see much around yet, he asked us to love each other on the table for viewing pleasure.  

I feel like I have all the tokens of gold and heavenly metals my heart kept hidden and i crave Sarah’s tight little ass like a well in the sand. We told Hugo we would go out with him, but I want a little sip first. James is gone to meet Camille, I grab my pageboy and invade her ever trusted mouth with a demented tongue and then in her pale moon until she sings my song. She has no time to reward me, she makes my hair in one of her extravagant buns with old tortoise pins and a tiger eye. Watching myself in the mirror, I spy any rumour of an outbreak when she carefully reaches my plexus with her tight fist and gently rubs out the angst.

( … )

Katherine says: 

It’s a gentle evening with some easy swirls of wind. We wear both Tana Lawn Liberty gowns  like country maids and invisible sandals, she is jay blue sprinkled with tiny ultramarine venialità, I am lichen grey sprayed with an indigo murmur. Hugo wears a night blue pinstripe suit on a white crew neck shirt and looks like a writer. I want Sarah’s hand, kiss the wrist where sways the line of gemstones over the shades of her veins and I like to sense her pulse with my lips. Our realm at the suspended second when all lights balance with the raising Venus over the favrile Grand Palais shimmers under the watch of the heavily seated family in white byzantine drags of the Sacré-cœur. We cross the Seine on the passerelle Senghor and walk through the Tuileries to the Palais Royal garden where the city noise vanishes.

At Germain’s a table waits for us at the entresol, in the willow green and off-white luxury of a lookout near an opened window. Ironed tablecloth, silverware and crystal exhibit their glistening turpitudes in the shining of rock crystal chandeliers like flagrant sexual preliminaries, foremost when Sarah surreptitiously hands a teensy frill of silk to Hugo who scents the oblation and slides it on his heart; he inquires about James’ visit and we tell all, snitching about the free rides he allowed himself on our defenceless epidermis. He sees that as a pledge of commitment to us should we require any.

When the waiters feel they can approach they uncover some witty compositions exhaling the whiff of seaweed, I am recalled to my dunes and the summer games with Achim and Simon. I have to tell Hugo those sketches of my childhood not to seem sad at our dinner, entire days nude in the cosmic light, as playful as a family of otters. The food is fresh, lively, diverse and surprising, I do not drink any of the Chablis but my jay boy and me are so excited when a parade of sherbets lands in the middle of us.

Sarah says: 

As Hugo seems regaled with our afternoon master class, I tell him my interview with our professor Y. regarding my graduating memoir. Liselotte – at that name Katherine muffles a laugh – had told me in confidence he could help sort out ideas in the desirable order, if I went to meet him privately. She said he wasn’t as mean as he seemed. I asked for an appointment at the secretariat and appeared at his office with my suitcase of drafts and sketches, unsure of any philosophical conviction whatsoever. He wryly asked the point of my visit, tacitly acknowledging that I had never given the slightest hunch of being a diligent disciple of his. He was one of the outdated critics of the Ecole De Paris era, and some of the disbanded groups of the eighties, but the rumour had that he kept an intellectual influence amongst the ambient anomie of our days, and I could use any. I chose to lay my cards on the table and he remained silent.

After more than a minute, he went to the door and turned the key, so I began to guess I was going to get shagged on the rag by another senior but I did not budge. He quietly offered his guidance for my work under some minute conditions I could easily refuse at any moment, and the first one was to pull down my jeans to the knees and then my knickers. I was slightly dumbfounded for sometime while he waited behind me, then I hesitantly unbuttoned my pants and pulled them down as he pleased, then my white panties. My black shirt was now covering me down half-thighs so he asked that I strip it off too. I had many buttons to undo and I felt rather violated albeit I had been exposed numerous times before, even with unknown onlookers.

He walked to his desk and asked me to show my documents. I was awkwardly impaired but he did not seem to care, only he watched me drag my feet stupidly towards him and display the contents of my case without much conviction. He removed his tweed jacket and hung it neatly to a bentwood coat hanger, without ever losing sight of me and my pubis which started to moisten.

He told me to fetch post-it pads in the drawer on his side, forcing me to turn around again for him who stepped backwards some. He asked if I carried some pen, I didn’t, so he said I would find a new one in the center drawer. I started to reckon he wanted to leave no physical traces on me or my belongings, so besides the humiliating dance he required, and the thought that I was printing my hands all over his desk, I executed his demands easier. He had eased a notable willy out of his fly but he did not come any closer to my jolting bum.

One by one, I browsed my best attempts at contemporary communication and he distributed the posts according to the colours from red, which meant avoid, to blue, good or green, put to annex. on the yellow papers he made me scribble quotes and references, from Kant to Deleuze with their precise use in my essay, and I began to consider he was really helping me out, put apart my ass he was jerking to.

Suddenly, he told me to sit down in his chair and open my mouth, held my head and reamed down to my throat a few times and spurted his cum so deep I had to swallow, which was not very new to me. When he was sure I wouldn’t spit he released me and we had our first eye contact. Straight away he said the work wasn’t finished, but that I could take off my shoes and pants. He had wiped his now limping drill and closed his fly. He told me to sit on my papers and spread my legs open, giving me the best of tongue recital I could think of, asking me to expose my little frowned snail, which I found was a brilliant metaphor.

Two days later I cornered Liselotte in the deserted plaster cast storeroom and with some upper hand I retained over her, I unbuttoned her pants and bared her bottom before we speak. She understood the reason of my rage and mumbled some excuses, saying she had thought I was beyond getting offended by such games, Y having been a tad more demanding on herself. She was prettier than I had considered, with a dark fringe over short-sighted green eyes in thick rimless glasses, I verified her bushy delicacy and found it quite wet but I left it there.

When I asked for my next appointment with professor Y. I was quite taut and adamant that he owed me that conclusion. He looked conceitedly intrigued when he saw me at his door wearing a floppy down to the knee sleeveless black dress and sleek ballerines, but he turned the key in the lock. He cleared his throat and said there would be a new arrangement to our small artistic trade, if I agreed. Considering my silence during a few breaths he mildly ordered me to pull up my dress to the waist and nervously noticed that I wore nothing over my impeccably waxed pubis. He asked me to stand in the middle of the rug and part my legs slightly, the black wool rolled into my arms. He stood long silent minutes behind me, I guessed by tiny swishes he had already freed his slim flesh rod. He ordered me out of the dress, which I obeyed in one quiet movement, walking to a distant chair to lay it on the back, then back to the previous position, opening my thighs a tad more. I had seen him beginning to wank softly.

He said he had been thinking of my ideas and after all reckoned they worked rather well. It was a metaphoric prospecting of the human skull, mainly mine in the visuals, intentionally mingled with the vocabularies of inner conscience and psycho-babble. He wanted to know how I obtained such an hypnotic blue on black prints of an eerie scientific imagery. Matter-of-factly I answered that Professor Wolfsohn was a friend of mine and I had been his preferred guinea-pig for a publication about the role of skull bones in different pathologies. Noticing my patience and amusement when laying nude inside different scanners at Lund’s university, he had given me a full suitcase of of my own head and body as a blue phantom.

Now I was wondering how Y. would have memorized my messy draft so well, and a shiver in my exposed body made me search for a camera eye which I spotted through the base of the ceiling light, then three possible angles around the room packed with books and stuff. I said he was recording me, he did not answer, but told me there was a twelve page sales pitch readily printed by an unidentifiable printer and software if I wanted it. I kept silent for at least three minutes, thinking of my attitude in the video, and he came close to my ear, making me smell a perfect mix of lavender and ylang-ylang, and feel the beat of his fist against my butt. He told me to walk to his desk’s drawer and open the lowest on the left, thus making me show my secret cleft open. Inside was an oblong maroon leather box he told me to open, It contained a hank of black horsehair clamped inside a heavy piece of black wood I didn’t take long to comprehend.

He told me there was a bottle of very sweet slippery balsam in the drawer, so I could anoint the precious ebony before I slid it inside my young eyelet to hold my lustful tail like a proud filly. He would have been disappointed to learn how many times I had been diddled in my gentle cinnamon twatty, but I acted as if it was new and painful, contorting and retrying until the long strand caressed my shanks. He commanded me to walk and trot around the room and the tail remained in place in my toy gap. He said there was a grey envelope in the center drawer of the desk for me. I fetched it and read, in the pure deliberately priggish prose, my own claim to a unique intellectual distribution of unforeseen affects, influences and impacts. Anyone would find food for the mind, only remained to find the means to print my material wall-high.

I laughed and swaggered, he told me to open the third drawer on the right, take a refined black leather leash and collar to buckle to my neck, a little more tightly than I first did. He asked for the handle and guided me from one corner to the other, then leaving me standing. and finally ordering me on all fours. The carpet was soft enough for my knees, he held the rein short and patted my buttocks as a reward for my frank laughs at his bout of critique pastiche. He caressed my breasts and complimented my reactive nipples, forced his hand to my dripping glory, palpating my thighs and belly like I was merry meat at his will. He wanted my legs more open, my back more arched, I felt he was pulling the shaft of the tail out of my stretched bung and no sooner took its place, still pulling on the collar while tumbling fast my aghast womb. He drenched my whole entrails while I squirted on the rug in all liveliness, I stood annihilated with my butt in the air as he was using perfumed wipes to clean himself then me like a mother cat her kitten. When I left with the brilliant paper in the grey envelope, the tail was still huddled up on the carpet with the leash I had been wearing, there was a noticeable stain in the middle of it. On the way to my home I stopped at a café to wipe my tingling bell and check my face, my eyes had their whorish glow so I went back to school and found Fulgence in a studio, I let him know like a bitch in heat that he could have me any way he wished.

Although some of the Olympian Areopagus scented a sway in my essay “Pantheon Of The Wastelands”, it was lauded by all. I did not go back to Y. office, nor did he show any interest in me, but I ravaged the body and the mind of Liselotte one night when she told me all the shenanigans Y. made her do, and who else in the school had trotted around with a tail up their arses, stood with their butts up in a corner swallowed or wanked the spiritual wand of their master. She boasted that he took her out to parties at outer Paris houses where she herself was kept on leash with the tail in place and she had to follow him on all fours, dragged from masked guest to the next for being used till she dropped. Some nights she had served more than twenty times, having been cleansed a few times by other girl slaves. These depraved carousels were the apogee of her season, watching Sarah on video had been a milder thrill. Anyway she reckoned I had not been cheated in the deal and made me admit, with her fist inside my fanny, that I was not injured.

Katherine says: 

A piano has started to improvise, I realise that I never paid attention to the otherwise ducky Liselotte, and now her lecherous traffic providing Y. with student slaves arouses me, I tell Sarah I would probably have booked an appointment if she had disclosed the scheme to me, then. She reminds me we weren’t sharing such perilous secrets then and that it took a while to creep into each other’s pants.

Hugo takes his little notebook and scribbles the details of what we say, obviously enthralled by the game he discovers. He asks Sarah if she gathered any idea of whom the players would be, apart from Liselotte he sure now would ardently wish he knew. She has no idea but understands the request and promises she will inquire around, Gauthier might even know where to find her.

One of the waiters has a keen eye on me through the maze of antique mirrors; black haired and dark skinned, he is cut like a Nubian warrior in his immaculate livery, holding hands in his back. I walk to the restroom with my best German demarche. I sit and pee and caress my bunny in the mind of Sarah’s tales when I notice a tiny gap at the small door labelled private where a black eye is eagerly peeping. Feeling suddenly a tad reckless I plainly show my leaking cunt by opening my thighs, causing the door to gape enough to let me see a memorable shaft he tosses with diligence. His eyes sway sideways to invite me nearer and then he asks me to help while he hold my chiffons up. His erection is bold and fiery, I wield the circumcised courage in due celerity so that no sooner he grabs his cute glans to shoot his wad safely. He still holds my frock and draws my mouth to his and sucks my crazed tongue. While he wipes his hands the scent of sperm goes to my dizzy head. He whispers in my ear that I could meet rich men down the narrow stairs behind him, at once surprised, I smile and take back my candid garment and return to my seat.

. I must have been quite a show because he soon ejaculates inside my throat, choking me red. He kisses my forehead while zipping up and leaves. I wipe my lips at both ends, his jizz has the bitterness of weeds you should not put in your mouth when you are a kid, it becomes more palatable after I swallow my saliva a few times, then Sarah comes in. I tell her I just sucked a dick, her eyes darken, she holds my head and tastes my mouth, her hand tries my wet clam, so I push two fingers in hers and make her sing to the surprise.

Back to our table, Hugo senses something, she pull her chair next to him and tells him and laughs to his round eyes. He wants to taste her mouth, too. He picks his notebook and writes the details with her, then he kisses her hand and the other one goes under the tablecloth.

Sarah says:

She is fully a slut, and it makes her beautiful. She has a radar for vice. I would have liked to see the scene in the toilets, maybe somebody did from behind a mirror. Back on the Senghor footbridge she holds Hugo’s arm and I take her waist and we walk the same step as the night’s sighs rummage our near nakedness.  At halfway we lean on the glass guardrail and contemplate the waters and the cityscape crowned by the glassed vessel of the palace now full of the amusements glitters of roundabouts, towers and carousels, making the foolish verdigris quadriges flee the turpitude in the air . A bateau-mouche sails under us ablaze with floodlights, turning the river banks into a ballet of salt figures with long blue shadows surrounded by the dubious glare of a sodium city. The golden Pegasuses of the pompous Alexander bridge proclaim whatever they rut for in their own pure beams. The sensitive new moon follows Venus down to where men will never know.

No sooner back in Hugo’s lair he denudes us and and washes our feet in the bathroom, kneeling down on the tiles as we embrace like honeysuckle lianas. Robed in a deep purple robe, he leads us to an oriental room where Lena has cleaned and hoovered the carpets so smooth to walk on. The lights are dim and strewn about.  We sit together and he worships our feet keenly, she falls asleep on my breast, I caress her face, her forehead like she was a child. He slowly unfolds her legs across the leather couch and drinks at her mystic vale as I feel her loosen her strengths and weigh all abandonment on me.

Pulling her at the edge of the cushion he slowly swives her quiet night lily, wangling some faraway murmurs I drink from her lips. Then he reckons that she’s gone and turns to me, I am still titillated by the remembrance of Y’s nifty manoeuvers thus he finds my hooded refuge frantically hospitable under the Fairy Queen’s enchanted haystack of a sleeper. He gives me a good humping and I come very soon as he goes on and she rolls into a ball with an ass. He shoots deep into my vibrating womb, freezes his tension for a minute and sits back on his feet with a great smile grabbing one of my feet. Then he draws me to the bathroom and cleans my body thoroughly with mock religious manners,  entering me with his careful fingers better than I would myself, or so I get the impression.  Back to the couch Katherine sleeps with a naive smile, so I decide to entangle myself in her and sleep there too, on the narrow sofa, until maybe we drop. Hugo spreads an Ikat quilt over us.

Katherine dreams:

My mother has let go of my hand and she has disappeared, only a puddle of water is left on the tiling of brown and grey arabesques of the vast room. One side opens on a thick, dark forest where silent whirls shake the tiny foliages. From the shady ceiling hang infinite rows of yellowish lamps around which moths stir dust making noise and some sort of backwards music.  The left wall is lined with a long queue of coats on hangers, under tall windows with black curtains. On the end wall is a décor of small cut-outs representing clouds and air planes and birds. There is a massive desk and a lot of brooms leaning on the wall. Looking at the forest, I can smell the odour of rain. Faint giggles come from the desk, on whereupon pigeons have arisen. I want to go and check but my shoes are stuck to the floor so I draw my feet out and lose my beige socks. The pavement feels like tickles and I run to a group of boys, Werner, Hans and Gunther from my class in kindergarten who circle me showing their tiny stiff penises and ask to see my bird. Lifting my dress and lowering my panties in a cumbersome maneuver,  I tell them it is not a bird, it is an eye. They touch my little chubby slit with doubtful sounds, I refuse Gunther because he has dirty hands so he calls me a parakeet. Werner says he needs to pee, I say I need to pee too so we walk towards the forest, and I wake up holding Sarah nested in my neck.

Sarah says;

She woke me in the middle of the night with a tender kiss and jamming her knuckles on my plexus, we went to pee and somehow wiped each other, then she drew me by one of my nipples to our bed upstairs and spread out for me to lay on her. She had dragged me  out of a rich dream I wanted to return to, but I had lost all the clues.

There only remained the Cypress and Musk fragrance of everything Hugo which invariably transported me to San Miniato overlooking Florence. On a September day with Lawson just before I joined the Beaux-Arts and later met Katherine, as It was the first time I lived full time with a man and he showed a very expansive passion, our days all arranged to a fuck, he had wanted fellatio in the small cemetery by the church, the air was lewd as such and carried the fragrance of the cypress trees. He exploded in my mouth and held my head firmly while he penetrated as far as he could to ooze in; I was no rookie to that sport and had learned the soapy stale flavour of cum, said I, and he laughed. After that week I deemed the boy wanting, again someone was merely using me as a wimp and I was deprived of my share. I tried to make him comprehend but all he did was to look at me as a nymphomaniac. I masturbated alone thinking of my Saint Loup lovers and preys, then headed to Paris as perverted as a society maiden. Long after when I sucked Hugo dry in his perfume I beamed when he dared bless my mouth with a sway kiss, then devour me in a well earned return which rattled every nerve to the tip of my wings and radiated a stardust of echoes.

At the UN international school we had an art teacher in the small grades. I figured he was in love with me. He was Ecuadorian and a glorious mix of many bloods, his long black hair combed back and his almond shaped eyes inviting a young tomboy to confide blindly. Once he said my skin was so white it certainly tasted sugary and I was overwhelmed for the rest of the year. At the time I was so thin I kept the same jeans while my legs grew tall, my butt was firm and round and some of the boys would grab it. Apart from the art teacher I watched girls, my height giving me some edge on younger girls. Rufino Would take us out to the Museums and try to pass on some arcane to a herd of bright kids. A school bus would carry us along the straight cliffs of Manhattan to the temples of metropolitan beauty. Along with a few of us, I was the keenest to listen to his explanations as a mean of seducing him, but as he was always checking back what we had understood, I had to really follow his teaching otherwise I would have found myself dumb and blushed dead. I did not know he was a hell of a teacher, but today I relive emotions he let quietly blossom while I was in the vaporous realm of childish fascination. Only once did he hold my hand in front  of “The Rest On The Flight Into Egypt” by Gerard David, which he said brought him to tears and I watched his eyes, as a little brat I was.

I do not sleep, my dream has escaped, she sleeps like a rose, I worry. The first time I saw her she was overlooking the Seine from one of the school’s studios windows on the quay. Someone had told me she was the other German student, only I wasn’t one. By the way she was holding her head I shuddered and swallowed my saliva. The tips of her fingers on the glass, she had her quiet gaze I could only see from an angle. That day she smelled of lavender lily, In German I spoke in my father’s family, I made a comment on the view, she moved her head but not the shoulders, her back was straight, her neck fascinated me. She granted me of one of her princely glances and the conversation clutched up in French.

We chatted all the way to the Rabat-Joie, a café near Saint-Germain l’Auxerrois  where we traded all our whereabouts and gossip. At the time I lived in the Cité Universitaire near Montsouris and she rented a flat near the Père Lachaise cemetery. That day, I could not leave her, I had entirely forgotten my schedule, she gave no signal of boredom. I wanted her but It took some time to get closer to each other. We had success each on our side and we were not shy. Older students or even teachers would get in our pants almost for free but not for long. Sensitive types like Gauthier remained off our scan during our parading months.

I met Camille at a vernissage the UNESCO sent me to and she offered me a well paid part-time job with a lodging near the school, eventually a snug nest in her well frequented bed. Katherine began to see me at the gallery often, we were a decorative pair touching our computers at the front desk and the owner liked it. l peeped at her cleavage and pants, her bloomy complexion panicked a whole army of my pulsions when she moved near.

My first victory occurred on one evening when some bounder had slipped a date and she was vexed. She drank a little too much and I invited her to my room in Camille’s grand apartment. I gave her some Indian tonic because she smelled of beer, we peed each our turn while chatting in the bathroom and that aroused me hence I devoured her mouth before she could button back up her fly. She was stunned for a few minutes, then her mouth responded and her hand went for my coochie, so I started to pull down her jeans which made us fall on the bed and rush to strip down everything; she was moaning joyously. I had pined her so fervently and now there she was offered, availed with no restraint so as I turned her top down and back to front at will for my hungry mouth. I offered her two or three sex toys I had and I exhausted all the batteries in her garden’s waterholes, on that first night I was the one who ravaged her and she was the one who enjoyed. We finally fainted out, I slept my face into her hair.

Someone is biting my toes and licking the soles of my feet. I growl happily. She draws me out of the bed, I want to pee, she reaches my frowned rillet and then tastes and kisses my mouth with the salty flavour. In the kitchen there are one bowl of coffee and croissants, I sit on her and she calls me a boy with tits. She cuddles my flat chest and raves about my skin, I wish she was a boy, too.

( … )

Sarah says:

James arrives with a bag full of goodies and books with a wealth reproductions we already knew for the most part, the point being to populate our new den with that stratum of civilization we reportedly craved during our Biennale trekking. We aren’t rookies by long, but as James says, we have been corrupted all the way to cynicism by the spin doctors of modern communication and our souls hang by a gossamer net of small intuitions its ours to keep. We engage in a game in which we review random artists in the pile with  crude market criteria and we flatten all of them like hayseeds in a ballroom. Our experience at Camille’s “L’Etoile Amusée” has mainly born upon collected pieces by a private clientèle of highly-educated patrons to whom secrecy added motivation to their scouting; as quiet attendants, we gathered little science about the core arcane trade she masters. She never shows at auctions and doesn’t speak to critics and journalists, until Hugo contrived his conspiracy of free deliberate outcasts, she would keep her communication as sibylline as politeness allows, or delve deeper with a prospective customer behind closed doors.

He brought along a collection of wood, metal and plastic pencils of graphite and colours he says were given to him as samples. I don’t know where my own toolbox was misplaced, and Kate wants new toys. in any case it has became easy to shop for nifty supplies on the internet when our crafty minds will sail.

James insists he solely wants to help because we are breathtakingly beautiful and gifted and that we should not hear his professional tone, whereas his hand ransacks my pants. Gradually, we commune again together on 25K art because it shimmers in Kate’s morass as the grail she needs to quench her cloaked despair. When she scans inwardly some of the works we brought back from Venice, she turns to me and secures her feverous forehead in my neck.

Around twelve, James runs for supplies at the utmost fresh vegan deli and brings up three green boxes. He grumbles again about the missing chair and puts me on his lap with distinction, letting his hand under my shirt to my twin mulberries. Kate brews some very clear tea. She says she wants to draw, in a way to wipe off the years of conditioning she breathed willy nilly since art school, or gather a papier-maché circus of all those who skimmed past her, or fill boxes with ex-votos as repositories to love gone by, a soul inside her chest. She wants to join the faculty of the errant prospectors for crafted metaphors of perpetual redemption. Grasping the ghost of her thought, she swallows and runs to the shower where we hear her cries in the flow. Leaving James slightly taken aback I join her and manipulate all of her dismayed plaything back to order, under James’ delighted eyes.

James says:

Hugo was right, he has garnered new treasure, not only the carnal delight and the alternative guise, but the sheer fondness of their relationship. I could help them, they have been through the trappings and delusions of art teaching and they are still alive, I would assuredly attempt a few remedial sleight of my own hand. Katherine is the one who summoned the fevers. Camille and Hugo recounted her sadly predictable ordeal and the recuperative conjuration. I don’t know who redeemed the poor soul but I could send him a lot of clientele. Now the lost one has a devoted team and she doesn’t seem to resent it. I could make plans about them, but I should cautiously reveal my field of practice, let them gather some crystals, first.

Sarah says:

we assembled downstairs around shiny black boxes of Japanese food and tea in Imperial red porcelain. Hugo questioned indefatigably about our reflections and pledges, unbridled fantasies and golden slumbers, he scrawled notes on one of his logbooks without commenting; I can’t read his handwriting. Camille joined, in a colourful American Indian inspired dress short enough to display her thin thighs, I wore a white men’s shirt on black leggings and Kate sported a black tank top which merely kept the twins home. We did not really know what we ate, only it was fresh, green, maritime and spicy, we traded the boxes.

At the end of the picnic, Hugo went to look for a small, young, dark red garçonne cut haired girl carrying a bizarre cello case. She had wide dark eyes and a triangular face with a small butterfly of a smile. Hugo introduced her as Malo and disposed an ornate black chair covered in red velvet in the centre of the room, and started to take one by one all of her clothes, which she let him do, responding to kisses on her little mouth. Her body was slender, her waist high and her insolent sprouting nipples caught the light as opaline doves . She showed no abashment and when she crouched to arrange the small metal plank where the cello’s end pin would rest, I liked her demure runnel vale. She seated and parted her legs around the glistening wooden playfellow, held the bow and neck in one hand while she slowly unfolded the wee smile to her exposed lips with the other hand, looking at me.

Candle chandeliers warmly bathed the room, and when the bow touched the strings for a baroque volute we were all struck. In the smothered acoustics of the room, she liberated an intimate voice flow from the weightless board, her finger touch firm on the ebony shaft, as little vibrato as needed. After a few heartwarming pieces, she flew on improvised patterns while her audience behaved according to Hugo’s example who was conscientiously undressing the languid dryad beside me so as to delve deeper into her sensitivity stealthily in the long shadows. James had already entered Indian territory and Camille had widely surrendered the holy well in the vale to his feverish devourment.

Malo governed the lento debauchery at the will of her dexterous hands and I radiated the frenzied intentions of my unleashed petty sanctum to her keen eyes. However she tamed the snakepit of our canoodling and the whispers vanished for the stirred motives of her heady slides, although the stags remained erected like little boys in joy. She threw her arabesques like silk ribbons through an appeased evening snow and the little girl outlines the dancing colour with tentative moves of her red mittens under the lonely light bulb of a Danish farmyard and I could not hold back a poor snuffling.

The magician had grasped my submission to her spell, and so she flew me to the land of my blue chimeras and griffins, her gaze suffusing my indolent body with impalpable harmonies like drug-induced raptures still looming in my brain waves from the moon pond of innocence. The creatures sailed across rippled azure prairies where pizzicatti sprouted in swarms of incandescent carbuncles, dragons flaunting splendorous nymphaions of satiny flesh or shuddering linchpins gushing pearly swirls all around the vault of my resonating skull, like a ballet of swans astray in the deserted dome of my windy head.

Katherine rolled over my side and kissed my teary face, rescuing my languorous wreck from the metaphoric swamp of bygone pipedreams. As Hugo humped her quietly from behind he held my head and made us kiss while Malo stitched a counterpoint of arpeggios to the sway and swoon of our frantic heads; she preened my sweaty dove making me tilt my legs up, inducing a sensuous glissando as if the musician was already playing me in the flesh.

She finished diminuendo to our rave flatteries, she rested her instruments and shut the bullet proof case. Hugo, still inside the elfin sheath, held an open palm towards her cunning smile and asked her in. She knelt against Hugo’s back and pulled a small lecherous tongue he tasted. Katherine spread her thighs so as to let Malo fiddle in the idler garden iris so drenched she soon pushed her fine hand onto the wriggling hammer concealed in the warm silk folds. Climbing over she reached my mouth with her soaked hand while threading the other one into my own blithe flowerage, hurrying my wail with a winning grin.

James had coveted a galant opportunity as Malo offered her pale rump as smooth as a grand magnolia flower, drawing Camille to the main disturbances, he skewered the virtuosa so swiftly she screeched and no sooner moaned on the push, her hands into both of us. As she was rammed ostinato by James’ considerable bow, she fell over me and dived into my eyes madly, sucking my tongue out and mumbling her desire. I recognised Camille’s gentle way into my back alley and squirted my holy froth into the brazier together along with the willowy charmer.

As both men raged into Malo’s talented rills, I jumped on Katherine’s face and straddled upon her gaping visage for one of her thoughtful talks and she translated live what Camille was infusing her inwards with, her hand into the other nestbox. She was so convincing that I poured a little drop more on her lips.

The astounding stampede left us all dumbfounded, ecstatic and heavenly redolent. Hugo’s shower was overcrowded like an aviary on a marketplace and some frantic deity still had fingers in my every self. We filled the cleansing enema with rosewater and serviced each other like nuns. We shared a celestial supper of petits fours, macarons and fruits raffraîchis, Malo’s performance was the talk, Hugo and her had obviously known each other for a while and he sounded proud of her instrument. Everyone wished to caress her again but she sat on my lap. Later, she went to Hugo’s bed and I pushed my Lady to ours.

Kate dreams:

I’m sitting on a bench at Sophie-Charlotte Platz station in the Berlin U-Bahn. I’ve been waiting for a long time and no train comes. Two men, but identical, walk swiftly and silently to my bench, in grey overcoats as if they were in a black and white film. Now they wear hats and I can’t remember if they did before. They take shiny steel devices from their pockets and move symmetrically to one another. One hat falls and rolls to the tracks, now my fists are tied with the metal contraptions I cannot watch as I lay on a heavy table in front of a panel representing a dull yellow train. Hands tear my clothes back but the twins don’t move, then one of them comes down to look at my face very near, and puts a finger on my mouth, it smells like a pencil. The hands rummage between my legs until I pee on them. I see tiny black bugs running on my belly while the men, who are now three, spread sugar on my body keeping their eyes closed. I hear the rain in the tunnel and a wooden merchandise train arrives with the noise the lift made when we went to see Grandpa when I was little, and my dad wore new black gloves of refined leatherware. The wagon door opens and dogs jump out barking around the table at the grey men who became an army and walk back in order. The dogs come at me and eat the bugs that are now as big as my toes and come out of my vagina as a girl quiets me down and kisses my eyes; each of her kisses spawns a grey moth tepid and smooth over my skin, she runs with a clickety sound across the now immense bricks and dust room but I can’t follow her because the moths have threaded into ropes that tie me loosely to the table. Simon looms up from behind my heavy head, he wears faded blue shorts and his knees are tanned, he holds a camera stuck into dust and wears one of the old hats from the attic, sun bleached strands flutter on his forehead; one of his eyes stays fixed as a spinning wheel is reflected in the dilated pupil, he smiles on broken bloody teeth and turns away. Like under an invisible rainfall on the gigantic wall appears a fading fresco depicting a raging battle and it moves like a film; little nude girls brandishing wooden daggers run after wafer-thin cavaliers, reminding me of an all too familiar sentiment when I look down to my crotch and see a tiny weeny dick that terrifies me. Simon ran to a door which opens against the far corner, followed by a squad of mismatched technicians in yellow overalls reading unintelligible formulas whereas the little girls jump from the stormy battlefield and dance in the thick grit. A yellow train sweeps in on a concealed track from which Sophie-Charlotte gets off with a pack of hounds that mingle with the girls who ride them with piercing shrills and tiny laughs, she walks to my side as I try to move from a heavy mantle bustling with large moths and kiss my hand when her wig rolls and she falls asleep on the bench; I can’t tell she is Sarah von K.

Remains a hook of distress because these are the first images of Berlin since I left. I slept upon my left arm so I seem unable to move it but life flows in and the moths vanish. I ask the crouched animal there if she has ever been in the U Bahn but she mumbles she was born with an equipage, which is a favorite quote of her Dad quoting his own. She says she liked the rough smell of the New York subway but she rarely needed it and took buses and taxis. She wants to know why I asked, so I make up a digest of my dream as she crawls over to listen, only at the end she bursts in laughters and declaims that she would be Queen Philosopher!

Suddenly I need to check I haven’t peed in bed, but I escape to the bathroom to do. Sarah feels randy and follows me to play with my waters so I call her a beast. She whispers in my ear that Gauthier should arrive today, so I tilt my head back and open my mouth to her kiss while she still fiddles my little stream. My heart is ringing to the tune of the golden kid, I rape Her Majesty who deserves it well.

Sarah says:

By the time we came back from gym, there was turmoil in the staircase, Hugo and his architect supervising the installation of fibre optics in the house up to our nest, and some delivery had occurred in large cartons that were being brought out. We were told to run atop and see what was there for us. A  plush sofa upholstered in vermilion wool velvet had been disposed as if it had ever been there, and a deep matching armchair. Bursting in laughters, she jumped on the couch and held out her arms to me. Hugo swore he didn’t know where the gift came from, so we scented a hunch in the art world.

Under the Bach canons, having dipped a few madeleines in black coffee, she jots down specks of her sly wit in a new notebook as a way of endlessly trying utensils or procrastinate among the fugues until I will become aware of her again. In the lamp’s reflection, she becomes a goddess of serenity quietly managing the pencils and brushes and showing her kiddy breasts through the sweat shirt’s neckline. I wonder if I will ever get enough of watching her like a natural marvel. She glances absent mindedly a few times before knowing I watch, then she flashes a dazzling smile and draw her tongue. Her neck is loosed and her head rolls on her eyes like a tousled egret bird.

I got overwhelmed, I went to pee and I made some tea, which is a better companion to a day long search of mind forms. She whispered a deep approval, stretched, stood up, came to me, grabbed my head and kissed me deep. I would have liked to faint. She said she would run to the Swedish smørgasbrød shop.

During our lunch, we petted again on the new couch when Hugo knocked, he was with Gauthier. He considered us and said this settee was a pretty good idea.  She drew the golden sailor by his pants and assaulted his mouth with her loutish tongue. From behind the sofa I tousled the rich dawn flooded helmet and leered at their tongue duet

But there was a lot of talking to do, we heard about Frankfurt and a job he would probably do there about mental art in Germany before the thirties. She had sucked his pecker out of its nest, but Hugo tempered the squall and said we should go back to work, he would take Gauthier see one of his friends who was something in the museums realm and could help a career, so we agreed to chill off a tad and went back to our roosts on the promise he would be with us for dinner.

Hugo peeked at our work and could not help venture his hands into her neckline, before withdrawing along with the orderly knight. I drew her chair next to mine and enticed her into our messy journal wishing she wore a more hospitable frock.

Katherine says:

Aren’t we frustrated he took the Reinhardt from under our notoriously sultry noses! Our chairs have wheels, she drew me near and started a session in our note book. I hold my skull against hers, her dark silken locks frame her narrow, chiselled, astute face with a high forehead, a straight little nose, designed lips and a gently square chin. I’m all fidgety and we smell of depraved saliva, her abs feel so ready and smooth when I pull the drawstring. She finishes a little red star in the corner and stretches back to let me take ways on her. When she’s peeled off she tilts the convenient chair back and rests her feet up, holding my head upon the merry glen of lilies until she bursts and quench my want and very soon pushes me kneeling on the red settee, roughly tears my tights and drills the satin pit in my feverish brooklet with her tongue and fingers so as I skeet in my bawdy lingerie.

Here we breathe again and dance embraced to the shower where she pees on me straight, stretching the lips with two fingers, until I respond and note my go is more flowery in a wild way, which makes her crack up in laughs.

When James asks to come up, we decide to let him savour his success, as it could not possibly be anyone else’s, and we remain in the raw as she cautiously combs my hair on the canapé. We have both indulged in the most innocent geranium, neroli and lavender skin oil when he applauds enthused and ensconces himself in his armchair. Then he spots the crumpled up clothes and jumps to seize them, almost entranced in our scents. He wants a detailed account of our excesses and hears them in diligent style while we gratefully offer our still fervent lips to his unleashed cutlass for a quite lengthy prelude and Sarah receives the salvo conscientiously. I snog her perfect muzzle and James joins in, tasting his own raspy jizz out of our mouths.

James says:

A merry pair of lively otters fidgeted with the bear amidst a crystalline stream in the wolf’s lair on a never-happen day. They dressed of nothing but light and grace, they spoke miraculum prodigium ostentum and the furry butch toppled over his back in the waters and recognised its dream.

They have already strewed the specks of a dancing intuition across the journals and the pads, they can jump back on threads anywhere anytime and spell the rime of their envisioned theater; their youth and freedom broadcast an electrical meshing of sense they share like celestial twins.

As they lean on their work half naked, it doubles my wish to run along their lines, as I did their angelic contours, in the most tangential gab so as not to wake them from their lookout. They smell as an armful of daisies, poppies and cornflowers on the beating heart of my cousin at the wild edge of the park, the hair of another one astray in the summer bathed library when I caught her while the other children hunted our silent pair, a strand of sweat on the nape of her neck when I lured her in the dark basement. I have long toppled the sweet abandons of these unattended amazements without spoiling a petal, lucky me.

Aeons of coaching the tatty herds of art school louts only required arm long distance in most circumstances, all the more so as the media overflowed the available attention in the green skulls. Gemlike specimens as the two hereby coveted fairies would have fled the idle brain crowds in my allocated studio rooms. I preyed however here and there upon uncovered sweet humanity under a lame cultural conditioning and kept a few good names in my book.

Sarah says: Gianni Capodimonte and his aide barge in, carrying folding cases of unexpected refitted sublime chiffons he needs to try on us, so we are soon off what we just had slipped on. Gianni is very gay but likes to fondle anyway, we only have to let him.

He had promised me a power suit and he shows two, one in black alpaca satin faille pinstriped with silver threads and lavishly lined in purple satinet. As he feels every nook of my body through the stuff he teaches his apprentice in Italian and nevertheless the boy gently gropes my sparrow. Because we are close, Gianni soughs to my ear he would better have me wear underpants, for the lining, he winks. Kate runs downstairs and fetches deep blue jokey drawers. She wishes to test the buttoned fly herself and shows the boy how to do it with a gal, he blushes crimson and Gianni says Katherine will have her turn.

I walk to James and sit on his lap, he is enthralled with the purple lining and professes I should never wear shoes with that suit, Gianni concurs. Katherine, in a white cotton slip, eases into grain-de-poudre trousers and a black and white pied-de-poule one button jacket, lined with vermillion cotton satin, that stuns me as a film noir demon lady. I cry out and the tailor purrs with pride, the boy has a reckless hand on Katherine’s breasts and I’m about to reach for his prick I found as stiff as a bamboo when his boss, who is an excellent dancer, steps in and pats my butt. James is glowing of all the swift emotions before his eyes, Kate’s pants are spacious enough for his stealthy hand.

After a few stitches in white thread, Gianni slips a Prince-Of-Wales high-breast vested suit, lined with Sèvres blue satinet on a lewd passive me who plays offering kisses to the boy until a needle derails into my ribs. The pants have been cut nicely short roaring twenties style, the jacket is masterfully fitted over the butt-parts, we look like Berliner tomboys. The shiny black buttons all have slits to rest in, five for each cuff.

Katherine now dons a pearl-grey mohair and silk barathea three piece costume lined with light mauve satin thinly striped of pastel blue, the boy displays her strands on her shoulders as she seeks his shy gaze. The outfit will be resplendent with a cherry-blossom shirt, it skims her whole body with imperceptible hisses and sighs just as in a maddening foreplay . At her feet, the straight pleated pants let a furtive glance of the lining. Ferreting about in the fluffy stuffs I reveal the new label for Gianni, “Teatro Dei Sogni” in gold on black silk in the inside pocket.

As Gianni packs back up for the shop, he gives advice for the upcoming half- season, we casually display our sleazy charms for the visibly sensitive boy, but we gallantly set the master free as he says everything will be ready in two days and the girls’ fineries for the week after, in the meantime our usual rags wouldn’t spoil our beauty, says he sliding a hand in my pants in retaliation for my hitting on the boy with no name.

All these dazzling riches mainly originate from Gianni’s long devotion to some of the most elegant and powerful families in Paris who wouldn’t hoard past days still unused wardrobes. Smug inside some lucky boy’s leftovers, we won’t mind the buttons on the wrong side, and some of the sister’s attires still scent of Joy as we frolic in them.

She pulls my knickers down and gloats about Gianni being aware of the few drops I have doubtlessly dripped, hence I dash a valiant tongue into the source of her, while James has already stripped me to the raw and feasts on my defenceless silky petunia. My mind is off in a twilight jostling pirouette at the whim of her skillful fingers, then a truce is settled and James worships our feet with endless laudibus while we two hold each other’s head in an ecstatic elegy.

An agenda of inventive dinner, intensive corporel grooming and random bed cruising sounds as right as a children’s novel. An athletic redhead girl with an outlandish accent brings an array of multi colour packets and leers at our display but decides to keep her job with a kind gratuity. Charlus sent warm potato nests sheltering poached eggs and smoked salmon ribbons, shivering mounds of purslane, sea fennel and skinned walnuts consommé with two bottles of his own fruit kéfir and a bag of jade green ginger macarons for dessert, a cellophane sachet of candied violets for bedtime. Once the regale set in black and silver lacquer, we reduce in no time the wrappings to the smaller volume and feast in front of the new media carousel Hugo has made possible with fibre optics.

I need a little waxing, soon the balmy smell of hot torture exudes from the small shiny black stove and the killer grin dawns on her innocent face. However I swoon a few minutes later with the soothing salve she spreads endlessly so much she trips on the scent of camomille and I want it in my little clench but I want to rasp our soles with the diamond dust of the electric grinder, so we perform an acrobatic doll-up on the shower floor as she can’t have enough of my newly smooth offered fruit while I polish her rosy feet and vice versa.

Pampered like royal harlots, we try some new porn videos on the bedroom screen but I see her eyes sway sideways to nowhere land, therefore I lay my ear on her womb and listen.

Katherine dreams:

I’ve been waiting for the tramway interminably under a grey drizzle. On both sides of the avenue stand hospital buildings of bricks the colour of dried blood. I feel the damp grass between my toes when the two-cars tram stops smoothly. There are lots of free seats on the left side. I walk cautiously, retaining my coat because all my buttons have fallen. My pants are undone but I sit down before anyone sees. My left hand is clutched on the large pair of scissors I have purloined from that shabby woman’s office with the dull green curtains, just like the colour of the tram’s seats and I do not know if I even have a ticket, but the scissors feel warm and safe. In the other row, two young boys kiss each other and smile to me for witnessing. I wonder if they have grasped my awkward dishevelment. My shoes are peeling off so I shake them from my feet under the next seat. I feel naked, the window is only made of shiny drops and we traverse barren fields strewn with rusty intricate machinery. I hold my hand through the tinkling beads and clap the scissors at busy ravens in the bushes; seemingly flesh tatters drip from their nimble beaks as they return to their feast. Half-concealed by a clenched bramble stands a metal cabin with blue glass shields. My bare feet hurt on the corroded scraps that cover the floor between the many rails as I stumble towards the cabin where a light flickers. Crows attack me but my shears cut them fast for they are made of paper and blood. The two boys are already squatted inside the derelict cubicle, their sharp-looking faces lit by a white flame in a tin hooked in the rods and cogs erected distraught in the middle. It rains hard now, the metal roof sounds like the bells over Hamburg as I crouch next to the boys clung to each other and tousle their black and bark hair with fondness. The flame flickers and dies, we huddle in a corner under the blue gleam, a choir hums through the waves of crowing, I rest my head upon their warm breathing, they smell of licorice and sweat. A shabby whiffy reddish dog forages in and looks at us with Kaiser Wilhelm’s eyes then sits. A policeman with a lamp on his forehead looms in, growls and holds us chocolate fish in a brown paper bag. The lighter haired boy gives one to the dog that yaps for more. There is a young girl too, now with them, in a bleached out blue hoodie, she asks for a sweet, she looks like younger Sarah as I saw her on a photo taken in a New York street and overwritten “bitch”. They strap over the cabin in the shaky lights of big military equipment and lift the whole of us in the horrified howl of the Kaiser. The policeman with the lamp helmet stands on the cabin’s top as we are transported through the wasteland to a shore where a ship glitters like fairy lights. Baby Sarah is with me and fixes my pants with bits of electric wire, the boys ensconced in a shady recess and the Kaiser shakes on its legs. We are uploaded on the ship amidst bales of rags, disparate luggage, mattresses and pillows overran by monkeys that annoy the dog at once. The boys sidle out to a small hatch and call us through the monkey bedlam. The engine room is lit in crimson red and the heat is breathtaking as we follow a pathway to a sign with an arrow towards the left while white beams search around from down below. We reach a heavy door to a stairwell than slams behind me. I am alone suddenly in the dim lit shaft with emergency lanterns at each landing. I want to call baby Sarah but I remain mute as the sweat burns my eyes and I sob and climb endlessly. I reach a corridor leading to a faraway purple glow. Rats scent my feet and squeak when I kick them, they feel like plush toys. I fly to the light and find my lassie pixie seated on a red velvet bench with the Kaiser trying to lick her muzzle. She now wears a loose buttoned white shirt over jeans shorts and I can tell her feet by heart. The Kaiser greets me like his next cousin and licks my feet with dedication, I wonder what I stepped in. The two boys rush in from a corner and call us, they wear harlequin costumes, theatre makeup and they cuddle each other overtly to the gamine’s amusement. In a mirror framed of gilded grotesques I see myself in the dirty ripped drags and my face shows my skull through the thin grey skin. I wonder where I left the scissors but baby Sarah already began to slice up what’s left of my clothes into shrieking bats with them and it amuses the Kaiser woofing as it climbs the walls. The randy scoundrels paw each other and poke tongues when the beacon policeman smashes down a partition with a long axe, jumps in and seizes the nude me in a headlock while baby Sarah embraces my feet as we are swung through corridors to a breach in the hull as a religious portal opening on a blue garden lit by cinema projectors showing the flocks of bats and silver owls chasing them. On the pearly lawn swagger the multicoloured laughing rascals clutched together on a ghostly grey horse with a mane to the ground. Behind the flashlight, I can’t discern the face of the giant as he hands me down on the velvety grass where Sarah soothes me with gems in her eyes, fetches a knot of black string from inside her hoodie and ties it to my arm so as every turn she does makes me younger and smaller. Once I reach her size we run, the towering lantern man wig-wags over the moonlit beach that edges the prairie where the Kaiser and a majestic owl call for us. Sarah scissors out patches of landscape to put up a tunic on my skinny self when I wake up in the standing tram and the Kaiser laps my hand. I am cold and draw my scarf tighter, trying to recognise the view outside the misty panes. The Kaiser pulls on the black string I hold as a leash and I follow it somehow stumbling. The wattman snores on his seat guarded by the golden-eyed owl which squawks at the Kaiser but I cannot find the door command when I notice wavelets outside and reckon that the trail is flooded. I turn around and hear a metallic ting as I step on the scissors that I want to grab in the dark but I feel a hand seizing mine and pulling fiercely from under the tram seats. The Kaiser barks madly when Sarah draws me inside the  warm nest of our bed and I wake up in sweats.

She lulls me back to my wits as I still hear the Kaiser bark. I sob ridiculously trying to tell the dream she patiently tries to unfurl with me. As it is far from morning she puts on some hypnotic music and we elaborate about the beacon man and the nasty boys. I keep to myself the scarily familiar thoughts about the Kaiser.

4 – Katherine Sophie – Potamus, Washington!

Ellenbogen

Ellenbogen, Sylt.

Kate,

Bird of all wings, flying eyes of a playful wind, wild daughter of the fisherman, sister of my poor soul!

Where do you hide?

Come, come, I did not die!  And cry now because I like it so much from your eyes, Simorgh of my painful dream, I knew always that I will find you again, from the depth of a long coma, from the red clouds of the morphine, from the whirls that threw sand in my sore eyes…

It took so long to piece my life back from that terrible day in the car, but you were the first I remembered, that wheedling smile you had that afternoon after we dropped those nasty pills they never wanted to tell me about at the hospital! I saw you in the green-glared tunnel I crawled along for what felt like months, suffering madly, between some stunning shots in my hanging plastic guts, in all the parts of my still complete but mashed body.

The other car came on my side, broke half of my bones and almost teared my heart apart, had they not flown me to Eppendorf just in time to open wide my rib-cage and sew everything safe back on. That plus the hip, the leg and the arm, I won’t tell you what I look like in my bath! But my face is spared, only one Prussian slash like grandpa!

Everybody was so terrified about me that they let you be when they learned you were almost safe, then they considered it was your fault because you had been driving under some influence. When finally I talked and asked about you, Mother said she had no news, after you rebuked her in Berlin. You had fled from the apartment and left no address. I remembered your arrangement in Paris an the name of Camille’s gallery The Amused Star so if you read me I guessed right.

I will need you, I live at your old Berlin address, I want to know your friends too if they can watch a recovering wreck. I will go back to Frauenhofer here so you won’t have me on your back too often, and if you forgive me I won’t bring you any more witch pill.

Take my numbers, please call me and I will come to you at once, I don’t need a cane to walk and even run again now!

Simon

The Sun - Nasa

The Sun – Nasa

Sarah says:

What an unbelievable day that was! We are still shaking, all of us and I hold her in her sleep while she still sobs on my belly.

Early this morning, Camille came in to find us in bed and kindly wake us to the idea she had something to tell us and particularly Kate. We moaned and petted the intruder who kept a peculiar patient look on her face.

She started to explain she had received an unexpected letter, and she took out a rather large envelope, from which she pulled a second one of pale blue, with Kate’s name on it, who at first sight rounded her eyes with what seamed like sheer fright, read both sides and grabbed me with tremor.  She tried to open the envelope without tearing it and did not want any help but I could read the return address, it said it was Simon Harff.

She was shaking, we held her, I drank her tears as I do, she read the lines which began to dissolve on the paper, and she collapsed in an impressive crisis as we looked at what it said. I asked Camille to call Hugo who ran in and saw the letter. He climbed on the bed too, took the Fairy’s head with firm hands and with a clear voice said he had never read better news in his life and we should all come downstairs for coffee or tea. He tried to carry the marvel kid in his arms but he dared not the stairs; in an oversized shirt, her hair unravelled and no knickers on, she was madly desirable for a troubled little fawn like me as I preceded her down the steps.

We crashed on a sofa with a mumbling Ophelia, Hugo called Lena for help and some breakfast. Holding Katherine’s hands he said she would call Simon as soon as she collected some spirits and we would go meet him right away. He would also arrange with Wolfgang to consult with Doctor Schubert in any event. She was literally stunned, She held me with all her strength and gave me a long glutton kiss.

Claude Varieras - Pleine lune

Claude Varieras – Pleine lune

Hugo says:

There’s a word for what occurs today, it’s a miracle! At the end of a chain of unforeseeable hazard, Katherine had cast an anchor in the depth of sorrow that is about to be lifted. We all cried with her and she could not stop to be able to call Simon on the telephone. When she did, it was soft and chaotic, we left her but she clung to Sarah and kissed her as if she was him.

I reached Wolfgang at his university in Berlin to get to Dr Schubert, I felt he should be advised his one time patient’s equation was changing dramatically and although it was for the better it might need some attending by him or someone he would tell.

By noon, an appointment had been set in Dalhem for the next evening and I made arrangement to go with the girls this time. We decided to fly the next day, and the petty necessity of packing untied the moods. The grey eyes were swollen, she hardly could hold a cup right, but smiles dawned again, Sarah took her to their bathroom to wash her hair.

Camille, Gauthier and I remained together quite aroused by the events and the golden kid won instant attention from both of us and threw his arms back when his grey velvet robe was ripped off.  Then I called Maurizio the caterer for some snacks and we sat in the kitchen while the two swans upstairs groomed each other or chatted with Kreuzberg.

My long time friend and publisher Melchior lent his jet plane for the next morning, I felt I would be carrying some intricate piece of porcelain until she was delivered to Dr Schubert, who answered he would see her in Dahlem the next evening.

Saturn and Colossus - Cassini Nasa

Saturn and Colossus – Cassini Nasa

Sarah says: she’s rounded in my bosom like a fawn alerted, her eyes move like there are calculations beyond the clouds of her silence. I draw her to the shower and we dress our whole bodies in lather of orange and geranium, I notice a little tint of red in the foam as she’s having her period a little ahead of me this time. It justifies a soapy kiss and a wide rinsing with a careful massage of the scalp. I slid in the tampon and pretend to grab her lower belly, then I conscientiously comb her hair with some balsamic secret from Santa Maria Novella. When I start blowing hot air, she starts playing with my tits, then brushes my nearly dry short curls.

It is still mild as the summer vanishes, we put on shirts and boxers and I call Hugo to tell him we will stay upstairs, he says the car will pick us at eight and I understand his concern in the unusual tone of voice he uses, repeating my name and greeting us a good night many times.

We make up a dinner of chocolate from Patrick Bradfer Camille had brought back from a trip to the countryside, Speculoos and Baizhong tea.

She asks me to wax her legs, I say i want that too, so we organise the battlefield on towels on the bed. Soon the smell of benjamin arise and we start torturing each other up to the little stream paths she wants to be polished as an egg. There are shrill barking at the final touches, and mumbling and moaning consequently, and a lotion that smells like hemp on adventurous fingers.

Soon her eyes roll and she sinks in the pillows, I tidy up our den while she falls asleep. I put on some dark madder Purcell sonatas low and spread her tawny hair all around. She lays face down, I push my nose in her armpit and catch her hand between my legs.

Hubble Photograph - Doradus 2060

Hubble Photograph – Doradus 2060

Sarah says:

I have decided a pot of Darjeeling and I rush up a bag of fresh linen, then I jump on her rump and tickle her out of her cloud. For a while, she is deliciously passive, because she knows it cannot be. I bring her to the shower and put a cap over her troubled mind. Hugo on the telephone deftly suggest we come down in thirty minutes.

She’s all freshened up naked at the kitchen table where she makes up her eyes looking into a magnifying mirror. I can’t resist laying my cheek on her back and misbehave with the small blue string.

She decides for a chevreau suit and jodhpur boots of the same green ashes colour, a lichen grey jersey top and no bra. She has twisted her wavy hair in a relaxed bun with a horn clip. I want to wear the black boy’s three piece suit Hugo asked Gianni to cut for me, with a Liberty ultramarine shirt, black richelieus and socks of the same blue.

We run downstairs before any worries hatch in, Hugo is proud of us and hugs  the Wundermädchen, then kisses my hand when the car calls. On the way to the airport she calls Simon on her telephone, he says their mother won’t be there today but might pop in early tomorrow

It is broad sunlight on Le Bourget when we reach the white airplane, we are greeted by a slender captain I could do with and he sees that, Kate is dazzled as much by the sun as by the scene happening, the flight attendant holds our hand when we hop in.

The jet’s cabin has twelve tan leather armchairs, six of which face each other. It is not long before we take off. The attendant brews some of our own tea with a paper filter. Hugo sits next to her and holds the hand with the opal on. She’s as much frightened as excited, she calls me to her lap and we talk shop, and our last discoveries on the web in the realm of lyric abstraction and outsider expressionism, we avoid to anticipate the events of such a crucial day.

After an hour we descend upon Berlin Schoenefeld where Wolfgang waits for us with a black minibus and soon we ride towards Kreuzberg.

C.C. Variéras - Clouds.

C.C. Variéras – Clouds.

Sarah says: 

Hugo said he would be waiting at his hotel. She insisted that I come up with her. She walked up the three flights of stairs like a ghost and pressed a split second on the doorbell. We heard a slow and faint step when Simon came to open. She stifled a scream and opened her harm where he hugged her already crying like a child.

Scrawny and pale in maroon pyjamas and slippers his hair very short showing scars over the ear, he could not articulate any word for a long moment when she did not know how to behave. I walked around with our bag to the sitting room while she drew him to the bedroom still holding his frail body.

The weather was bright, I went to the window and looked over Bürknerstrasse, hearing the cries from the bedroom. He was reviewing his injuries for her, the door was ajar, she could barely breathe. When I reached the door at an angle I saw he was now laying naked on the bed, she had dropped her jacket and was caressing the scars everywhere on his body with the tip of her fingers, she kissed his eyes, which were remarkably similar to her own, she kissed his mouth, she followed the dark pink lines with a low pitched complaint.

It lasted. I could not catch when they started. She was saying strange words and he was giving strange answers. I remembered their game, not believing they would reach the “Potamus, Washington…” part, but they did. He was probably happy to show the crash had spared an essential element of his person she was now taking in her mouth. He was spread out and relaxed, he came rather fast and she groaned and swallowed conscientiously.

Now she was undressing and laying along his side, her eyes in his with a radiant smile. I went silently back to the window. From the bed, she asked me if I could find some food, which I more than willingly did, taking the key with me. I revived the few days I had lived with her in the apartment. I went on the bridge over the Landwehrkanal and called Camille to tell her the events. She was happy and a bit surprised, but not so much. Then I called Hugo at the Regent and he was thrilled. He said he was sending in no time treats from Borchardt Catering. He would pick us up at six.

Having bought Vanity Fair at a shop nearby, I sat in the sunlight of a terrace opposite the door to the apartment, giving the mischief angels a little secrecy. Unable to read  about Kalki Koechlin in the magazine, my mind was figuring out what Dr Schubert could make of the unabashed congress upstairs, for he would know?

The delivery van was there, I ran to the door and showed the boy upstairs, speaking as much as I could to let the sinners straggle away, but they sat quietly in the drawing room and Kate jumped to the boxes, signed the voucher and started to arrange plates of savoury bits. Seeing me approach, she stared at me with devilish eyes and gave me a whirling kiss with her tongue. I clung to her like a kitten and we finally laughed under Simon’s gibe. I felt my face redden, I could not let go of her smell and skin. She took my head in her hands and we played the cyclope. and I felt her life was alleviating already.

Later, when the pecking was over, they sat on the sofa and the talk was about medical ordeal and the ultimate test for painkillers, Simon keeping watch for our tears and sprinkling flakes of humour with real talent. in an emotional moment, Kate airily opened her brother’s pyjamas, obviously for me to look at the ravage. I restrained a shout, side by side I was contemplating two opposites of the same body, one was skeletal, sheared  and devastated, long dark pink lines ran from his neck to his right thigh. She let her light hand follow the weird drawing, I came nearer and sat on the armrest while he searched my eyes. From the plexus I sent the most loving vibrations I could funnel to his scribbled body. They had the very same eyes and skin, I took his hand and cried on it. We spoke no more.

Nasa, Hubble, Remnants of a supernova.

Nasa, Hubble, Remnants of a supernova.

Hugo says: the small band was ready, Simon wearing a black oversized track suit. The ride through Schöneberg and Steglitz went smoothly. Dr Schubert lives in a stately home near the Free University, with a gracious park around it. We were greeted by a charming middle aged woman who lead us to the library the girls had described last spring. After fifteen minutes, a typical bearded academic figure opened the double door to his study, wearing a green velvet vest over a white shirt, a gold watch-guard across his stomach. His shoes were as shiny and sharp as evening shoes.

The Doctor held out both hands towards Kate, who shook them with one of her angelic smiles, obviously he wanted her to make presentations, which she did starting with Simon, then Sarah, and myself, the famous writer in whose home she said Sarah and herself lived. Still holding her hands, he drew her to the study and swiftly closed the doors, his eyes on her.

The house lady offered coffee or tea and we welcomed it.  Sarah was already looking for the Victor Hugo album that had impressed her during the previous visit, I opened the conversation with the boy, fascinated by his eyes, as if in front of me Kate had been unearthed from death, but soon we had matter to share on his future, the ongoing convalescence watch at the Charité hospital, and soon his engineer studies he would catch up at TU Berlin with all the help from his parents; as soon as his doctors allowed, he would visit in Paris, he promised. Through the ambiguity of his likelihood with Katherine I liked the boy, on the vast armchair in the vague black clothing, only his poor face seemed alive, but his expressions were pretty much willing.

Sarah came to me with the album, she smelled a young chord of Samsara, I could not help discreetly nose her armpit when she bent with the heavy book at my side. The prints were sumptuous, I exclaimed my agreement to her description. Simon came timidly and finally sat on the other armrest, he felt so much lighter than the gracile girl, he smelled the unmistakable 4711 with a hint of medical cleanliness. I felt his bony ribcage against my shoulder.

We chatted over the prints of the very German fantasies of Victor, the boy was witty, when he

had warmed up a bit his voice reflected his sister’s alto. Bewitched by the fantastic imagery, my mind drifted to the vision of the beautiful siblings in the dunes when the door opened on Katherine, followed by Dr Schubert who showed a large smile. Simon had walked towards her and they hugged for a whole minute. Then the doctor turned to Sarah and asked for her hand and held it until Kate looked back, he then put their hands together, knowingly nodding.

Seeing the house Lady I understood it was time to leave our saviour, who was particularly kind to Simon, asking who was seeing him at the Charité, warmly approving the name, and telling him he could call if he needed some support in the next few months, he gave him a card, I don’t have one.

Eye in the sea at Sylt

Eye in the sea at Sylt

Sarah says: there was no better place to go to cheer for the beginning of the healing than the privacy of the apartment. In the minivan, Hugo was ordering a finger-food buffet from Borchardt and Champagne, there should be a person waiting, too.

Kate and Simon went into childhood reminiscence, the excitement on the Hindenburg Dam and the first gale with the arms and legs spread like windmills, and the many birds which would not recognise you yet, and the shutters raised one by one until the big house smiled once more.

We all were on the sofa like on-board a raft, Hugo behind me on the armrest, me rummaging her hair and staring at her brother’s eyes, and smiles, and gestures. When the caterer rang, she went to show them the kitchen and the dishes, but they had brought everything. I was facing Simon now, he took interest in my jacket’s fabric, because there was a thin thread of platinum woven at every centimetre in the black slick wool, but he kept my sleeve in hand as if he wanted me nearer, asked me about my own childhood, my same wildness in the Swedish sands of Falsterbo, volley-ball matches and camp-fires at night.

Keeping an eye on the mild caresses Hugo was pouring on his sister’s bare shoulders, he coveted me visibly and I let him as far as the concern for his injuries allowed me. The table was set on white cloth in silver plates, catching our attention, so he delineated my face with his feeble but steady hand, snooping inside my ticklish ear.

As we stood up gather our treats, I dropped the jacket, Kate came up to me with mint in her mouth and unbuttoned my shirt down to the navel, her brother standing behind me feeling very much alive, she gave me a tip of the tongue on the lips.

Back on the couch, Simon cornered me with an eager eye on my white chest. On his part, Hugo wheedled the smiling lyrebird on his lap in her favourite armchair of bordeaux velvet that had once been in their parent’s sitting room. The reborn page gently held my knee, in his eye I asked if that place would be Baltimore? First he did not get it, then he smiled finely and I laid my hand on his thigh and muttered “Wupertal”, he ventured a finger inside my cleavage and said “Firenze”, and on until we reached Potamus and Washington and he drew me to the bedroom. No one seemed to notice.

He gave me a furious lemon-blueberry kiss while my silk-lined pants slid down and he lowered my black lace panties. I asked for the bathroom, so he took everything off, petted my blue socks for a while and came with me. He wanted to touch my pee as I slowly lowered the sweatpants and seized a valiant pecker. I swiftly reached the shower and he followed, we washed the pleasure clearings and he moaned to my fingers in his butt-hole, a trick I remembered from Kate’s telling.

I wiped him watching for any sign of ache, we finished half-wet on the bed. There was a bit of pride exhibiting his scars I kissed and licked as if putting a spell on them. The rib cage had been opened, leaving and appalling furrow I dared not look, He wanted my shy spring and he ate every fold and recess around until the joint expertise of tongue and finger made me come. I took the flute to my throat, presenting my ass to his play, did a few garlands of petals between the spread thighs and he shot inside holding my skull with both hands without telling. Unlike my own brother, he did not turn away after his misdeed and watched me swallow the scour spoonful but kissed my face all over holding my neck. For a short lapse Kate was a real boy. We went back to the shower and a asked me to rub a cream smelling of hay and blackberry over the lines of stitches. We went back silent, fresh as mountain trouts, to find Kate naked on the floor and Hugo wanking off on her. She grabbed Simon’s foot and made him sit on her face, She was instantly sprinkled between the legs by the transfixed master of games.

I noticed the waiter had gone, only remained fruit and petits-fours on the table. the chief and the squaw headed to the bathroom and the quilt sonny put some electro-cloud webradio on from his computer. In my opened shirt I sat next to him, saying we would be parting the next day because Kate and her mother did not want to meet. He answered he would go back to the university and he appreciated his mother’s help. He would be visiting in Paris when he would have grown some of his strength back. Finding his johnson again, I demonstrated most of his strength was back, and he laughed and kissed. Like my most precious torment on earth, he was a jolly good kisser and capsized my head fast.

They had borrowed some of the boy’s cologne, they came back fresh and I bit her butt cheek while she was slipping her pants on. Hugo managed to have his own tour of the kid’s ravages as we dressed and combed each other. Simon sensed some lust through the scrutiny of his body, he showed the same smile as the one he had regained amongst his scattered life.

I strengthened my spy outfit when Hugo called for the car, Mrs H. would be early in the morning and quickly deduct that a quite mellow shenanigan had occurred at her son’s chambers. As they discussed matters in the corridor, Hugo played with my nipples, to make me look weak, he said. The car was there, we kissed the wounded one and at least two girls reached for his dick as a good luck.

The Sun and Venus in UV. NASA.

The Sun and Venus in UV. Nasa.

Katherine dreams: I wear a tee-shirt with no panties or shoes, it is cold out there in Berlin but I don’t feel it. A gold chain comes out of my vagina and feels warm inside my thigh. I carry a bright yellow bag of tangerines from which a bird flies away. I turn back because I haven’t seen if it was blue, but it’s gone, and all the trees of the avenue are covered with birds which have only one eye. My foot bumps on something, it is a shoe, my shoe, I am sitting against the wall of an old white building, but here I stand with my beautiful warm chain and I run from the other me and the tangerines start to cry. I look inside the bag and a herd of orange birds look up to me as I fall in the midst of them. They make music with their feathers as they stroke my skin and swing from my vagina chain. Big Katherine appears at the oculus in the yellow dome, I have never seen her wearing sunglasses, and she smokes a dirty cigarette. All the birds flee the round house making a round of applauds but the police erupts from behind the columns and walk towards me. I hide my vagina chain in my hands and I clench my legs. The police wear black uniforms with badges in the shape of buoys and caps with a transparent blue visor. They round me and trample on, making a huge echo in the vault. I stand up and let my chain free, the twinkles from the gold sparkle on their satin uniforms and rejoice them so they blow their whistles and airplanes turn in the sky but sirens sound and white ambulances arrive to an explosion of tangerines which start filling the room an falling on my head and tummy. Teams in white overalls holding snow shovels gather the tangerines and throw them in the air to make them smoke rings. Men all looking like my father come to me while I pull the chain inside and lick some blood on my fingers. They take scissors from their breast pockets  and cut my shirt into tiny fish that jump on the dry pavement. They palpate my tummy and my breast and pull out the gold chain with a watch attached to it. My many fathers congratulate and tie the watch with the chain to my wrist, then they all walk away through the same door. I hear nothing, it is night through the large round window in the ceiling and I wonder where the moon is, standing up, I notice a stairway running down in circle from which comes the smell of tuberose, as my grandmother once told me. I walk down, noticing the blood traces inside my legs, and reach warm waters in obscure blue mosaics where I swim slowly along with flexible red haired children who come to look at my watch and lick my face deftly. The water children draw me to a bed of precious cobbles and come out with me, they wear drapes like dragonfly wings that swish around their slender bodies, I cannot see if they are boys or girls, I covet their thin feet and they let me touch, staring into my eyes making a tiny noise with their tongue. From the colours they pick in the gravels they knit layers of cloth on me and their busy hands tickle and turn me on till I come laying back under their will. Suddenly they have disappeared and I smell the dirty cigarette. Big Kate is naked and she wants the pebbles I’m on, but now they are pills and moving syringes crawl in them and try to bite me. I look at my watch where a big eye turms to my right and a field of strawberries with a rainbow bus arriving. I run and shout and when I reach the bus it is empty, my feet are red with fruit juice. A nurse in green uniform with a frog insignia takes out an arm-long tube and applies it to my vagina while turning a little crank that pushes a tampon inside. Then from behind my head she picks a shower head and washes me inundating the bus now an air plane. From the overhead trunks she takes plenty of clothes but nothing fits so she throws them out as we fly. The other passengers start to sing in a language I do not understand, and I walk the alley in colourful veils, my size being my actual one. They touch me and want to know the time, the eye on my watch winks and swirls as I let them grope my butt. I attain a seat where Simon smiles at me and shows me there is room for us. I sit down and turn to him and he has Sarah’s face, and the scars are purple embroideries into her skin, with embedded garnets and jet beads. She holds my face and we press our foreheads together and watch the big eye and they sing like the cherry blossoms in the wind with closed lips and I wake up to the dawn of Sarah’s chest and I wear no watch.

Nasa, Hubble, Spiral Galaxy.

Nasa, Hubble, Spiral Galaxy.

Sarah says:

She’s feverish as we all wake up in Hugo’s king size bed and she stares at me for a few seconds not understanding. My kiss brings her back to life and she runs to the toilet as breakfast arrives. I act naturally as the waiter leers at my tee-shirt. This morning will be old fashioned as coffee. She’s back with her blue string and she tells about the gold chain so Hugo decides she needs a watch. They both pet me for a while but Hugo’s phone tell him the plane will be there in the afternoon. She chats with Simon in Facebook. I decide for a red silk shirt and red socks, she wears a provocative flesh lace that make her look naked. Urged by Hugo in a light black kameez over a white silk tee-shirt , we walk in the sun to Friedrichstrasse where he knows a shop.

The shop assistant at Wempe purrs like a fat cat as we are presented the treasures, and we rub shoulders in disbelief like twelve years olds. She wants a man’s watch, no chain, a blue dial platinum Ellipse … The negotiation is about the engraving of her initials on the back, before we leave Berlin. The watch will be delivered in time. We are borderline hysterical, she needs to blow her nose before filling the guarantee papers. Hugo pulls out the black card and the black Ray-bans.

Back at the hotel, we order langoustines on salad and Ferrarelle water. Then I feel slutty and sluttier, our pants open we rummage for Hugo’s johnny but Kate whose hand was in me says I need a tampon, too! So I run for the bathroom and also opportunely wash and lube the dark side of the moon. The man is strong in the fawn’s mouth, playfully holding my blue string, I bestride the King and slide his sceptre slowly in my boy’s sheath. He wants the other half to climb on the headrest and feed him pussy dreams while we babble in warm wet tongues. I knead hard and he mumps in rhythm until he roars to her sweetest vulva while his flow invades my small inferno.

These hotels have spacious showers and luscious robes, I stay nude a while. A shy knock at the door and we let Hugo answer, when we come out there’s a parcel for each of us, marked with our initials. Soon we wear only crocodile and gold as we slowly dance together.

We have to read the booklet inside the wooden casket to learn how to set time we get from our telephone, and it says we need to go to Schönefeld. She’s so childish and light-headed I devour her eyes all the way. She falls asleep on Hugo’s shoulder.

CCV. Berliner Abend.

CCV. Berliner Abend.

5 – Katherine Sophie – Mercyful strings

Sarah says: 

James, Camille and Gauthier have been cautiously kind to the magic lyrebird who is not shy to speak out. At work, Kate has been quite talkative as she was at school but we play lots of music, until she grabs me or I trick her into little gems of debauchery, however there will be material to hang at Camille’s show in a few months.

The season is softening as an old wool and Bach sets the time. At the end of  every day she pulls the pad and connects in video with Simon, eventually asking me to join them. He wants to watch us and she gives him what he wants, undressing me and showing how docile I am; then the screen will show only his face for a while.

Next to our bedroom door, a wooden palisade has been fixed against a wall but Hugo won’t tell what it is. He has prepared a special evening with the easy crew. We gather in our flat around a cheese and fruit on bread meal from Androuet. In the narrow space, we mostly sit on one another. James and Camille have stolen Kate’s pants, myself and Hugo dispute the Golden Boy Gauthier’s willie.

Hugo asked quiet before we go down to his salon, Kate and me go barefoot in our light Liberty dresses and enter the mostly dark room where reigns the Bulgarian Rose, he ushers everyone to a seat, he would be between Katherine and me.

Imperceptibly, a glow on a wave of dark red hair and a faint hum, a swift purple spark from an amethyst tells us Malo is playing. As the bird ascends from the cello, her nude body gleams in the pallor of her skin.

Another vague halo begins streaming down a strange black silhouette of silk and jet beads, now moving up to show an emaciated face with black eyes and hair. The man stands still in a suspended phrase of Malo’s music, then invisible hands open and take away his long glittering cloak and a small fairy appears at his feet in the light, wearing what seams to be an array of dragonfly wings at the centre of a sun-like designed floor.

The puppeteer is entirely covered with tight black silk, except his face and hands. The gossamer threads hang from intricate dark metal contraptions attached to his wrists and fingers, then invisibly into the ivory-like flesh of the marionette with Bellmer-like ball articulations. The face is altogether that of a baroque angel and an Egyptian semi-goddess, the parted lips of the unspeakable smile revealing small pearly teeth.

Arms wrapped around her chest, after a brief salutation, the little dancer slowly raises her eyes in search of ours, tilts her head crowned by iridescent feathers and opens her arms on a shiny jerkin spangled with scarab’s elytrons like a Thai treasure.

Hands and feet are chiseled in a royal style, and as the cadence begins to drive a languorous dance, the puppet sways a rainbow in it’s own gravity like a kitten in a diamond dew.

Malo’s bow waves motives like a silk flag drawing our stunned breaths as we all melt in awe.  Nonetheless I stealthily disrobe Her Grace who lays on Hugo’s shoulder, whom also plays in Gauthier’s purse. Fabrics slide insensibly until I find myself spread opened to a few furtive hands.

We keep silent, I can tell there is narcissus on Katherine’s labia, someone other is making me smile in the dark.

The nightly manipulator never robs a gram of the dancer’s life, giving the feeling that he is the one following Malo and the fairy who lays down in lascivious invites, responding to our own poses. She shows an exquisitely detailed inseam as her gracile thighs deploy on the polished balls of her miniature butt.

At a slow tempo, she even rotates and bows down until she stops on a sharp whisper, opens wide her arms looking up when her chest explodes in a flock of golden butterflies her master agitates with the left hand like a whip and then spirits them away to the dark,

The music has faded and the lights too; we remain bewitched for a little while, untying our embraces to finally applaud in a scene where only the puppeteer an his assistant are dressed.

Katherine says:

I wake up in full bloom amidst the balmy crew quite amazed by the tiny jewel of a show the puppet has given. She salutes endlessly to our great amusement.

Malo is totally pale and a tad transfixed along her dark instrument. I emerge from the black velvet quit we laid down on and embrace the nude cellist who soon childishly bites my ear.

The assistant has fetched a long black box with metal corners and opens it on a display of purple velours cases, where the dancer seems to walk in to her rest. Calmly, the puppeteer unties the lines from his hand, gathers them into a skein and lodges it in a narrow rill around the dancer’s sarcophagus, ending by setting the precious command contraption in the appropriate casing. Now he undresses the satin white little body, letting us see a delectable anatomy with all the charming details and folds her costume and accessories in a box next to her. He gently inserts the bald head in a teeny stripped silk bag and covers the puppet with the suitable flaps before tightening the intended bands over the whole magic and secures the case the assistant carries out. The butterfly whip that had sprung out of the dark is slid back in a tube. Hugo starts the applaud to the delicacy of the manoeuvre.

Malo asks me to help her do the same bed down for her warm companion she shrouds with paddings in a futuristic metal ghostly trunk.

As she squats, my hand swiftly goes down on her; she smells balsam and gardenia in her sweat in an evocative symbolist fashion, with the irresistible pull of papier d’Arménie, I devour her mouth and she slackens against me like a volubilis on a rose tree. I draw her on the black cloud of a black swaddled armchair and we kiss like manic.

Hugo has lit candles, his own outstretched  by Gauthier’s finical nursing. Sarah is the abandoned toy of both James and Camille, The puppeteer is delicately disrobing his assistant, a tanned-skin Brazilian looking ephebus with a stiff dart and no hair, himself shows a moorish complexion and an impressive membrum, his body is elegantly sinewy. On a sign from Hugo, they join the centre of the couch where they are lusciously greeted. Sarah already spreads her hands on the younger one’s chest while the master is in search of her wet patch and little rabbit hole.

Camille wants a bite of Malo, she captures the left hand as if it was a sleeping dove, with feathery kisses, the right one is clutched to my nape while her mouth is harassing my face with wet twirls. Meanwhile, we meet at the jubilant grove she kindly opens for us. Now she lays back on me, turning her lips to mine; I twiddle the arrogant nipples on her heavenly chest and Camille is feasting on live hems and fringes in our widespread flesh boudoirs. Soon, Malo faints out singing softly and I cuddle her eyelids with kisses. I winkle out of the chair and push Camille down on the sleeping beauty to reach for her own pearly trove where my already devilish tongue annoys the pleats and shirring until she rejoins the haze she has sent Malo in.

Sarah says:

The strings puller wants me to taste his boy, holding my head as the slim runner forages mightily with his tongue in my mouth, my whole body and my welcome spots. I give the lad the same but soon he is deep in me tight and strong while the chief kisses my mouth like a giant strawberry, then throats me with the long narrow dagger that smells of incense. They both furiously palpate my body and astound me wide opened; on our side Hugo reins Gauthier on his wang and hurls his pleasure. The golden knave reaches out for my tiny tit berries and eventually the puppeteer’s balls at the same time Hugo seizes my rider.

The master softly commands another arrangement where he has me on top of him and skewers my womb, opening the small wicket for his aide and letting Gauthier fill my last harbor; they are rife and supple around me drowned in pulses, colours and smells. Hugo attends everywhere and whispers into my ears, licks my eyes. Dreamingly, the three runners attain ecstasy together and I seethe for good in the semen overflow.

I am covered and filled with sticky slobber and the dubious redolence of human drips. Hugo helps me drink the slime of my face and, holding my head, draws me out to the bathroom where we pet each other under the running water. In the lather, he wants to twiddle every fold and recess but comes back to my flooded eyes and hugs me silly.

Katherine appears in the mist and shares the foam, soon to be followed by the whole crew in the large enough shower stall. James is still solid as marble and makes it feel to Kate’s butt while we dance like wisterias in the squall. Nibbling her long darling neck, he is quietly pervading her shy backway whereas Hugo is reviving in mine. Malo has a hand to the wrist in Camille but the puppet accomplices decide to play her as they harried me not long ago, in different portals, so the latter captures the sunshine boy and lead his troupes to her arch, fingering his arse simultaneously.

Malo says:

The storm is over,  we have rinsed and combed the birds and the bees with shiny looks and smiles. Hugo has decided we should concoct Bellinis, so we peel all the peaches in the kitchen with feline dedication. Levani and his apprentice Koka find a breath to tell their names with a colourful Georgian accent. I tell the becoming of our little performance on Hugo’s idea and the possibility to produce it on a cabaret stage, wearing a dress. Camille is very complimentary about my music and Hugo says he is proud of me, kissing my peach-drenched fingers.

After the blending and filtering, we fill a refrigerated crystal pitcher with the opal juice and bring it along with Krug to the salon, still licking each others hands. Hugo has thrown away the stained quits and arranged cushions on the leathers couches and armchairs with the help of his house fairies who sit entwined when the Murano glasses have been filled for all.

Hugo opens a stone inlaid cabinet and says he wants to perfume each of us, starting with me and a mysterious leather-ish arabesque of amber and lotus he keeps in a black cruet; he tells me to test the Mädchen and they playfully capsize, asking if he can use it in my intimates, which he does generously, enticing the crew to invite me around and nose every area of my person  with a hum of desire that makes the parfumeur proud. Then he brings an opaline flask to Camille and says he has invented a nightly offspring of tuberose as he knows her faith. he proposes a drop on her wrist, waits, an on the blooming of her smile he touches every joint of her light freckled body, giving a goldsmith’s attention to the rosy inseam where Gauthier comes to worship and bless, so the chemist wants him to try a reminiscence of the great Michel Morsetti in the coppery scent of vanilla with lavender on a blade of musk to what everybody agrees and that makes me kiss his deep little hideaway.

To James he grants an episcopal fury of tolu and benjoin dissipated by ylang-ylang, musk and patchouli Kate takes an unconcealed pleasure to massage on the doodle, bells and bud, smelling her hand afterwards. He offers narcissus and cedar to Levani and a daring tousled cinnamon to Koka,

Comes Sarah’s turn and he fetches a deep blue bottle with silver ornaments, telling he has been searching on the muguet’s trace and kept in mind the tomboy’s slender silhouette and pale complexion to gather white flowers like jasmine and honeysuckle. She has first the eager silent look of her own mystery but greets the fragrance with animal keenness, throwing up her tapered legs and feet while Kate gives her a long deep kiss as he anoints the laps and folds.

Hugo goes to Katherine with a Lalique nymph and sprays minute puffs on her languid body in Sarah’s hold, completing the tohu-bohu of scents with an evasive ghost of childhood mimosa, holidays lime, playground fever and cotton underwear. I’m aroused and struggle to reach for her still puffy chalice to dart a little word. He embraces us three, turns towards Camille and says he feels he has found the soul of Ishtar for the rest of his life, then he rests his cheek on Kate’s forehead.

©James W. Manner - Curtesy of Camille Stern Gallery.

©James W. Manner – Curtesy of Camille Stern Gallery.

Katherine says: my will has all diluted in tonight’s extravagant spend, my blue knight still finds the desire to bend my neck, to lift my arm and taste my sweat in the bitter oils Hugo has sprayed.

Some rare warm summer nights, on Sylt, Simon and me escaped after the last bite of rice pudding our caretaker Herta made as well as the red fruit marmalade  to go with it. There was a lot more free space on the island twenty years ago, the moonlight changed the dunes into a blue maze. We knew the less visited areas, except some furtive couplings if we were lucky because watching would metamorphose us into horny devils, otherwise, according to the moment’s mood, the magic words could take sometime, each of us rivalling in imagination to aggravate the desire. Then the signal sprung out laughing and then we did not wear a lot. Simon was always stiff as a gun, I was wet at the first fateful words of our routine, we kissed a lot with our hands busy.  One of the students who loosely watched after us during the vacations had once clearly explained everything a girl should explicitly know about sexuality, so I never let Simon in until some girlfriend from school lent me dirty books and we tried the tighter way, and once we had found the proper lube he became insatiable. He rewarded me with his lovingly skilled mouth and tongue.  Satiated, naked in the moonlight, we would stare at the night waiting for the shooting stars. Tonight’s beauty brings me back those moments that I had vowed not to forget, I know shooting stars eventually pass by, I have Sarah’s pretty mouth and Simon is back on earth, I need to cry for a while, hug me.

Hugo says:

I play Purcell very low on the system, I grope absent-mindedly Malo’s round breasts as we comment the evening with Levani and Gauthier while Koka is gently shared by Camille and James. In Sarah’s arms, Katherine seems asleep.

The puppeteers dress up, call for a car and leave with kisses for everyone.  Camille slips her stockings up first, then finds her ramages skirt and blouse of copper hues, her panties must have been lost upstairs, she waves and leaves with James. Malo wants to sleep with the mädchen and takes her bag and instrument, gives me her mouth and follows the sleepwalkers upstairs. I keep the slender knight.

Sarah dreams: 

It is the days at boarding school in Switzerland, I wear my beloved Scottish wool skirt, white pantyhose and the cashmere sweater my mother has sent for her birthday, but it misses one sleeve and I notice bristly hair on my right arm.  The light is fading in the park where plenty of golden leaves are falling although there is no wind and a blackbird sings triumphantly. The school’s bell rings and resonates like it roams around the park, I walk hastily to the large yellow house. Tonight I have to enter through a small dark blue door to the basement but leave my shoes outside the door. It’s a greyish room with a high ceiling; a woman in ancient outfit is turning her back to me, I wouldn’t swear it is my grandma. As I move inside the room, the woman keeps her back to me. Without shoes, I make no noise at all, the blackbird still babbles in a most baroque lucubration I wish I understood. Walking around a dining table, I approach a door near a far corner and open it, on the other side it is gloomy emerald dark, I am under the sea with printed Haeckel creatures sliding sideways making fast machines noises. The old woman has followed me but still turns her back. The water has made my clothes heavy, I fight off them and wonder if I should keep my slightly oversized panties on, which make a blue medusa laugh shortly so I pull it off. Fish come by and look at every part of me, some so close that I believe they kiss, like Edna the pale British girl in Falsterbo, whose blue veins impress me to sobs. Now I’m flat too and the book swings closed; it is darker but I see a picture glow on the page and creep up to it. A lake shimmers between blue mountains and the high walls of great cities, I leave the water when three rottweiler dogs appear barking and I regret I lost my panties when whistles lacerate the picture I’m in and I fall in a lorry full of sand where Edna says she will bury me to the neck. The trolley tilts and I slip down with the sand on a railroad frack where three young Swedes I know ride their fancy bikes along with a frolicking golden retriever which licks me like I am candy and Edna calls the boys but there is the noise of a train coming in the shape of the old woman’s back. I cannot move, the boys say I’m split into parts and I see blood on my thighs but feel no pain, so I seek Edna’s eyes but she won’t look at me and now she wears the old woman’s costume. She hands me fluffy rags and shows me to wipe the blood and hide myself in a hut outside a train station. The three Swedes are in there wearing the Haeckel medusa masks, they have dropped their pants and they show small weewees which I tease with one finger. The door creaks, it is night outside, the silhouette of the old woman trembles as she dangles sideways to make me understand to go with her. On the station platform the paper rips to pieces and Kate appears with her best smile whilst Edna and the boys turn into squirrels enmeshed in colourful hanks of wool. She draws me inside the tiny station where she opens a wardrobe and tells me to dress with the master’s black uniform with red trims I recognise as those of a marching band I saw in Copenhagen. She helps me and everything fits wonderfully, she slides her hand on the shorts with a whisper of appreciation, pulls a lavender shirt over my head and tugs all the extra fabric inside the pants, adjusts the suspenders and asks for my arms into the tunic she buttons up, admiring and caressing the fit of the shoulders. She seizes a pair of high boots with flaps and pulls the shoetrees that make great noise on the floorboards with a cascade of hazelnuts reclaimed at once by the squirrels which draw an Edna doll along. Like I remember my father doing for horse riding, I pull up the boots with strong handles then I stomp a few times, frightening the Swedes away. Kate picks up Edna and tells me about the veins her finger follows on the tiny wrist, she lifts the doll’s chiffon dress and admire a precious rose button between the silk legs. Edna pops up and cries for her doll, so we annoy her but she raises her big blue eyes and Kate kisses her on the forehead, letting the doll go. A long whistle announces a train, I understand I’m needed, I fetch a little red signal with a white star in the middle and walk like a Marshall towards the train from which an army of blond kids run shouting holding silver spoons like weapons. Edna is followed by porters with shiny trunks which are embarked while she kisses Kate on the mouth impetuously, I take a whistle out of my pocket to warn out the passengers, but it makes the sound of an harmonium and everybody laughs. Edna steps in the old fashioned compartment and a troupe of squirrels follow her. I can’t see Kate. The Swedes circle me on their funny bikes, they want to know what kind of boy I am, they grab me into a service room and finally pull my pants down. Overturning me, they want to stick a daisy in my butthole but I crawl under a car through a whole in the wall and run with no more clothes on to a chapel become hen house where Kate is painting in a large book. She invites me to sit next to her and make her colours. Birds are everywhere and cackle, one lays an egg on my lap, Kate wants it, kisses it, make it roll down to a bed of moss…

Malo says:

These two birds make a nonesuch couple, their bed is touching as a baby cradle. Beyond all the fragrances they play with, their antics in the fresh linen unfurl a cloud of spells. I woke up head to feet between them in a light sonata of toe-licking and puppy bites, the following tickling contest bringing up the necessity to go pee, but there was no room for three on the pot, so we mixed ourselves under a quick shower. Katherine makes tea and coffee for me, I dip my toast, letting some marmalade drip. All three nude, we watch each other obviously; seated on a stool smaller than her bum, Sarah puts up her feet on the table and I envy her long delicate toes.

I am in no hurry today, I ask to stay with them in their studio I heard of and they like that. They dress me with a grey tank top over a black tee over a black polka dots dress over white boy’s trunks. They allow black and white striped high socks. They touch me a lot. Katherine loves my hands.

They ask me to bring my instrument upstairs. They slip on funny drawers, tees and babouches, once upstairs they pull on bistre smocks. They show me the red sofa if I like. Again, Kate brews some tea and coffee, The high-ceiling white room smells of new paint and feels homey. As I see them timidly rummage through their material I guess they need to work, Sarah wonders if I would play along, for a try. I unleash Andrea from his starship and accomplish my petty rituals on the bow and the big boy with some conscience that I have an audience to please.

From where I sit, I see Sarah draw little patches of colours in an intricate arabesque, so I play furtive pizzicati to start my improvisation as a warm-up before I spin slow arpeggi over sustained voices, I search for the room’s acoustics and let the harmonics bloom like there’s no tomorrow…

The door was ajar, Hugo has snuck in, holding my stuff, and sits quietly at the other end of the sofa. My public doesn’t work any more, Kate rests her head on her hands like a bemused kid. The light is auspicious, the little bit I saw of Sarah’s work has started me on a thread of mental analogies I do not wish to curb.

Andrea is warm now, I am proud to look into Hugo’s eye and see what he thinks of the sounds I unroll from the marvel he once gave me. I fly a few more leagues and spiral in an undulating finale. As I raise my head the bravos burst and Hugo kisses my hands. Katherine hands us cups. The instrument goes back to rest.

Sarah says: 

It’s a morning conference in the studio, where we learn that Malo, Levani and Koka we’ll perform, as we saw it or a little dressed up, in places of the world like Berlin, London, New-York, San Francisco, for selected audiences. Hugo seems to foster the project and caresses the musician who reclines on the red mohair with her cup of coffee. Willing to go, she dresses back to her own city outfit and I pivot my chair to watch her do that with some help from Hugo. Black leather and chestnut boots ready to go, she gives each of us a long kiss and wishes she will be back with us.

Hugo pays respect to our works, holds the Faerie’s head on his chest and salutes, I switch on an ambient web-radio for now, she agrees. We engross in work as light-hearted as the lace-makers in the sun. The reclining boards on each side of the table prevent me from watching her too often. There are new colours on her perfect face, she radiates when Simon texts. I get my double entendre  phrases too from the boy of whom I remember the mild manners and the same lust as his sister.

Now I try to collect the pictural impressions of the little dancer, to start with sketches in the Kandinsky way, vertical sinuous bow strokes through multifaceted clouds…

6 – Katherine Sophie – Tales Of The Fairies

L'Amoureuse Désinvolte ©Katherine Sophie, Sarah von Ketteler, (...), 2015.

L’Amoureuse Désinvolte
©Katherine Sophie and Sarah von Ketteler @katherine-sophie

Sarah tells:

My father is an important person, as I can tell in the background pictures of the international news on television, standing tall in his sharp diplomatic grey suits, displaying an irresistible half-smile I always took in part for myself.  In our family life he was never long enough there for his charm to wear off. I would climb on his lap whenever I could and listen to the sounds in his impressive rib cage; he would say words to me no one else heard.

He played softly with my hands, exercising my knuckles, my wrists, elbows, shoulders until it tickled warmly; carrying on a conversation with my mother or my brother, he would slowly manipulate my frail puppetry into what I remember as a numb and silent ecstasy.

But most of all he liked my feet and always worked his way down to my knees, my ankles and toes, to the amusement of my mother if she was there.  In my younger age, we had been all without any clothes on dazzling beaches, and he had played me like a toy hurdy-gurdy in great expense of laughter until he threw me in the blue waters. In the winters here or there I would pretend my feet were cold so he knew they were his for the time we watched television or read. He did magic. Hugo won me that way too, it was one of my many tricks to reach Katherine in her daydream.

There were happy long years when we lived in New York City because my Far, as we called him in Danish, was permanently in the UN staff. Those were my arising years, sprouting from a puppy to a foal to an untamed sort of boyish page, fortunate enough to practice dance and art well enough at the UN International School. To he wonder of my parents, I never could keep shoes more than three months because they became too small, and my ankles showed under my pants legs.

He liked me like that and he said so, murmured near my neck so I could smell Habit Rouge after his evening shower. I would crash from hours of dancing and running to our apartment overlooking the river, pretending exhaustion on the couch next to him while he probably was on the phone in any language and reading a paper. I wouldn’t move until either I slept or he crawled and stole my socks very calmly. Our nanny Dawn, who was a student from New Orleans, saw that kind of scene with a feather-light grin and fetched whatever I might have scattered across the living room. My brother, of two years my elder, never seemed to pay attention to my casual invasion on Far, as he would in turn wake me up in the silence of night for less innocent shenanigans.

There were evenings when my mother was out and Far felt like music on the superlative home hifi, the living room lit only by the blue meters of the warm beast. Then I would  drape myself in my fetish red sheet, weary nothing under my loose cotton gown, wander lazily around, stare at the city lights and the bridges carousel, then finally slump along his side and let my head roll to his lap under the colorful clouds of the symphony, feel his fingers abstractedly rummage through my hair and hold my skull as a crystal ball.

That once I pushed my dices over the edges of the runway. Some class had been cancelled, I had permission to come home, apparently no one was there. I felt like a sensual bath in my parent’s tub with a wealth of foam and perfumes. As I was rinsing my head under the water he suddenly was there in a playful mood, humming. He grabbed a sponge and started at my nape and shoulder. Soon I stood up and slithered like an otter under the caresses until his hand reached my thighs and in an overwhelming burst I peed on his hand. I let go madly, he stopped moving, nodded on a few descending notes of his softest voice.  He reached for the handy shower head, opened the tap fiercely and splashed me with flows of pure water. He held my hand as I stepped out of the tub and wrapped me in a large fresh white towel, his eyes into mine, then hugged me so totally that I cried endlessly. He swept my tears off and started to delicately clip my toenails with the finesse of a watchmaker. It was still time to dress up, fabricate a creative salad and watch a Japanese animation movie.

He did not change his manners towards me, but he started to talk to me with his eyes into mine on many subjects he did not get into before. I was allowed to bits of international policy, all questions allowed, thus testing the depth of his regard for me, the foolish little brat.

A few days later was midterm. Mor wanted us to go to Aspen, Colorado, but Far came up with a proposition to follow him for a week in London and I jumped for joy, mainly because I would be alone with him. In the evening, a silver grey car took us to the airport and I readily felt like a Princess, sharing the respectful gaze the authorities granted the diplomat traveler. During the flight, he often casually held my hand when he spoke in a detached tone about the overall mission of the UN, the beauty of invisibility in a mighty network and our family history all the way back to Sans Soucis! He finally put me to sleep. At Heathrow, another silver grey car painstakingly drove us to King’s street where we boarded an elegant apartment, greeted in by some sort of butler who carried my bag and showed me to a hazy blue room with pictures of parrots and other exotic birds.

I unpacked on the vast bed, undressed and sang under the shower with the hidden wish he would again surprise me there, he didn’t. I made up my eyes to look a bit older, slipped in tight jeans, a Radiohead shirt, red socks, navy blue Stan Smiths sneakers and a much prized Wired varsity jacket I have found on a street sale. Far had made a reservation at the light box on top of the Tate, so we took a bus to Saint Paul and crossed the Thames in the Turner light, he looked at me with a wholesome smile and made me feel beautiful, we were alone in the crowd. At level six they served the proper fish’n chips minus the memorable printing black ink Far told me about from his vagabond years, when the fish was traditionally wrapped in yesterday’s papers! I ate a few of the enormous fries and gave up on a cheesecake under a red fruit marmalade.

Far wanted me to see the Rothko room, but it was unavailable, he was disappointed, I made him describe the emotion he had felt as a student in the legendary sanctum, still putting my hands in his, he was genuinely moved. He grabbed my shoulders in front of very small Dalis and I was easily carried away.

I was yawning, we crossed the bridge back and took the bus to the Savoy for a high tea he craved, I felt I was sinking into the velvet of the chairs while my appetite woke up to a hefty dose of clotted cream with blackcurrant confiture Far said made my lips purple. He kept my eyes while he told me the astounding life of Mark Rothko and his appalling fate, betrayed by his own doctor, nearly ripped of his legacy. He promised we would go to Washington see the collection when it would be on display at the National Gallery.

We took a cab to our place and I deliberately collapsed on his chest and somewhat passed out. He woke me after the short trip with kisses on my forehead and eyelids, I think I made it last a little longer. From the lift he bore me to my bed which had been invitingly opened on the side. I would not budge, so he very carefully undressed me unless my shirt and stuff me under the eiderdown, then fetched a wet towel to gently cleanup my face. I could have purred like a kitten or peed myself again for joy but I played dead and let him kiss my head.  After he left I had to go to the bathroom anyhow, my brain swaying inside my skull.

The next morning, the sun shined in the drawing room and it helped. The butler’s eyes capsized to the ceiling when he saw me in my shirt and panties, but I spoke fast to his eyes so he could recompose himself and bring some fresh toasts. There were early narcissus on the small table that had been set in the sun rays. The tea was brewed in a silver pot, it was the ultimate Victorian Blend, the kind that twists your tongue as a well understood French kiss.

Far came out of his room in a bright fresh dawn blue shirt with a misty smile, walked to me, leaned to my ear and whispered I should pull on the robe in my bathroom, then deposited a swift kiss on my temple. I was amused, I came back in a velvety white peignoir that gradually opened down to my navel; I pretended not to notice.

I felt his feet land on mine while he poured himself a cup. He took my hand, played with my wrist and said we should go shopping because this was London and he wanted us to go places where a flashy yellow and black outfit would kill the charm. He needed to play doll. I felt his gaze on my chest like a field of daffodils. The blend of black Qimen and Saint James soon shook me off and I ran to ready up.

We ran to Brook street where somebody had told him of Mrs Rutledge’s haberdashery. There he wanted something specific for me, a black Olde English schoolboy uniform, with a waisted jacket and knee-long pants of the finest wool blend, and many pairs of fine socks to go with it. A young asian looking tailor with delicate hands proceeded to the fittings from the closest size he could find, thus arousing me by his little less than professional touch, pulling needles from a pad on his left wrist, and declared the suit would be ready at dinner time. Far chose a few poplin shirts and a very small bow-tie that almost overthrow me on my butt.

Next door, we bought some dressed shoes I had never needed before. He wanted the two-tones Richelieus, the smart Tod’s in blue suede, and girly babies in black lamb with a tricky button, for my long ever-growing fins. He helped with all the trying on, pulling and slipping the different socks we had just bought, massaging the merinos wool, the silk and the cashmere onto my happy toes. He also took the special button hook.

At Liberty’s I felt more at home among the shirts, I harvested half a dozen dark on dark prints and Far added some light turquoise and willow with witty mossy scribbles on them, lime sherbet with dandelion plumets, raw apple with ant tickles. At the perfume counter he offered me to try Creed’s Zeste Mandarine on the wrist and I gave my neck to it. On the ground floor we had more tea and salmon sandwiches with the proper fennel and tarragon cream; he continued the saga of the Kettelers of whom he seemed to know every detail, as a scholar biographer. He took pleasure telling all the tidbits and gossip on their love and sex lives in the manner of showing me what I could expect of life. He wouldn’t cast any judgement on their private lives but he was unforgiving to some of them on their political morals; he was very proud of his father who had fled Denmark and worked for British intelligence during WWII, acknowledging it had granted himself a ready-found career. He thought that alcohol was the main evil and had caused and consumed every failure he knew of in an otherwise well-off family, that it had been a grim national scourge throughout all social realms, said he, drinking a perfect Darjeeling.

We walked to a huge store on Oxford street because he wanted their fashion of underwear from the kids department, I found boys underpants quite cool, and specially those with a side opening, they also had plenty of tights and leggings. I felt spoiled and light-headed with jet-lag, but we took a cab to Laura Ashley’s where Far had a plan, he also wanted to see me in a dress.

Back to King’s street, after Far sniffed my collar in the elevator, we found the bags on parade on the living room’s rug; I took them to my room, displayed all the contents on the bed, went to pee and took off all I wore. After a fast shower I slid on the knee-high cashmere white grey and sand socks and ran parading like a wired kitten at Far who followed me back to the pandemonium he had caused, after all. He said we should concoct an outfit for a Ritz dinner, grabbed my waist from behind and raised me in the air with my legs like a windmill, then kissed my shoulder and bit my earlobe.

I showed him different models of panties, he chose the tiny white thong, then he wanted the white alpaga tights under the corduroy English garden seedling print over black background half-length dress with off-white lace accents from Laura Ashley and finally he buttoned up the baby shoes. He held my hand as I bowed, hugged me in a few steps of dance and lead me to the mirror. He gave me a presto kiss on the lips I could not respond to. He went to ready himself and ordered me not to sneak in. I watched myself for a while, tried poses, wise, discreet, dumb, innocent, mischievous, wicked, aroused, caressing myself amidst all the fresh stuff.

Back in the nude, I made up my prettiest face, pale powder down to my breasts and doll-like eyeliner, eglantine lip balm. I combed my thick black hair thoroughly to give it its child-like volume, I sprayed clementine from my feet to my ears, then dressed again, wondering if I should wear anything under the dress, then decided I wouldn’t, imagining I would playfully unbutton low enough to show nothing else than my skin.

Far dared the three piece near-black purple brown rich wool satin suit, as he would have described it himself; he was impeccably shaved and I claimed my razor kiss, feeling a cold had on my flat chest. We were early, so he brought up a polaroid camera and ordered me to pose across the different seats, which I willingly did in my idea of London camp glamour, letting him manipulate my hair, my clothes and my limbs as he would have a puppet. He asked me to pull the Twiggy gaze, chew my lips and keep my hands and feet alive. Most photos were intriguing, as my makeup did wonder and made me look as a woman.

I felt rather humbled by the “unadulterated opulence” of the Ritz dining room and that’s what Far had wanted as he held me by the waist as we were ushered to a table; as I sat down not facing the room, he suddenly left to go to another table where he accomplished a perfect baisemain to a Lady and, as I feared after a few words were said, eyes focused on me. I did not budge but played wide-eyed, he walked back and said he loved what I looked like. Those were powerful players in his realm of affairs, he promised he believed there would be no others, but there was another baisemain when Miss N. a rising ballet star, stopped to greet us and overtly looked at my childish cleavage; Far whispered when she left that he thought I struck her and she was a connoisseur lesbian. I stealthily opened one more button down.

We had “barnacle, seaweed and grapefruit curried cold consommé” and “Dry-steamed French scallops in a frenzy of saffron stamens” with Crystal champagne; the fruit salad was an elaborate pyramid of chiseled coloured pulp cubes and toy-like bits sprayed with lime juice and sprinkled with sugar.

Obviously overjoyed with my composure, my manners and my cleavage, Far asked about my dreams in life and my cravings. Half a glass of wine had heated my spirits since I was not used to alcohol, Mor being very much opposed to it, so I felt even more talkative than my usual. I described the programs of the school as exciting and fulfilling, and I could not want better, my tall frame, the gym and the dance training gave me the right look to be considered desirable by any of my classmates, furthermore the colourful social emulation of the UN community uplifted the students talents. Having been cleverly showed what the daily life at the NYC Ballet truly was, I did not think I would embrace such a rule, but the intimacy of the changing rooms, the sweat and the steam in the showers were a garden of delights. Knowing all the arcanes of fine art through Mor’s felt more like me and I had been able to remain in her studio for six hours without saying anything other than offering her tea, subsequently she had declared That I could be an artist. Our art teachers had always been good artists because of the prestige of our school, so I had already brushed off the more obvious mistakes without bending onto an imposed pattern. Art classes also were an easy ground for shenanigans and covetable misconduct as long as one washed one’s hands or else.

drifting upon my green sex life, which I knew would not startle Far, to say the least, I then told him a secret that was tearing my life to the drain more and more. He ordered coffee, held my hand on the thick white linen and clutched his eyes to mine.

The year before, my brother Martin and me had been on vacation in Denmark’s region of Nordjylland where a cousin of Far’s had a beautiful cottage near the endless beach. We had been there before, Martin had many friends but I knew no one my age, so I was hanging with the big guys on my bike, pretending to know a lot but not understanding their fast Danish. Because of our family name, they were open and friendly, we had bonfires at night when it did not rain, or they would find a car and leave me behind to myself. One night, everyone was apparently busy with one another in the bushes and Martin stayed with me near the dying fire. After a silent moment staring at the moon, he suddenly dared me with a flask of aquavit he had drank from just before; of course I drank like I had seen them do, it burnt like a snake had bitten my throat, I could not speak and my eyes were full of tears. Suddenly, Martin was on me sucking literally my tongue out of my mouth, kissing me into oblivion, pulling me away into the night. I wasn’t  completely shocked, I had desired his strong body secretly before, and the knowing that all the guys around were fucking had aroused me, but the way he used me rough and left me in the wild like a murderer, his little sister puking in the sand and maundering back to her room with blood stains in her panties made me feel I was buried alive in the sand. I cried my soul out under the shower in the middle of the night. He came back in the morning and I said nothing at all. There was nobody there I could have turned to without shame.

Two nights later he had caught me again, told me I was good, pulled my jeans and raped me straight away, not caring if my pussy was wet, hurting  like a dog. It had gone on for the remaining two weeks. Back in New York I had found I was late and I told Mor I had fucked one of the guys so she took me to a friend doctor who prescribed the pill to end the situation and the daily pill, when she realised how promiscuous I already had been. Martin never knew any of this, but went on using me time and again, taming my body to his hard dick, turning me into his whore without looking at my eyes ever.

At that time Far was livid, it took a cup of moka to recompose the Master negotiator I knew. I had to moderate my complaint, showing him right away I wasn’t beaten, only I wanted the situation to stop, eventually. Now he cried to my eyes, cajoling my hands, “it has” he said “it has”.

I nodded to show his face was back to normal, so he checked out and we left. The night was sweeter and Piccadilly still lit up, we walked down to the Mall holding like lovers, I was so proud of what I had just done. A few times we stopped and he hugged me firmly in his black long raincoat, kissing the top of my head while I cried on his tie. On Trafalgar square we heard sounds from Saint Martin In The Fields were an orchestra was rehearsing Purcell. We sneaked in and stood for a while in the disjointed melodies, he wrapped me in the silk coat and buttoned up my dress, making a tiny face to my smile.

On Pall Mall he said I could go to a reputable boarding school he knew in Switzerland near Geneva, with professional level dance and art classes along with the best international cursus, if I wished. Martin would go to a west coast college in the US.

Back in the apartment he looked a bit astounded but I was all wired up, like one who has carried a heavy load feels jumpy when one has dropped it. He had telephone calls to make, he went to his room, I wanted to pee, undressed, and woke up nine hours later inside the plush duvet.

The butler was more genial when he saw my rather casual morning attire of shiny blue and green peacock leggings under a sapphire paisley shirt. He had squashed oranges, he offered quantities of British delicacies but my stomach felt very small so I settled for toasts and black currant that would make my lips purple. I preferred Darjeeling tea, and it was quite distinguished.

Far appeared all dressed up in a Wedgewood blue oxford shirt. He pressed me onto his heart and told my ear that I was resplendent. I saw he still had red eyes, so I laid my cheek upon his hand for a little while.

We then had to pick up the uniform at Mrs Ruttledge’s, so Far asked me to wear the proper two-tones richelieus and the cashmere socks. I thought the black and white shoes would kill with the Wired jacket, only the shoes weren’t yet broken in so we took a cab to and fro.  The costume was very well fitted, I was amazed at myself in the walk-in mirror, with a stripped white and red bowtie that could have meant England or Denmark. My knees looked cute out of the black wool, I really felt dressed.

We went for lunch at Simpson’s in the Strand where some acquaintance of Far’s had retained for us a cosy nook in the panelled room. Albeit the rather effective carnivorous smells, I chose to make a British bread and cheese plate to which Far agreed readily and added, winking, a young shoots salads. With a gentle touch on his hand I asked for mineral water only, this time.

The butler kindly insisted that I should try a bite of their Stilton from the stoneware pot, soaked in port wine, and I found it gruff, as welcoming as a big bear, I would have liked walnuts to go with it. I padded my taste buds with rye bread. Most of my meal consisted of tender leaves and buttered bread, which suited me fine, and then some custard cream on mango slices and a few mint leaves.

The room was filled with old men in expensive suits and I started to perceive their interest for me in their peripheral sight. After the morning debacle of my unwashed eyelids that left some impression of my gaze on the pillow, I had wildly looked at the shower head and left my face in the raw. They were wondering if they saw the young boy of their dreams. I could even casually spread my legs and give them the illusion they would see something.

Far was rightfully preoccupied but he could not elaborate in a public place, he searched my hand and my eyes. For a diversion I asked what we would do next. Gathering his thoughts he proposed a visit to the Tate Britain Gallery where I might like a show. I felt imaginary tingles in my chest and legs as we walked out, Far soon lightly taking hold of my shoulders.

I wanted to change clothes and pee, the cab waited for us as I donned a pair of white and red striped leggings, one leg straight, the other oblique, in lieu of the shorts, letting the shirt fly out and I slipped in my blue suede sneakers. I liked what I saw of myself in the lobby’s mirrors.

In the cab, Far told me we needed to sort out the situation together and we could order some food for dinner at the apartment, even a vegetarian caterer if I prefered.. I agreed and I snuggled under his wing.

The show had been called “Pipe Dreamers” and opened with three panels by Monsu Desiderio, first the “Massacre of The Innocents”, a one meter wide dramatic scenery of über-barock cityscape lit by some hidden conflagration and in the midst of which a small party of courtisanes chatted with nude shepherds. The varnish was crystal, the black shadows unfathomable and I postured like the group of sinners; smaller in the perspective was painted a miniature scene of all horrors inflicted to children, with a greater realism than the theatrical foreground. I was quite seized, like each time I had been showed the Catholic morbid shenanigans in dark unfriendly places like Italian churches.

“The Good Prophet” , a smaller 80cm panel in an ebony frame showed a gold-coloured architectural chaos in the process of crumbling with soldiers chasing each other on the walls and columns like monkeys; in the lower left corner opened a cave lit by a lamp in front of an older man draped in a red toga, three men bowing low in front of him who seemed blind while the fourth visitor, some officer maybe, remained standing adamantly. On the lower right side was a riverbank where women bathed themselves, some nude, the others in their long shirts; three men with colourful turban watched them from behind a broken column. An absurd circulation actually took place in the frame leading the eyes to the blind old man, and this taking place at midnight warned of all irrational promises. I could have raved endlessly on the scene, it rang in tune with the actual liberation of my chest to Far, I suddenly stuck a stupid kiss to his cheek.

“Seraphina”, a vertical panel 50 cm wide, exhibited on the left side an austere perspective, also at night time, as it seems that the Desiderio team never saw daylight, tall columns under semicircular vaults where angels flew playing their trumpets, in the foreground a woman ran down a flight of stairs with a child in her hands, other people ran astray in every direction on the rich pavement. On the right side was a city with towers and steeples, chiseled pinnacles and ornate banners from which fled a crowd of oriental characters, all running to the vanishing point of the picture. Heavily armoured horsemen chased and killed many of them, the field was littered with teared limbs and heads and soaked with blood. In the lower right corner crouched a boy in a noble red and green livery with a yellow hound, hid from the scene.

Whatever meaning I didn’t want to know about, all the biblical iconology smells funny, and it ain’t incense for sure. It’s like artists had no choice or their patrons wouldn’t dare, until romanticism. But If you try to stand on the artist’s side and scan what you see as a pure act of love, you might feel a window has opened in the attic of the house you’re lost in.

The main room was hung with dark madder velvet, with settees in the middle, I was laid back with Far’s hand on mine, some character looked upon us, and I gave him back a fixed glazed eye, then suddenly ignored him, turned to Far and told him I might become a painter. He kissed my hand and looked me in the eye.

In the middle of the next wall was a large floor-standing canvas by Jean Delville called “The Emerald Well”, showing a maelström of nude swimmers ascending in a gloomy green light to a cupola of cerulean spiraling streams. Although the nudities were mostly hidden by the floating strands of hair of each other of the diving nymphs, I enjoyed the thrill of their promiscuity, remembering me trying to caress other girls in the swimming pool,  even succeeding a few times. The bodies were gracile and impeccably drawn, the expressions were ecstatic, The brushwork was melted and the shadows diffuse, I joked in Far’s ear that I would have enjoyed a puff of the painter’s pipe…

Another large canvas was one of Mihaly Zichy’s called “The Garden Of Truth”, about 2m wide, showing a large clearing with three vales opening onto an idyllic landscape afar, mountains on the right, sea on the left. Amidst the flowers and the birds of Eden, a grand gathering of colourful people of all kinds were obviously enjoying the time of their lives, dancing, embracing each other, kissing and making love graciously. As one came near, the fluidity of the touch revealed an exquisite precision of the anatomies and the astounding diversity of exchanges. Having already seen forbidden cassettes with my classmates, I knew there was much more to sex than what Martin did and made me do as fast as he could, but I would have enjoyed to study a little more of that world, however I was so visible in my contrasted outfit that I pretended to keep an overall sight, but my eyes are sharp. I could hear the birds sing in the afternoon glow.

Far whispered there could have been a warning to minors at the entrance we didn’t notice, he said that definitely the stuff dreams are made of is covered with embroideries… I wanted to buy a catalog of the show.

A picture by Lord Frederick Leighton, called “The Wait”, depicted, in an enchantment of golden and firey tones a lascivious woman sleeping on a debauchery of silk satins on some exotic terrace. At the foreground a young dark-haired man stood on a Smyrne carpet, an elbow on his knee, watching the stars above. The scene appeared to be lit by a rich candelabra. One could smell the heady laurels that had burned in the pipe and guess the low breathing of the dreamer.

There were many drawings, sketches and scribbles by unexpected artists. HM The Queen had lent some grotesque treasures by Leonardo and Hieronimus, some characters from Richard Dadd’s “The Fairy Feller’s Master Stroke” , one of the most singular possessions of the museum, In a black elaborated frame was “The Temptations Of The Hermit” a lithograph by French draftsman Rodolphe Bresdin, at first sight a creepy swarming of dark scriptures, but and eerie mingling of gnarled roots and shards with wincing faces, indecent muses, evocative flowers and sharp insects; reclining on some spread out cape, a man writhed in awe in the narrow cave left by the murky spiral of his hallucination. The graphic rendering was obsessive and outright vertiginous, sucked the eye’s focus and leaved the mind giddy. I was gradually witched  and edgy, but eerily contented, and an inner galaxy of tingles radiated from a place between my breasts and diffused through my limbs. I grabbed Far’s arm and closed the space upon the picture together with him, who felt my excitement and closed a silent kiss on my temple.

Framed in the path to the next room was a big joyous “tinta mare” by James Ensor staging a carnival of puppets and masks whirling frantically above the eyes of the watcher, a cavalcade of provocative and lewd postures interleaved with garlands of colour dots and petals. Beside this fanfare were two large drawings by confidential british artist Robin Ironside: “A Malefice Of Appearances” and ” Pursuit of Wandering Innocence”, one set in an unfinished outline of an exaggerated renaissance ballroom in which musicians and dancers ignored each other, parading in a variety of poses, in richly elaborated costumes, rags and exuberant tatters that left most of their gracious anatomies uncovered; the other showed a venerable tree in an ornately paved yard surrounded on three sides by vanishing architectures, pinnacles and sophisticated chimneys, nude young goblins and pixies climbed after each other in the foliages on the branches of the tree crowned by a boy rounded in a peaceful sleep.

Three very small Dalis were wisely given breathing space on a grey short-pile velvet wall, as if the painter had ever inhaled anywhere else than his own hookah of a brain as he had said he personally  was the drug itself, a whort of of hallucination with a moustache.

In a convenient recess were three imposing Rothkos in conference among themselves under a dimly lit velum, as a proposition to bring in your own fantasies. Painted to stay together the way they were shown there, 57 – II – 1, 2 and 3 opened a musical breach of conscience through which diffused one’s own cries for harmony, glares of pure love in fields of weaved vibrations. Again, my solar plexus resounded as a mute call to the stars and I smiled.

Elated, my nipples vivid like mulberries, I walked to a rather large 1,5m painting of subdued undefined shapes executed with a highly skilled brushwork and controlled glazes of transparent browns and blues over fading shapes like fish in a pond or leaves in the frost; only in the lower right corner timidly appeared and exquisite bare foot of a young woman, as if she would have been asleep in a charivari of fine laces. It was said that this picture was the only one known of the painter, Frenhofer, who presumably died of cholera in Paris at the time of romanticism. It could have been chaos or clouds or an elaborate patina, but it wasn’t, because of a tactile spell and the shimmering glow of the colours evoking some otherworldly light, a dawn of creation. We were kind of stupefied, mesmerized, shoulder against shoulder, not saying anything. We had both a deep sigh in which a troop of issues fled. Far looked away and pushed me to the tea room, like exhausted.

I told the cab I wanted to go to Shelton street and I left Far in a maze. There was a big in-vogue vintage store where I wanted to find a wide black overcoat like one I had seen on prestigious classmates. I did my wide-eyed foreigner charm to a diaphanous redhead salesgirl who showed me to an array of burberrys in which I successfully picked the perfect black wool gabardine just exactly oversized. It was clean with all the right buttons but however the price seemed hefty to Far who winced to my eyes as if to say I owed him. The man at the cash register tried to buy my cool varsity but I knew what I had and I refused. Far wanted me to take a hat and found me a grey homburg with a black band, I loved it and kept it on on the way to King’s street.

My room was beginning to feel alive when I threw my clothes around as a floral display. I took a shower and dressed homey, wearing striped purple and green boy’s trunks, one stocking checkered and one with polka dots of the same two colours and a black Liberty shirt sprinkled with tiny mauve carnations. Far was wearing his morning kimono and pyjamas, he was barefeet. I breathed habit rouge on his chest and he nosed my nape. We had been deliciously strung by the exhibition, our imaginations were spent, so was the talking.

The meal was brought in by Pretamanger with innocent bits of vegetarian food, the tiny buffet was dressed by Far who had let the butler go. There was enough of Elderflower soda in the icebox.

Far complimented me on my attire and said I was a character in a Carpaccio scene. He said I was exciting and that my fly yawned open. Then he looked me in the eye and said he would never fail me, but I should gather my spirits about the aftermaths of what had been done to me. He would spare no efforts to help me redeem whatever damage I might have suffered. He said I could not stay in NYC because I could not seek help without involving the police and the social services, although he sweared it was my right to do so and would remained so whatever the future brought. He said I would have the best education among teens of the world and I could even have a horse.

Having buttoned up myself a bit, I sat on the couch and threw my feet sideways on his lap. I told him I had never shared the secret with anyone and I did not know how it would happen now that I would go on my own, I supposed It could not go wrong because that life had given me no pleasure, only that Martin had stopped bullying and poking me. I had never been able to come to love him through what he inflicted me. What scared me now with anxiety was that I had been able to hide my helplessness, even continuing my tease towards Far until the happy bath I did not regret in the least.

There he laughed gently and grabbed my feet as he always did. Giving me the healing I craved at that minute. He watched me and I made him a funny face, to which he suddenly started crying with big tears. I jumped and held his head on my chest, feeling the warmth of the tears. It lasted long. I did not stop hugging and rocking his tall strong frame. Then at last he grasped me all over and kissed my head again and again. He threw me on the back of the couch and slowly caressed my neck and chest, saying that I should be the happiest of women, the strongest, fittest, caring woman in the world. I let him do quietly.

He said it was time do do my nails, he crept from under my legs a went to his room fetch the tiny tools. First , he switched the radio on , found on BBC3 a lively Haendel concert and asked me to dip my fingers in lukewarm water for two minutes, I gathered some cushions and surrendered my hands to the refined torture without a word. He collected the tiny clippings on an opened magazine, pushed the cuticles in place and polished the pink surface and edge, he used hand cream and massaged my hands and wrist as if I was a pianist about to play. Then, staring at me all the time, he slid my stockings down, and manipulating my toes, ordered them to take a little bath. We went to the bathroom and I showered my feet for a while as he brushed them. Back to Haendel he worked them as if he was restoring a Leonardo. After he finished picking and tickling, he cleaned the scene and sat back with his favorite preys in hand.

He spoke highly of the Rosemont de Saint-Loup international school where he knew some people he trusted had boarded their children with total satisfaction. He explained how they provided all the comprehensive comfort for those with special requirements such as travelling parents and an already roughed heart. They had it all, rooms with no more than two, classes of ten, labs, art studios, swimming pool, stables, orchard, rosary, kitchen garden, gym, dance studio, all that not too far from Geneva so they could hire the best professionals for the student’s best. I could learn harp and if I wanted to skate an ice rink was only five minutes away. They taught digital wizardry to whatever level one wished, photography, video, astronomy, magic and theater.

I had already no intention to disregard his offer, but I let him come, it was such a priceless occasion to watch the mighty negotiator he was, warming my feet and legs, as I laid in my trunks and crumpled shirt.

I inconspicuously inquired about the coeducation policy. Boys and girls lived in separate buildings and the curfew was at eleven; supervising was tuned according to the parents requirements but no religious or moral rules would be enforced other than the common law of Geneva, which is very liberal and tolerant. From one of his reliable sources, Far had learned that most of the students were Europeans, Russians and Americans northern and southern, from highly educated backgrounds. There had been a few drugs issues, but rather less than average, Switzerland has a knowledgeable policy on these matters and the traffic is not as aggressive as it is in other big cities of the world or some campuses. There was no leniency about alcohol, which was a point Far appreciated particularly.

By the time the music had muted to some British Imperial harmonies, fitting the mood of the decor, slumbers were taking over my will and Far had to carry me to my bed.

In a blazing Jülland morning sun, a flock of seagulls were carrying a girl in the air, weightless and submissive, her white clothes in poor floating drags. I received drops on my face and understood that she was bleeding but when I searched where from the sun blinded me. The blood on my hands and my feet was shining and hard as ruby, then as I touched it exploded into shivering clusters of flowers that turned into scarlet ravens which went after the seagulls with terrible wing flappings. Crows of many dark shades of glittering colours gathered from the horizons as the wounded girl drifted down slowly until she was no more than a tattered handkerchief on the sand, with a curious monogram in a corner that I could not read. I wanted to pick it up but a warm wind blew it away to the forest nearby.

As the sea is now rushing to the shore with the same shrieking rumor as the waves of ravens, I collect my crystal glasses that tinkle and I walk up the dune with pain. Here stands the transparent girl who rolls her head and show me a blank opalescent eye. She spreads a trembling wing and pearls stroke my face. She is nude, crimson blood flows from her vagina down her translucent legs into the sand in a tiny gush. I throw my prismatic cups to harvest some ruby berries but the thin crystal cracks on my lips and my own blood flows on my nude body with tickles and glitter. A red and green crow with diamond eyes hops to me and starts picking in my crotch with a smile, peering at my face sideways, pulling enmeshed strings of all shiny colours from my vagina, as my innards radiate of sweet fervour.

With a wing slap, the shiny swan with the crimson spring between its desirable legs throws me back to the bushes where the Delville streams, fleeces and leers peal an organ drone. The sky above is clearing out in a spiral as far as the eye sees, the crow is now ravaging my chest to let a sparkling dust fly up the darkening vault as my burning nipples hiss like cinders in milk. It is a vulture, a heavy creature now with fierce claws and a stringent penis that punctures through my vulva to my perfect nerve. Together we fly through the night where a purple new moon winks to an elated golden Venus. I spread my arms and let dozens of crystal flies escape as I sing to many echoes.

A glorious stir jolts my nerves and veins as the claws and the warm dagger loose me free. I flutter down weightless over a wide vale of deep blue shadows where white cranes sleep on their unique leg. I land on deep moss spiked with multicolor tongues and I lay spread out, my womb in a chorus of harmonies. One by one the cranes gather and glide in circle around the clearing, each glowing a pale halo that runs onto the foliages that breath like a giant animal and gradually sound like an unleashed orpheon. Elated and singing out, I dance around steaming on the thick carpet while the forest transforms into a chaotic world pulsating under the twirling lights. Breathless, I suddenly see the Frenhofer maze carouse its cacophonic tale, and in the drapes a thousand eyes peep and blink. I walk to a hidden cascade in a blue well of shadows, soon followed by the silent cranes and the cavern seems to expand in a unison of violins. My feet in the clear water, I look down on the bed of precious stones where lies the girl with the gracious foot, adrift in wonder, a finger pointing at her bosom; her grey eyes turn to mine but the water shudders slightly and I cannot read her will, so I enter the water and seize her face against mine. And today I know that it was you, Kate, and no one knows where the Frenhofer painting is anymore.

It was quite late when Far grabbed my foot, the only thing visible from under the comforter. I emerged, still a bit bewildered and sweaty. He liked a long rocking hug and said I smelled savage. I worked my whole body into lather and felt that I had been masturbating in my sleep, which rekindled the dream I had just left. I was rather proud of these adventures, but I was gently exhausted. I dried my hair à la romantique and perfumed every bit of my skin, made up my girl’s eyes. My labia were indeed pink. I pulled on a boy’s slip and went for breakfast in the white robe. Scrambled eggs, orange juice and honey toasts, the day was launched. It was rainy, I was thrilled I could wear the gabardine and I matched the uniform with the yellow and blue flowers against black shirt, black wool tights and todd’s. Far said we had good seats at the Royal Opera House for ballet at 7pm, Tasha Blitzkaya would be dancing “The Call Of Phoenix” on a music by Markus Wirtz. I would have craved to see that in NYC but had not succeeded, so I was enthused and jumped to Far’s neck, letting the robe open itself wide.

He suggested that we went to the British Museum, where, among the rest, an exhibition of the Scythian treasures excited him. In the cab I started to tell my dream in every detail. He was very mindful, not interrupting once. Even in front of all the gorgeous gold wonders he asked for more, mezzo voce. Including the racy bits, I felt very proud I had all this to tell. At lunch inside the central tower, we discussed my events as if it had been a film, he listened carefully to my explanations, because I felt I could tell all.  Caressing my hand, he made me say how the sounds and musics seemed as visible as colours, I realized I could only tell it happened, like magic. He said he was impressed and very proud of me, and many other compliments that might have made me look silly.

At tea time we could walk to Covent Garden and muse around, I won myself a flashy aviator watch I had not yet seen in NYC. We found a cosy Starbucks where they served an honest carrot cake and cream with Oolong to my taste. Far wanted my dream again and let me digress on what it evoked and recalled. I told him I dreamt quite often and liked it, but that our sessions together had thrown me into a new realm of visions because of the trust I invested in his promises, I guessed. We were seated on a couch, a woman across the lounge seemed intrigued when I leaned on Far’s chest. Caressing my hair he suddenly said it was our last night in London, our flight was scheduled at 13:00 at Heathrow, my bulky luggage would follow in a few days. Martin would not come back from Aspen, I would be in Switzerland in a few weeks. I felt the pinch of reality taking over, an avalanche of dumb queries blocked my mind, I chose to remain in Far’s tie.

We were seated at the front row of the grand tier; the theater went gradually very dark and remained silent for two or three minutes, then a smooth tremor of marimbas populated all sides of the darkness while the curtain rose as the waters in a sluice. A purple glow dawned afar, a flimsy shadow entered on the black floor and swiftly described spirals into the rhythmic multiples of the layered beats now establishing as a steady stream. The backscreen gradient had evolved to ultramarine and the Ultissima Ballerina was followed around by a golden glare. She went barefoot on the glossy black surface where her reflection composed the flying braces, wearing as little fabric as a Royal venue suggested; she was easy, like improvising an air calligraphy upon the merciless cadence, her legendary springiness giving another syncopation to the chaining of sounds.  A pair of vermilion gloves and a headdress of ruby embers stemming from a gleaming grenade on her chest composed her ardent outfit.

At each wing of the pit, grand pianos spelled a sassy incantation like holding both ends of a loose wire, giving Tasha arguments to liven her course. Along the diagonals, entered the triangle shaped groups of boys and girls sideways  across the stage. Boys wore graphic liveries of contrasting patterns, girls adorned unstructured arrays of multicolored veils, although transgender mixes had occurred. Saxophones blazed in sliding riffs while bass clarinets and bassoons laid down a whirling drone. Two servants in lamé leotards joined the exuberant firebrand soloist whom they handled up in the air as the crowds behind mingled in the knitting of an ostinato. Like a dawn breeze whispered a chorus from behind the background curtain, causing the troupe to round for the star and her angels, where she unfurled the ramblings of an arabesque with and arrogant looseness and a faultless balance. Symbolically, the music seemed to obfuscate from the carousel and collapsed a few times in the silence just to roar back onto the calls of the chorus, but the fight ended with the triumph of the Queen Phoenix who never was menaced here anyhow. A glowing red sun was rising now and the whole flight of gracious creatures waved as one after the bright one.

Dancing on bare feet, albeit one might regret the pointed figures, inspired the highly sensual beauty of silent moves on the floorboards, and also the erotic animal accent given by the heel at an angle with the expanded leg; it suited wonderfully Miss Blitzkaya’s body. She and the choreographer Dirk van Axel earned a twenty minutes long ovation and bushes of roses, but Far pulled my sleeve out to the restaurant on the roof of the market pavilion nearby where we could sit in a shady recess.

Far ordered the “bar au beurre blanc” and I negotiated poached eggs in the middle of steamed greens, he drank a glass of Meursault but they squashed peaches for me. I was still happily carried away, my inner chest ablaze like the Blåvand fyr, would have the Dane grandmother said. I was so enamored with Tasha that I did not hear what far said. We were all fan babble, we were not such educated connoisseurs as to overcome the spell she had cast on her audience, but all my muscles dared my flaming mind. He enjoyed visibly my attitude and complimented my straight back and squared shoulders, I lost my shoe and found his feet, his eyebrows didn’t shudder, he is a professional. The young ginger waiter, blushing, brought a plate for me, and, peering at my surprised eyes, said it was frozen nougat with Marsala sauce, he added it was on the house; I savoured the gift and fed a spoonful to Far who wanted one. The boy weared opulent copper curls and a disarming smile. After he had signed the bill, Far jokingly offered to excuse himself, so obvious was my stare at the desirable brit boy. We never knew if anyone else was to be thanked for the dessert.

The evening was mild, we walked our way back, Far laying the plan for the next days. He would take two weeks to set Martin’s new accommodations somewhere he didn’t tell. He would be back to NY and take me along to my new Swiss school. I would never be with Martin again, he wouldn’t know where I would live. Far said it was the safest way to mend my future. If I wished to write to Martin, he would forward for me. I would have Far’s telephone numbers for whatever need. He insisted again I should not tell anyone anything unless I took the risk of a penal prosecution against my brother, which remained my infrangible right.

That night, I danced for myself in the mirror, caressed my lean body and masturbated so easily I thought I had peed on the carpet. Then I washed all fatigue away under the shower and fell into the duvet.

Gauthier yarns:

I must have met Sarah coiled in that black gabardine, her thin legs outgrown down from her distressed jeans to a pair of black docs, maybe chased her in a dark alley…

We spent summer at the family Renart-Chevillon castle in Burgundy. My reclusive grandfather had not left his first floor apartment since when I suppose he was shamed after the war.  My father Emile was some high magistrate and seldom showed himself at the domain. My  mother Adeline Mérigny was a successful costume designer and used the big outbuildings and attics as workshops in the warm months.

There were times when the early country renaissance building would be rustling and wooshing with the most attractive theatre types, seamstresses, needlewomen and men, dyers, alchemists… And then actors and actresses would storm the rooms with their resonant voices, mirific language and extravagant egos gathering for the fittings and rehearsals.

I was famous all over the house, summertime was the season when my mother would allow my angelic mane to fly around my small face everybody wanted to kiss.

A trampling crew of kids was left to the overwhelmed authority of au-pairs, rain or shine, around the park or the many deserted venues of a longtime obsolete lifestyle. My best friend was Donovan, blond son of a scottish seamstress, one year my youngest; we had been together since the cradle, it seems. I was always impressed by his dark blue eyes, as Sarah’s peepers, some of his looks gave me goosebumps, just like that.

He called me Fox, I called him Don, Scot, Scotty or even Bambi. After a week of sunlight his skin was golden and the tip of his hair turned almost white, when I could never get any more than lobster bright, so I kept a tee shirt on when we dipped in the pond that had been declared safe enough.

One Afriel boy was one or two years older and despised our friendship, calling us sissies with a weird voice when it moulted, so we shunned his arrogant ways and attempts to lead the games. He was beautiful and smart, his black hair tangled in rich loops and his features already manly; his fiercely drawn lips soon accentuated by a dark duvet.

Two or three girls from eastern countries populated the workshops floors, resisting the push from their working mothers to make them run outdoors. Some days, we lured them to the water where we would ogle their pale butts while pretending to volleyball and exposing our daggers. Two sisters had honey gold hair in long plaits, Jaga had plenty dark ringlets, opaline skin and deep dark eyes, she shied from the sunlight with me, she smelled like a daisy when we wrestled for fun, I even nosed her shorts as she conveniently surrendered. Don insisted until he could hold the feet and legs of Barbara or Ewa while teaching them English or French, I saw him let float his fingers on a panty or two while looking away.

Summer was the land of wandering clouds and inebriating hays drying on open prairies, grasshoppers and frogs leaping in our legs to great expenses of international laughters, mad larks into the midday glare, carmine lips after feasts of blackberries and wild strawberries, bittersweet shenanigans inside our ragged linens under the blue shadow of the box trees that would exalt the scent of Jaga’s sweat forever in me.

The frenzy culminated when my mother rang the clunky bell to call off operations in the long cries of all the swallows, it was time for a much needed daily shower on the slabs of a converted cellar. There was the real culmination of our young enigma, in a mist of English lavender, songs would keep the adults away while our erections adorned themselves with cascades of foam and we promenaded our softened fingers all about the lasses cunts and baby soap would make it so easy to briefly finger shag their arses.

Either Afriel or toddlers would not join our splashes, but in that last summer he showed and soon scared us all with a remarkable erection; he bragged he would teach us something and masturbated in foam his circumcised willie till he blurt on the girls bodies to shrieks and splatters. Scorn bittered his mouth as he ostensibly looked down on our dangling birdies, so we demonstratively helped each other shampooing our hair because we had not been amused.

That night Donovan confessed. Girls and boys slept in different wings, we had nested alone at the top of a round tower with five little windows in all directions. We felt secure because no one could reach our door without making noise in the big attic next to it. I was a lucky sleeper, but before the night closed on us we shared as much as we craved of our gleeful bodies and woke up entwined. With my bud in hand, he said he had seen a boy ejaculate many times already, for he had been the pet boy of an older student the past season, under the guise of tutoring; he whispered in my ear he even had it in his own mouth. He gave me a long giddying kiss and ravaged me down to my dingy with a tongue I had not known yet and sucked it ablaze, triggering a daring retort from me. Then he forced my legs wide apart and licked all my precious belongings skilfully, pointing his tongue in my ass until it surrendered. I was ridden by electric waves and colourful shivers, devoured by dizzy tickles, exhausted.

Came rainy days. Card games and hot cocoa, playing house in the storage rooms, playing movie with garish love scenes and sneaky petting. After our new ways of nightly lullaby, I felt all the more confident with Jaga, rubbing my insolence on any part of her I could lock without her saying no. Scot was interested in both sisters, driving them to kiss each other and guiding their hands to his command stick as they giggled and sighed.

The mothers called us one morning to the workshop. They had been working on a production of Les Caprices, a full size eighteenth century set with flows of shimmering stuffs under the sparkling chandeliers. They had decided to dress us in costumes, Don would be a Marquise in ballooning petticoats, buttercup silk, white wig, powdered face and rosy cheeks. I was a meek servant in a pale blue cotton dress and white apron, a while lace bonnet over my curled hair. Jaga made a desirable Chevalier in a mauve shantung frock, white satin breeches and a chamarré long waistcoat. The sisters wore mock uniforms like the Pope’s army, yellow and blue stripes over sun bright culottes, black bicornes with a blue cockade.

The outfits were brilliant, after all the fittings the girls took numberless photos and made us pose in pairs and groups. Most of the time we stood half-naked on the tables and stages, they even took away our underwear because it showed through the satin or the casimir of the culottes. the only detail missing were the shoes, so we only wore thick white stockings and repetto slippers.

We escaped to an apartment full of storage furniture. The Marquise ordered from a tapestry medallion settee, the chevallier burst in from the war afar and sat beside her while she glanced to my side. She asked me to give some wine to the soldiers while she held Jaga’s hands. The soldiers were expected to hustle a shy servant and they did in rough Polish language. Having seen Scot play them I ventured some well adjusted strokes as I kissed Ewa’s lips. Lifting her wrist to her forehead, Her Ladyship drew her servant to the next room where she uncovered a large bed and fell. I reached the deserted settee with my attentive escort, letting them forage in my underskirts, discovering the thrill of being exposed that easy way, quenching my thirst on both sides in eager little mouths. Then The Mistress called for her Foxy girl who ran to her, pushing the troops to the bedroom. There she laid like an opened flower, the tight somewhat teared open and a ravishing warrior sucking young Peter.  With Barbara we besieged the Chevalier from behind while Ewa was fully uncovering my lower body and tearing the tights off. I just had to slid down the pants and Jaga’s fanny glowed with desire. I readily darted a frantic licker in her slits.

The next morning, out of a deep oblivious night, heads and bodies were quite languid, we went down to the kitchen for breakfast. At ten, my father stepped out of his official car in his official suit in the courtyard and ordered me to the dining room where he said I had fifteen minutes to dress and go with him to Paris. He had never used that tone and language with me, I was instantly sick and nearly fainted but he did not budge an eyelid.

That was the end of my enchanted childhood, and for a long time, my shiny locks. Afriel had snitched, knowingly or not. His father being some hard nut in the theatre world, there had been a social meeting where my dad had learned all he wanted to know. I was to be sent to the religious school with a firm notice to the headmaster he knew all too well. For the two hours of the trip back to Paris I sat with the chauffeur and said nothing; our first stop was at a hotel where my dad’s hairdresser reluctantly cut all my flamboyant mane. Any future of the kind my master wanted was definitely erased from my mind.

My mother filed for divorce but lost custody of me against an all-powerful  magistrate who nonetheless was ordered to let me see her on holidays and share parental authority. She moved out to a large farmhouse with Ruta, the mother of Jaga, whom I saw again to my father’s ire and our relief, and continued a successful career albeit the cranky fool’s schemes. There never was an understanding between my father and me, I was waiting for my eighteenth birthday. I kept a steady correspondence with my mother as well as Jaga and the others, although we had to nearly sue the school which opened my mail ( it made other students laugh when I started receiving sealed mail and locked all my affairs like a spook).

The fire Don had set to my soul and body slowly became a rage, in the sordid frame that had been set for the frail deviant ginger wildfowl. The good fathers could never christen their prey and happily there were legal limits to discipline in our vanishing century. As a shameless slut I hustled a protector among older kids and found sweet openings with some teachers. I became excellent in Spanish, in English and German: I was called a prodigy in art and got my grades my way. To his chagrin my father was told I was helplessly gay and promiscuous, so he let me be damned and I would no longer go home on Saturdays, only to my mother’s on vacations with Jaga and the sisters; Don’s parents having been tattled shunned to send him again, he maintained a dandy lifestyle all the way to Cambridge and became a teacher, his letters were stolen away by the school.

Weekends were altogether depressingly dull but eventually lecherous. There were a few students left in the deserted halls and corridors and supervisors kept to themselves or watched television. It was during an election night that I came for the first time in my life at the hands of Jean-Baptiste, a general’s son with a smooth skin who in return made me kneel in the school’s chapel. We could hear some loud comments from the TV room afar while we kissed like devils.

Pretty soon my gaydar pointed to the grey types with white collars whom, being catholic, had to manage a cumbersome sexuality; I shared the perverted high of seducing them with some of my fellow prisoners. Some of them had wet lips but were too ugly or smelled bad, so they weren’t gratified any glance of my best Bambi’s eyes or Bacall’s hips urging them to run and wank in the loo. Quirks happened with soul-damaged students who spit on my face after they had come in my hands. In less than a term my own little dragon had bloomed into a wealth of lust I had to manage.

The showers were clean and warm, I walked in usually like a star in many concupiscent eyes. Once a tall blond Greek god approached me with all the flair I required and quickly toppled me over, then suddenly locked my back to the wall, darted his tongue in my mouth and pulled me to the cloakrooms where he dried me cautiously with the towel. He made me tell I had been about to let him penetrate me right away. He was furious, he lectured me hard about AIDS and made me repeat the commendations of safe sex, punctuating the phrases with lavish kisses and ending the sequence in my mouth before laying me on the table for the same treat. Unlike other boys, he stayed with me and we petted each other all over the place while discussing life and philosophy, art and poetry. He cracked on my story of the costumed masquerade, he became fond of me. He was really called Sebastien Ledoux.

With the connivance of the school’s nurse, he had my blood tested and gave me the closed envelope and read my eyes after I saw the results. He became my mentor and introduced me to the school’s fine crew, in a way pimping me to my protectors. He decided that despite my dislike for sport I should acquire a great body in a fencing practice. He pulled me to the fencing hall and introduced me to a slender bald athlete in black tights who soon was kindly busy in my pants and smelled the same Aqua Velva as a decorator who had pushed me in his bathroom the year before at Chevillon. They undressed me and tested all parts of my body like a coveted animal, planning the work to be accomplished while sharing my mouth, my proud johnny and my tickling penny. The coach then literally sucked up all my glee and, making me taste his mouth, massaged me out unconscious.

Jaga was thrilled when I related all the metamorphosis I had gone through, and she found by herself that the little master had profited in size and his bristle nest was prettily prospering. I responded at once and she was off with her pants, showing me a miniature shrubbery with a rosy spring in its hollow. She still smelled of English Lavender, I checked her bosom and found twin effaced moons asleep in her warmth to which I savoured the fruit, giving them some pride again. Of course she wanted to know all of my punishments and rolled eyes when she heard how I had been bitching the flannel empire of the tormentors, my epic exciting her to spread her wings for me.

The sisters too had grown like lilies in June but were still smooth as babies when I dived into their shirts and fineries. Their hair embalmed of Blue Tangerine and their mouths were still thirsty and all of us rolled head over heels in the plush. They applauded the new sire praised by Jaga and nosed the first fleece while I gently churned their jewel asses with my fingers. They learned there that I needed to jizz off as I had already gratified Jaga and took turns with their lips and tongues until I came deep into Ewa’s throat while gripping her head firmly, after what they exchanged the outcome with lost of grimaces and comments.

The farm was one of those aggregates of buildings with huge roofs of small terracotta tiles around a square yard in the middle of nowhere. The fields around had returned to an apparently chaotic wasteland where all the abandoned farming equipment had been piled up, burned and let to rust among rose trees, wisterias and ivy.  A stage and a film studio had been built inside the barns with all the amenities required for a rehearsing troop and in the temperate season many people could sleep in decent bunks. The main house had been restored to its plan of origin and life took place in a spacious living room with many salons and crash pads furnished in rich ethnic patterns and my mother’s collection of ikats.

My mother and her lover had picked me at the train station; they were all eyes for me, I was proud of them, they looked dazzling and smelled like a Maxfield Parrish garden. I told them a safer version of my candid life  under the amused looks of my three supporters. They all burst in laughters when I recalled the wig I wished for while the barber sacrificed my glorious coiffure. The world had spinned one turn, I was looking at two mothers embraced as I was myself not so brotherly cradled by heavenly troopers.

My life resettled from that moment. In my future, after I would be freed from my father’s ward, I wanted to join my mother’s world, be an artist and as much of a polysexual pornographer as I would be able to; science and law wore the same grey suit of despair to me, with a twist of hypocritical metaphysics as a result of my tormentor’s ruling. My two moms took time to review my assets, my will and what they knew of the delusive realm of applied creativity, testing my true scope of such a career plan. I had always been a fast learner and a troublemaker, a wanton little elf, but I did good in languages and literature, scoring top grades with my writing. They weighed possibilities in France and abroad, Ruta advocating for the British art teaching, her sister being with the Saint Martin’s School. Anyhow my ship was already on route and as frivolous as is might seem to bet my life on the somehow common hatred of my dad’s authority, every star in my sky sang that I was right.

Until late inside the kinks in the quilts on the girls’s beds, listening to the hurly-burly in their warm tummies or rambling a little more of our unleashed celebration, the four of us projected a life of fancy and eternal enjoyment, our seductive means feeling limitless, and the perfume of us an invincible shelter.

A couple of cats joined us when we came back from a crowded shower. Later I dreamt I was naked in a large dark room with tar black wooden walls; there is a forge downstairs and the hammers on the anvils make a bewitching music as flocks of opal butterflies sprout through my hair. Drawn to the heat, I walk down the piranesian stairs to a cavern where trolls beat gold into masks like those they wear, raising showers of sparks and embers that mingle with the butterflies which burn to a coloured cloud embalming benjamin and myrrh. Now the ground is covered with white and red starry flowers that make me desire the girls feet and so they are dancing, nude and wearing crowns of the flowers they spill around. The trolls have thrown their work to the river, bringing out pearly waves that splash on my girls, they open their black leather breeches to dark phalluses and invite Jaga and the sisters but they dance and throw flowers to the impressive poles. Someone catches my arms from behind and penetrates me forcibly to my sudden enjoyment, making me spread my legs and I become a red and black butterfly, my own peen jumping to my heartbeats. With vast peacock wings, Jaga flies over me and suckles it while another troll jabs her in the air. I’m waking up on the back seat of a luxury limousine, I can hear the steady engine like it would hurry through my back bud and I come in furious rushes inside Jaga’s mouth as she tosses it with two fingers.

The cat in my neck didn’t seem to mind my shouting and keeps the engine running, but Jaga deserved some retaliation which my spent manhood could not redeem, so I readily bedevilled her blooming cunt and ring with tongue, lips and whirling fingers. Soon I felt a busy licking between my buttocks and on my mirabelles, and Ewa came sitting on Jaga’s mouth. The cat decided this time he had enough, and jumped out of an all too human shenanigan.

I probably mix my timeline in the course of events, I have pictures of truckloads of dummies, racks of costumes under plastic wrap, pyramids of trunks in decayed buildings under sheeting. My mother fled the chateau as fast as she could and she was helped by all the ready hands in the theatre troupes but I lived all through my own metamorphosis. There was an acute crisis when my grandfather Renart died and I was forced to attend his funeral in the chapel along with a handful of grim silhouettes and veiled spectres, an eerie fleet of black limousines carrying the mourners to the family vault in the village cemetery where the priest and the Mayor were sole presence of the outer world. I remained clutched to my mother’s arm, contrastingly slender and warm, smelling of heady tuberose, three rows of black pearls in a choker, desirable and young. Back to the castle, a collation was served by the best Parisian caterer as if a rich producer had wished to treat a winner team. I wasn’t familiar with the Renart quarters and I liked the Napoleon III excess of purple and gold on black lacquered wood; I hope they stay preserved until they become mine. Mother and me sat in the most shadowy spot we could find and she provocatively coveted me, having diverted a tray of meatless finger food and a decanter of claret. Later she abducted me to her old room upstairs, undressed me in the dark and hurried me to the deep bed where we slept in each other’s arms. She eventually drove me back to my school where she impressed those who saw her, it helped furthermore to my reputation as a sluttish lad with an ardent mother.

In the morning the kitchen resounded with some pearly Debussy piano laces and smelled of Italian coffee. Marleen, the sister’s mum, a lusty blonde with sharp grey eyes, had joined. Our small lecherous crew showed bright eyes and ineffaceable smiles, hands were still magnetic under the table but we harvested kisses and strokes on our foolish heads.

Mom said she had presents for me in the workshop. We all brought our cups to the enormous room flooded in daylight by suspended lamps and I became instantly the sole focus of a spiny swarm. Claiming her motherly skills over me, she had collected the dandiest trousseau in the most refined cloths. They fitted the lengths in no time, Jaga and the sisters still wearing vague night gowns over their gracile rumps, venturing fast hands on my sensitive peenokee. Now I had the right colours and shapes, I would cut through the boring strains of social life at school and ravish my patrons. She chose a greyish baby cashmere pied-de-poule waisted jacket and vest ensemble with coal grey worsted wool trousers and buckled derby shoes she thought would fit. All the girls applauded. I looked like young Robert Redford. There were two Irish tweed jackets with buck elbows and also a reversible raincoat from Aquascutum and a dozen homemade shirts cut to perfection. All this wealth smelled of my lavender childhood and would strengthen my soul all the way. My mother never failed me.

Later in the afternoon, before I had to return to school with a new bag, Barbara told me she wanted to taste my goo, as a good luck charm of sorts, which I could not refuse, but I offered to anoint her sneaky penny for the first time instead. She fetched her lube and then bravely posed as a candid moon rise to my conquering wand. Jaga caught us and used the moaning mouth to her avid convenience, seeing what Ewa sat on her own lips and tongue. This was a successful farewell, leaving me my fill of girl fragrances and grace.

Katherine recalls:

My old school was rather uptight when it came to style, students came from wealthy international families related to the port trade. My mother had obtained to raise her children mostly in French and my father had granted his consent, provided Simon would receive the proper training towards the German engineer colleges. In my father’s view, I could very well thrive just like my artsy mother and show a gracious silhouette to his aristocratic friends.

Bilingualism suited me all the better, as well as all qualities with more than one opened scope. At the time when many of my classmates acquired puberty, grew breasts or lowered their tones, I was growing upwards and looked like totem pole in rags.

A French teacher, Mrs Blandin, once apostrophised me all of a sudden about my allure, daring me to show a tad of femininity in her class; she earned jeers and laughters on my account and I was upset. At her next class, I came in as a Vogue poster girl, my eyes painted like Avril Lavigne’s, my hair fluffed out, wearing a black minidress, black stockings and varnished ballerines, I sat like a daisy at the third rank with my black nails strumming on my notebook. Other kids had been struck of course, bluffed by a metamorphosis they had no way foreseen.

Mrs Blandin said nothing, eventually unsure of who I was, and spoke of Henry Heine or Chateaubriand while I laid my evil snare. After ten minutes quiet, I began letting my legs apart and showing her only my bare crotch in rapid flashes I knew she noticed. Having caught my outrageous message, avoiding a public incident because she felt that, regarding the rest of the class, my transformation was rather a success and responded right to her own stupid admonition, she asked me to stay after class.

I wanted badly to vamp her, with no other intention than to exert some power over her. Apart from her tailleur suit and high heels, she was cute enough to make an easy prey. As she acknowledged It had been rather finely played on my part, she fought her best to ignore what she could glimpse at my every move and I became convinced that in any other situation she would have eaten me alive.

When I left her, a few friends were waiting outside the class and we walked. I told them what I had done and the girls pushed me to the restrooms to see for themselves. It was my victory, after what I put my panties back on.

Cynthia was a cool tomboy too and we had been mates for years. She stayed with me as the other girls ran to tell the boys about my exploit. She picked up my fingers to check for the varnish my nanny had laid for me, came very close and said  I was pretty good as a girl, too, I could model for Bravo and play for TV. I laughed out and she kissed me dumb straight away. She smelled a boyish mix of grapefruit and sandalwood, her short black hair swept her aventurine green eyes lined with long lashes. She smoothly ordered me to her place in the afternoon, and left me there feeling like a fascinated female.

She lived in a large apartment in an ornate building on Rothenbaumchaussee, with corridors and vestibules all crowded with artworks, many of which unsettling expressionist scenes of the boiling Weimar era. She availed her lust of my fascination, grabbed my hand and kissed me towards the room at the end of the gallery, pushed me on a Wilhelminian bed, raging to disrobe me entirely.

Her mouth gave life to the Angkor smile, with no makeup at all her features drew a strong soul to which I abandoned my exhausted self. Not a nook of my body she could not expose and ravage, she was as skilled as a warm twister.

When I reacted and seized her foot out of her boot, climbing up her jeans, she stopped almost breathless and sat on her heels a little aside on the fluffy federbett. She joined my hands as to quiet me, kissed my mouth once more and said she had something to tell me. I thought it was one of the strange girl mysteries and listened.

In a smaller tone of voice, she said she was a bit more than what I saw there, she was also truly a boy in her pants and I would be afraid of her otherness, although there was nothing much to fear actually. She was born undetermined, and her parents, both doctors, having known the truth about the useless tortures medicine had inflicted to her kind of children, refused all procedures and made sure she was safe from psychorigid monkeys.

Again, I was dumbfounded, I still held her foot and slid the other one from the boot and sock, kissed them slowly, saying nothing. She said she had wanted me to know among all others, and my pirouette of the day had triggered her courage.  She was fond of me, my style and body she just had, but she was afraid to let me explore the rest of her. She too had a little wet pussy, but her clitoris was more of small dick when it aroused. She found it rather cute, and she could wank it easily and did it quite often, but she wondered if she could share it with anyone else.

Her feet were warm and tender, I pushed  her back, unfolded her long legs and started to crawl up her pants until I felt something similar to what I knew with Simon. I unzipped the fly and bravely pulled the tight jeans down. She wore some boy’s brief of white cotton, and it was bulged out like my brother’s. One tiny pull after the other I watched the elastic belt coming down, until it sprung in my face. She had a rosy soft thorn spouting up from a pale and wet pussy, and it looked quite gracious, I thought. I had been seeding kisses on her thighs and I went on her labia and dicky, swallowing it as I did with Simon’s willy boy.

As I sucked steadily like I would know how, she started to sob and roll her head. I left Peter on his pan and took to her head and drink her tears, shut her cries in a passionate tongue kiss. But she needed to cry and she did for a long while, caressing my neck, my chest, my pearly source and the shy cellar, my toes, sniffing along like a stubborn toddler.

I went back to the candid little sailor and annoy him and his available smile and winky with bites and lappings, for I felt she wanted to be convinced of my true excitement, as I was falling for her as much as my dear brother.

She widened her gap, threw her hands back and rolled her hips as to debauch my mouth all the more, and soon squirt on my chin and breast with a happy whisper, then fall lifeless with a few remaining sobs.

She cried my name and gasped that she loved me, I was the first ever and she would die If I betrayed her. I grasped her against me, her Cupid’s dart still pointing, and sussurated in her ear I would never fail her, I was proud we found each other and she was totally desirable. I told her about her arrogant cockatoo kid I would never forget and asked her to fuck me. She was stunned I asked, licked my whole face once more and made sure what she had heard, then giggled and called me a floozy tart, handling me like a defenceless puppet and presenting the devil to my inundated miracle.

I was more than ready for her move inside of me, she eagerly sought my eyes and I darted my tongue to her so she gobbled my mouth while she punctured my mad orchid already slit by Simon long ago. She lifted my legs more and I could feel the kiss of her labia on my silky knot. We fought ever so gently and squirted on each other a few times, then I dared her to enter my tender detour, which she did as easily as a key in a lock and played the hummingbird in the honeysuckle. I knew how to play that fiddle, too, I made sure she spat on my butt once more before she fell unconscious, dart still pointing.

We must have slept, I remembered the snow on jewel trees as in the Edmund Dulac’s books we asked our nannies to read for us in the old days, swirling stars ringing like crystal birds, pecking at my tits as Cynthia woke me and we started again nibbling each other when the door opened swiftly and a woman retained a muffled shout before running away. It had been her mother and she quieted me, there would be no incident at all. When I left, in my awkward outfit, my face washed and my hair combed in order, her mother kissed me on the cheeks and begged me to come back as often as I wished, and Cynthia walked me to our house on the lake because she could not leave me, hadn’t it been so late I would have endlessly walked her back too.

That night, when I ran to my room after an evening salad and heard Simon’s voice croon a litany of island names, expecting me to answer in the magic ritual, I realised I was in all manners of trouble. Clipperton, Birkholm, Puerto Rico, Potamus… I wanted his peeny Tom even more, and felt deliciously slutty; he was playfully hard and nosed me in the warm cracks and slots of my body, wrapped me in his arms and kissed me deep and suddenly said something was different about me, he said in my eyes I had been a bad girl and he wanted a share of the novelty.

I confessed I had tumbled in someone’s garden in the afternoon, but I required a serious troth of silence about it because I had pledged my own life and he would get why, so he had to swear on my offered pussy and lick it properly before I could share the rousing news.

I busied my hands with his warm game set while I told him the Rothenbaumchaussee enchantment in the exact right order, starting with my high fashion event in the classroom. I could feel he was enthralled and peeny Sim drooled already. To my description he wanted to meet Cynthia but now he was stomping on my womb like a boar.

The next morning I wore black leggings, oversized grey sweatshirt and camouflage jacket with my Docs when I walked in the school yard with some worry. I watched around for a tall black silhouette and spotted a lone bird on endless pale legs for she wore baggy shorts in a nylon parka; on her copper green t-shirt was printed “I’m your bitch”. As I walked to her I felt anxiety in her too, she was looking away when I muttered “hi”. With her defiant shake she uncovered a fiery glance off the long strand of hair and she stood, we hugged and kissed.

There were quips and jests, we were called dykes and lesbos but all in all we stood up rather well, sitting close by each other matter-of-factly interested in Spanish and Maths. During intermissions she leaned on me and small talked in my ear to make my eyes sparkle. The rebel wanted to amaze the herd daringly. I was proud of us and let it show to the bemusement of the boys who felt cheated. The serious eddies would happen during the next few days and our mothers would have to enfranchise the school underhandedly, which they did clear and sharp, my mother quite amused of the tale.

It was a sunny day, we walked naturally towards my side of the lake, although I did not remember us deciding anything. Holding hands, arm in arm or not, we recalled our big move to be sure. Timidly, I spoke of Simon when I realised there were chances they would meet now. Pressing my chest into her opened coat, I spoke in her neck and emphasised only a tad too much on my love for him. She said nothing for a moment and I went on the story of the swans which had nested in our garden and we officially were responsible for their well-being.

Nobody was at home, we never checked my mother’s studio upstairs and it was soundproofed. She grabbed my shirt and devoured my mouth at the kitchen counter where I made some fresh coffee. She ransacked my body down to my pants with the joyful obviousness this was for real. When she sat on the counter, I had a free access through her shorts’ legs and found Billy Willy ready at my fingertips as she stared at my eyes to catch any broken note but there weren’t any until I slid down her belt and went for a long sucking hello to her bergamotte-angelica sanctum.

The nanny Inge burst in with lots of supplies but did not seem to notice Cynthia’s pants were down and ran for another bag downstairs. We took our cups to my room and undressed hastily, I switched the music on, it was OK Computer, Cynthia nodded yes and clutched me like a wrestler. She cadged for my mouth but I felt she shoved her flute inside my silly apricot so I unbent my back and rump and welcomed her push as wide as I could, laying flat at her mercy; she soon forayed in that loophole she seemed to covet the most and drilled until I felt a tiny wave and lifted my hips for more.

Unlike Simon’s, her puppy wolf remained stiff and hungry all the time, I took it in my mouth as she went for my own tiny scoundrel and have wet words of such importance that I squirted on her face.

Suddenly, we saw Simon standing near the bed, with an amused smile. I had never locked my door, I did not know his schedule, we had been enraged of our bodies, we were caught. Cynthia rolled in the comforter as I stood up and kissed my brother. As softly as I could I told her I did not have had time to explain our lifestyle. I told Simon to sit on the bed and went inside the duvet along her back. She was shaking. I represented he was the coolest boy ever on this side of the Alster, that he smelled like a cornfield in July, that his manners were as delicate as an Egyptian Prince, until she chuckled and mumbled that now she knew that we were lecherous degenerates. I answered lightly that I had known that, but it would be her decision to share or not, and I carefully unfolded the hair from her grouchy muzzle and let her peer at his quiet smile and same grey eyes as myself.  She said Hi, she loved me and he should not hurt her. He kneeled down and laid his head down, telling her she could love me all she wished and she was very beautiful for all he had seen. He wanted her to feel he did not ignore her gentle little twist and he caught one of her feet and kissed it devotedly.

She had been a little hustled and stood amazed, I fetched her shirt and briefs and pulled them myself over her, then her shorts while the gent gallantly looked away. She hesitantly unfolded and Simon could see her eyes, he offered a kiss on the cheeks saying hello. I was still nude and I wrapped her with my arms as to show him she was my lover too. He grabbed her foot again and she did not seem to refuse. Thom Yorke was chanting “no alarms, no surprises” ad libitum. I kissed her fondly and said I would walk her home.

Simon wanted to come with us, and as she saw that I was unabashed by his presence and slid my hand down to her crotch, as indecently as I had before, without him flinching in the least, she agreed and stuck her tongue in my mouth while fiddling my fanny furiously. I needed the bathroom, we went together and closed the door. As I peed she reached between my legs and played with warm piss. She dropped her clothes again and drew me to the shower where in turn she peed along my thighs and we gave each other a thorough cleaning, I even inserted one, two, three fingers in  her ass. She held my face while I wiped her dry and repeated that we were a gang of rakes, lechers, and she licked my face like a dog laughing she was my bitch as it was written. Off we went in a mild still evening and bit by bit she learned our story from the sands of Sylt; she was overwhelmed we could have maintained our bond to now. I held her sideways from inside her coat, I felt her warmth, adults watched us in puzzlement, we kissed.

At Cynthia’s door, she held me inside her coat and wouldn’t let me go, then drank madly to my mouth and closed my jacket and hers. When Simon solicited a goodbye, he received a true kiss too, her hands seized his head and left him panting a bit then she ran, casting her best smile as she pushed the heavy door. On the way home he pressed me with questions about her and my deep feelings, my sensations and desires in her. We watched an episode of Twin Peaks and my hand always held his cocky jester under a cushion in case our mother showed up. He was definitely very excited and as soon as Dale Cooper drank one last cup, he pushed me to his room and raped my mouth. Clearing my throat afterwards, I complained this had been quite selfish, so he sedately scattered my limbs over the duvet and festooned my skin and petals with a profligate web of invisible calligraphy culminating in lotus land, making me note on the way that my nipples responded unusually loud. My clit had been shamelessly spoiled but wasn’t all spent yet, as the invader could justly taste before I passed out.

I think our mother must have sensed something between us two, but considering our obvious wellness and development she did not inquire further. Only nowadays has she fully known our kind of relationship and she took it with some philosophy. One day she told of her young times when her best friend had committed suicide and she embraced us both with an unusual kind of fervour; she said she envied our happiness and freedom, then flew back to her meditative poetry. Our father had another home by the river, he saw us rarely  and when we grew up it was passed the time to bond.

Then we had to manage visibility at school, hundreds of eyes spied on us two, the sassiest kids followed us to the restrooms so we had to keep each other’s door; Some brats showed awkwardness around us at the swimming pool, would talk louder if they sat next to one of us at the cafeteria, a few gave a friendlier eye than before and Mrs Blandin decided she cared for us, although she gave me the eye.

She wanted me to stay at her place that night. I called home from the school public phones and in the afternoon we walked to her home. Shew brewed some tea and we closed her room door. I needed the loo, she said her too and came in with me, fooling in the flow and after stripping fast, rising me and peeing over my own. We had a long mind-twirling, tongue-fighting kiss as I felt her swamp my blond pubis. My nips rose blushing and I twiddled this new lustiness, telling her she had wakened them. She asked me to suckle her own so I made them two incandescent mulberries on snow.

Under the shower, she foamed me over, Made me sit down on the floor and reached inside both my intimacies in virtuosity. She was indefatigable.  I wanted to keep her valiant laddie in my mouth but she rolled like a drunk panther. Finally she arched against my face and poured sea froth on my lips.

She lent me one of her father’s sweaters with an enticing esoteric smell of detergent and she did not allow anything else on; she wore a supple gown striped in fir-green and Highlands grey. Cuddling rounded in each other, we fell asleep on the overstuffed eiderdown.

I was flying over the shallow Schleswig-Holsteiner Wattenmeer along with other swans, except I wasn’t one when I checked and my skin shimmered opalescent glints that I felt in my solar plexus like vibrating twinges. At the tips of my fingers and toes shone bright radiant sparkles from which unfurled drapes of pearly dust around the bird’s wings. From the flock came out a younger Simon with his summer bleached flax head and a supreme smile; he was seized by my own luminous garlands as I rolled and faced the now dark sky and I thrust my golden penis between his legs and spawn a gush of gardenia petals in the air as he flies away keeping the the shiny dagger on his crotch. I fall to the dunes like a feather as I feel warmth out of my cunty. I burst awake holding myself and run to the bathroom to see some blood on my labia and I send a real sharp cry.

Cynthia opens my legs and mutters an admirative “Oooh”, then laughs and slaps my cheek, pulling the sweater off to find small blood stains. She fetches a wash basin and drowns the camel tricot in cold water in which she cleverly dissolves the blood as a faint pink flower.  She sits me on the bidet and fills the bowl with lukewarm water and gently rubs my vagina to the cervix while kissing my mouth and sobbing peaceful cheers. She says I will see a doctor later, her mother is one, but I will have to use a tampon now. She wipes me and unwrap the little pad I have been watching many times and pushes it all the way inside saying she will always remember that day with me. She gives me one of her cotton boy briefs and a black and white polka dots nightgown, she lulls me and enfolds me and I feel her desire.

She was keeping a hand in my pants but we talked; I asked her if she had her periods, too, and she said yes, she was a woman, so I reached for Wellington and soon made it stiff, she said she was a boy, too, a new trend of humanity, although until now she has preferred the girl part, and she kissed me dumb.

At dinner time, her parents came home and found us watching The Monty Python on TV, scantily dressed and barefoot to none of their surprise. Dr Mohlitz-Bunk took me gently to her office and asked me to disrobe entirely. She switched on a small ultrasound scanner, spread a blue gel on my belly and asked me to lay on the exam table where she took me in her arms from behind as to watch the screen with me. She moved the machine’s head around my belly and showed me the ghost of my womb in action, then she pressed a button and colours showed the blood pulsing through the vessels; she repeated all was in fine order, wiped me kindly, saying the gel wasn’t dirty but I could wash myself.

I might have been slightly anxious to find myself sitting half nude beside my lover with her impressive doctor parents displaying chinese treats on a large rotating plateau, but it must have been the total intimacy of the first encounter that tamed my shyness, so after Cynthia had told a few things about me, and I understood she had already portrayed her catch beforehand, we talked freely and they explained that they conducted a research on non-typical sexual identities and genders. There, someone pressed my hand firmly. They had encountered such an unexpected bigotry among their colleagues, mostly the high ranked fürhers, that it had become their crusade to obtain peace for the unusual persons. They wanted to obtain an optional “X” letter on the official papers instead of the M or F.

Cynthia seemed distanced enough from the matter she probably was cause for.  She overtly showed her demonstration of tenderness towards me and her parents acted untroubled. We spoke abundantly of the Wattenmeer when we found we were all regulars of the islands. They had a clinic on Amrun, next to Sylt, and they invited me there.

After we helped clean the table, we kissed good night and ran to bed, but we weren’t asleep in the least. Cynthia fetched a handful of magazines she said she had filched from her parent’s research documentation and were plain vanilla porn. Soon we were as nude as the models, one of which had a striking resemblance with one of our classmates so we gayly fantasised some three-parts scenes in different hideaways at school and we went on to all the possibly playable partners. She wasn’t deterred to kiss and lick my red camelia and played with the little turquoise string.

When we reached the blue realm of game heat I asked if she had already been shagged straight and she said no, only a long time ago a sort of cousin had inserted his miniature in her ass briefly and she laughed openly to that memory. I brought up the idea of Simon and his friendly moussaillon he shared so easily with me. She encaged me with her arms and said she feared our love would spill away if we spent it like petty cash. I read fever under her dark eyelashes and let her scan my own eyes for truth and loyalty but asked her if she would agree to my keeping a bond like I had because I didn’t feel it would end whatsoever. She said she would faithfully try anything I would offer but begged for mercy on her bereft heart so I promised to let her move for herself like she had already kissed the boy. She wanted to know if Simon had fooled on his side yet. I told her his escapades and some in which I played; it aroused her so much she dragged my head to her pink butterfly I keenly sucked until her rest.

She was less of a lone knight at interclasses and lunch, now she relied on me and I had never been hustled by the mob of wankers that stared at our jeans. She had bought a red rose on the way and fixed it in my hair, understood who might. A circle of girls rounded and tried to slap my face but I said it had already been done.

We were celebrating at my home in the evening and I had told her I would hand her over to my favorite jester for her good pleasure if she dared, otherwise I would fulfill the part myself, or any arrangement she would. She would not refuse at once, but peered in my soul for faith.

My mother had organized my favorite apples and cheese salad bowl with nuts and raisins, avocado, hard boiled eggs and mesclun; she also had been to the French bakery and bought fresh granary bread and squashed fruit mixes into smoothies. She had ordered a raspberry pie on pink cream and scarlet topping with white sugar roses sparkling on it.

There were no inquiries at all from Mom who watched us with broody eyes and let a compliment for Cynthia’s silhouette hatch out in the quiet. It felt exhilarating to show off my closeness with my new confidant and Simon responded to her flirtation with grace.

Mom left us rather soon by fear of imposing herself and went to one of her friend’s house for evening tea. We chattered for a while, perched on different racks and planes in the kitchen area, gossipping about schoolmates and it came to who was hot or plain. She was showing her fine legs out of blue grey camouflage shorts and had lost her sneakers and socks so her toes wriggled as she spoke on the stone table. Simon was made shy by her defiant stance but magnetized by her feet; creeping to her side, I slowly slid my hand into her pants, as if to show the barriers had vanished. He told us that a Maria had invited him to her bed for oral sex and had performed fully, unlike those he had known who ran to the bathroom at the first drop of cum. He was putting a show, because I knew what an accomplished gentleman he was in bed. The laughs helped him grip one foot as if thoughtlessly and carefully wanked her toes one by one.

I gave her a sighing kiss, and, looking into her green pupils, I mused out loud on her, how incredibly special she was and how happy she made me, she was not only a valiant squaw but also a darling papoose boy and Great Manitou had made the confluence a beauty. I drove Simon’s hand to her panties where I knew the gallant martlet was erect already and he took my place for kiss and diddle. He wore a sloppy sand corduroy shirt stitched with small lizards that she opened loose for resting her cheek on his chest while untying his pants.

I released the silver buckle of her Navajo belt and teared the shorts away while he snatched the sweatshirt, then I pulled the tight slip I nosed for a rich moment of naive citrus and woods in her own kitten scent, finding a narciss note I had not yet found on her.

He carried her to the couch and made her spread wide as I diverted her mouth, then he swallowed the peeker and his tongue also reached her labia with dedication as he would have on mine. I teetered the twin dark rubies on their milky hills and Simon snorted on her sudden happy gush and wiped his nose on her belly before returning to the clarinet part.

Helping from the rear, I was now guiding the kingfisher to the little pond where it tried to shove its head with fervour. I crawled down to wet the proud diver and then gulped the other febrile bird when she started to sweetly whimper and roll her hips carefully. A noise at the door unclutched us and made us run to my room, in a glance I checked we had spilled no hints, only a faint smell my Mom would read, but that was not to worry about.

The lovely culprits didn’t take time to breathe and off we flew again, this time arranging myself as to feel her lick in my fanny as I vigorously sucked on her pintil to keep time for her grand syncope as it happened just before Simon flooded the tender vase. I watched his wicky around for blood but I saw none, and I lapped every drop of their rapturous pouring.

The bed was widish enough for us to draw a three-pointed star with our bodies when our heads mingled. I fell asleep.

I was laying in a bath of milk up to my eyes and a white snake with emerald eyes swam as a ribbon at the surface to my nose. Seen closer, its scales showed intricately ornate edges of bright colours. As its eye grew wide over my face, the scales started to fly away like leaves of an unbound book in a growing whirlwind sucked into the moorish arcades surrounding the pool.

The wind howls into an orpheon of chanting waves of festoons which feel like shivers of joy along my luminous nerve net. A throng of new snakes crawl back from the forest, in which the arcades have shaped, into the white sands of my bath. They swarm over my skin swinging their cute round heads with their green gem eyes. They have no pupils, I think, therefore they cannot see but search for warmth. One is now sliding into my inner wet and snuggles gently except his tail that points out. I think I will be like Elfie Shawn and grow a flesh rattle to my twatty and the idea of a rattlesnake amuses me when a tinkerbell rings behind my head. A very pretty Mrs Blandin, dressed as an old-time prostitute butt-naked and a generous bosom offered up by her corset trots lightly on the marble floor where all the sand has gone through a bung and looks closely between my legs; she nods but suddenly quivers and draws her pale tongue, as I see my father, in a green monk’s robe, hump her from behind. He has an ugly grin and when he sees me he pulls the hood on his face and turns into a juniper tree. I am a white snake now and slither on Mrs Blandin’s rosy waist down to her swollen sheath; I thrust in a snug sheltered corridor overstuffed with crimson velvet leading to a round hall with a crystal chandelier that illuminates a carpet of roses which kiss my body back to my sensitive skin. The walls shimmer with opalescent flashes as water begins to pour down in heavy chords, the howl of which seizes my trembling entrails that gush in a sheaf of blue ferns.  The chandelier scatters rainbow shards as a snow dancing over the crowd of roses and I grow into sapphire palms towards a serpent’s eye as wide as the sky.

Cynthia was in me, sunny daylight cast a long oblique flame across my room’s wall; she held my head and covered my face with wet kisses. As my hips obeyed her lead in a continuing thrill of joy, a vision of a hilltops landscape and a wild horses herd obtruded in my thoughts, juniper trees peered at me with tiny eyes of cinders. My stirring womb unleashed its squirt on her as I lay paralysed. Who is Elfie Shawn?

As most mornings, Simon was already on the go in the kitchen, stomping because his coffee was too hot, so like many times before I poured it in my empty cup and blow on it while he fools around my body, then he drinks. He had a long bus ride to his school and rushed out before Cynthia showed up in a large yellow Thom Yorke tee-shirt she had found scattered. She was looking for her panties, but I ran up to get her one of mine because I wanted to keep hers for a while. We stretched out like kittens, meowed into the shower and fight for the mirror as we made up our eyes. We shared scents of neroli, jasmine and lavender, I binged on what it did on her white skin.

Our three parts companionship lasted two years of rich poetry. With our devoted support, she visited many beds on both banks of the river. Mrs Blandin initiated us to Dada, surrealism and many essential realms; she kept close to both of us, even when Cynthia decided to aim at medicine school and needed to focus on science and maths in choking doses.

Dr Mohlitz and his wife decided to move to Australia where a better opportunity was opening for their research and Cynthia followed them. She lives in Sydney as an hospital junior doctor and is writing a memoir on genre and identity. She became a striking slender amazon and never grew breasts. She is happy and free and now her passport bears officially an (X) under “Sex”.

7 – Katherine Sophie – Bella Fuggiasca

©Katherine Sophie

Katherine says:

Ought to be something of a blue cheetah, keeping her head as she brews the leaves in that contorted Chinese snakes and toads pot she likes because she says it infuses her dawn relish like the mists of the Serengeti where she might have existed once.

She spent the night “en tête à tête” downstairs and she’s manicured and groomed like an expensive doll, wearing one of her wild boro robes innocently left gaping. She tells Gauthier and me that Hugo took pictures of new antique jewellery he has acquired displayed over her body, like old times, and rocked and rammed her over to her dreams. She affects a distant pose but succeeds at arousing the halcyon knight sitting next to me on the couch enough to let a boastful garden gnome loom up from the purple terry peignoir. The little boy’s head still smells the night’s fervours. Sarah laughs and sits at the table, her perfect Schoenmaker model nose in the effusive Darjeeling scents. In the cashmere socks, her left foot crawls over the right into the felt slipper.

Katherine says:

A bizarre message rings in my phone and i take a few seconds to leave Gauthier’s sweet trapano and read an urgent plea from the shop girl I hustled a tad one fine afternoon during our last Venetian rally. She says she arrived in Paris an needs my help, so I call and tell her the address. I am rather proud of my catch, her frizzy gold thatch around the absinth green eyes had bewitched me as to give her my number and ask her to call.

Sarah hops into a leisure gown of grey cotton and back into her indigo rags, I fetch a pair of jeans and a frayed grège sweatshirt, buckle my boots to go downstairs where I help Fanny pay the cab.

She’s all bustle and fuss, when she hugs she smells like the girl who slept in her day clothes, a vague hint of orange bloom with baby fawn sweat. She instantly cries. Rather fazed, I pull her through the door and upstairs where she collapses on the couch to the amazement of the other two.

I pull off a lichen green corduroy parka, a rust knit scarf, take her hands and ask her what she would like to drink. She says she needs the bathroom, so I lead her and start to undo her shirt and pants while she cries. Then I see the bruises and contusions on her ribs and back, along her thighs, it is appalling so i shout. She sits down to pee and there’s blood in the basin, Sarah surges and mumbles in awe. Fanny wants a shower, we stand contemplating the horror as she faces the running flow and we both stroke her martyred body with soft sponges and lather. She carefully wipes herself and combs her hair

Back in the room, while she dips the apricot toasts Sarah has spread, we decipher the shreds of her ghastly epic. She speaks good English, with random dialectal rocks she doesn’t notice. She has been beaten by her stepfather, who has sold her to a powerful gang leader of the Balkans. She hitchhiked with cars and trucks and had to give head a couple of times but did not need identification.

Fanny was abandoned in Bosnia, probably an offspring of rape, as it happened routinely during the ethnic cleansing wars. She was given to an officer who went to live on the Croatian coast and Trieste. He abused her from early age like it was her given fate, in undisputed good conscience; it wasn’t physically violent anyhow, a progressive taming to which he dedicated all the time needed, satiating his urges randomly . At eighteen she moved to Venice without his consent but he found her eventually and began marketing her to the mob. A man called Vukan came to lurk at her in the shop where she attended and paid half the price of a house to her father to possess her; they trapped her in a safe house and raped her together madly, only sparing the sale value of her face and body.

She was in a ground floor cellar of an old Venetian house, she heard some rattling through the planks and called out. A woman heard and listened to her horrifying tale. She came back with her burly husband who bashed the partition down and helped her out, blushing because she had no clothes. They lived in an adjacent house, They did not hear any noise from the jail. the next morning he went to the shop, talked to the terrified owner, found the key to Fanny’s room and grabbed all her stuff in a bag and found her telephone oddly left there. All her hair in a knit cap, she took busses to Milan, then tried her luck at the highway rest area, pleased a first bastard who took her to Turin, a second one as disgusting to Lyons, and a third to Paris who paid her dinner and did not ask for more.

☺Katherine Sophie

Sarah says:

 I shake and feel my stomach wring. I need to tell Hugo and call Camille. We ought to call the Doctor. Kate holds her hands. Gauthier asks to see Fanny’s phone and the applications in it; soon he knows there is at least one tracker in it, wonders how to disable it but eventually plots it would be wiser to lure whomever follows it to a faraway place of the world. He personally knows flight crews and it would be a game to circulate the toy around the planet.

Fanny likes her phone, but Gauthier promises a new one with her own data saved. Grasping his forehead for a minute, he lays an escape plan like a master spy. He asks Fanny what she brought with her, a bag of chic clothing. Nothing we can’t replace, we can dress her and strip her alike for a good while. Anything can conceal devices these days. He will at once take everything away, thus avoiding to set Hugo’s house under siege. Fanny fetches a pouch of jewellery that Gauthier scrutinises close, and a few notebooks and papers in the middle of which is stuck a square patch she has never noticed. He cuts the page and puts it back in the bag. At least book a room in a small hotel nearby and leave the bag.

The Doctor asks us out of the bedroom. Hugo has come up and wants update. He holds me and Kate and says this is all too serious and he will call some people. Fanny will take refuge with Camille, we will exfiltrate her in disguise through one of the backstreet path

Fanny needs to go to the ER, we will go along, there might be damage to the kidneys. Hugo calls the ambulance, we collect what we may think of and walk downstairs, then through Hugo’s domain down to another yard and the car already waits for us. She wears a black hoodie and jogging pants, nothing like what she looked like when she arrived.

Kate is turning greenish as we wait in the small and rather homey hospital waiting room for hours, so we find a couch where we may hug desperately and tell each other what our nights have been. Fanny stared wild when the nurses stripped her naked and wrapped her disgraced body in the inevitable grey parsley printed butt-free shirt, checked every nook, drew blood samples and asked us to leave. All personnel were calmly reassuring, except considering us two with a hint of circumspection before their boss was put on in a conversation with Hugo’s practitioner

Katherine says:

Camille has joined us when a self important Doctor calls us asking about Fanny’s situation,  but we know rather nothing so he tells us he has to refer to the police. I tell him she has fled from the men who beat her so she needs secrecy. We give our own identification at the desk and ask for another car to Camille’s.

Fanny’s thrilled by Sarah’s old room, we stash pillows and camp around her on the large bed, she lays in dawn coloured heavy silk satin pyjamas, half covered with the pristine duvet that has been our nest so many times. When she falls asleep we cannot leave her. The Doctor has said we should not let her sleep long but wake her every hour so Camille sets a convenient timer to a lamp and joins us.

It is late in the evening when I wake up along side Fanny who seems appeased and fresh. Hugo and Gauthier bring fruit and delicacies, a plateau of macarons and a new telephone. Camille brings a large pitcher of kefir.

The escapee reaches for my shoulder and slides a warm hand to my belly. She murmurs in my ear when she asks if I am with Sarah, who snuggles on Hugo in a mist-blue leather egg chair. I tell her very gently that we are more than together, that she can have me but not for her own, and not worry before she is set free. She wonders about the unexpected world she discovers, whereas she had only foreseen a sweet lesbian sister that could help her out of damnation; she’s distraught, wild astray and beaten and now all she can do is sound my eyes.

©Katherine Sophie

Hugo says:

My call to the spheres of the Powers That Be intensified at the ring of the moniker Vukan, investigation is cooking. Doctor Prinz, a good friend, who oversaw Fanny’s examination, put some ease to my mind in a telephone call, the beating she suffered was intended to hurt the most but not break; he agreed on rest, balm and massage but he was more concerned about bleeding and ordered daily controls for a while. Camille would lend her own masseuse in the morning.

Fanny’s telephone and frippery will sit in the hotel room under scrutiny. For now, she will hide her hair and eyes for some time because they are so notable. There is enough intrigue and charm spawning from the most instant vagary in one Kate reviving moment. Come what may from a swift shenanigan happening in the fitting room at a cosy shop in Venice,

Sarah says:

Fanny’s hands have fiddled with seams and stitchery so as to mutate into ethereal ornaments for my lustful eyes. Happy gloves revel in the powder of iris cajoling a minute flock of hasty fingernails. Wish I earn myself a pass at the dazzle gleam and the baby hind I glimpsed. My Kate besotted like a cherry orchard and yet my own holy vein.

But the sight of the ghastly hématomes all over her diaphanous complexion grips my throat and tears a sob through my chest.

I have told her story to my father, because I know he supervised some intelligence in the Balkan mess. In a second message, he said he would need portraits of Fanny and all of her belongings rest at the hotel like she would be back; he warned us not to snap if card-carrying agents approach me or Kate. He was unusually specific, he said messages will be sent to Fanny’s phone from different numbers to keep her ghost alive. Unswervingly, each time I reach for him I feel my feet in a gentle stream where blue weeds flutter and a shiver of light in my chest.

In another room, Gauthier reads Far’s messages and agrees enthusiastically. Hugo comes along and I find myself between the two of them and they lay me down on the shady bed and as Hugo holds my head with both hands and kiss my skull like it was a miracle, Gauthier pulls down my track pants and wrests my sneakers off. I spread my thighs as open as the future of a doomed angel rescued from a pit of muck.

Katherine says:

 I was zonking out, again, so I peeled off my jeans and stuff and insinuated myself along the silk on Fanny’s poor back. After a few waves she found my arm adrift and brought it to her womb then dived again in a still silence and I flew quietly like a mist over a magic pond.

Later, I perceived Camille testing for temperature with her lips on Fanny’s forehead, caressing her cheek so as to make her eyes open and ask her where she thought she was and why, then telling her she was all fine and rounding herself in her breath.

Girls in white gossamer gowns like jellyfish in slow waves, their hair floating amongst dead birds and washed flowers, newspapers covered in black and red signs, rats swimming swift through the debris at the bottom of the slippery stairs where I stand naked, the bells of Venice laugh like stone spiders around my heavy swaying head. They lay on broken bricks and tiles, their faces erased and dove white, torn ropes still at their fists and ankles, sinking into the ground. The smell of incense, wax and ether raise from the swirls of iridescent stains on the black water and I think I have forgotten to cry then a child’s voice calls me from a faraway shore and I can’t believe it. The sand will wipe off my skin because the breeze is very mild, I brush my shoulders and turn my head when I remember I came with someone, but there is no one on the railway and the toy like train is trembling away through the dunes. New faceless girls on the pale skin of whom the newspapers ink have bled in moving petroglyphs walk up the stairs passed me in a smell of lotus and I admire their delicate arched feet and ask myself why I cannot move when masked men holding heavy sticks walk out of the train station with a menacing attitude and the white girls flee rather blindly. In a delicate footprint I see a gold chain with a round medal attached to it and a number nine engraved. I pick the jewel and hold it on my very flat chest so the scary men do not see me. I want to tie the necklace to my neck but it is closed without any clasp; I try to hop my head into the chain circle when a tickling lizard climbs up my head and eases the jewel down then chirps into my ear and voices say my name.

Fanny has dropped the pyjamas and is giving me an avid kiss on the mouth as I still hear the bells but they are Saint Sulpice’s. She is quite lively an she tells me she did not bleed this morning. I want to grope the impish goblin but I remember in time not to.

Camille and Sarah bring up a grand plateau with warm delicacies, tea and coffee. Hugo and Gauthier have gone home. There is a message saying everything rolling, it reminds us to take nice pictures of Fanny, no smile. Camille gives her a flimsy Missoni jade jersey and can’t help cheering the tangerine dreams in the move. Against a pearly grey wall, with all the lights on and the curtains opened, Sarah takes front and profile; with a little help from a handy software, the photos are classy, we choose the best and she sends them to her Daddy with a nasty sous-entendu.

©Katherine Sophie

Katherine says:

There’s a feeling that the grand trap is strung. Meanwhile, a nurse shows up to draw blood and retrieve an urine sample. She asks us to leave the room. On her way out, she feels positive and recommends chary massages with a soothing cream, she agrees on the balsam of Peru if the patient is not allergic. Hugo will rejoice in that part and we expect him soon with vials and jars, tubs of ointments from his athanor; he will play the laying-on of hands beautifully, Fanny is in for a flight into the unknown!

When the two young men in cheap suits carrying black cases flash their cards at the door, our refugee is stone-asleep by the virtue of some snoopy hands. Hugo welcomes them and introduces the whole cast, plus the maid Eliz. They ask if they can use a separate room to interview each of us, so Camille leads them to an office at the back of the gallery where they wish to begin with Hugo, whose intention it was.

I, myself, do not conceal the hustling side of my encounter with Fanny and yes, in the course of our frolicking, hearing that I lived in Paris, she had asked for my number with a disarming smile. I only wear a white tank top and fuzzy-print leggings and I can tell at least one of the agents in aroused. He hasn’t seen the main witness yet.

When all the accessories have talked it behoves me to bring back the glider to our altitude by the means of kisses on the temple. She smells acacia and elderberry with tarragon as I furtively lick her armpits. Drowsy but smiling she lets me dress her carefully, the silk T-shirt doesn’t cover the bruises on her arms, so I find some long sleeves and decide for a white shirt and black leggings of Sarah’s with relatively fitting loafers. I insist firmly not to leave her alone for the questioning and to my surprise they agree. They take her prints and a DNA swab, showing they want to prevent any misstep. Among her poor possessions, she is able to show some papers relative to her being found around the corner at a Red Cross hospital in Mostar and some written in a Balkan idiom. They take pictures of everything and also her notebook pages with a hand scanner, and, again, her face.

They set a small camera on a tripod on the table and start to listen to Fanny’s story not flinching to her English. As she pleads her miseries she briefly sobs and reaches for my hand and eyes as I try to hearten her silently.

She doesn’t recall much of her small childhood until they move to a house near Split and she spends most of her time with a sweet woman called Sara Novak, seing he busy stepfather once in a while in different uniforms. She doesn’t like him, he smells of Cologne and sucks strong mints. He fondles her all the time as a manner of complimenting her growth, he makes her feel like an animal.

When she has reached his shoulder’s height, at eleven or twelve, an afternoon Mrs Novak is absent, he draws her to a bedroom and forcibly undress her despite her cries, open her legs and masturbate over her, his seemingly monstrous thing out of his fly. When he is finished, he orders her to stay naked, arms and legs spread open; he stands by the bed and pounds his words with a scary voice that I am his, I am nobody, I am a leftover of a dead whore and I will please him and his cock to pay for my food and things. He is deadly menacing, I have never heard that voice before, most of all he says he will slay Mrs Novak in front of me and rip my eyes off if I tell anyone.

“From that day on, my life becomes an endless enigma, I still see other girls at the international school which is free for children like me, and I begin to sense those who live the same ordeal as myself, their total helplessness, our souls as a footprint in the mud. He comes once or twice a week and orders Mrs Novak out, tells me to undress and obey his fantasies while he masturbates, then gradually he tells me to do it, to take it in my mouth one sad day he ultimately rapes me and laughs about my heavy tears.

Mrs Novak guessed what took place on those days, she wasn’t deceived by the apparently good care he took of me, bringing presents and jewels, giving her money to buy me clothes, letting me have a computer and the best phone, petting me as his whore in a word. She insisted I should partition my soul and get the most of the normal teaching, learn languages, training me in English and Italian, giving me affectionate hints that I would need it someday. She was never there when the Captain fucked me, he took away the laundry himself, all she could was guess and I did not want her to die.

I fled to Italy in a truck by sleeping with the driver who paid me. I went to Venice and tried all the shops, I was very lucky to be hired by a kind woman who also lent me a room and I do not want to give her name because I had no papers. That is where I met Kate and let her hustle me because I had understood she came from Paris.

The Captain eventually found me through his networks, he was enraged and treated me like a bitch, coming to my room at night and bringing other men, and then he sold me to that frightening man Vukan who did what the Doctor described yesterday on the certificates you have. I am still not quite safe about my kidneys or something”.

She collapses on me and we start to cry together, me unable to speak a word of comfort, the two men still in awkwardness.

After long minutes, they gently ask for a description of Vukan but all she can tell is blackness, eyes, hair, beard, boots and clothes. He has tattoos, a wolf crowned with snakes on his chest and an eagle on the stomach with wings down his thighs in a way that his penis is part of the bird. He is very clean and manicured and shows twitches. He made her snort and blew cocaine in her vagina and her anus.

The agents gather their stuff, close their cases and, visibly moved, leave the room. On her way, they have a conversation with Hugo and also Sarah, who surely inform them of her intervention but they have already been posted, some, and they obviously feel a tad spooked about that. Sarah probably is pulling her disarming tomboy face. The goodbyes sound quietly forma!

Here I am with a big girl on my lap, pouring warm tears in my neck I am afraid to really hug as strong as I would. We all go back to Sarah’s room. Camille fetches soft kerchiefs and cautiously pats Fanny’s swollen eyes, the pillows are wet. Sarah brings a buttler tray with tea and chocolates, steering the thoughts around a better course of events as it seems. Comments on the two officers release the blood strains and Fanny blows her nose like a nature girl.

©Katherine Sophie

Camille says: 

The bitter taste of soap and medicines or whatever a desperate child could catch hold of in the narrow alley between the dead bottles and the suffering fridge in my mother’s kitchen, the linoleum corridor while she sells her lowers to gropers that smell like warm sewers and she says I sit with Melany the one-eyed doll. They go butt-naked to the loo and sometimes I stare and it shows like the black and white photos I found in the dismantled cupboard with the boxes of brittle paper covered with scribbles.

I have cried back to the showers in the dreary plains of lifelessness, the vain cemeteries of speechless death like cotton wool in the water behind the rusty coffers at the factory depot. I have shut down at the hospital when neighbours found me convulsing on the cellar’s stairs, when passers by called the black police bus because a raggedy nipper laid vomiting in the gutter.

Who was it who saved a scrap of the lace that had been my soul one long gone afternoon in the rainbow sprinklers? My mother would have then worn the bird like shoes that she forsook in the broom dungeon when the black caught upon her.

The ever-abiding seamstress inside the high tower discards as many loose-ends as there are thorns of rust around the deserts of unjustly suffering. Like jellyfishes in shreds the innumerable souls amongst the clamorous swarm of this world, here, mingle indefatigably like numbers across the galaxies. The reedy voices call around in no language, the singled irises with no meaning, the dance random.

As it once came for me beyond the hammering through my shivering chest I need to reach out for the defiled slave and I will sweep the road clean for her wherever she will.

Sarah says:

My father writes there is a scheme going on with agents circulating Fanny’s telephone around Paris and returning to the hotel at night. The room is barded with electronics and they have reverse-tracked the hunters. Fanny’s bag contained three other devices, I should lend her spares, says he. He assures me I did right, he was delighted to hear my testimony. He asks when I will show my work in the gallery.

Gauthier and Hugo left, there is an important sale in London tomorrow morning and they feel we can team with Camille well enough. As a matter of fact we fight for who will massage the angelo and we badger her to know who of us is the best. She is quite in love with Kate, they are together desirable, but I wouldn’t dare, yet. She loses none by waiting.

Now that she has spilled the embers for the cops and Kate, she seems in need of talking. Camille knows the currents of that stream of thought and questions ever so lightly. Fanny rests her testimony on Mrs Novak who appears to be the only truly sane person she has encountered. She has no recollection of any stepmother, there probably wasn’t any, the Captain did not refer to any institution regarding the child. She sometimes thought he knew about her real parents but he never let his tongue slip while terrorising her.

In the house overseeing the olive groves, she stayed with Mrs Novak and an occasional servant from Bosnia who spoke part Turkish. Mrs Novak was Czech, she had been a nurse with the Red Cross and spoke Croatian, English and French, understood Serbian. The Captain never tried to speak with Fanny, he gave orders and have her removed when she complained. He liked her hair, she was a pet he cuddled on his lap.

Physically she grew fast and skinny. He forbade her to wear pants or tights, bought her light girly dresses under which he snooped easily, then asked for her knickers and smelled them, then in the years he forced on her the whole array of his unleashed fantasies, calling her his perfumed bitch and demanding lipstick and nail varnish.

Except for school hours when she was shunned by most kids, she could find no other reference than Mrs Novak who timidly pulled her out of prostration, bringing foreign magazines and endlessly insisting on languages and knowledge as a tool of a future freedom, dispensing whispers at the awkward comments, deft as a nun in a fine-tuned subtext.

The Captain was trafficking, cars came up in the middle of the night, he brought men to Fanny’s bed. She opted for a safeguarding obedience, performing the part but never simulating, thus letting him feel the deep scorn she resented. She says she became skilled at expediting the animal pulsion and then go freshen herself. But he was roué beyond the core of his soul and could play on her for long hours, tie her and fiddle with a panoply of sex toys, make her wet herself without knowing.

Now we all rest on the bed, Fanny holds Kate’s face and licks the tears and asks if she will let her be her fine bitch. Kate answers there’s a full basket of expert bitches on her bed, but she faintly says it scares her and gives her the feeling she will fall apart. Camille takes my hand and draws me to her bed; I tell her I am wet as a fountain, she strips me and moans inside my undies, calling me a slut.

©Katherine Sophie

Fanny ponders:

Safe am I? That fire glow I had seen on Kate’s forehead when she glamoured me into the curtains and unravelled my blouse was doubtlessly auspicious till here, where magazine fairies inhabit perfumed galleries and feather beds as deep as the sea.  that precious instant she wore the live stone to her deft fingers and I dared hook her real number.

Allies at the gates of salvation, true caring hands around my hurt sack of dead birds, cough the repelling carrion and his miserable staff of stench. I am born at the hands of the dancing sprite now, I will die cold and unspoken if she fails me, I will crack open the dark pot of my shambles and call the stars out of the sky, I will never have been, mind you, river of light?

Mrs Novak was a crystal of patience, She taught me languages through reading, one year in “David Copperfield”, a year with “The Tempest”, many articles in the New-Yorker and “Elle” magazine; she showed me films on her computer, she had this cold wired will and gripped my hands when I collapsed. Later we surveyed quality erotic literature as another genre and it inspired my quiet duplicity,

He was losing his vice in my uninspiring stillness, he uttered he was bored of my arse and he would sell me for skin. I ran, I felt I could cling to the branches like any wild monkey, the cicadas and the stars had been my jail, I would buy my way to Paris and pretend, like all of them. I would try the choice of a self taught Juliette in a disabused wonderland.

The boar had seen nothing of my stealthy upbringing, he professed such a deep scorn for literature, furthermore in other languages; he treated me so low that he could not realise what person I was becoming. I offered ease for the sad Willy, buttered my entrances and squeezed out the rot of his vice as fast and smooth as I could. He fed me pills in fear of pregnancy, uttering it was enough of me.

What I feel for Kate is unknown to me, frightening, almost painful. Her friends and her show compassion and lust together, restraint, wit and natural wantonness. I see they share souls and their lightsome bodies also with men as a clear atmosphere so pure I can’t breathe. I want to cling to Kate like a filly in her legs, suckle the mist out of her eyes, enslave my skin to her smile.

©Katherine Sophie

Kate dreams:

In an empty yard in the blaring sun I contemplate my shadow and observe it is purple, I say to myself I do not wear shoes and sweep the dust with my right foot. The deep blue sky seems to ripple with the shrieking of cicadas. War airplanes storm over with the sound of static in an amplifier and make the colours glare negative like I would close my eyes to the sun. Fanny moans in the last triangle of shade, leashed to a a dilapidated kennel with a clock in the gable. She is nude and scruffy, tears have drawn furrows down from her eager eyes. An emerald snake crawls on the rubble and hits a wall and slides in a fissure under the house on one side. I take Fanny in my arms and we roll inside the kennel with the noise of another airplane. We fall on bales of dry seaweeds as I am entangled with her chain. I sweep her skin clean with my tongue, she tastes chalk and anise. The ground is covered with dusty egg shells crumbling under our weight in trills of needle-sharp screams as the green snake glides as quicksilver to our feet, legs and cachotteries. Her head sways away from my kiss and she tells me to look out in a language unknown, her eyes roll aside as if she were hurt, seeing the shells became skulls and bone ashes we are in the shaft of a dead furnace, tumbling down a dreary chute. Her chains have spawned new snakes around my neck and arms as we land on fresh grass, waking pink fireflies that sound like icicles and tickle my nose. We slump to a shallow swamp and swindle upon barbed wires, I pull her against my stomach to protect her, she is a small child, a baby girl drenched and babbling vaguely. Three dark horses stamp away sprays of moonlight as the nightly vault is rent in spiraling tatters. She shies away in the broidered rags I gathered on my chest, her pale bum in the air as the juvenescent wonder. The horses hurl themselves in the wires and rip their bloody flesh with an uproar of holler and grunts when men in sleek black glazed outfits circle the herd with whistling shocker prods and whirling sputtering skulls over their heads with thick ropes. Having sheltered Fanny under my arm, I throw a metal wire over their heads and thus entangle their slings so as to make the heads of fire explode in a blast of shards I deflect from us with the chain before widening a fissure in the mound behind us and pulling the grownup Fanny into a warm corridor bestrewed with tear-shaped mirror cabochons and illuminated by spiderwebs through the ceiling. Along the walls stand upright dark wooden coffins with glazed lids; older half-collapsed men masturbate inside, wretchedly demented, some are dead with their faces smeared on the glass, the smell is that of leather and sperm, shoes, urine on ploughed earth.

Down a flight of spiralling stairs we find ourselves on the polished floorboards of a vast hall moonlit through five undecipherable stained-glass bays as tall as opera curtains. From the high beams hang long distressed rags and torn patches, all in the shape of a ruined city upside down. An owl flies away from the top of a partition clad with blackened ex-voto, grazes the ethereal tatters without a whisper and vanishes in the other end of darkness; a few wisps glide for a moment and dissolve. Fanny murmurs in my ear and I see her sounds in gems dancing around my head, fluttering strands of pearls like whims in Champagne. Light beams glare through the glass cliffs and cast accents of colours on the cascades of derelict veils, echoes of male voices drift around and gun shots clasp my lungs. She huddles between my legs, she makes herself small, she fades out. I stand naked in front of the six soldiers in disparate uniforms pointing their guns at me and shouting gibberish. I can smell rut, the immemorial scent of blood in the snow, I start to insult them in German with all the most vile I recall, I run to the wall where a rope hangs, I want to climb but then the bells ring and they lower their guns and uncover, walk backward to the far corner of the room. Fanny is behind me, wearing white linen ran by gold shivers, presenting silver shoes on a folded dress of thin blue velvet all studded with stars and celestial symbols. She helps me with layers of holy lingerie, pulls white stockings up my knees and we walk hand in hand through a grand portal to the moonlight bathed terrace. She gives me a head-twirling kiss and I feel like a swift wing on my forehead; when I open my eyes, I see the ruins of a very large monument, scattered with carbonised war machines. Somewhere in the shimmering mist, horses flee some danger. The owl hoots.

©Katherine Sophie

Sarah says:

The morning nurse has done her cares in the bathroom and drawn samples. Now Fanny holds Kate’s fevered head as she emerges from a deep-in-the-down dream, both of them bemused at the overturn of roles, then at once frolicking for my keen eyes. Obviously, Hugo’s ointments have healed the young loins of our survivor, but I decree a new round of sly rubbing in the accomplishment of which I cannot be dismissed.

Tossing the duvet aside, once I noticed her legs regained some lively colours, I seize her classy feet for a merry treatment I learned from my father, the only one that quieted me in my blue crib. With the balmy cream I roll the many little bones like stones in a tumbler, I delineate the tendons and strings, I grab and pinch the doughty cartilages until the little runners try to flee my rage.

There are two of us softening away the bruises in the holy scent of exotic remedies; Fanny and Kate have tossed their shirts, I crave I did but I dare not yet.

When Camille joins in with a cart of fresh douceurs she spreads her arms and inhales then creeps up to the source of elation and boldly kisses her mouth. She says the Secret Service will be there later and we may choose to offer them a tableau vivant, or dress up. She nastily pulls my sweatpants half-down for Fanny to watch.

Fanny moans with pleasure as she stretches easily on the carpet so as to show her healed youth. I plot my tactics to reach for her while stuffing a croissant with blackcurrant jam.

Sarah says: 

In a message, Far gives a number where I should call him in the next two hours, which I do already. Detecting my short breath, he engages small talk in our own Danish, I tell him how much Fanny moves me and everyone.

He says the traps are in place and the villains are very much wanted; for a while, It would be ideal for Fanny to stay at Camille’s under the same arrangement she had with me, if she would like. She will be granted a new identity with all new paper works better than real ones but the Services will have to settle first with her alone, for all legal implications. He says he is proud that I thought to call him and he trusts me too, he asks me to visit in New York with my friends and I should call my mother, too. I tell him he will certainly travel to Paris where the hotels are so profound and we laugh.

Katherine says:

My best boy is delightfully envious of my catch, if ever I am not the one caught here. Wouldn’t I share my fortunes with her? I gave her my brother, from hell.

Grey men, not French, came over and took Fanny apart without me. I feel frustrated after the chaste night and the epic dreams. On the contrary, Camille is enamoured of the feline cabin boy whose eyes twinkled when she spoke her bizarre vernacular with her Far. If I did not know her past, I would think they did it.

Camille wears a bronze green silk jersey gown printed with big scattered letters, soon hitched up by Sarah whose ass is so available. A moment short lived for we might no be so sure the serious ones appreciate.

To accommodate the waiting, Sarah transmits her father’s invitation and reminisces once more about the Tudor City grandeur over the East River. She still wears sweat pants and sneakers so I slide my hand.

The authorities need to check the situation with Camille and take her to the office. I need to pee and so does Sarah. We go to the bathroom, I drop my leggings and sit on the loo, she straddles me and I feel her flow as we share tongues. She’s vivacious, the odour of piss acerbates the scent of the morning balsam, she flies me back to the ruined cathedral and I finger her easy ass.

Sarah says: 

Kate made me come. Now, we are still quietly entwined on the toilet, she fiddles my violet while telling me about her heavy dream and I rest my head in her neck, eyes closed, travelling in her moonlight as a blue bat.

At some soft knocks on the door, we wake up and pretend normal. The Agents are leaving, they gently ask whom of us is Miss von Kettelær, they  gratify me with some sort of low-bow.

Fanny is beaming, she shows us a French document bearing the photo I took yesterday, photoshopped for shorter hair, and the name Fanny Kaplan, born in Slovenia exactly twenty-one years ago, father and mother unknown; her address is with Camille. There is also a smaller card with an official heading and a simple telephone number to be called in any case. A real passport should be ready soon. She boasts her new telephone and explain it is tracked by the spooks this time.

She will have to cut off her all too recognisable golden mane and wear glasses outdoors like a celebrity.

Katherine says:

At noontime, Hugo and Gauthier land in  with a pyramid of glossy red cartons of petits fours. Hugo has hot news. During the night, Vukan has been killed on his boat by Italian Coast Guards and Special Forces, twelve women have been freed. The house of  Zadar Focasjic, Fanny’s tormentor stepdad, has been searched but found totally empty of all traces, except for some scribbles inside an old dog kennel in the yard, currently analysed. At these words, Fanny cries that she can tell what is written and by whom.

Three reported criminals have been stealthily captured around the Benji Hotel where Fanny’s phone lives. It will travel to London and New York tonight. Hugo asks Sarah if she would introduce him to her father; he seizes her slender waist and at once slides his hand into her pants. She makes sure Fanny sees that.

Camille says: 

I earned myself a new pet child of great beauty, the redeemed victim of the furthest ravage upon innocence and it resonates in my own intimate chime as a blind murmuration of roving souls, it summons the shudder of a candle in a cave of coal, a handful of primroses in a barrage of dark overcoats, a windstorm of bad breaths over my candy mouth.

As I once woke up  a sharp whore in a mostly brainless world, she unearthed her own maddening  gem of lust in spite of the most harrowing slavery,  then as she readily fondled our own Queen as soon as she saw her, she pushed a first knot out of the chrysalide and the wings will be for us to dance with in the merry glade.

Hugo has known where I rooted under a silent rock of despair, my mother wincing one last time in the ramshackle staircase and I would climb the stairs evermore in hate of her in her smoke infested dress, her cohort of destitute innocents none of her poisons could alleviate or wash.

Were it the new suns at the hands of new children or one simple voice unbeknownst? An overflow of clear water drank in the common metal cup chained to the monstrous fountain on a summer wave? A perfect prayer heard through the racket of the hurtling métro? Some instant constellation wrested me out of my dead mother’s embrace by sheer attraction and I started to hoard my pebbles and wring out the all available lust.

Furthermore incestuous child from the labyrinth, embraced with Kate on the blissful cloud of an auspicious whim, A delicious foot escapes from the cover of the grey satin, a rosy ankle Sarah baby would honestly deem an edible “Frenhoferian” tribute in all manners of art.

Like myself and million others, she sold her skin like ever new matches, and kept warm enough until the propitious dawn of freedom, I will wash her feet in my own blissful tears, She is home.

©Katherine Sophie

Katherine says:

As we all breathe Hugo’s miraculous decoction, Fanny has abandoned any attempt to coyness, and Sarah’s hands wander free up to her chin when they kiss while I triple check the contours of her regaining carnality and I hurtle down her runnel for the first real time with a taste of sweet prowess. As it goes, she plays and tears off Sarah’s threads to rag on her kind jingleberries.

Gauthier has stopped telling his short encounter with his old comrade in arms Donovan at the Auction House because now they all watch the pleasant unravelling of Fanny until Camille entraps Sarah in another dance and bring her to the welcoming gents. She shoots diamonds in the blue of her eyes when she digs out the Knight’s sword out and eases it in her mouth. Hugo fumbles about Sarah’s derrière along with Camille who unbuttons his trousers.

On the bed this side of the room Fanny lays wide opened as I cajole her leaning head, the beryl green twins of her eyes resting in mine.

Katherine says:

A platoon of five assail Slimane’s private hair salon for it is time to proceed. He offers to buy the childish blond strands for a stupendous sum and so be it, but I demand that he designs a traditional short nape with a little length on top kind of boyish cut.

An Ethiopian assistant first washes the profuse mane and carefully combs it in order. Then, using his sparkling steel sharp tools so fast I cannot read what is happening, Slimane styles out a new Fanny, with a tantalising lily-white neck and a dashing kind of a skull.

Flapping the air with a long-bristles broom around the dizzy puppy, he executes his best war dance around the chair, tossing his pony tail all over, flashing a carnivorous smile on his long swarthy face, rolling his blazing chestnut eyes in contentment. In a drawer he fetches a fat batch of bills, counts a lot and shoves them into Fanny’s hand.

Under Hollywood shades, in a fuzzy grew print hoodie and a black icebreaker gym suit, she needs black high-laced combat boots to break out of all the dress codes she might have been described in, she’s exhilarated when she watches herself in the windows, she holds me so tight and her fresh mop titillates my cheek.

Gauthier says: 

Fanny’s a new person, that black body suit makes her as willowy as Sarah with a sylphic girly bum more in Kate’s magnetic field of lust; her bare feet on Camille’s carpets circulate a swarm of eager glances she understands so well she lazily quits the refuge of Kate’s bosom and let’s Sarah have her legs and feet. But the day has been hectic so she dozes out of her recovering body when we pull out the fine wool so as to anoint it. Quite auspiciously she’s far from the awareness to this realm when we lay the duvet on her dream. Hugo feels her pulse for some minutes and smiles as he strokes the dishevelled thatch on her head burrowed into the pillows.

Hugo says:

Sarah is visibly moved by the newcomer, her eyes sway at times as they did when Kate was lost; it makes her all the most beautiful as she stretches back on the armrest to battle my hungry tongue while the cunning Gauthier tastes another kind of dessert between her thighs slung apart. Camille knows her minute triggers and infuriates the sister droolberries; undressed at once she offers first her bum cheeks to the rakish chevalier, whose magic is already deep into Sarah’s nymph, so he may further his practice in lick-a-daisy before she crawls under the happy one and gobble my proud gentry.

Fanny dreams:

It’s the blaring zenith of summer, white and dry as a bucket of powdered lime, the heat hissing as high as the shrill of the cicadas in the olive grove. I am standing nude in my silver shoes trying to wipe the dust from my legs and my navel. A flayed lamb runs in the empty rooms, belching blood and watching me. I shoo it away with a bunch of withered lilies where from a flock of doves scatter and smash onto the ceiling forming clouds of wriggling blind snakes and silvery ropes entangling with my hair and lifting me through a flurry of frenetic fondling until claps of hands precipitate the knots into pebbles of pumice that tumble in a warm heap over me. Pushing the light stones aside, a gathering of blond scorpions needle my flossy rill and clatter together as dusty old peasants with thick mustaches peek through the bomb hole in the ceiling. My foot is caught in a shiny tight loop and I am drawn through the rubble to a long shaded corridor where the horse pulling me turns round and neighs causing a general hush; the bloody lamb cuddles along my hip and dies, flies swirl and echo under the vaults overran with stains in which I read faces and bodies and weird paraphernalia, acrobatic couplings of contorted chimeras against humans, children and undecipherable jumbles swarming with rolling eyes. Bullets shatter the windows as an warplane is hurled over the house and closes night. Horses with long light mane ramble across the long room and shy off me when a shaking heavy lorry blazing its headlights tramples next to my head; a soldier wearing some elaborate goggles over his face seizes me and tucks me away in his black and smelly jacket. I scent his armpit and my head tips over; I gather the silvery rope on my bosom and make myself as small as an angel hearing his heart pound and his breath pant.  His finely gloved hand searches for my head and pats it as he eases his shoulder for it. He is running up some stairs to a small round room with a straw bed; he lays me down in the leather jacket and covers my eyes with a sweaty kerchief. He licks my whole body like a cautious animal, he topples me over to softly ravage my defenseless rivulet and when he looks up again he has the face of a wolf and thick fur bursts out of his shirt. So am I too, then, covered with fawn and grey hair and giving way to his stabbing surge while biting his throat when the claws grip his face and the mighty beak of a great bird rip his eyes away. He runs frantically against the walls whiist the tower tumbles and the eagle grips me in the jacket and flies me to the rocks in the moonlight as the ruins blast with gunfire. The white stone is warm, I untie my only shoe left and coil the rope around my neck, wriggle into the torn leather jacket and look for the eagle; three blue flames float in the air and slowly back away, pulsating a tenuous ring of white light at my heart’s rhythm, I feel my slavery slit with my twitching fingers.

☺Katherine Sophie

Camille says:

Deep inside this crystal we learn to call the soul, there is a truth we constantly measure against the knit of our otherwise shambolic lives. Fanny sleeps like a drowned angel, she has cast her last penny in the well and surrendered any wit to Kate’s, now she spins the threads of her poor skein in the unforeseen refuge of my home, scales every tear at the corner of her eye for bliss or despair when it blurs the stars.

Colonel Ranko Varadejc, Fanny’s tormentor, has been found dead with two bullets in his head near his family home in Bosnia. His car was entirely burnt. He was the father of three children. Doctor Theresa Novak was found hung to a tree near her house in Klis. Both had been hunted as war criminals. Arrests have been made based on data extracted from Vukan’s telephones, boat and homes. Fanny will be recorded as dead in Split’s hospital.

Fanny’s healing fast, Kate and Sarah play doll with her and she’s talented at letting them do; but now she will have to hear the final sentence of her past. She’s in bed with the girls when I ask her if she wants to hear the most important news; she clings to Kate’s shirt and pulls Sarah as a second wing. Only the death of Mrs Novak impacts her composure, she falls inanimate on Kate’s bosom and cries like a child, I fetch a few thick towels to wipe her beautiful face, and mine. The daylight fades, we let the night settle. She wants Kate’s mouth.

Hugo says:

I am told that Fanny’s testimony has knocked down a Macedonian mob operation across the Mediterranean and beyond; her phone is still alive in America although she was declared dead in Split.

Camille empathises forcefully with the little whore she once was, the Jewish aura of her own tragedy notwithstanding; she will excel in piecing the mosaic to life again, mend the splices through and through so as to nullify the scars as she herself did.

As a privilege granted, Dr Schubert has agreed to read a two-page letter about Fanny, in case he saw any appropriate suggestion given Fanny’s languages, through which, says I, a structural reset might untie the gamut of affects, with all due reference to professional responsibility.  (and no, Jolly Jester, I am not buying my way to Fanny’s arse, I already own it)

Sarah says:

Camille is troubled by sensing Fanny’s underlying terror, albeit she knows her house is safe on all counts. When the two honeybuns roll into slumberland, one’s head in the other’s neck, she dances me to her bed and strip me like old times.

She smells her own distinctive spellbinding tuberose, crafted by Hugo, mentally ornamented on her skin with fast flings of surprising harmonies, in the mood of linden flowers, lilac sigh or the drowning lotus from her pubis down. On such a day of keen emotion, her armpits suddenly allude to hemp tips and nettle.

Deep under the duvet, she unleashes over me her retained urges when a message rings and the timings says it is Far; he’s asking me to call him back at a given number. I call him while Camille broiders an arabesque with the tip of her tongue over me and even rummage my holy fount. It is a libertine dare she enjoys brashly so she follows me to the bathroom where I could have withdrawn firstly.

Far takes his caressing voice when he hears how thankful we are for the sake of Fanny’s. He asks a little more about Hugo whose name has come up and I might as well tell him his daughter is a filthy debaucher when, in spite of the skilful torture about my misty bud, I produce the impeccable portrait of our godly mentor, sparing Far’s share of my beating heart. According to ritual, he carries on in our Danish vernacular before I even notice thus Camille’s meticulousnesses become incestuous in me, although Far and I trade magic signals like he held my hand in a hayfield along the shore.

Katherine says:

In the bathroom, I find her, deserted and hazy for a few seconds, then visibly she wakes layers of sentience and eventually rests her gaze in my soul. As I need to pee, I offer my hands and dance a move aside, intuitively checking the waters in the bowl for colour and myself peeing over, nosing her healing womb in its fuzzy forelock.  She has used an expensive shower gel and gives me chills of reminiscent passion because I have trailed that one before on my best Kettelær toy-soldier’s body all along our flirty chases. Around her sylphic volute it shuffles another garland of incitements tuned along a blond keynote, peachy as her timid breasts whereas the brainy blue Sarah distilled an afterthought of blackberry leaf. How would I not swoon over both delights in one play? The conspiracy of a shared folly is rooted into the cluster of my lust since probably the Venetian shenanigan and Fanny must have sensed the flurry of wavelengths amongst the household; however tamed by compassion and respect towards her; but weren’t we all schooled in the grand bed of Camille, anyhow?

Using the same gel and Sarah’s sponge, she cuddles my body under the shower with all possible liberties, and she knows. Crouching between my obediently parted legs, she fucks me straight with her whole hand until I dangerously pant, then tastes my sheepish philanderer and, having shut the rain, offers me a devastating smile.

Later, in the aquamarine tiled kitchen, we mingle fruit and yogurt with flakes when Sarah sneaks in and greets us with a ladleful of innuendo; as I grasp the loose end of her peignoir’s belt, she stands exposed to Fanny’s unabashed amusement and paw, a sway of her hips meeting Sarah’s who begs for a kiss. Proud of my handling, I gently disrobe the blessed orphan and read a swift shiver in my lickerish mister’s eyes. Fanny lengthily polishes her sweet abs and twiddles the boonberry sisters most equally, inasmuch her head doesn’t fall under Sarah’s stubborn tongue-wrestling.

I breathe in Fanny’s foppish ear a litany of lewd compliments while I wank her sensitive back-knot then Sarah embraces both of us in her inkish blue robe and we hum over the head of the shorn angel.

Sarah says: 

I’m fiddling with the gamine’s feet on my lap when Camille croons in, a turban onto her wet hair. She needs combing so she sits next to us after having opportunely petted Fanny, innocently offered to her slyness. As she admires the revived complexion on the Tanagra figure, and leisurely takes advantage of her morning arousal, we comb gold around her reassuring face.

She inquires if Fanny will care to stay live with her as family or take the smaller maid’s room upstairs when security settles. I tell her that, a few years back, I lived upstairs first then moved down in the grand nest of Mistress Stern who never questioned my liberties and taught me the keys to the noble art of gold mining. She says she has understood our life ways since Kate almost raped her in the shop and she has been raised a skilled harlot anyway. I slyly add that I used the garret for my occasional shags, when I wouldn’t risk to let a wolf in the fold.

Camille’s wealth of hair smells of sunny chamomile, lime and honey. She embraces the beaming runaway elf and says in her face that she wants her, that she knows it, and she lets her hand wander again in her dinky tuft.

Fanny raves:

That was some run-up, but it seems real I jumped into a pond of lilies and the fragrances are rich, no funny smells or nasty thorns, only spooks and fairies wooing in tune around my arse. I wanted that haircut anyhow.

I wish I kept my three pixies lovers since they gambol prettily with one another already, as far as I can see. I might try the bright knight and the Godfather if there’s fun.

Kate is different now from the light headed princess who tumbled me over in the shop booth. she’s appeased, although she gropes fast with sly hands; her eyes show no thrill of emotional lapses as I had perceived on that mellow afternoon; she’s bold now, and all the more lovable.

She wants to share me with her smart buddy Sarah, sublime ambiguous with swanky hands and feet to promise the dancing dizzy spell; her narrow face with erased cheekbones; her straight-up little nose; her swift eyebrows and elevated forehead; that, crowned with thick black curls and the reigning blue shards of her loyal eyes would be steel cold scary without her truly childish pouty lips I surrendered to, like forever.

The Queen bee is a tad older, with rounder hips above slender legs like an adult grace with the flat belly of a warrior. Her eyes nail you, or not. She devoured me from toes to nose and she said welcome pressing the back of my hand on her cheek.

©Katherine Sophie

Katherine says: 

These half-peaches feel botticellific under the poplin shirt, a wicked hoard I can cover with my hand, or both. She still smells of the quivering meadows Hugo has devoted in the remedy we still dab on the pale child.

There is a privileged arrangement with Dr Méant on Sunday night, obtained through an intermediation by my own gold watch Dr Schubert. As long as she rests in my neck, there is no alarm under the subdued manners, she likes skin as much as we do and she is prettily thirsty at the bloomer wells.

As the weather was lively, we walked to Le Bon Marché for bags of new attire to make her feel first hand. Sarah and me went liberal with easygoing accessories and lingerie, uncompromising  about quality and genuineness. I caught Sarah testing panties with her hands in it, Fanny is the fitting room Madonna.

I guess our men’s eyes have already been caught by her cheeky spade of a bum, my jaws tickle, so much I feel like biting in it, or else, as she slides into jeans and leggings. Sarah harvests stockings and socks in all exalted threads of refinement, and she knows. As with the whole loot, Fanny will hold the childish grant of breaking the flattering seals of the newness.

In city life, shoes are essential tokens of human rapport. Instinctively, they root the body upon verticality and balance; they also tease the onlooker by the the mastery of the sheathing they glorify the foot with, but they warn about which speed you will walk away at. Flats are paragon to the feet of free youth; heels are for dependant puppets and cunning whores. Only did Ginger Rogers move rightly on bespoke contraptions designed mainly for heightening her at Fred’s hand. A smaller woman of appealing proportions can move swell on sneakers, hi-tops, loafers, regular boots or the sublime K. Jacques sandals! Therefore, we jostle Fanny’s choice of footwear in the like of three pairs of coloured basic sneakers and one of shiny black preppy loafers; she already has the boots on. One last attention is for grey Finnish felt slippers, should we look for flannel pyjamas, too?

Raised in the climate mildness of the Croatian coast, Fanny will dread the Parisian cold season. When asked what coat she would have never worn before, she chooses a Danish ethnic inspired multi-layered anorak after we had frowned against any fur. Sarah wants to offer personally a bronzish tweed saharienne with deep pockets, then we know where to ferret for knitted wools and make a killing of jumpers.

I reckon she will need a choice of casual sleek Japanese stationery and pens, she can’t, in the least, refound her soul without writing miles of improspection, as Sarah names that. What she will tell the gold watch will stay in it; whatever shall seep out in her dreams; or slumber trips, if she will.

Sarah says:

The day waned in the mid season scent of the nearby park when the four of us walked to the posh lair of Dr Méant. Unwavering in our intent to escort our girl, we had books, cookies and a Thermos of oolong.

Dr Méant is a thin man in his sixties, wearing the babyboomer black cord elegantly as a signal of laid back starkness. In a seductive tone of voice, he greeted and wanted to guess whom was the concerned one, held Kate’s hand a tad longer but called Fanny by her name. He lead us to a plush salon of green velvet and polished oak, subtly lit through silk shades, ask all telephones be put in silent mode and invited Fanny behind double doors.

In the truly luxurious silence, we gathered together in a deep settee; Camille in the middle had brought an eldritch Japanese graphic novel so we read it along while warming our hands in different hidden places. Fortunately, the intrigue was intensely intricate with cleverly threaded clues as to which inferable ghost would disperse the poison; the drug; the ultimate lie. Depending on the ongoing twist of the narrative, alliances appeared, excuses for heated kisses and further groping. The ghosts held strong, with the help of tea, into the night, until Fanny was brought back, half hazy, from the practitioner’s den. The Doctor asked if we would be available the next night and we warmly agreed, showing the wittiest of ourselves as if we had passed an audition. We tidied up our gentle mess and walked out in a huggy crew, keeping the silence as light as the moon.

A long black car carried us to Camille’s where we listened to celestial music in the dark, picking chocolates and drinking white tea. Fanny kept the three of us close, bits of clothing fell all around the grand bed before we fell asleep like a replete litter; she bore no expression, she asked Kate to come with her to the bathroom, she looked down.

Camille says:

On the day after the first visit to Dr Méant’s, I woke up in the middle of a battle field bestrewed with adorable body parts, Soma FM streaming long chords into dawn. As I stood up on my way to the loo, nifty muzzles raised from under the quilts and soon followed me in line. Kate held Fanny’s dear bonce while she peed and Sarah hurried them, in need, eventually leaking in the washbasin with a fine smile.

Hugo showed up during breakfast, not in the least jaded by a court of half-nudities; he shortly asked about Dr Méant but made clear he wasn’t asking any kind of report, then said Fanny needed a proper passport photo before her appointment with the Services across the Seine. She could do that with her servants in the afternoon.

He cornered Sarah, made her put down her cup and cuddled her neck softly while untying her robe halfway; she recapitulated the course of events and wished for a playful reunion soon. He then left, en route to Amsterdam for a few days.

That was a happy flash in the shower and Fanny beamed and started the pee contest; she fingered her way into the merry vale as we shampooed Kate, so I dared a slippery finger in her available ass and knew she liked it.

The sun was bright, we arranged to go to the offices early, stopped at a store big enough to house a photo booth and walked, Fanny wearing a black cap and her shades in her new saharienne. At the given address we were met by a drab grey suit and led to some large office, having crossed no one in the building. Soon, our two acquaintances showed up and proudly executed the magic, dirtying Fanny’s delicate fingers and scanning her face once more for the chip inside the passport, then the youngest took all the material in the next room and came back pronto with a French European passport and all the paperwork attesting to her new nationality. The older officer explained slowly in French that there was no trace left of her old self anywhere and Miss Köstner was duly registered at the office of foreign-born citizen with her specifics and DNA they had sampled at the first meeting. A tad bedazzled she gave her freshly washed hand to the two men and burst in tears in Kate’s shoulder.

I discussed matter-of-factly the legal details of my new tenant, trying my best at showing off deep gratitude, tingled by the sensation of having lived through a thriller story, pulling my seductive strings to make the two officers relax, both coveting my artistically displayed legs. Sarah saw what I was doing.

Armed with all this, tucked in my bag, we were led to another entrance and driven away in an unidentified car to Charfignies, on our side of town, were the layered cake confirmed our survival and hot chocolate curled up Fanny’s lips; on the low sofas, she straightened up two or three times like a rescued bird almost ready to fly. But she remained gently clung to Kate’s side, though accepting sly touches of avid Sarah.

We walked home through the closing park, I locked up the papers in a safe, showing Fanny where they were.

Katherine says:

Needless to prattle about my own soul wrestlings, Fanny boats her makeshift raft down the obscure stifling streams since absolutely nowhere in time, then , in amongst any other place Venezia, the moist deviation de La Mandola, she moored her naive line upon me, only back afloat under my thin sails, to breathe a mere future through my eyes?

Long years of an horrifying marriage, a bag of filth over her blond head, in the whirling sphere of silence or the hiss of crazed insects, disowned of a simple self, cobbling together evasive images around an espied shell and now rest, root hastily on a tatter of love.

Millions of them, all over this shamed planet, used and abused like sacks of pain, trapped in all the voids of human morals, sisters in agony scattered on the dumps waiting for the bulldozers of universal vanity.

Fanny, shorn pretty in your virgin haberdashery, the newcomer at the discreet phalanstery, the garden  of free slumbers.

A master listener will make you untangle the threads in your upended soul, if I would call it that. He will let you spread out on the crystal plate the lines of your pure desire inside out and over. He will alleviate the questions, soothe the burns for the while and make you float on your own gravity center. Then you will collapse into a pile of sand, your lungs will hurt, you will scream like death. You will open your eyes and retrieve the dimensions; the only new feeling will be that of self conscience, and the urge to cry on somebody, let it be me, Fanny.

Sarah says:

Kate and Fanny have confided together in bed while Camille and me surfed the waves. My Far sent a love letter with the demand that we come to New York for new year, promising to be here.

We reach the Doctor’s house in it’s cosy impasse and besiege the same comfy salon, with the same recommendations, the warning that it might last longer, and permission to use a vast kitchen across a corridor.

Kate has brought a book by Cornelis Fantin, “Chandourles”, that Hugo gave her, thinking of her own story with Simon. Camille takes me along into art magazines and strokes my flitty dots over my shoulder until I pass out.

Ivo Castorp, Eilbert Kursai and me sail the Øresund, under the bridge, on Ivo’s sailboat “Hereby”. I have known them in Falsterbø and I know why they offered me a ride. Great patches of blue streak the midsommer skies, the wind is haunted with calls and howls afar; I am all nude and Ellbert caresses my rump complimenting the colour of my skin. I refuse the beer he offers, he pushes me on an unknown diagonal black and red flag, he kisses me like a bunch of lilies with frenzy while he tries to shag me with his small stiff dipstick. Ivo licks and bites my feet and steers my legs up to own my arse. Ellbert has found a way into my navel and pants as I enjoy both manhoods in my frantic womb. My head dives as I realise the boat is sinking, rammed by a huge white ship populated by a troupe of dishevelled monkeys wearing black hats and jewellery throwing blue money on us. Ivo still in me swims for both of us while Ellbert wanks on my face, his legs beating wide. A school of silver herrings swim along my legs and body, curl up my neck as I fall into a garden of corals and the boys have lost me, argue with the horny monkeys. Purple and green butterflies quiver out of the riotous bush of red twigs; they gather on my glittering scarf and tickle around my open navel from which blooms a crystalline baby jellyfish with one blinking eye of changing colours. The monkeys have pinned the butterflies to their hats and masturbate on enormous black tortoises. Kate drifts by in a disorderly armour of abalone shells, holding a small Fanny inside a thorny crib; she picks the shy staring corolla and gives it to amused Fanny who makes a costume with it, placing the new eye inside her navel. The monkeys rattle their bling as they gather around the cradle and bleed on the prickles with great laughs that agitate the herrings around my neck which eyes have turned into pearls. Her hair floats around her face when I embrace Kate and feel the child inside my womb singing high stirring notes. We are carried away in the black and red flag through a fog bank; the monkeys all sport yellow brollies and fly a long board with technical lights and signals. Still tight on Kate, I hold her head at the tip of my fingers and feel wings grow on my back and unfurl into a great Fanny angel laughing at the monkey who throw their bling and drool. Ivo and Ellbert call from the Hereby deck and hook my feet. I won’t let go of Kate and Fanny so they cast a white sail and embark us like we were wet laundry; the monkeys climb the rigging. Now they share Fanny and Kate on the bunk and they laugh as the monkeys sack the boat. I look at my midriff and the eye winks as I lift a thin veil adorned with iridescent fish scales; I have an elegant penis erected like a schoolboy.

Camille tries to wake me up with a kiss on the forehead. I understand she pulled a plaid over me in the couch. Dr Méant smiles as he holds Fanny’s arm, he apologises for the very late hour and let us call for a car; he walks us to his door; in the corridor I see the mocking monkeys on a framed print in their yellow suits and black hats; they clink glasses of stout in a London pub.

Dawn is looming as the heavy car slides across the empty city. Fanny cuddles on Kate’s shoulder and I fondle Camille’s pearl necklace as she rummages under my clothes impatiently.

©Katherine Sophie

Katherine says: 

She has collapsed in a baby-like sleep, I had to hold her tight to feel her breathe, now she’s been cruising the galaxies all day; I heard live murmurs through the doors, Sarah crept in the bed and I shushed her; later, she brought a butler’s tray with tea and heavenly pastries; she even obtains to lick my cherry beside the sleeping child; she smells an unusual flowery powdered whim; she has been savaged all over by Camille.

Fanny wears a Little Nemo printed cotton flannel pyjama I already wore when I stayed in the house. She stretches out like a kitten and looks at me, vacant. I go fetch some drink and start a kettle in the kitchen, I know she is still amazed by pear juice. She’s back from the bathroom, I sit and my hands slither up her back as she pushes her crotch in my face.

She’s hungry, I have another breakfast with her, she marvels at fruit macarons. We shower and she is still excited to wash her head so easily whereas I ask her help to shampoo mine. We face the flow long enough to conjure the lurking tears, she’s healing. I caress her gently, she responds; she fondles my holiness craftily and gives tongue like a wild teenager.

Collecting my spirits, I kindly press her to dress, she searches through her bags of novelties and I explore the drawers , sniffing many different moods of Sarah’s, keeping my outfit as light as a whim. She dons a long jade cashmere jumper and black cotton boxers. carrying the treats, we run to the music of windy spheres and are greeted by the team and Gauthier who raises up from Sarah’s knees. He is literally enthralled and dives down to Fanny’s feet.

I ask for softer lights; Fanny climbs on me in a large mohair armchair, Sarah perches on the armrest and tells us about her dream in Dr Méant’s couch with flair, for sheer fun. She titillates Gauthier’s ribs with her feet until he handles them as he knows. We engage in a bantering round robin about  the yellow monkeys until she reveals their presence in the corridor, which doesn’t wipe the rap out. Fanny sips a half-smile as she gets our game and trades her feet to the wondered boy who mixes the keys deftly.

Camille sits on the sturdy armchair’s headrest behind Sarah and grills her about the boat ride, confess her feat; yes, she was an underage stowaway on Ivo’s boat on the pretext she wished to see her childhood house in Taarbæk from the sea. But Ivo sailed a motorboat, with a cabin at the bow. She had admired Ivo’s shoulders before, when he dared her to show she wasn’t a boy at all, and wondered how big his boner would eventually become in her. She lowered her eyes when he pushed her down the three steps down and unbuttoned her pants while Ellbert watched from the helm.  She was tall already and frail; her skin remained pale in the Baltic sun and that aroused Ivo as she soon found. He played beautifully, scattering her mind in the heaving, handing her over to his pal, and again. They went as far as the brand new Øresundbroen but they were at least occupied; They were skilled sailors so the boat was not rammed but she sure was along the endless twilight.

Sarah’s subdued tone of voice seduces all of us while Camille denudes the cunning charmer. Fanny reaches for her tryberries and is rewarded a moonfairy smile which is at once stolen by Camille’s avid mouth.

Then my escapee rises from me and soughs she wants to hold Gauthier’s “kurac”, his stiff handle she feels in his trousers. Rather bemusedly, I help her get the toy and the rest of the boy who kneels and waits for a kiss he jauntily gets. She goes down on all fours and licks the galant tow bar like a skillful butterfly meanwhile I contemplate no better part for me than intromit my tongue into her sylphic rill and see it bloom open.

Fanny considers and bethinks the toy’s parts, praising the model and size as a slick harlot in her right mind and sussing out that she is maddening the petit Marquis, capsizes over the edge of the seat and leads the quivering swordsboy into fulfilment. They cavort grandly with their eyes locked while I wander my lips wherever on her she responds, well after the crises has booned and flowed, joined in by the other two bawdy crooks until the victim faints out.

Sarah says: 

The dissipated quintet has entertained my evil plexus but left my own dainty sluice wanting, all the more so that Camille has harassed its edgings like a fanatic during the whole morning. I can revive the lessened stud covered in froth, I suckle it clean and niggle it’s head awake long enough to let me thrust it inside and I am so moist it wiggles and resumes in my lower octave; I let my fuses blow and I see a gang of yellow dressed monkeys laughing.

I resurface in the cloud of heated exhalations feeling Camille’s towel wiping my arse and else. Everybody smells animal dew and spares another shower for the while. Früben of the Marché Saint-Germain delivers a train of gluttony we display on the ottoman for a true Roman scene. The delivery boy had a free glimpse on the way to the kitchen.

Fanny shows no worry at the center of the debauchery, she spreads her limbs in a deliberate body language and still clings to Kate’s neck for any explanations. Between draughts of kefir, of which Camille’s maid brews large pots, I court her sly rosy chink to her obvious complacency. In a respite of sluttishness, Kate asks her about the long trip in Dr Méant’s power; she shrugs vaguely and muses that she could not say if he raped her or not, so close was he into her depiction of her education; she felt she had readily hatched out like the Captain ordained, only the wind was higher, the skies were lighter and she sensed all the ashes being hoovered off. Together with the Doctor they had ascertained the clues she fostered about the real world beyond the dry rubble of the olive groves, as shown in Mrs Novak’s magazines and books, the television set being connected only to a DVD player with no other choice than the Captain’s porn; they had mentally erected a model of the house, then visited every nook in it and collected the rags and sherds on the bed, fetched the lighter on the cooker and set fire to the heap; the blaze would not affect her, she was as nude as we saw now but fresh as a rosebud in a disappearing universe, leaving her in a pitch-black infinite next to the Doctor in his armchair waving his shiny black pen. He asked her about her feet, her hands and all I knew about her body and the way to treat it. He made her feel a star inside her chest, next to her brave heart, pulsating colours and gem-like shapes twirling into the aggrandised reality of the rich room where they conversed.

We hold our breath but she’s as casual as a young strumpet explaining how she woke up on the lavish divan, bedraggled and cheerful. The Doctor told her she should follow her plan whatever it led to now, because she had chosen her shelter herself and no alarm was raised anymore, hearing her account. He granted her access to his personal phone at any time in case of an emergency  and would be pleased to meet her again in a couple of months. I recall the pitiful raggedy Kate we brought back from Dr Schubert’s, some light years back, but the dead had played another card, then; I watch her, and I read the blue-gray urge of Simon’s presence in her eyes, bet the scarred angel will appear soon among us again.

©Katherine Sophie

Gauthier says: 

One of so many has jumped over the sewer to our lucky fountain, she is hardy as the phœnix and pretty as a dawn; she fucks like an orchid and flies like an egret. For the while, one worships her narrow arched feet amongst the varieties frisking about these carpets; ten little monkeys fidgeting at ease in graceful oblivion.

8 – Katherine Sophie – Le Concept K.

Katherine remembers: 

I met Victor at a butt-pinching event in a barge on the Seine where Eleminora, nude and pallid, stabbed her own palms and feet with long steel needles at the rear end of which were clinched gold roses in front of a cosmopolitan crowd in black suits and studied chiffon; I wore a slant-built slate grey knit dress with not much more than stockings under it. Elaborate exclamations roared softly while I felt an expert hand readily delving in my bum crack and so gently paw to-and-fro that I let it go on.

The frozen vodka had been generous and I had popped a V to cope slyly with the wolves, so much so that this one Alpha was tucking me in his dark coupé and disrobed me a tad more at each traffic light. He asked me to open wide my thighs and he groaned with excitement; the car was so luxurious that I was transfixed and aroused as an ember nest.

He was fascinating, his black hair flattened, his dark brown eyes gleaming in a richly tanned flawless face with a square jaw; his imposing bearing reined me in at once because I would usually be taller than my suitors. And albeit whatever the magazine subjectives required, he appeared to pull his shots as stealthily as a winner horseman.

He drove up to the Etoile and down to the Bois, turned towards smaller avenues and eventually parked, letting the engine run. He switched on the ceiling light and asked me to undress completely and masturbate; he started lascivious music on the laser-sharp speakers; I flew off. Not so as I did not see what was happening around the car, men wanking in circle as Victor churned his tongue in my crazed mouth. He told me to lift my feet higher so as to expose my arsehole, made me wet his fingers and stuck them in round moves inside the frowned pathway deftly enough to trigger me off and again with jiggles in the limbs and a shamble of tremors inside my womb. I had no idea it ever had struck me so entirely before. Semen from the voyeurs was dripping outside on the windows as he pulled his pants and ordered me to suck; he came in no time deep and took my head, telling me to swallow all of it clean; as soon as he felt licked up, he buttoned back and gave a few pats on the accelerators to warn the pack that we would move. I felt wasted on the stained leather, which had certainly known many other sluts like me; he smiled and said I was beautiful; I did not hurry to cover myself; drips ran backwards on the glass, he pushed the windshield washer button, laughing. To my surprise, at the first stop he kissed me full in his own taste, and we smelled the same beastly scent afterwards.

He drove quietly, the car was almost silent; he fetched a real kerchief and told me to wipe myself and give it back to him for keeps, not forgetting a little of my armpits sweat. I obeyed and started to think I had found a real sophisticated libertine, way apart the lot of cum spurting males in my class. Over the shaft, I made him smell and shoved the rag into his jacket’s pocket. He thanked.

Not far from Exhibition Lane, the car entered an unmarked side entryway in which he punched a code and parked in a clean basement. He turned the engine off and cuddled me again, then he explained we were in a private hospital he was partner in; because he felt such a crush on me, he wanted us to do the full shebang of STD tests so as to unleash the dogs at one another. I told him we had all tested for HIV at school lately but he demonstrated that was not near enough because some other nasties might have already taken seats in our velvet parlours. He suggested we went upstairs in a private room, play as much as we fancied on the safe side, collect the necessary samples and meet again with the doctor in two days. In the best of ways, it wouldn’t be a lost of time even if I realised I did not fancy Victor anymore. With a bit of racket over me, the lift led us to a desert floor where a young blond nurse, after a short request from whom she recognised very well, led us to an all-technical turquoise room with one bed and an examination seat. She went to fetch blank paper files and a tray of plastic test-tube racks; matter-of-factly, she asked me to undress, sit on the chair with my legs parted, took a set of stick-on labels, drew a few tubes of my blood, a few swabs from my mouth an vagina and handed me a card with the last numbered label on it. When Victor exposed himself on the chair he was hard and he held my arse, but as soon as he could, he groped under the nurse’s blouse and she let him do, only checking my eyes. When she had all the samples, he gave her a real kiss, let me look at her intimate sanctum and introduced us. As she walked out the green coat fell back in place, she had known what not to wear.

During the testing time, after a long blank sleep, I went to see Sarah at Camille’s. Whilst I boasted my escapade I felt her swinging from amusement to craving. At first playing with my fingers, she pulled me down on her undone bed and asked me to detail the car trip until we had to wrest our pants off. When we later tumbled across each other, in the overwhelming daze of our mixed odours, she murmured that the test routine was a cool portent of a lecherous episode and she wished she would join; I agreed and held her disarming head, stirring up the fantasy of what we could have shown on the black leather of that car.

From the day we met in the Beaux Arts, Sarah had been one of these incestuously magnetic  persons I clung to since the night when we first feasted upon the starry skies along with Simon; and the grand mastery of our Cynthia’s rare orchid. As tall as I am, Sarah impressed altogether by her aloofness and her graciosity; her restraint and her sexy sway; her gracile sassiness. Soon she had impressed the crowds by striding across the halls dressed as Corto Maltese, wearing some waisted black cadet uniforms scavenged from her Danish family’s attics, white navy bridge pants and English Jodhpurs; she became known as a snide German lesbian and I loved her all the more for that. We had patronised “L’Etoile Amusée”, Camille’s lair doubtlessly because she had an eye on us, and when she dispatched us between Hugo’s and her maid’s room, we wound up in a few warm beds together. As the school’s common wisdom left us and the private society gravitating around Hugo’s peers proved pleasurable, we distanced ourselves from the mainstream contemporary art swindle.

I slept with Sarah after we fed on petits fours from Chavigny’s and indulged Petersburger porn with natural models our age. She was thrilled all over, teasing that I would prostitute myself so she wanted to experience it too. I mocked her father discovering she did that but she responded that she already did more than I seemed to know.

Victor called in the second afternoon, asking if he could pick me up anywhere I wished, so I waited for him at the Voltaire on the quay. The sun was setting the Grand Palais ablaze when I jumped into the low seat. He quickly tongued my mouth and asked for my knickers but under my rich Italian rainbow threads jersey knit dress I wore none with my black crotchless tights; he had time to dip a finger in me before the following car honked. He asked me to uncover my enjoyment pinny and show my sissy smile, I did. In fun, he asked if I was ready to meet the full truth, to what I joked that apparently he was the risky one.

At the clinic, we were led to a comfortable office room where a doctor Streff saw us. He asked to meet each one separately first, as the protocol stipulates. To me first, he beamed a magnificent open smile and showed me all clear charts and he complimented me on my good health. After he spoke to Victor we gathered again, and exchanged our charts.

He lived in a top floor near the Trocadero, I think he owned the whole building, if not the whole district. In the dark, his aerie looked infinite, the Eiffel tower glittered crazy every once in a while. As he stripped me down and puffed up my hair like he would to a stage model, I was trying to make sense of the place first. The large floor to ceiling slide-glazing over the river and the left bank was ran over by engraved lettering both ways, conterminously scrolling on across the hardwood floors in encrusted steel and bronze. I did not really get the quotes, I do not sing in latin, but the mere form of the double dutch gave off a strong hint as to the power of the client. Generous parallelepipedic sofas of seemingly deer skin in dark hues offered available comfort for a numerous party.

At a magic trick he did, lights and music dawned up at level with the cityscape glitter; a dazzling bateau-mouche was cruising by, casting a parade of dizzying shadows. He pushed me on the next couch and unleashed a maddening tongue all over my willing body as drones of raving harmonies resonated through my plexus. He left me panting and pulled a drawer under the black mirror top of a side coffer and fetched a jewel snuff box embedded with diamonds casting clutters of minuscule instant rainbows. I stared astounded at the quantity of white powder inside the box as he held the perfect little gold spoon at my dilated nostril. I sniffed eagerly and the quality of the toxic was such that I capsized in cosmic bliss while he entered my sassy well. He went largo, lento, all the scales of our swirly cadence and another tourist-barge was searching the ceiling for sense where it read “lament” “qualm” “worth” and a familiar voice sung at the rear of my skull: “Potamus…Washington…”.

He discharged copiously into my middle pond and asked me to suckle his dripping tyke whereas he conscientiously wiped my rims with virgin cloth. As I regained a navigable cerebration I scrutinised further around me and scanned the panels framed on the walls under low lighting. they were dark marroonish, sensitive arrays of coarse patches tightly sewn together in intricate geometry I later learned were sails used by fishermen along the east African coast, traded for new modern ones and little money by the decorator. The makeshift canvases traditionally used were not dyed but soaked in blood and sun dried, the process making them stiff and leathery for years of daily effort. They adorn the walls of the splendid fucker with their otherworldly patina far from any idea of a Kenya beach.

He proposed again with the miracle spoon and I felt inextinguible again. We went to a grand, warm, teck-panelled bathroom where we showered in a bosque of Ylang and he pumped salt water from a black bulb into my arse to free the way for his reborn truncheon. Simon and I had practiced the enema as early as we could read the “Mindful Companion” by Reginald Trum in our wonder days. Holding a vial of balmy pommade, he pushed me towards a convenient massage table and ordered me around. He handled my shy burrow with such maestria it surrendered in softness when he foraged in. He poured some more treacle on the weasel and let it root through my merry hunker in endless bouts of thrust until I felt the holy catastrophe.  With a few shivers of my hand on the Mindy Tom I blasted the whole jingle of chakras up to my core shine and glided out in circles.

Again he soaked me with an opulent Greek sponge filled with Zanzibar euphoria and wiped me in a fresh towel which unravelled down to my feet. He offered some snacks in the kitchen, so we walked naked to a laboratory tiled with grotesque and unchaste majolica depicting bacchanal scenes and whoremonger merrymaking embedded into eye-teasing grotto walls; as I read the pornography on the plates and vessels, some broken and some intact, he flattered my timid breasts and gave free rein to some shrewd compliments I greeted down to my womb. From inside a walk-in refrigerator integrated to the utility wall clad with titanium plates, he chose a few boxes and handed me some. In the center of the room was a spectacular table made from the core slice in a very old drift tree, the crevices and fissures of which had been filled in shiny bronze with the utmost craftiness, resting on sturdy forged black footings; while we displayed the ramekins and bowls, he praised tables that don’t move when you fuck on them.  We sat on polished wood chairs, in the shape of seashells, across at a corner so he could ask me to spread my legs, he himself stood at jolly attention and I was bloomed up like a magnolia; the cold terrines and salades were unreasonably palatable; he suggested I start with a bisque scattered of urchin corail, then lobster medallions in saffron custard on a bed of seaweeds, raw shavings of pink daurade smudged with kumquat filaments and lavender yogurt and finally a stunning blue lotus sherbet  which sent me back to my Hamburg high-minded debaucheries, for no reason.

We drank vinho verde from a lens-shaped flask in exquisitely obscene Venetian wine glasses; he ordered me to lick the sticky drops on his glans while, in return, he skilfully annoyed my rosy buds. The heavy trunk felt quietly warm to my spine as he dawdled at my nymph’s threshold until I asked for a boost, but he said I was already quite swollen and he should apply some sweet salve before he rode me through again. He walked out; meanwhile in the complex arrangement of the tall glasses, the bowl rested on hands of acrobat fauns fucking white fairies in mid-air as a prowess of the glass-blower; he came back soon with a purple bonbonnière from which he grabbed some white gel he pasted thoroughly over our fleshy toys in a breath of honeysuckle and easily frisked both my slippery slits to heart, sparking off a sudden tutti in my maddened plexus.

Restored, and raddled, we wandered around the labyrinthine apartment which displayed the epitome of distanced art. After a cocaine pause, he showed me some very inviting single entendre bedrooms, with a true “Plato’s retreat” waterbed in a cloud of pinpoint lights, contention devices around leather-padded apparatus, cedar wood retreat with wall to wall black fur, seamless black room with an apparently limitless luminous ceiling of insensibly changing colour from cobalt blue to poppy red.

He pushed me on the velvety black mat and let me stare while he mumbled carnal anaphores on my liebling Freudian gaffe of a button in full decompensation; an ultra low modulation bounced through the diaphragm at a lewd rhythm while the imperceptible balance of the light colour from the ceiling set sweet panic in the mind’s ability to keep a sensitive record, unleashing psychedelic phosphenes and typical fractal draperies of the indelible lysergic memory; I experienced a loud and heavy orgasm and squirted in his tireless mouth.

I laid spent and still tripping through my overrid eyes into the cherished clouds of my recalled epiphanies while Victor palpated and massaged my abandoned febrile body. He slipped his sleepy stem in my lazy mouth and came half taut with a taste of elderberry sap.

When we woke, he took my hand and lead me through a large corridor where seducing colourfields hung in subdued perception, warming up my inner strains and pushing me to brush against his gently hairy skin; he gave me a lover’s kiss and held my ribs up to bite my usual glib seeds. We then entered a murmuring control room over-stacked with live computer screens glistening like mosaic rainbows. The walls and ceiling were lined with red copper openworked in shapes of mathematical formulas and symbols, a faraday cage he said. There was only one elaborate chair, he sat and made me ride with my legs wide parted, but he was coiled quiet, although he went on snooping in my neck. He told me to watch millions churning, pulled a keyboard and speed-typed for a few seconds; The six main screens in front of us start to flicker and blimp as if they played together, I can’t decipher any of the hundreds acronyms in front of the lines and columns, suddenly the numbers are still, Victor points one long one and says I made him earn a carambolic sum, and sniggers. Again browsing my silly petals, he warns an presses a button: on a little gold trail fixed on an upper counter, a gold miniature train runs with a few cars an stops in front of us. Lifting one roof, he shows me a light blue powder he calls the broker’s galore and he fetches a tiny attached shovel to bring a load to my nose that I pinch gleefully.

Then I felt he was separating, he said I would go home and sleep and think of coming back in three days for whatever I agreed to. I found my clothes at the other end of the house, he asked me for my knickers so I gave them and he handed me a thick black envelope, telling me to buy myself a dress; I felt a bit dumb until he said a car waited for me downstairs. On the way I peeked into the envelope and coughed at the sight of the bounteous bundle it included plus a cute golden wrapper that felt like powder. Back in my room I needed my V and sleep.

The train blows its two-tone hoot to a phase whirl ruction like a musical avant garde trip. Grooms in green uniforms hassle me with my fairy-tale clothes and rip me bare. I run along cars corridors to an engine room where black dogs bark in their chains with mad rolling eyes. Brushing past warm oily metal contraptions I reach the control room obstructed with shiny metal bird cages; a white horse stamps on a large piano, producing grandiose chords into the mayhem. Outside the parted windshield, black waters foam in lacy vortex in which the unleashed dogs rush in circles after a laughing blue albatros which poops ruby eggs in the wind. As I stare through the horse’s shoes, I feel some warm humping from behind and I think thankfully of Victor’s honeysuckle treat.

The next day I was still drowsy, with the delicate halo of cooling down synapses in my pearly brain. Hugo called for a session and I could not refuse because he had been quite beneficent to me as to let me dwell in a pretty select lodging for a few benign peeps at my arse. I reckoned I would display the right mood of lechery after the smutty plowings of the night. After my day of shuffling around my haunt, recounting my bounty and gilding my lilies, I went downstairs at tea time with no shoes on.

Hugo’s scriptorium oozes otherworldly scents, and that day there was an unusual violette trail that kept me, so to speak, nosing around, so as he sinfully portrayed the young harlot he had jumbled over with the night before; a fuzzy breed filly with a wealthy mane and a thin waist, easy and impish like a lewd goblin. As he watched me, through the sophisticated lenses, swiftly lose the light gown I wore nude, he asked me to play with a few oriental caftans he had made patched up and felt so gentle on the skin. He fabled that in the family who mended his collections, they tested the pieces on their little girls quite sensitive to itches.

Either he was busy behind the camera for long minutes, or he flitted around me, getting my nipples to point in a fold or uncovering my precious under an hesitant selvedge of imperial satin, brushing locks of hair he scented with a bemused nostril. He complimented me on every touch of my body and my unfazed composure, he glorified my jolly trained lips but he kept elegantly aloof, bantering about the liberties his distinguished trollop had tirelessly granted him.

We remained inly at arm’s length of shagging on the legendary cushions, but I reckon we enjoyed the foreseen certitude that it would unfold eventually, in the full thriving of a merry licentiousness. I myself did not detail my night of caroused depravity, albeit I felt like I poured sex from all my ends and crannies.

I bedewed my boon stoup at the fantasy of a fully dissolute ribaldry, hinting my best bawdy glances at the camera, In the spirit of our gentle lease, I kept undressed for the rest of the afternoon amongst the awe-inspiring collections, Hugo laid a finespun shawl under my bum. He brought some white tea in a silver dragon pot then came behind my head and smelled a lock of my hair, asking me where I had been with such a scent he had never met.

Apart from staying nude about his house, I had never yet played any naughty game with Hugo, whom I had likely labelled too old for any proper physical accosting. With a fine smile, he kept questioning about the perfume in my hair; I reeled off my rakishness, pearl by pearl, for his apparent bliss, as he told he should write me down. Pushing the tea tray away, he sat on the table and caught hold of my feet, so gently, so kind. He wanted to know if I had come as many times as Victor and liked the idea that I had certainly taken more pleasure than him. He asked my permission to lick my blooming dell and did, beautifully, garner my jittery huffs.

Hugo was impressed by the precautionary arrangement and thoughtfully grazed my thigh, whereas I reached for the bump in his trousers and chased the buttons. He joked he might not be as safe as Victor but I told him our mouths were off limitations. While I silently returned the favor he had granted me, he then revealed that the select network of his friends had played according to such a rule for some years, like always, as a matter of fact, in the rich libertine realm of privileged prostitution; power mentally feeds on debauchery but profligacy harbours epidemics  just like rats carried pestilence. He said he had not entertained the mirage of luring me into a prostitution community, albeit he indulged in some, twiddling my curls as I suckled harder, he only had coveted what happened with us. He leisurely spurted in my mouth and I masterfully gulped in and lasted as long as I knew he climaxed, till rest.

Victor called and ordered I went to Marnie’s, rue de Sèvres, buy an anthracite grey pinstriped skirt power suit as in an office tyrant’s dream. I reckoned he fancied the call-girl charade but as I knew he would unclothe me as fast as a Cossack, I suspected some other staging. I asked about the underwear and he decided that a simple mist-blue silk slip dress and stockings would befit; In the same street, Harryman made excitingly prude suede mocassins. He asked for as little makeup as I would.

He picked me up at the Voltaire and liked my attire, devoured my eyes; he fetched a ritzy leather box and let me open it and stare at a hard-to-believe but nevertheless witty strand of pearls that did not look like fakes. He joked there would be a Cartier watch next time. The necklace completed the epitome of a corporate hunt game, or the efficient passe-partout for a picky call-girl. Hugo had offered me one of his blends of pure essential oils of Neroli, tuberose and cinnamon, thus my rakish brooklet exuded trampish hints as I eased my legs in the car seat.

He seemed anticipating, he did not unzip me, only sliding fingers on the way to the bathroom where I found a full bulb of rosewater ready. Back in the grand lounge, I found him in conversation with a very strict Asian man to whom he introduced me. Mr Armand Tho from Singapore, a visiting colleague; he wore an obviously all bespoke outfit, silk and alpaca, pheromones and money. By their respective attitudes I reckoned at once what I was casted for in the show and gazed at Victor out of the corner of my eye; he sent back a sharp wink and swooped in the drawer where the snuff box was. Armand jolted at the sight of the diamonds in the gold sun rays, begging for a closer examination. Victor showed him first the contents and handed him the jewel and the spoon. Armand mumbled in Chinese, reached for a folding tester to read the hallmarks and said, as he scooped a full one, all the respect the royal piece inspired, I dipped into the resting treasure when he passed the spoon and I swung back onto the headrest thus showing some skin over my stockings’ hem.

Once the brains were chilled and the music sparkled, Armand pulled near and laid his manicured hand on my thigh. Victor crept on the other side and rubbed my loonie doves for a while. They enjoyed the hitched-up rag they made of me, sharing my mellow troughs as they did the snowflakes. He brought some Crystal champagne in high-stemmed tulips. Armand rounded my face like an idea of the moon and asked me if I would like to try a golden pellet , a thing I had never heard of. Victor said it was a blend of pleasure drugs used among rich Chinese libertines and I should not be more weary than I was about coke. In a ravishing ivory netsuke finely sculpted into the embrace of a young girl urinating into an old caitiff’s grinning mouth, Armand showed me two golden suppositories that smelled strongly of lotus while his left hand rummaged in my sneaky den wet of Damascus rose.

I had already danced on the verge of such a heady path before, but there Victor had well and truly sold my skin, and my sentience of the play was unfurling down in abandon. I spread my thighs a tad more in show of consent and he slid the golden cap inside my quivering sheath. They peeled off my suit and the rest of my fineries and Victor took a long sinuous kiss on my mouth while Armand was undressing entirely, showing a bronze-like polished figure with a bent up stinger; lifting my legs he pressed on my sleepy hole as if it needed no dressing and, as a matter of fact, met the melting bullet and pushed deftly in time with the waves of shattering glimmer that threw my whole womb into bliss.

My pelvis droned and swirled like the beacon and the storm in a clear night, my heart hurled around drum rolls of head-ravaging flushes as Armand slew through my overjoyed pulp. I recall howling at nebulae of refracting pulses like a swarm of morpho blue butterflies through the lacy branches of my extended nerves. I remember climaxing tirelessly along tunnels of opalescent ardour in echoes of perfect harmonics. I passed out in a curliferous drape of vibratory lashes as a joy ridden subaquatic field.

Clearings in fluttering purple foliages, both elated stallions deep inside my bedazzled innards; and collapses more, exhausted plexus engulfing clouds of longing shivers; awakening auroras in veils of sudden frost; distorted cavalcade of shimmying chimes along my revealed gleeful meridians; halo misty glow wings of tinkling wisps of my life as light.

I woke up in a clamour of children running under the windy bloom of a cherry alley; then my head was as fluent as a fresh peony. I was nested in a black furrow in black silk and swishes; the bed poles were supremely ornate and polished in asymmetrical outpourings of beads and petals. I felt clean, pampered, preened and contented, my dear intimate calyx smelled of lotus and hummed.

The room was black and bare, seamless; the only visible element other than the exuberant bed was a tall window facing it from where glowed the only light; behind the crystal panes snow was continuously falling in an unfathomable night.

My loins and limbs felt like pouncing around for another dandle and stare carousel, just like I had mumbled in Simon’s ear after I had finally responded to our firsts holy puffs of Panama Mellow, in the wee hours of a syltian solstice.

I could not find any clothes. Behind the dementedly profuse headboard crested with a black velvet canopy was the pathway to a polished ebony clad bath so quiet I listened to my pee drip; through a round tenebrous cove I found a long pearly grey corridor of warm stone floor and lustered stucco walls against which were displayed a dozen armful wide blue-toned monochrome photograph prints showing pigs in a large mud puddle. Half my brain shuddered at the sight of imperturbably copulating hogs.

At the other end opened an oval room under a crepuscular cobalt spiral-inlaid opaline glass ceiling where reigned a striking ensemble of repoussé silver dining furniture watched by eight  near-identical holographic life size portraits of a young girl with wide eyes, unclothed shoulders and an elaborate confusion of hair locks and curls, framed in hammered silver. Four axial silver doors opened in the sky-green waxed faux-marbre walls. The floor deployed a checkered spiral of serpentino and travertino marbles around the room. The black wood table top was inlaid with a constellation of random signs and letters like a giant whirlwind Ouija rotating clockwise like the floor pavement. The chairs offered a black velvet cushion supported by an outlandish efflorescence of nerve-like branches chiseled with millimetric esoteric motives so as to recall a distorted chorus by Stockhausen.

As I stood in the subterranean glow, a young chestnut haired and coffee-black eyed maid entered and kept looking down while asking if I desired breakfast. She brought a black Yixing clay teapot in the shape of a gourd roamed over by detailed insects, a plate of toasts under a bell cover, a silver basket of fruit and a glass of pear juice. Later, still looking down, she brought on a silver tray an ebony box inlaid with a web of mother-of-pearl lines around an argyle shaped stone of lapis lazuli.  In it were the pearl necklace in its sleek bed, a small enveloppe with my name on it, and a thick larger one containing triple the sum of my last visit; also a sleek Moroccan leather holder, ornate with tiny stars, containing a hard black plastic card  with a six digit silver number and a microchip.

On a bristol card with an embossed gold beaded red glove in the upper left corner, he had written his vivid emotion about , as he called it, my night fly. He definitely wished to see me two days later and thus would call me; he tipped me about the pearl’s hidden secret. I opened the case, felt the pearls as if they wanted me, and easily lifted the black velvet cushion to find a lilac sachet of an all too well known dust; he also advised me not to lose my number and to check in once a month if we were to remain close friends.

As the apparently submissive maid led me to a white lacquered dressing room lit by embedded vertical lines of soft tones, I glanced in a mirror door as she was watching my bosom; I gently stepped back on her until she had to touch me, then caught her chin and nape and kissed her wildly. Her wavy hair was cut short with a fringe; she stared halfheartedly and mumbled not to make her lose her job while I found she did not wear knickers. I tuned my voice as to tame her quiet and inquired as thoughtfully as my reawakened lust could about her life in this nonesuch realm. Helped by my adagio dexterity, she let out that she was willfully used and largely paid for all the shades of services she offered to Victor and his confidants. For the while, she helped me dress up and promised we would be together again, her name was Beryl.

The jacket had pockets real enough for my loot, the shy fringed blonde servant called a taxi and kissed me goodbye on the lips with a swift tip of the tongue.

In the cab, head swings revived the night charivari and also my womb beats; upstairs I undressed and pampered my fleshy dolly cranny once or twice. I had to tell all to the buckled head squirrel kid so I slipped into an oversize jumper, baggy jeans and sneakers, called and found her at school, wasting her time in a shambolic studio. At the tone of my invite, she ran with me arm in arm.

Back into my bed with a cup of her preferred tea, she heated along with my story, starting with my happy feet. She marveled at my sinner lips and ravished them all the more. Then she frowned at me, doing that disarming square mouth, squinting; she wondered how it had been at all possible for me to trust my head in a tiger’s maw; an almighty man, a coke head with a restless brandiron on the loose, might as well have disposed of my expended body in the grinder, no one I loved would ever have known. It was irrefutable, I felt foolish and touched altogether that she might have thought of this firstly. In any case, I gave her the address and telephone number, there was no chance Victor would move soon from his overkill Shangri-La; I promised I would introduce her.

On the day after next, he took me to dinner in my new pinstripe suit, no shirt, pearls, Easton’s flat heeled two toned black and grey oxfords, at Florent’s, a discreet noshery near Sainte Clotilde, all rustling of shady small talk by gray-templed beaux and expensive tramps like myself. We were ushered to a dark rounded alcove upholstered in soft buckskin. He had ordered dry steamed Zeus faber circled with a vivid garden harlequin, splashed with an ideogram of saffron hollandaise and sprinkled with pale purple fleurs de thym. He had unzipped my fly low and was plinking there when the maître d’ lifted the two silver bells without noticing, nor did the sommelier pouring white Clos du Pape in bubbles of crystal very slowly with an eye on my windswept nether.

The meal was caressing in all manners of senses; the place actually felt like like the superlative Berlin brothel of the Weimar parenthesis. On my dessert ruin of thin rose waffles hiding a frozen mandarin mousse, he swiftly dropped a tiny turquoise pill and soughed in my ear that I should try this now and trust him as I had with the golden bullet. His mulish little Lord had been drooling on the tablecloth but he kept his composure as he pressed my hand. I swallowed and peeked into his black pupils, he was high already; I had myself dropped a few V and the wine was awfully good; he ordered me to go to the restroom and look for the door with the “private” sign, knock one, and two, and one later.

A tall gracious Senegalese giant opened and let me brush by him to a low ceiling oak paneled sort of lobby where Victor joined me soon and carelessly mouthed me against the warm wall. A bright-eyed couple passed us by and leered at our dishevelled outfits, she wore a crepe gown split from the waist down on a dizzying hip curve; as we exchanged glances, I felt I knew her well but only smiled. Victor led me to one of the dimly lit corridors where framed mirrors alternated with doors along a curve; through one of them a faint glimmer showed that heavy curtains had been drawn apart on a scene with a rowdy trio in which a slender little harlot served a lecherous half-unclothed older couple with zeal and diligence; she was lapping up Madame’s squirts while Monsieur was rooted in her firm and clear-skinned jacksie; she was lustfully gracile and her laid back benevolence was attractive but we moved on. By doing so, we were met by a smart couple in mock dinner dress already a tad ransacked; Victor was embracing me and unlocked my belt to let my trousers fall halfway; the newcomers started fondling my behind as I was busy masturbating the steed. They offered to join with them in one of the cabins but Victor had another design in mind.

After a few sighs, my pants back up, we explored further and discovered a lone cavalier busy keeping his poker straight in front of the window: Victor pushed me inside the box and undressed me against the young contender who kissed like an educated girl. I was beginning to feel like I would wear some heavenly pelisse, all my skin ridden by electric thrills, warm wavelets, I saw gems in the boy’s green eyes when he pulled my head down on him while I was being roughly served in my craving cunt by Victor.

The car felt it was on autopilot along the Cours la Reine, at a stop he told me I tasted sperm but he fumbled in my mouth with ardour. My pearly creek too smelled feasty and I kept twiddling my nibble as the boats’ illuminations twinkled across my erupted mind; he helped me wham once more in the garage and held me to the elevator where another mirror showed me a stoned happy face.

I wore nothing but pearls when I sailed to the nightly lounge and noticed two guests in tight fit black apparel holding white highballs. The diamond box was on the table. I was too far gone to shy off and I fell on the opposite couch spreading my arms over the headrest on which Victor perched, deliciously rummaging through my hair, reaching my tipsy nips when he bent to kiss me. Without a word, he led me to the grand bathroom, followed by the two strangers; one was the sturdy Sudanese type shaved bald but turned out to be American, the other one a red headed highlander with speckled cheekbones, both were slender and fit and remarkably able-bodied; all three wielded my limbs, head and shivers with maestria; they douched me with rose water and anointed me well enough. They pampered themselves too, letting me feel the steel of their main nerve casually.

This room was black leather up to the ceiling, dramatised by focused spotlights. Contention devices, hooks, pulleys, belts and chains, the whole kinky paraphernalia did not warn me off, albeit the confusion that flooded my brain. At first look, a collection of obsidian masks displayed across the facing wall flaunted some awe and stupor. Sacrificial weaponry in the same stone, some with rainbow dazzles, were arranged on the next wall in a mighty panoply under which had been aligned all sorts of godemichés crafted mostly in horn and gold, headed with crafty metal devices, maneuverable in all ingenious manners, all of it designed to stretch and exhaust my feeble labiated guts.

I craved proper abuse and spend whereas my soul twirled over in bliss. They bent me into a padded pillory and began to take turns into my innards. As I knew first hand Victor’s safety protocol, I had hereon expected no restraint in their comings and goings. they strapped me up and down and aside, most of the time using me together; they sported considerable weapons, one sturdy black mugger and a long pale rider teamed with the congenial totem pole of Victor’s I had endured already.

They strapped me against the third wall, neck, arms, wrists, waist, thighs, ankles, so I could faint to their frantic tongues. They petted each other as well, enjoying their familiar warm toys before turning them on me. They shoved spoonfuls of shattering dust into my nostrils and cleaned them with a stroke of the tongue. Victor reached inside my drooling nymphonietta while DaShean humped him in the dark funnel and he stared at me so near that I saw one big corona scintillating red like my own bursting neurons. They pulled up my ankles high and apart so they had all the ease to eventually discharge for good inside my blowsy ragbag and watch it drip, breathless and soaked wet themselves.

I passed out and again as they untied my bonds; the black tormented faces with turquoise or agate eyes and teeth confided appalling crimes to my face in a dislocated mumble I shook out of my ears. I sobbed like I recalled the helplessly off-beam kid in the lopsided forest, wildlife lapping the dew on my abandoned body,  until I woke up in a warm bath big enough for all of us and more, smelling of the cedar wood in was carved in. All their stamina was expended, their natural or not desire of me had drained away, they massaged me dutifully with an expensive blend of essential oils Victor kept in his pharmacy and put me down in a merciful coma.

The bed was utterly plush, I was drowning in gossamer flounces as in a lime flowers avalanche; my uncle Achim, Simon and me ran barefoot down a June prairie to an azure lake, larks fled from my breast as I threw my threads away to splash on the sandy edge of the cold water; my belly exulted in the soft fluttering of wings; Simon sang in garble jumble and Achim laughed as he knew so well.

I faded to mist and felt as dead as ashes; only some legerdemain passes on my enthralled body. I reached the light as we did in childhood and through lace and frills recognised a wistful Beryl, nude at my side. She seemed happy to have woken me, she laid a swarm of butterfly kisses all over my face and neck that soon made me weep like a silly lamb and clasp her slight young frame to hide in her fragile neck. As it seemed time was abolished, we kissed like two clusters of wisteria in an endless mellow breeze. She mused on how many times I had been tossed this time, and, spreading away the bed covers, forced me joyously to put up my leg and show my nether slits. She took a mock commentary tone to describe my pleasance plot and bet she would rouse it again.

Beryl was sixteen, she had been hired on the recommendation of her mother, who had been doing Victor’s linen for ever and knew perfectly well his lifestyle and sidesteps; but she also knew his faithfulness and grand generosity, so, when Beryl started to stray around, at thirteen, and ruined any effort to make her live on a regular track, she reckoned that her daughter would rather benefit from inside the hell fire circle, she did not properly sell Beryl but she let life happen. The mother and daughter lived in an apartment downstairs and weren’t allowed in Victor’s after legal work hours, but he turned a blind eye when the little devil infringed the rules with guests she liked. He had never really touched her, only watched, and grazed her peach fuzz when she dared him.

Eventually, she brought a bed tray with breakfast, albeit she told me it was afternoon; she also brought the same box as before with a knowing smile. The enveloppe was thicker again, the blue sachet heftier and the card said Victor was away for a few days and would call soon, so I played with Beryl who did not work much that day. I ended up inviting her out on the Saturday for anything she pleased.

She met me at three by the Trocadero fountain and we rode to the Bon Marché where I played doll on her. When we kissed, she smelled muguet, a toned down heirloom scent which marveled her neck. She had graceful legs and wore willow-green leggings in butt-licking jeans shorts. She craved tramp boots so we found some of the most expensive sort. I earned what I had bought for: she beamed. Kids wear hoodies, we found one rusty red with a plaid print inside. I looked for tee-shirts because I wanted to feel her up in public, she twisted my pekoes like a cunning sparrow; I made her promise never to wear bras.

Out of my crafty mind I had tipped Sarah, certain she would be spellbound; so we met her at Serengeti for tea and macarons. Beryl went as vamp as a blue jay in the eyes of my black suited pet cadet and was truly up to her wits. We soon spilled together the tale of our encounter and Sarah flamed up; she decided we should go to my apartment try some rags, so hurried was she to strip the girl down and lay her probably. She hailed a taxi as in a strike of luck and we slumped down on the backseat with Beryl between us; she was already kissing her so the driver kept silent, he leered at her when she tipped him happy.

Sarah was intensely thirsty so I helped her my best to unwrap the baby as well as herself while Beryl wrestled with my fly, pulled my shoes off and loved my white cashmere socks as she surrendered her drippy slit to quench Sarah, pale with desire. Reaching the bed, we crawled into one another as puppies, the kid had Canova feet with purple varnished nails. Through the linen veiling a scattered illumination toned down the colours and shapes among the ripples and crinkles in the spilled out sheets. She had waxed her legs and holy meadow, her complexion was lotus cream with a rosy transparence and faint blue veins at the groin; her mouth was drawn in an unfading smile and she had just only underlined her childish eyelids; seen from the left side, she had a tiny tad squint and that was utterly sexy. She reared up in rapture twice as her assailant wouldn’t rest; I straddled over her mouth and spinned on her infuriated tongue like a humming-top.

We would never vanquish over her imparable blooming licentiousness, we cooled off in the shower but I couldn’t help fingering her clenched little gap with the help of soap and grind up some new shivers for her.

Once dried up, she explored my perfumes as I tried some bergamote on her labia; she chose the English geranium-orange for the rest of the evening, her mother awaited her by ten. We went for sushis at Akiko’s and drove her to her door with her shopping bags. Sarah scrutinised the building and hugged me back to her bed for sleep.

Victor summoned me in executive attire and make-up. In the afternoon, Sufia, at Girelle’s, revamped my curls and made me an adult face with cola peach lips; Kairun waxed and pampered my hands, my feet and my luscious provinces, I wasn’t hungry, I snorted blue dust since morning and played volley-ball with my own brains, I was slimming and liked it in the mirror; I had not confided that part of the follies to anyone even Sarah. I pumped orange blossom water in and out of my easy gut and then felt available and slutty.

Six tense gentlemen were already rounded up in the lounge with their computers lit up, hooked by red wires to a flickering pod. Brief unintelligible comments they spewed gave the impression that they played some game, but Victor’s expression meant otherwise, he briefly introduced me and I did not catch all the names; they were actually working, but they would also bet for some fun with me.

I wore a double-breasted pantsuit in black and white pied de poule “à la Lauren” and a crew-collar steel grey twill shirt, black silk socks in black varnished slippers, no undies. Victor passed me the diamond box and started a lewd slow dancing with me, sliding his hand in my pants and smelling overtly his fingers with an approbation smile. The day was dying and the machines blinked like Oxford street. Suddenly, he released my belt and let my pants fall, exposing my bum, and ordered me to stay still as he left me standing face to the Paris sunset.

Over my shoulder, I could tell the gents had not foreseen the show; I was turned on as I trusted Victor’s intrigues to turn out lecherously palatable. The click snicks accelerated on the keyboards and sharp interjections punctuated the wavy ambient music.

My fine drapery jacket hid most of my butt cheeks, so Victor came to embrace me and uncover the coveted lot, tonguing my corrupt mouth and whispering on how much they would pay for owning me until two.

At ten, when the Eiffel Tower started its five minutes scintillating, they all knew the auction was closing and the fingers raged; then, as a bateau-mouche swept the ceiling with its white beams, the words “…chaos within you spawns a dancing star…” ran along the walls while one of the contenders snapped his computer closed and jumped up to my side and seized my waist. He said his name was Carl and he had just made me richer. The transfer had been done on my new offshore account.

Picking up my trousers, he invited me to follow Victor who led us to a smaller dark round salon from where black stairs spiraled down. The walls seemed polished slate perforated by red luminous points every five centimeters; as we moved around, modulations seemed to follow us as ghosts and fade around; each step down induced a rainbow whirl down the stairs till we reached ultramarine blue and I was nude.

Passed an obscure corridor where we saw ourselves, gloomy night-vision way, in a black mirror wall, we entered a large ash-grey room lit by a large thin ring of low light, with a square bed upholstered in an inviting chiseled velvet, of a monochrome leaden colour, showing demented paisley efflorescences, ferns and seaweeds. On the opposite wall were aligned identical shelves in a floor to ceiling pattern, each holding a similar casket of the same grey wood, each bearing the word “Angel” encrusted in silver. As I tried to open one of them I was frightened by the bedazzling light that flashed out and let the lid fall back. I was still stunned as Carl clasped my chest and made me feel his manhood.

He fetched his own golden pillbox and showed me on it the reverse painting by Fragonard presenting a young maid being shagged skirts up by the Gentilhomme while she innocently pets her kitten; chained to it was the ornate gold spoon he presented me full of thrills. As he twiddled my best lips I wished for a martini of sorts, so he led me back near the entrance, into the bathroom where he found vodka and bitter in an icebox, with what I dropped two Vs.

I fell on the soft sculpture, legs apart, with a starving wild boar making me moan relentlessly as he rummaged through my basin with his tongue. His grizzly head smelled woody grapefruit and money, he was a gifted fucker. He laid behind and swallowed my mouth as he slowly entered the rear hatch, helped with toad slobber. As I obligingly contorted and spread my arms around his head, I was mentally digressing, while up in flight, about the precious velvet and wondered if Beryl’s mother would have to clean our stains, or Beryl herself, and I figured her in my place, so much prized by the hellfire circle of aesthetes.

Carl was lazing inside my sissy pit, hard and deep, and handled adroitly my earthly puppet while I floated as a spring song through the blooming hawthorns. I wished Victor and Sarah and watchers had wanked on my wasted self, my elated soul.

I felt his warm squirt and I climaxed myself with my clever hand. Unexpectedly, he stirred up a grey towel between my thighs and let me effuse gently as he told me to clean his cosh and bells with my mouth, witch I did, not balking at his own blind eye.  With more spoonfuls he was at it again, and I felt as receptive as an Empress, after he had nibbled my buds obsessively. He disposed me on the bed’s edge, my filly badge resting on a fat cushion and he swashed in, without restraint, for my ultimate ecstasy.

After an ambling plunge through angelic grey vapes, I blinked back to conscience under a shawl of layered pearl silk, gliding mellifluously down to a shushed universe. My consumption had doubtlessly been inspired. I meandered to the all grey bathroom and peed in a marble bowl then wondered at the curious glazed shower cabin with no head, walked in and considered a recessed touch-screen, triggered a tropical downpour, dwindled to a Sylt July blessing. A thousand holes in the polished ceiling trickled out light or heavy droplets on demand and I stretched my arms like dancing.

Wearing a cloud of a found Barbaric Rose, I ventured unabashed in the nightly corridor with my amiable though lifelessly glaucous reflection. I heard feminine voices and found Beryl, nude in bed with a splendid white-haired periwinkle-eyed girl, under a dome of innumerable luminous petals, at the center of a clear in a forest of sculpted trees. She jumped up and embraced me like a learned slut and pulled me down aside An, who kissed me like her mistress; I craved a cup of tea so we soon gathered in the kitchen following a sinuous path. Beryl operated magic for a fruit spree and pancake mix had been simmering already; she had pear juice, and high grown flowery pekoe to brew.

Victor loomed in the kitchen and grabbed a cup; he bent to kiss An and pulled me as I stood up and then embraced Beryl against me, saying all he was pleased to see us lovers and morning kissers. Before long, he was out of his black pants and fucked the gamine in my arms on the massive table while An acquainted with my elfin shells.

It had been a quick round, after a spoon fix Victor led me to my clothes and in the computer lair he explained to me the new arrangement, my stealth account and the procedures; he showed me the balance and fingered my happy snag in pride. He told me Carl would certainly want to meet me again and I should prosper in his wake as well as other’s he would convey for me. Suddenly a persistent beep caught his whole attention and he zapped me totally, he muttered that Wall Street was on and, without looking, told me to come back in two days and meanwhile have fun with the girls.

Beryl would be on flight deck duty, as slutty as she would, Victor needed her sleight of hand, at least, so after he offered many tender promises, An and me called a cab and reached my tidy place. In my pockets I had found two sachets of thrills and a buckskin pouch containing a perfect bracelet of grey pearls, seeing what An had slid a daring hand in my pants and muttered how lucky I was. She was a pharmacist, much younger than her hair said, but had laid so many good doctors that she currently seated in a few lucrative positions and cuckooed in rich patron’s beds, like myself, reckoned she.

She was extremely accomplished operator, once she had stripped me bare again she ordered me flat on the bed and eagle wide spread, making me howl. Then we talked, and she invited me out at the Grand Tour. She was intoxicating, put apart what she blew up my nose from her own superlative stash in a florid jade vial; I called Sarah to join us as a candid rescue; It was a lousy idea, they did not bond, and An, weary of what she could not reveal, scowled off. Chilled aside, Sarah said I looked spooked, she kept her knees tight and fled before dessert.

An made me talk a lot, flattering me, late in the deserted restaurant, becoming eagerly keen when I revealed being German; so was she, Vögel by name, from Leipzig, her family escaped long ago from the DDR.  On the padded marroon banquette, half-hidden by the generous tablecloth, her hand in my peach petals, she grilled me in German about my life and whereabouts, assenting all my choices and ways, applauding to the idea that Simon and me disposed of an apartment in Berlin. She was altogether more evasive about herself, pretending that her own life had been rather bland until she buckled up her thesis in Freiburg and the fun began.

She wanted me to come along to a small party with other rich friends of hers, and it sounded game to me. After we went powder our noses a tad, she bolted her pale cerulean eyes in mine and offered a sumptuous cleavage to my jaunty ache. The cab driver didn’t blather a word but unhinged the rear-view, for all he could we were German.

The villa stood in a private park of the posh west, sheltered amongst evergreens and ivy, monitored as a US embassy. A butler greeted An and her young friend, ushered us inside what seemed a cloakroom and gravely required our door cards; I recalled the black number and found it; he inserted one by one in some kind of thin device with leds that apparently gave the right signal. An seized my chin, licked my mouth, took my clothes off and hung them in a closet along with my shoes, wallet and, yes, telephone, closed the door and fastened the key with a chain to my wrist. After we stripped her too, she shuddered along my body and intimated to let go of me; the buttler ostensibly approved of what he saw and retired.

Behind a double door, on thick carpets, in the warm shades of sparse candle lights, the heavy fragrance of oliban, cinnamon and clove, interspersed with puffs of pleasure sweat, a fully-fledged imperial orgy was unfurled on the caparisoned ottomans and billowy ceremonial settees. An was leading me amid the slow mayhem while many hands flattered our thighs and bum cracks.

The rooms were richly paneled in dark wood and Persian garden design carpets, under the fall of graciously human angels amidst golden clouds, painted and marouflaged to the ceilings. An ushered me in a midnight blue alcove where a fat man was being gluttonously served by a supple young fawn; recognising her, he held a welcoming hand and turned a curious eye on me. She pushed my bottom towards the apparent Nabob whom, still swaying inside the willing mouth, pulled me down to his face, told me to draw my tongue and sucked on it as it was an ice lolly.  Someone forced my legs apart and pointed a creepy one into my evening catalpa glove.

After the briskly prologue and a powder puff, An offered me a multicolored pill from a crystal bonbonnière, saying it was her own make; she put it in her mouth and drooled it inside mine. I was already whelmed away by a pair of forest hunks and breathlessly defiled; I scented a roar in my plexus and a rain of sparks down my womb, whereas in my spirit dawned an urlicht chorus of vibrant harmonic layers and lashes of theremin ribbons syncopated at my crisis’ command.

Then I was lapped over and through like dulce de leche by a whole lobby of instant devotees like my sweat would dope up their boundless fervour. I peed a few times in headless galopades while my soul plumes caroused in a galaxy. I swooned out in bliss and bloomed again and more with another stem through my merry hatch, knowing no more neither my name nor any of my propinquities, floating on a salty warmth under a starry dome, awaiting life.

An grabbed my rosebuds and drew me ashore; I was candidly surprised by my own weight and reckoned I had maundered in Epsom salt under a wreath of electric stardust; I raised a happy smile and followed her in the polished wood shower cabin. She slathered me head to toes with a balmy gardenia slime and asked for the returned favor. She purred at my paws until I slid inside and joggled her whole rump. I shied away to the running waters and rubbed my body on hers when she recovered. We rinsed eternally amongst recalls of vertiginous chords.

The cab dropped her near the Invalides and took me home. I roved around my nest box nude and spent. I dared not call Sarah, she must have been vexed. I could have whored Hugo for good, I read his eyes, but in his genteel way he kept me under a bell jar. I knew he bought prostitutes, I had met Malo and gathered their intrigue, for all he would wish for, and she seemed like a sweet girl to me; he had made incidental comments on photographs I happened to peek on; most of all, his apartment felt like a high-class brothel and smelled flowery sex.

I went to Girelle’s to serve up my expensive skin up to Sufia’s expensive skills, perked up by a double rail of powdered strass. She playfully complimented me on my shadow rings and greeted my luck, pitching for a high tip. She delicately touched up my pussy, mumbling I smelled awfully good; she obviously knew what I had studied so intensely the night before. She gave me honey-gold nails, made deep submissive eyes and won big with purpling my tits. I chose an unmistakable black bias-cut silk slapper dress over the knees, a long black silk velvet vest adorned with two bands of fine needle tapestry, black silk stockings and black strapped ballerine shoes. In a manner of dinner I snorted a take-off with the round end of my cuticle pusher and walked to the Seine. I told myself I should ask Victor for a proper coke spoon, if not a complete set. The purple pashmina shawl proved requisite, the river flaunted a bad mood out of season, or was I starved?

The car was different, it flashed; it was a bigger four doors sapphire blue German berline with matching upholstery and dark burl trimmings. Once the door closed, the silence was unreal. On the backseat stood young men and I guessed why so I detailed them well while shaking hands. Lucas was a fine featured night bird with a coral necklace and a black tees-hirt, Arsam a bleached blond sailor wearing a red shirt in a thin skin jacket; they showed splendid teeth in the dark grey filtering light.

Victor kissed me wet as he lifted my skirt and made me expose my small planet, he handed me a neat brown packet with a gold ribbon, winking at me. As he drove I broke the seal and uncovered a jewellery case housing a blue jade flat vial capped with an azurite bud holding a nose spoon   I was open-mouth stunned and at the touch of a button he tilted my seat half-way backwards; I felt hands down my breasts as we slid towards the Arc De Triomphe.

On Avenue Foch, the quiet vessel dived down a side alley to a service station and right to a private gate which opened conveniently. The parking space was almost empty but cars followed us till we stopped. Victor unlocked my belt and lowered the seat more; he lit the passenger light as the boys seized me and stripped my clothes gently. An audience was already circling the car with a few women this time, bared up the belt or entirely soon. I drew in what was offered to my nostrils and crept to my servants’ lap where jeans had fell off.

My foot rested against the roof, I let Lucas in my rabbit hole and sucked Arsam’s considerable command staff; In the surrounding darkness, housewives and whores were liberally assailed and masturbators jolted their sticks around. Arsam took turn in my easied back way and discharged at once without flinching until a second volley; Lucas was pretty efficient with my little imp so I could release my fiery soul out. After I had helped Victor in my throat we drove away leaving a troupe of obscene stooges pant in the dark.

Lucas must have liked the taste of semen, for he kissed me wild over the headrest as I sat back on the front seat. Victor gave them money and let them out on the Champs Elysées before we drove to his place. He was amused but searched for my excitement. I told him that I had given so much of my cunt lately that I felt a bit wasted, if not all spent, actually. I renewed my astonishment about the lovely blue bud, he called it synchronicity, the idea had spawned in his mind in the morning and he was thrilled. He lifted my skirt a little more and I spread my thighs.

I held my clothes at my hand when we took the elevator, he led me to a small low ceiling in which a few dark buffalo settees circled crystal trays supported by realistic orgiastic bronze groups. The deep carpeting mimicked a pebble beach, the spatula rendered jasper walls and ceiling evoked a light grey mist. On eggshell thin plates, eye food sparkled in tiny treasure islands, Crystal champagne rested in a quartz bowl.

After the toyish collation, he crawled to my rainy spell and he scented of seaweeds as I dripped off the reflux of his Personal Depravity Detail’s fulfillment. He danced me towards some alabaster temple and commanded steam puffs while he gorged my innards with sweet lotus tea and watched me spurt like an obscene fountain.

Clean, restored and powdered, I followed him through a maze of pinpoint multicolored lights infinitely reflected in all directions. A low muted quake-stump held up phased-off chords in space and I began to drift in his arms. He sheathed his horn, for play, in and out, as he trailed me to a plush bed in a weird box. All around, a rusty distressed metal grid held one-foot squares of splintered glass against a gloomy glow. But, unseen at first, the whole array was bond-shielded in clear glass and he slid me on as he sipped on my titty bells.

From behind the wreck-wood headboard, the white-headed An wormed in and robbed my head as Victor swung in through my fleshy wants, to the hovering beat of the sound blanket. She guided my hand to her conch and muttered her need to get rammed, which I steadily complied to, when I won inside her. He exulted so as to make myself, and her, faint off.

A storm has died in the night, I am silted up to the chin, petrified. Two tall grey Bauernpferd horses, astray on the beach, eat gold coins from the sand, side by side, as if they had lost their work shaft. In the blurry haze, the lost U-boots twinkle like a wind chime. Dull blue scarves fly by and one of them blinds a horse that stops near a bush of sea-roses and listens. The song appears red in the dancing spindrift around the stabbed-hearted herring gulls. Simon rides the seeing horse and flashes a torch light towards the lost U-boots, he laughs but he doesn’t see me. Uncle Achim rushes in in his athlete’s white shorts, picks a rose and walks up in my direction but misses me. I want to shout but out of my mouth slip icicle festoons that whirl around the gull’s pretty wounds and bleed on the roses. Simon cries at the end of the beach and a blue seal digs out the sand along me.

Beryl slept, her arms refolded up aside my chest, nude and peaceful.  The sound system played a distant seascape scattered with crystal flakes and whistle ribbons. I stretched along the young floating mermaid and lipped her eyes; she frowned in her dream. Her hair smelled of mimosa, coumarin and nestling; I pulled the silk shawl upon us two and enlaced her frail breath in mine.

In those days, time snaked along devastated shores, mind trips began to upend reality, An’s doses of experiments transfixed in Victor’s paranexus wealth were suffusing my blood into sheer expense. When she disposed a trip to Berlin I longed to sleep again into Simon’s abiding heart as a forlorn child out of a frozen forest.

Victor planned to join us and stay at his cousin Ferlis’s, we flew with very credible tins of foie-gras and pâté in our bags. Our bloods had not been tested for chemicals. We reached Bürcknerstrasse early in the evening and I could mirror my eyes in my angel’s soul. An was astonished with the likeness and the closeness of our connection, and since I needed to shock and ply her, I dragged Simon to bed and became quite lecherous;  it wasn’t long before she dared participate with double the bustle. He smelled like the German hero, bergamote, lavender and pepper, some testosterone on his splendid knotty tool and ballsack; he was hard as a stump and An was faster to it, so I lapped as a tipsy wolf cleaning its cub.

We found Chinese downstairs that Simon could recommend and ate from the boxes. Simon had never seen so much fairy dust at a time; we played silly until we snored off.

He was up first and brewed a pot of harsh coffee, he had to go to college and he would stay in Potsdam for the night to collaborate with other students and maybe shag one. He summoned me for the next day to go to Hamburg borrow our mother’s car while she was away; I needed more hugs and tugs but he ran to duty. I kissed his willie goodbye and went draw a bath. I was joined by An, we shampooed each other with some up-to-the-minute product we snooped out in the white tiled pre-war bathroom; she was sweet and thoughtful, made me cum like a river. She devised a shopping afternoon and a bouncing evening at K-ops, a club within our circles. After some ritual V and dust, we rode to Friedrichstrasse where we found some expensive prêt-à-porter like a black polka-dot twill shirt-dress with a black-on-black embroidered vest for me and a deep back-cleavage for her with a lilac shawl. I found black calf dress slippers, she chose leisurely mules. We went home for details, she opened my dress almost totally. We perfumed ourselves like brides, she smelled of sassy gardenias, I sprayed my body with blue lotus.

At nine, pampered and loaded like ladies, we sat in Rosie’s for an immaterial en-cas of fluffy salads and astringent veggie cocktails. We landed at the club’s awning at ten. She asked for the owner and we were ushered to a thrilling copper-lined elevator.

The square building stands alone, it is a leftover bunker no one ever dared to obliterate from the city’s past; it has been poshed-up under travertin facades and fake windows but it remains unlivable at any season due to the four meters walls, it is a monstrous cold and wet cellar; but the ground imprint is large, so the folly on top of it is capacious and lush, with a view once embraced by the four flak-canons.

She enlaced my loins and nosed my neck during all the imperceptible move up to the Faerie Lair and exposed my undone belly to the ceremoniously bald Cerberus. Yellow pills she had unfettered from her fake tins were kicking in loud as the unfazed man checked our cards in the desk computer; he gave us another numbered key bracelet and led us to a vestiaire lined with Glassed lockers in which we left all our belongings. Heavy carmine velvet curtains hung in a gold sculpted frame representing a lewd update to the Hell’s Portal of no remorse.  A young redhead damsel as lithesome as an otter, yawned in a smile and asked me if I would covet her, on a hunch, then she fondled me while bantering she didn’t have time because she was expected. She smelled of minty musc, patchouli and incense, I fingered her Dillinger, she moaned it had just been loaded.

An had breezed passed the velvet, I followed and found a shadowy emporium rustling with music and sighs, smelling like a Royal hammam. In a golden glow stood a diminutive girl, only wearing a gold crown within her black curls, at a glittering buffet of toy-food, pralines and candy, who offered a drink in a funny German as I ogled her crotch; her eyes rolled and I was over her, she smelled youth and elderberry, her crack was wet; she seized my merry snip and pulled me to a vacant cove where she laid on a pixel-mad rug. She was delicious and my mind was unravelling. A surreptitious bounder was forcing himself into my casimir with enough savoir-faire that I let myself crush down on the lovely bosom and she laughed, gripping his balls from under.

When a new customer rushed to it, I had tipped the tango and the little squirrel’s eyes popped as I guided the bat to an easier fit, turned on by her juddering at each deep gaff shot. She was so light that she was robbed away in a string of giggles. An happened upon, along with a gray haired blue eyes cavalier she wanted me to greet and mouth deep at once. He soon drew us to a recess where a stair pit lead down in the dark except for turquoise light lines.

In the twisted corridor, at each bend they held me to his bugger frenzy for a while and we moved along doors materially glowing of a carnelian fire, as they would have been struck in hot steel. They pushed one and we entered a shady golden cube with a huge gong hanging; a fat baron fondled a pair of comely twins wearing leather collars and straps; An banged the colossal instrument twice her height with her feeble fist, the sound was mountain deep, the girls grabbed us to force us on the bed where the vibrations met and thundered to the great excitement of the guest who ransacked the nearest little arse he could while the other one was devastated on three sides; the hum lasted eternally, it was like low tide on a desert bay where noises of suckling tinkled aloud crudely.

Further on the dark path, after a large bathroom where a sportsman sloshed in a pool of urine, apropos of which we casually obliged a merry pint or two. Some doors were locked, some not, we peeked into a strange smelling dusty storeroom jammed-up with wrecked furniture and a high rick of wood. On a pile of burlap rags was tied up a defiled girl gagged with a torn shirt that might have been hers. A short character, flat-top blond, in horse-riding boots and pants, skittle and balls impressively urged out, bare-chested, invited us to the punishment of his treacherous mistress, to what our main patron patted the offered hunk and dipped his gherkin while the jealous type handled both An and me, then pushed me on the captive and shagged by back molly with some revenge.

After a round of ablutions in a soaked stone cave where water ran everywhere and smells of mint and grapefruit, fennel and blackcurrant spun dizzily in the head. I had already been upended quite a few times for the day and a glass of what seemed vodka shot me back up on my toes. We ended up under a wall-to-wall high definition screen, walking on a pool of snug mattresses and cushions between black carpeted walls. We fell down as a shifted colours sky started to roll over in tempo with the pulse of the sound cascades.

We had been followed by a thin black-eyed emo Ariel, all pale with blue reflets in its hair, holding a sleek purple metal box. I had been stretched wide and tongued boldly all over as I spiraled away in the dazzling, splintering vortex showering my howling brains. An maddened my mouth and my flesh pickles whereas her master ravaged my devoted haunts; when he felt a pointed tongue in his very own breach, he turned to the blue mane and loved the gentle head. The elfin creature, whom sported a stiff but measly stem reminding me of my lost Cynthia, deftly opened the box and handled a tiny syringe out of its wrapping, bit off the cap and crouched to inject the sire in his anus, quickly.

As her rider collapsed aside in bliss, An spread apart her labia for another sting of the sylphic wasp in her much irrigated cunt; she ordered me too as I shied away, and she was so imperious while the stinger was so balefully beautiful, I was already so morally flimsy that I let go of me and did not feel a thing.

The maleficent angel was packing up its traces but I seized its arm and wrapped its hips with my legs. My soul was shaking the concrete juggernaut surrounding our pathetic hides but I needed another pass at an ambiguous desire. I hurled myself at pleasing the flabbergasted minion and was offhandedly rewarded but tasted the drops on my tongue as the elder rode its pleasure bung with manic fire and An rubbed her gaping pansy on my mouth.

It had been an unforeseen regalement, the nightly fawn ran and left us panting under the distraught fractal garlands. Overwhelming brusque reminiscences of the jolly enlightenment with Simon and Cynthia caused the ongoing trip to fissure, so my stomach turned up; my chest shrunk; my temples clenched. I stumbled in tears, so An helped me to a bathroom but nothing could do, under the shower I vomited shards; eventually a houseboy found me a glass of pear juice and showed me to the cloakroom; he abused of my sleazy skin pretending to help me dress up. Once hastily redone, I was pushed in a car and driven home where the page boy put me to bed.

I was blown to pieces when it dawned that some familiar thingummy was actually shagging my hamper. My head was scattered in aching rags but I knew Simon liked to wake me up wet. I clung to his mouth and staggered to the bathroom.

My eyes pained a tad and my innards weaved awkward knots but his coffee helped me gather the bare necessary neurons to reach Hauptbahnhof and board the ICE. I felt a grand healing when the slumbers took me over again on his martial shoulder.

It was warm and hazy in Hamburg when we drove along the Alster to our yellow stadthaus; after we peed together and brewed another pot, he drove the car out of the garage as I closed the doors; then he asked gleefully if I would drive?

9 – Katherine Sophie – The Squirrel On The Lakeshore

Sarah tells: After the great London spree along with Far and in the aftermaths of my revelation to him, back with my hat and gabardine, my pant’s hem now two inches above my ankle, as thick as a whip and tall as the great hemlock but seemingly not as poisonous, I was left three weeks before moving to Geneva with whatever stuff I needed, Far commanding substantial means of transportation; It took two trunks, large enough to hide in them, to cram in all the affective burden of a trampled-on little brat and the necessary fineries of a well-bred New-Yorker.

I had been nicely popular at the International High school, there were sweet souls I did not like to part from, be it with the promise to be together again for Xmas or anything festive; there had been idylls and conspiracies while the attempts and achievements had furthered our look on each other; I was betraying a family because another family had betrayed me, and I had to carry that away in my trunks.

Elsie Chautempt was a hazelnut eyed, honey cinnamon coloured Caribbean wonder, daughter of a consul for a confetti republic under the sun and the storms. She was the Queen of dance classes and brilliant in humanities, she wanted to do politics. From the beginning, we made eyes and mumbled small talk in the showers after gym or dance; until I dared invite her home one afternoon. She lived with her mother in Hell’s Kitchen so it was a quick bus trip for her; for reasons beyond me, I wasn’t allowed in the bus alone.

She arrived with an orange-glazed carrot cake with my name on it, from a family bakery on her street. I was so touched I displayed the pastry on our kitchen table and called the nanny who happened to be busy. Elsie was stunned by the terraces we have over the river and the United Nations. When my Far – my dad did I explain – bought the grand apartment, no one was really sure about the power station behind which it stood, defaced like an old roaring twenties faded glory; but now that I had had, under my eyes,  the long epic of the plant’s dismemberment, we embraced, for the while, an opened view of the rising sun over Brooklyn.

She was impressed, and I eventually cornered her in a Gothic nook seemingly out of sight, except from any urban telescope as we had one, I kissed her in a gamely careless manner, the New-York sun played into the breeze and the unending sirens shuffled their rumpus in familiar echoes.

She yielded to my embrace and stared trustingly as I pawed her muscular tummy belt under the yellow jumper. I ventured some candid compliments to her beauty and babbled some ineptitudes about not being a lesbian or whatever, to what she gave me back a true wet kiss. I slowly hauled her willing soul to my room and locked the door. There we held each other’s heads and tongued like wild game; I paused as I held her belt button and she did not flinch, so I went down and dropped her pants, noting that she had wetted her panties; she pulled mine down in turn, and pushed me onto my bed, unleashing her mouth over my belly and thighs. She was smiling as she pulled off my sneakers, socks, jeans and my knickers she brought to her cheek, eyeing me.

We both elated in our young nudity, palpating every muscle and joint, watching out for happy shivers, thirsty for more and more. Her black hair had flown free and covered her shoulders, her skin shimmered on her chest as flat as mine and we laughed to that before we bustled over the cunning little fruits and exhaust one another alternately in the golden light of the timeless afternoon.

I found my way to her vanilla brook under the podgy ruffled mound and I had been well enough experimented to crave on seeing her panting. At the bonfire of bright eyes we traded tit for tat until we heard some life in the corridor

That had been then, and many times since, unbound complicity  among the privileged offsprings of international elite, perfumed conspiracies in the mingling of our heated skins, already.

Elsie was helping me decide what, among my rags, would valorise best a newcomer into a distinguished set of kids, not anyhow different from this one I was leaving. I had told her she would be whom I would miss, and I forced her to bend as to fit into one trunk; we had frolicked as ever, then a stone spawned in my throat, a fist clung in my plexus, I lost breath. I whispered in her neck that there was something I wanted to tell. I pulled her inside the walk-in closet and fixed the door with a hanger; it was dead dark; I collapsed in tears and tore her down on me; then I mumbled my story, the whole reason why Far was taking me to safe haven. She cuddled me, we crept into one another to rest our bodies in an imaginary tomb, we cried mute.

Nanny found us when she brought freshly ironed undies, thinking it was some of our predictable shenanigans; she understood we had been crying, though, and, helping us up from the pile of shoes, she hugged our heads with soothing words. I ran to the bathroom and splashed my eyes with cold water; I felt Elsie’s hands on my tummy, to my neck. She kept her word forever, she graduated at Harvard and is a brilliant international lawyer these days; I wouldn’t think of telling her one tenth of my life.

I had to warn the class about my fleeing, but since most of them were somewhat in transit anywhere they perched, nothing awkward came up and we exhausted the funny routines about Switzerland during the last weeks.

A few other boys and girls, with whom I had unclothed and more in the mingle zones of the physical education or the warm nooks of friendly homes, moved me deeply with their tender farewells. It wasn’t yet the realm of worldly texting, and trading phone numbers wouldn’t mean a thing from planet Mars. I promised I would write.

I could have dissolved into listening to Radiohead’s “Exit Music” if my father had not been on the watch-out, and warned the nanny and the security about me. He planned other exciting dinners in town, grilled or raw fish, Danish or Japanese, the Sert room at the Waldorf, eye candy in the Hotel Edison, lobster at the Metropolitan Museum along with a real flesh Swiss diplomat who knew expertly the Saint Loup school.

We had gone to the clinic for the required medical checkup, I candidly raised the question of a contraception mean, but it was settled that I could better be prescribed for one in Switzerland, my freedom on the matter had already been signed for, and so a heap of dreadful clichés on restricted education fell off the table and I rested my feet on Far’s lap.

My mother had gone away with my brother and not even spoken with me since I had been back from London, a devilish me fantasised I had got hold of my far for myself. All of Martin’s belongings had been moved away by swift professionals, the door to his room remained opened wide, staring at my sorry eyes.

It all occurred easily. We flew business side by side and I slept over like a marmot, Far pressing my feet only thirty minutes before landing, the bitter smell of airline coffee rattling my dream away. We carried light luggage, my trunk had been dispatched three days before. I wore my black gabardine over a red and black striped bodysuit, black schoolboy’s shorts over red leggings and black Docs. Far liked my hat very much. We took time for an untimely breakfast in a sleek and beige restaurant, the croissants were freshly baked and the coffee Italian, we were merrily boosted.

A pristine grey saloon car with a suited driver took us to the Palais des Nations first, where Far took pride strolling around with his black-hatted offspring; I was even presented with a few badges to pin on my headgear. He showed me his office, of Swiss protestant design in blond wood and leather, serene sound-proofed den, smelling of heather beeswax. He explained he would also spend time in the Palais Wilson, by the lake shore, and travel a lot as usual, but then he hugged me tight and kissed my ear, whispering he would always be on the line for me, with all the necessary clout if ever. He wanted me to see the Council Chambers with the José Maria Sert panels because I had been so impressed by the ones I saw in The Waldorf Astoria; arguably because of the official solemnity of the place, those were less exciting on the moment, rather contrived instead of sturdily orgiastic as I had sensed the ones in New York.

On the short trip along the Lake, the blue exclamations of shards closing the horizons, he held my hands and played with them like he could have my feet; he insisted my boarding so far from where had become home was no manner of distrust towards me; he would better raise me an European, and Saint Loup was an exceptional ground for any calling I would consider. I would detain his written promise that he would pull me away if the school made me unhappy, which he gave me in a formal headed enveloppe. During the past weeks, he had already praised how Saint Loup was some kind of heirloom for the well-advised milieu of international servants, an innovative hothouse he could afford.

I was impressed by the guarded portal, Far had to show his passport. Like on any campus, groups of adolescents gathered under ancient plane-trees and peeked at the slow moving berline for a second. We stopped at the steps of a massive yellow four floors convent house where a tall pony-tailed woman greeted us and liked my eyes, tilting her head. She wore riding boots, pine green corduroy jeans and a kaki sports shirt, her handshake was wholesome and inviting; she smelled of lavender and hays, her squirrel brown (not the Tudor variety) hair whipped the air around her simply proud head. Her name is Armodie Crozin, everybody calls her Harmony. As she and Far had formalities to fill regarding my stay, she introduced me to a Julia Grant, a welcoming blond said to be Mayor of the Lupins.

She sported a wealth of maple coloured hair, light hazel eyes and a rosy pale complexion modestly strewed with oat bran speckles, her gaze was exhilarating, she smelled of Mitchum mint like the chewing gum she had spit, American apple, cockney ginger and sex.  She grabbed my shoulder and took me for a fast pace tour of the Lupine realm.

There are roughly one hundred and twenty boarders at Saint Loup, (the name must have been a singular custom for staving the looming predator away with mock sainthood). The youngest can be twelve and the elder eighteen when it’s time for prep school or else. I stayed longer because I could build up my Art School application file still in paradise. One hundred and forty individual rooms are distributed inside three main eighteenth century convent buildings; one for girls, one for boys and the younger crowds stacked in the upper floors of the main structure. At a distance are modern annexes comprising classrooms, workshops, restaurant, gymnasium, danse floor, theater and swimming pool; further on are kitchen and flower gardens, then a fifty horses and poneys riding club with its retirement refuge.

Julia wore two plaid shirts loose over a Massive Attack flammable tee shirt, black leggings and red sneakers. Her wrists were banded up with lucky bracelets from the kids she herded in her wings. She sprang about like a fencer but I knew she would do me soon; she squinted just the adorable tad of irresistible.

We snooped through the corridors along the classes where family size groups debated, peeked at a gym training with multicoloured kids, went over to the stables, and she clasped my hand, pulling me into the scents of straw, hay and piss, kissed me until I responded, rubbed my chest hastily and told my eyes a feverish welcome.

I had let it happen, skipping the approach towards a full speed running team of privileged breed, certainly not in any sense of genetics, but in the obvious results of social replication; Julia was born in a well-to-do lineage of politicians, just as me. She furthered her greetings down in my knickers and murmured that she would love me.

Ms Harmony and Far waited up in the restaurant, were we told, with tea; we ran to the wooden pointed roof hall like a spacious sheepfold smelling of warm bread and stew. Winded by the jet lag dizziness as much as Julia’s lips, I made heated comments of the stables and the horses, peering into Julia’s clever eyes. Far got a whiff of the collusion game and almost took my hand, then, without glancing at his watch, asked if it was fine with me to stay. I took his hand where the Kettelær ring was, with the intaglio showed a glove pointing at a star in a sapphire, and I wet my eyes.

My trunk had already been transported to a poetic room under the roof of the girl’s lair. Far came up and expertly checked the living amenities, pressing me for any critics I could find; wedging the bathroom door so as not to be heard by Julia, he told to my face that the place was so expensive that I should be remorselessly demanding; I hugged him.

The driver was crouching with a group of card players but stood up at once, revealing the soldier he certainly was. I clung to Far’s wing, unable to recollect my mind to present time, as lost as a sparrow in high sea. It was before the all-mobile era, I didn’t even possess my own telephone, he would really be away, only would I type a few lines to his timeless address, but it happened to build up as a big success in my heart and soul.

Ms Harmony, seeing my eyes roll easily, spared me the introduction talk until the next day. At diner time, Julia caught me in the line and helped me chose a plate of creamed morels on toast along with cheesed macaroni; she already knew I wouldn’t care for meat. We sat down at one of the round tables with baby soap smelling devils courting their Queen. They shone wild free, telling their day in rather hoarse voice, boasting the honour of speaking to the new guest, whom, by the way, was near fainting.

Kindly considerate, Julia exfiltrated me to my room and carefully undressed me; I wanted a shower to rinse away the travel strain, so she took full advantage of my consent to lust and, nude in a blink, soothed all of my daft joints in the flow. She had found some weird patchouli rose shampoo that made me feel libertine and I peed on her hand so she bit my lobe. She wiped me cautiously and combed my bobbing head as I was unable to return the favors. She slipped a sleep shirt on me and pushed me in the sheets, breathing she would sleep with me some other time soon.

A muggy dawn hovers on Tudor Ascendancy when I, the Knight of Winsom Tower, must spawn my own being over the misty chasms. Behind me, the high smoke shafts of the überedison calliope bellow through flocks of white griffin gulls that peer onto my open belly wound. As I keep hold of the last guardrail, it uncoils into a shivering snake that pulls me over the brickwork cliffs and grotesque pinacles and my blood splatters on the scared birds in great carillons of trills. I need to call out but all my might leaks through the camellia veins of my gnawed off entrails in a growing murmuration of crimson starlings. A blue eyed eagle of embroidery silks claws on the dreadfully potent snake so then I fly up whirled into the cackling ruby birds I feel are all mine.  From above, Uberedison rustles and swooshes like an epileptic céphalopode in the wading pool trying to embrace a reluctant cornemuse. Rainbow scarves from the powdered gold clouds furl around my chiming head as the snake’s tail skirts alongside my groin. The shimmering satin stitched eagle flaps its wings and pecks into the grit eyes of the snake which twirls in pain in my strong grip until it dies into a rusty cable. I fall scooting round towards an impenetrable purple forest over which soars the black condor with a boar mask.

A galaxy of bird songs greeted my first ripples of sentience and, like I did each time I had phased off a dimension of my universe, I stood still in the linens and recapitulated my perceptions and feelings. I had never so tragically bonded with Far and his eyes so similar to mine, nor ever had I reechoed his words so strong now in my plexus, as the sun was overwhelming the safe-heaven of the lucky handful. I stretched again and again like a cub when Julia jumped onboard and cuddled me round.

Mouth-poking my neck and searching for the night lukewarmness in my pervious furrows, she muttered that I should be about to come alive because the cooks had been at the stoves for hours, already. Then she dropped I would not guess what she had done in the night, to what I yawned that she probably got shagged. She burst in laughter and since I had thrown my arms overhead she delicately smoothed the skin on my breast and woke up the twin toodleberries. When she knew I was lit up, she slowly raved about Udo, who had Down syndrome, smelled like fennel and fucked like a leopard. I was struck off guard, of course she had been on the lookout, but I sensed her truthfulness down my nerves and back, I stared in awe and then begged for a kiss. I was beginning to know Julia Grant.

The school baker was French, covered with flour and talented. Not only did he bake croissants, pastries, baguettes and sourdough loaves, but in the morning every bit that had gone stale came back in the trays transmogrified into French toast, almond croissants and the glorified “diplomat”, a mishmash of all the clean leftover pastries, mixed with candied fruit and raisins, baked in sweet battered eggs; at hotplate sheltered real buttered Scotch porridge. Young ones had fountains of hot cocoa, café au lait or Royal Blend Tea to be tamed down with cream and sugar; the sassy old crews could brew their own fresh pots of Italian moka or Darjeeling picks; as it was considered courtly to replace whatever you had broken, the crockery was infinitely diverse, funny and loved. The fruit buffet was supplied for all day, juices provided in chilled punch barrels.

Julia spent time introducing me around, young scallywags hugged me and nosed into my shirt; I had put on a musky cypress and balm stunner I felt would impress the hopefuls. Tongues in exotic accents were bawled, then UN French or English as I had always known. it was a cosy congregation, and she was the undisputed medium at the source of it. Quite a few cinnamon and saffron skins, as I had always mingled with in my old school, gave it the UN chic. I wasn’t paying attention when I felt a feather light squeeze to my left wrist and suddenly a big pair of coffee brown eyes smiled into mine as I was trapped into an ultramarine blue bracelet tightened with two silver beads. That was young Ayla Naveen clutching on my soul.

Regardless of my fitful cottony sentience, at times, the day’s task would be the basic reckoning of my intellectual worth. Harmony lead me to a small study, next to her office, and handed me a thin bundle of leaves, on a desk, near a linen blind.

On one page was a dozen lines in English that I should translate in as many languages I chose, on blank leaves. I boasted my five vernaculars, Italian being a bit far-fetched but sentimental. I brought the results and she gave me algebra, then a series of Q&As in geography, history and natural science; with all that accomplished, she told me to relax, gave me some Swiss mountains water and asked me to literarily write, in any language, a dream of mine. I think I beamed out; I had played this game since kindergarten, she would be served well. Out of a five pages draft, I squeezed out three neat paragraphs of my best cosmic routine around a colourful planet reigned over by squirrels and crows, ghost ships and trains, knights and sex and music.

Harmony complimented me on my jet lag performance, after warning me I would sit again as for my plastic talents, she freed me for the day and I went for lunch.  I wore a white tee shirt, personally distressed jeans and yellow sneakers under my refuge gabardine with the sleeves rolled up a bit; Two Germano-somethings accosted me on my way in the restaurant with quick-wit about my hat’s pins, and I could fire my glares at their candid smiles; I could smell they had been riding on fine leather and I shuddered some.

Julia was there suddenly, very lightly covered by a fuzzy prairie printed high-waist cotton gown and tasteful Jac sandals; she enlaced one of the cavaliers so as to show me that together they went back to old moons. She smelled his neck, rolled her eyes and told me his name was Baldur Ferdière and was a champion dressage rider in the tone of all the innuendos. I felt like a salad with cheese, which was the best Switzerland could grow. I told about my exam and she relied I would still be grilled by the teachers on the next day, then chat in deep with the Lake psychologist, because he had a dream cottage on the shore and a sharp insight on the teenage caboodle. The second boy slackly sulked at Julia’s demonstrations so she pulled him by a shirttail and introduced us, he was Nord Silas, a guarded but slinky viking blond with a tempting fuzz on his cheek; I did not quite get if he was jealous about his pal or offended to be let aside, sometime later I let him jostle me behind the straw bales.

Julia advised me not to yield to drowsiness yet, she would obligingly cradle me later, she had a thing for sleeping beauties. for the moment she craved to see me swim and we went fetch the adapted outfit. The indoor pool opened widely on a clean lawn under plane trees, through folding glass panes; it was a bit longer than a tennis court and did not smell of chlorine as I had feared. A dozen splashy cygnets huffed their lungs out and the rumor cranked up a bit as they saw I only wore a simple tiny black slip when I long-dived into the smooth waters; at the end of the length I noticed that Julia did not wear bras either; her baby moobs bore no tan lines. We torpedoed into the restless shoal of mermaids and were greeted by happy hands and submarine petting; they were light-hearted and beaming, I had a good long kiss with an ambiguous mischievous angel, while another one was obviously in my maillot. It were crafty minutes in a crystal bowl and it lasted like a damsel flight.

Nude creatures now laid around on the lawn like Denmark with more sun, I was beginning to adapt at a  steady pace and I stretched out in a plexus call to my Far whom had signed me on for this dreamland with a right to opt out; I betted for letting the stream float my hazy self on, rain what may.

In the vegetable patch, big enough for a colony of aristocratic guzzlers, it was cherry-picking time and we could not desert. Big firm black fruit already filled willow baskets and the lighter climbers reached the taller branches. Up on a scale, a pair of busy legs belonged to some hidden fawn and I dared a hand up in the shorts; I was surprised to find a rather green dwiddle with two silky pellets, so I withdrew my risky hand, but a cunning face with blue eyes and black curls looked down through the foliage and, widening the angle of his thighs, asked me if I were interested. As I fondled the young stiff prick, I wondered what kind of gaffe I was incurring in, but the slick brat had now unbuttoned his pants and asked me for lip service, so I obliged, thinking I should clear my attitudes with Julia later.

He had heartily gushed without warning and, still standing at attention, asked me if I wanted more, to what I replied by asking what he would do for me, so he climbed down and told me to show out when he realised I was a girl. We giggled, he dived in my pants to check and told me to reach the gooseberry bushes and followed me, lowered my jeans and sabred my wet lily, like a hussar, slow and deft, panting on my nape. He was Pierre-Yves Chasles, my age, he really had the complexion of a girl, with no manly hair. He was to become a jolly mate of my dainty debaucheries.

Once the cherries stacked in the cold room, there was another brief encounter with Pierre-Yves and a cute redhead jack, when he told him what we had done and that snoopy stooge wanted to finger me, but I did not do him, I ran for a shower, then dinner. I smelled of blackcurrant leather and Peru, like a rich boy. Julia spotted me and assailed me with question, so I soughed through her chamomile mane that I had been shagged in the gooseberries. She beamed up and rubbed shoulders as we captured a pan of dauphinoise gratin with nuts, elderberry lemonade and buns.

We sat with a team of geeks who had played against each other in the network room somewhere; they looked stoned but lovable, somebody played footsie on me, I wore sandals. A few tables away, Pierre-Yves was telling his good fortune to his approving buddies. I had to narrate about my life to my own table, somewhat coached by Julia. At one moment, Pierre-Yves leaped out from nowhere, in a patched alpaca jumper, holding a bouquet of honeysuckle in a glass of water that he placed before my plate, causing an impromptu round of applause and shouts of “welcome Sarah!”, so I had to stand up and smile; it was warm and congenial, then they let me finish my meal. A bare foot caressed my calf and I pictured I would most probably love all of them at a moment.

I almost doddered, up to my room, with an amorist American lioness on my heels; she stripped me expertly and opened the sheets, then stretched along my rump and told me to sleep out and let go.

An indistinct twilight glows upon a silver sea under plain slate skies. I lurch and sway on the Taarbæk grand piano which cries confuse chords like the day Martin imprisoned Tschups, the house cat, inside the instrument. I wear a black tutu embroidered with cherries and I have lost one of my ornate golden chaussons. My bare right foot is tickled by a garnet jelly fish creeping across the mirrored black wood. Far on the horizon dangles a purple beacon I have never seen I wonder what boat would dare, when an emerald whale pirouettes up in a gerbe of iridescent scintillations, like Tivoli gardens. A sinister, glaucous, submarine surfaces along my howling raft and I fear for Tschups who can’t swim. Gallant officers in gala outfits and champagne glasses rise from the turret and stroll away upon the ship without seeing us; they rummage into each other’s pants and engage into sheer sex; a few fall into the shambolic waves but are lifted back up by the orphéon whale. I want to call because Tschups is getting frantic, but the carbuncle jellyfish is now over my body and shuts my mouth with a taste of sweet mango. On the ubåd’s deck, the lewd merrymakers have erected red-trimmed white canopies with cherry motives. Now they cheer at me laying undone on the polished lid and offer their willies to the swarming electric flickering crimson jellyfish. Jammed with luminous filaments out of my languid slit, I try to reach the keyboard so i could attempt lifting the lid and free Tschups before the piano sinks totally; doing so, I realise we have landed a small sandbank with an antique carrousel turning on it. The instrument cracks lugubriously and splits into coal shards as Tschups jumps onto my lap and rounds in purrs. The sailors in tattered uniforms call over in the doppler winds of the roundabout, I want to untie my only shoe and the kitten helps with its claws. A handsome redhead, whom I pick out as a lad I avoided in a corridor, offers to carry me to the party, but I object that I cannot leave Tschups whom I only just rescued from a sinking cacophony; he grasps the tuxedo pet’s neck and let it scratch his shoulder to the blood that I lap, shily. White and red standards and banners with the cherries escutcheon flap to the wind on the whirling contraption, but I wonder why I only feel a mere breeze, and a coumarin scent in his hair as he humps me like a fierce Triton. From a corner of one eye, I see tiny crabs gathering on the grey sand and I start up as my jolly assailant wants again; flocks of hooded crows croak from far above and descend upon the island for feasting on décapods, they preen along my flanks while I receive more jolts of elation. Tschups whirs his best drone in my neck as I moan my song to the opening skies, he rests on my chest as we hover through to the golden canopy accompanied by the swarms of ruby-hearted birds and their innumerable clamour.

I kept hidden behind my lids in the scarlet vault of me unborn. Under the sheets I smelled the dubious smell of sweat and saliva melted into animal scent and brought back childhood fervour and blind want. Julia sighed in my armpit, I let her swim a little more although the daylight felt like waking-up time; her first move was to reach for my crotch and fondle there; she mumbled my name times again, then hushed into my ear what a great sleeper I had been, and she did not want to love me that very much, and everyone would die for my fool nuggets, and she suckled on them and I seized her head through her ruffled mane.

Under the shower, I attempted to describe what I had salvaged from the night’s labours and she called me enchantress, then witch as she held my sluices and made me pee on us; I tongued her deep in the mouth and asked for the same warm flow along my legs. We groomed each other, she spent time gazing into my eyes, saying she would cage me, so I told her to watch out for the crimson crows. I sprayed a preppy cologne of lavender, néroli and jasmine; she was enthralled by all the perfumes I had carried and said one could not have guessed that from me. I let her try some musky rose with a lotus ghost and gave her the flask if she still liked it in the evening; she answered there were still some intimacies around she would crave to invade by the power of some heady philtre.

It was already warm, I played girly in a knee-long sleeveless striped black on white cotton dress, and sandals; for a while, no one would mistake my current genre. If needed, I could easily show my nasty cotton panty. We were greeted by a volley of gracious hellos to what we cheered around. I felt my left hand firmly captured and recognised the dark look of Ayla, the first one who had tied me, I hugged her tight, that morning, she smelled angelica and sweet orange, she slipped her tongue in my ear.

I scooped two slices of French toast on a plate and poured hot water on the dignified Darjeeling first flush tea I had spotted in a funny Indian kitsch tin. Ayla, unfettered, sat not next, but alongside of me; Julia laughed aloud and said I was a true Lupine already. The nifty young mug was quite curious about me, she looked up to me; actually, she was snooping for sex nuggets. Julia taught me the safe handling and did not lie about our night, the dark eyed imp was already well learned in these dainty clues, and she had her hand on my thigh.

Other scruffy souls had gathered at our table and proudly claimed on their own love tokens at Julia’s wrist. I told them about Tschups, but absent-minded little males fingered their itching knobs. Pierre-Yves and his friends shook our hands and kissed, on the mouth for me, while the puppies bragged their positions. Harmony smooth-landed in the group and greeted my quick popularity, adding that she would wait for me in her office half an hour later.

In an hospitable wooden panelled meeting room at the back of her offices, Harmony greeted me to an antique oval table were she introduced me to a set of teachers. None of them wore formal, they had likeable looks and forthright handshakes. She summarised the review of my papers by a satisfactory round, concurred by nods and smiles; Albeit I had counted on an easy pathway from my previous cursus, I was released not to face up any cumbersome transition. Each of my teachers would help me fit in the appropriate group regarding my level. For physical teams or creative workshops, there weren’t actual frames, groups gathered according to games or projects, hopefully leading to a synergistic round-up of sorts at year’s end, as I would attend in a few weeks, giving me a head start for next year.

I was honoured by the personal briefing I was granted, even if it remained a tad fuzzily articulated; but they all acted doubtlessly confident and I just needed to embrace, and love my way into a quite fathomable community, of which I already had tasted a very palatable hors d’oeuvre. I relaxed and candidly served my best grin around. I noticed some fast peeps at my derisory flat chest, but I knew it fostered the indulgence of many a grown man, particularly under a loose-cut tank top. A help had brought a trolley with coffee and tea, I answered the writing teacher, intrigued about my short fantasy piece, then Harmony thanked me and let me go on my explorations of the day.

It was a perfect day, with no banana fish in sight, on my way to the sports floors I was abundantly courted but lightly enough to only arouse me. From the gymnasium came a flow of rhythm music, a slightly derailed obstinate loop in the manner of Massive Attack whom I had grown up with. I walked in and found some  twenty warmed up spandex clad jumping butts barefoot on gym mats softening their young joins in perfect cadence so evenly that I felt my rump grasped; as I was behind everybody I could danse my soul out but I wore a dress I was hampered in, so when they suddenly spinned round, they stared hilariously at the newbie making a fool of herself; good enough I had practised a few years with Sterling Peck in New York and could indeed move, but There, I almost unclothed to show some legs jetés but instead tried to stay funny, and bowed.

At the door, I stopped, stunned by a tall black-eyed oriental chieftain who eyed me down in a real wolfish smile. Before it might feel agressive, he offered his hand and said he was Safa Eskandari  and marvelled at my eyes, wondering where I took them. I told him and visibly he did not believe me. He pivoted on endless legs with riding boots and breeches, his muscles quivering in a white polo shirt, he only missed a whip; he smelled of grapefruit and cedar, he had been perspiring lately, it was intoxicating; he saw it and pulled me towards a storeroom and kissed me out of my wits. He lifted my dress and in the brown glow watched my body, telling me to pull my panties down, slowly, as he unbuttoned his fly.

Safa guided my head to the suffering rapier and took his pleasure in my mouth, not letting me escape the catastrophe; I coughed. He did not return the geniality, he buttoned up and kissed my forehead as I fumed and cursed him to his amusement.

Julia caught me in the restaurant where I freshened my mouth with apple juice; she saw I was tweaked wrongly and extorted the silly truth which did not surprise her. She said Safa often behaved like a boor and it needed to be addressed somewhat. She admitted it was a waste of liberty and most good girls saw him from afar due to his reputation. She offered compensation and her eyes showed she would be all too happy to oblige and take advantage of my misfortune. In the shower, we peed in each other’s mouth and then she feasted in my avenged cootch before I played French in hers. She borrowed some more musky rose but refused the gift, saying she’d better come back to my room, because she would never betray me; she never did. She was forging a cristal shield around my ruby heart.

After the lunch, where I could snub the Persian mufle, so much Julia had fulfilled the urges he had held in contempt, thus defusing my frustration, I was to meet Pr Achenbach, the school’s psychologist. His almost full time practice took place in a singular turret  in an angle of the central house; one had to climb three floors height of a spiral staircase to reach it; around the circular room, five small windows shed light through the bookshelves, remparts to the sanctum, as it felt, where sturdy age-patinated wood table and chairs in the manner of Gepetto’s workshop in the horrifying film someone showed to me alone a long time ago (it must have been in Singapore), invited unfailingly to confidential talk.

True to what I could have known of the ways of psychology at the time, the Professor was a quiet man, I did not scent anything from his person, but the book buttresses suffused the dry redolence of eternally oxidising paper and bindings; he bootstrapped me from the “Princess of the pinnacles” as he called my stance in the written composition I had committed. As he did not stop me, and as one, I craved to unleash my whole Capharnaüm, two, I was still a tad strained from the morning sexual mishap, he then heard the whole tragedy that had brought me to Saint Loup, and more.

He had been scribbling on a spiral notebook all along. He remained silent for long minutes, then he very softly asked me for how long I thought I had been sexually active? Rather disconcerted, I released matter-of-factly that I felt I had always lived along that line. He glanced briefly, then, again absorbed in his notebook, he asked about my parents, and I knew I was on for a full year, with all I felt I could not freely divulge of my father’s life. I told the Professor I felt compelled to remain within my father’s loop since he had granted me unconditional trust and love, this side of the universe. The Professor pointed out that I had already unburdened very reprehensible events before him, but he was ready to remain solely concerned with my present and future unless the past happened to hurt me. He made clear, in any case, that if my situation revealed unlawful abuse on my person, he could meet the legal obligation to refer the matters to his own ring of peers. He raised his eyes, they gleamed vaguely, quite like the lake, afar in the small window next to him.

Offloading my harrowing ballast on a Ritz immaculate table for my father had been, not so long ago, such an accomplishment that my dreams had returned to their entertaining profusion, I smiled at my mirror and my plexus beamed from the inner foyer of my expectations. Playing dumbstruck, the Professor asked me if I ever knew my mother?  I did not introspect my relation to her, it felt like she had always shielded herself behind my father’s underlings, nannys, sitters, guards. She smelled utter femininity, roses and gardenia and the daturas in a hothouse in Denmark, she wore fresh expensive lingerie for me to hug when her face hovered too high for my reach.

My Mor resented the connection between my father and me, she smirked at his knowingly carefree petting with me, my feet, my hands, my head. Far told me once that it had always been the only way to quiet me as a boisterous, exhausting infant; it might very well have evolved in an incestuous liaison but I had no sentience of any such deviance, I would not live by it otherwise.

My brother Martin certainly lost some of his privileges when I was born. Firstly, my mother was forced to rest in the Kettelær house near Copenhagen during most of her pregnancy, secondly, she suffered horribly during the delivery labour, and thirdly, her husband was totally overwhelmed by the baby girl with his eyes, whom he served and wiped devoutly, forbidding for my Mor any other concern than breast-feeding, thus eating, whenas she would have fled from that solitary drey where I made her fat.

I may have sounded harsh, and it never had been so badly suffered, I was reconstructing my side of the glass in hopes of eventually sealing off the inexpiable. In my early life, I had soon been nursed and cared for, while my Mor could go run again. Far came and went, but his rule was unwavering onto the household, all the more when security became a side of the polyhedron and I began mingling with sturdy quiet men in polyester suits who smelled of Old Spice in my own home.

So, my mother ran. The Professor offered more listening time, on a weekly understanding, at my will, if I promised not to stand him up, and give notice with his secretary if I was to skip a date.

Outside, the clocks had run, too. Swallows chirped at me, as I felt it, in the powdery golden whirl of incident light; the troupes were transporting tables and chairs out of the restaurant, Ayla Naveen ran to me and gripped my hand with shakes of mock-tremor as if I had neglected her; I granted her a heartfelt kiss and locked her head against my flank, driving her in step at a playful grand pace towards the gathering. The Pierre-Yves crew greeted us onboard, that nifty pageboy would boast his precedence for ever, but he would not shame me; his Celtic curls like, say, frantic swags around the cornflower keynote of his look, the satiny sheen of his skin. I stood loose and rifled through his head while Ayla bugged his smile with a grass stem.

There were vessels of stuffed cabbage under a crust of cheese, schools of sautéed lake fish, and more creamed morels under mops of chervil, on crouton slices, along with an inspired pink grapefruit juice. Some teachers, not frankly differing from the elders of us, had mingled among tables, pursuing some academic disputation or controverting on the depressing incline of Portishead. Another hustler cub had hooked its emerald and violet colours to my wrist and stealthily groped me; she was the vanilla and liquorice with aniseed sprinkled gazes Stene Merul, thin and narrow framed blond shoot with an orderly fringe and a retained smile I dreamt at once of cajoling. Under the vague sleeveless shirts, kidder cloves hid and sought, thrilled already like were the cheeky birds after our crumbs.

At the ground floors of the dormitory houses, besides the club-like libraries, were TV dens with state-of-the-art sets hanging overhead and expansive couches, which lead to unexpected encounters, of the loose kind, or not. In one, within the mild smell of socks, a Buffy binge had started; in the next, Jennifer Connelly did not, or did she? foresee her perdition. Julia seized my arm and lead me to dark stone stairs down to the shady basement, hushing and fondling me at every turn. A heady confusion of lavender and moisture came from the laundry room, where hung ghostly crowds of our washings. She brought me in the blue darkness and stripped me entirely, covering me with jewel kisses and tongue arabesques, making me open my thighs against the whitewashed wall. Surreptitiously, other hands and mouth joined, nude silhouettes pulled aside the hangings and reached out over me as Julia again breathed me to let go. They carried me to the softly padded ironing table and used every pleat of my skin to meander their pleasure once I had encouraged the lewd knightage of me. I could not know how many of them gave and took advantage, Julia guided the fleshy goads into my sodden sockets and watched me shagged silly before some demanding tadpole arrogated her lips or mine.

When she decided it had been enough, Julia ordered the pack to lick me clean all over, making me smell like bleach and sap, a plain warm wet mop in hell’s sink, still wanted by their inextinguible stiffness, a last once more roamed through in my gently distraught arse before they ran and left me panting on Julia’s peaches.

We went to a gloomy toilet to leak away the spunk and piss out the youth juice, eating each other’s face like pups, exhausted fine like performers. In the night, we tidied as much as we saw the scene of a flesh feast, hoping the stage itself would dry up till morning. We sneaked up, nude with our stuff on arm, to my room and foamed up together in sheer sluttishery, mollifying our spent slits with refined face-cream and lotion.

Brushing and combing her thick head of hair, I was thinking out loud on the difference between  the utter debauchery to what I had just assented for my enjoyment, and otherly a rape, under the enfeebling drunkenness, in the middle of a wasteland, committed by whom might have been thought of as the guardian of my physical safety, whereas one could savour the utter transgression of the crime as ultimate food for depravity, that shredded my beating soul into a haunting misery. She mused that while plain boys fuck mainly by the glans of their manhood, women involve the whole cascade of their effusion, the complete cosmic medusa of their being.

Although it had not been wilfully weaved by her in such an assumption that I would overcome the damage in my soul through an ordeal of unleashed delights, she had kept her head on and chosen the sires knowing they would withhold their strokes at her command if I had only whined or dithered. They craved not only Julia’s easy sleazy sheaths but the shenanigans she knew how to foment. So, as I let my own sham harlotry unfurl onto the good soldiers, I had beamed among the stars from inside the damp cave of secrecy. We embraced intricately and she kept a hand upon my tender rim.

It has been a harrowing trip across the Sierra Nevada, tugging along this rope net full of trinkets and knick-knack, and I face a concrete maze in a moonlit night. My shoes are teared and stained as those of a street bum I wanted to give alms to but I had been pulled off. I wonder if all the rattle my load stirs up on the rocky floor will wake the Guardia di Finanza and their dogs. My jeans don’t hold much, either, and the nylon bomber I must have fished out of the war field stinks of grease. Further on, the walls become higher and dobermans cross my way without noticing; they wear heavy riveted collars and their balls tremble. On the walls, rusty red stencilled words don’t make sense near vertical arrows. Out of my knickers, I pick up a small folded bill on which is drawn a cryptic diagram showing my route but I can’t see the faint lines unless I crouch near a small glowing cluster of crystals through the meshes of my burden, then I know I must take right. When I stand back up, the skies clear out and blue salty peaks glisten afar over the walls edges. Heavy stealth owls hover as the dobermans track them. I reach a large bomb crater with a black heap of twirled scraps in its center; a checkered red and white crushed sphere shows it had been a water tower; the dogs gather and show their yellow fangs but they fear my plunder sack. The owls fly onto junk beams and stare at the quieted hounds. From a corridor behind them, Pr Achenbach walks up in a mountaineer lederhosen outfit with my hat on his head; as the birds salute, he apologises  that he has misplaced his glasses and will come back next week, after hesitating, he calls me Ms Tschurps and trots away. around the wall bearing  “Indkapslingen 40” is an open field deserted market of bric-a-brac like a  Salvation Army depot; owls converge from the horizons and circle me from the tops of dilapidated furniture. I notice a rolled carpet and struggle for wrapping my hoard under it when my attention is caught by a shining wire among the trifles so I grasp out Pr Achenbach’s spectacles, perfectly clean. I tuck the carpet in with my feet and feel released, the owls roll their heads, the dobermans stay at the field’s edge and yelp. Suddenly, in a bustling rumour, shadowy rats scuttle through the chaos, their little red eyes defying me. The owls hurl themselves together on the dark rodents, claw them out and peck off their brains, causing contorsions. I hear some of them have taken refuge under the carpet and tinker with my clutter, so I ferret out a heavy rod and use it to beat the brown heap when Pr Achenbach hails me, from atop some wooden riser, and asks about his glasses. The birds and the dogs have coalesced on the death of the rats, horrible crunches and cracks, fading yowls and hisses herald the ongoing massacre, my pants are covered with blood spatters. Armed with the rod, which in a moon ray reveals to be a narval tusk, I work my way to Pr Achenbach, who wears a white lab coat and nods when I give him his glasses back, then hurries to a trapdoor in the rocks unveiling an orange-lit stairway; the steps are cluttered with dead umbrellas and I stumble across, with my sneaker’s laces entangled, down to a low vault where the dobermans follow and rip my clothes into shreds. They lap my skin with eerie growls and puffs; they teem around and attempt to mate as they pushed me on my knees; I brandish high the tusk and skewer one throat thus beating off the gesticulating pack of them. I sneak along a ramshackle corridor where I hurt my bare feet and lean along the saltpetre covered walls, encountering metal doors gnawed by rust with portholes at eyes level; I spit and rub to clear a peep hole in the grime; I see a long room in grey light where a stiff old man sits up at a miserable desk with a shabby typewriter and a dingy telephone untouched for ages on it; he looks dead until he turns his glare on me and stares from his deep orbits. The last door is ajar and squeaks as I push it through the rubble. I face a large balcony, bathed in a pearly crimson glow, washed clean by repeated deluges and overran by moss gentle to my feet so much so I want to lay on it. Beyond a sleek polished aluminium railing stretches a dark purple forest under the galaxies; the sweet racket of an endlessly tuning symphony orchestra fuzzes through the thick foliages; birds of all liveries sleep snuggled together on the high branches like the ethereal glass decorations in the Tarbæk Xmas tree. My womb aches, I nestle down on the moss cushions while violins screech the sound of splintered windows and a fuzzy ghost sweeps away on the scratched walls.

Julia was wiping my forehead tenderly, she ad-libbed in baby talk on my face and features when I met up back behind the scarlet veil of my eyes, and I let her, for a delicious while, before I fought the daylight and looked into her irises made golden. Chewing my saliva out, I mumbled that she was obviously falling in love with a brat, so she grabbed my belly and made me beg for breath. Later, reliving my dream, and the outrageous spend before it, I became curious of my holy vale and ran my fingers through it, relieved that it felt as fresh as a prairie spring, and so I went to pee first.

A palpable humour of intimacy floated in the restaurant room as I spread redcurrant jelly on my French toast. I earned a new sunflower yellow bracelet from a cinnamon-brown rascal of all charms who pretended to kiss my neck. Other big bandits came and kiss, I recognised some fragrances and eyed the new faces; my rump shivered.

Mr Tudor Weiss, the art teacher, asked me in the studio anytime in the morning for my interview; he was a British Renaissance dandy whereas he originated in the Austro-Hungarian Empire, somewhat. He sported a tickling moustache and wire glasses; his Florentine-blond hair was cut with a high nape, like Royalty boys. He smelled of spiced-up bergamote and mushroom, an envy to unbutton in the wet woods; he felt like young and earnest with a fancy for immaturity. It was him who had arranged art along corridors, all by former students, some going back to the foundation in the seventies. Browned-off collages from skin-magazines, curvaceous typography of the pop front still claiming through the pieces many revival waves; touching portraits and daring nudes, art teachers had succeeded to one another and picked up successful attempts, be it skill or luck, most of it was heartfelt and welcoming. Differently, the girls’ home was adorned with nifty tapestries, on which ages of sensitivity to fibers had passed, weaving together successive patterns, not all of them the work of women.  Tudor, as he was casually called, explained that many boys fell for Melanie and her workshop’s atmosphere.  Eliah Schpung had supervised some Tingueliesque contraptions and Vigor Decize dedicated most of the pottery kiln to let students elaborate wall mosaics such as those which could be seen in the restaurant, with a famous vulva well in sight.

Julia quite obviously complimented the laundry gang, with radiant glances at me; I had yet to learn the naughty routines of the damp cellar. I showed up at the art studio in my art’s attire, trayed through and oversized from top to toes, smelling of neroli and patchouli perverted by tubéreuse, I knew I had killed Mr Tudor when he peeked into my gaping collar and swiftly corrected into my candid eyes. He showed me the supplies’ drawers and asked me to draw a tree before tea-time. I shone all I could through a last glance to make him sure I was not trouble but fair lust; he lifted the left eyebrow.

I found all I needed as for paper and pencils. It was a great heart-lifting climate in the sky-lit room where students of all ages came and worked on their ongoing projects, but Ayla sniffed me out and poured her kittenish heart on my back, sliding her hands into my sweatshirt and mumbling onto my rib cage; She commanded she would let me quiet if I gave her one true kiss; I replied I could not do that there, so she said she would wait for me in the broom’s closet and she ran. Reckoning that she would eventually win, I went casually and entered the small dark room where the devil unleashed the most accomplished slutty kiss in one go, finding all the same a way into my baggy pants.

At lunch time, I modestly covered my unfinished work and went, hoping there would be more mushrooms, but I had an herbs omelette on fried bread and a large bowl of salad with nuts. Julia wasn’t yet there but my table was crowded, with one who had to keep her promise, three other wrist-subscribed fans, and three sharp cadets, that, I understood had had me the night before but desired to get properly acquainted, as  we did not say they did anything wrong, au contraire.

Hillar de Bodil was an athletic dancer of mixed Baltic descent with long umber lashes on viridian eyes; he showed a light amber complexion and wore long, curly, tangled hair of palm-wood brown colour, by which I acknowledged him in the round; his mouth was drawn as a feather and he had used it, he spoke of wild poetry and swam for hours; he was seventeen.

Malte Rieff was a bony wrestler with cropped hair and high cheekbones and brows around black eyes, he would tan to coffee dark ; he had been the one with the toughest knob and awfully skilled to schlank it in. He was a tennis buff and an almighty geek in the computer hall; he was seventeen.

Aalu Peters was half Sami, sandy blond and slit golden eyes, his smooth triangular face kept an allusive grin under his messy fringe; slender and supple, he had been the sly double trouble on saddle, he was a genuine horse whisperer and a dressage expert; he wanted to pursue research in anthropology. he was nearly seventeen.

Lusted after by such a chosen areopagus, I was beginning to parse out the grand design some wise scoundrel of my kind would benefit from a suave haven like Lupi Sanctorum, in a dearly plural sainthood. I had not even yet called Far to express the kind of awe, that had mixed with travel dizziness and true life raptures, in which I had whirled since he left me. I promised myself to do it in the evening, whatever the clock he would sit under, as well as I would report to my Elsie, so as to feel spoiled.

My tree enthused Mr Tudor, he devoured me with his fawn and green eyes and wished I would grace the art studio with my smart attendance, and lazzis stopped his tirade that flattered me anyhow. Ayla, who had camped wisely quiet in my proximity since she had furrowed into my jeans, gabbled, behind her primitive image of someone she had been working at, that he was hitting a tad hard on me; he preferred not to have heard.

She would not leave me, we went together to the pool and she exhibited her maple syrup coloured figure by walking head-down and spreading her long legs so as to offer me her cunt in black spandex to my nose and be pushed in the water. She could swim under quite a long time.

Around dinner, Julia met me and pulled me through some deserted thicket to a tall lime tree in bloom, she daintily lapped at my neck as I raised my head to the enthralment and felt some animal titillation when Ayla flushed us out. We had no time, but she lifted my easy black and red striped gown, pulled my knickers down and busied her arrogant little tongue while Julia found her delectable and bare ass ready under a pansy blue dress.

The food continued to fit my tastes and the cook, a French lively brown-eyed fellow, had singled me as one of the no-meat clients. He called me, asked for my name, and offered some gratin of macaroni and morels under a good layer of Swiss cheese. Ayla loved it, Julia added chicken breast, two boys I did not know yet had country sausages along. Sour apple juice went fine, and the nosy young doe did not keep her happy hands while we poured custard on a nut brownie. Mr Tudor had not dared join.

I snuck out to the third floor of the girls residence and Ayla was following, I told her I did not think she was supposed to be there, and they would check on her, but she begged for a tiny moment and she wanted to see my room; I warned her I was going to call my father but she wouldn’t budge, so she crept after me and as soon as she came in she undressed and offered her poppy. So it went, I called Far’s number and crawled from one interlocutor to the next while the gracious animal wandered on me over and again. So then I was utterly smooth when Far finally spoke, and I delighted him with all the details except what was going on presently on my bed, or in the pool, the thickets, the laundry or the broom closet. I asked him if he would grant me some shopping day in Geneva on his next visit, he promised. Julia had wormed in and liked what she saw, she threw off her leggings and shirts and almost instantly made Ayla moan so i waved a hand to shushed them. Far was in such good mood that I came right after he hung up.

We saw Ayla to the main house, she told me she would dream of me, so I snuck my tongue into her ear, she wriggled and ran. Julia drew me to her room where the two boys from dinner were already at ease with each other I had not yet seen much of lads together so it disconcerted me a tad, but she denuded me once more and pushed me to the bed where the two mates picked me up with the appropriate dexterity like a bunch of lilac.

Ysac Beaumont was as short-sighted as a black puppy, but it gave him a velvety black disarming glare, all the more so that he squinted a tiny bit on one side; he had a narcissus pale complexion and softened features, elegant legs but discreet muscles; from a bush of black curls burst a straight and tight johnny that smelled of coumarin when I played with it, he stopped me before the crisis because he wanted in me.

Raine Beresild was a redhead mix of Swedish and Russian, delicate as a girl, spiced up like Bay rum. His peener was scarlet pink out of Ysac’s mouth and Julia straddled it at once. The pale knight asked me to turn around and he prepared my shy hole with a lotion, but then he asked if he could wash the way. We went to Julia’s bathroom and he said he could pee in me, it would be warm and cosy; I let him do, I felt the long shot and then I spurted in the bowl, he slid his whole hand in and also reached my twiddly dah; I was blooming as a pink lilium when he took me at his imminent pleasure.

Raine had surrendered to Julia’s cavalcade but he wanted me as his buddy had, so I let the cowgirl lift my feet high so he could thread in as I was mouthing her tasty dessert rose; he was sturdier than the previous assault and he lasted longer, feeling like he slit my womb open, I brimmed over twice before I felt his ultimate jolt and he rolled to the carpet.

We smelled of sublime sweat, they spread me across Julia’s bed and acquainted themselves more, adagio, with the new slim toy, now that the rut was soothed; Julia was sipping from my eyes and complimented on my neat lashes, Ysac was twiddling my feet and biting my toes, Raines was coveting my modestly hairy nook and became willing to have a go in my wet vagina, eased into deep and slow as the two others cheered silently upon my bramble twins. That was a princely treat, I frizzed transe a few times before he discharged, then he invited his gallant acolyte to slide in his spunk and tootle for me, rattled as a bauble.

The frenzy of days cranked up, I cleared out contraception matters and saw a pleasant woman gynaecologist who, after a few welcome liberties on me, set up a copper coil in the midst of my devilish uterus rather than the oestrogen implants she did not favour for young girls. She taught me how to feel the two minuscule blue strings out of my nifty cervix, once in a while, and she set a six month routine checks schedule where she would gladly meet me again. She digressed inquisitively but reservedly about my sex practices and was eventually impressed; she only had a few bits of advice on toilet methods and products, she was undaunted talking about the enema practice and only suggested some sugar or Epsom salt, preferably in warm milk, she was unfazed cool. So, I was ready to revel around in the safe corral of the Holy Wolf.

Except for the unreasonably unyielding types, the drinking or drugs fiends, whom anyhow wouldn’t encrust very long, I reckon that I challenged every flavor of living skin inside the campus’ whereabouts. We were Lupins, we all shared some motives whatever our age or inclinations, sex was easy trade, and Julia Grant kept her weather eye open.

In English, I caught up with a group of fifteen who read and parsed “The Bell Jar” by Sylvia Plath, In French it was “All The Mornings Of The World” by Pascal Quignard, and in German “Undine” By Friedrick de la Motte Fouqué. The book method made everyone appertain fast to the matter, and all the teaching followed suit, grammar, vocabulary and all related topics. In maths, I would have liked to find algebra sexy but it felt like playing chess and it did not distracted me long from my neighbour’s crotch, in a word. Physics was fun and forthright, we had sophisticated labs interfaced with the astronomy, computer and photo-video workshops. Philosophy was mostly a peripatetic sport around a given topic, and choosing a topic was always a topic, Miss Russell was a hell of a dialectician, only the elders stood up to her; she was terrific on aesthetics and used à contrario the contemporary hocus pocus as a plateau for ethics and morals edification; she would love to herd us in nature, or in a swell cave she had elected in under a farm building of the domain, where we would dispute in the light of candles, instead of groping each other, for a while.

Conveniently distanced from the classes, the music studios looked upon a vineyard, eastward till the lake, teachers came from Geneva for paying students and were shielded apart. Physical education, sports and any flavour of dance shared a modern wooden building with six halls large enough for training twenty parading flamingos at a time each; locker rooms and showers were, almost, separated, serving as well a tall indoor arena.with removable tiers of seats and an honest theatre stage. They could invite moved parents at summer break for a most applauded closing show. Outdoor grounds for all purposes could be readied on occasion by the staff of gardeners who fed us.Under the almighty rule of read-bearded Eliah Schpung, some industrious Niebelungen could manipulate real tools on wood or metal, under the dexterous Melanie Rose, you could weave your dreams into anything fibre, stitch your jeans or openwork in your shirt, patch-up a flag or a tapestry like the one in the main entrance hall or embroider your magic kimono.

Far sent a car that morning, nothing yet unseen in Lupinland, a fast Lupin was sent to call me; struck by a whim, Julia decided that she would come too, I wasn’t to hold her back, so we hopped in the cool berline and headed to town; I had packed up for an overnight stay, she had nothing, it was fun; she smelled of white flowers, pussy dreams and iris powder, I let her say hello to my dewy sly, the chauffeur saw none of that. We landed at a grand hotel on the Quai du Mont Blanc and asked for my dad who showed up and impressed my friend; in return, he inquired what kind of Grant she was and he nodded enough to please her. I told him I would very much like riding boots and chaps so that I could ride or only wear the cool jodhpurs, a girl had told me they sold them rue du Rhône. He granted permission and entrusted me with one of his credit cards, asking me not to explode it, which I reckoned conservatively. He would meet us around dinner time at the hotel, he asked if we would share a bedroom, to what we concurred promptly for his amused eyes.

The shop glistened with fetish-heavy leather, bronze and chrome. Julia was quite savvy in horse manners and wares; she marvelled at grand saddlery and styled out the proper boots for me, dark tan leather lined in soft veal with the chic strap around the ankle, Far would love that, even if I jumped up looking at the tag; along with nice chaps, the bill was a bit hefty and so I shied off, leaving the decision to him. She wrapped her arms on my chest and whispered in my ear that I was only so adorable caring for my dad’s money that she would do me right away. Next door, I found Liberty shirts I still own after years, dark blues strewn with myosotis and dew drops, I forced Julia to accept a sketchy buttercup yellow and anise printed shirt I had tried on her in the booth because I craved her peaches under the impalpable cotton.

We strolled about but eventually settled that the district was not ours to roam in, so we had lunch on the lakeside at an expensive terrace where she teased me with her baby breasts. She felt like a fugitive, albeit they would quite soon know her whereabouts; she told me how she had the phobia of being raised in an invisible cage, how the school was also some kind of a prison camp, where no one should cross the fences; I felt awkward, except in some unlikely places around Denmark, I had always seen some amount of security around me, and it was Far’s world, according to his orders and the powers that be, fine-tuned by his blue eyes, the same my own soul saw the world through.

Just when I would say we would bore out here, when we could have been ragged happy in so many hideouts at school, she lit up with the idea of getting a haircut, she knew a cool salon with desirable coiffeuses and we sure needed a freshening-up. We went to Versigny’s and waited for an hour with creaky magazines and giggled at our own nasty comments on the worldly people depicted; I wasn’t sure I would not encounter my own mother in there. A truly radiant chestnut-eyed girl did me a boyish face with her very sharp shears and I was thrilled; I ruffled them out with my hands and felt sassy in the mirror; Julia was the same confident self but shiny, her mane was her trump card ever, she loved me and kissed me for good before the two stunned girls who earned a fat gratuity anyway.

Far was already in the bar, drinking something gin, he smelled like tweed. He loved my head, held it as I loosened; then he was moved by my hesitation as to the size of my whim, accorded that we would go in the morning together, which, as such, was an acceptance. We had mountain trout filets with braised fennel and courgettes, then iced nougat dazed with candied fruit; he did not propose wine to me, but Julia eyed a yes for a glass whenas I was provided suave orgeat by a grand dad of a sommelier. As we had a last cup in Far’s suite, Julia noticed his usual game with my feet and felt aroused but remained casual

Far was already in the bar, drinking something gin, he smelled like tweed. He loved my head, held it as I loosened; then he was moved by my hesitation as to the size of my whim, accorded that we would go in the morning together, which, as such, was an acceptance. We had mountain trout filets with braised fennel and courgettes, then iced nougat dazed with candied fruit; he did not propose wine to me, but Julia eyed a yes for a glass whenas I was provided a suave orgeat by a grand dad of a sommelier. As we had a last cup in Far’s suite, Julia noticed his usual game with my feet and felt aroused but remained casual. He wanted all gossip and news about school, the management of which he watched after more than it showed. There was frankly no rebuke to be phrased, and since the independent controls scored high enough, we should not wish any changes. I knew his kind concern but I wanted to assert that his choice had been the right one.I did not really know what Julia might have told her parents, but she witnessed a keen bond and liked it.

Our room was plush, next door to Far’s, they had not cared to give us twin beds, this one was vast, compared to those we habitually frolicked across; the large bath was tempting so we foamed our asses up like loose harlots; when we wiped ourselves we smelled of Clinique Happy like Maryland debutantes. She was reclaiming my toes when peremptory knocks on the door shook us and a male voice calling Miss Grant put a smirk to her fresh face. She told me to enter the bed, fetched a peignoir and opened the door. Two men in black suits and ties apologised but firmly chastised my lover for her disappearence. They ogled me like they would either kill or rape me, I had the telephone in hand and called Far, explainig the assault; he asked if Miss Grant had warned anyone she was going to town, he got the whole fuss and said he was coming, and fast. He waved his credentials and made amends to the disconcerted agents who spoke with an unmistakable American accent. Julia, who let the robe gape insidiously, took the phone and punched a number, then give orders to reach Mr Grant, to whom she plainly described the situation and the location, then, metamorphosing her tone, simpered and regretted her candid mishap. After a minute, she handed the phone to the apparent alpha who sputtered his service codes and stiffened to order, then grinned and told his colleague they were leaving, understanding that she would be brought back to school by an official UN car the next day, after some petty shopping under Far’s watch, and theirs.

Exercising one last time their ingrained professional eye in the room and my body now uncovered, they fled. Far looked up to Julia and clicked his tongue, but smiled. He sat down on the bed and chased my feet inside the soft blanket, he murmured regrets that such a heavy lifestyle would weigh on us, and he ogled at Julia’s prying mandarins.

When our so lusted after bodies crept back onto the rich garnet coloured percale, we were all thirst and desire, bloomed out in heat like animals. We exulted in unum spiritum, a long breath holding sob; I woke up my nose in her warm groin, smelling of newly scythed hay, lost and fulfilled.

The black suits sat at another table for breakfast. Far played über-nice and considered the thermos of coffee as a reward. I could tell he had planned our moves already and would be entirely devoted at my feet in the saddlery shop;.Julia gamely hit on him and seemed troubled by our likeness; she played with my hands. The coveted boots had been kept apart; I wryly asked for a pair of cashmere socks to try them on for Far who slipped them on my ticklish dancers, then bent each boot in and out, before putting them on. Spanish made, they were exactly fit in length and width, he felt it and bought them, with the chaps and also a snappy crop, with a silver handle, that made Julia stretch slightly in some fantasy. She thanked for the shirt he had been eyeing over and over, he replied truthfully the pleasure had been his. Before leaving I hugged him very tight and swore he had made me happy, providing all the care I could ask in a neatly rounded little world.

Julia was in for a good tongue-lashing, the FBI had followed our car to the portal and Harmony had been briefed rather drily, although she would retort that she was no  secret service. She begged Julia, whom she loved a lot, not to snap again like that, whereas she could have at least planned the trip with my father as well. For my own concern, Far might have deployed his seductive tactics, because she complimented me instead of reproaches, and digressed on my new hairstyle; she might as well have gotten me laid me in her office.

I harassed Julia with questions, how she would have known the domain was monitored from the outside but she bluntly replied I did not wish to know in what extent it was. But she was vibrant about our little jaunt and, on sunny days, she wore the Liberty shirt that set her twin mounds so keenly, whenas my fiddle-berries kept concealed in the pleats for the amateurs; and justly, on the first time I went back to the stables sporting my new attire, I was ambushed behind a sweet giant draft horse by one of Pierre-Yves buddies who slayed me, face to the wall, my jeans half-way down. When he was finished, and I was not so overwhelmed, I noticed a young stem with his modest peener out, wanking. I felt beasty, mainly because of the main dweller in the stall, and waved him around, he could barely have penetrated my tied up arse, but I suckled his hard little john with no hair to conclusion; he capsized almost, and I was standing as a mater dolorosa, half bared bum, embracing an unbuttoned boy when Cyr von Galen, a cavalier emeritus with a large frame and a tight bottom intervened and held us two. The tiddler knew him and obviously did not fear, he turned to my face and kissed me, realising, half-happy, that I tasted of him. Cyr pull his pants down, eased me a little more and took his turn in me while caressing the lean lad who still kissed me; he was gallant enough to start me up bountifully around the time he literally inundated my crack. As I headed for a shower, the cadet followed me and said it had been a first for him; under the running water I promised we would do it together truly soon. Shortly, a couple of unmounted hussars showed up tautened as bayonets and circled me as I flooded my petty cache; but I felt available no more and told them so, to their offended disbelief. They had pushed my sweet page away and seized my arms, but I hurled at them that this would be rape, whatever they thought had happened before it would be a crime and cost them dear for a botched unwelcome screwing. I went in a logorrhea of despise adjectives so as my voice climbed as I doused them around. Innocent onlookers called for truce and the dicks flopped down. I was let to wipe myself, young Poul timidly asked if I was still raged but I cried with him. That was a bit of the end of my sluttish aura, I strapped on my new boots and studded my new chaps and walked away nauseous; would it be the end of the party? Was I distasteful because I owned my body to spend it as I liked and not let it available like a spunk mop? When she was retold, Julia went in a surge of anger after Cyr but I spilled my marbles and disculpated him who had hustled me in fair game, and Poul.

I wore a night blue with stylised gold swallows corduroy high waisted and vague dress with a modest round lace collar that Julia had approved along with my white sandals, she craved me girly for that dinner. I smelled jonquil and angelica, undeterred virginal, I looked pale and brave. The cook had mixed mushrooms and crab meat in a cold flan, with raw fennel in yogourt sauce on the side. She gathered my fan club, Pierre-Yves and friends, Cyr the fresh one, Poul at my side and Ayla the other. We ostensibly shunned the shower scene but laughed in detail about the Geneva ramble, forgetting about the black suits. Towards dessert, Pierre-Yves let it out that some he knew, and I had spotted them across the restaurant, were sorry for the bullying spree they had thought would be casual but admitted now went awful; they said they should have stopped at the first signal. I was left embarrassed; I sidestepped, asking Cyr if he would coach me on Yuri, a kind enough black holsteiner; reckoning that was a possible peace invite, he laughingly agreed; I muttered I would shower on the green, along with the horses…

I eventually caught Miss Edna’s attention on the matter of sexual consent, and gallantry protocol, promiscuity and self-consciousness; she did not rebuff me as it were a sting question between the accountable adults and the honeybees in the hive. Consequently she funnelled talks on desire and the lack of proper doxa regarding the would be desired party of that very human dialectic, starting with the incommensurable failure of the Freudian scholastic on “dark territories” and Marie Bonaparte’s clitoris. In good fun, I was able to confront again my assailants, of whom , at least, one was gustatorily doable. Between Miss Edna handling and asserting the moral threads and Pr Achenbach shielding behind the professional secrecy, Julia and me churned out our libertine loyalty for the better good of many a good soul in Lupinland. Not that all attempts upon the feeble or the disoriented naive would have lastingly ceased, but natural predators met earlier responses to their sexual charades, should they frown away with a disgruntled cock and wank into their sheets. Also, damsels made openly aware of their desirable traits and intimate venues sussed out the stealth clout running in their veins and attitudes; there were no less comings and goings in the Lupinland detours, only no one was unfairly bruised, or at a steep risk. There were conversations when one could ascertain that however slutty the pussy were, the right to close shop was prevailing at any time, even before a stiff knob, whatever the tease had been, and it went for boys, as well.

The season wheeled along like a rumbling mill, I was stupidly infatuated with Avril Lavigne’s little butt, although I complained about her low-ride jeans that killed her legs. Ayla still assisted me in the art studio and proudly snuck into my bed when no one was lulling me; she made me proud, she was growing smart and straight, I kept her wristband. I gave Poul what he deserved when he tired of my mouth only; it was glib, odd and tender, in the sun, beyond the tennis courts. It smelled of box-trees and roses and he served me twice. For the summer break show he danced neatly with four other leggy niceties of his kind to Slim Shady, they were all sweet-natured.

The dance studio smelled slightly different according to styles but one note was almost ever there, that of embrocation; I dread the urge of straining muscles and joints in the heat of a cadence, I know it is bad debt to the future body and, anyhow, it reads as contorsions or at least acrobatics, a mere pretext for hypocrites to ogle slender elfes; after all, the back stage of the Paris Opera once was stealthily connected to the Jokey Club who owned the ballet stars. Who needs that today? I contemplated to jostle the leotards the following year; yet I spotted some graces in action but I longed to see them bare feet.

Gallo Fuks was (still is) the irresistible body master, altogether with a forthright soul even if some murmured that he trained peculiarly some of us in some places. Dark brown like an expresso with close-cropped hair, he smelled unburnt tobacco, honey and vanilla sweet, his skin was a dare to the touch. In life, he wore bold wide striped waisted jackets and dark icebreaker jerseys, black chino pants styled to fit his sturdy thighs; he ran on sleek black leather sport shoes. On the technical floor, bare feet, he sported a strict bodysuit that wouldn’t have hidden an erection. He beamed as we counted push-ups or hung gesticulating to the ladders. He confuted the use of chromed contraptions and sought ensemble emulation or mirror exercising, He collaborated with the dance studio in the nude-move spirit that brought us to our brut-poetry performances, later. At all times I tried hard to make him to grab hold of my butt.

Gallo was a gym wizard with an eye for ill-developed bodies and the means to correct the mistakes. He would advise Doctor Selen Bonte who prescribed the scans and all the medicalities, but he asked and obtained from our young anatomies the rebalance and proportions, I owe him my allure and my moves, my rump and my legs. His touch felt like music, whatever harsh might the labour he ordered be. Julia and I did an abdominal muscles contest; he liked it but defused the competitive part, matching us with others for arms, thighs or head-bearing. The steamy showers of the gym studio saw a lot of lewd politesse occur, too.

Their year was wrapped up, most of the students went away to their families or exotic camps, I was staying and Julia too, I would travel later in the summer to Danish waters and their sagas. Some forty of us would find the place almost empty, but happily, we travelled Swiss. I have told at other times some unforeseen marvels we met amidst these mountains, I will not rant about the weirdness of the Zwingli attitudes and the blind eye the Swiss laid on their own nazi-connected turpitudes, some loudly vocal nationals have done it irrefutably. To me, the Geneva county was the sexiest province this side of the Styx, which, as everyone knows, doesn’t flow into the Lake.

Julia, who had preferred to plan the summer along with mine, had dared me to get Mr Tudor in my pants. He was our guide in this cosy bus that negotiated the engineered bends of the Swiss roads. So, I sat next to the art teacher on any made-up art topic, like the supremacy of the arabesque in French epic art, or the ambiguity in the effectiveness of “golden number” structures when in fact I was exposing my crotch through as little fabric I could scheme for his torture; or, wearing shorts, I crossed my legs and candidly brushed his thigh wit my toes until eventually he started to stroke that foot and fell into my honey trap. I am proud of the feet Far made me, I usually buy AA shoes and my toes can spread like monkey’s.

We slept in boarding lodges with sometimes a lot of spare room and that is where I netted the thirst ridden teacher; in an empty corridor where I had gathered a good mouthful of fervour, I pulled him into an empty room where extra bedding were stacked and I locked us in. He cuddled my head endless and wafted lovingly on every nook, mouthed every catch he found and astounded me whole. He swiftly rid my leggings and shirt and snarled like damned to my crotch The overstuffed space sounded like inside the brain, spread upon ten mattresses, I offered him my hesperide lure while he freed a sizeable truncheon and seized my chest in his wide palms, mumbling on my trouble berries. I answered to his clutch when he spouted unpredictably all over my belly in a warm scent of debacle. I choked at all I had missed while rand to find a towel. Then he overthrew me higher in the piles and started to point his tongue into my merry caches, also onto my lower abdomen where the shudders are deep, drilling between his rounded hard lips. It turned out it was not such a fiasco, the man was disorderly but persistent, he succeeded in firing off my inner drone a long stroke before he resurrected in all manhood so as to dwell in me snug and wet for a farandole suite through my festooned innards.

He contemplated me under the shower, asking me to slow the intimate toilet as he watched and arched up strong again, I sucked him in the flow and he told me to creep a finger into his butt hole, thing I had never done, as ribald as I would feel. Still with my tongue, we wiped me and carried me face down on the drooping heaps; he tried to force himself into my stingy purse but it would have required more than spitting on the rim so I asked him to cavort once more in my swollen crib. He bumped and bombed frantically to regain victory, I spread wide my thighs arching up for my affooled minge to receive his whole length and the third ultimate benefice whenas I couldn’t tell apart my own pulses of tremor anymore. When we woke, the trails had dried all over, we had collapsed in a maelstrom of pads, and Julia had found us; she was actually licking my precious cunny cunt still moved and bruised. When she saw my eyes blink, she soughed in my neck she was proud of her harlotee girl.

Tudor was mumbling, then he jumped up when he grasped that Julia was enlaced to me; he stared madly and grabbed any rag to cover his dumbfounded self, wild eyed. She kidded that she wanted to safeguard the body of proof, just in cased he felt so guilty as to strangle my frail neck shut; he stuttered half distraught but we did not let him topple to drown, I ventured that we were sluts, indeed, but not snitches however, and on that I seized his dick and bantered on its valiance while Julia was creeping at his other flank and frolicked frankly, but the warrior was all spent and flaccid, so we nestled like sacks and I fingered my accomplice to console her while Tudor wandered a kiss and a tad more on her. A few hours later, I saw dawn raising and I bustled the other two out of the crime scene. Tudor reshaped roughly the piles and we ran to our rooms, Julia cradling me round.

Our travel followed its course, Tudor steering clear of my path, mostly, except when I felt cruel enough to entrap him and make him acknowledge that he made a very horny victim; he was granted a few times more in my fluffy dollhouse, but never more so furiously as the first unbridled rush. Becoming to know my ways, and noticing my frequent swerves into the lucky bushes, he reckoned his good fortune after all and found friendship bearable, all the more when he happened to shag another Lupin and guardian angels saved his cool. And Julia confirmed he had a hell of a dinkle. He was a good teacher, though, patient and generous, bringing up documentation in times when Internet was not yet fully deployed into our minds. He accepted the doctrine I had laid with Master Verunin in new York, so unhindered that I still seek; but I kept gathering all the tokens of a well read socialite, in case. Moreover, my uncommon features, my lifestyle and my Far set me aside of the vulgar rut, mind you.

And so went summer, Yuri needed company, so did those with no available folks to relate to, or who’d rather not. I picked Annelise Devers in front of Nip Tuck and she did not baulk at following me up to my room where I played Radiohead and wrapped her up in a cashmere shawl because she shivered albeit a mild July night; I slid her genteel feet into wooly socks and twiddled them, as I felt her uneasy, and she cried silently, big drops of heartfelt loss. She drenched a few packs of tissues and eventually leaned on me, wordless. Thom York searched his soul and she sniffed laboriously; the mascara had trickled down under her lids, so I fetched cotton pads and undertook removing her makeup. She had blue eyes with a very deep ring around the iris; she had dyed her hair raven black and her skin was impressively diaphanous.The lotion was revealing a younger face than I thought; she asked me if she interested me so I hugged her and played my feet with hers while I kissed her long temples. She looked up.

Julia did not warn when entering my room, she did not stir much air either; she saw the bed and grasped the tension; she kissed my temples and called Annelise as if it had been a nice surprise between girlfriends, sat next to her and squeezed her hands.The black child scowled away like despondent but accepted my holding her head, laid back in oblivion. She acted as a perfect patient in a deploration act, Julia kneeled on the floor by the bed and rested her head on her folded arm, watching, almost insolent. The raven kid weighted little in my catch over, I dared her mouth and she responded wilfully, clumsily sliding her hands under my shirt; then it went casually, so to speak, and she found herself bared and cajoled as Julia played indecisive. Annelise murmured that she wanted me but she could watch or whatever, and so she warmed and pulled my pants down while the lioness unclothed herself.

Annelise was a borderline bird, a wasted marauder of affection depriving herself of life stream, but some stealth after-dream had let her dive into my rays. She had lost her mother before she knew, and her father, a shadowy high-flyer trader of all trades, did not encompass the trade of fatherdom and so paid away the peace. She had money and could afford the best guitar teacher on this shore of the Lake, with a collection of fine-picked instruments. She used me brilliantly, from the moment she grasped my buttons and Julia’s high-hand, she was a great fucker with a scar. Through these first summer nights, as I feasted on her transparent skin, sharing her with Julia, I sought for stigmata of bad drugs abuse and she deciphered my scheme laughingly searching over my body in retaliation.Her evocative perfume was an incestuous veil of incense and mulled-wine with an afterthought of magnolia. She had that sort of straight long nose at a right angle with her profile, a pointed chin and a nicely receding forehead where a witty cowlick denied her moody expression. Her circled irises of pure blue stroke through heavy lids and rich lashes (Julia saw some resemblance with my own marbles but I denied, mine are scattered with lapis-lazuli nuggets), Her mouth was lavishly Egyptian, with lustful rimmed lips. As a nascent showgirl, she fitted easily in our kind of game, complacently letting her body being offered when she foresaw how to retaliate on us, she traded my arse to a gardener against his young boy toy. When the season came to conspire on a new pantomime for the coming year’s epilogue, she swore she would be ready with a song and we banked on it.

Tudor, Julia and I, set aside our tricky libertine arrangement, fomented, with Harmony’s approval, the patchworking of a one-piece mock ballet involving every Lupin in Lupinland. including our three or four syndromes in the garden, our elfin ballet rats, the judo bullies and a squadron of desirable queers. In Geneva and Lausanne, Tudor unearthed astounding copies of Bauhaus and expressionist pantomimes on film, and mostly all that the Prince of Serendip would gather, related to avant-garde theatre and dance. There were wild sessions in the big hall when Tudor could afford the school a dignified projector and sound system to read the digital formats. It was also great for groping new game, as for Elme van Holt, who revealed neither sex but a sizeable clitoris on an closed unfinished vulva, but a truthful urge to plant it into my fanny; unable to think of a pronoun, but excited by novelty, I let myself drawn to Elme’s room, hearing some muttered unfit lazzi I would recall.

As the butler would say, we smelled balsamic and mossy woods in a rather girly sweat, we showed a smooth oval face with slanted golden eyes and flat thick fringed sienna hair, whatever rosy tint of fawn it would mean. Our hairless skin felt creamy smooth and that toy peeny was thorny hard when I sucked on it, Elme warning me that the spurting duct was under it and would splatter my eyes, possibly. But it insinuated itself into my most adaptive slit like a hummingbird foraging into a volubilis. We kissed silly while I wanked on the stiletto and felt it splash on my ass-hole. Elme was a brilliant companion and, once confided in me and my buddies, became a brain-force of the great event; I was also tipped about a few other intersex niceties, the school’s policy allowing queers as folks in its midst, at the knowledge of other parents. Choice had been made that queers would be lodged according to their chosen identity. Loutish nags were not so much natural Lupins, or would become so. Those who had sneered at my first date with Elme had to meet me in full text language and heard a tough epigram about finding love.

We campaigned for the Années Folles, played Erik Satie and Shostakovich, Stravinsky and Schoenberg, but we eventually decided that the music would be composed and played by our own music workshop. We studied French in Apollinaire, German with Kafka, English with only some of Joyce (could we have fathomed Molly Bloom’s monologue?) I made spectacular progress in Italian thanks to Alberto Savinio. Tudor heralded the futurists and the vorticists and the surrealists, Max Ernst was so popular with his creative techniques, dripping, rubbing, pasting-up. I involved myself into costumes and decors, there were colourful mixtures perambulating in the restaurant some days. Ayla, who returned from Corsica with seven more centimetres of height, pointing tits and no tan lines, never had enough of designing, cutting and trying on élucubrations, nor did she tire of the broom closet, good golly!

Aalu Peters, the Nordic faun whom Julia had offered me to, and who chiselled his ravages like a deer hunter, had been in the wild a few weeks with his elders and relatives among the birch woods and the swamps, missing us, said he while seizing my hips. He craved my hip bones, but he was proposing more excitement. He knew I had been kind to Elme, because Elme told him. He wanted me to meet Kerny Blomst, another gentle queer who kept a keen eye on me; he wanted a trio but I wanted some foretaste so i suggested the pool. Kerny was whitish beside Aalu who had run naked through his homeland’s mosquitoes and gleamed as copper; he had peroxydised his hair and was as slim as me. His eyes were hidden by black contacts, his nails were neatly varnished black, toes too. We dived along with fresh crunchy Lupins and watched each other move then we showered and got closer. he had a small flute and beforehand told me he was special in the sense that he did not respond to androgens so he would never be more of a man than what I saw there. Aalu was already pressing his dingy to Kerny’s bum but we had to refrain when wide eyed puppies ran in and splashed life around. I wondered where Poul was.

We followed him to his room and he made white tea in a silver pot and served us in white china. He disappeared in the bathroom and came back in a sumptuous lilac dawn kimono.scattered with favrile petals. He sat next to me on the bed and slid a hand to my crotch, a tad raving about my class and beauty, he lifted my shirt and nipped my foolberries as Aalu helped him prying me bare. They told me poses, they told me to wank while they drank tea, I asked for the kimono, of which the heavy silk tingled my spine, for their contentment; then the swish warlock pulled me on the edge and played my sugarbud, an instant, handling his peeny, then he pushed it in my poonie before Aalu slayed his buttered sheath deep, and he was whelmed in rapture.

We rested up a quiet while, tea had cooled, resting my head on Kerny’s silken thigh, I was scrutinising his rare shrunk down apparatus, which now looked like a closed up vulva of soft satin with a baby knob on top. He inquired about my awe, but i mouthed in the crumpled gimcrack and it bloomed back into a playable goadlet.( I assessed that most penises look crappy when defused ) that I teased and sucked stiff till he turned me over and slid into my discreet hatch as Aalu was lapped up and gulped but soon rushed his long hardy into my mystic shell and there I was busy on a trip.

Kerny joined the tohu-bohu conception of a no-strings school opera, bringing a hard-learned otherworldliness to metaphors and parables we shuffled over as a mad libretto. He liked the company of young girls, Ayla told me that he smelled of wisteria and touched like a bumble bee, she had lured him to the box trees.

It was the time when personal computers became a key commodity, and a tutelary mightiness granted the school broadband connection up to our rooms. Mobile phones were still bulky and too expensive in international traffic, we had efficient landlines at our bedsteads. Only Fergus de Malestang, the son of a french admiral, rejected from all sorts of conventional schools before, owned a satellite phone which did not make a long-lasting impression but allowed him to talk to his dad away on the oceans. Far admitted that I needed of of those transportable contraptions and took the best advice to gift me with an universal Windows beast at the top of the market, except for a lousy track-pad. I had to bribe heavily Mikin Prüss to coach me though the arcanes of DOS logic and software mayhem, which means that he would seat next to me in front of the potentially blue screen only if I wore one of his own pyjamas with an open front and let him casually finger me; but he was a brilliant pedagogue, so I soon deduced that I would better fuck him up front and get a really focused lesson, moreover he was not a square nerd at it, smelled of broom flowers and stood up long in me, the price was fair. He was blond and wary of the sun light, his face was bony with thick eager lips; he gave me a taste for boys’ pyjamas.

We were lent a fully equipped operation room and started gathering documentation for the vision that was mostly Julia’s and mine of a Midsummer pow wow for whom it might concern. Tudor was enthralled, as were many teachers. We sat around dance classes, music sessions and writing courses, to finally wish we had drama teaching as well. Harmony interviewed a few old crabs but found us Evgeny Greiz, a true cosmopolitan maverick with a devilish suggestive power, who could dance the words out of anyone’s chest, and also knock over boys and girls in eerily theatrical intimate poses.

Tudor operated a highly functional colour printer, he scanned and printed whatever the group found in books or the internet so we could paste it all over the situation room in which we would have been the only crime committed, reversing the thrill to the moustache of Andy Sipowicz. We all craved fancy costumes, a stirred up notion between such different trends as hip hop, ballet and modern theatre. We collected costume history, phantasmagorical or ethnic, rejoiced at Oskar Schlemmer, Sophie Tauber and Hannah Höch, Julia brought up the incomparable world of the Hopi Kachina dolls so much so that we invaded at once Melanie Rose’s emporium of stuffs samples and Eliah Schprung’s factory in order to fabricate magic dolls and write their songs.

We squatted the TV rooms to screen and scan a lot of dance, pantomime, circus and vaudeville, but very often I would better get warm in someone’s pant than chomp on the lucubrate contorsions of mean entertainers. We saw what Royksopp Maldoom had done with troops as diverse as ours, were awed by Pina Bausch drawn glass emotivity, moved by poetic clowns as Sasha Polunin or James Thiérrée. We avoided the heavily produced Bolchoï-Vegas behemoths, U2 would have been more likely.

Mérine Berce, whom I targeted since I had seen her legs, came up with a brilliant lead. She took us, disparate congregation of remorseless fiddlers, to the great hall where the sound system was mighty, and warned us about Karlheinz Stockhausen, whose mere name was already cool enough, and a short piece he had composed and mounted together, Gesang Der Jünglinge. In the dark, she blew it at top volume, like heavy steel. Although Ayla had caught me, we were a bit stoned out and enthused at the thought of what kind of shock it would strike on our cool parents and elders. Mérine relighted after a while, possibly to let the lickerish ones readjust, and explained that she had been thinking about working on the piece with a timeline, giving time to the electronic music workshop to compose on the same course. The colourful projected patches still in our ears like Chihuly mushrooms from a ceiling made us espouse the dream of fluid groups intervening with or against each other, in varied styles, like in a furiously baroque bouquet.

We formed in groups at our will, with a number each and a plan of the stage. Meline held a strange partition and told the numbers to start, alone or in an ensemble. Soon we did without the music following a metronome; the hip hop gang needed more time, but she asked that it wouldn’t become a standalone cameo, they had three fast evolutions. The music team, educated by the orignal piece, found its expression and chiselled-up a rich composition of their own. We were uncovering the distance between the tops of our heads to the tip of our toes. Thirteen minutes weren’t much, but it embarked all of us in hard work. Julia had picked two quick lads, I kept Ayla and we chose Pierre-Yves, or he chose us because he had an eye on both of us.

As for costumes, once my trio’s brains had stormed over possibilities of colourful, bold, asymmetrical and twirled outfits, but not as to disfigure the bodies or reduce them as toupies, (none of us would have accepted to play wearing a mask, neither) we unearthed some arousing leads in early renaissance paintings of Carpaccio or Uccello, might it mean we should cut and piece disparate halves together. Melanie knew how to do it.

Julia pursued her declination of the Zuni dolls and folks and was carried away by the Inuit charm of Aalu who deployed some of the midnight sun spells on her. Aude Bille, a ravishing speckled weasel with plentiful mahogany plaits, who smelled tuberose in her neck and armpits, had destructured the expressionist tin puppets into a platoon of young cosmic toys. Others had considered the vocabularies and spoken in the Volapük of Slumberland. so as to design Dada elegance, but Melanie wanted to see some body forms, so they lifted some elytra.

The firebrands in the stables were only amused by our grand design in the amount of looking at dancing fawns in funny colours, a tad more impressed by the hip hop addicts, quite a rare expression in our spheres. Fergus swam into my stomach once in the pool, I could not judge if it was willingly; he apologised flippantly and remained in front of me, floating and holding my hand I did not remove. Next, he told me I was attractive and he liked my legs and the rest of me. He wanted to know if I would play casual and reached out to my pants and pulled; I had already decided to let him have his way but I dived deep to swim to the ladder. He followed me to the showers and we kissed adamantly on both parts, he had a jolly spur ready to ram but I wanted him in a bed so I gave him my number and ran.

Unlike many girls, I did not keep a hidden bottle of alcohol and I will never drink anymore, but the tap water was exquisite and I had elderberry syrup. Anyhow, he peeled me right away and devoured like a prey, but I vanished in the bathroom to groom myself a bit; he saw me with the enema and smirked slantly, then he grasped why and made me suck him. Back on the bed he could no longer fool around, he pressed his glans on my shy vulva and breathed deeply when he gained ground of soft flesh and was all inside. Then I started to move my best and contort my vagina, he looked stunned and, as I expected, blew hell in my womb then collapsed in joy. I rejoined him in a matter of hand trick and, when we both quieted down, I parted his wet black curls, half-expecting him to doze out. He smiled, his chestnuts eyes in hide behind thick lashes like a woman’s. After the bath and the rush he still faintly smelled of laurel and vanilla in a sweetly peppered sweat. I unabashedly soughed in one ear that if he douched like me I could be a real slut for a moment, at what he jumped up and mumbled for help, which I did, and the rest also.

After a treat of rose leaves, which he returned honestly, while he polished back his prick in his hand. He turned me up on all fours, to service me from behind with a spit on of vaseline, when I saw the door ajar and Ayla who watched on; when she grasped that I knew, she swiftly slid in the room and locked. She acted like a little tart she was and disrobed herself as I could not react with a bull in me. She swayed near and kissed me as Fergus saw her and maddened in my tight vessel, she crawled to the action and manipulated all the jewels like an ardent courtisane. She helped me through my rapture with her deft fingers while she held his goolies. He huffed out deadly as he stilled, she climbed back and held my head to her muff and asked for elation.

There were rainy mornings, waking out of a swift brush-off makeover truth in a vertical province of sneer names scattered on a family banner. In a teardrop blink it had made sense. By chance my constant window had remained ajar, and the whirled tapestry of country smells descended upon the lost perfumes of the passengers in my sheets. I stretched my legs and pressed my hips, my feet escaped the padded quilt as I felt at any one time rooted and freewheeling, dirty and clean as the rain.

Ayla was proud as a swan when she wriggled her narrow hips at the breakfast table, not that I could afford the same humour; she had gone astray and could have caused the sending down of all three of us, but how could have I reacted with a flesh tusk already up my arse hole? Beyond the hilarious situation, she had to reset the grip of her own lust a bit, until the year next when she would be my neighbour in the henhouse. She sheltered alongside my wing and promised anything , mindlessly. Then, she smelled gingerbread and pencil shavings, and although she pretended to stay wise, she fired blazing eyes like polished agates. Dr Selen Bonte was in charge of first eventualities among the herd, she would give the morning-after pill to any girl who thought she needed it; she would not inquire, since most of the fillies were fully-formed. Those who asked were not complaining of abuse, or they would have sought Harmony in that case. Otherwise, blood checks were mandatory twice per year.

Geometry was sheer pleasure, it felt really Swiss, In geography we had started a complete survey of the lake, which I discovered is so really deep, along with natural sciences. History was essentially sequential and European, with more developments as we got closer to present times, in a rather social-democrat angle of vision; economy would tangle the ropes later, for those who would pursue in hard-core colleges. Miss Edna could very well summon open talks on general topics during highly praised afternoon teas in the restaurant, nevertheless she reviewed the suitable program of the age classes and asked for written and oral tests. We had nothing like homework, only some reading ahead and rummaging for elements in the cacophonic communautary operatic endeavour. Or the licentious twists and turns of our capillary epic.

Julia could not come along to New York for Xmas, she was expected to bore herself to anaemia in Maryland, so I flew alone with Far, blew Elsie’s mind out with my tales, and I fainted with pleasure when the snow graced the terrace angels in the tumultuous night. She agreed to stay and Far beamed at this announce, he never commented on our sleeping together. He kept on stealing my feet, restrained from stealing hers; she saw it like a tad kinky, but she had always had a crush on Far; she only playfully mimicked my way of running around the house bare feet. I missed Mor, she no longer lived in the vast apartment, but the Nanny and the guard were still in place and greeted me like I had become older or something. LeDell, the athletic man who waited around us, was a black bald-head who smelled Sandalwood of Lather and Wood in the lift when I swear I could have let him stop the cabin, were it not for his duties; he magically escorted us through odd places like Bloomingdale’s, Saks or Goodwill; he constantly refused when Elsie invited to sit down with us, I had warned her. We had a full week of a talkative romance; she had scored almost as many troops as Marlene Dietrich, she had graduated in anal sex like a pornstar, otherwise she had the best grades in everything, she was already plotting her carrer, considering a scholarship, whenas I avoided the genre and saw myself rather as a Dada muse. Far treated us every night in fancy casual eateries with dim lights and vegan food. We promised not to forget our friendship but the terrace angels laughed in the cold.

Far had gifted me his Mother’s watch, a platinum Rolex tank with art déco figures, polished anew, on a navy blue lizard band; I was supposed to wind it every three days. It was conveniently engraved S, v K, since this ancestor who never knew of me was named Sophie. Julia was utterly fond of it on me, but dropped that her Tiffany was in a safe and she would better wear disposable swatchs, then she grabbed my waist over a vintage Missoni sweater and said I looked like I had not spent my time alone in town. As I laid back on my bed, I told her about Elsie, so she unravelled me nude and wished me a happy year. She swore that at the next opportunity she would offer her feet to Far. Her crotch smelled of lemon pie, verbena and pipe tobacco.

The situation room had lived through the holidays, On a wall were now displayed photographs of costumes by Lavinia & Schulz from 1923 with a small manifest about their tragic life; they had killed themselves after the completion of the costumes. Although it did not entice to follow them, it showed of what might be attained with miserable materials to start with, like straw dolls. Next, someone had worked on different sets and accessories with scribbled annotations. The chimera was transmogrifying in time. I met Gallo who took me to the gym carpet and manipulated me while talking about the show. As no one was in sight he let himself wander and gave me surprise pleasure so as I wanted more; the broom closet was visited too often, he had an office with a personal bathroom, so we went. Erected, he was amazingly membered, my two hands dit not contain the whole shaft. He would not cease to pluck and tug my nerves and muscles, stretch only a tad more of my limbs, watching in the misty mirror. After a breaking havoc tongue play he asked if I wanted him and I only begged him to do slow.

A first draft of the music score came out of the gloomy smelly electron ridden laboratory, deftly regulated along the first pattern, lacking only the textures and colours that would suggest the constant dream of the players. Our trio went easy, spruced up by the baby fairy who jumped like wild oats. We had three moves alone, three others synchronised with another group, and many collective tableaux. We repeated separately, trying not to fall over the nasty little tease onboard too soon, but trio shenanigans were exquisite between us, Ayla exhaled a clearing of genteel simples and tasted like fraise des bois.

Twelve clusters of eccentric stooges perambulated among unsettling props in a willingly distorted perspective à la Chirico. Teams of makers had mulled over their fantasmic chessmen and built them in the resourceful workshops under the clearance of Master Schpung. The giant head with the blue brain was inhabited and moved a few times, the electric swan was radio commanded, the laughing piano floated up and down while long mauve clouds hovered in the night under a talking moon.

Bambi Krepps was a lean stem gone to seed, with strands dark amaranth hair unfurling on her ivory rose shoulders; she had teamed with Adaline de Sacre, black fringe and Brittany green eyes and firm arrogant breasts; also with Gry Forêt, foggy blond hair and sandy eyes, long dainty hands, long willowy silhouette with round buttocks anyway. They had chosen marine shapes in Haeckels’ encyclopaedias, They had built stupendous hats like medusae on acid; virtuoso calligraphic algae of double-layered dyed rag, and evanescent painted leotards.and tights. Ayla saw my stir about the sirens I had not yet acquainted and as an aside,she bragged she had been in their sweet smelling sheets. At that moment, she knew she had me under a spell and began to trade her influence on my pillow or at my feet.

Ayla had lured Bambi in the swimming pool and was petting her like a viola, as nude as dawn. I tiptoed by and warily sat on the curbstone, lecherously feasting on the young looks who proudly read me as she enjoyed being adored. After a moment, I whispered how lovely the scene was and the emotion it caused me, letting aside all shades of irony. I slipped into the water and pressed my chest on Bambi, biting her ear lobes while fondling Ayla’s toy buttons, then sliding down on her, telling her who I was, low and inviting, served by a sensationally devilish faunesse. She let me untie whatever useless fabric still clung to her. She conceded feebly but we should go to another place, so we dashed up to her room where she would fear a tad less, with our bundles of dripping clothes. Her self abandon was gracious and Ayla was already in a hearty binge. I stared at her black eyes with a killer squint but she stuttered something like I would tell her being a slut to others, how cute a prudishness when a debauched young squirrel is already nibbling your jewels. I soothed her singing I was the biggest of them all but I would never betray her intimacy, be her foolishly worse, and I kissed her copiously and slid along her, Ayla on us, beaming.

Bambi has a smooth brow, she must have dreamt of daffodil gardens on a June island, she was born in no pain; fresh from the pool, she smells a trace of acacia honey in a cup of white tea, which is such as breathing a butterfly on the blank page of her high temple. Her nose points up candidly above yet untroubled geranium lips where I ask for mercy awhile. She plays, she tilts my shoulders over and roams my skin with her open mouth and I feel the floating stroke of her breast on me like sheets in the prairie wind. I lose, she asks for my thighs to part and reaps my true moanings that Ayla plunders like candy.

Having earned Bambi’s trust, I gentled her set of fairies with Ayla running front and winning affective clout, at least among girls, albeit she ogled bigger game for her diminutive bum, asking me to braid her lush flow of hair. I crossed Adaline in the stairs and we talked French; she acted as she knew her friend had rolled me over in her sheets and not disliked that. She lived on the second floor but I mentally pushed her up to my place for tea. Now she played shy, it was easy to take her hand and at once kiss her jaw, she awaited. Kneeling at her feet, I unlaced the sneakers and did what my Far had long taught me, they smelled bitter almond in lust, warm and moist, she was off guard when I crept up her snappy worn-out jeans, she let me pull them down and search the cherubic white cotton knickers. She bent for kissing, her aventurine eyes in the shade of her low fringe wanting tenderness. When she was nude, she disrobed me skilfully and embraced me totally in her wider frame. The music was Rufus Wainwright as we danced and Ayla found us with a tiny giggle, throwing her clothes around and clutching on us, she smelled black chocolate and rum toddy, we ate her. Adaline’s brooklet was deep, her pubis was lush and smelled of forgotten lotus, rain in a honeysuckle bush and a hint that she might have been masturbating earlier; as I tried to maliciously joke it, she blushed wonderfully and wanted to wash but I refused straight, keeping my tongue pointed into her while Ayla roused my merry vale. Adaline was a squirter and could not help cuming in my mouth; it did not taste like piss, it was more like watered down sperm, and because my joke had embarrassed her, I made her taste my mouth with a heartfelt smile when Ayla blew my pearly knob up and I arched like possessed. We recovered our breath in the time of two songs, mutually touching our faces, eye in eye, then I suddenly seized the lustful young lass, toppled her over and shared her with Melusine, whenas down below she was lapping at my drips again; she happily spurted at our faces. When we finished washing one another with our keen tongues, we smelled of pure vice, then, as we dried, the stealthy gold of desire.

Julia had been looking for me, she met us at the hot plate counter where I chose artichoke bottoms stuffed with morels in a rich Mornay browned in the oven, along with linguine. She touched my shoulder and then smelled me, musing privately about whom I had been shagging, to what Ayla laid out how grand it had been. She was not close to the sea life fairies, but she glared at Adaline’s distant eyes with some envy, making noted she understood we smelled the same as the fidgety nymphet and she whispered it was lovely, so as anyone could have thought she meant it about the cooking.

Ayla would sit at my side, as it had been notorious that she was my pet, and read by the teachers as rather profitable for her. Pierre-Yves on the other side sniffed my nape and neck and was hiding a blatant erection. Bambi and her court had appointed me now reputable and more, Gry gave me silky eyes of grège as she would not wish to stay outdone or shunned; with bits of talk I made it limpid that she would be most welcome anytime, and I thought pleasantly she had been on Ayla’s agenda. The day was tied up, though; after a brief shower in my dishevelled room and a whiff of bluebell rose on my pubis since I wore a black flowy tank dress flaunting that I was merely available for fooleries, running on mismatched sneakers, one red and the other black; I felt fluid and nude, I went for Apollinaire and Kafka.

Namie de Rejung was a wholesome teacher, with a chiselled diction and an elegant gesticulation, she did great with young students; she currently smelled some licorice and blackcurrant soapy cedar wood, wore untucked shirts and slim pants. She moved fast in sleek ballerines. That day, she made me read a risqué letter to Lou and I acted out as if I was Apollinaire’s fantasy of the easy damsel. The group of sixteen laughed and I saw that I had hooked Kir Bojan, a supple cavalier of the stables gang, and my crafty pilot fish Ayla had noticed, too, so she read the next one with even more sexiness for the rapture of Miss de Rejung, who might very well have an eye on her. Obviously, Kir followed me on the way to the restaurant for tea, in French. Digging into a slice of blueberry clafoutis, he drew me into erotic literature and the salacious “Adventures Of Prince Mony Vibescu” that I had not yet read. I knew I was in for a ride and I affected a loose body language, opening wide my legs in the black jersey dress, letting my pup-nipples blink at him, listening lucidly to his ways of telling sex before I could taste any of his.

Not unpredictably, Ayla was already lying on my bed, wearing not much other than one of my used tee shirts and listening to Massive Attack. She had hastily tidied the room and the bed, she smiled when Kir and I entered. As he shied off, I grasped his hand and bantered about my kitten kid and told him she wouldn’t bother. As he needed some stronger incentive, I slid an undaunted hand in his pants and observed that the kinky situation had not quenched out his arousal. Dancing against him I exposed a valorous trophy that I wanked already; he pulled off my dress; the cat was nude and helped herself; he ravished my mouth and detailed my face in a mad mumbled dithyramb till we fell on the chuffed cat-girl who knowingly offered her capucine to the party going. He had been riding in those jeans so he smelled of leather, as in oakmoss, amber and Lucky Strikes trashed in perspiration, it overwhelmed me when I went south on him, while he could not help but savour the other kitty’s gumdrop.

He was hairy but soft, brawny but slender, kitted out with the most elegant flesh rod and goolies. His main hobby had made him hardy loins and sure hand, but dressage is an attentive art in which no rude force is ever used, as a rule. He arched me back and forth easily, told Ayla to ready me as he used my mouth then ordered me to content her as he was sliding long shots to my womb; but then he was tempted by her smiling, hemmed slit and turned things over, so as to service her on all fours while she pushed a hand into the place he had deserted. She was astoundingly happy with her little farce when he spurted in her, but I felt more than slightly cheated, given again what I possibly disposed of at anytime by her, whenas she floated high her colours in a grand whisper.

Kir wriggled back into his pants and fled rather abruptly, briefly addressing me bright eyes as he slipped his boots on. Wasn’t I the one who allowed the situation to evolve like so? Ayla was in sweats and evidently fulfilled, she would claim all the cocks in the polite world, cum what may. I loved her in the running shower as she dripped sperm, I made her outbid herself with some grinding rage and then found the peace before dinner, calling her names, on her twat.

I had a large salad bowl in which I asked for an avocado, tomatoes, rucola, Fribourg cheese, a hard boiled egg and a handful of cashews, available at any time; on that I spilled Modena vinegar, olive oil and begged for two slices of fried bread, crouton style. Ayla wanted the same, of course. We sat with the medusae mermaids, Raine and Fergus; she was witty and fidgety so has everybody wondered what was into her. Julia brought her potato and herbs omelette and stole one of my browned slices. She pinched Ayla’s tits, sensing that she had flied high. I wore a satellite blue cashmere jumper, chocolate white leggings and moss-grey Birkenstock Gizeh sandals, and so I felt somebody’s foot on mine. Gry was looking back at her tagliatelle with revealing circonspection, I responded to her advances by releasing my toes and read her very personal eye play and half-grin; a third foot came briefly as to approve her sister.

She had been told of my ways and she did not wish to fall into a trap. After the tiramisu, we went to her room. She wore an ankle-long, large striped, cypress and grey jersey dress and raw hide sandals; surprisingly nothing else. As we played in the stairs, I smelled her of iris, hay and some mystic resin on her own sweat that I would fantasise was caused by her daring excitement; she was a bouquet of lust in the dark, nude at once. She did not switch the light on, she lit one candle on an ornate battered copper oval shaped sconce that reflected in the small room and on our skins. She begged me to spare her, albeit she stood naked against my chest. I understood she had grasped that I was a heartless philanderess who would throw her in feed to the wolves. I ate that, and realised that perhaps I was playing on thin ice, so I chilled, took her hands and reminded her that she had quite inviting feet as a candid maiden. She coughed slightly and explained that she wanted to shag with me but feared I would take advantage of her because she was so naive. Meanwhile, she was dearly arousing, now that my eyes had conquered the darkness and I coud read her wide opened pupils rimmed with a golden ring, I was ready to hold forth all night to let her open her fine legs, whatever the promise she would care. I explained how we had, Julia and me, elaborated our morals fitted to our terrible lust, that it was my way to redeem my crumpled soul, as wicked a philosophy that she might have fathomed. I asked her what her soul sisters had told about me, if I had been unfair to them as the play went; was I not right to think that she had fostered lascivious pulsions after what they told? Would she say for what reason it would be wrong to yield under her own desires, as long as no harm was done? She did not know how to spell out her fears, but, resenting the awkwardness of our dialogue, she finally confessed to her virginity and looked down. I breathed heartily, embraced her and swore as kindly as I felt that I did not hold it against her and she would behold her life as she wished, would it be it to remain intact, whatever choice her soul see fit, and furthermore I was no tool to solve the matter. She risked that I had brought girls to lads for them to use, which I would not deny, it was part of the slutty fun but she did not need to participate as long as she had enough with me, honest, I would not force her, and I made her circle my biceps with her hand.

Letting her unswayed on her feet, kissing her hands, I whispered that I esteemed lesbians as highly as any, mostly when they craved me, who was a pansexual debaucher. With a light frown of confusion, she leaned on my shoulder and led my hand to her fuzzy mound, giving her tongue on my lips, more vanquished than convinced. As thirsty as I was, I swore to myself that I would not fail her. In the gold bubble of the candle, we rolled over the overstuffed bed and I bid my honour at making her moan and tremble until the little flame died out.

Pr Achenbach heard my querying about abuse like I had lived through, foremost making sense of such a different outcome in somebody I had known along for my whole life without sensing any backfiring of whatever it was, or had been. I laid out the bittersweet tale of having found myself inspiring awe to ingenuous Gry whereas I had felt as candid as a lark, or a wolf? The Professor conduced me to recap my ordeal as I resented it in this moment, calmly searching the pages of the spiral notebook I figured held my vision of the life I had lived, (while trivially wondering where the other Lupins’ lives were stored).I did not feel like enacting once more that sad wet blanket in the cold dawn sand I relived through my worst bugbear terrors. He let me turn to my lost brother instead, venturing that unless I would throw myself into a vow to deface him of any pulses towards any other person, there would be no redemption through revenge for me, only tiny increments of my own personal morals, whatever the sour taste, the heartfelt endeavour in an unburdened fate. Wasn’t I soundly richer of my magnanimity towards this shy girl? Hadn’t I benefited of her own respite, so naive her preventions might have been, didn’t she give me the love she freely would?

The soul healer of my American Indian tales was throwing dices and tokens in the sand to read them out for me, letting me breathe out my little vagaries with the entomologist wonderment, or so it felt. He asked me what we had been ingesting on that fateful night, he knew I had then contracted a solid phobia against alcohol, that I could stow in my play box with relief, for the only merit he bestowed on alcohol was sexual release and so he wouldn’t seem I needed any more of that, but there might have been pills or nasty substances in the drinks, triggering the boy out of himself. Had I heard of crystal anything, or met? His attitude led to think he might have been on the hellish wartime murder drug as I would have been dozed out with a rape drug, which made him a not less despicable perpetrator, but would alleviate doubts of a birth flaw. or any inconsistency in our home or upbringing. In any event, all my personal screenings had showed a satisfactorily brilliant missy and he acknowledged that I was surely provided with beautiful liveliness in any sense. He concluded our meeting with the suggestion that I might like to accompany him to his cottage by the Lake, later in the season, when the new cygnets would venture out. I liked the idea and ran, all perked up.

Albeit the bumpy start, and being called a queer many a time, I liked the stables, and the horses comforted me. The tarred wood and saddlery smells, the raunchy piss on straw and fresh droppings scents shook rightfully the backbone of the city brat I was whatsoever. Julia had been raised her childhood in a fully geared Virginia ranch, shouldering the appaloosas and napping on their necks, carousing through the haystacks and straw bales with a host of cousins. I had another aftertaste of cousins, but I did not shun the sweaty crews cleaning their bridles and reins after their lessons. The monitor, Barry Aisling, would have harsh words for those who left dirty saddlery in the tack room, up to refusing to teach them their following lesson. I had cajoled Far into offering me the saddle Barry had recommended, I was light enough to be greeted by Yuri, it felt wholesome between my thighs. Barry had gently groped me, even my bare ass, but he did not open his breeches and remained playfully soft; he seized opportunities and I let him do; it stealthily earned me status in the horse club.

Ersard Lorgemont had kept a grudge on me from the shower assault where he had been one of the rebuffed partakers, but he visibly liked me more than a cheap lay, and I myself ogled his nervous butt, in a sidelong way. He eventually hit on me with distanced flattery, so he knew at once that he stood a thin chance at my pants. I happened to let him know I would wander in the TV salon of the boys’ building that one night. Sipowicz looked tense as I nonchalantly left the couch where hands crept under the belts already. As we had started incognito, he drew me to the service door down to the cellar, this one housed no laundry room; in a smell of mouldy wood, under feeble filament bulbs entangled in spiderwebs, a vaulted corridor lead to a dark boxroom visibly organised for orgies, with old carpets on crates and the floor. He squeezed me and lifted my knit trapèze dress. He smelled English lavender like a British officer I had brushed past one time, I was naked and scented tuberose like an expensive whore. He swiftly stripped himself, the lights went off; only a faint greyish ray glimmered down from a dusty window. He soon was in me as I was readily drooling on my lips . He humped me like I had expected, with style and thoughtfulness, reaching the bottom of my womb in finesse. I climaxed easily a few times before he fired his load while pressing on my rump with one hand. He stilled but did not slump down, he was kissing me impetuously, locking my arms in my back, stroking my body from the neck to the pubis, feeling each muscle.

He pushed me back on whatever I was laid on and grasped my feet to bite them, then opened up my thighs to penetrate my back snare, to-ing and fro-ing in both alleys to lubricate his shaft. Again, he drove like a gallant knight and I thought he was riding me like a pet mare, I helped him as exactly as I felt and exulted again and again, so when another unforeseen rod found my lips I was defenceless and I sucked dutifully. I did not possess myself anymore, I did not wonder how many they were, Ersard had splendidly won and I was endlessly elated at their will. They used and abused of me like a rag doll but did not hurt me, I was as available as he had made me, covered in spunk..

Later, when all the stooges had done revelling in me, he came on again, lastly, so as to show he mastered my panting frame, and he steered one last go inside and I found the pride to come again. He slowly wiped me with clean linen and carried me to a pantry where we played with a hose and warm water. He was washing my cunt, ass and head with grace and aplomb, I was feeling a carillon in my tummy. He brought my dress and my slippers and said he wished he could come again whole night, so I cuddled the sleeping thing just enough not to wake it and told Ersard what a bastard he was.

Ayla was preened as a dove on the car’s large back seat. She had won to come along and meet my Far for a day in town, she had volunteered for a paper about the many UN agencies, as a subdued mean to assist my shopping. She had no siblings, her family equation was even more contorted than those of most Lupins; she had not seen her small-time movie director father since her diaper times and her mother had difficult times in Rome. Her tuition payments ran unvaryingly late, albeit never Harmony told her any of that matter; her mother used it as argument against her father, in case she would fancy making him a hero. That bright morning, she wore an over-the-knee horse guard red waisted serge coat on a black corduroy dress with preppy white trimmings, white socks and cute black Mary Jane shoes; she showed me immaculate cotton white knickers as a tease, the dress was lined with poppy red satin. She smelled of almond and white flowers like a Tuscan orchard, she had a plan. In the role of the big sister, I had donned my black gabardine over a royal blue bulky shetland jumper; slim, back, well above-the-ankle jeans and black wing-tipped oxfords shoes with white cashmere socks. One of my black hats rested and glittered of many pinned-on charms, on my head. I had spread Scottish broom and lavender, although my pullover was haunted by many a scent, and Ayla liked it so much that she sniffed in my armpits like a puppy, whenas I tried to remain off the sight of the driver, an imperturbable, kind man.

We arrived early at the hotel; we signalled ourselves duly and went along the sunny side of luxury streets, mostly mockingly. In the winter, Ayla Naveen was paler, her dark chestnut eyes grew bigger, she had cut her thick black hair at shoulder length with a straight fringe; she was growing into a slender debutante, in other times she would already have been courted for good. Be it the spells of Gallo, her legs shaped into witty lianas, the back of her knees scooting around in a spirited upstroke. Her ankles had thinned and her feet stood steadily forthright, I craved her and she made me proud, we strolled arm in arm to the places I knew would suit her youth. I dropped casually that Far’s card would catch fire, and we looked for the tights and leggings we needed for the dancing, didn’t we?

When Far punctually loomed in the lounge, he still bore his formal stone mask, but as soon as he read our faces he beamed up. He enquired about our life and asked Ayla if we were happy living and studying at Saint Loup, to what she frankly laughed and hustled my shoulder. I sat near him to show some of our morning bargains; he smelled a radically timeless English fern, finely tuned with the casual misty blue tweed he wore, but a subtle afterglow of muguet evoked a woman he might have recently closely acquainted with; I realised I was fantasising and I savoured the superimposition in my deviant way. From a sleek case, he fetched a thick manilla envelope he handed to Ayla, softly telling her there were hundreds of agencies through which the UN worked at trying to implement the Chart’s principles, with unequal success; she would find food for thought in the pile; and he was holding her hand. He added that in his position, all he could have spinned to her would have been a lesser yarn than the finely redacted language of the official brochures. I regaled in their flirt, I could not call it else, in her consciously modest attire, with a thin trait of white lace around the collar and wrists of her night blue dress, she looked frail but game, like the fool-headed kid roe confronting a cunning wolf on its territory.

We had crayfish with skinned pomelo and saffron heavy cream, mesclun salad with sesame oil and lime dressing, almond and rose sherbet. Back to the sandy beige couches, I knew he would insensibly get to my feet, so I took off my shoes and nested up next to him, curious to see when he would loosely lay his hand on the woolly white doves. Ayla was aroused, she elaborated about a future, revealing her candid immaturity, yearning for some fatherly guidance in this impromptu bubble, irresistibly plotting to steal these mighty hands from me, which she sensed were recalling me to wonderland; she had unbuttoned her shoes, she could have haphazardly showed her panties, but Far’s phone buzzed, recreation was spent, some ordinance assistant was sending for him, he squeezed my foot and stood up, telling little Ayla that he would like to meet her again, wishing us a lot of finds. He was off, in his public stature again, and she came seat near me, saying she loved my dad..

She had been chilled, bedazzled by the steel composure of Far, but then left to her own family debacle, so we cuddled up daintily and I massaged her delicate feet, because little girls do what they want in deserted hotel lounges. She sniffed, I went to the bar and asked for tissues, I brought our coats, left our bags with the concierge who was all solicitous with us, and we headed on in the sun. We had a few hours to cheer up my pet lassie, I bought her fresh red sneakers, grey alpaca leg warmers and the white and red spandex leotards she wanted, preferably the sort unbuttoned at the crotch.

In the car’s backseat, cradled in the low hum of the expertly tuned machine,she had pulled away her knickers, she wanted mine and smelled it as she affected to watch the sunset on the lake; I stroked her warm nibble in the dark and sniffed at my fingers; she turned snappy eyes into mine. She said I was Far as a girl, and asked if I thought her nose was too long?

At dinner, Julia was captivated by Ayla’s wide eyed mood and shared ironic niggles on the Kettelær charm, implying some diplomatic concerns over my person. To the unawareness of the other diners, I conceded that the matter could be addressed on neutral ground, the closed swimming pool showers remaining accessible through a tampered security door. The cauliflower and walnut gratin revealed a nutmeg secret, the chocolate fondant dreamt away in a pool of custard, we cleaned the table and dashed away to the pool building in the chilly night. Ayla could not disappear later than ten but she was already naked in the dark begging for smooches. Hot water was generously available and Julia ordered that our hands would suffice instead of soap; indeed, I was intensely rubbed over by two fevered animals and peed all my love on Ayla Naveen before I overturned her on Julia’s body. Suddenly, we were rounded by four younger studs, already nude and conspicuous in any aspect; splashing each other, they bantered that they had planned to play with themselves but we might join in. They were playful and debonair enough to let them near, Ayla seized a pair of stiff antlers and, sitting on her ankles, sucked for good while I reached her crotch through running waters. No sooner did I feel starkly penetrated and churned in with breathtaking cheerfulness as Ayla was pissing in my mouth; then she turned to let one service her cunny while keeping the other in mouth. It was a tight knotted party and reached climax fast; Ayla revered twice in both slits of convenience. As we stretched out, spent, they congratulated each other’s unabashed bell-bangers and eventually fetched soap to ease into one another’s arse, quietly; standing up, I was granted a complimentary run. They were boundless and gracious, Julia kissed each of them tight and tried to get a good look of them. Ayla, ragged and rapt, had to run to her dorm and gave me a last frenzied tongue. Julia preferred my bed with its oversized comforter, we still had heaps of petals to share on the way to slumberland.

I must have maundered an overlong age in these stairs of grey decay, my raggedy nightshirt smells like an ashtray and some kind of critters run on my feet. I don’t recall if I’m climbing up or down, but the lower steps have collapsed in a twirl of splinters. The squirrels are climbing up the rocky walls, hissing and jeering. I hold firm the flag shaft and feel reassured while I run up the tower in a maddening bedlam. The squirrels are perched on the higher beams, watching me as they gnaw on lumps of coal, making burning grit bits that fall on me and in my eyes. I wave the night blue flag bearing the Kettelær gauntlet and the silver star, so as the squirrels run around the walls, causing a cloud of dust that blinds me. Now they lick my eyes and comb my hair, constantly mumbling yackety-yak and puffing. They claw open a tiny window in the wall and I run to it for breathing. The view on the lake is infinite and glittering although I can’t see the moon but only an astonishing star amidst the galaxies. Holding the staff with both hands, it’s easy to float as a flag, although I do not feel any wind. I cannot read if my pursuers rejoice or fear when they flutter up with their tiny paws. The lake is ridden with pearly strands like twirled paraphs and the swans parade, like vaudeville soldiers, for an audience of suit politicians in gilded chairs on the quay. Showing the public my bare ass, I throw my legs up to ride the flagstick and I feel it along my cunt like a dressage curtain; so now I ride at will and hover on the carnival. Crystal balls like frost bubbles are thrown around me and explode in rainbow spirals, in a fury of glockenspiel glissandi like lemonade beads in the Geneva giant waterjet. The furry league of Tudor City watches from the top of the Palace Of Nations throwing confetti high up as I stumble there in a discordant harp streak and a hailstorm of icicles shoo them away down the facades in funny disarray. I pickup my flag which is a glorious bomber jacket now but I have nothing else to wear, to the lustful eyes of the platoon in white gear which marches along the cornice and boards a shiny metal airplane that hisses and tailspins over the lake causing shimmers through the starry skies. As I run down thickly carpeted stairs, I try not to trample on herds of small, gentle, grey tailed animals which talk to me in radio fuzzy tongues like a boat transmitter left unanswered. In a meeting room I rip off the silk of a lampshade to wear it as a dress under my heraldic jacket, the restless little crowds like it so I boogie some steps for them when I suddenly notice a wall poster of a portrait of Ayla with a ridiculously long nose, heavily staring at the watcher; when I turn away, I see the reflection of the lovely face and the nose is right, I am not sure she blinked. A brigade of butlers in fir- green spencers rush in pushing some sort of chests on wheels from what they fetch tablecloths and linens to dress up all pieces of furniture. I run to a small bone-laid cupboard and retrieve my hat. Elegant couples in timeless evening fashion meander in the room and I am not sure my backside is decent so I walk along the walls, followed by a discreet army of hairy hoarders. A loud bell, not unlike one heard at Klampenborg station, has everyone turn to the windows behind which a huge train brakes with an endless shriek. I feel a hand in my bum crack but I do not dare turning back. Two tall black intricate silhouettes slide out of the train and face the window, pointing at me with some sort of thorny sceptre topped with a glowing blue shard; the society murmurs like a hornet hive and looks down on me. I can see the women are nude in their satin sheath dresses, their pubic hair shows through the silk.The tail wagging troops are lifting the linens under a side table and call me in. I crouch and follow them as the voices raise; somebody fingers my arse in a familiar way. It is a tiny theatre entrance, scarlet red with gold trimmings, a gilded crab waits at the booth, clipping stamps and arranging them on a board as a portrait of Ayla with her nose a tad too sizeable in my view. I’m about to tell the busy crustacean but it clicks its pincers to my nose in a manner to shut me off. Its eyes are set on mobile stalks with long black lashes, they stare beyond me as the elaborate creature deploys its many pointed legs into a back move then collapses in a fast moving pie-shaped object and disappears. Followed by what I suppose must be an impressive animal, I roll down a sloping corridor padded in velvet. I overturn myself and open wide my thighs for Julia.

We went skiing in Saas-Fée, except for a few who joined their parents. It was a time for ornithological faces because of the goggles, Ayla was an owl-monkey with a neat little beak and smelled of treacle dew once peeled off her down jacket and Swiss undies after a day on the slopes. The pine clad chalet was big enough for sixtyish Lupines but we piled up as eighty on top of each other, which was great for shenanigans, and moreover adults dwelt in a more logeable annexe. The cook was delivering loads of melted cheeses, potatoes and motherly soft large loaves of bread, smoked and dried meats for those who ate that, gherkins and pickles for me. Heavenly treasures of creamy chocolate and nuts would have stuffed us like piglets were it not the spending of life zest, down the icy valleys.

Evenings got steamy, MTV garish manner, in the smell of wet wool and feverish intimacies. Bon Jovi received a storm of rolled socks so it left a harvest of available toes for a lewd reaper such as I. Ayla was entwined with Poul when Avril Lavigne bared her precious little fangs, Julia cuddled with the lesbian medusae as Michelle Branch danced bare feet too. Pierre Yves and many others slept already. I remembered I had spent drifting evenings with Elsie under the toxic spell of the American MTV , shunning my brother’s watch in the family lounge whenas he might as well have peeped in silence. When I dozed out on gaudy pop milled as cheap ice cream, I chose to plug my Ipod into my head with my own chill-out playlist and go nest deep in my bunk.

Sliding down the  Valleys in the bracing altitude Swiss air might have lulled me out and away more than my usual ability to flee the hard matter reality of things. The bed linens smelled of eternal snows, my eyelids rested like the new moon on a cloud. I had been dreaming across the universe along with flights of favrile effusions like I did when my plexus radiated of peace. Like shattered glass thrashing through spacetime, flurries of black shards spiralled over my falling body like a heist of famished crows on a cadaver and pecked at my arsehole. It hurt sharply and then, like lastly breathing out of drowning, I figured something was trying to rape me dry and I shouted at the top of my lungs and it stopped, the lights were switched, it was two in the morning. From the upper bunk, Julia had seen a shadow running, Ayla was sound asleep. Julia climbed up and cuddled me as I sobbed in rage, she eventually kissed all the way down to the very wound, then shushed me into another dephased dream, grey sands in my mouth and blood red clouds over the lead sea.

I walked into the dining room all dressed and ready for the day, walked to the large window and faced the busy tables where breakfast was beating full.I shouted hellish til everybody froze and stared. Steel-driven angry, I stomped that I was no wispy lass and they all knew well, but some heck of a swine had tried to rape me in my sleep and I would not rest on that. It was not game at all. I would camp in my bed and wait for the culprit to apologise at my feet. Girls exclaimed spite, some lowered their eyes, one threw a spoon across the table. I spit the details and shouted it had hurt and who had done that was a desperate selfish ignorant thug, then I went back before he could see me cry.

Julia took over the matter, in no time she brought Petrus Wald to my bedside, defeated and blushing. He was one year ahead of me, with a childish German poster boy face, blue eyes and blond curly hair and smelled of toothpaste; I did not have to say anything, he mumbled excuses and said he had been totally smitten by me but I would never pay attention, I was so fucking New York proud with my VIP cars and pansexual snobbery. He blabbed up for twenty minutes and I felt the busses wouldn’t leave with the rest of the crowds if the affair wasn’t settled there. I stood up and asked if he would agree to meet Pr Achenbach with me when we would roll back down. He agreed with relief as I told him I would then further keep silent about what he had done, smirking he was a dick because he could very well have obtained what he had botched like a retard, but he would foreseeably never appreciate. Tea had cooled out but I composed myself and slip into my ski shoes then hobbled to the bus, followed by one who already wore his ski-mask and goggles.

In the bus, Julia invited me next to her, we reviewed the incident and I decided to rest on the arrangement, letting Petrus get away once with this kind of deranged pulsion. Since I shouted, I owed Harmony an explanation in regard of her responsibilities; I would also inquire of Pr Achenbach’s advice, because I had no title or merit to summon him to rule wisdom in the case. The boor was poisoning the delicate Lupin trifle. To defuse the mine, we decided to corner Petrus in broad daylight a few times, so as to show our comrades the shame was not beyond student’s reach, if Petrus responded wisely. Also to let him reckon he would be under watch from an informal web of trusted partners. Because he was pleasurably built, we would teach him the principles of free commerce, would it start with a mingle-all in a dark place to let him feel the different manners of sodomy.

Julia never hid her mane from the sun rays, because it soon bleached in a glorious halo and gave her a wild allure; under my own trophies studied cap, after landing at 3000 m, my own business was to find somewhere to pee, which I eventually did in the men’s toilets, standing; Petrus saw me, but after all was he so sure of what I was? The real explanation was in the lowering of two zippers and an elastic band, looking at the urinal.

My team was of medium strength, twelve tourists wearing a silver wolf head badge on a rainbow ribbon that made me proud, allowing our monitor to count us, Ayla, Poul, Kerny, the three jellyfish graces, Gry being easily rather keen of me, now, as well as three or four of those I had not yet considered, bitch of me. Julia belonged to the fast elite and boasted a black strip around her neck. I would not have felt like breaking a leg, we had seen the stretcher express slide down full speed a few times. As a matter of fact I never trusted my body to the risk, just as I stopped volley-ball a the first sprain. I made my body in the swimming pool. And, by the way, sliding safe.

Back on the lakeshore, I felt compelled to spill the icicles to Harmony about Petrus’ attempt and assault. She had inevitably known about my haranguing amidst the pancakes and demonstrated more concern than it would seem; however she asked me, in her den, to write down my complaint; she would summon Petrus and demand his written report and apologies, then talks with Pr Achenbach. Being understood that her alone was responsible for what she had happened to know. She promised me there would be a full confrontation of us three in her office to let me agree or not on the satisfactory resolution of my grievance, regardless of the indisputable legal boundings.

Harmony was a beautiful woman, still very elegant in a pair of 501 jeans. She made tea and sat with me in the salon part of her office. She described how I , Sarah, attracted sexually a sizeable share of my environnement, with my uncommon features and beauty, my footloose appearance and laid-back communication. There I collapsed in the armchair, wondering if she was already hitting so hard on me. She retorted that my ungrudging surprise would be one of my best spells; but I should better beware of the indefatigable Cerberus out there, unforeseeable and unconscionable, hungry for submitting whatever its ego might see fit; thus I should as well prepare for a long harrowing fight alongside a rewarding fine life. She acknowledged that all my attitudes and responses in the school’s realm were as benefiting as those of a Julia Grant, whose charisma and forthrightness were a beacon of the best fulfilment enviable. She also praised my unfettered openness towards some unwonted cases and diverse singularities the school greeted with the wholehearted support of a distinctive patronage of educated parents. She deliberately gambled on the self adjusting play among intellectually privileged offsprings to bring generations at the required college level, spared of too hefty a load of complexes and inhibitions; insensibly, Pr Achenbach from his tower top kneaded fussy souls into civilised brains with all the desirable animal extensions at their rightful balance.

Harmony stood required to forward my paper to Far, and she urged me to visit him and explain the concern, since I did not wish to formally accuse Petrus and cause his eviction. The boy had overstepped my bodily and moral integrity because of gross ignorance of what it meant, that was a patent failure of the school’s awareness regarding one student. Now it was dawning on me, considering how he felt, that I might teach him the lesson he had been lacking.

Far came over early that day and I was proud as a swan when he asked for some tea with me in the restaurant; the crowd had cleared but the buzz went lower, parents’ visits were uncommon. Ayla, who had antennas, rushed up and kissed Far on both cheeks for his true enjoyment, then he stood up to hold Julia’s hand with a lot of amusement in his eyes. He wore tweed and smelled like Robert Redford, some older boys resented a dominant adult for breakfast, but I played the prestige in my hand. Soon Far went to meet Harmony in her office while I dressed like I went on a date, layering on a white tee, a night blue Liberty shirt scattered with myosotis, a pinstripe vest and my gabardine coat, over slim black corduroy pants one size too short, white cashmere socks in black penny loafers; my hat had earned some more mountain badges. Together we drove alongside the lake, he enfolded my shoulders and questioned softly about the trouble. I spitted the whole sequence in one rational stance and also the decent part of my conclusive action. Far guessed that someone was in for a rough time, but as always gave his blessing, with a kiss on my forehead. There was neroli, and again the subtle ghost of a rose, in his neck.

The first floor dining room was half empty as we sat by an arched window on the misty lake; the long tablecloth let me play our favorite deviltry with my feet away from peeping eyes. We had Brittany scallops fainted in golden butter, frilled with chervil on polenta couches. Far drank fendant, I dared ask for some green tea and was rightfully rewarded; the day reached perfection when molehills of marron mousse under slopes of vanilla cream appeared in generous vessels of dawn porcelain. Far had stolen away my socks and I was just a little girl. We roamed Denmark as if it was my dreams. He had still heavy burdens in the family’s shady repositories. For once it was time to tell about his own father, who had died a lonely death contemplating our grey sea. Far would let me learn the shame from which himself had had to emerge from and probably why he reset to America, but then it was too early for me to comprehend, too boring to cope with, and eventually had been swept off to the Baltic sea. I wanted to go back to our old house, he said it had been redone in the same colours and nothing had been removed; he had lent it a few times to cousins, at the thought of whom I felt shut away for a moment, like a rag in the cold sand. My mind drifted to Bornholm and Christiansø on the Admiral’s charts.

Grand Far had been someone important in the Realm of Denmark before the last invasion; I had seen black uniforms and embroideries of gold and silver, all enshrouded in camphor closets within the smell of unavowed shame. He never spoke when I was brought to wearisome family gatherings in the antique townhouse from which I could see the green roofs of Rosenborg Castle. Now, relaxed in the velvet armchair, benumbed by seraphic food and the immemorial practice on my dreamy toes, I was hearing the low humdrone of bells from the lake’s depths and gazed at silver dragons, in the afternoon haze, chasing a lonely boat sailing home.

Far was sipping Armagnac from a huge balloon glass and I could smell its devilish garlands it unwound from across the table, they had brought more hot water to my tea leaves and I had already gone twice barefoot to the powder room with a sense of luxury. He spoke in a very soft confidential tone, musing on the pride I gave him. He said that Mor and him had met in wild times, when a lass would have remained silent about assault and rape because she would have been blamed and shamed as it was still the case in most of the countries he had to account with. My mother had fought all through her college years, vindicating the rights of candid preppy girls preyed upon by campus bullies. She was not content with the current situation. She had resented that Martin needed further guidance in his lifestyle, so she coached him, never too far from where he tried to grow up. His deeds had derailed a cool marriage as a whole, now Far and Mor sought counselling on their guilt.

I told of Pr Achenbach and the clues he offered me, the chances of solution in my own right; and the genuine forthrightness of Julia and her posse, the naive trust of Ayla a a few others, Saint Loup was up to whatever secret hunch had led Far to confide in it as a shelter for his cracked little girl. I missed Mor, though, I had lost that other steady beacon, even if she had long became distant, disappointed, I guessed, that I would grow up so much like Far, my colours, my ways. Far, who was still toying with my warm feet, explained once more how it had became; I had suffered a difficult birth, Mor had been disoriented and separated, merely consenting breastfeeding me with some pain; he had then volunteered a full year to my devotion, lulling me as no one could, holding my miniscule feet as magic. Hence the ritual.

Not long after we had repatriated our souls, and spring was looming, the exhilarating bloom of the first prunus and the vermilion kisses of the early bush outside the pool made a mixed troupe of early birds buoyantly busy. In bed, I cooked up with Julia my plot regarding the redemption, or not, of Petrus the rogue. She vividly approved but because it was rather evil she forced me down on her and I obeyed among an abundance of phosphorescent roses in her musky blond scallywag in advance punishment.

Had Petrus been a stark-jawed, thick-browed, potato-nosed brute that he would have packed away along with my grudge; but he was only one of those I would have invited to the box-woods or, seasonably, the boiler room at the pool. So I needed not many rehearsals to compose a truce offering face, calling for an “explanatory” secret meeting in my room. All readied, smelling of Craven gardenia, barefoot and draped in a knit black-and-white striped hostess gown to the ankles, I waited for him to scratch at my door. I had lit three candles, and one in the bathroom in case, so he walked in on eggs, searching for my eyes that shunned his. He wore a loose plaid shirt over his tee-shirt, baggy jeans and casual sneakers, he smelled fern and briar like I would forget my keys in a Dartmoor night. I pulled him by a sleeve towards the cushion on the carpet by my tidied bed and then I played my murder scene, ordering him to kneel down. I had a bundle of those straps you use in the garden, or in television; as cold-blooded as he was dazed, I tied his hands together and his feet. Now I whispered he would have what he had attempted to steal, but he would comply to my needs, first. Before he could think of calling or whatever, I was nude before him, opening my thighs and ordering him to lick up my alleyway as thoroughly as a Mövenpick Vanilla Dream.He complied, not so convincingly but willingly, and I held his blond head down when Julia reached for his pants from the back, muttering that he would show us his evildoer. As she lowered his briefs, she disentangled an elegant jester and brought it to spitting crisis much too soon, but with no loosening in the young branch. Since he was well busy, I lectured him on the mutuality of pleasures and the benefits one would earn at offering as well as reaping in synchronicity with the desired chosen other. Julia had fetched a dildo and pressed it, dry, where the bugger had done it to me, just enough nastily to let Petrus anticipate what would be about to begin in his own butt. After I tongued his pretty beardless mouth, I pursued that this very way of doing however was not ineluctably wrong, given necessary thought and care. Julia had been applying vaseline to his nervous hole with such dexterity that he was beginning to doubt his self-awareness; so when she pushed kindly the dildo in as she would have in my silly arse, he stood in awe but let be fucked and she pressed the vibrator button.

He received the full anal degree, which is anything but demanding for a rightful bred stud, in our days. He enjoyed eventually what he had firstly botched and almost torn and after we exhausted all his bodily might, he cried out of his own stupidity, at the midst of a small capsized bed with two vindicated little whores. We furthered the agreed plan and I let Harmony read my behaviour towards Peter as auspicious. And it was Pr Achenbach’s routine, anyway, to thread through our tangles of unleashed desires and let us mend our nacreous little souls with our scattered words.

Poul wanted to dance in our team, he was enthralled by Ayla’s little bum and she fanned his embers like a smith fairy, only to retell me the delicacies of the tortures she crafted; as long as she shared unrestrained debauchery with me, Poul could well earn his crumbs at my window ledge. Instead, I engineered a new set of three between him, Petrus who very often made eyes at me, dawdling around the dance floor in black tights and fuzzy shirts until I might squeeze him into the broom closet, and a Philou Pachon, black haired, square cut, round obsidian eyes outlined with rich lashes in a rosy clear complexion, to compose any trio they fancied among the ongoing charivari, three months before the representation.I improvised a bit of coaching, before Merine interested eyes, I got them to touch each other, clutching arms and shoulders in doodle moves, sensing they would crave for each others in any order, sooner than later; in the square we formed it smelled of blue hyacinths and eventually Petrus rubbed his nose on my sweaty plexus. I spelled out the rules of the game and asked them to design their costumes along with the little hands in Melanie’s realm. They watched the current practice, whispering into each other’s ears till the trio caught on together.

The music was shaping up into twenty minutes, plus three hip-hop breaks, during which the main troupe would would cheer in the shade; musicians and nerds had congregated and raved evocative scarfs along a continuum like a slightly syncopated gamelan or a prayer mill. We gradually peopled a set something between the Amerindian nomadic camp and the full fledged Dada tavern. My cluster and me had first elaborated protruding asymmetrical fins of sorts, beakheads and protuberances which mired our attempts to craft our symbiotic moves; we slimmed the silhouettes, Pierre-Yves kept some swerved aureole across his head, Ayla swung two antennas with golden eyes at their tips and I could deploy silver blue wings under my arms. Our leotards were parted in two halves of opposite colours, as for the tights, one leg as ornate as an old clock, the other striped or spiralled like a Venetian mooring pole.

A sweet game flourished to the recurrent sound of portable players around the school’s floors and lawns, sometimes dedicated to dance only. Poul and his trio, who would be clad in satin scales of deep forest hues of green and blue, one of Melanie’s strikes of inspiration, practiced along with us, inasmuch as Ayla kept from Poul’s tights for a minute, leading me to try a pas de deux with Philou and her peachy modest bosom, whenas I observed with gratitude that Petrus would gladly share arms with a gentle French guardsman. Only Julia was missing, then, and she more often sensed it and ferreted out our lewd little troupe, accompanied or not. She too was kind of proud with Petrus, or what had become of him; and he was quite a gentlemanly libertine, now, wooed from all sides, as it might.

There was a rough place at the far end of the garden, an old barn that the hip hop crews had emptied of its jumble and the school had floored safely for the kool dancers’ joints and skulls. Gay was not praised in the vicinity, for boys anyway, because they all thought that dykes prefer cock, don’t they? They wore falling baggies and white boxers, they liked easy sluts like me, behind the sound system or in the open night. The dance sets were impressive, obsessively rehearsed and crazily fast, I did not last more than an hour in the torment, at a time.

At this period, Ayla was using my laptop for mails and chats, I came to the conclusion that her mother could not afford her one. As I was summoned to execute a damn service pack that would leave me stupid in front of a blue screen, I surrendered to Fergus’ funny fetish once more while he tuned the operation in no time, before baring my butt from his own flannel and shagged me just like I had foreseen. I asked him to find and update a good machine for my little gal, not letting her know that I was paying. He wondered if I would let her play with him, in the opportunity of a palatable deal, as to what I let him know that I would let her feel his snug pyjamas only if she pleased. He laughed and jostled me again on his messed up bed. A week later, Ayla told me in confidence that she had been chatted up by Fergus who said he could provide her with a computer if she played funny games with him; he wanted her to come to his room in boys’ briefs and tank tops, as a start, if she would. I laughed on her satin belly and told some of my trade with Fergus, so she began to like the naughty plot but asked me to step in and help her, at crunch time. Accordingly, I stood guard by Fergus’ door in due time and heard faint casual dialogue, I thought I would sneak in if the talking ceased; I did not know when they had started, she would soon be missing at her dorm. When the exchanges became shorter, I opened the door and saw my papoose in white boy’s underwear, her hair tucked in a red cap, smooching Fergus who foraged inside the jokey brief, in a quiet manner and all in front of a computer laid on a chair; I crept on tiptoes to the bed and reached for the nerd’s big hook, gently wanking him before he knew what happened. Ayla felt what she had been expecting and grasped his head stronger, as I whispered that I had hoped to borrow one of his pyjamas. He was panting and drooling already, together they smelled Zanzibar in the rain, he spurted on her thighs quite a long sob and collapsed. I throated his real joystick that wouldn’t fail while Ayla threw off the shorts and readied to ride, for good measure; I ripped his jeans off and guided him into the puny vale of the dancing little tart that I embraced when I gave him my own to munch on. He was some hearty nerd and gave her another robust round she liked down to her toes.

All quivers and coos, Ayla pranced about when she grasped that the thin blinking contraption was hers to keep and use when her name appeared on the welcome screen at a new restart Fergus commanded; but he inadvertently dropped that I was the one to thank, I suppose he did not wish to account for an unlikely generosity on his own, she hurtled over me, biting my bosom and crying warm streams till numbness; i licked her eyes with delight and played down the windfall, explaining that Fergus knew how to fetch second-hand bargains and refit them, but she was now the rightful and registered owner, it was his trick to knock down little birds like her, she needed not tell anyone, or any vague tale would do. He was totally lavished with lust at the sight of his new sweet regular, who would undoubtedly ask again to visit his room in boy’s jokey briefs, software was capricious, still is.

On midsummer night, or solstice if one will, an attendance of three hundreds was expected, including all the Lupines. A large stage had been bolted up and draped in black fabric, to be used first by the ballet rats in second skin bodysuits and prosthetic satin chaussons, where feet might have livened up their tiny cabrioles, a choir in black tees who did Paul Simon, Elton John and Queen, then us because we were the main show, and ending in rock and klang with that desirable drummer Gahr Syspel, who never dared beat my sleazy fanny, when I might give it away, even in the box room, to propel some rather effective funk into the pagan masses, along with two other percussionists and the rest of Lupine musicians.

Music for our nameless pantomime was to be delivered by an acousmonium of five, two girls and three boys, facing the audience before the stage, like a proper orchestra but only eagerly reading on their screens; they had been joined by Ripon Ortiz, a fully electromagnetic guitarist with shimmering long black hair and an entrancing queer allure I swore I would topple somehow as I felt the right kind of vice in his or her unfurled solos; Sara Berman, a blonde saxophonist had wished to blend in with dreamy paraphes and loops and it worked. for the staccato intermèdes, Gahr stood low, for now, but in the final ball he would thunder onstage..

On the glory day, cars had invaded the domain, shrinking it as a suburban joint on a Friday night, Far did not wear a tie and was close shaved; Ayla had slept a long night and was radiant, kissing him like her own; Julia gave her best Bacall impersonation, then we all went for the long dress-up and touch-up before the late afternoon performance. Helping Julia fit the details I teased her about not seeing the black-ops skulls, so she rubbed my buds and said she was there incognito only to rape me. In the hall, the lights dimmed out, except on the orchestra, and the leader spread his arms to ask for silence, after the corps de ballet had rejoined their guests or sit on the floor at front row.

First, a slow rumble of intertwined blankets of toxic harmonies unwound from the clean and powerful system without machine noise or hum; the two towers of speakers had until then played the nutcracker bits in all discretion, but now revealed a cosmic depth from the high resolution digital streams, insensibly strewn with strangely familiar fragments like written shards of torn letters. In another tone of air the high-strung guitar strangled by Ripon’s feverish hands playing away for his own life, oversowed by the ultimate analogue breath of Sara’s alto golden dragon that she could lead to the ledge of a dark abyss and let die. Each according to a deliberate syncrasy, our groups appeared from the sides, at random, while a great triangular golden sail was stretched across stage; a duet of wavering half harlequins of yellow and blue pushed a truncated column at the top of which a sea-blue balloon began to inflate up. to monumental proportion at the end of the show; a red pyramid higher than us moved on its own diagonally to the left, opposite to the sphere. Clouds of harmonious tolls, frilled with jingling crystals pushed us to life in unpredictable equations, duly rehearsed however. Ayla, Pierre-Yves and me had monkeyed some of Charlie Chaplin’s gesticulations, only to acknowledge how delicate they were, and the crafty little elf could bend down so suddenly and present me with her tiny malignant arse at any time.

As all-over trainer of our prized limbs and joints, Gallo Fuks had, in a manner of speaking, handmade our well balanced body frames and moves, backbones stood like scions in the soundstream as we solved our playful algebra. Merline Berce, sort of à contrario dancing director, had read through our hunches and tipped us on how to render the moves larger, emphasise our figures in group or solo, offering professional touches to our idiosyncratic whims. She marvelled at the Cossack-boogaloo beat-through vignettes on fire stomp swing; some errant Zaporozhian fury had met Kaduna frenzy heels-over-head, not the battle savvy tough animals but the spring-up sexy fauna with endless stamina I had sometimes mingled with in the laundry rooms; to whip them along, Gahr beat ahead of tempo in breathtaking alchemy, only to stop briskly at our echo in the wondercloud, shuffled and spinned.

The aim of the parade argument was to grow in Brownian agitation, then freeze the whole except some who executed their small routines, then blended again in the jumble and crash up three times at drum rolls to eventually cheer at the barbaric herds in their most erotic rumpus. At the lights console, Alfa Berlinski had synchronised the search lights on the score and we all hoped that we would eventually jump in the right spot, counting that otherwise a chaos might be interpreted as another abstract will, by a most complacent audience.

Eliah Spung built the whole stage, the mobile column in which an helium bottle would fill the blue balloon, and the red pyramid, more pointed than that of Giza. He provided cut out wooden words in the overall shape of clouds bearing totem words like peace, love, freedom, tolerance, and a big one Harmony, whatever blush she might beam, I was proud of my asking for this one. the Nuclear disarmament, the feminine and masculine symbols, the testosterone, the oestrogen and the ocytocine formula and diverse planets, all sculpted in the round and gilded. The large sail was only a painted old latin traditional sail of Lake Geneva which dried in a nice curve and was suspended upside down. The rest of the set was as black as absence, to set out our snazzy characters.

Melanie Rose and her hawthorn brigade, all of whom ambitioned Saint Martin’s College Of Arts And Design, had excelled at all folds of creation, elaborating eleven exercises in high style I still wonder at, given the mere size of the institution. Tudor had fanned the sparks, fed the documentation, taught many flimsy phalanges how to hold the right pencil and give out just what one had glimpsed all the more easily that it would be worn in parade; some even learned to sharpen a lead with a knife. The good ladies who cared for our linens, and never knew what might occur upon the ironing tables at night, patiently schooled those who wished in the magics of the thimble and needle, overhand sewing the patches upon the standing mannequin, and taming the Singer beast, of which they kept some orgasm-inducing mechanical ancestors for beginners. A few boys, enthused in the sweet smelling riffraff, bloomed unfettered among the body-patting fairies and the stuffs sculptors, openly queer as I like.. Melanie knew how to order truckloads of fabric rolls from the finest Milan factories where she had acquaintances, the attic above her shop was an inspiring realm, be it even for cornering some cute apprentice. Other than our trio in modernist coloured, revisited renaissance tight ass and doublet attire with surprise iridescent wings, Melanie’s bosquet of busy bees had rippled the rumps of the three dawn mermaids; overgrown Poul’s team of lianas with chintz silver-lined leaves under which I knew how to furbish their dodging puppets even onstage; dolled up Julia’s gang of Zuni wizards in bold Kachina style graphics; scattered multicoloured dots over half black half gold body suits; star sprinkled moonlight blue velvet leotards for Ayla’s dorm angels with silver top hats; let nude almost under floating embroidered tulle layers a triade of dainty fawns under the spell of the longish Leonie whose feet I ogled like prey; tailored from prints collage patchworks tramp oversized suits for a team of volleyball gazelles whom I very much regretted for the showering time; adjusted a folly of lapels in green and pink wild silk on queer knights of the box-room I had dizzily tried on; unmistakably dressed up the squad of buttercup yellow boys, of whom one was a buzzing mimosa girl of Kerny’s room memory’s, who cleaved together through the stage as a distraught Apollo’s team of horses, on screams of Sara Berman’s saxophone; finally, armoured some Chirico ghosts with satin padded baroque escutcheons over vermilion and emerald quartered leotards and contrasted slippers.

It went astoundingly fast, we did all our little mimes in time, the musicians transcended space gracefully and none of us fell down. On the set it smelled like the enchantment dell, I had loved all of them under one star or another, we paraded a Panic ritual, as opposed to the archaic undercurrent, still wired among even safeguarded crews like us, like the mighty Rhône through the Lake, and which made the stables’ cloakrooms repelling or appealing according to the moment’s whim in my spinal chord.

Backstage was a grand debauchery if there ever was one, not that anyone actually fucked any trippy soul undressing from the fiery minutes in the sweat of the sublime, as we could have revelled in the moist cellars, even Gry would have loosened her guard for a genteel enough musketeer. Kerny was beaming and remained quite exposed in thin white tights; our oafish cavaliers themselves behaved finally in front of so much intimate cool, but we gave ourselves three such tender strokes that they could not have intertwined. The queer gang was kind of gently coming out.

Far was overjoyed when we joined in the hall where most people danced to pop honestly sung by choir members or appetising crooners. He was keeping me embraced in his Jermyn street scent of mythological briars and lavender, I frowned my nose under his arm. I noticed that Ayla had followed me, like on that day she had no one to turn to,I felt a pinch in my plexus and so, grabbing her in my wings, asked Far to take us somewhere for dinner. I touched her abundantly enough to chase any self-consciousness, she wore the poppy red dress and tiny ballerines, she had stolen a whiff of freesia, she felt like fuck. The night was thin, like the golden crescent that followed the suns after it had finished powdering the Mont Blanc, the terrace where we sat had warmed all day and hovered upon the rich velvety train bordered with glittery pins, I gave him my feet and she cuddled at my side, they served us crushed peach granita, his with champagne in it. I wore a dark blue Liberty shirt-dress sprinkled with turquoise feathers it was so light that she touched me in the shades when Far mused at the skies, calling our attention on wandering satellites. Over a far flown turbot infatuated in hollandaise sauce, she effectively hit on him like a six years old and he cracked for her candid black eyes, she owned both of us. At Xmas time she would disappear, her stuff would be sent for and Harmony could not tell me where she had gone, she had not been told. I feared money was the cause and grew guilt thinking of her lively ways and my lighthearted thoughts with her. Across the internet her name does not exist. That night we had nursed a melting orgeat sherbet, I still feel her incredibly artful hand along my thigh, as my father’s hands massaged me out into oblivion.

Julia gathered through her own network that Ayla’s tuition fees had been long overdue but that the school had not even thought to expel her, not even told her anything. I was overwhelmed and went crying on Harmony’s bosom, whom tried to enlighten me a tad on the little clockwork of Switzerland versus the whole harsh world. I went up to Pr Achenbach and begged for guidance, I cried nights in Julia’s arms, wasted myself out in the stables’ toilets, giving head to the coarser louts and coming back with a swollen pussy.

One day, Ayla’s bracelet disappeared too without me knowing, and I carefully avoided to be caught in another one. I fell for other younglings of all kinds, Julia never failed me until she went away to some serious prep school because she reckoned that she wanted to join one of the top colleges; she later went to Harvard but kept as licentious as I had known her in our correspondance, she is a chosen sister.

Albeit being utterly mad about my little butt, Tudor understood well my disarray when Ayla took off. He had witnessed how she had totally bewitched me and it had aroused him infernally too. He remained a fair lover and knew how to fulfil my needs, and he enjoyed my debaucheries and whims with all genders. He was a stealth companion, only we could not advertise our trade. At full moon, Gry would sneak into my bed; if I was in it she would cuddle my body like a wisteria in the breeze; if I wasn’t she would wait and reap me before I would wash, literally inebriated into my sex smells and enthralled of whatever shame I still fostered about being a slut; she would then give me a kitten toilet, and I fell into sleep through that pervert scent of licked skin as she killed me out again.

Kerny became an earnest accomplice, introducing me to various conquests as queer as they were kindly scented and daintily mannered. In his tasty lair, under the auspicious eyes of Oscar Wilde on an authentic photograph hand dedicated “To E.M. of Brighton winds”, he staged sophisticated playlets where his guests lost their attires one by one in a raving narrative; I often played a naval attaché if I had wore pants, or an incognito royal courtesan if I had on a dress, or a nightshirt, fanciful title holders characters had a endless variety of urges to unleash from their suave groins. Kerny often embodied the wily Madame touting her timid catch to the depraved customer, punctuating her licentious advert with indecent exposures of the subdued subject’s body; I would wet myself in both attitudes and repay Kerny whatever lewd price he asked. Occasionally, Elme would bargain for my arse with enthusiasm or even ordered me tied on the bed in various poses before splashing my butt cheeks in her odd way; she had passionately craved Ayla’s narrow hips, and spent hours making her exult; she cried when it became patent that we would never see her again roll her gait.

Growing up in a unique safe haven under Far’s grand supervision and providence, I gathered grades good enough for whatever fate I would envision; not ruling out staying forever among the gracious Lupins and frolicking in the boxwoods. Although I resented the wealth of humanities that were taught me, and the solid structures in five tongues, I shunned steadily any lead to whatever ambitious career like I saw some of my best lovers covet.

Tudor lived in a cottage on school’s grounds, judiciously sheltered behind a bosket of evergreens, like those of Harmony, Edna Russell and others; it meant I had different ways to his door and knew where to find the key. It had been deftly settled that, if I happened to overhear any interesting situation, I would only let myself peek and enjoy. In any case he still desired me and I would undress any time he wished, but also I needed the copious library he was collecting from all the online book sellers, on art, crafts and erotica; after he wrote me a very serious letter by which he engaged in not publicising any, he took many photos of me indecently reading his books all over his den. It was there that grew the idea of living my artist’s life in Paris, like Lee Miller, Meret Oppenheim or Valentine Hugo, like a heroin in an Anaïs Nin erotic fantasy, like O’s lovers minus the whip I do not worship so much. New York was still mine for holidays but had become unbreathable for artists, London was a boozy banker’s green carpet, including the Saatchi freak show spawned in the wake of the new National Lottery, mind you. Berlin could have been easy but history weighed harshly on souls there; a million STASI confidants still haunting Frankfurter Alley; a strain of toxic waste creeping up many beautiful veins.

Paris was still attractive, albeit expensive, but I had been born easy enough for it. Between devourations of my navel or my foolberries, Tudor coached me all he could towards the Beaux-Arts and Far approved, too, he would have gladly kept me around Geneva for a cool sensuous course of life, I could have patronised the posh hostess’ bars and polish my vices like expensive jewels without my father hinting the merest reproach, but I fostered other premonitions.